Sara says placidly, over the top of her cup of tea, “Your father isn’t running a pension house, Rachel. The labor can’t simply exist here as a picturesque backdrop to your childhood memories.”
What she says stings. There is a hint of truth in it—enough to silence me.
She runs her tongue over her top teeth and says contemplatively, “You know what Steven said the other day? We should have a game license to shoot a certain number of—”
“Please, Sara,” my father interrupts, through gritted teeth, looking at Mungai who has reappeared, and then at me. “It’s no good for anyone talking like that.”
I stare at her, unsure whether she has said it to rile me or because she genuinely believes it.
“I don’t care who hears, darling. I have nothing to be ashamed about. This is your land, not theirs. We’re only in this position because men like you have been too damned soft. Giving in to Whitehall, starting on the whole conversation of Africans’ rights.” She stands up from the table, puts down her napkin and walks around behind him. Leaning forward, she drapes her arms over his shoulders, so that her cheek rests next to his. I see one finger turning a circle on the center point of his chest. His eyes draw shut for a second, and he breathes out in a shuddering breath. She says, in a softer voice, that is for him and not me, “This is your land, Robert. And you mustn’t let the cowardice of others make you feel as though you shouldn’t have what is rightfully yours.”
I can’t believe her complacent self-conviction, and I wonder what my father sees in this woman. Something—I realize—that I cannot offer him. Some female concoction of softness and control that he craves.
“I don’t understand,” I say, desperately, looking away from them both. “They’ve been here as long as you have.”
“Rachel—it’s not as simple as that,” he says, taking hold of Sara’s hand in his and holding it still against his chest, as if he might not be able to talk while she is tracing a circle against his skin. And I feel there are two conversations going on at the table. The one between him and me, and the silent conversation between him and Sara. “In the early days so little land had been cleared. It was easy to set aside a few thousand acres for them to put up their shambas and graze their herds. But now we want to plant more coffee, tea, pyrethrum. There’s a chance we could really make something of ourselves here in Kenya, instead of just scraping a living. It doesn’t make sense to have tenant farmers. We need laborers.”
“So is it a question of economy or security?”
“Both,” my father says simply.
“Or perhaps the two just neatly coincide.”
“What does that mean?” His voice is very cold.
“Only that it’s rather convenient pushing through reforms on the farm under the cover of protecting yourself.”
“Protecting all of us,” he corrects.
“What would Mama say?”
He does not meet my eye. His face is tight with anger. “Your mother is not here.”
“And Jim?” I ask—mustering up the courage to look at Sara. “I suppose you’re keeping him on because you couldn’t do without his cooking?” I stand up, and before I know what I am doing I have walked out of breakfast and I am boiling with anger. As I walk into the house I hear her say in the same soft, cajoling voice, “She’s terribly spoiled, Robert. I shouldn’t allow her to run all over you the way you do.”
I run through the house and out of the front door. I have to get to the shambas and find Njeri, though I do not know what I will say to her when I am there.
—
THE TRACK TAKES ME past the stables, and it is only then that I remember Michael. He is working in the garage, and he looks up as I come in. We stand staring at each other. Worse than the idea that he sabotaged the engine at my uncle’s factory is the sense that he might have loyalties that would make him hostile to the farm, to my father, even perhaps to me. I remember the last time we spoke, my embarrassment, they look like good little missionary children.
“Why were you at Uplands?” I ask him.
For the first time since I have known him he seems unsettled. He glances past the yard, down the path, and I follow his gaze but there is no one there, no one listening in. We both know how dangerous this could be for him.
“I knew Jomo Kimoi, the leader of the strike.”
“The man who died?”
“Yes. The man who died.” There is a tension exploding between us: a gulf of unsaid truth.
“You told me before that you were staying with a cousin.”
“I was.”
“Did you help to organize the strike?”
“I was involved.”
“But you weren’t arrested?”
He lifts his eyes to mine—and for a moment I see right into his soul, the purity of him. “No, Memsaab. I wasn’t arrested.”
“Why are you here?” I ask, desperately, thinking of the sabotage in the engine room, the political pamphlets in his hand, the promise I gave him as we stood opposite each other in that dark corridor, the gunshots ringing in our ears. I will have no choice but to tell my father.
“I told you before. Nairobi is no longer safe.”
“But you knew I would be coming home—”
“They said you were never coming back,” he says, softly. His words cut right through me. They. The Kikuyu. Whose gossip was always intuitive and never wrong. Was it my father who had said it first? Had he never believed I would come home, after all those years he had kept me in England?
“Are you still involved in politics?” The word sounds strange in my mouth. I do not know what I am really asking. I only know that it is dangerous for Africans to try to change the order of things in Kenya.
“No,” he says, giving me a quick, direct look. “I have political beliefs, but I am not an activist. Not anymore.”
“Why not?” I want to believe him, but I know I cannot. I want him to be real, but like everything at Kisima he has changed.
“The movement became too militant. I want to live in peace.”
