Echoes From a Distant Land (14 page)

‘
Hapa chini!
' he said, pointing into the valley. ‘
Simba!
'

Dana needed no Swahili to understand he'd found the lion. She and the others hurried after him to the rim of the valley, where Ndorobo stopped and pointed downwards. Straining her eyes for many moments, Dana saw what appeared to be a grass clump move. She took her field glasses from Benard, and focused them on the movement. It was her lion, but it was in a clearing and would be impossible to approach without being discovered.

Ndorobo had the answer. He pointed out a game path that swept away to the north and would keep them behind a small ridge until reaching the valley floor. On the north side of the lion there were at least a few small shrubs and trees that would offer some cover. The wind was favourable. Dana nodded and they hurried on behind Ndorobo, who moved across the slope as if floating a few inches above it. The others struggled to keep up.

Dana was perspiring when they reached the broad flat plain. There was a succession of scrubby bushes ahead, but the lion, if it were there at all, was lost in the grass, which stood three feet high in parts.

Ndorobo seemed to know exactly where it was concealed and led her on without hesitation. After a few moments he stopped and held up his hand, listening. After the exertion of the stalk, where she was almost doubled over to remain below the grass height, Dana could hear nothing but the blood pulsating in her ears.

Satisfied, Ndorobo continued, this time signalling to her that the lion was close and that they should be very silent.

He took a brief glance over the grass tops and nodded. Dana raised her eyes slowly. The old male lion was still in the clear, but only fifty yards from it was the beginning of the bamboo that ran up the side of the hill parallel to the lion's path. It appeared to have spotted them.

Jonathan silently handed her the Rigby. Keeping her eye on the lion, she took aim, waiting for it to show more of its flank, but it held its position, staring at them.

Dana knew the best range to attempt a lion kill was no more than sixty yards. She estimated the lion was just under a hundred yards away — the absolute limit recommended for a free-standing shot with the Rigby.

The lion opened its jaws, yawned, and ran its tongue around its lips. It then turned towards the bamboo.

Bill Judd swore that a lion always gave one last look before disappearing into cover.

Dana smiled over the gun sights as the lion paused before the bamboo, turning for one last glance at its pursuers. It was the target she needed and she slowly squeezed off a shot.

The lion grunted in pain and surprise. It staggered, but didn't fall, then took two large bounds, disappearing into the wall of bamboo.

‘Damn!' Dana muttered.

She now had no choice but to follow it into the bamboo forest, where only one of them could emerge alive.

 

Dana faced the wall of bamboo. The culms were the thickness of a man's leg. It seemed impossible that a full-grown male lion could have penetrated it, but upon closer inspection she could see slender pathways meandering among the golden poles.

Ndorobo was studying the pool of blood on the grass. Head down, he followed invisible signs to a small gap in the bamboo screen. He pointed at a bloody smudge on the bamboo and slowly shook his head.

‘Yes … I see it,' Dana said, nodding in acknowledgement. ‘And it's not going to be easy to find him, is it?'

Ndorobo shrugged to indicate it would be wise not to try.

‘I have to go in after him,' she said to herself, though by their expressions she could see that Jonathan and Benard had heard her.

‘You don't have to come,' she said, and took the Rigby from Jonathan. ‘Wait here until I get back.'

She pressed through the bamboo poles without further thought. It didn't pay to think about the wounded lion, lying invisible somewhere in the almost impenetrable green forest.

For her first fifty tentative paces she could see no more than five yards ahead, but then the bamboo thinned and there were patches where the old stalks had been flattened, probably by an elephant, and she could see twenty, even thirty yards ahead. Provided she spotted the animal in time, she had enough room to fire off a shot before it was upon her.

She stepped carefully. The bamboo was like a cocoon, trapping the heat and blanketing all sound. The short panting breaths were surely too loud to be hers. Sweat trickled from her forehead and down the back of her neck, saturating her shirt.

A sharp
crack
stopped her. She couldn't say from what direction it came, but it was close. She waited for another, but nothing more came. She moved on, cautiously stepping over the fallen poles, but at the same time trying not to take her eyes off the space ahead.

Another sound, this time from behind her.

She swung about to find Ndorobo there, his finger to his lips. A few paces behind him was Jonathan, shouldering the double-barrelled shotgun.

Her relief gave way to a moment of anger. She might have shot them, but when Jonathan gave a small shrug she forgave him, and nodded. Their support gave her courage and she moved ahead again with a little more determination.

