Echoes From A Distant Land Part 12

It had only taken minutes for the herd to appear and then, just as swiftly, to disappear through the wheat and over the hump in the land. They didn't even pause to feast on the grain, but continued on towards Lake Naivasha, following some ancient imperative.

Dana relaxed the firm hold she had on the reins and let Toby head for home, but the spectacle of the old matriarch elephant, doggedly following her instincts to ensure the survival of her herd, had touched Dana.

She decided that some things could not be stopped or ignored. All animals were born with certain instincts, and were driven by them. Otherwise they disappeared from the earth. Perhaps it was time for her to free her own instincts too.

CHAPTER 14.

Sam was confined to his cabin for most of the journey from New York. His old enemy - seasickness - laid him low again.

He rented a hotel room in Southampton to recuperate before continuing his journey, and met an old merchant seaman in the bar who commiserated with him.

'Green tea,' he said, when the topic of seasickness came up. 'Take it three days before sailin' and ye'll be right. I couldn'a spent thirty-six years at sea without me green tea.'

Sam promised to give it a try, but he was already on board, bound for Mombasa, before remembering to take it.

It tasted dreadful, but he persevered.

Three days out of Southampton, Sam could confidently leave his cabin and take the air on deck. After a further day he was able to join his fellow pa.s.sengers in the dining room at dinner.

An African fellow - possibly a Kenyan by his accent - sat at a neighbouring table. He was outspoken and confident and had an opinion on every subject raised, which Sam was able to follow in detail as the conversation on his own table had died soon after pleasantries were exchanged.

The man was charming and all the women at his table appeared to hang on his every word.

There was something familiar about him, and Sam watched him as he rose from his table. Although he met Sam's gaze as he pa.s.sed, there was no hint of recognition. On the other hand, Sam was now quite sure who the other Kenyan was.

It had been a lifetime's experiences since they'd met, but the mannerisms were the same and the voice, now even more resonant, had the same inflections and compelling qualities as before. He spoke like a man who expected his listeners to believe that his every utterance was important. The piercing eyes had intensified and seemed to be lit from deep inside his head, which, even as a boy, had been big and s.h.a.ggy like a lion's.

Sam excused himself from his dining companions and followed the man out onto the deck. He found him standing at the railing, smoking a cigarette and gazing out across the Atlantic. The light of an almost full moon threw a broad silver shaft across the ocean and the glow of the man's cigarette illuminated his chiselled features.

'Excuse me,' Sam said. 'I believe we know each other.'

The man was immediately on guard, like an attack dog waiting for the signal to lunge. 'I think not,' he said, and the softness of his tone belied the tension in his shoulders and the set of his jaw.

'It was many years ago,' Sam said, this time in Kikuyu. 'It's Kamau, isn't it?'

He was a head shorter than Sam and, as he looked up at him, his eyes narrowed in thought. He peered at Sam for some moments before suddenly exclaiming, 'My G.o.d! It's w.a.n.gira. Samson w.a.n.gira.'

Sam nodded. 'Johnstone Kamau.'

He continued to stare at Sam.

'Samson w.a.n.gira,' Kamau repeated, nodding slowly as the silence built.

'Returning from abroad, as you are,' Sam said.

'Yes, I've been in England for a year. What about you?'

'In America. For quite a lot longer.'

Sam didn't intend it to sound like a boast, but as Kamau turned to face the ocean it was obvious that he had taken it that way. Kamau took a long draw on his cigarette, then threw it into the water.

'Well,' he said, squaring his shoulders. 'I imagine we'll have plenty of time to talk about the good old days.'

The sarcasm was obvious.

Sam didn't respond.

Kamau said a frosty good night, and Sam watched him walk towards the door. Before he'd gone far, he turned back to Sam.

'By the way, w.a.n.gira, I have changed my name.'

'Again?' Sam said, recalling a tense conversation they'd had when little more than children. 'How many names does one man need in his lifetime?'

He shrugged. 'Names can change to suit the circ.u.mstances.'

'You seem to find many of those circ.u.mstances,' Sam said. 'So, what am I to call you these days?' He refused to let Kamau play his little game of secrets.

'My name is now Kenyatta. Jomo Kenyatta.'

Sam avoided Kenyatta whenever possible for the remainder of the journey, but there was no avoiding his pontificating at dinner, even from the other tables.

Earlier that first night he heard Kenyatta tell those at his table that he'd been to England on a study tour sponsored by the Kikuyu Central a.s.sociation. His considered opinion, from which all present could now benefit, was that the bourgeois clique running the country were imperialists of the worst order.

And he wasn't finished with the luckless British settlers at his table; they were about to make their start in the colony.

