Seven Bundle

by Various Orca

  “It’s special. It belonged to my grandfather.”

  “Let me see,” he said, holding out his hands.

  Reluctantly I handed it to him.

  “This design is local, carved by the Chagga people. I am Chagga.”

  “My grandpa spent some time right here when he was young, a long time ago. He was a pilot.”

  He turned the cane over in his hands, examining it with the same intensity he’d reserved for me. I had to resist the urge to grab it away from him. It wasn’t just my grandpa’s cane he was holding in his hands, it was my grandpa.

  “This stick it is very light. As if…as if…” He shook the cane, and I could feel the ashes moving inside. “As if it were hollow.”

  He took the top and twisted it around until it popped open. He looked inside, and then looked up at me. “You thought you could fool me.”

  “I wasn’t trying to fool you. It’s just that—”

  “It is a serious offence to smuggle drugs.”

  “Drugs!”

  He yelled something in a language I couldn’t understand, and before I could object, two men in uniforms, carrying guns, grabbed me!

  SIX

  I sat on the little bunk, legs up, arms around them, back against the rough wall. I looked down at my wrist for the time and was frustrated. They’d taken my watch and everything in my pockets, as well as my belt, my hiking boots and my socks. What did they think I was going to do with socks? Ball them up and throw them at the guards? How long had it been? One hour…two? And more importantly, how long would it be? They couldn’t just keep me here. They’d soon discover that it wasn’t drugs. But then again, it wasn’t legal to transport human remains either. How long could I get sent to jail for doing that?

  I heard the sound of footsteps and looked through the bars, past the two seated guards. Another soldier appeared, and the two guarding me rose to their feet and saluted. Whoever he was, he outranked them. From his tone, I could tell he was giving orders. He turned and stormed away, and they quickly unlocked my cell.

  I got to my feet, sockless, scared and feeling very alone. I wished somebody—my mother, my grandpa, even one of my cousins—was here to help me. I had to get the cane back.

  “Come,” one of the guards said. His voice was soft, which only put me on high alert. I walked out of the cell.

  “Wait!” he called out, and I froze.

  The other guard ran off and returned a few seconds later carrying a pair of sandals. “Here, for you.”

  Confused, I took them from him. They were brown and worn out and obviously way too small for me. I put them on, though, and followed the guards down a hall to an empty room with rows of wooden chairs, a couple of tables and a big raised bench. A courtroom! Was I going to be put on trial? I spun around to face the guards, who both smiled at me. What was going on?

  A door at the side of the room opened, and two more soldiers entered. Neither of them was smiling. Behind them came an older man dressed in a suit and carrying my grandpa’s cane! He nodded in my direction, and my guards jumped to attention and saluted.

  I expected the man to go and sit up at the judge’s bench, but instead he came directly to me.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. “I believe this is yours.” He offered me the cane.

  Was this a trick? Was this his way of making me admit that it was mine? What was the point in arguing? We all knew it was mine. I took it.

  “Thanks.” It felt good to have it back, no matter what happened next.

  “Would you like something to eat, or perhaps a drink? Tea or coffee or a soda?”

  How strange and nice. I guess they did court differently here. “No…no, thank you, sir.”

  “I think I would like a tea. It would feel rude to drink alone, so I will ask them to bring enough if you change your mind. Do you like milk and sugar in your tea?”

  “Um…yes, please…milk and lots of sugar.”

  He turned to two of the soldiers. “Could you please arrange for refreshments?”

  “Yes, sir, Your Honor, Judge!” one said, and they saluted and left.

  So he was a judge.

  “Young David. I must apologize for keeping you waiting,” he said.

  I startled at the mention of my name—hardly anybody called me David—but how did he even know my name? Then I realized that of course he knew my name; they had my passport.

  “I was delayed and could not be here for your arrival as planned,” he said.

  As planned? What did that mean?

