by Pamela Jekel
At first, when they’d heard about the alien crafts appearing over foreign capitals, many did not believe it. It was surely another hoax. One neighbor, famously anti-Yank, claimed it was merely another American military experiment gone mad, like AIDS. But as the reports came from London, Dubai, Johannesburg and Cairo, those who had spotted alien crafts moving over the bush for generations and been derided for their reports were finally vindicated. Kenyans had to accept that it must be true indeed: aliens were here at last.
Since no crafts hovered over Kenya, however, it was easy to forget what was happening elsewhere, and they counted themselves fortunate. It had been a decade since the hanta epidemic decimated Nairobi, halving its population, and so many had fled the capital. Africans said, “Ni shauri ya Mungo”. It is the will of God. Those who resettled in the villages were welcomed as prosperous and educated members of their tribes. Many had televisions, fewer had computers, and so the full impact of the arrival of the Advisors and their messages was felt, but at some distance. Until the dying started. Now those with family outside of Kenya waited for word, and each day of silence increased their fear. Those who depended upon tourism for their livelihoods saw their incomes evaporate as swiftly as the rivers in the dry season.
And so they needed this wedding to remind themselves that they were still fortunate, they were resilient, they were Kenyans. Jomo landed the Cessna on the farm runway, taxied to a line of parked light planes, and as they stepped on the dirt strip, they were hailed by friends and relations. Desta was instantly whisked away by her chums, Baako shouted to some teammates and trotted over to them, and Jomo and Asha walked arm-in-arm to greet their neighbors.
Jomo embraced his host, Lawrence Odingo, and Asha took his wife’s hands in hers, murmuring, “Such a happy day, when girls are made mwali.” Brides. The traditional wedding greeting. They laughed together then, and clasping each other’s waists, Rachel Odingo pulled Asha to the waiting group of wives to share the gossip and admire each other’s frocks and children.
The long low tables were spread out on the vast lawn in front of the white-washed farmhouse, and already Odingo’s people had filled the tables with the first of what would be many courses of food, both traditional and colonial. There were large platters of matobe, mashed green plantain, white mounds of ugali, the maize staple eaten with most meals, pilau, yogurt chutney, githeri, the customary mix of beans, and plenty of Tusker, Pilsner, and Swahili Rum to wash it down. Several goats were roasting to the side of the tables, to provide the delicacy of nyama choma, barbequed meat that would be passed with warm chapatti. On other tables, the serving boys with their red fez hats were arranging plates of curry, roast lamb, and an army of vegetable platters and fruits. Another table was devoted to jellies, puddings, sweets, and pies. In the middle of the table was Kimu’s specialty, a custard trifle with layers of different-flavored cakes, and the old cook stood by, bowing and giving asante to the guests, as they complimented his feast.
One table was set apart, waiting for the towering wedding cake which would be carried out after the ceremony, and servants circled the crowds with platters of finger samosas, mandazzi, small bits of fried dough, and punch. A band played in one corner of the yard, the traditional drum music for the tribal dances, ngoma. A shining black Lexus was parked by the tables, the bride-price from the groom’s family to the Odingos as proper recompense for the loss of their daughter, Makena. And in the center of the yard was the bridal gazebo and altar, surrounded by rows of white chairs festooned with ribbons and flowers.
Asha rejoined her husband in a small cluster of couples in time to hear him say, “When a scorpion stings without mercy, you kill it without mercy. These invaders have murdered millions of people! The Chinese made a botch-up of it, but the Americans and the Brits should be able to get the job done right enough.”
“How do you know it’s the aliens who have caused this calamity? What about bioterror gone awry? Antibiotic-resistant superbugs? Cock-ups by the military? And even if they knew for sure it was these aliens who caused the deaths of millions, what would you have the survivors do precisely?” Richard Mathenge asked. He had an organic poultry farm near Embu.
“Whatever it takes,” Bernard Mbuthia answered. “Kamikazi blitzes and Sidewinders will light them up, I should think. Leastwhys, we’d be no worse off.” He had a son in university at Oxford and had not heard from him in two months.