'Are you people aware of the latest atrocity inflicted upon us Africans?' he said. 'Every native man and woman must wear on their person, every hour of every day, a little ident.i.ty badge called a kipande - a pa.s.s which contains their personal and financial details and a record of any work they have done for the whites. Can you imagine that occurring in your home country? I think not. Can you also imagine how easy it is for a disgruntled employer to destroy the good record of some unfortunate worker who he might have taken a personal dislike to, by recording something damaging on his card? He could put indolent or petty thief or insolent. The African has no opportunity to contest it, and can be given a stiff punishment if he attempts to alter his kipande himself. This is what you are going to in Kenya, my friends. A country whose original owners are not allowed a vote. They are governed by foreigners and forced to wear labels like common farm animals.'

Kenyatta's story of the kipande surprised and concerned Sam. He hoped it was just another case of Kenyatta sounding off for the sake of it, but if true, it meant that the country's administration had their foot on the throat of the local population.

He tried to imagine his proud father being told to conform to such a degrading situation. He was quite sure he would fight it, and would be in gaol as a result of it.

He was glad to be going home to see for himself how much his country had changed.

The rusted wreck of a small steamer reared from the fringing coral reef as the SS Medina entered Mombasa's turquoise-hued harbour.

Sam stood at the railing of the upper deck and breathed in the scent of spices and the inimitable odour of tropical decay. It was hot: hotter than he recalled it.

Ahead, the white coral-stone houses' red-tiled roofs stood out among coconut palms and mango trees, bright red hibiscus and bougainvillea, and the succulent deep-green leaves of the frangipani.

It took him back to the time when, years earlier, he had boarded a similar s.h.i.+p to take him to America via England. He could remember his excitement as they'd set sail. Until that morning he'd never seen the sea, and the prospect of being surrounded by the boundless expanse of the Indian Ocean had sent s.h.i.+vers of apprehension down his spine. Now it was just another journey, albeit one about which he had mixed feelings.

With the sh.o.r.es of Kenya in sight, he allowed himself to think about home. He recalled his childhood and a game played in the dust with small smooth stones. He couldn't now remember its name but he and his friends could play for hours or until a fight erupted to end it. The animosity was forgotten the moment the next game began. There were his trips to the market where his father would, on occasions, magnanimously buy a hand-span of cane sugar for each of his many children. Sam smiled when he remembered the joy such a small treat could yield. Even the work in the maize field with his mother and siblings could become a game of hide and seek when the smaller children disappeared among the tall stalks.

He was returning jaded by his year of solitary confinement in the forests of Vermont and in need of revitalisation, but he wasn't sure if he was prepared for a return to his friends and family. He had lost touch with them when Sister Rosalba suddenly stopped writing. If it hadn't been for the loss of Ira he might have remained in America to continue his great adventure with the country.

The Medina's steam pistons clunked rhythmically as the s.h.i.+p angled towards the new concrete wharf. Sam could hear the longsh.o.r.emen chatting and joking in the cadenced tones of the Swahili tongue. It had been a long time since he'd heard it and, although he had been fluent before departing, he now struggled to understand some of the connotations. He imagined it was the nuances of the coastal people's Swahili that eluded him.

He joined the queue of first-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers at the head of the gangway, and felt a tug on his suitcase. A smiling porter introduced himself in Swahili.

Sam answered in English, which had become heavily seasoned by his elocution lessons in the Bronx and his time in the west.

'America?' the porter asked.

Sam found it easier to lie than to admit his failings in Swahili.

'Sure am, buddy,' he said with as broad an American accent as he could manage.

Sam turned and found Jomo Kenyatta wearing a derisive smile.

Sam realised his a.s.sumed American-ness was useful. At least some of the prejudice he might otherwise receive as a native in his own land was avoided: when people thought he was an American, even a black American, they were at least courteous.

That is not to say that the whites immediately accepted him on equal footing, but when he appeared sufficiently wealthy to afford fine accommodation and expensive clothes, they begrudgingly treated him with respect. Even the usually patrician landed white settlers paid him small courtesies, treating him almost as one of their own. Since his travel papers were not yet finalised, and no one quite knew where to place him, he hadn't yet been compelled to carry one of the hated kipande pa.s.ses.

It amused Sam to let the deception continue and, as a result, he made no attempt to speak in Swahili or to lose his American accent.

In Nairobi he booked into the Norfolk, the best hotel in town, where his fine London linen and New York suits soon won him a nomination for members.h.i.+p of the m.u.t.h.aiga Club - the gathering place of local business leaders and the upcountry gentry. Once installed at the club, he was introduced to many well-connected people eager to help him find a business opportunity in Kenya.

It was a week later when, leaving the Bank of India building on his way to a company agent's office, he saw a familiar face on Government Road. It was an old man from his village - a friend of his father's - driving a cow towards the market. He was wearing the traditional long brown cloak, leather sandals and beaded necklaces, with a large cylindrical tobacco tin fitted as an ornament in his stretched earlobe.

A rush of memories swept him to thoughts of his family and village. He could see his mother in her food garden, his father tending the cattle and children running everywhere. He stood at the kerb watching the old man until he disappeared into the crowd on Government Road.

CHAPTER 15.