  He shook his head slowly. “I can so clearly see the resemblance. There is so much of him in you.”

  “Resemblance?” What did that mean? “Wait… are you Elijah?”

  He laughed. “Oh, I am so sorry, I thought you knew that! I am indeed Elijah!”

  “But he called you Your Honor.”

  “I am both your grandfather’s friend Elijah and a judge. The reason I was delayed was that I was presiding over a court hearing in the capital city, Dar es Salaam, where I sit on the bench of the Supreme Court of Tanzania.”

  “The Supreme Court…wow!”

  He shrugged. “There are nine of us, so it is not just me. I hope you hold no hard feelings toward the customs officer; he was acting in accordance with his position. In fact, I spoke to him and commended him for his perceptiveness in discovering that the walking stick was hollow. That was most impressive, do you not agree?”

  “I guess it was.”

  “Smuggling is a problem. Of course your grandfather’s ashes do resemble drugs.”

  “Am I in trouble for bringing those in?”

  He shook his head. “No. I am a judge with the Supreme Court. Minor issues of violating the law can be overlooked or forgotten completely. Did your grandfather ever tell you about his time in Tanzania?”

  “He flew out of this airport, right?”

  “It was more a dirt strip and hangar back then. Your grandfather, Davie, flew throughout this region. He was a very good man. Do you know the history of our country?”

  “I know some things,” I said. “This was a colony, right?”

  “The joke in Tanzania is that all of Africa was much like Mount Kilimanjaro: white at the top and black underneath. We were ruled by the whites and were given few rights or freedoms. We were second-class people in our own country.”

  I had the urge to apologize, as if it was my fault because I was white.

  “But your grandfather was different. He treated everybody with respect—even me, just a young boy when I knew him. He said he fought in wars, risking his life for freedom and democracy, and he wasn’t going to be part of taking anybody’s freedom. It is because of him I became a judge.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “And I mean not just because of what he meant, but because he provided the funds for my education.”

  “He did?”

  “Each year there was an anonymous donor who paid for my education. To the very end, in our last letters, he still would not acknowledge that it was he.” He paused. “But I knew. Does any of this surprise you?”

  “No, that’s what he was like.”

  “I will tell you a story. As a boy, to help my family I did work for some white people who lived here. I labored at their estate, and when I finished, the man paid me only half of what he had promised. When I objected, I was beaten.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “Your grandfather saw the bruises. He stormed off, saying he was going to give the man a thrashing, but we stopped him, begging him to not go. Your grandfather was so big he could have given him a beating, but that white man was important and he would have had your grandfather arrested or forced to leave the country. It took a great deal of time to convince him not to act. Then he got an idea. Instead of beating him, he befriended this man.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “To gain his trust. He then offered, for a small price, to take him for a flight. The man was a braggart, so full of boastfulness, and happily went alon
g.” Elijah leaned forward. “I must tell you that I am afraid of flying,” he said in a low voice. “That is why I drove here instead of flying. Thank goodness you have no such fears, or you would not be here.”

  I knew those fears better than I’d ever admit.

  “So your grandfather took him for a flight that involved rapid rises and falls, near misses with trees or the mountainside, and flying upside down!”

  I could absolutely picture my grandfather doing that.

  “When they landed, the white man was covered with his own vomit, was even whiter than usual, and collapsed to the ground. It was more of a beating than he had given me!” Elijah burst into laughter, as if it was happening again before his eyes. “Afterward your grandfather gave me the money the man had given him for the flight. It was much more than what the man owed me, but your grandfather insisted.”

  He laughed once again, and I laughed along with him.

  “Your grandfather was larger than life. I could tell you so many stories…many of which have nothing to do with such noble things. That man could get into more arguments—fights even—and he could drink more than any man I ever met!”

  “Grandpa?” I questioned. “He didn’t drink.”

  “When he first came here, if he wasn’t flying, he was drinking, but in the end he did not drink any alcohol,” Elijah said.

