Green City in the Sun

by Wood, Barbara

  Ralph said, "I'll wager the wogs haven't a clue to what's going on," and then looked at Mona. He was remembering the day, years ago, when she had come to Entebbe with her aunt to take his father home.

  "If you will excuse me," Grace said as she stood, "I'm very tired and not used to such traveling."

  Geoffrey rose with her, thinking that, for seventy-three, Grace had weathered the journey remarkably well. He said, "I'll call for an askari to accompany you to your tent. Never go about the camp at night without an escort. Animals do come into the area and some get quite aggressive."

  "Will the children be all right alone in a tent?"

  "Terry's camped here before. He'll see that Deborah is well taken care of."

  When Grace was by herself, a few minutes later, she sighed and sat down on the bed. She had to give Geoffrey his due; these tents were luxurious. They reminded her of the ones Valentine had erected back in 1919, when she and Rose had arrived to find that the house had not yet been built.

  So long ago, she thought. So very long ago ...

  Grace was thinking that tomorrow was James's birthday and that he would have been seventy-five.

  As a lonely wind whistled through the canvas walls and sent the Coleman lanterns swaying, Grace prepared for bed. She didn't really know why she had come along on this trip, except perhaps that Geoffrey had so wanted her to see and approve of his new idea. Also, she had thought a spell away from the mission would do her good. It was years since she had had a proper holiday; this might give her time to think, to consider the proposal of the order of African nuns who wanted to take over the mission school. She and James had always talked of going on a proper safari together but somehow had never found the time. Now here she was with his two sons.

  She picked up the book she had brought along to read—the latest from America, A Ship of Fools. Then she put it down, unable to concentrate. James was on her mind. He filled her every thought; he lived in her soul.

  As she went to the tent flap and peered through the mosquito netting at the serene, moon-washed landscape, which looked deceptively sterile and devoid of life but which was very much alive with killing and death and procreation and life, Grace thought of her beloved James and wondered again, as she had thousands of times, what he had died for.

  It was a strange, new world she lived in now, and she wasn't sure if James would care for it. She herself understood little of it.

  Playing in Nairobi was an American film, Dr. Strangelove, which Geoffrey and use had taken her to see. The whole world, it seemed to Grace, was suddenly preoccupied with global nuclear annihilation. The radio seemed to play only American songs, sung by a new breed of people—someone named Joan Baez, who protested racial hatred and called for love and peace. The news was full of reports on civil rights demonstrations in Alabama; of riots and beatings; of two hundred thousand freedom marchers descending upon Washington. Young people were dancing something called the watusi; dissolute teenagers in Britain were growing their hair long and calling themselves mods and rockers. The world was rushing at a breathless rate—an American astronaut, Gordon Cooper, had just orbited the earth twenty-two times; Dr. Michael De Bakey in Texas was making history by opening up people's chests and operating directly on the heart.

  And three days ago President Kennedy had been assassinated. What has all that, Grace wondered as she gazed out at the placid, untouched African plains, to do with this?

  And Kenya was caught up in its own breakneck race to become part of the bewildering, modern new world. Barely sixty years ago, Grace thought, these people were living in the Stone Age, with no alphabet, no concept of the wheel, not a clue to the mighty nations that loomed on the other side of the mountain. Now the Africans were driving automobiles and flying airplanes; African barristers wore white wigs in Nairobi's courts and spoke the Queen's English; Kenya women were discovering birth control and secretarial jobs. New words peppered the language, such as uhuru, "freedom," and wananchi, "the people." And Prime Minister Kenyatta had declared a new pronunciation for Kenya, saying that the e was to be a short one and that it was from now illegal to say "Keenya."

  How strange it had seemed to Grace, back in 1957, to vote alongside Africans for the first time. And what a shock it had been to encounter old Mama Wachera at the voting place just this past June. They had looked at each other, and Grace had gone cold to the core. The chance encounter with the medicine woman had brought back the painful memory of the day after James's death. Mama Wachera had come to Grace's house to claim her son's body, and without a word she had thrown a bundle at Grace's feet. Numb from the terrible tragedy of the night before—James dying in her arms, Mona's baby dead, Mario, her houseboy, revealing himself as the oath giver—Grace had picked up that bundle and found it contained all of Mona's letters to David.