“With what weapons? And what delivery system? NATO and Ramstein are closed down in Germany, the Joint Forces Command is shuttered in the Netherlands, Aviano in Italy, Yokata in Japan, the RAF at Feltwell, Mildenhall, and Croughton, all missing in action,” Mathenge said. “Are we to throw rocks at them like David did Goliath?”
“Well, from all reports, that approach was not without some success,” Asha murmured to Rachel, listening next to her.
Their host approached the group, with his hands out in mock-supplication. “Gentlemen and ladies all, I implore you! If you do not make a dent in these poor perishables, Kimu will beat his wife in shame!” The group broke into couples again and made their way to the tables, and Asha said, “Really, Jomo. Perhaps we could leave the topic for another time?”
Jomo patted his wife’s shoulder. “You’re right, of course. Not much to be done about it in the moment, that’s certain.” But his brow remained furrowed.
After luncheon the entertainment began, and the guests lined the lawn to watch the tribal dances. The Samburu clan had sent a group of morani, young warriors, and their women, an honor for the Odingo family and for the groom, Samuel Keyombe, son of the international Kenyan poet, Walter Keyombe, and captain of the Central District’s best rugby team. Samuel Keyombe had been educated in England and returned to Kenya to manage his father’s properties. An activist leader, Samuel was well-known and admired by the Samburu tribe, even though he was Kikuyu by heritage.
The warriors were wrapped tightly in their finest yellow, red, or white shukas, showing the muscular lines of their bodies. They held their spears high, and their pierced ears were elongated and decorated with copper and ivory pendants; their necklaces of bright red and blue beads bounced around on their glistening chests, and their hair was intricately braided, arranged, and adorned with red ocher in princely fashion. As the women sang and clapped, the young men began the adumu, the dance of jumps. To rhythmic phrases and shouted song, they circled and circled, and then they formed groups of four.
Each group stepped away from the line of warriors and began to jump, straight-legged in unison, higher, higher, until it seemed that they were tall as their spears. Then another group stepped forward and jumped even higher. The groups dissolved, and individual warriors jumped forth, faces painted with ocher and white, brows furrowed in proud concentration, splendidly bouncing as though on springs, never letting their heels touch the ground, until finally the women raised their voices higher, urging them to jump in unison, and all of the warriors jumped as an army, intimidating in their power.
Now the warriors sang and clapped, while the women silently danced. Each young woman was shaved bald, with only a narrow band of plaited leather and beads wrapping her head, and their beautiful brows and cheekbones looked delicate next to their men. The married women wore the mporro necklaces, once of giraffe tails, but now of doum palm fibers, intricately beaded and ringed with copper. The collars were huge, covering most of their upper bodies, and by arching their backs and thrusting out their oiled breasts, they made their collars bounce in rhythm with the warriors’ song, one woman after another calling out to the warriors as though in reply to their chorus. Dignified and lovely, their knees high, their small feet bare and quick, their bodies moved in unison, flourishes of the feminine strength of spirit. The songs and dances were celebrations of life, marriage, and family, and although many of the guests could not understand the Samburu words, they felt the grand spirit of the dance in their bodies, and they swayed and clapped in unison. After the dancers were finished, the guests applauded them happily, shouting the
ir approval.
Lawrence Odingo took the microphone at the bandstand, welcomed his guests, and asked them to take their seats for the arrival of the wedding party. Jomo and Asha gathered Baako and Desta to them, so that they could find seats together, and the groom and his men came forth.
Dressed in shining black tuxedos, Samuel Keyombe and his four brothers walked slowly from the house down the lawn. On all sides, as was the custom, the bride’s girlfriends mobbed the groom as he walked to the bridal altar, trying to distract him, telling him it wasn’t too late to change his mind, plucking at his coat and pushing themselves before him. Like a proper husband-to-be, he ignored their pleas and teasings, which made them double their efforts to turn his head. The crowd laughed with appreciation, and some of the young men called to the girls in mock-indignation at their faithlessness.
