A month later, back from Europe, I went to see him. I brought him a warm new blanket, a radio, a torch: miserable tokens to try and make his last few days more comfortable. He was just a living skeleton now. The body had shrunk, all strength had left him, the pale eyes shone unnaturally like those of a haunted animal trapped in the night. He could swallow no food. He was starving to death. In the next room a few Turkana girls, the wives of his sons, chatted gutturally, unconcerned. I wrapped the blanket around him, and for a long time I held his hand in silence. I thought about the risks he had taken in the bush, the fights with poachers when he had been wounded, the narrow escapes from dangerous infuriated animals, the time when he could still run and fight back, and the many deaths he had eluded. The cancer was devouring him too slowly; any lion would have had more mercy. Before I left, he murmured, slowly, ‘Paulo…’
Sveva knew Mirimuk was dying and was more upset than I had seen her in a long time. Even if death is for us now a familiar name which evokes no fear, she had lost so much that any new loss was painful. But she owed it to Mirimuk and to herself to find the courage.
‘He will be gone for ever in a few days. He has asked for you. You would feel very bad if you did not go and see him. We’ll go tomorrow.’
‘I’ll come.’
‘I brought you Paulo.’ The shape on the blanket moved slightly, and with an immense effort what was left of Mirimuk sat up awkwardly. Simon, my cook, had come with us. Hugging her gift of a pot of honey and holding Simon’s hand, biting her lips and staring hard at him, she came forward. When she was close she walked alone, and bent towards him. His hand, like a claw, grabbed her arm, and from his leathery lips an invisible spray of spit landed on her long blonde hair.
‘Kwaheri, Paulo,’ we think we heard, and he fell back on his blanket. Sveva stood, eyes swimming with tears. Her pink lips quivered. ‘Ejok,’ we think we heard: ‘Thank you’ in Turkana. She walked straight to the car, quiet tears streaming down her cheeks, wrapped in her dying friend’s blessing as in a rainbow.
Mirimuk died in the night.
When the news came on the ranch radio network, Sveva and I looked at each other for a long, long time. They buried him next day in his shamba just outside the Nguare gate, in Ol Morani, still called Nyasore, in Colvile’s honour, by the old people.
His last night, feeling his end was close, Mirimuk had asked to be brought home, and there he had died. Until recently, the Turkana custom had been to put the dead out for the hyenas. Now the law demanded a proper burial. A deep hole had been dug in a dusty field by the people I had sent to help. There would be no priest, as Mirimuk, like most of his contemporaries, had not belonged to any church. Many mud huts in a circle, each surrounded by its own fence of sticks for privacy, formed Mirimuk’s manyatta. Women and children sang mournfully, stamping their feet in the rhythm of a slow dance. His son Ekiru, a tracker in our anti-poaching squad, and Simon my cook, whose younger wife is Mirimuk’s daughter, brought me in to see him.
If anything had been in the hut before, it had been taken away. He lay on his side, on the bare beaten-earth floor, wrapped in an old sack from neck to foot. The head was small and shrunk, as in an ancient mummy, and white with ashes and salt to keep away insects and decay. I reached to touch his shoulder in goodbye. His ear looked like a fallen dry leaf. From the little window, a ray of sun emphasized the darkness.
They had all come, his companions and friends of a lifetime. There was Ngobitu, the Meru headman, and Tunkuri; Ndegwa, the sheep headman, and Silas, the small Tharaka, with most of the Security squad, dressed in their green khaki uniforms, a stillness on their faces. There was Arap Chuma the mechanic, with all the workshop people; Karanja the driver, Garisha the cattleman, Ali, Nyaga the horses headman, and John Mangicho, the assistant manager, dressed in a blue suit. They took turns to speak, his old wife, his friends. Then John turned to me and asked me to say something. I had not prepared a speech, so I let my heart talk. I spoke of early days when Mirimuk had taught me the ways of the bush. I spoke of other graves, and of the salute he had shot in the air to the souls of my men. Of his courage and endurance. Of the gap he had left. With my hand on the coffin, I thanked him in Turkana: ‘Ejoknui, Mirimuk.’
