The Igikoko: 2025
A new journey begins
With this post, I am starting a fresh retelling of a previously posted serial. This version of The Igikoko is a whole new story. The first chapter might sound familiar, but after that much changes. The previous story of one man’s dark heart, has been transformed into a thriller noir featuring murder and smugglers and a dark journey down one of Africa’s iconic lakes.
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Chapter 1
SIX DAYS RUNNING and Simon was just looking to get off this world and get on home.
In a walking drive-by, he scouted the run-down takeout shack rattling in the hot wind on the side of the road. It looked a lock for his next bed—drier than the pipes, warmer than the ditches and cleaner than the garbage hills he’d hidden in through past nights.
He hadn’t spotted a uniform for two days. He slipped the chase, finally.
He’d been running since his papa screamed the pre-arranged words that started him flying home. He risked one brief glance, stopped for a snap second and peered over his shoulder to see Papa get pulled under by an angry churn of baton-wielding soldiers.
They smashed him good, good and hard, and dragged him off. He’s in jail by now, if he’s lucky, Simon thought.
It’s been six days since and Simon believed he was fighting the battle of his life. He skulked back streets and shanty towns of the capital, keeping his red-earth and snot-smudged face in the shadows.
If Simon were older, had more experience with a fugitive existence, he’d have known the police were never on his tail. He would have understood police didn’t waste time hunting 10-year-old boys.
The blue-shirt police, the ones who lived behind the President’s iron fence, those who clamped rough to his father’s bloody shirt, watched with wide grins as the small boy ran away.
Simon kicked the sea-blue shack, hefted his body up and sat on the counter window cut into the front.
He peered inside. No floor, just dirt, some grass and broken glass. He swung his legs over the counter, preparing to drop down inside, when a man wearing a shop-clean, wide-brimmed Indiana Jones hat hollered from across the street.
Simon sniffed. Mzungu. Foreigner, white and probably rich. This one was probably a tourist, he thought, Mister Big Adventure Man.
Shut up, Simon wanted to shout, but decided instead to ignore the guy. He looked a rough unit, like he’d seen things, been through it.
The man’s black eye, the way he stood crouched-sagged to one side, like he was feeling some pain, told Simon all he needed.
He stayed put in the shack window, not wanting to sink into his hiding place while the man watched him.
The voice, low and smooth, came again. American, English, Australian. Accents didn’t matter to Simon. It wasn’t French. That much he knew.
“What’s your name? What’s your name. I’m talking to you kid,” the man said.
Simon studied him, careful not to be seen studying. This Mzungu was on the large side. Good clothes.
Simon shot the man his middle finger, swung his legs up onto the counter and stretched them out while he leaned back against one side of the window, casual like.
Cooper Drisbie, grimaced from across the road.
“I won’t hurt you. I could use a little help here.”
Drisbie frowned, but the boy’s defiance amused him. Probably an orphan, the city housed a rabbit warren of them. He didn’t mind the little shits.
“What’s your name?” Drisbie called again and waited as the kid ignored him again.
Little prick, he thought. Just like his own son, Michael.
“What’s your name?” he said, waving one hand high over his head. “I am talking to you, over there.” Drisbie snapped his fingers. “Hello? You there. Have you nothing better to do than sit in the window of a takeout shack waiting for handouts?”
Simon hopped off the ledge, picked up a stick and smacked it against the side of the shack, testing its strength. He bent and selected a cellphone-sized rock, polished it with his shirt.
“What do you want?” He flashed pointy teeth. His father always said, “act like you intend to give them the business and people will leave you alone.”
Drisbie reared back, face contorted in mock fear.
“I give up. I give up.” He sat on the steps of a small hotel, hoping the move would calm the boy, show he meant no harm.
The hotel was a one-story job of yellow stucco and cement. The rooms were out back, faced into a courtyard.
Drisbie glanced down the street, down the hill toward the docks. He was biding his time, taking it slow like most people around here. He peered off the other way, into the bright yellow, red and white hibiscus plants growing beside the stairs.
After a few moments, he added: “You don’t need those stones or that stick. I ain’t coming for you. I want help carrying my things down to the boat. I can pay and it looks like you could use the money.”
Simon swung his head slow. The boy took Drisbie’s measure. Men like him passed through this area all the time. They meant no harm but they were no help either. They took pictures of bombed-out rubble and gaunt children in doorways, while ruefully shaking their heads.
“How much?” Simon asked.
Drisbie had in mind a low-ball offer, but he was desperate and considered a sweeter deal. The thought of lugging his gear down the street alone, in this heat, almost made him nauseous.
He threw out a number. “Ten francs.”