Five young girls in a rainbow of colors walked down the lawn now, carrying roses and waving to their friends as they took their place on the opposite side of the gazebo. The priest stepped to the altar, and as the wedding ceremony took on its more traditionally Catholic mood, the band played the wedding march, and all rose and looked towards the house. Makena Odingo appeared in the doorway of her father’s home. A cheer went up from the guests. She acknowledged their approval with a demure dip of her head, took her father’s arm, and walked down the lawn, trailing her wide white train behind her. Her slender bare arms were painted in intricate henna designs. Her veil was billowing in the breeze, she carried freesias and a chain of pearls, and her smile was resplendent. She glowed with health and joy.
“Oh Mama, she’s so beautiful,” Desta said.
Asha squeezed her twelve-year old’s hand. “Some day,” she whispered.
The ceremony was brief, the prayers full of joy, and the young couple came forward to accept the congratulations of their families and neighbors. Walter Keyombe, father of the groom, read a poem he had written in the bride’s honor. More food emerged, the bride and groom cut the cake, the storytelling and the dancing began, and it was approaching twilight when the Maathais took their leave. In Africa, twilight was brief, night came fast, and it was not good to fly in full darkness.
As they landed the Cessna on their own dirt runway, Peter, their jumbe came with the jeep, the dogs running behind him. “Was a good feast?” the headman asked Jomo, as always more interested in the food than any other gossip.
“The best,” he told him. “Any news?”
“All is quiet, Bwana. The Ridgeback bitch threw her pups tonight, six of them.”
“Mzuri,” Jomo nodded. Good. More superb hunting dogs to add to their kennel and sell to neighbors, good news indeed. He took the wheel of the jeep and drove his family up the hill to their sprawling, low-slung ranch house which glowed with welcome lights. “Who lives in that pretty cottage?” Asha asked with a playful toss of her head.
“The most beautiful woman in Kenya,” Jomo assured her. “Even the bride was no more beguiling than the woman who lives in that house.”
She laughed with delight, patting his arm. “Such a wise man.”
* * *
Jomo Maathai had built his home nine miles out of the town of Nyeri, only a few miles from his ancestral village of Ihithe, where his parents were born. Nyeri was the administrative headquarters of Kenya’s Central Province, two hours drive north from Nairobi, in Kenya’s fertile Central Highlands, lying between the Aberdares and the western slopes of Mount Kenya. Half a million people made their home in Nyeri, now that so many refugees from Nairobi had returned to their clans. Food and water were plentiful and cheap, the soil was fertile, and the rains dependable. The Kikuyu, Kenya’s largest tribe, raised dairy cattle, tea, wheat, and coffee on large and prosperous farms, and the White Rhino Hotel, the Outspan Hotel, and the Aberdare Country Club still stood, as relics of colonial days when the British ran the country. Many Nyerians spoke the old Kikuyu tongue, as well as Kenya’s national language, Kiswahili, and Kenya’s official language of English.
Jomo’s marriage to Asha Ihura had been arranged by their fathers, and it was a successful union for both families. He was the youngest son of the sister of Wangari Maathai, the environmentalist, political activist, and the first African woman to receive the Nobel Peace Prize. The Maathai name was well-renowned in Kenya, and when Jomo’s mother died young, his aunt Wangari had taken him on as her own. Asha was the granddaughter of Wangombe Wa Ihura, the Kikuyu warrior-king who led the resistance against the British invaders in 1902. Their wedding lasted four days and nights and was still remembered with great pleasure by the old women of the clan.
The Mathari Mission Settlement was ten miles from the Town Centre, with Our Lady of Consolata Cathedral, convents for nuns, Catholic schools, a teacher training college, and the Consolata Hospital and School of Nursing, staffed by nuns of the Consolata order. It was there that Jomo was driving this morning, in his capacity as District Commissioner of the Nyeri Central District.