Sam sat back in the carriage, unsure if his impulsive decision to visit his home had been wise. He had changed; he worried that his family and friends in the village would feel awkward in his presence. Perhaps he would appear to them more of a mzungu than a Kikuyu. Would he be able to talk to them at all? So much had happened to him that would mean nothing in Igobu.

The process of change had happened slowly - too slowly for him to notice while in America - but now that he was heading home, his early years in the village came from what seemed like a different life.

The train line now extended past Thika to Nyeri, then all the way to Nanyuki. Progress.

From Nyeri he hired a car to take him to Igobu, but had to abandon the journey five miles from the village when the pitted road reverted to a footpath.

He carried his jacket over his shoulder and wound up his sleeves, but still arrived at his home village hot and sweaty.

When he walked through the village outskirts, the dogs barked and the children ran screaming to their mothers. A small and inquisitive crowd gathered at the outlying huts. Finally, someone recognised him and a howl of ululations arose from the women. The crowd approached; many hands patted him tentatively, and once his ident.i.ty was confirmed he was seized and almost carried to his family home.

Igobu had changed very little. There was a handful of new family compounds, here and there a hut sported a corrugated-iron roof instead of the traditional thatch, and of course a batch of new children swarmed about the common s.p.a.ce. Otherwise he had landed in exactly the stamping ground of his own childhood. His head swam with disorientation.

His father came out of his tent, puzzled by the commotion at his door. He remained a big man and perhaps even still the strongest in Nyeri Province, but to Sam's eyes he had shrunk. They embraced, but their conversation was hesitant, like that of two good friends separated by the years sometimes is. His father's mannerisms had changed. No longer did he thrust out his barrel chest and look over his nose as he talked: he was more reserved, even a little unsure.

Sam's mother came from her hut, at first not recognising him perhaps because of his Western clothes, but she soon dissolved into grateful tears, wailing and slapping a hand into his chest as she rested her head against it. She told him she'd never forgiven him for leaving the village, but thanked Mogai for his return.

When the crowd had dispersed and Sam sat with his family, feeling quite uncomfortable in his suit, his grandfather arrived, frail and querulous.

'They say this is how my name is written,' the old man said, pointing to a piece of card he removed from a canister hanging around his neck. 'And this is the mark of my finger. They say I must carry this everywhere I go!'

He turned the card to Sam then looked at it again, studying it as if it were something he'd not seen before. He made a face and added in an incredulous whisper: 'And I must show it to any askari who asks to see it.'

'Guuka hates the kipande,' his father explained. 'The rest of us are used to it now. What can you do?' He shrugged. In the old days Kungu would have been incensed, storming around the village and demanding the chief take action.

'And now we are Kee-nya,' his grandfather continued. 'Kee-nya!'

'So I heard, guuka,' Sam said. 'A new name. Just another change, ah?'

His grandfather gave him a disbelieving look. 'Pah!' he said, and spat into the dust before walking away.

'He is in poor health,' Sam said to his father, preferring to comment on the more obvious physical changes than to the more worrying change in his grandfather's character and disposition.

Sam walked alone to the mission school. It had been one of the first to be established in the region and Sam was there when it was built. The roof of fronds was steep and much higher than the squat traditional huts that the Kikuyu built, but the men of Igobu built it as requested by the missionaries.

After the first wet season, when the chill rain swept in on the wind from the mountain, many paris.h.i.+oners stayed away and the men were again co-opted into supplying labour and materials, this time to add frond-panel walls. But in the next dry season it was too hot, so they cut large window openings into the new walls to allow the light and cool breezes to enter. Sister Rosalba had planted white roses around three sides of the church.

Father O'Dwyer made monthly visits from Nanyuki, thirty miles away. He came in his little donkey trap to say ma.s.s in the makuti church. Sam had been mightily impressed by the priest's vestments, which could be red, purple or green satin, depending upon the liturgical calendar. The ochre-painted, feather-clad medicine man, so feared and respected by the Kikuyu, was colourless in comparison. The vestments alone had won many converts.

During Sam's time away, the church had been enlarged by the addition of two thatched annexes, one each side under the original high thatched roof. It was no longer the elegant, soaring structure he remembered. Now it appeared to be just a bigger, fatter version of the squat Kikuyu huts that surrounded it.

The school had gained an additional thatched cla.s.sroom. He stood in the playground as the children trooped past him with round and curious eyes.

The teacher, obviously a nun, but wearing a lighter form of the Consolata Sisters' habit, came towards him.

She smiled and said, 'I'm Sister Sirena.' There was a question in her eyes, but she resisted voicing it.

'h.e.l.lo, Sister. I am ... I was a student here. Many years ago, obviously. But I am wondering if I might see Sister Rosalba.'

'No, I'm sorry. Sister Rosalba pa.s.sed away years ago.'

'Oh ...'

'I was sent out from Rome as her replacement.'

'I see. How did she ... Had she been ill?'

'No. It was an accident. I understand she was very proud of her roses. White roses. A little innocent vanity about her name, perhaps.'

'Her name?'

'Rosalba - white rose.'