“Mau Mau are here, and they are not peaceful.”
“Mau Mau are nothing to do with me.” He says it with absolute conviction, looking me straight in the eye, wanting me to understand what he is saying, and—in that moment—I think I believe him.
—
AS I DRAW CLOSE to the shambas I see men and women walking up the track toward me: whole families with their possessions—babies, pots and baskets—piled on their backs, on their heads, the women bowed beneath the weight of them. They aren’t waiting for tomorrow, they are already leaving.
I step off the track and watch. Juno settles at my feet. Herds of goat and sheep are being driven before them, the men carrying switches, calling to them in soft, undulating voices. The reserves are hundreds of miles away, and they will have to walk every step of the way. I see Wangari—the woman who used to help in my mother’s garden—toiling under the weight of an old suitcase balanced on her head; Joseph walking with a stick; Mukami, her youngest child on her back, and her older boy—who I watched building a miniature shamba out of twigs—clutching at her skirt.
“Njeri!” I see her, at last, walking on the other side of Mukami. She steps out of line. Her baby is swaddled across her front, tiny and hidden. I want to tell her to stop, to go back to the shambas—but who am I to promise her anything? I want to tell her to write to me, so I will know how I can find her, but she cannot write. My Swahili is not good enough to express what I want to say, and even if it was what words would I choose?
“Kwa heri.” Good-bye. I push my hands into my pockets and pull out what little money I have and press it into her hand, biting back frustration; this is all I can offer her. “Kuwa na safari salama.” Have a safe journey. She puts a hand to my cheek, as she did when I first saw her, then she turns and walks away.
I walk up to t
he shambas, staying clear of the track so that I won’t be seen, tears blurring my eyes. Juno pads ahead of me, looking back from time to time to check I am following. I have to scramble over rocks and over streams, picking my way carefully in case of snakes, until I come through the trees onto the level plain. They have torn down most of the round, thatched mud houses. The boma fence has been stripped back, so that the acacia wall—which protected the livestock from lion and hyena—now trails across the dusty earth in a long, ragged line. Only five days ago the shamba stood as it had done my whole life, and now it is almost gone. A few dogs nose around, uncomfortable with the sudden destruction of the simple boundaries that defined their existence. There is no smell of smoke, no washing hanging on the boma to dry, no singing. They have gone and there is nothing I can do to bring them back.
I think about Michael; his admission that he was involved in the strike. It will be harder for me to tell my father, now that he has confided in me. I cannot live on the farm without saying something, and yet it feels like a betrayal. My father values Michael, but only if he can trust him. He would turn him over to the police in a second if he knew that he had been involved in the strike at Uplands.
I stay there, at the edge of the acacia forest, until I notice the air has become chill. The sun no longer filters through the tops of the trees, and it is later than I thought. There is an eerie quality to the deserted village. I stand up, stretching my legs. The forest is behind me, breathing its tapestry of sound. And then—like a radio being switched off—it falls silent. A chill flickers down my spine. Juno stiffens beside me and I put a hand on her neck to keep her quiet. In all the years I have been away, I have not forgotten the language of the bush—the chatter of birds when an eagle is near, the slow cracking of branches which heralds the approach of elephant, the low snort of a buffalo. But this sudden silence means one thing—a predator.
A jackal barks a warning. I look around me, but can see nothing through the tumbling layers of rock and trees. The gun that my father gave me is by my bed. I step out onto the track and begin to walk in the direction of the farm. Juno walks at my heels, ears back and head low. I know it is there before I see it—the whole landscape holds its breath—then the lion crosses the path in front of us—a huge male with a black mane which shimmers in the still air as he shakes off flies. He stops in the middle of the track and turns his head to look at us. My heart stops. Juno crouches, her body trembling in a low growl. I feel the distance between us, how easily he could cross it. Then he is gone, padding into the trees on the other side. My heart thuds back into motion and I take a juddering breath. I wait a few moments, then continue along the track. I know he will not be back—lion generally keep their distance—but his presence has unsettled me. For a moment I had forgotten that the forest is full of menace.
—
AS I APPROACH the stables I breathe more easily. I am nearly home. The air is full of a soft dust that seems to catch and hold the last particles of the sinking sun, so that the earth is drenched in a haze of golden light.
A man in blue overalls is walking down the track toward me. It is Michael—his sandals slapping gently against the dry earth. I feel no fear when I see him—only relief; he has not left with the rest of the Kikuyu.
“Memsaab,” he says, acknowledging me, “your father is looking for you.” He is going to walk past me, but stops when he sees that I have stopped. It would be disrespectful for him to walk on. The sun is behind him, and his face, his body, are difficult to read.
I look down at the red earth. His sandals are the same black leather that all the Africans wear, the soles curved to the shape of his foot, from so many days of friction, his toenails smooth and pale like slivers of bone, and I feel a flicker of revulsion that takes me by surprise.
“Is he angry?”
