Green City in the Sun

by Wood, Barbara

  The lobby was monstrously busy. It appeared that several large groups of tourists were arriving and departing at the same time, causing a jam of people at the desk, a jam of luggage near the double glass doors, and a jam of safari vans at the curb. Harried tour guides shouted orders in English and Swahili, while weary travelers found seats on the many sofas that were arranged around the spacious lobby. Deborah had heard that tourism was big business in Kenya. She surmised that it must rank just after coffee and tea as its main source of income. Thanks, she thought as she made her way to the glass doors, to men like Uncle Geoffrey.

  She paused on the front steps to catch her breath.

  The light!

  Deborah had forgotten how crisp and buoyant the light of Kenya was. It was as if the air weren't made up of oxygen but of something indescribably light, such as helium. Everything was so clear, so sharp. Colors seemed to be more colorful here than anywhere else; outlines and details seemed to stand out. Although the air smelled smoky and fumy, it was wondrously thin and fresh. This was one of the reasons, Deborah had read in her aunt's journal, why her grandfather, the earl of Treverton, had so fallen in love with East Africa.

  Deborah liked that thought-that she shared something with the man who was responsible for her having been born in Kenya. It gave her a sense of inheritance, of family lineage.

  She struck off in the direction of Joseph Gicheru Street, which had once been Lord Treverton Avenue, and came, a few minutes later, to Jomo Kenyatta Avenue, where she found herself standing in front of the main office of Donald Tours.

  Deborah was hesitant to go inside.

  So she retreated to the curb, where a tree, growing out of the cracked and buckled sidewalk, provided shade from the slicing sunlight. The doorway into the agency seemed like a doorway into her past. Uncle Geoffrey might be in there, in his seventies now but just as vigorous and robust, Deborah had no doubt, as ever. Or possibly Terry was in there, arranging a hunting safari. Was he married now? she wondered. Had he settled down, had children? Or was he possessed of the restless, adventurous spirit that was the legacy of his forefathers? Deborah recalled what her aunt had written in the journal, back in 1919: "Sir James tells me his father was one of the first men to explore the interior of British East Africa. He had hoped to achieve lasting fame and immortality by having something named for him, after the fashion of Stanley and Thompson. Sadly he was killed by an elephant before the realization of that dream."

  Immortality, Deborah thought as she gazed up at the modern sign over the large plate glass window. The dream of that first, intrepid Donald had come true after all.

  She went inside.

  The door opened upon a tastefully decorated office with a counter, plush carpeting, and seats with magazine racks. When the door closed, the noise of Nairobi was shut out and Deborah heard soft music. A young woman looked up from a computer terminal and smiled. "May I help you?" she said.

  Deborah looked around. Murals-panoramic views of the elegant Donald lodges and their breathtaking vistas-covered three walls. On the counter-top was a display of glossy, colorful brochures, a separate one for each lodge, and of individual pamphlets describing a variety of tours. The young African woman was pretty and well dressed, and she wore an elaborate hairdo. The whole Donald operation, it seemed to Deborah, spelled prosperity and wealth.

  "I would like to see Mr. Donald, please. Tell him that Deborah Treverton is here."

  The young woman looked puzzled. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Is Mr. Donald not here?"

  "I'm sorry, madam. There is no Mr. Donald."

  "This is the Donald Tours agency, isn't it? The one that owns Kilima Simba Lodge?"

  "Yes, but there is no Mr. Donald here."

  "You mean he's out on safari."

  "We do not have a Mr. Donald."

  "But-"

  At that moment a woman appeared from behind the partition that separated the front office from the back. She was Asian, beautifully dressed in a bright red sari, her thick black hair drawn back in a bun. "You are looking for Mr. Donald, madam?" she said.

  "Yes. I'm an old friend."

  "I am so sorry," the woman said with a look that implied how truly sorry she was. "Mr. Donald died a few years ago."

  "Oh. I didn't know. What about his brother, Ralph?"

  "The other Mr. Donald is also dead. They were killed in a car accident on the Nanyuki Road."

  "Killed! They were together when it happened?"

