Hare in the Elephant's Trunk

by Jan Coates

  “Thank you, uncle. My goats and I thank you for saving our feet,” Jacob said, smiling.

  As he walked, Jacob imagined himself in boarding school. He would wear a fine new shirt and short pants. Perhaps, just maybe, he would wear shoes, for the first time in his life! Imagine ... but, best of all, there would be books, paper, pencils, and teachers to give him the world. He walked quickly. His little goats struggled to keep up.

  Jacob gradually began seeing more and more buildings, trucks, and cars as he walked along the main road into Lokichokio. He came upon a large open-air market on the outskirts of the town so he did not have to take his goat friends too far into the busy streets.

  The market was bustling with business; energetic sellers harassed potential customers, waving their wares in their faces. Several scruffy men approached Jacob, asking to buy his animals. Jacob shook his head, refusing the loud men who tried to cheat him by offering much less than the goats’ value.

  Eventually, Jacob came upon a butcher’s stall. The meat was neatly displayed under plastic, not crawling with flies as in some of the other stands. The butcher smiled kindly at Jacob and asked him what price he wanted for his goats. Jacob used what little Swahili he had to negotiate with the man. They went back and forth for several minutes and finally agreed upon a price. Jacob passed the ropes of his goats over to the man and tried not to think of what the big butcher would do with his furry friends. He promised Jacob that the mama goat would be sold as a milk goat. Goodbye Mama, Oscar, Willy, Monyroor, and Daniel—thank you for helping me get to school. Jacob was sad to pat their furry noses goodbye, but delighted to see the money. He looked at it in his hand: 3,700 shillings—such a sum! Together with his pay from the translating work, he had over 4,000 shillings. He crammed it all into his pouch and tucked it away safely inside his t-shirt.

  Jacob set off, walking briskly in the direction of Kakuma. He couldn’t wait to tell Chol of his great adventures and fortune. Shortly after he left Loki, a UN truck stopped.

  “Need a lift to Kakuma?” the driver called back.

  “Yes, please,” Jacob shouted. He ran and climbed into the back of the truck. He fingered his money pouch nervously as they approached the camp. Will Oscar and Willy be mad that I left without them? How will I get to Nairobi? How will I ever find a school that will accept a poor orphan boy like me?

  He thanked the driver for the ride and went directly to the soccer field. He stood quietly behind some other boys, watching the game. Oscar looked big and strong, even with his crooked arm. As Jacob watched, his friend lifted the ball with his toes, bounced it high off his knee, then slammed the ball between the goal stones with his head.

  “Yes!” Oscar shouted, pumping his good arm in the air as his cheering teammates surrounded him. “Who is the best soccer player in all of Kakuma Camp?”

  Jacob laughed and made his way onto the field. “Nice one, Oscar,” he said. “I once owned a goat named Oscar that used his head in the same way.”

  “You have finished school already?” Oscar turned and slapped his friend on the shoulder. “I knew you were smart, but that is ridiculous. What are you talking about—a goat named Oscar?”

  Willy sprinted across the field when he spotted Jacob. He stopped short of hugging his friend and instead punched him lightly on the arm. “You came back!”

  Jacob told them of his travels as they walked back to their hut. “And now I must find a ride to Nairobi,” he said, as he showed them his pouch full of shillings.

  “Wow—you are very rich!” Willy said. “Don’t worry—we will protect you while you are in Kakuma, Jacob.”

  “You should start a business,” Oscar said. “You could supply many things that people in the camp need; extra food, clothing, tools.”

  “No,” Jacob said. “I will use the money to go to school. Have you seen Chol? Maybe he will know if there is a Red Cross truck driving to Nairobi soon.” Jacob tucked his pouch safely back inside his t-shirt.

  He left his notebooks and storybook beneath a mat in the hut, and together the three boys went to find Chol. He was just finishing his classes for the day. The teacher beamed when he saw Jacob.

  “The prodigal son returns!” he exclaimed, giving Jacob a big hug.

  “The who?” Oscar asked.

  “Never mind—it’s so good to see you, Jacob Deng,” the teacher said.

