The Newcomers: a novel of global invasion , human resilience, and the wild places of the planet

by Pamela Jekel

  Desta nodded. “Did Baako tell you the Whistler is back?”

  “Ah, the poor thing. No, he didn’t mention it.” The Whistler was an old bull elephant who’d got his trunk caught and torn by a poacher’s snare some years back. As he breathed through his mangled trunk, the noise he made preceded him in the bush. Asha frowned. “Well, there’s no help for it. Baba and Peter will have to run him off.”

  “But we’ve always let him feed with the horses.”

  “I know.” Poaching was nearly over now with the ivory trade outlawed, but many elephants were still left with its scars. Just last season, Asha had seen a young cow being fed by her sisters and aunties, because the end of her trunk was so severely severed by a snare that she could not forage for herself. “But truly we can’t take in any more mouths to feed, I’m afraid. While I have no doubt we’ll be fine, we’re certainly going to have to tighten our belts as well.” The heat was building swiftly now, and they had finished four rows. “Time for tea?”

  As they walked back to the house, Asha watched with pride the easy fluid grace of Desta’s hips and shoulders. The time would come, and soon enough she knew, when her daughter would likely walk away from her, when she would wish to invisibly cut the ties between them to have a life she could call her own. The deep love they had for each other would be tested, stretched, and tested again, must stretch or it would cripple her daughter just as surely as any snare could cripple an animal. But for now, all the danger was outside this house, this garden, this land, and none came within their hearts, their walls, or their fences.

  * * *

  It was time for their monthly visit to Jomo’s maternal aunt, Wangari Maathai, who lived in the Ihithe village, near Nyeri. Nearly eighty-five years old, she was still interested in all things, and Jomo treated her with the respect due to not only her age, but also her position in the Kikuyu clan. He called her “mother” and his children called her “grandmother”, for the love they bore her and her name that he carried. They always drove the Escalade, and they went to visit in their Sunday clothes, right from Mass.

  Ihithe had some roads which were paved; others were still hard-packed dirt. A film of dust settled over pale grass, and women walked with loads of firewood hung by leather straps over their foreheads, often with a toto’s head, dark and shining, poking out from under a sling. There was a hair salon, a general store, a small medical clinic, a café, a butcher shop, and a small primary school. Sheep and goats grazed by the side of the road, and men sat before the café and talked, while the women sold vegetables from their stalls or swept the dirt from their front stoops. Tea and coffee plantations stretched out for miles on all sides of the village. Children tended the goats or the small gardens which divided the stone houses with corrugated metal roofs. Tall white clouds crowded the wide blue sky, the sun was blasting, crickets sang from the trees, and the smell of hot earth and sweating people hung in the air.

  “Chase, you might wish to discuss your paper topic with Bibi,” Asha suggested as they arrived at the village. Wangari had treated Chase with dignity and affection each time they visited, careful to use only English in her speech with him so that he might feel more comfortable. He had made everyone smile at his early insistence on answering her questions in Swahili as best he could, with the usual result that the conversation collapsed in laughter at his errors. Finally, he gave up when he realized that her English was likely better than his own. Like all of the clan, she knew he had lost his grandparents.

  “I was going to talk to her about it,” he said. “She was the founder of the Green Belt Movement, right? I want to write about that.”

  “Bibi is called the Tree Woman.” Desta’s eyes shone with pride. “She started the first Kenyan environmental movement, and the women planted millions of trees, and then she went on from that to women’s rights.”

  “I know,” Chase said. “We talk about her in class. How she got them to slow deforestation.”

  “Did you know she has a Ph.D. in biology?” Baako asked.

  “No, no,” Jomo said, “her Doctorate is in Veterinary Anatomy. Her Masters is in Biology.”

  Baako smirked. “I just wanted to give you a chance to say it again.”

  “She remembers the time when Kenyans were put in concentration camps by the British,” Desta said to Chase. “A million of them, mostly women, children, and the elderly, during the Mau Mau rebellion. Bibi’s mother lived in one for nearly seven years. More than a hundred thousand Kikuyu died in them from starvation and disease.”