  The woman nodded sadly. "It was the whole family, madam. Mrs. Donald, her grandchildren-"

  Deborah held onto the counter. "I can't believe it."

  "May I offer you a cup of tea? Perhaps you would like to speak to Mr. Mugambi."

  Deborah felt numb. She heard herself say, "Who is Mr. Mugambi?"

  "He owns this agency. Perhaps he-"

  "No," Deborah said. "No, thank you." She hurried to the door. "Don't bother him with it. I was a friend of the family. Thank you. Thank you very much."

  She fell in with the heavy pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk and let herself be carried along. A sick feeling swept over her-killed together-and when it subsided, she was left feeling hollow and empty. It was as if part of herself had died.

  She walked for what seemed a long time, crossing busy streets, getting horns honked at her for stepping out without looking first to the right, mingling with African women walking smartly in high heels and fashionable dresses, passing cripples and beggars in rags, ignoring persistent young men who tried to sell her elephant hair bracelets and Kikuyu baskets, encountering tourists who walked nervously in groups with their arms linked. Deborah passed guards in uniform standing in the doorways of expensive shops; she passed tall prostitutes wearing huge gold loop earrings, and policemen in ill-matched uniforms, and women sitting on the ground with starving children in their arms. On the congested street Mercedes-Benz limousines went by, their smoked windows hiding the elite passengers inside; battered taxis fought for space; safari vans filled with tourists inched their way toward the city's exits; a bus so packed that people hung on to the sides chuffed by, a large sign on its side reading VIOLENCE AGAINST WOMEN ... AGAINST THE LAW!

  Deborah was aware of little. She was remembering her first night at Kilima Simba Safari Lodge, when it was just a tent camp in the wilderness and she had overheard her mother telling Uncle Geoffrey that she was going away with Tim Hopkins and that she didn't want to take her daughter with her. Deborah had cried that night in the tent she shared with Terry. And Terry, then only ten years old, had tried to comfort her in his boy's way.

  Deborah finally came to a halt when she realized that she had wandered onto the campus of the University of Nairobi. Sixteen years ago she had taken classes here, from men like Professor Muriuki. When she came down the path and saw the Norfolk Hotel before her, she realized with a jolt that she must be walking where the old jail had stood and that it was therefore probably on this very spot that Arthur Treverton had been killed. That organized protest, described in Grace's journal, had been to voice the people's wish for an African university here in Kenya. By an ironic twist, the spot was today part of the University of Nairobi grounds.

  Deborah went back to the Hilton.

  The rental car had not yet arrived, so she went to the small newsstand and purchased a newspaper.

  She looked in the windows of the shops that lined the Hilton arcade. Valuable antiquities were displayed behind glass: medieval Ethiopian Bibles; a centuries-old Arab camel saddle; iron candlesticks from the Congo; necklaces fashioned by the Toro of Uganda. Souvenir shops offered "genuine native crafts," postcards, guidebooks, and T-shirts bearing lions, hippos, thorn trees at sunset. The dress shops were chic and expensive and offered a wide range of "safari ensembles" that had not been in existence fifteen years ago.

  Deborah paused before one window. A mannequin stood on display, wearing a stunning dress of unique African design. Deborah thought it looked familiar.

  Suddenly excited, she went inside
.

  The price on the tag was written in shillings; Deborah translated it into an amount of more than four hundred dollars. She reached up and felt along the neckline for a label.

  She found it. It read "Sarah Mathenge."

  "May I be of assistance, madam?"

  Deborah turned to meet the snobbish smile of the Asian saleswoman. She wore a lavendar sari, and her black hair was twisted in a long braid down her back.

  "This dress," Deborah said, "it's made by Sarah Mathenge?"

  "Yes, it is."

  "Where was it made, do you know? Was it made in Nyeri?"

  "No, please, madam. It was made here in Nairobi."

  "How often does Sarah Mathenge come in here?"

  The young woman frowned.

  "What I mean is, do you know when you will be seeing her again?"

  "I am sorry please, madam. I have never met Miss Mathenge."

  "I'm an old friend of hers, you see. I would like to get in touch with her."