After a hundred yards, Ndorobo gave one of the little tongue-clicks he used to attract her attention. Dana could see no sign of trouble ahead and turned back to him. Ndorobo's eyes were fixed on a thicket of young shoots, and he slowly raised his pointed finger to it.

Dana could see nothing.

She blinked away a bead of sweat, and suddenly the lion was full in her vision, bounding towards her.

She swung the Rigby to her shoulder, fixed the front bead on the lion's charging body and, without consciously aiming, fired first one barrel and then the second.

The lion careened on, carried forwards by its massive bulk, but its legs had gone and it tumbled to a halt not more than ten feet from her. Dead.

Ndorobo danced around the body, making high-pitched keening sounds, then he slid his knife from its scabbard and, lifting the lion's massive head, held the knife under its throat. He cocked his head to ask the question.

‘No,' Dana said. ‘I don't want his head. Or his mane.'

The lion's mouth hung open, revealing his enormous fangs. One of his large incisors was missing. She found the fang beside a small pointed stone that the lion must have struck with its jaw as it crashed to the dirt at her feet.

She picked it up and studied it. It was a clean break at the gum line. It might have been the incisor that ended her life if her shot had gone astray.

She slipped it into a pocket on her vest.

Sam returned to Kenya just when the world developed a taste for coffee. Prices were on the rise and the growing prosperity in Europe and America assured continuing expansion of the market. The Kenyan highlands had the perfect climate for it and many white settlers, including some of Sam's new business associates, had planted coffee there.

Growing coffee didn't interest Sam greatly, but the highlands' refining facilities, consisting of a number of small and inefficient sites, did. He could see an opportunity to form a coffee cooperative where the growers agreed to send their beans to a single efficient refinery and share the savings.

He drew up a partnership deed with a number of big growers, who agreed to send their coffee to Sam for refining. Others promised financial support. In the meantime, Sam bought a coffee farm with good prospects to realise a sizeable capital gain when the refinery arrived and made it more profitable.

Sam made an appointment with George Caruthers, the manager of the Nairobi branch of the Bank of South Africa, and a member of the Muthaiga Club, to formalise the bridging finance.

Caruthers showed Sam the contract, the details of which had already been informally agreed in the convivial atmosphere of the club.

‘It all seems to be in order,' Sam said. ‘We plan to start without delay.'

‘I can assure you, Sam, the bank is behind you all the way. And if I may say so, I've seldom seen a better business case than yours. Well done.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Now, if I could have your signature here, and here,' the banker added, pointing to the contract.

‘I just need to correct the name. Williams,' Sam said.

‘Oh, is it not Samson Williams?'

‘I was using the name Williams in America. But since this is a legal document, I'd better use my real name, Wangira.'

Caruthers straightened in his chair. ‘Wangira? But that's a … a
native's
name.'

‘Kikuyu, to be exact.'

Caruthers's smile faded and his usually florid face paled. ‘But … then … um, it's not possible … I mean, I'll have to change the contract papers.'

He scooped the documents together.

‘You'll have to leave them with me,' he said, obviously annoyed. ‘You should have told me.'

‘I didn't think about it until now. But what's the problem? Isn't it just a matter of correcting what we have here?'

‘Oh, no,' Caruthers said. ‘We have to have them retyped.'

He told Sam it would take another couple of days to renew the papers.

Sam was annoyed about the delay, but when he returned to the bank later that week, a teller told him that the bank's offer had been withdrawn.

Sam insisted on seeing the manager, but when he did, Caruthers simply said the bank had reconsidered its exposure to the coffee market and had decided not to proceed further. The matter was beyond his control.

 

Three days later, Sam went to the Muthaiga Club for the usual Friday evening gathering of his associates. Only John Drew was there; he had been Sam's strongest supporter and the driving force behind the syndicate. Sam was relieved to see him, and was confident Drew would have a suggestion on how to handle the setback.

‘You should have told us, old man,' Drew said.

‘What difference does it make if I'm an American or not? It's still a good idea, and I'm prepared to put up nearly half of the money.'

‘Ah, but well … You see, we thought it was American money. And we assumed there was other American money backing you.'

The discussion went nowhere.

Early the following week, Sam bumped into Kenyatta on River Road.

‘You know, Wangira,' he said after a brief greeting. ‘You are so stupid … Did you actually believe these white fellows would do business with a Kikuyu?'