  Grace possessed them still. Not knowing what to do with them, she had put them away against the day she would pass them along to Mona. That had been nine years ago. At first Mona had been too grief-stricken, Grace thought, to be given the letters. Later she had decided they would only open Mona's wounds. Perhaps, Grace thought now, I should simply destroy them and lay that dark chapter to rest.

  She heard footsteps crunching over the dirt and then a voice calling softly, "Dr. T?"

  It was Tim. He had always called her Dr. T. When he stepped into the light which spilled from her tent, he apologized for disturbing her and asked if he could speak with her.

  "I guess what I've really come for is to say good-bye, Dr. T," he said as he sat down. "We're leaving next week."

  "Yes," she said softly. "I know."

  "Now that everything's wrapped up, no use in hanging around for Freedom Day. I don't think I care to see the Union Jack come down once and for all."

  "Perhaps it won't be so bad."

  Tim thought for a moment, twisting his hat in his hands. Then he said, "We do wish you would come with us, Dr. T. Alice's sheep farm is doing smashingly, and Tasmania is a beautiful place. Clean and quiet, if you know what I mean."

  Grace smiled and shook her head. "Kenya is my home. I belong here. And here I shall stay."

  "I don't expect I'll ever be coming back. I was born here, you know, but I feel like an outsider. 'Kenya for Kenyans' is what they're saying. Then what am I if not a Kenyan? I hope you'll be all right, Dr. T."

  "I shall be fine, Tim. Besides, I won't be alone. I shall have Deborah."

  Tim avoided meeting Grace's eyes. It was an uncomfortable subject for him—Deborah. Perhaps if, eight years ago, Mona had agreed to marry him...

  But no. Tim wasn't the marrying kind. He needed his freedom, needed his special friendships, which did not include women. As for the child, well, Mona felt the same way: that Deborah was a mistake and an embarrassing reminder of a night they both preferred to forget.

  "Before I go, Dr. T," he said quietly, staring down at the canvas floor, "there's something I want to tell you. I don't know, I just don't feel I can go to Australia without getting this off my chest. It's about the night the earl was killed."

  Grace waited.

  He finally looked up. "I was the bloke on the bicycle."

  She stared at him.

  "I didn't kill the earl, though! I don't mean to say that. What happened is, I couldn't sleep that night, so I went downstairs for a drink. I saw the earl out on the drive, getting into his car. I wondered what he was up to. When he drove off, I went outside and saw the bicycle. I decided to follow him. I saw the car up ahead turn onto the Kiganjo Road. He was going a lot faster than I could pedal, so it was some time before I caught up with him. I saw his car pulled over to the side, the motor still running. When I got close, I thought the earl had fallen asleep. He had had so much to drink, you know?"

  "Yes, I know."

  "I pulled up alongside and peered in. Then I thought maybe he was ill or something. So I got off the bike and slipped in the mud. That's why there was mud on the passenger seat. As soon as I saw the gun in his hand and the bullet wound in his head, I
knew what had happened. Whoever did it must have gotten away just before I arrived. I didn't see anybody or hear anything. And then, because I was so scared, I threw the bicycle into the bush when a tire blew, and I ran all the way back to Bellatu."

  "Why didn't you tell this to the police?"

  "What good would it have done? I couldn't have told them who did it. And they'd have arrested me on suspicion of the earl's murder. Everyone knew we hated each other."

  He looked at Grace and said softly, "I guess we'll never know who did it, will we?"

  "No, I don't suppose we ever will. But I don't think it matters anymore. Almost everyone who was a part of it is dead. It's best forgotten."

  "I'll say good night then, Dr. T. Geoffrey is taking us on one of his game runs in the morning!"

  Grace held out her hand, and he took it. "Take care, Tim," she said. "And good luck."