  Chase looked away from her. She flushed, went silent, and looked out the other window.

  They parked the car a respectful distance from the simple cottage where Wangari Maathai lived, so as to raise no dust. As they walked to Wangari’s home, village people hailed Jomo, and Asha smiled to see him so happy to be among his clan. Wangari’s grand-niece opened the wooden door and called to Jomo, “She’s been waiting for you!” It was the way they were greeted each time they arrived.

  Asha went inside the low-ceilinged cottage, and as she did with each visit, she marveled that Wangari had given up her home to the clan to move to this little place. It was immaculate, to be sure, with swept wooden floors, a simple kitchen, a small loo, one bedroom, and a sitting area. Bibi’s grand-niece took it as a point of honor that Wangari was looked after well, down to the small platter of traditional Kenyan tidbits she always provided for their visits. But the cottage was so sparse. No sign of the many papers and books Wangari had written, the speeches, her travel all over the world to speak about conservation and climate warming, no plaques on the walls, no degrees mounted for visitors to admire, no photos with heads of state. Even her Nobel Peace Prize was not on display. A small laptop computer with printer sat on a simple desk by a window, the only indication that Wangari was still connected to the outside world.

  She was seated in a chair, beaming at them when they came in. Vast and stout in her colorful Kenyan kaftan and matching head wrap, Wangari’s smile was wide and almost girlish despite her age. She was famous for that smile. And for her generous and enveloping hugs. Jomo went to her and kissed her hands, Asha kissed her cheek, and the children kissed her in turn. Her broad dark face took on such pleasure at their arrival, her white teeth flashed, and she rolled her eyes at Baako mischievously. “What is this I hear of your team winning another victory? Is this thanks to your new striker?” She grinned at Chase.

  “Oh, Bibi, you’ve been listening to lies again,” Baako said, taking his seat next to her. He held her plump hand in his. “We’re working him up from waterboy.”

  They laughed then, taking their seats around her, refreshments were served, and Wangari skillfully drew out each visitor, asking Jomo about the District’s new policy on wells outside the city limits, Desta about her classes, Asha about her garden, weaving the conversation in and around them all, leaving no one ignored. When Chase said, “Bibi, I have to write a paper on the Green Belt Movement,” she replied, “Ah, one of my favorite subjects. You have done your research, yes?”

  “Yes, but I thought maybe you could give me a quote.”

  “He thinks that will get him an ‘A’ for certain.” Jomo was filling a small plate with various fruits and chapatti from the tray on the table.

  “Tell him about the time you signed your name in your own blood,” Desta urged Wangari.

  “Whoa. Yeah, tell that,” Chase agreed.

  Wangari dropped her voice confidentially with the instinctive skill of a born story-teller. “I was almost sixty years of age. Nearly an old woman, but not as ancient as I am now, of course. I was still strong. I could still work like a man. Some said I thought and spoke like one, too.” She laughed without humor. “And that has caused me no small inconvenience in my life. And so, we were planting trees near the site of one of the President’s planned luxury apartment projects in the Karura Forest just outside Nairobi, to protest the building of the golf course and the deforestation that would result. The police told us we would be in trouble,
but we did not believe that anyone, no matter how evil, would attack twelve old women planting saplings. We were wrong. The President’s thugs came at us with sticks, and they beat us. They knocked us down.” Her voice was indignant. “They also broke all of our saplings. I went to the police to file a complaint, but they did not want to listen. I asked them to return with me and arrest our attackers, but they would not. They did not want me to file a complaint, because our President owned them, each of them. I persisted.”

  “Tell him what you said, Bibi.” Baako turned to Chase. “You should write this down.”

  Chase nodded and took out his pen.

  “I told them that I would bring all the women from the villages to sing outside the President’s palace, in the President’s honor. All night. Every night.” She smiled. “They knew the President, and they feared him. But they feared the President’s wife even more. They let me file my complaint. I signed that complaint in my own blood, from the cut on my head that they made with their sticks. A big red ‘X’.”