  When Jacob had finished retelling his story, Chol clapped his hands together. “Oh, this is perfect. I know there is a UN truck ready to drive back to Nairobi tonight. They plan to leave before dark.”

  “Tonight?” Jacob looked at his friends. “So soon?”

  “Can’t you stay longer?” Willy said. “You only just got back.”

  They walked together to the UN tent. Several men were busy loading empty water containers into the back of a truck.

  “My books!” Jacob said. “I can’t leave without my books.”

  “I’ll get them,” Oscar volunteered. He raced away while Jacob and Chol discussed the travel arrangements with the truck driver.

  Oscar arrived back just as the white men were getting ready to close up the doors of the truck. Jacob was to ride with the water jugs in the back as there was no room in the cab.

  Willy’s lips trembled as Jacob put one foot on the floor of the truck box. Jacob turned and put an arm around his shoulders. “You are strong now, Willy. You and Oscar can look after each other—I will be back someday ... maybe you can soon join me at school.”

  “I still have not learned to be patient, Jacob,” the small boy said, wiping his eyes. “But I will keep trying.”

  “We’ll save a spot for you in our beautiful house,” Oscar said, “unless, of course, I am recruited by a professional soccer team while you are away.”

  Jacob laughed, then turned to Chol. “Thank you, Teacher. I would not be prepared to make this journey if you had not helped me along the way.”

  Chol put one hand on each of Jacob’s shoulders. “You will be a brilliant, shining star, Jacob. God bless, and wadeng—look always to tomorrow.”

  Jacob climbed into the back of the truck and the heavy door rattled shut. He curled up in the dark on a bundle of rags and woven bags in one corner. As the truck rumbled away from Kakuma, the memory of his friends’ voices soon sang Jacob to sleep.

  In the morning, the UN workers woke Jacob and made room for him between them in the truck’s cab as they approached the city. “Have you been to Nairobi before?” the driver asked. He was a young white man with curly brown hair. He also wore a cross around his neck.

  Jacob rubbed his own cross, then shook his head. “Never,” he said. “But I have heard that it is a big city. I have seen pictures of it in books.”

  The men laughed. “A very big city,” the driver said. “Much bigger than a picture could show.”

  Before long, they could see the city in the distance, more tall buildings than Jacob could have imagined; massive towers that rose into the sky like enormous square termite mounds with sparkling windows. Great lines of cars and trucks crawled noisily down the streets, honking and rumbling as clouds of gray smoke poured out behind them.

  “I think it would have taken me a very long time to walk to Nairobi,” Jacob said to the men as they stood stretching their legs. “Thank you for driving me.”

  The driver laughed. “It would be impossible to walk from Kakuma to Nairobi. It would take months.”

  Jacob smiled and waved goodbye. That would not have been my first time walking for months, but I am glad I did not have to, he thought.

  Jacob left the UN compound and arrived at a busy street. He stood, looking in all directions, unsure of what to do next, when he noticed a small boy sitting on a wooden crate.

  “Do you know where there is a school?” Jacob asked in English.

  The boy shrugged, then held up the palms of his hands. His eyes rested on the bulge underneath Jacob’s t-shirt.

  “No English? Swahili?” Jacob asked.

  The boy nodded his head. />
  Jacob repeated his question in Swahili. “Do you know where there is a school?”

  The boy stood up and took Jacob’s hand in his small, grimy one. “Follow me.”

  Jacob followed his new friend down many streets, wide streets lined with tall concrete buildings and narrow streets with stores and lower brick buildings. Many of the structures had enormous words and pictures painted on them. Jacob’s head swiveled in all directions as he tried to take it all in. I hope I was right to trust this boy; I am completely lost now.

  Finally, they came to a neat, low brick building with several flowering trees out front—red, pink, and yellow. The sign above the gate read: Nairobi Academy. The yard was full of noisy boys, wrestling and chasing each other across the grass. Several boys were playing soccer in one half of the yard.

  A tall boy slammed the ball between the sticks they were using as goalposts. “Yes! I am a star soccer player!” Jacob grinned, then turned back to say goodbye to his helper.

  The small boy stood with his face pressed between the steel bars of the fence, staring at the schoolboys playing soccer.