Then there was a small commotion, the crowd parted and a woman came forward. She was young, with a baby in her arms. Bead necklaces were round her throat and brass earrings hung from the elongated lobes of her ears. She came with her hand stretched out, found the coffin and touched it. She had a proud face, with white, blind eyes. Someone murmured to me that she was the daughter of a dead brother. She spoke in Turkana with a shrill strong voice. A man translated aloud. There was such presence about her no one stirred, and we listened.
‘I have come to Nyasore to say this man was a man. I used to have a father, and when he died he became my father. I had a home, but I have forgotten where. I used to have a name, but I have forgotten it. I have forgotten because he became my father and my mother and my home. My name is his name, and I am grateful. He looked after me and after my children, and he did me no wrong. He has died and he is in this box. The people of the church say it matters to follow the Book. We Turkana have no book. The people in the church tell us that if we follow their book we do not die. I tell you that the sun dies, and it comes back. I tell you that rains die, and they come back. But when a man dies, he does not come back. He is dead. Whatever the people of the church say, a dead man remains dead, and their book does not help. We are the Turkana and God knows our ways. I remember this man, and the window he has left will be filled by no other. And so be it. Ejoknui.’
In the heat of the afternoon a dog barked. Uncaring of the crowd, she turned her back and went.
The free soul of Mirimuk would have loved that.
Despite the loss of Luka and Mirimuk, Hussein Omar and our rangers managed to carry on the anti-poaching operations successfully and with selfless dedication. But this was still Africa, where wild is the bush and its unpredictable animals, and where accidents are always bound to happen.
Oria’s voice sounded dull and distant on the Laikipia Security network, and the message was chilling. Saba, who was taking a year off before university, had joined a walking safari around Lake Turkana with Rob Brett and Bongo Woodley – son of Bill, the famous game warden of Tsavo. During the night she had been bitten on the ankle by an unknown poisonous snake – either a cobra or a carpet viper.
Snakes are not rare in Kenya, but like all animals they are shy, and seldom attack unless they feel cornered. It is most unusual for Europeans, who do not normally handle reptiles or walk barefoot among tall grass or cracked desert rocks, to be bitten accidentally by a snake. But the Douglas-Hamilton girls seldom wore shoes.
The news, passed by radio-call from Koobi-Fora, had been luckily intercepted by Robin, who was working on the film Mountains of the Moon at Loyengelani, and whose radio was linked to the Laikipia Security network frequency. Iain, distressed beyond his usual self-control, was going to fly her back.
I drove with Sveva immediately to Nairobi and straight to Wilson airport, where they were due to land. Oria was already there, a mask of petrified anxiety, which I understood only too well, painted on her face. We embraced wordlessly and we waited there, looking up at the enigmatic sky and willing the elusive aeroplane to materialize and bring a certainty to the agony of waiting without knowing. In those moments Oria and I silently shared again the unique feelings which cemented even more strongly our extraordinary bond.
The plane landed and a pale Iain jumped out. Saba was alive and grey-faced, dark circles around her stunning black eyes, an evil shade spreading through her body and enhancing every single blemish of her skin in ugly purplish marks. A hideous blue-red blister, the size of a large light bulb, swelled the side of her foot, like a repulsive sea creature. Amazingly, Emanuele had had no visible reaction at all. She tried to smile when she saw us, and broke down into sobs in my arms. There was no need to underline all the associations and memories that this incid
ent had brought back for us all. She survived, brave and strong as one could ever wish to be, and after weeks in hospital she limped home and gradually recovered. Bongo Woodley had been prompt in applying a new method, discovered in Australia, of curing snake bites: by repeated electric shocks from the car battery, to break down and neutralize the venom. Although this was her first snake bite, most probably he had saved her life. I have ceased long ago to believe in coincidence. This uncanny episode was another uncommon link which tied me for ever to the Douglas-Hamiltons.
