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A Wahindi Murder?
Dr. Tahira Mallick handed her passport to the immigration officer at the Entebbe International Airport. The British national of Indian descent waited patiently while the man did his job. He finally decided her tourist visa was approved and stamped her documents. She collected her belongings and strolled outside to meet her ride.
A woman in a light blue pantsuit held a sign with her last name on it.
“Hi, Inspector Obura! I’m Tahira!”
“Dr. Mallick. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Same here. Please call me, Tahira.”
“Certainly. Let me help you with your bags.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got it.”
“Well, my car is this way. You can call me Rosemary.”
Rosemary Obura showed the visitor to the garage where her Toyota Raum was parked. The 5-seater was a mini Multi Purpose Vehicle with a tall roof and compact hatchback storage area. The streets of Kampala were full of this and other Toyota makes due to their high availability, economically priced spare parts, and a large number of mechanics able to handle servicing and maintenance.
“Shall we go to your hotel,” Rosemary inquired.
“Yes, please. Thanks so much for meeting me away from the police station.”
“No problem,” she smiled. “Will you be visiting family while you’re in town also.”
“Yes, I have dinner with my cousin and uncle tomorrow.”
The supervisory officer in the criminal investigations pulled up to the hotel.
Tahira got out and went to check in.
Rosemary, a woman with two c***dren, collected a valet ticket from the uniformed man. She followed Tahira to her room. She took a seat in comfortable chair. “Dr. Mallick, you were quite vague over the phone, but terrible persistent. How can I help?”
“My aunt was murdered,” the general practitioner explained.
“When was this? Was it reported.”
“2006. It was investigated, but ruled an accident.”
“So, what is it you want me to do.”
“Look back into the case. Please.”
“But if the case was solved…”
“It wasn’t solved. It was CLOSED. Her husband, my uncle is a very powerful man.”
“Who is this uncle?”
“Well, Inspector Obura…His name is Salim Pinjara,” she paused for effect.
“One moment,” Rosemary’s eyes blinked repeatedly with surprise. “You mean the Salim Pinjara, the head of Group Pinjara?”
“The one and only,” Tahira’s veins popped in her neck.
“You think he murdered your aunt?”
“I know he did. She died in a car accident. One car. No witnesses. No driver.”
“What evidence do you have?”
“Here,” she turned over a file. “My father has been putting this together quietly for years. His health is failing and I want to see this through for him and Auntie Jinani.”
Rosemary studied the dossier. There were news clippings, emails between the siblings, financial records, and depositions. “How did you get all of this?”
“My father knew Auntie and Uncle internet casino were having problems. Auntie felt he was planning to get rid of her. So, she started doing what she could before the crash. My dad just continued after her death. There was no autopsy as far as we could tell.”
“Oh, my! This is interesting. In order for me to take this on, I’ll have to investigate very quietly,” the detective admitted.
“I understand. That’s why I bought you this burner phone. We can communicate using it.”
“I’ll be putting my career at risk.”
“Please, Inspector Obura. You’re my only hope.”
“I’ll see what I can do. No promises.”
“Thank you,” Tahira sprung up and hugged Rosemary.
They ended their conversation and planned to speak in a week.
Rosemary walked pensively out of the room and debated the commitment she just made.
Across the city, Salim Pinjara sat in his plush office listening to his chief of staff, general counsel, and head of mining operations discuss options. The handsome, 63 year-old slammed his fist on the desk and gritted his teeth. “Just get it fixed. Now, get out!”
The men scurried like scared mice.
Salim pressed the intercom button. He instructed his assistant to have his driver pulled around the car. Salim buttoned his tailored suit jacket, picked up his briefcase, and left. He had a heavy-built frame, but was well-proportioned. His graying hair had been shaved bald and he dyed his goatee out of vanity. He was taken to his gated home.
Salim made phone call to his current wife.
“Baka,” the bride said in Gujarati meaning ‘dear’.
“Maro popat,” the businessman replied calling her ‘my parrot’. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve just finished a swim. I was about to shower and wait for you.”
“Excellent! I’m on my way home.”
“See you in a bit!”
The 31 year-old summoned the housekeeper to have mangoes and champagne prepared in the master suite. She rinsed off under the private outdoor shower stall before swaddling herself in a luxuriously plush robe. She went upstairs to get ready.
Salim adjusted his fat Indian cock. After all this time, Roohi still got his juices flowing. The construction, mining, and telecom magnate had met the jewel while on a business trip with stops in Ahmedabad, Mumbai, and Kochi. That was in 2005. The sexy, petite Roohi pleased him on the final leg of that journey. The city was called the Queen of the Arabian Sea for a reason. Salim figured it must have because of sweet Roohi.
Salim was a married man at the time. And like many other Indian men, he conducted his affairs with the kothi in secret. The hijra, sometimes compared to kothi, were a third gender of sorts. Many thought they were nonsexual, yet often they were involved with men who considered themselves straight. Kothi, on the other hand, did not live in canlı poker oyna intentional communities together for religious purposes and they definitely looked to be the ‘female’ partner in relationships.
The first night, Salim had fucked the 17 year-old with all the might he could muster.
