With Robin’s help, my wound was healing.
40
Sveva: A Child of Africa
‘Paulo’ – said Mirimuk – ‘Paulo ni mama mzee.’
At the end of the passage past my bedroom at Kuti, Emanuele’s room was still locked. Strange rustles were heard at night, and I suspected that bats and mice had started to nest in it undisturbed. Emanuele had been tidy and I knew he would not have liked to see his things messed up and ruined, but I had felt any intrusion as a profanation of a precious relic. It was Robin’s healthy influence which helped me to dispel many ghosts, and one day I decided the time had come to open that room again.
What triggered this action was the fact that I had undertaken to complete what Emanuele had begun. Discussing rhino with Iain had made me remember the letter to Michael Werikhe I had found in Emanuele’s diary the day after the funeral, when we had let all the snakes go. The diary was still on his desk. The lock was slightly rusty, but the door opened easily enough. An almost solid, sweetish smell of snakeskins and rat droppings hit me even before I entered. I opened the windows wide and the sun once more lit up the rows of books, now covered in dust, the cherished objects. The floor was littered with fragments of snakeskins and dirt. A beehive hung in a corner: for some unknown reason, bees had always liked that room.
While the light of day shone on the mildew, and insects buzzed, I sat at Emanuele’s desk and opened his diary; it was musty, but intact. I found the letter to Michael where I had left it. I read it again. Emanuele had asked him to come and stay and I decided to honour his wish. That evening I wrote to Michael in Mombasa, where he worked as a dog-trainer in the security section of a factory. I explained what had happened to Ema, and invited him to come up to Laikipia anyway and see his first rhino, as this had been Ema’s desire. A few days after, I received his answer:
… I greatly respected and admired him … I am shattered that fate never allowed us to meet … the sense of loss will forever be a part of my being. I will always think of him and strive to keep his memory by loving nature. I would like to pay my respect to him by visiting his grave whenever I get a chance to take a few days off work … Please keep in touch. Yours Michael.
This was the beginning of a correspondence which lasted for months, and the beginning of a friendship which will last for ever. When finally he got his leave, I met Michael in Richard Leakey’s office at the Museum and we drove up to the ranch. It was for him the discovery of a new world: a private place of beauty, where people cared for the wild, and animals thrived. Michael was a serious, bespectacled young man, with an inspired way of talking, a purity, an ideal, and the energy and drive to work hard at making his dream a reality. I liked him instantly, and saw his potential: not only was he dedicated to the survival of the wildlife and specifically rhino, but he was an African, and he did not belong to any organization. In a conservation world mostly dominated by European Ph.D.s. paid to do their jobs, Michael’s idealism and commitment were precious and rare. He could appeal to people of his own race, to whom finally the destiny of African wildlife was entrusted; he could be their hero, inspire them, speak a language they could understand. At a time when Kenya was being constantly reported by the international media as killing its wildlife, here was a Kenyan who could be quoted positively in the news as doing something extraordinary to save it.
A few years later, in fact, Michael would walk through East Africa, and finally Europe. He would raise an immense amount of money for rhino conservation, and would become an internationally known figure, sought by the high and mighty, loved by the media and respected by all. The recipient of prizes and awards, he would travel the world far and wide, but he would never lose his simplicity, he would remain loyal to his old friends and to the cause. When his daughter was born he called her Acacia, after the tree on Emanuele’s grave. It all began with that first visit.
As I expected, he fell under the spell of Laikipia. When he left three weeks later, having seen his first rhino which was nicknamed Michael after him, and having caught and released a gigantic python as Emanuele would have done, we were friends. He wrote me a few days later:
Laikipia ranch will forever be in my mind. I’ll see it in my eyes, and hear its songs in my ears, wherever I go. The serenity of the environment there made me so ecstatic … to me it is a heaven, an oasis of love and hope … With lots of love from Michael.
There was a postscript:
P. S. He was not there in person to take me around. He did in spirit. Everyone must have a hero. Well, he is mine.
P. P. S. I left my belt and water container behind purposedly, so that whenever I think of them, memories of Laikipia will flush back into my mind and rekindle my interest before it gets dark.