I worked, my life went on; sounds and images came like drifting mists, dimming sometimes the mirror of remembrance. One evening in Laikipia, I switched on the radio, and a voice I had not heard in years came through the Security network. So vivid was it, and so unexpected, that I was violently thrown back to other days, and in a wave of memories the old pain and longing swept over me again. It sounded so close, it was so out of reach.
It was Aidan’s.
I often thought about him. I could imagine him walking alone in the early mornings, when the dew is still trapped in the dry grasses, easy strides of the long slim legs, and the shadows of his camels. In the hot noons, when we shared the same sun and the birds’ concert at Kuti took over all other sounds, I could see him rest under the rare acacia. I knew he would walk again in the late afternoons, when the shadows are long on the silent dust and sand of the short red sunsets, and, for a brief time, everything glows with fire. In the starry, windy nights in Laikipia I imagined him facing the same wind and looking up at the same stars. At this hour, I felt, he would sometimes evoke my presence as a smiling unjudging companion, to soothe his brow, and to guide him through the night.
As long ago, before I had met him, people often talked about him, but he was seldom seen.
He still, I knew, lived the privileged life of the first explorers, often following the call of his adventures to the remote wilderness of deserts yet undiscovered – or already forgotten. A mutual friend had telephoned me a few years earlier, on my return from Europe, to tell me that Aidan had been captured, with no documents, far inside Ethiopia where he had been wandering alone, and had been put in jail. He had been there a month. Only Richard Leakey, who had contacts in that area because of his archaeological excavations, could help. I called him. He knew about it, and he said he would try. A while after, I heard Aidan was free, and I was relieved. I could not bear the thought of him confined, his long legs restless, trapped in a narrow room, looking out of a window at the tempting, inaccessible mountains he had hoped to climb.
Soon I was told of another incident. He had been delayed and had had to land at night. He was one of the most experienced pilots, and night-flying was not new to him. But private up-country airstrips have no lights. A boy was instructed to stand at the end of the airfield, holding a hurricane lamp, to mark its limit, so that Aidan could calculate its landing length. Alone in the dark with his lantern, the little boy waited for the noisy bird – ndege in Swahili means both bird and aeroplane – to fall from the sky. But when the invisible vibration roared too close, he panicked and ran with his lamp into the night. Aidan followed the light, and landed deep in the bush among the treetops, damaging his aeroplane. Sitting on my carpet, head on my knees, I listened to his disembodied voice, which soon was gone.
A few days later, the mail brought me an unexpected parcel, the paper worn and brittle as if posted from a far-away place and carried by many hands. It did not contain sand or dried leaves or butterfly wings, but a new book. On the first page, I read with a pang of surprise, in a once-familiar handwriting:
If you like this little book, think of me.
If you find wisdom in these pages, think of me.
I thank you for your friendship,
and many lessons of how to care.
Your old friend Aidan.
I opened the book, and these were the first words which caught my eyes:
… every bit of unspoilt nature which is left, every bit of park, every bit of earth still spare, should be declared a wilderness area as a blueprint of what life was originally intended to be, to remind us.*
Rob Brett was learning to fly, and Mukesh was doing the final tests for his licence and had decided to come up to Laikipia for his first solo, during the Easter holidays, just after Emanuele’s anniversary.
I saw Rob’s green Suzuki approaching down my drive of euphorbia candelabra, and I noticed how much they had grown in a few years – now a tall and majestic colonnade of straight green trunks. I poured two cups of coffee and waited to hear what news there was about the next planned rhino operation.
Rob kissed my cheek, sat down in front of me, and looking me straight in the eye in his frank manner, began with uncharacteristic hesitation: ‘Kuki, you have heard there was an aeroplane crash in Nairobi yesterday. My instructor was killed.’
