Echoes From a Distant Land (12 page)

Toby snorted nervously and shifted his weight from side to side.

‘Ssh, fella,' Dana said, a soothing hand on his neck.

She ran an eye along the line of forest. Nothing moved except the topmost branches of the tall podocarpus trees and that wisp of mist at ground level. Then she felt, rather than heard, a heavy thud and a soft, rumbling sound.

Deep among the undergrowth the foliage moved; there was a loud snap, like a dry branch broken underfoot.

The rumblings grew louder and Toby took a number of steps backwards. Dana tightened the reins. ‘Steady, boy.'

The leading elephant's enormous head, probing trunk and sweeping tusks parted the foliage as the massive beast stepped from the tight growth of the forest and into the wide cleared space before the wheat fence. She came on without hesitation although Dana, holding her breath, was sitting astride Toby not forty yards away. The old matriarch, with tattered ears and a tusk missing the last foot of ivory, led the herd — elephants of many sizes — in a slow and very deliberate procession. They came abreast of Dana and it was too much for Toby, who snickered his fear.

Dana was afraid to make a sound. She considered letting Toby have his head so they could be off, galloping down the hill to safety, but there was something mesmerising about the procession passing her: the mass of bodies; the single-minded, trancelike, step-by-step tread. Even the calves were able to keep a dignified pace beside their mothers or aunts.

Dana felt there was something strange happening. It was not the normal movement of a herd of elephants — and she'd seen plenty. It was more like a religious procession: the priest carrying the swinging incense burner, followed by altar boys, the choir and the congregation.

The ground shook with the elephants' footsteps. The belly-rumbling sounds were quite plain now, although she still couldn't say whether she heard them or felt them.

The herd's path took them towards the setting sun and the wheat fence, where the suspended dust and rising mist threw a golden halo around them.

The matriarch barely paused at the stout wire fence. It was laid flat in a stride and she and the following herd carved a deep furrow into the wheat field as they ploughed into the misty gloom in single file.

It had only taken minutes for the herd to appear and then, just as swiftly, to disappear through the wheat and over the hump in the land. They didn't even pause to feast on the grain, but continued on towards Lake Naivasha, following some ancient imperative.

Dana relaxed the firm hold she had on the reins and let Toby head for home, but the spectacle of the old matriarch elephant, doggedly following her instincts to ensure the survival of her herd, had touched Dana.

She decided that some things could not be stopped or ignored. All animals were born with certain instincts, and were driven by them. Otherwise they disappeared from the earth. Perhaps it was time for her to free her own instincts too.

Sam was confined to his cabin for most of the journey from New York. His old enemy — seasickness — laid him low again.

He rented a hotel room in Southampton to recuperate before continuing his journey, and met an old merchant seaman in the bar who commiserated with him.

‘Green tea,' he said, when the topic of seasickness came up. ‘Take it three days before sailin' and ye'll be right. I couldn'a spent thirty-six years at sea without me green tea.'

Sam promised to give it a try, but he was already on board, bound for Mombasa, before remembering to take it.

It tasted dreadful, but he persevered.

Three days out of Southampton, Sam could confidently leave his cabin and take the air on deck. After a further day he was able to join his fellow passengers in the dining room at dinner.

An African fellow — possibly a Kenyan by his accent — sat at a neighbouring table. He was outspoken and confident and had an opinion on every subject raised, which Sam was able to follow in detail as the conversation on his own table had died soon after pleasantries were exchanged.

The man was charming and all the women at his table appeared to hang on his every word.

There was something familiar about him, and Sam watched him as he rose from his table. Although he met Sam's gaze as he passed, there was no hint of recognition. On the other hand, Sam was now quite sure who the other Kenyan was.

It had been a lifetime's experiences since they'd met, but the mannerisms were the same and the voice, now even more resonant, had the same inflections and compelling qualities as before. He spoke like a man who expected his listeners to believe that his every utterance was important. The piercing eyes had intensified and
seemed to be lit from deep inside his head, which, even as a boy, had been big and shaggy like a lion's.