Days rolled away like clouds, and they were suddenly years.
From his grave, and fed by what had been his body, Emanuele’s tree grew sturdy in Paolo’s shade, and up above, their branches touched again, intertwined as if they were holding hands. Weaver-birds built their nests in Paolo’s tree, and bees came to the pale creamy flowers, bringing the pollen back to their hives behind our house. We ate that honey at breakfast, and when the first pods and seeds appeared on our trees Sveva and I spread them around the ranch, brought some down to Nairobi to plant, and gave many to Michael Werikhe, who was starting a scheme of indigenous trees in some wasteland down at Mombasa. It gave us immense pleasure to feel that their bodies were truly now returning to Africa, and to us, in other shapes.
Sveva grew tall and long-limbed in harmonious grace, radiant and gentle, sunny and compassionate, adored by all for her charming ways, and fully deserving her nickname of Makena, the Happy One. There was a quiet maturity about Sveva as there had been in Emanuele, although they were different in many ways; she was more physical and more extrovert than he had been. Her hair had grown long and a darker gold, streaked with silver; her eyes remained that astonishing deep blue. Apart from her small nose, which had nothing of her father’s Roman profile, she was Paolo’s identical image: her way of walking, the bronze colour of her skin, the long runner’s stride, her smile, her mannerisms, and her gift for music.
She used to ride out on her horse Boy, or on the tall camel Kelele, in the sunny mornings at the ranch, and after that first inexplicable incident when she had fallen into the pool and had swum out on her own before she knew how, she became an extremely good swimmer, as natural in the water as Paolo had been.
Sveva was fascinated by the wildlife. From the beginning, with Mirimuk as her mentor, she had leamt about the ways of the bush like an African child. The moment he had seen Sveva, a baby of a few days, she became ‘Paulo’ to him, and his devotion to her was touching and unstinting. She returned his affection with her natural grace and her shared love of the country and its creatures.
When we were alone we often spent a night out, Mirimuk and Sveva and I, as in days past we had done with Paolo. We would find some spot overlooking a dam or a valley, and build a fire of dry leleshwa roots. Mirimuk sat with Sveva, telling her stories of the Turkana, of Paolo, of hunting adventures in days past; the old man in green with the wom jacket and the much-used .303, and the blonde, long-haired little girl with eyes like blue pools. I looked at them in the great darkness of the African night. The fire played orange shadows on the ebony and on the golden skin, they held hands, they laughed, they whispered. The old and the young, two worlds coming together in total sympathy in this corner of ancient Africa where all is as it used to be. I felt yet again the rarity of the privilege of being here as I am, of giving Paolo’s daughter these unique experiences and the extraordinary memories which will always live with her and make her special.
One night, in the wake of the years, I holding Sveva’s hand, we watched with Mirimuk, crouched in the hide he had built with Garisha during the day, a huge leopard leaping up the acacia a few yards from us at the bait of a sheep, the branch creaking under the weight, cackling guinea-fowls, and the black shape silhouetted in the full moon. Only six, Sveva was a
s quiet and fearless, composed and calm, as a much older person. She held her breath, squeezed my hand, and absorbed this experience for ever. Next morning, Mirimuk commented: ‘Paulo’ – he touched her head affectionately – ‘Paulo ni mama mzee.’ The greatest compliment: ‘Paulo is a wise old woman.’
Memories of the past kept coming back in unexpected ways and places, again and again, taking me by surprise.
I went back to Pembroke House one afternoon to fetch Colin’s son Andrew, a great little chap and a close companion of Sveva, to bring him to Laikipia for half-term, and, for the first time in years, I went in to show Sveva the school where her brother had been. There was the same smell of carbolic soap and everything looked smaller.
With a pain in my throat, and looking for Andrew, I automatically searched hopefully through this new generation of children for the slim little boy with the blond straight fringe and serious eyes who had been mine, and whose shadow will always mingle with those of the children grown and gone. The grey uniforms made the boys look identical, like a swarm of ants, and in the small chapel the stained-glass windows cast an aquarium light.