I had heard. ‘I am sorry.’
‘There was a student pilot with him, and he was killed too.’ He paused. I looked at him blankly for a moment. ‘The student was Mukesh. I am terribly sorry.’
He handed me the daily paper. From a badly printed grey photograph, Mukesh smiled the white warm smile I had grown to love. The cup of coffee never reached my lips. I paused a moment, paralysed by shock, then I rose and I walked blindly out to the garden, wanting only to be alone with this new, choking grief, and I found myself at the graves. I had come to regard them as my ‘magic circle’ and there I went to find comfort, advice and peace in my moments of solitude and confusion.
I had expected Mukesh that very day for his first solo flight. The lunch had been ordered and the table was being laid with an extra place. This blow stung needles of pain in my soul. Mukesh had been so special. Gifted, kind-hearted, promising: is it then really true that the best die young? Never again would his car stop in our drive, and never again would he sit on our white sofa telling us stories of his day at work and tales of India. He would no longer join us for Emanuele’s anniversary. Wanjiru cried when she heard, and all the staff were upset beyond words by this tragedy, as they had loved his quiet manners and had valued the genuine affection and care he showed towards us.
Back in Nairobi, I went to offer my sympathy to his parents in the house in Muthaiga where I had not yet been. Dozens of Mercedes were parked in the drive, and the sound of chanting came from the inner rooms. Passing the threshold was like crossing an invisible barrier of time and space, and I was in India.
It was the tenth day after his death, on which, by Hindu tradition, the soul goes to join the gods of its ancestors. In a few days’ time his uncle would take his ashes back to the river Ganges. It seemed impossible. In the crowded kitchen, legions of people cooked complicated curries, chapatis and popadams, and ceremonial sweetmeats. Men in traditional white robes and women in white saris filled the richly decorated rooms, which smelt of incense and spices. A thin Hindu priest chanted mournfully with closed eyes, sitting cross-legged on a cushion.
His father, an older version of Mukesh but without moustache and glasses, came to meet me. I knew he was influential in the world of business and banking: in his grief and traditional dress he looked younger than I had imagined, and so did his wife, a tall handsome lady in a sari of white silk, her face wet with tears, who embraced me and said in a lost voice, ‘I was so proud of my son. I go to his room, and I don’t find him.’ She looked around. ‘Where has he gone?’
From a life-size photograph set on a sort of altar, garlanded with marigolds, a dot of saffron and rice on his forehead, above the drifting incense smoke I met Mukesh’s eyes. In the light of the candles they seemed to twinkle. They reminded me stunningly of Ema’s.
I turned to his mother, ‘He is with Emanuele. I have no doubt. They were friends. They were brothers. Even I, I have lost another son.’
I went out into a night heavy with the first rain of April, carrying in a yellow handkerchief a handful of almonds and cardamon sweets for Sveva, Mukesh’s last gift.
42
Emanuele’s Rodeo
&nbs
p; Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land.
Christina Rossetti, Remember
The mornings always begin with a wind, a blue and pale golden light, and the cool wet dew on the grass. At the edge of my garden, where the trees of remembrance grow together guarding the horizon and the hills, my graves are covered in purple-pink and red flowers. On the lawn in front of my house, tables and cushions, carpets and tents decorated with palm leaves and bougainvillea, and the long lines of barbecues in preparation for the evening feast.
The red banner flies in the early-morning breeze, and the one word written in black, EMANUELE, appears and disappears again, pulsating in the gusts of wind.
It is the day of his party.
Among the things I did not want to change was the rodeo Emanuele and I had discussed during the last months of his life. It was to have been his eighteenth birthday celebration and would involve all the employees of Ol Ari Nyiro, our friends, people from the neighbouring ranches. I had never given Emanuele a party when he was alive. I now give him one every year, and it is in his memory.
I Dreamed of Africa Page 28