“Oh my goodness,” Roohi’s nails dug into his large back.
“You sexy, pavaiyaa,” he called her another name for hijra. “Take this dick!”
“Yes, sir! Fuck me harder,” she pleaded with him.
“You’re such a pretty girly boi!”
“Thank you! You’re a big, sexy daddy,” she grinned.
“Your pussy is tight on my dick!”
“Oh, my god!”
“I’m going to fuck you till you love me,” he roared before collapsing.
Roohi took Salim’s words to be sweet and honest.
But, Salim was the head of a multimillion dollar organization and wielded great influence in Uganda since returning with his wife and son in 1988. Salim was the third generation of his family to born in East Africa after his great-grandfather arrived in 1898 from Gujarat as a merchant. His grandfather built a grain processing business which was stripped from Salim’s father by Idi Amin’s regime in the Seventies. They’d fled to London, but Salim yearned for home and returned almost 16 years later. He reclaimed what his family owned and made it bigger.
Salim was used to getting what he wanted and he wanted Roohi to be his. He began taking trips frequently to Kochi. He installed Roohi in a decent apartment and spoiled the doll. He helped her get hormones and eventually breast implants. He wanted to move Roohi to Uganda. He just figured he’d get her a flat in the city. Nothing would stand in his way.
Then Jinani had gotten herself killed in a crash. He decided to slow down his plan. He was devastated. Two years after the accident, he married Roohi in a small ceremony and bought a new house for them.
The armored Mercedes SUV drove through the gate surrounding the palatial, Mediterranean-style, six-bedroom house. Salim was greeted at front door by the housekeeper who took his bag and coat. He bounded up the circular staircase with an energy one might not expect see from a man of his size and age.
He burst into the master suite. Roohi was dressed in a sheet negligee and strappy heels.
“Maro papot,” he smiled.
“Salim,” she purred. “How was your day?”
“It was okay. Much better now,” he loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt.
“I’ve missed you!”
Salim was completely naked save for the brown argyle dress socks. He fondled Roohi’s bosom and licked her areolas. Her tear-shaped honkers had just been redone a few months ago. He ran his enormous fingers through her luscious dark hair. He kissed her lovingly. He stroked her tiny clitty.
Roohi slid down the king-sized bed. She took Salim’s wide manhood into her canlı bahis mouth. She sucked it with care. She felt his body responded to the oral stimulation. She was growing ready to be taken by him.
Salim mounted her with his substantial body that was all man.
Roohi felt the tickle from his chest and belly hair. She did not mind it as her contrasted with smooth, silken skin. It made her feel submissive and protected.
Salim worked inside of her.
“Owwww,” she tilted her head back.
“So tight,” he held unblinking eye contact. “I love you, maro papot!”
“I you too, Salim!”
“Your kothi boipussy feels so good on my dick!”
“Yes! Fuck me, baby!”
The servants were used to hearing their passionate lovemaking.
Roohi knew Salim loved to own things. She stroked his ego, “I belong to you!”
“Yes, you do! And, I am your too, my love!”
“Oh, Salim. Pound my ass!”
“Yes, Roohi! Take this big Indian cock!”
“I love it, daddy!”
Roohi panted she worked her hips underneath her burly man. Salim tightened and breathe quickly. He roared as he shot river of cum into her wanting, wet hole.
“I love you, Roohi,” the dual Ugandan and British citizen shared.
“I love you too! What time is your niece coming for dinner?”
“I believe she’ll be here at 7:00.”
“Great! I guess we should start getting ready. Are we sending her a car?”
“No. Naved says he will pick her up.”
Tahira arrived with Salim’s son and his family. They all hugged each other and spoke warmly. The physician gave no indication of the reason for her trip to Kampala.
Naved asked, “Dad, how did the meeting go this afternoon?”
Salim’s nostril flared. “Not as good as I wanted. But, I think it will be fine.”
“That’s good to hear!”
“We shall see.”
Roohi chimed in, “Won’t you stay with us, Tahira?”
Tahira begged off, “I’m meeting some friends for drinks tonight. I want to stay close by.”
“But we can get you a driver,” Salim reminded her.
“Please no uncle. I don’t want to impose.”
Meanwhile, Inspector Rosemary Obura was in the house she shared with her husband, c***dren, and mother-in-law. There was a knock at the door. Rosemary’s son answered.
“Mama,” he called out. “It’s the police.”
Rosemary came to the door. “Assistant Commissioner,” she smiled. “What brings you here?”
The senior officer of the Uganda National Police took a wide stance and narrowed his eyes. “You had a visitor today. There will be no further investigation on or off the record. Am I clear?”
“I…uh,” Rosemary stammered.
“Inspector Obura! Am I clear?”
“The death was ruled accidental. Mr. Pinjara was one of the first Wahindi to return after the expulsion. He came back and invested heavily in our infrastructure and economy. He is a good man. We do not need to put him and his family back through the misery of Mrs. Pinjara’s death.”
“Have good evening. Give my love to the k**s,” he walked off the porch.
Rosemary spotted a car drive away as the high ranking officer got into another vehicle.
She knew in heart now that Jinani Pinjara had been murdered.
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00353 515 73 20