The boy pressed his lips tight.
“No. That isn’t good enough. You expect me to carry your things all the way to the ferry for 10 francs. No. I can’t do it.”
Drisbie frowned. “It’s only 10 blocks. That’s like one franc per block and it’s all downhill.”
He spread his arms as if revealing the scene below for the first time, as though the lake was only a mirage just now shimmering into existence.
The main dock, the centre one of three and the largest, jutted out 30 metres into deep water and at its tip sat the MV Igikoko (Ih-jee-ko-ko), a pre-World War One ferry, welded, riveted and fastened together by pride and industry.
From Drisbie’s vantage point, the lake steamed like a caldron under boil. He was far too battered and hungover to make it down that hill alone in this heat. But he needed to make that ferry.
The Igikoko, a word meaning beast or wild in local parlance, was 60 metres long, red to the water line, white on top, diesel powered, with a single giant smokestack just behind the pilothouse in the centre. It appeared tired and filthy, even from a distance. Yet it remained strong enough to haul 800 passengers, including 20 private sleeping rooms, and 80 tonnes of cargo up and down the lake. The numbers sounded impossibly large to Drisbie but he was assured it was true when he booked quarters over the phone.
Most trippers, though, never booked rooms. They stayed on deck, insisting the Igikoko’s rumble and stir was best felt in the open air. They rode in front or in back where they sheltered on the main deck, partially shielded under the second level, and grilled spiny fish or cooked richly spiced rice with plantains on small barbecues to share with family and strangers.
The top level was commonly left to travellers unfamiliar with the ride, those seeking quiet communion, as long as daylight permitted.
Drisbie intended to ride the Igikoko to its final destination—14 hours traversing the dark night—after which it would deposit him in a new land where his face had no history.
He stood and tried to shake off the hangover, still afraid the men who beat him last night would return once they sobered up and realized they’d let the fatted calf escape.
They cornered him and whipped him good, as he weaved his way down back lanes, trying to find his hotel.
He’d been drinking in an unofficial pub and stayed too late. He was an easy mark.
His two attackers stole a small fold of bills. Drisbie immediately surrendered his money, unable to fight in his state, but they beat him anyway. They swore and cursed Drisbie for the feeble take, and kicked him for a good spell after he was down and turtled up.
Drisbie had carried only enough money to pay for his drinks and had stashed the rest beneath the mattress in his hotel room.
The thieves took what they could and left Drisbie to hobble back to his room, where he fell into bed, bloody and sore.
He awoke a few hours later, head aching from the wine; ribs and back burning from the beating. He touched his right eye.
Ouch.
Swollen, but he could see all right.
Through the morning-after fog, he recalled the previous night’s beating. Shit. He’d definitely mentioned the hotel name and he was certain that once his attackers climbed out of their alcoholic haze, they’d realize they’d missed an easy mark and would come sniffing around the hotel for more.
Drisbie had to make a move. He found a 5 p.m. ferry listing online that could get him south to the border. Otherwise, it was the bus and he’d have to muck about and transfer twice to get where he wanted. The ferry gave him his best shot.
Unfortunately, it meant he had to pass most of the day in the capital, but he could manage. He’d stay out of sight, hide out behind umbrellas at the hotel pool, stay ready to duck into hedges.
Drisbie rubbed his burning eyes.
“Fifteen francs, then,” he shouted to the boy. “No, make it dollars. I have U.S. dollars. Come. I have only the one bag.”
Drisbie pointed to the moderate-sized backpack on the ground and watched the skinny boy wearing sandals, brown pants and red shirt venture closer. Good, he had piqued the boy’s interest.
Simon stopped short of the man’s reach. “No, not money. I need a ride to Runzeri.”
Drisbie shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know where that is.”
The boy jumped onto the sidewalk. “Of course you don’t. Why would someone like you know about a small village? It’s a village on the lake, only a ferry stop or two away. My mother lives there. I want to go and see her.”
“What’s your name,” Drisbie asked.
“Simon.”
“How old are you, Simon?”
The boy stiffened to make himself taller. “I’m 10 years old last month. But I’m strong for my age and I have seen many things. You’ll see. I can do the best job for you in exchange for a ride on the boat.”
Drisbie scratched his chin. “But you must be here with somebody. You’re not so far away from home all by yourself, are you?”
“I came here with my father.” The boy hung his head to hide his face. “We came to the city together to get my Uncle Gustave out of jail and we were going to take him back to Runzeri to live with us, but the police said “no” and they took Papa away, too.”
Drisbie believed it. It was how things were done in this country. “I’m sorry.”
Simon shrugged. “At least they are together.”