As he got out of his Escalade, he was greeted by a nun who brought him to the office of the order’s Mother Superior. “Welcome, welcome, Jomo,” she took both his hands in hers and greeted him, beckoning to a chair close to her desk. They had known each other many years, since Jomo had gone to St. Mary’s Boys Secondary School under her supervision. He had advanced to District Commissioner; she had been raised by the Archdiocese to Mother Superior, but neither of them forgot their old and pleasant memories of each other.
Like all Kenyans, Mother spent a good while asking of his health and family before she began their business. To hurry was bad manners. But finally she said, “I am so grateful you have come to see me today, Jomo. I know how busy you are, and with this troubling news from the rest of the world, you must have much on your mind.”
“It is a terrible time, a frightening time,” he nodded. “What does the Archbishop say of all this?”
“That it is God’s will, of course,” she said, with a delicate snort.
Jomo knew that Mother had short patience with the new Archbishop, a young
Italian sent from the Archdiocese in Milan. She would have preferred that Bishop
Kymari, a Kikuyu from the District, had been promoted instead.
“But there is something specific which we can do to help,” Mother continued, “rather than simply wait to see what God wills next.” She leaned forward, her eyes alight. “The children can be saved.”
“How can I help?” he asked, startled into his most natural response.
She beamed at him. “There is an international program which has been started called the Children Transfer Program. Do you know of it?”
“No. Our television reception has been poor lately.”
“You will know of it soon enough, but I wished to speak with you privately before you had a chance to make your decision. Children from all nations, gifted children, educated children, artistic children, are being sent from their ravaged countries to foster families to be saved. Some are being sent to Kenya, Jomo. I hope that you and Asha will agree to take in such children.”
Jomo hesitated, his eyes widened. “The aliens are sending children to Africa?”
She shook her head with impatience. “I refuse to name them, Jomo. I would not know what to call them if I could bear to speak the name. They are not Advisors, that much is clear. But what is also clear is that these children will not survive without our help. And as a Catholic father and a Catholic District Commissioner, I know that you will see that it is our duty---your privilege, to step forward and welcome as many children as you can. When others see that Jomo Maathai will accept these young refugees, they will do so as well.”
He pictured an unruly tribe of children running amok through his garden, his flower fields, climbing his fences, frightening his livestock and game. Wary, he asked, “Ngapi?”, and then flushed because he had instinctively asked the questions, “how many and how much” simultaneously. He remembered from his old school days that while it was difficult to say no to Mother Superior, it could also be dangerous
to say yes.
She offered her most persuasive smile. “No more than you can bear, my son. That is what God has promised, is it not? Now, I hope you will go home and discuss this with your gracious wife, who I have no doubt will see that this step will be a positive one for your family, your faith, and your Church.” She lowered her voice in a conspiratorial murmur. “I’m sure you’ll agree, it will not be a disaster for Kenya either, my son, to make these special children our own.”
“Quite.”
Now in her public voice. “It is our Christian duty. Do I have your promise that you will consider it seriously?”
He rose and dipped his head. “By all means, Mother.”
“You shall hear more of this at Mass on Sunday,” she said, “but I wanted to be sure that our District Commissioner was the first to hear the news.”
They shook hands, and he left the office, dazzled by the light again and slightly dizzy with the idea of so many children entrusted to his care. He and Asha had agreed to keep their family small, despite the Kikuyu custom of yearly pregnancies for healthy wives. Asha had told him, “It is better to do a good job with a few than a haphazard job with many,” and he had agreed. But now to take on the children of others? Not Kikuyu, not even Kenyan?
He wasn’t at all sure that he was pleased by Mother’s assumption that he would do the Church’s will. He rather liked his easily-managed routine, the order and peace of his household. They had a cook and housekeeper, a headman who ran the driver and the herd-boys, field workers when they needed them, a Cessna, a jeep, several lorries, and an automobile, nearly new. They had room in their home, that was true enough, but did they have room in their lives? Jomo knew his wife well. He would not discuss this visit nor this news with her yet. Let her hear it first from the mouth of the Priest, while bathed in the peace of the Cathedral, with her two children beside her. And then, indeed, let God’s will be done.