A shining brass plaque just inside the chapel door froze my blood and choked me in renewed pain and remembrance: in a short row of names, under the heading ‘In loving memory’, I read with surprise and shock:
EMANUELE PIRRI-GALLMANN 1975–1978
Three precious years of his life engraved there for ever for all to see.
Emanuele’s friends from Pembroke and Hillcrest had mostly gone abroad to study, as he would have done, but they returned, and some remembered us; sooner or later they appeared again on our doorstep.
A new Mercedes stopped one afternoon in my drive in Nairobi, and a sophisticated young man in smart clothes, with a moustache and glasses, tall and well-built, came towards me smiling. He was Indian, and I had a vague recollection of having met him before. ‘I am Mukesh,’ he said warmly, ‘don’t you remember me?’ Of course I did. He had changed a lot from the thin teenager in the same class as Ema, one of the gang of his best friends. He had finished his studies in England, and was joining the family business in Kenya. I was impressed by his courtesy and maturity, and by the genuine concern which had brought him back to my door years after to ‘pay his respects’. Mukesh became a regular visitor. At least twice a week he came to see us on his way home after work, and, over a cup of spiced tea, we spoke about Emanuele, about his future, his interest in flying, of life and death, and of the Indian philosophy of his ancestors, which had always interested me. He often brought Sveva small presents, the oriental sweets she loved, he worried if she was unwell, he advised me on business matters. We came to look forward to his visits, I counted on his friendship, and I adopted him in a way as a new-found son. He always came to Laikipia for Emanuele’s anniversary, joining the group of our friends.
Since their trees had touched, Paolo’s and Emanuele’s anniversaries were now celebrated together on whichever weekend was closest to the dates. As ever, friends drove or flew up. We sat around the graves which were covered in flowers, and it was Sveva’s task, now she was no longer a baby, to stand with two glasses of champagne in her hands and throw them against the gravestones in a toast. She took her responsibility with serious grace, as with everything she did. Once, straight and lovely with her long hair and in her long dress, she stood in the light of the bonfires which burnt into the night. With a small voice which only I and Wanjiru and the few who sat close enough managed to hear, she whispered, ‘Papa Paolo, Emanuele: I miss you and I love you, I love you, I love you for ever.’ Overwhelmed by her daring, she sat back, hiding in the shadows, next to me.
That night, after Emanuele’s anniversary, on my way to Sveva’s bedroom to wish her goodnight, I was overcome by a sense of solitude and melancholy. I put my head on Wanjiru’s ample shoulder as I did occasionally, and kissed her fresh cheek. Made bold and emotional by the same mood and perhaps by the glass of champagne to which she was not accustomed, Wanjiru looked at me with her kind, motherly eyes and said, almost shyly, ‘Gina yangu … Gina yangu si Wanjiru … gina yangu ni Gallmann’ (‘My name is not Wanjiru. My name is Gallmann’). I was touched and honoured beyond words. She could not have said anything more valuable to me at that time.
‘Kuki darling’, wrote Oria,
a little girl in white sat on a stone shaded by a tree, lit by a moon, looked at her mother with a deep blue look, separated by a piece of earth, her brother. Around her, five red flames kept guard. The wind played a tune. No other little girl has a father and a brother made of stone, made of trees. Can we ever be the same, can we ever forget? Something happened to all of us: in your pain, in their loss, we all became better people.
41
Shadows
Sed fugit interea, fugit inreparabile tempus.*
Virgil, Georgics, II
Life followed ancient patterns, as life does; new friends joined us and old friends went. Like shadows in the memory, they drifted in and out of our story. We watched them go. One should not cling to shadows.
One day, Mapengo decided to move on, as the Turkana often do. After Emanuele’s death and with all the snakes gone, life had lost its shine for him; like all young men, he needed other fields and new challenges. I gave him Emanuele’s favourite knife, as I had given Luka Paolo’s favourite binoculars. We embraced, and I watched him go his way with his lanky gait in the worn boots which had belonged to his ‘brother’.