  “I wonder what changed.”

  “He told me that he no longer needed to drink.”

  I thought back to Grandpa’s letter to me—that’s what he meant when he talked about his “soul being healed.”

  One of the soldiers returned carrying a tray.

  “It is now time for me to repay some of my debt to him. While you are here, you will be under the care of my son, who is also named Elijah. He operates a tour company, and he will take you to the top of the mountain. Very exciting. Some day I might make the climb myself.”

  “You’ve never been up?” I blurted out without thinking.

  “Never. Nor had your grandfather.”

  I hadn’t even thought about that.

  “Not that he did not try,” Elijah said, “but he was not able to complete the climb, to reach the summit.”

  “That’s hard to believe,” I said.

  “Yes, it is,” he agreed. “He was a man of such strength and determination that it would seem that he could accomplish any goal. But that mountain… it has its way, and for some people it is harder. That is how it was for him. Now, do you wish to have tea?”

  “Yes, that would be nice, thanks.”

  He poured tea into a cup and handed it to me.

  “It would have been fitting for me to make the climb with you. A final honor to your grandfather, but I cannot. I must rush back to make my ruling in the case. I leave you in good hands. I will be here when you return. Now, let us finish our tea and then continue on our journey.”

  SEVEN

  We walked out of the building and onto the streets. The sun was hot and the air dry. It felt good to be outside again. It felt good to be free.

  The street was crowded with people and vehicles. The vehicles swerved and swirled with no regard to any rules of traffic, and it seemed as if they barely followed the laws of physics and gravity.

  Almost directly in front of the building was a large shiny black car with dark tinted windows. It seemed strangely out of place. A chauffeur stood at its side.

  “It seems most fitting that your grandfather chose the mountain for you. Do you know of its important place in our independence?”

  “No…sorry.”

  “No need to be sorry. It is sad, but many Tanzanians do not seem to know either. In 1961 we gained our independence from England. Our first president, Mr. Julius Nyerere, ordered that a delegation bring wood to the top of the mountain to light a pyre. He said, ‘We will light a candle on top of Mount Kilimanjaro which will shine beyond our borders, giving hope where there is despair, love where there is hate, and dignity where before there was only humiliation.’”

  “That’s amazing,” I said.

  “He was a great man. That fire no longer burns up there, but it still burns here,” he said, touching his chest. “It is men like our first president, and your grandfather, who guide me as I try to sit in judgment while not being judgmental. We have, as a country, a distance yet to travel, but we will surely arrive.”

  His words sent a chill down my spine. “That sounds so much like something my grandpa would say.”

  He placed a hand on my shoulder. “That is a high compliment. Now let me bring you to my son. It is only a short walk in that direction,” he said, pointing up the road. “I will have my driver take us.”

  He gestured toward the big black car and the chauffeur.

  “That’s your car?” I gasped.

  “It belongs to the government. I feel embarrassed. Why should there be such expensive cars for judges when some of our children go to sleep without food, go to school without shoes and have to study with so few books? They tell me that a judge must present as having authority, and this car is part of that authority, but I do not believe a man needs symbols such as that to represent authority.”

  He said something in Swahili to the driver, and they began a discussion that sounded very much like an argument.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  “My friend here insists that we must leave for the capital immediately. He has been my driver for so long that he sometimes thinks he’s my mother!”

  “Thank goodness I am not!” the driver exclaimed in English. “It is enough work trying to be your driver without being your mother, but we do need to leave immediately in order to be just late instead of very late!”

  “I know you are only trying to take care of me, my friend, but it is a very short drive, a minor detour,” Elijah said.

  “It is not the drive, but the delay when we get there. You will need to talk to every person. It could take hours. Hours that we do not possess.”

  “If it isn’t far, I could just walk,” I said.

  “It is just up the road,” the driver replied.

  “No, no,” Elijah objected. “It would not be right for him to walk.”