  The frown dissolved into the superior smile once again. "Perhaps, please, you would be able to find her at Mathenge House? That is where her head offices are."

  "Head offices!"

  "Yes, please, at Mathenge House. You go out of the hotel just here, madam, and turn right. It is just across the street, next to the archives."

  "Thank you! Thank you very much!"

  Deborah hurried, and this time she was very much aware of the crowd on the sidewalk, because it impeded her.

  Mathenge House!

  Deborah had imagined that Sarah made her dresses at home up in Nyeri and took them from shop to shop. But head offices!

  Deborah stopped at the curb and stared across the street at the building next to the National Archives. It was a tall modern building, at least seven stories, with an enormous sign on top that read MATHENGE HOUSE.

  Deborah dashed through the traffic, walked quickly along the stores and small businesses that occupied the ground level of the building, found the entrance, which was guarded by an askari, and went inside. A small foyer, smelling of pungent cleaning solution, contained a directory and two elevators. Reading the directory, Deborah was amazed to discover that the entire building was occupied by Sarah Mathenge Enterprises, Ltd.

  She stepped into the elevator, pressed the top button, and thought the ride would take forever. But presently the doors rattled open upon a small reception area where a young African woman was typing and talking on the phone at the same time.

  "I would like to see Sarah Mathenge, please," Deborah told her.

  "I believe Miss Mathenge has gone for the day."

  "But it's only morning. Please check."

  The receptionist picked up the phone, pushed one of many buttons, and spoke in rapid-fire Swahili. She looked up at Deborah. "What is the name, please?"

  "Deborah Treverton."

  The receptionist repeated it into the phone, waited a moment, then hung up and said, "Miss Mathenge will be right out."

  Deborah realized she was twisting the strap of her shoulder purse. What would Sarah be like after all these years? How would she receive Deborah? Was she angry with me for disappearing, for abandoning her after promising to help place her dresses in Uncle Geoffrey's lodges? Is she angry with me still?

  "Deborah!"

  She turned. A plain, unlabeled door led off the small reception area. A beautiful woman, a vision of color and elegance, stood there now.

  Sarah came forward with her arms open. The two women embraced as comfortably and naturally as if they had parted only yesterday.

  "Deborah!" Sarah said, stepping back. "I was hoping you would come and see me! I called the mission this morning. They said you had not arrived the night before last, as they had expected."

  Deborah could hardly speak. This was still her old friend. Sarah had changed very little. Except that her dress, a creation of copper shades dramatically enhanced with blacks and purples, was something eighteen-year-old Sarah could never have worn. Her head was covered in a turban of the same fabric; she wore enormous copper earrings that rested on her shoulders, copper bracelets on both slender wrists. Deborah felt as if she had stepped back into their happy past.

  "You knew I was coming to Kenya?" she asked.

  "The mission contacted me three weeks ago, when my grandmother was admitted into the hospital there. The mother superior said that my grandmother was asking for you. They wondered if I knew where you were. I told them the name of the college in California that had granted you the scholarship."

  "How did you know I had gone there?"

  "Professor Muriuki told us. But I am so glad to see you! You haven't changed at all, Deb! Well, maybe a little. You look more mature, wiser. You caught me just in time. I have an appointment at the President's house in a little while."

  "The President's house! The President of Kenya?"

  "I'm Mrs. Moi's dressmaker." Sarah laughed and put her arm through Deborah's. "Come to my house with me, Deb. There's something I must see to before I go to my appointment. And Mrs. Moi can keep me for hours! You and I can talk on the way."

  A Mercedes-Benz was waiting at the curb, with a smiling African chauffeur holding the rear door open. As they got in, Sarah said with a laugh, "I'm a wabenzi now, Deb. What do you think of that?"

  Deborah had never heard the term before, but she knew enough Swahili to know that wa means "people of."

  "We're a whole new breed, Deb," Sarah said as the Mercedes fought for a space in traffic. "We who run Kenya are called members of the Benzi race. It's a term of insult which the common people like to call us. But don't be fooled, Deb. They also aspire to being wabenzis!"