  Chase wrote it down then asked, “And then what happened?”

  “Nothing. Until I sent a copy of the complaint to the newspapers. Then men were arrested, and some were jailed. Finally, the students joined us, and international groups protested, and that beautiful forest is still there. One of our successes. We have had many failures as well, but we are still planting trees.”

  “Tell him about when you were one of the flag bearers at the Olympics nearly twenty years ago,” Desta said.

  “Another time,” Wangari said, patting Desta’s hand. “Now then Chase, what do you hear from your family in America?”

  His mouth stiffened. “Nothing since the last time you asked. They were being moved out of Atlanta, last I heard. Someplace north of the city, I think. They’re rationing food now, and my mother said there’s no fresh meat or fresh milk. Everything is boiled or canned or pickled, or something. They’re using generators for power, mostly. I guess the electricity has to be rationed, too.” His voice trailed away.

  Wangari took his hand. “I remember back in the drought of 2000, we had terrible blackouts as well, sometimes for twelve hours or more. Our rationing went on for two years, did it not, Jomo?”

  “Indeed,” Jomo said. “With only one oil refinery in the whole country, down in Mombasa, we have shortages often enough, I can tell you. We spend more Kenyan shillings on imported oil than on anything else.”

  “But of course, Americans are not accustomed to shortages of any kind.” Her voice was kind. “People can always get by with less than they think they can. You must keep your spirits up and do the job you were sent here to do. That is why they sent you.”

  “He has posted three letters to them.” Asha said with approval.

  “Well, I know that mail is very difficult now, coming from North America. We must be patient and hope for the best. With so many pipelines and the nuclear plants shut down, all transportation is slowed, I am certain. No news does not mean bad news, yes?”

  Chase nodded. “Have you heard any news from America?”

  “Only what I have seen on the television.”

  “Our reception has been impossibly spotty,” Jomo said.

  “I do have the Internet also,” Wangari continued, “and of course if one is connected to the Internet, one is connected to the thought processes of the world. Many of the thinkers are still thinking, thank God. I have read that no more children are being sent from the United States, is that correct?”

  “That’s what they say.” Jomo glanced at Chase.

  “Well and that is a great pity, I say. I came to admire America very much when I did my studies there. There is a persistence in America, a vision. The spirit of freedom that is America will survive. I would welcome more Americans to Kenya.”

  “Bibi was part of the 1960 Kennedy airlift, when six-hundred Kenyan students were sent to America to study,” Desta said. “So you see, we sent students to you, and now you send students to us.”

  “Yes, and I learned there that anything is possible,” Wangari said. “That one person can make a difference. It is part of your history and your culture. It can lead to arrogance, but it can also lead to greatness. There are those who say that it was the white man, perhaps the United States military, which developed the AIDS virus to destroy the African people, for example. I do think that AIDS is a biological agent, that it no more came from monkeys than it came from the moon, but to say that the Americans did this to us on purpose is wicked and destructive. We have had pandemics since man first crowded into cities. Who knows? Perhaps one of these young minds from America will be the one to find the cure for AIDS, eh? We must hope for that. We must hope that more children of America come to us.” She turned to Jomo. “And have you heard from your brother lately?”

  As the conversation turned to family matters, Asha rose and went to the small kitchen to replenish the tea. Desta picked up plates and joined her mother, lowering her voice. “I wish Bibi would not talk about AIDS and the Americans. It’s rude.”

  Asha smiled and touched her daughter’s shoulder. “Have you ever known your Bibi to worry about being diplomatic? She will speak her mind even on her deathbed. That is her curse and also her strength. And since when are you so concerned about Chase’s feelings?”

  Desta shrugged. “I’m not. May we be excused?’

  “Yes, of course. Take the boys and do your walkabout.” Strolling through the village and seeing their cousins was always one of the highlights of their visits with their great-aunt, and after a team victory, Baako would be more eager than usual to knock on doors and show his face.