‘Mama,’ he told me, showing his naked gums in one of his now rare smiles, ‘Mama, kama wewe taitua mimi, mimi tarudi tu’ (‘When you call me, I shall return’). I learnt in time that he had found a good fat wife, and a job to do with horses; he had a few children, and was happy enough.
Luka began to develop a fatal passion for an unforgiving drink: the intoxicating and addictive brew of changaa. Within a few years he became a shaky shadow of the brave, agile and fearless tracker he had been in the early days. After a particularly unhappy episode, and after many occasions when I had tried to talk to him and restore his pride in the memory of his glorious record, Colin was left with no alternative but to dismiss him. I shall never forget the day he said goodbye.
A car drove him to Kuti, and a small stranger got out, dressed in ill-fitting clothes. Without his gun, his green khaki uniform, the black beret askew, the belt studded with ammunition, stripped of his pride, he looked like any anonymous little man with nowhere to go. I met and held his weary, bloodshot eyes, the same sharp eyes which had spotted wild game first, invisible signs of buffalo on grass blades, a bent twig, the freshly cracked branch, prints of running hooves on dusty paths. Between us stood the memories of days gone, of people gone we had both loved in our ways. I kept his hand for a long time in mine, a trembling hand, and I could only say: ‘Pole,’ the all-encompassing word for ‘Sorry’.
‘Pole,’ he answered, and added with a touch of the old cockiness: ‘Mimi tarudi’ (‘I shall come back’). We both knew he would not. Changaa does not forgive, and brings an early old age and an early grave.
I nodded. ‘Ndiyo.’
‘Salamia Kainda’ (his name for Sveva).
‘Kuenda na Mungu’ (‘Go with God’).
He turned and went, but before getting into the car he stopped a moment, and looked back at me. A shadow of a smile. A faded brilliance caught again his eyes. He shook his head to chase away his pain: ‘Awesi kusahau’ (‘I shall not be able to forget’). The car door slammed, and he was gone for ever.
I entered in my diary that night:
… the story of Luka climaxed again today as he left the ranch most certainly for ever … and yet it appears to me that the ‘rise and fall of Luka Kiriongi’ is symbolic of what the white man has done and does to black Africa … as the rise and fall of Luka would not have happened had he not met the white man. He had been the best, and he took it for granted, until he was made to feel special and different. He had only done what he well knew instinctively. A new foreign perspective of his worth upset the balance and b
ecame his ruin. Stripped of his pride, sacked in shame, no longer respected by his men, there goes the man who cried on my two graves. The gallant hunter, the superb tracker, the fearless bushman, the companion of uncountable days and nights of unforgettable adventures … how long has he been drinking? Why did he start slipping towards changaa, losing his dignity …? Slight of body, minute, a splitting grin below the fine moustache, brave in the face of danger, genuine in your loyalties, I am sad for you tonight, Luka Kiriongi …
It was a sad day indeed for us all in Ol Ari Nyiro, and mostly for Colin, who had known Luka for twenty-three years. Hussein Omar, with Mirimuk as deputy, took over the difficult task and responsibility of leading our anti-poaching Security.
Then Mirimuk became sick, and after three months in hospital they sent him home to die. The diagnosis was advanced cancer of the oesophagus, and the American doctors of the mission at Kijabe, where we had sent him, gave him two months to live. I went to visit him at his little house on the ranch, at the Centre. They had laid him out on a blanket in the shade, his head on a log of wood, the traditional Turkana pillow. No flesh was left on his dry limbs, and the hand he gave me had no strength, but he tried to sit up, and to drink a spoonful of the liquid food I had brought him. His face was more haggard, the skin tighter on the protruding cheekbones, a greenish film on the eyes. Holding my hand and looking at me with an affection which brought a knot to my throat, he whispered hoarsely: ‘Kama Mungu nafungua melango, sisi napita tu’ (‘When God opens the door, we must pass’). He looked behind me hopefully. Sveva had not come. ‘Salamia Paulo,’ he said raspingly, before falling asleep.
I Dreamed of Africa Page 27