  “Thank you so much,” Jacob said. “I could have never found this school without you.” He reached out to shake the boy’s hand. “Goodbye—and wadeng. That means, ‘Look to tomorrow; it will be better,’ in my language.”

  The boy didn’t answer, but remained standing, his dirty face poking through the bars, his hands gripping them tightly, as Jacob walked up the stone path to the front door.

  A tall man with a mustache stood just inside the door. “May I help you?” he asked stiffly. He did not smile and spoke very quickly.

  “Yes, please. I am looking for the headmaster of this fine school,” Jacob said. “I would like to be a student here.”

  “I am the headmaster.” The man looked down at Jacob and stroked his mustache. “But this school is very expensive. Do you have parents to pay your tuition?”

  Jacob shook his head. “No, uncle. I am all alone in the world. But I do have money.” He pulled his pouch out from beneath his t-shirt. He moved his cross out of the way so he could open the pouch to show the headmaster his shillings.

  The man did not meet Jacob’s eyes, but stared at the silver cross as he spoke. “I am sorry. We are full at the moment. Try Laiser Hill Academy—it is several miles west of Nairobi.”

  “I am sorry to hear that you do not have room. Thank you, Headmaster. I will try Laiser Hill Academy.” Wrapping his hand around his cross, Jacob turned and walked back through the wooden doors. I think he did not like my cross. Perhaps he does not believe in my God. Several miles west of Nairobi—how will I ever find that?

  When he returned to the street, the small boy had disappeared. Jacob’s stomach started growling—he had been too busy to think of food since arriving in Nairobi. He sniffed the air. Ummmm ... roasting meat. He followed the delicious smell and came upon a man roasting meat over a small fire; it sizzled and crackled as the fat dripped onto the flames. The man smiled up at Jacob.

  “Only half a shilling for a handsome boy like you,” he said, holding out a stick with several juicy chunks of meat skewered on it. “It is goat meat.”

  Jacob put his hand in his pocket. Passing the money to the man, he said, “This smells so delicious. I have not eaten meat for many, many seasons.”

  Jacob sat down on a nearby stone step and began gnawing hungrily on the meat, trying not to think of his goat friends. As he licked his lips, he noticed the same small boy, leaning against a wall nearby, watching him. He was about the same size as Willy. Jacob held up the skewer. “Would you like some?”

  The boy ran across the street and crouched down next to Jacob. Jacob passed him a big chunk of the meat, which the boy shoved into his mouth all at once, wolfing it down without seeming to chew, like a starving dog. After he had swallowed, he smacked his lips and rubbed his belly. “You are hungry,” Jacob said. “I, too, know what it is like to be hungry.”

  The boy said nothing, but continued to stare at the food. Jacob handed him a second piece, then continued eating. When the meat was all gone, Jacob licked the grease from each of his fingers, then stood up to leave. The boy followed him.

  Jacob pointed to himself. “I am Jacob.”

  “Jabari,” the small boy said. “It means ‘fearless.’”

  “That is a good, strong name. Maybe you can help me, Jabari. I need to go several miles west of Nairobi,” Jacob said to him, pointing in the direction of the setting sun. “Could you help me?”

  The boy nodded and again Jacob followed him through the crowded streets of Nairobi. When they reached the outskirts, Jabari began walking backwards, waving his thin arm in the air at each vehicle as it drove past, leaving the boys in a cloud of dust. Finally, a battered brown truck stopped, and the driver jerked his thumb toward the rough wooden box on the back. The boys hopped on and held tightly to the wobbly wooden sides as the truck bounced along over the rough road. After several minutes, the man stopped the truck and got out.

  “That’s the end of the line, boys,” he said in Swahili.

  “Thank you, uncle. Could you tell me if we are near Laiser Hill Academy?” Jacob asked.

  “Walk that way for about five minutes,” the man said. “You can’t miss it.”

  The school was not a tall building, but rather a collection of low white concrete buildings spread out over a large area. One appeared to be a church, as it had a large brown cross above the doorway. Beyond the tall red gate, palm trees and flowering bushes lined the neat stone walkway leading up to the front door. Once again, Jabari waited outside the gate, watching as Jacob walked to the door.