  After they left, Asha and Jomo settled down again with Wangari, and Asha asked, “How are you feeling this month, Mother? Are the knees any better?”

  “I’m very much afraid they will not be better unless by witchcraft I become as slender as you, my daughter. My knees were not meant to carry me this long.” She smiled and patted Asha’s hand. “From the neck up, I am well enough; from the neck down, I am feeble indeed. If I could sack these old legs and hire new ones, I would surely do so! But I’m grateful my mind still works. Now, tell me, Jomo, what is said in the District about the Advisor’s new energy plans? Are these ideas which will be good for Kenya?”

  Jomo nodded. “They have great promise, actually. Mind you, it will take time to wean us off petrol, but the potential for biofuel based on plankton will work for Kenya, I should think. It’s the blue-green algae that’s needed, and one hears that the fuel crop can be grown and harvested quite quickly, at a cost of about one Euro per liter. The phytoplankton can be grown in a limited space, in non-potable water, even salt water, and the algafuel we refine from it will make huge cuts in carbon emissions, because the plankton eats the carbon! It’s extraordinary, actually. Supposedly, algae will be twenty times more productive than palm oil and a hundred times more productive than rapeseed, in far less space. Little land need be given up, no drilling in our oceans. It’ll grow in salty ground water, which is exactly what we have too much of, yes? This could be quite excellent for Kenya, since we have to import all our oil. We may well convert some of our py fields to shallow ponds and make our own diesel.” He grimaced. “Not sure what else to do with the land, since we’ve no markets left for the crop. China was our most active investor, and they’ll likely be generations trying to recover, if they can at all. Cholera and typhoid, you know. Riots, too. More than half of them had moved to the cities, and most of those are wiped out; they say at least a billion dead.”

  “Oh dear,” Wangari said.

  “Indeed. A terrible waste. A monumental massacre, is what it is.”

  “Will you be able to provide for your family?”

  “Oh, no need to make a song and dance of it; I expect we’ll sort it out. Looks as though Australia may take a bit, and the Cooperative is prodding about for what markets there may be. We’re actually frightfully lucky, compared to most. It’s madness. Bloody madness. But the algafuel will be good, and then there’
s the second plan, which will also work for us. It’s a special device which goes into a river or stream, very good for slow currents, and it spirals the water around and creates energy somehow. I’m not sure how it works, but I’m told it will work, and that’s what matters. But this blue-green algae crop might save the day! It’s been around since the beginning of life on earth, you know; we just never thought to use it for fuel. Not in any quantity, at least. One hears that the aliens have sent plans to all the governments of the world for production. It’s renewable, emission-free, and we already know how to process it, same as other biofuel we already use. And to think it’s been here all along!”

  “Hmm. Perhaps.” Wangari looked skeptical.

  “Sorry?”

  “Well, there seems to be some discussion on the Internet that the aliens brought this algae to earth and seeded it here.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard that talk.” Jomo rolled his eyes. “Ancient astronaut takataka.” Garbage. “That rubbish has been around forever.”

  “Rubbish, you think? What about the pandemic theory? Do you think that rubbish as well?”

  Jomo shook his head. “I doubt there’s another woman your age who would or could have this conversation. I’m well impressed. What pandemic theory? I thought the Internet was crippled.”

  She smiled, clearly enjoying herself. “Much of it is, but research is still possible. And I’ve been doing some. Did you know that in the year 541, the Plague of Justinian wiped out forty-percent of the population? Bubonic plague, they think. At its peak, more than ten-thousand people daily were dying in Constantinople. Bodies stacked out in the open, maybe one-hundred million died altogether, and the world went into the Dark Ages. In 1350, the Black Death killed off fifty-percent of the world’s population, bubonic again, is the theory. Took more than a century to recover from that. Both pandemics came when the populations had crowded the land and the cities, and the farms couldn’t sustain them. It’s called the Malthusian limit, when humans reproduce to the point that they exceed the food supplies, and then pandemics happen.”