Green City in the Sun
Page 64
Deborah shook her head and sipped her ginger ale. "No, Terry. I shall never go on safari again except to look at the animals."
She wasn't even sure she approved of that because already new tracks were crisscrossing virgin wilderness as more and more tourists plunged across Kenya in search of game. Mightn't this human and gasoline invasion, she wondered, upset the delicate balance of nature? She had seen carloads of whooping and hollering tourists race after animals, causing zebras and antelope to stampede blindly. The holidaymakers drove their rented cars into the herds, breaking them up, unwittingly separating young from mothers, driving a group from its territory, tiring them out, weakening them for the predators lurking nearby. What thrill was there, Deborah wondered, in chasing poor beasts until they nearly dropped, just for the sake of a bit of film footage?
Worse, the tourists were photographing the people. She had seen busloads pull up to villages with cameras out. Masai herdsmen, offended, would draw their cloaks up over their heads and turn away. The women would try to drive the intruders off with angry shouts. Such ignorance, they thought. Such lack of respect. The Africans knew that these wazungu were here to photograph animals. Did this then mean that they regarded the villagers as animals also?
Deborah looked around the luxurious lodge. It had been the first of its kind in Kenya, and now there were many imitators, from the Uganda border to the coast. Geoffrey Donald owned three as well as his growing fleet of minibuses, the same ones that trucked the holidaymakers over Masai land. Kilima Simba Safari Lodge was serene, tasteful, and elegant. The guests arrived in groups, were dropped off by their weary African drivers, and entertained for a day or two with native dancing, poolside ease, gourmet meals, and an ancient watering hole, right here under the balcony of the observation lounge, to which the animals had been coming for centuries. Signs posted all around on the bamboo walls cautioned the guests to be silent, so that the animals would not be driven away.
Tourists were starting to filter into the bar, wearing stiff new khakis which they had purchased in Nairobi and in which they looked nervously self-conscious. But it was all part of the Kenya adventure. They ordered drinks the bartender had never heard of—margaritas, Long Island iced teas—and browsed through the expensive boutique, where a pretty African girl sold clothes imported from America.
Deborah looked out at the African vista. She heard the land breathe; she felt cool tropical arms reach out to embrace her. Once again the rest of the world—that fearful place which Christopher had so gravely warned her about—seemed to vanish, and she was all alone with the red earth, the animals, and the distant mountains.
Christopher's voice echoed over the vast plains: Kenya is your home. Here is where you belong.
Deborah was suddenly forlorn. Three years seemed an eternity. How would she survive, cut off from the very land that sustained her? She would feel like a caged bird, deprived of the sky.
Do you love me, Christopher? she asked the silence that drifted down from snowcapped Kilimanjaro. Do you love me as much as I love you? With a terrible aching to be held, to touch, to kiss? Or do you think of me as a sister? Do you love me in the way you love Sarah? Would you have held her the way you held me, and spoken to her the way you spoke to me, if she were the one going to America? Will you perish when I am gone away from you, Christopher, as surely I will?
"Can I get you another drink, Deborah?" Terry asked.
If only Sarah were here, Deborah thought. She desperately needed to talk to her best friend; perhaps Sarah had the answer to the enigma that was her brother. But Sarah wouldn't have come to the lodge if Deborah had asked her; she was roaming Kenya in Dr. Mwai's car.
"No, thank you, Terry," she said as she stood. "I'm going to my room for a while."
"Are you all right, Deborah?"
"I'm fine. See you at the party."
Deborah hurried across the suspension bridge that joined the "nativestyle" rooms built on stilts to the main lodge, and once inside the room, she leaned against the closed door, gazed at the wilderness that stretched beyond her balcony, and silently cried, Christopher!