  IT WAS GEOFFREY'S experience that the most resisting of women eventually succumbed to the magic and enchantment of the African bush. He had countless clients who could vouch for as much. So when he walked through the dark to Mona's tent, recalling how animated she had become at dinner and the way her cheeks had burned, he had high hopes. That, and a chilled bottle of champagne.

  Mona didn't seem at all surprised to see him at the doorway of her tent, sending his hopes even higher. But when she said, "I'm glad you came, Geoff. I have something to tell you," the tone in her voice caught him off guard.

  "What is it?" he said as he opened the champagne. When he offered Mona a glass, she refused it.

  "I've sold the farm, Geoffrey."

  He looked at her. Then he sat down, stunned. "You can't mean it! The whole thing?"

  "All five thousand acres."

  "Good God, I thought you would never sell! What on earth changed your mind?"

  She turned away. She had put off telling him the news until now because she knew it would result in a row. But there was almost no time left; he had to be told.

  Nonetheless, she couldn't tell him the truth. That she had decided to sell the coffee estate because of a little boy.

  After the day she had found Deborah and Christopher Mathenge in her parents' bedroom, Mona had wept as she had never wept before. She had taken to her bed and finally released all the tears and pain that she had sealed inside herself since the night of David's death. And then, once again in control, all tears having been shed, she faced the cold reality that she could not possibly continue to live at Bellatu and watch that boy grow up into a second David.

  And so she had known that she must get away from Kenya forever, turn her back on the country of her birth, the only country she had ever known, and find a new place somewhere.

  "You know that the farm has barely been making it, Geoff. After the crop failure in 1953, and the loss of most of my field help during Mau Mau, and then the wet year of 1956, when the rains lasted too long and the berries rotted on the trees—well, I just haven't been able to recover. So I sold to an Asian named Singh. He'll do something profitable with it, I'm sure."

  "I can't believe it! Asians living in Bellatu!"

  "I didn't sell him the house. I've kept that. After all, the house is Deborah's inheritance."

  "That was a wise move. And I'll tell you something else, Mona. I'm glad you sold the farm. Now you can come and work for me. I'll be opening a posh office in Nairobi, and I want someone capable to run it for me."

  "Oh, Geoffrey!" she said, turning around to face him. "What madness! Tourists! In Kenya! You've been out in the sun too long! Do you really think people will want to come here for holidays? Can't you see where Kenya is heading? Back to the jungle and the mud huts! The minute independence is declared, this country is going to disintegrate into anarchy, and your white skin won't be worth sixpence!"

  He stared at her, at first taken aback by her outburst and then finally realizing what she was saying. "What do you mean," he said slowly, "that my white skin won't be worth sixpence? Where will you be?"

  She sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at her hands. "I'm going to Australia with Tim."

  "What?" Geoffrey shot to his feet. "You can't be serious!"

  "I am serious, Geoff. Alice has asked me to come and live with her on her farm. Tim decided for himself months ago. We don't want to live in Kenya anymore."

  "I don't believe it!" he shouted. "You're running off with that—that faggot!"

  "Geoffrey, that's not fair!"

  "Is it because of Deborah? After all, everyone knows she's his child."

  "No, it's not because of Deborah. We're not going to get married or anything like that. The three of us will simply live and work together on the sheep farm. I'm done with men and husbands and all that grief. We'll just be a family, living in peace. It's what Tim and I want. I know you find this hard to believe, Geoffrey, but Deborah means nothing to me. In fact, I'm not taking her with me. I've arranged for her to live with Aunt Grace."

  Geoffrey was shocked into silence. All of a sudden he was looking at a woman he didn't know, a woman he didn't care to know. Finally he said quietly, "I think that's monstrous."

  "Think what you want, Geoff—"

  "Damn it, Mona. How can you abandon her like that? Your own child! What kind of mother are you?"

  "Don't you lecture me on duties and responsibilities, Geoffrey Donald. Stop and think for a minute what sort of husband you are. Why, the whole colony knows about your escapades with your female clients and with the wives of your clients! You used to be an honorable man, Geoffrey. What happened?"

  "I don't know," he said softly. "I don't know what's happened to any of us. We've all changed."