  “And would it be right if you did not render a verdict in the trial today?” the driver asked. “Are you not the one who always says that justice delayed is justice denied?”

  Elijah laughed. “It is not my quote, but those are my words. I am surprised that you listen so closely.”

  “We all listen to your words, sir.”

  “Why don’t I just walk? My stuff isn’t heavy.” I held up my bag, my hiking boots tied to it. In my hand I held the walking stick. I was wearing my backpack. I realized that I was still wearing the jail sandals. I’d forgotten about them.

  He looked hesitant.

  “I came to climb the mountain, so walking up the street shouldn’t be too hard,” I said.

  “Now you are sounding like your grandfather. It is just up the street. The sign reads East Africa Walking Tours. My son expects you.”

  We shook hands. His driver opened the back door of the car and Elijah climbed in, the door closing behind him.

  “Thank you for understanding,” the driver said. “He is a great man, but more important, he is a good man.”

  He got in and they drove off quickly, leaving behind a cloud of dust that engulfed me. I watched as the car drove away, leaving me alone. Well, alone except for hundreds of people, all of whom seemed to be looking at me. There was no point in just standing there being stared at.

  I turned and started to walk and then just stopped, stunned. For the first time I saw it—Mount Kilimanjaro. It rose up, filling the horizon, dominating the sky. There were shades of green at the bottom, giving way to browns and blacks. The top was white, crowned with snow and ice. It looked gigantic, and for the first time I had doubts. Could I do this? I pushed those doubts away.

  I started to cross the road and then stopped myself as a vehicle whipped by, inches from my face. The roadway was cro
wded with vehicles moving wildly and randomly. This wasn’t going to be easy. There was a slight gap in traffic, and I dodged across the street, slipping between a dilapidated-looking little bus overflowing with people, the roof piled high with cargo, and a big four-wheel-drive SUV full of white people who were probably here to climb the mountain.

  I got well off to the side of the road, away from the ongoing rush of a truck that roared by, fouling the air with the heavy smell of its thick blue exhaust fumes. That was only one of the smells that filled the air. The other was smoke, which came from the fires of the roadside food sellers and from piles of burning garbage. I didn’t like the smell, but at least something was being done with the litter that covered the side of the road.

  As I crossed the road, I couldn’t help but think that the vehicles on the road pretty well summed up the extremes of this town: the mostly white tourists, who wore expensive safari clothing and thick hiking boots, and the locals, all of whom were black. The adults were dressed in everything from fancy dresses to suits with shiny shoes. Some of the children were shoeless and dressed in rags. I thought of what Elijah had said about Tanzania: white at the top and black underneath.

  Lining the street were stores and ramshackle little stalls selling trinkets and souvenirs. It seemed like they were all selling the same things: beads and necklaces, carvings of African animals, spears and arrows, and shields, as well as postcards. Most prominent of all were the T-shirts that proudly read I Climbed Kili! I couldn’t help but wonder how hard the climb could be if they mass-produced a T-shirt bragging about it.

  People at the stalls kept calling out for me. “Hey, mzungu…come in…good deals!” Mzungu was one of the few Swahili words I knew; it meant white man. Did they really think that calling me mzungu would impress me? My few other Swahili words were jambo, which meant hello, samba, which was lion, rafiki for friend, and hakuna matata, which meant no worries. It was probably not a good sign that the movie The Lion King was the source of my limited vocabulary.

  In among the little stalls and stores were kids, some as young as seven or eight, begging me for a “few shillings.” Most were polite enough, but a couple yelled out things as I passed. It might be just as well that I didn’t know much Swahili. I walked, eyes straight ahead, trying to just ignore them all. I couldn’t give money to all of them. Besides, my money was all safely hidden away in the money belt around my waist. Nobody was going to get my money. It was safe, right? I slowly raised my free hand and inconspicuously pressed it against my side so I could feel the money belt. It was still there.