"ASANTE SANA," SARAH said to the friend who had given her a lift up from Nairobi. She waved him off, then headed down the trail that led from the top of the ridge to her grandmother's huts on the broad riverbank below. She had said good-bye to the friend with a smile, but the smile had been forced. Sarah was, in fact, furious, and as she neared Mama Wachera, who was working in her herb garden, she cursed again every banker in Nairobi.
They had turned down her request for a small business loan—every last one of them!
When the medicine woman looked up and saw her granddaughter, she laid aside her hoe and went to embrace the girl. "Welcome home, daughter," she said. "I have missed you."
The old woman felt small and frail in Sarah's arms. No one knew exactly how old Wachera was, but because of her girlhood memories—Wachera had already given birth to David, Christopher's father, when the Trevertons first arrived fifty-four years ago—it was estimated that the medicine woman was around eighty. Yet, despite her age and size, Mama Wachera was still a strong woman.
"Is Christopher here, Grandmother?" Sarah asked before she went to her hut to put away her suitcase and fetch two gourds of sugarcane beer.
"Your brother has not come back since the day he returned from across the water."
Sarah changed out of her good traveling dress and wrapped a kanga about herself. When she brought the beer out into the sunshine, she wondered, Why was Christopher still in Nairobi?
"He is disrespectful, Sarah," Mama Wachera said as she took the offered beer. "My grandson should be here with me. After all, soon he enters the school of healing, and then I shall never see him."
"I'm sure Christopher means no disrespect, Grandmother. He must have a lot to do, to prepare to enter medical school."
They sat on the earth outside Wachera's old hut, two African women, generations apart, drinking together in an ages-old ritual of feminine companionship and intimacy.
"Tell me," Mama Wachera said, "did you find what you went searching for?"
Sarah recounted for her grandmother the marvelous revelation she had experienced in Malindi and her wonderful plans for the future. But when she came to the part in her story about her attempts to secure some money in Nairobi, Sarah's voice grew bitter.
"It was humiliating, Grandmother. They made me feel as if I were begging. Collateral, they said! In order to get a loan, one must prove that one doesn't need it! I showed them my sketchpad and the batik I've made. I said, 'Here is my collateral! My future is my collateral!' And then they asked if I had a husband or father who would sign for the loan. Then they told me to go away. Grandmother, how does a woman get started in business?"
Mama Wachera shook her head. It all was a mystery to her. Women were meant to raise babies and work on the shamba. The things her granddaughter spoke of were alien to her.
"Why such a dream, my child? You must find yourself a husband first. You are old enough to have children by now, and yet you have none.
Sarah drew designs in the dirt. The Nairobi experience had been harsh and eye-opening. Several of the bankers had refused even to talk to her, two had been plainly amused with her plan, and three had made sexual overtures. For certain favors, they intimated, perhaps a loan could be arranged....
Sarah was frustrated.
All over East Africa women were becoming emancipated. They were entering higher schools and coming out as doctors and lawyers, even as architects and chemists. But such pursuits, she had decided, were sanctioned by men. Those women were being carefully ushered through male channels, under constant male guidance and authority. There was a kind of patronizing, paternalistic acceptance of women who put on the barrister's wig and attended court. They were still under the male thumb, no matter how liberated they thought themselves. But women who wanted to go into business for themselves were another breed. They demanded total independence, and then it became another matter.
Sarah had gone to her mother on the thin hope of gaining some support, but Wanjiru was as against her daughter's plans as the bankers were. "Finish school," she said over and over. "Why do you think I sacrificed so much for you? Divorcing your father, living in the forest, and spending all those years in detention camps? It was so you could have a good education and make something of yourself."
"I don't want to live your dream, Mother. I want to live my own! Isn't that what freedom really means?"
On the quiet Sarah had approached Dr. Mwai, whom her mother lived with in the Karen District. But although he was sympathetic with her, he had said, "If I were to give you money, Sarah, your mother would never speak to me again. In this case I shall have to side with her."
"Grandmother," Sarah cried, "what am I going to do?"