Drisbie smiled. “I think you should wait for your father and take the money I’m offering. He’s bound to be released before long and what would he think if he got out and couldn’t find you?”
“My father will find me,” Simon said. “He knows I won’t wait for him. He told me to run when the police came, so I ran. Is no problem. Besides, I don’t believe they’ll let him go as quickly as you say.”
This boy, Simon, was about the same age as his own son, Drisbie thought. Close enough, or at least he was the age his son was the last time he’d seen him. Jeez and damn, that was three years ago. He silently committed to asking his ex-wife for a visit the instant he got back home.
Simon wiped his nose, sniffed, impatient at Drisbie’s silence. He pressed his case.
“It’s cheaper for you to take me on the boat than to pay me because children ride free if they are with an adult. I’m strong. I can carry all your bags. Then, I’ll come back and carry you too. You’ll see.” He grinned.
Drisbie smiled at the mental image of the boy trying to lug him down the hill. He was beginning to like Simon, but the plan reeked of trouble.
“It will arouse suspicion to have you come with me,” Drisbie said. ”People will ask questions. I don’t exactly look like your father.”
Simon shrugged. “Pffft, mister. Nobody asks questions around here, especially if you are the rich Mzungu. You just have to walk onto the boat and pretend you are important. You’ll see. It’ll work.”
Simon might have latched onto something, Drisbie thought. The civil war in this country had ripped families apart. Refugees continuously flowed north, south, up and down the lake. He and Simon could lose themselves in the stream, take advantage of the tragedies and the national fatigue.
He held out his hand. “OK, you’re with me. Drisbie. Cooper Drisbie is my name.”
They shook hands and Simon slung Drisbie’s backpack over his shoulders and tramped off down the hill.
Nearer to the docks, the amorphous swarm seen from the top of the hill transformed into a pushing, shouting throng of flailing arms and elbows, scrambling to make it on board. A few women with babies on their hips sought safety by pressing their backs against the chain-link fence that ran down the centre of the dock.
Older children yowled for a cooling breeze and were pushed by the crowd into backsides and stomachs of adults waiting in line.
Young women shouted and waved tickets at the security men at the gate, imploring them to let them pass.
The boat whistle blew, rocking the crowd into fresh bouts of shoving. The diesel engines chugged to life, coughing clouds of smoke filled with scents burned and sour.
Drisbie’s stomach lurched.
At the end of the dock, the Igikoko jerked at its tie-down ropes.
Drisbie joined the passenger line on the left side of the fence, while cargo workers marched back and forth on the right, loading up the hold.
Simon ran in front, urging him to hurry. “It’s this way for people like you. Come, come.”
Drisbie soon found keeping pace with Simon was a chore. The boy was small enough to slip under the arms of men and women in the line.
“Mister, mister,” Simon yelled back over his shoulder. “This way, this way, mister. Your room is ready.”
Drisbie was forced to duck and weave his way forward. People growled when he excused himself and squeezed past but he moved steadily, chasing Simon, until four men blocked the path.
One swiped a limp hand at Drisbie’s chest.
Drisbie puffed up to make himself larger. He was taller than the other man by several inches but he most definitely was in no mood for a fight.
He flashed his ticket close to the other man’s face. “I was told if I had a ticket, I could go straight to the front.”
The man slapped Drisbie’s hand aside and side-stepped to more fully block Drisbie’s advance. “Hand me this ticket.”
Drisbie placed the ticket in his pocket.
“It’s not for you. I’m to show it to the man watching the gate at the front of this line.”
The man squinted. “Show me this ticket, or I will make your other eye black. I’ll give you a matching set.”
Drisbie knew if he showed his ticket, he’d surely lose it. He entertained retreat. He could find another way in, he thought, but the idea of backing down lit his anger.
The two men stared at one another. Seconds passed and the world around them stopped.
Simon snorted, broke through the circle and slapped Drisbie in the stomach.
He grabbed Drisbie’s shirt. “Let’s go, Mister. Let’s go. The men are waiting for us at the front.”
The man blocking Drisbie lowered his arms, but stood his ground.
Simon hopped to get into the man’s face and pointed to where a security guard waved at them from the front of the line, about 10 metres away.
Simon pulled at Drisbie’s shirt. “Let’s go. Let’s go.”
The man appeared to waver but continued to block the way.
“The police are waiting for us,” Simon said.
Finally, the man grunted and stepped aside.
After they walked a few steps, Simon said, “I told the soldier at the gate you would pay him 20 dollars American if he let you through.”
Drisbie paid the guard and handed $15 to Simon as a bonus to the original deal. The kid really earned his keep, he thought.