  He went to the tent door, the champagne bottle in his hand, and paused to look at Mona. They had grown up together; he had given her her first kiss. Her letters, in that lonely outpost in Palestine, had sustained him. Where had they gone wrong? What erroneous turning in their mutual road had brought them to this? "Good night," he said unhappily, and left.

  Mona watched him go. She stood at the mosquito net and saw his silhouette blend in with the dark night until only his footsteps remained, and then those, too, faded.

  She clutched the tent post as she listened to the roaring of lions in the bush nearby. They sounded so lonely, so sad, as if trying to find one another. Mona looked out at Kenya, her home, and thought of the little train, now a museum oddity, that had once chuffed through just such a night as this and the frightened countess giving birth in one of its carriages.

  Finally Mona closed her eyes and whispered, "Kwa heri," to Kenya. "Good-bye."

  55

  M

  AMA WACHERA EYED THE BEAST WARILY.

  Although it purred harmlessly now, it had roared up in a cloud of dirt and noise. It was enormous and menacing, and she didn't trust it.

  "Come along, Mama," Dr. Mwai said as he held the car door open for her. "You will have the honor of riding in the front seat."

  Christopher and Sarah were already sitting in the back, on either side of their mother.

  Mama Wachera looked at the smiling face of this African dressed in a European business suit and wearing a gold watch and gold rings. She knew she must regard him with respect. He was a healer like herself, what was called a medical doctor, but he bore no resemblance to the healers of old. Where was his magic gourd, his Bag of Questions, his sacred staff adorned with goats' ears? Why was he not wearing the ceremonial headdress; where was the ritual paint on his face and arms; did he know the sacred songs and dances? The medicine woman couldn't help it, she felt a mild contempt for this man.

  "Don't be afraid, Mama!" Wanjiru called merrily from inside the car. "It won't hurt you."

  Afraid? Wachera had never been afraid in her life.

  She drew herself up with dignity and approached the humming vehicle. For an instant past met present as her small dark body in its traditional beads and hides stood within the embrace of the open car door. Then she was inside and setting her gaze stoically through the windshield.

  T
his was such a monumental occasion—Mama Wachera going to Nairobi in a motorcar!—that villagers from across the river and people from the mission had come to give her a sendoff. Today was Independence Day, and the Mathenges were going to attend the ceremonies at Uhuru Stadium. The significance of this—that their beloved and revered old medicine woman should be on hand to witness Kenya's birth—was not lost on those gathered to see her off. When the car started to move, everyone cheered and ran behind, shouting and waving.

  Wachera's impulse, when the car began to roll, was to grab the edge of the seat. But because it would have been undignified for her to show fear in front of others, Mama Wachera sat calmly with her hands resting in her lap. Her expression was serene as trees and huts went by, but her heart raced to see the world move while she herself remained seated!

  "It will be all right, Mama," Wanjiru had tried to reassure her. "Dr. Mwai owns a Mercedes, and he is a very good driver."

  Such words meant nothing to Wachera, who had announced her intention to walk all the way to Nairobi.

  "But it would take weeks!" Wanjiru had cried. "In the car it's only three hours."

  Even so, Wachera wondered at the propriety of it. Walking was honorable; it was what the ancestors had done. Riding on wheels was a mzungu custom and therefore could not be African or respectable.

  But she had no choice. If she wanted to go to the stadium and see the Union Jack come down, she would have to ride in Dr. Mwai's car.

  She thought of her grandchildren in the back seat; they were beside themselves with excitement. Although Christopher and Sarah had experienced army transport trucks, for them nothing compared to the thrill of riding in a "Benzi." Eight-year-old Sarah could hardly keep still in her new dress and shoes. Christopher sat close to the window and waved to everyone, his smile as bright as the white shirt he wore with his long pants. For their sakes Mama Wachera had agreed to ride in Dr. Mwai's Benzi. And it warmed her now to hear them chatter and giggle in the back seat, and it helped allay her fear of riding in a car. The medicine woman lived for her two grandchildren. They were all she had; she would do anything for them.