Mama Wachera regarded her granddaughter, who was not a true Mathenge but whom the old woman loved nonetheless. "Why is it so important to you, child?"
"It's not only important to me, Grandmother. It's important to Kenya!"
Seeing that her grandmother didn't understand, Sarah went to her hut, took the sketchpad out of her suitcase, and returned with it.
"Look," she said, slowly turning the pages. "See how I've captured the soul of our people?"
Mama Wachera had never seen pictures before. Her eye was not trained to grasp and understand an image. But she did recognize certain pieces of jewelry—a Masai necklace, Embu earrings. She gazed at the baffling lines on the paper and tried to comprehend what the girl was feeling. Although Sarah's words were strange to the old woman, there was a language that Wachera did understand—the language of the spirit.
And she felt it now, as they sat in the sun and Sarah turned her pages and spoke excitedly about the fabrics she was going to create, the dresses she was going to design, the "style" she was going to give to her African sisters. Mama Wachera felt a youthful energy fly out of Sarah and enter her own ancient body.
"And for this you need money?" Wachera finally asked.
"Mrs. Dar has promised to sell me one of her old sewing machines. I shall then need to rent a small space in town—nothing much, but where there is electricity and a room to spread out and cut my fabrics."
Wachera shook her head. "I don't understand money. Why can't you trade with Mrs. Dar? You are welcome to whatever is in my garden. My maize field by the river is more plentiful than ever. Or perhaps she would prefer goats? I am a rich woman, Sarah. I own nearly a hundred goats!"
In exasperation the girl shot to her feet. Her grandmother lived in the past. Buying a sewing machine with goats! "I need proper money, Grandmother. Pounds and shillings. If I were to try to work for it and save it up, it would take me years. I need it now!"
Mama Wachera looked thoughtful. Then she said, "Perhaps you are looking in the wrong place, child. You should look to the soil for your answer.
Sarah fought to curb her impatience. Trying to talk to her grandmother was almost as bad as talking to her mother. Older people simply did not understand. They lived in the past! If only Deborah were back from Kilima Simba—she would understand.
Wachera slowly rose, retrieved her hoe, and said, "Come with me."
Sarah wanted to protest, but it would have been disrespectful. So she followed her grandmother down to the maize plot by the river.
"The Children of Mumbi have lived on the soil ever since the First Man and Woman," Mama Wachera explained as she led her granddaughter among the tall stalks. "We sprang from the soil. When we take an oath, we eat the soil to bind our spirit to our words. The land is precious, Daughter, you must never forget that."
When they reached the corner of the plot, Wachera bent and struck the earth that lay in the shade of tall banana plants. "When one forgets the old ways," she said as she broke the earth, "then all is lost. In the soil lies our answers."
Sarah gazed out at the river, feeling her annoyance rise. She was in no mood for a lesson in planting.
But when the hoe struck something, she was suddenly attentive.
Wachera bent at the waist, keeping her legs straight as if she were weeding or harvesting, and dug into the loose earth. When she brought out a large leather bag, Sarah stared in amazement.
"Here," Mama Wachera said, handing the bag to her granddaughter.
Baffled, Sarah quickly undid the drawstring and blinked down at the great hoard of silver coins in the bag. There must have been a hundred pounds' worth in there!
"Grandmother," she said, "where did you get this?"
"I have told you, Daughter, that I have no use for money. Every week for twenty harvests your mother sent money for your keep. I had no need of it, as I fed you and your brother with food from my own shamba. I did not need to buy medicines, as I made my own. And when the school insisted that I pay for your uniforms and books, I sent goats, which they accepted. I do not understand coins. But I kept them, knowing they contain power."
Sarah stared at the old woman a moment longer. Then she cried, "Grandmother!"
"Is this what you need? Will this make you happy, child?"
"Very happy, Grandmother!"
"Then it is yours."
Sarah hugged the old woman, then spun deliriously in a circle.
Wachera laughed and said, "What will you do now, Daughter?"