  They rode in silence for a few moments, sitting in the rich interior of the car, surrounded by the smell of fine leather, radio music blocking out Nairobi's rude noise. Deborah had to say, "I can't tell you how impressed I am with you, Sarah. You've come such a long way."

  "I prefer not to think just how far I've come!" Sarah said with a hard laugh. "I leave the past in the past. And I see to it that bloody few people know about the miserable huts on the Chania River. But tell me about you, Deb. What made you run off like that? Why did you never write to us?"

  Deborah spoke haltingly at the beginning, but as she told of the discovery of her mother's love letters to David and of wondering what had become of that love child, Deborah found the words coming quickly and with astonishing ease. When she came to the part about going to Wachera and what the old woman had said to her, Sarah turned sharply.

  But Deborah added hurriedly, "No, Sarah. Christopher is not my brother. Wachera wanted me to believe that for some reason. But I thought he was, you see. And we had made love in his hut. I couldn't live with it. I was too immature. All I wanted was to run away and hide. I certainly couldn't go on living in Kenya. I was in love with my own brother! Or so I thought." She finished by telling Sarah the answers she had found in her aunt's journal, fifteen years too late.

  "My grandmother," Sarah said, gazing out at Nairobi's slums, where the road turned to dust and buildings seemed to lean under the weight of poverty. "That foolish old woman. She always resented white people, was always waiting for them to leave Kenya. She had some mad dream that we all were going to return to the past once the white people were gone. I suppose she was trying to get rid of you in order to complete her daft curse."

  The Mercedes was slowed by children playing in the street. Sarah leaned forward, slid open a window in the partition that separated the front seat from the back, and said to the driver in Swahili, "Hurry up, will you?"

  When she sat back, she turned to Deborah and said, "So, did you become a doctor after all?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you married? Do you have children?"

  "No and no."

  Sarah's finely plucked eyebrows rose. "No children? Deb, a woman must have children."

  They had left the center of the city, and now the Mercedes was moving down a treelined street in one of the wealthier districts. Behind high hedges and fences Deb
orah could see the tile rooftops of stately old houses. This was Parklands, one of Kenya's finest suburbs.

  "And you, Sarah? Are you married?"

  "One lesson I learned from my mother was not to be the slave of a husband. I know what she suffered in the detention camp at the hands of men. I know how I was conceived. I learned from her how to use men the way they have always used women. I turned the tables, so to speak, and I find it rather refreshing. But I do have special friends. Like General Mazrui. Right now he's one of the most powerful men in East Africa, and it suits my needs to develop an intimate relationship with him."

  Sarah looked at her watch and spoke impatiently to the driver again. "I'd like you to meet General Mazrui, Deb. I think you'll be very impressed with him. I'm giving a dinner party tonight for the French ambassador; that's why I have to stop at home. If I don't keep after my staff constantly, things never get done right. Will you come, Deb?"

  "I'm going up to Nyeri in a little while. I have a room at the Outspan. And I don't know how much time your grandmother has left."

  Sarah shrugged. "I haven't spoken to her in years. But you can give her my love if you want."

  The chauffeur turned the car down a short drive. He stopped when he came to a chain link fence. There were warning signs posted in big, bold letters: KALI DOGS! DO NOT GET OUT OF YOUR CAR! And then an askari, carrying a rifle, appeared from a small kiosk. When he saw the car, he unlocked the gate, rolled it back, and saluted his employer through.

  As the drive curved around a large green lawn and flower garden, Deborah's eyes widened. There were more guards, holding barking dogs on leashes. "Sarah!" she said. "You told me we were going to your house, not to the President's house!"

  "This is my house," Sarah said as the Mercedes pulled up near the front door.

  "It's like a fortress!" Deborah was looking at the fence topped with a curl of barbed wire. It appeared to go all the way around the property.

  "Don't pretend that you don't live like this, too, Deb."

  As Deborah gave Sarah a startled, quizzical look, the front door was opened by an elderly African in an old-fashioned long white kanzu. He was very proper and formal and even wore, to Deborah's surprise, white gloves.