Sam excused himself from his dining companions and followed the man out onto the deck. He found him standing at the railing, smoking a cigarette and gazing out across the Atlantic. The light of an almost full moon threw a broad silver shaft across the ocean and the glow of the man's cigarette illuminated his chiselled features.

‘Excuse me,' Sam said. ‘I believe we know each other.'

The man was immediately on guard, like an attack dog waiting for the signal to lunge. ‘I think not,' he said, and the softness of his tone belied the tension in his shoulders and the set of his jaw.

‘It was many years ago,' Sam said, this time in Kikuyu. ‘It's Kamau, isn't it?'

He was a head shorter than Sam and, as he looked up at him, his eyes narrowed in thought. He peered at Sam for some moments before suddenly exclaiming, ‘My God! It's Wangira. Samson Wangira.'

Sam nodded. ‘Johnstone Kamau.'

He continued to stare at Sam.

‘Samson Wangira,' Kamau repeated, nodding slowly as the silence built.

‘Returning from abroad, as you are,' Sam said.

‘Yes, I've been in England for a year. What about you?'

‘In America. For quite a lot longer.'

Sam didn't intend it to sound like a boast, but as Kamau turned to face the ocean it was obvious that he had taken it that way. Kamau took a long draw on his cigarette, then threw it into the water.

‘Well,' he said, squaring his shoulders. ‘I imagine we'll have plenty of time to talk about the good old days.'

The sarcasm was obvious.

Sam didn't respond.

Kamau said a frosty good night, and Sam watched him walk towards the door. Before he'd gone far, he turned back to Sam.

‘By the way, Wangira, I have changed my name.'

‘Again?' Sam said, recalling a tense conversation they'd had when little more than children. ‘How many names does one man need in his lifetime?'

He shrugged. ‘Names can change to suit the circumstances.'

‘You seem to find many of those circumstances,' Sam said. ‘So, what am I to call you these days?' He refused to let Kamau play his little game of secrets.

‘My name is now Kenyatta. Jomo Kenyatta.'

 

Sam avoided Kenyatta whenever possible for the remainder of the journey, but there was no avoiding his pontificating at dinner, even from the other tables.

Earlier that first night he heard Kenyatta tell those at his table that he'd been to England on a study tour sponsored by the Kikuyu Central Association. His considered opinion, from which all present could now benefit, was that the bourgeois clique running the country were imperialists of the worst order.

And he wasn't finished with the luckless British settlers at his table; they were about to make their start in the colony.

‘Are you people aware of the latest atrocity inflicted upon us Africans?' he said. ‘Every native man and woman must wear on their person, every hour of every day, a little identity badge called a
kipande
— a pass which contains their personal and financial details and a record of any work they have done for the whites. Can you imagine that occurring in your home country? I think not. Can you also imagine how easy it is for a disgruntled employer to destroy the good record of some unfortunate worker who he might have taken a personal dislike to, by recording something damaging on his card? He could put
indolent
or
petty thief
or
insolent
. The African has no opportunity to contest it, and can be given a stiff punishment if he attempts to alter his
kipande
himself. This is what you are going to in Kenya, my friends. A country whose original owners are not allowed a vote. They are governed by foreigners and forced to wear labels like common farm animals.'

Kenyatta's story of the
kipande
surprised and concerned Sam. He hoped it was just another case of Kenyatta sounding off for the sake of it, but if true, it meant that the country's administration had their foot on the throat of the local population.

He tried to imagine his proud father being told to conform to such a degrading situation. He was quite sure he would fight it, and would be in gaol as a result of it.

He was glad to be going home to see for himself how much his country had changed.

 

The rusted wreck of a small steamer reared from the fringing coral reef as the SS
Medina
entered Mombasa's turquoise-hued harbour.