  A man sat behind a desk just inside the door. He wrote down Jacob’s name, then told him to have a seat on a chair in the dark hallway outside a big wooden door. The word HEADMASTER was written on it in shiny gold letters. Chairs are not much softer than the ground, Jacob thought, squirming to get more comfortable. He looked around at the walls, which were covered with paintings, pictures of trees, boys wrestling and playing soccer, and cattle. Several of them looked like scenes from Kakuma.

  Jacob jumped as a shrill ringing sound disturbed the silence. The man behind the desk picked up something black, put it to his ear and mouth; the ringing stopped as he spoke into it. But who is he talking to? Jacob wondered, looking around. I am the only one here.

  A minute later, the door swung silently inwards, and a small man wearing a pleasant smile stood in the doorway, with his hands clasped in front of him. “Jacob Deng?” he said. “Please come in and have a seat. I am Headmaster Wangai.” The headmaster lowered his wire glasses to the end of his nose as he took a seat behind his wide black desk. He had warm, friendly eyes, and he was wearing a crisp white shirt with a tie around his neck. It was a blue tie, a Mama’s-dressblue tie. Jacob relaxed at the thought of Mama.

  Jacob pulled the string out from beneath his t-shirt and set his sack of money down on the desk. “My name is Jacob Deng, son of Joseph, and I would like to go to school,” he said simply. “I am quite sure I am an orphan, but I am very good in English, and I am a very hard worker.”

  “And where have you come from, Jacob Deng?”

  “My home is Duk Padiet, in Southern Sudan. I am from the Dinka people, but the war has caused me to live in refugee camps for almost seven years. More than half my life.”

  Jacob looked directly at the headmaster. He sat very still as the man took in his dusty clothing, bare feet, and trusting face. When he rubbed his furrowed forehead, Jacob thought of Monyroor.

  “I am sorry,” the headmaster said at last, sighing deeply. He looked away and began shuffling some papers around on his desk. “We cannot take boys who do not have parents, or at least a guardian, to care for them if there is a problem.”

  Jacob’s face crumpled. His shoulders sank as he slumped down in the wooden chair. The clock on the wall ticked as loudly as a drum. Jacob folded his hands in his lap and squeezed them together tightly, trying to force his tears to stay inside. I wil
l not cry ... I will not cry ... Dinka men don’t cry ... “Please, father. I have walked so far to come to school,” he pleaded. “I will work harder than any other boy in your school. I promise.”

  “I am sorry to disappoint you, Jacob, but the rules are the rules, I’m afraid. Is there a chance you could get a letter from a relative—maybe an uncle or an older brother who would act as your guardian?” The headmaster looked out the window and avoided Jacob’s searching brown eyes.

  Jacob pulled his shoulders back and sat up straight. “I will try,” he said. “I will try very hard. But my village is far from Nairobi. Are there many Dinka people living in your fine city?”

  “I will ask one of our teachers. He has family in the Bor District of Southern Sudan.”

  Jacob jumped up out of his chair. “But that is my district, also. Please tell him my name is Jacob Akech Deng. My father was Joseph Akech Deng. I am sure he must know of him, as he was a great man of many cattle.”

  “Please, excuse me.” The headmaster pulled the heavy, wooden door shut behind him.

  Jacob looked around the office. Every wall was lined with books. Fat books and skinny ones, tall ones and small ones, books of every color. Jacob got up and ran his fingers along the spines of one row of books. He chose a thick one, opened it and pressed his nose to the pages. His heart began to beat faster. I must go to this school. There must be a way ...

  He jerked around as the headmaster cleared his throat. “I am sorry, uncle. I did not mean to intrude—it’s just, I have never seen so many books before. You must be a very rich man.” Jacob held up his own book. “I have only one book.”

  The headmaster laughed. “Well, I am rich in books, I suppose.” He sat back down. “I am sorry my news is not better— the teacher says he does not know of a Nairobi neighborhood populated by Dinka men.”

  Jacob sat back in his chair and began rubbing his ears. “I have many relatives. But how could I find one in this big city? And I have no place to stay while I am here. Could you suggest a place, headmaster Wangai?”