Michael does not reply. He glances beyond me, down the path, and I sense his impatience. It is an effort to keep himself here. He would rather be on his way back home, to the hut behind the stables. To gather his things, perhaps, and slip away into the night. He will not say good-bye. I cannot expect him to. I feel betrayed, although the betrayal is all mine.
“Michael—” I notice for the first time the feel of his name in my mouth, the strange breach of respect that comes with using his first name—the same assumed intimacy you adopt with a child. “I’ve been down to the shambas. I did not know. I am sorry—” The apology carries a note of triteness that I wasn’t expecting, and this distorts what I am trying to say.
Still he does not look at me.
“What about your family? Have they gone?”
“Yes.”
“But you will stay?” I say it because I do not think he should have to leave, but I realize that I am a coward. It is not enough. Without thinking I articulate the thing that has been forming inside me. “I want you to know that I won’t say anything.” I look up the path, toward the house, checking we are alone, only at this moment making up my mind. “About the strike. I won’t tell my father, or anyone else. You should stay at Kisima if you want to.”
He doesn’t reply. He is standing with his back to the house, to the sun which has slipped beneath the horizon. It has grown too dark for me to read the expression on his face. Almost before I realize he has moved, I see the dark shape of him walking away from me down the path. It is late. The air is very still. I walk quickly toward the house, aware of the gathering dark at my back, bracing myself for my father’s anger.
—
MY FATHER IS SITTING on the veranda when I come up to the house.
“Where have you been?” he asks quietly.
“To the shambas,” I say, my heart knocking against my chest. I can hear the anger in his voice, but I do not want to apologize.
“Sit down.” He motions to a chair beside him.
“They have left already,” I tell him, sitting. “You should have been there to watch them go.”
“And you should not,” he says, his voice cold. “I told you not to go anywhere without telling me. What were you thinking?”
“The shambas are deserted.” I am sure that if he only hears what I have to say, then he will understand. “Even the small children had to walk. Joseph was there, with his family. They were carrying everything they own on their backs.”
“I am disappointed in you, Rachel,” my father says, ignoring what I have said. “Your behavior since you arrived has not been what I might have expected. There are others in this household besides yourself, and we all have to live together.”
I was sure that he would want to hear what I have seen, but now I feel mortified, as though I have behaved like a child.
“Sara was shocked by the way you spoke at breakfast. I told her that it was not really you; that you are struggling to adjust to life here.”
“I am sorry, Papa,” I say, and the tears come despite my trying to stop them. And I am sorry—that I have angered him, though I cannot be sorry for everything that I have said.
He stands up and motions to the land beyond the house, falling into darkness. I notice now the revolver in his hand. “It isn’t easy for any of us. And we cannot be too careful. They are getting bolder and stronger every day.”
“I need to have some freedom,” I say, wiping the tears away and standing up with him. “I cannot be in the house all day. You said yourself it was safe as long as it was light.”
“You can go as far as the stables.”
“And the dam?”
He pauses for a moment. “As long as you tell us when you are going.”
“Thank you,” I say, and he puts a hand on the back of my neck, in an old, familiar gesture of affection, as though the issue has been resolved. But I am uneasy—he has forced an apology from me, and it was not given entirely in truth. I feel as though a part of me has been driven outside the realm of his authority, and it does not seem so difficult now for me to keep my promise to Michael.<
br />
—
“RACHEL—we were worried about you—” Sara says, when I come through to the sitting room. My father smiles at me warmly, an acknowledgment that the conversation on the veranda is behind us. “You remember Steven?” I see him then, standing at the bar. “He’s here to organize the move from the shambas.”
“They have already moved,” I say, quietly.
“So I gather,” Steven says, smiling at me, his eyes settling on mine. There is an assessment that flickers from my face down to my chest and back to my face. A kind of unashamed evaluation, as though he knows exactly what I am and why he is interested in me, and what I think and how much I know it is irrelevant to the outcome. “A drink?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.
“Water,” I say, sitting down in one of the armchairs by the fire.
“We were just talking about Michael—” my father says to me. He takes a long sip of his whiskey and puts a hand to the shotgun resting against the sofa beside him.
I focus on his face, feeling my heart swallow itself, then thud into motion. What about Michael? “I saw him on the track this evening.”
“Yes—Steven and I met with him. His brother Samuel was one of the boys missing from the labor line.”
Steven Lockhart walks across the room to hand me a glass and I smell the soap he has used, sour and strong, and feel his fingers cold against my hand as I take it from him.
“What did he say?” I ask, thinking it explained Michael’s terseness. They must have tried to tease information out of him, and he must have wondered if I had already said something to my father.
“That he didn’t have anything to do with it. Went to their shamba this morning and his brother was gone. He’s probably not lying—the other three left to be repatriated today.”
“Didn’t he used to teach you?” Sara asks, and I feel Steven’s eyes settling on me.
“He taught Rachel for a year,” my father says. “When he got back from the war.”
“How old were you?” Steven asks.
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