Sam stood at the railing of the upper deck and breathed in the scent of spices and the inimitable odour of tropical decay. It was hot: hotter than he recalled it.

Ahead, the white coral-stone houses' red-tiled roofs stood out among coconut palms and mango trees, bright red hibiscus and bougainvillea, and the succulent deep-green leaves of the frangipani.

It took him back to the time when, years earlier, he had boarded a similar ship to take him to America via England. He could remember his excitement as they'd set sail. Until that morning he'd never seen the sea, and the prospect of being surrounded by the boundless expanse of the Indian Ocean had sent shivers of apprehension down his spine. Now it was just another journey, albeit one about which he had mixed feelings.

With the shores of Kenya in sight, he allowed himself to think about home. He recalled his childhood and a game played in the dust with small smooth stones. He couldn't now remember its name but he and his friends could play for hours or until a fight erupted to end it. The animosity was forgotten the moment the next game began. There were his trips to the market where his father would, on occasions, magnanimously buy a hand-span of cane sugar for each of his many children. Sam smiled when he remembered the joy such a small treat could yield. Even the work
in the maize field with his mother and siblings could become a game of hide and seek when the smaller children disappeared among the tall stalks.

He was returning jaded by his year of solitary confinement in the forests of Vermont and in need of revitalisation, but he wasn't sure if he was prepared for a return to his friends and family. He had lost touch with them when Sister Rosalba suddenly stopped writing. If it hadn't been for the loss of Ira he might have remained in America to continue his great adventure with the country.

The
Medina
's steam pistons clunked rhythmically as the ship angled towards the new concrete wharf. Sam could hear the longshoremen chatting and joking in the cadenced tones of the Swahili tongue. It had been a long time since he'd heard it and, although he had been fluent before departing, he now struggled to understand some of the connotations. He imagined it was the nuances of the coastal people's Swahili that eluded him.

He joined the queue of first-class passengers at the head of the gangway, and felt a tug on his suitcase. A smiling porter introduced himself in Swahili.

Sam answered in English, which had become heavily seasoned by his elocution lessons in the Bronx and his time in the west.

‘America?' the porter asked.

Sam found it easier to lie than to admit his failings in Swahili.

‘Sure am, buddy,' he said with as broad an American accent as he could manage.

Sam turned and found Jomo Kenyatta wearing a derisive smile.

 

Sam realised his assumed American-ness was useful. At least some of the prejudice he might otherwise receive as a native in his own land was avoided: when people thought he was an American, even a black American, they were at least courteous.

That is not to say that the whites immediately accepted him on equal footing, but when he appeared sufficiently wealthy to afford fine accommodation and expensive clothes, they begrudgingly
treated him with respect. Even the usually patrician landed white settlers paid him small courtesies, treating him almost as one of their own. Since his travel papers were not yet finalised, and no one quite knew where to place him, he hadn't yet been compelled to carry one of the hated
kipande
passes.

It amused Sam to let the deception continue and, as a result, he made no attempt to speak in Swahili or to lose his American accent.

In Nairobi he booked into the Norfolk, the best hotel in town, where his fine London linen and New York suits soon won him a nomination for membership of the Muthaiga Club — the gathering place of local business leaders and the upcountry gentry. Once installed at the club, he was introduced to many well-connected people eager to help him find a business opportunity in Kenya.

It was a week later when, leaving the Bank of India building on his way to a company agent's office, he saw a familiar face on Government Road. It was an old man from his village — a friend of his father's — driving a cow towards the market. He was wearing the traditional long brown cloak, leather sandals and beaded necklaces, with a large cylindrical tobacco tin fitted as an ornament in his stretched earlobe.

A rush of memories swept him to thoughts of his family and village. He could see his mother in her food garden, his father tending the cattle and children running everywhere. He stood at the kerb watching the old man until he disappeared into the crowd on Government Road.