Sarah came to a standstill, her eyes shining. She knew exactly what she was going to do with the money. But she would have to hurry. There wasn't much time.
Deborah was leaving in two weeks.
58
G
RACE REMOVED HER STETHOSCOPE AND FOLDED IT INTO THE pocket of her white lab coat. To the sister at the bedside, an African nun in the pale blue habit of her order, she said, "Watch him closely and report to me at once any change."
"Yes, Memsaab Daktari."
Grace took one last look at the boy's medical chart, then, absently rubbing her left arm, walked out of the children's ward.
As she followed the treelined street from the hospital to her house, Grace was greeted by many people: a priest hurrying to a baptism; student nurses clutching books; blue-robed Catholic nuns; patients in wheelchairs; visitors bringing flowers. Grace Mission was like a small town; it was a self-contained, self-sufficient community that filled every inch of its thirty acres. And it was said to be the largest mission in Africa.
Grace Treverton was still the director, but much of the running of the mission was in the hands of others, to whom she had, over the years, gradually relinquished authority. At eighty-three Grace could no longer do all the work herself, as she would like to.
Streetlights came on with the descent of night. People hurried to dining rooms, to evening classes, to vespers in the church. Grace slowly climbed the steps of her comfortable and familiar veranda and was glad to see, when she walked through the front door, that Deborah was back from Amboseli.
"Hello, Aunt Grace," Deborah said as they embraced. "You're just in time. I've made tea."
The inside of the house had changed little over the years. The furniture, now considered antique, was protected by slipcovers and antimacassars. Grace's enormous rolltop desk was as cluttered as ever with bills, orders, medical journals, communications from all over the world.
"How was Kilima Simba?" Grace asked as she accompanied her niece into the kitchen.
"As luxurious as ever! And so overbooked that they had to double up the guests in their rooms and still turn people away! Uncle Geoffrey said he's going to build a new lodge, right here in the Aberdares. To rival Treetops, he said."
Grace laughed and shook her head. "Now there is a man who could truly see into the future. Ten years ago we all said he was mad. Now he's one of the rich
est men in East Africa."
Although there had been some trouble in the early days of independence—the Kenya Army had revolted, some lawless people had tried to terrorize the whites—none of the serious, anticipated trouble, such as a second Mau Mau, had happened. Through hard work and cooperation, and the spirit of harambee, "pulling together," and under Jomo Kenyatta's strong leadership, Kenya had emerged united and prosperous, earning for itself the title of Jewel of Black Africa. Only time would tell if this stability was going to continue in these next ten years of uhuru.
As she buttered the scones and put the jam and clotted cream on the table, Grace studied her niece. Deborah was not her usually lively self tonight.
"Is everything all right?" she asked, sitting at the table. "Are you feeling okay, Deborah?"
The smile that came was a lifeless one. "I'm all right, Aunt Grace."
"But something is troubling you. Is it your trip to California?"
Deborah stared down into her tea.
"You're having second thoughts about going," Grace said gently, "aren't you?"
"Oh, Aunt Grace! I'm so confused! I know it's a marvelous opportunity for me and all, but—"
"It frightens you, is that it?"
Deborah chewed her lip.
"Is it something else then? You're not worried about me, are you? We've been over that already. I want you to go. I shan't be lonely. And the three years will go quickly."
To eighteen-year-old Deborah three years sounded like three centuries.
Grace waited. In their years together, living more as mother and daughter than as aunt and niece, Deborah had always been able to come to Grace with her fears, her questions, her dreams. They had spent many nights by the fire, talking. Grace had told Deborah stories of the Trevertons, and the girl had listened raptly. There had never been any secrets between them—with the exception of the identity of Deborah's father, which Mona had made Grace promise to keep a secret. And with Mona's departure from Kenya and only her sporadic, impersonal letters to take her place, Deborah had no other family than her aunt. They were as close as two people could be; they lived for each other.