Sam was taken aback that Kenyatta could even know about his business arrangements. He struggled to make a reply to the effect that he had no idea what Kenyatta was talking about.

Kenyatta smiled. ‘It's really quite a small town, you know. And there are Kikuyu ears everywhere.'

‘You can't always believe what you hear,' Sam said dismissively, hoping to close the matter, and curtly said goodbye.

‘It's an unwritten rule. Whites don't lend to blacks,' Kenyatta said, not yet ready to let the matter drop. ‘I know. I've seen the Bank of South Africa's books. Not a single African name on them. A few Indians. But not a Luo, a Kamba, or a Kikuyu anywhere.'

‘You seem to know a lot about the country's business world, Kenyatta. And with that Savile Row suit, you look like a proper English businessman yourself. What line are you in?'

‘The only business that matters a damn,' he said. ‘Politics.'

Now it was Sam's turn to smile. He knew of Kenyatta's political activities. ‘A Kikuyu in politics. What a waste of time. I understand there's actually a written law against that.'

‘Presently. But that will change. In time. Eventually there will have to be a lot of change. You know that.'

Sam shrugged. He was still smarting from Kenyatta's taunts and didn't want to continue the conversation. He started to move away.

‘You're a bright fellow, Wangira. There may be a place for you in the Kikuyu Central Association.'

Sam knew of the KCA and Kenyatta's role as general secretary; he'd recently been promoted from editor of the association's newspaper. Sam had read a few issues. They were quite mild. The administration seemed happy to ignore them.

‘I don't think so,' he replied.

‘Think about it,' Kenyatta insisted.

Sam might have been interested, especially after his treatment by the bank and his former business partners, but not with Kenyatta in charge.

‘Thanks, but no thanks.' Sam continued down River Road.

‘One day you'll see the need for us,' Kenyatta called after him, determined, as usual, to have the last word.

 

Sam was shocked by the treatment of people who were prepared to go into business with him when they thought he was a black American, but not when they found out he was a countryman. He'd seen the ugly side of racism in America, and hated it, but until that time he'd believed the whites in Kenya to be guilty of the lesser crime of paternalism. Now he could see it for what it was: racism pure and simple.

It disheartened and disillusioned him, but it was the institutionalised discrimination by the bank that got him angry.

He felt quite sure he was not the first or only black Kenyan to have failed to raise finance for a business venture. He wondered what others did when faced with similarly prejudicial treatment.

He made enquiries in the villages around Nairobi and found dozens of situations where a small loan would make an enormous difference to people's lives. A farmer might need cash for seeds or farm implements; a pastoralist a loan to buy a good blood-stock ram or bull to improve the quality of his stock. None of the banks were interested, even though the risk could be secured against assets and was covered by the better returns in crops or produce. Even an Indian immigrant who wanted to start a small
duka
by the roadside could get a loan, but an African villager wanting to do the same could not.

This brought to mind Ira's words encouraging him to use his inheritance to improve the life of his fellow Africans. He began to see his failure to secure finance as a sign that he should follow Ira's
advice. But it wouldn't be a charity. It would be a business based on growth through participation at the village level.

He began a trial operation in a handful of villages where he knew the chiefs were honest and able to keep accurate records. For those who were not adept at record-keeping, he insisted they employ someone from the village, usually a young man educated at a mission school, to do the job for them.

It was the beginning of Sam's bank — a bank with no name, no buildings or offices, no office bearers, and no commission agents except the local chiefs who put forward clients they knew and trusted and who collected the repayments. Word spread. Within a year Sam had hundreds of small loans placed with dozens of villages all over Kikuyuland.

Occasionally there were defaulters who couldn't meet the cash repayments and he sometimes found himself the owner of a cow or a dozen goats. This sideline grew into a profitable stock and produce business that he spun off into a subsidiary while he remained focused on the bank.

When a storm or fire destroyed a crop or other livelihood, the chief would send word to Sam who would visit to arrange a loan. He soon became every small farmer's hero.

His reputation spread, and he was soon a successful businessman, unknown in the white business community, but one much admired and loved by his fellow Africans.

 

Sam bought a run-down farm in Kiambaa, about ten miles out of Nairobi, surrounded by twenty acres of good pasture and forty acres of forest. He enjoyed the solitude, but was seldom there, spending his time travelling to the various villages that constituted the branches of his bank, now called the Rural Bank of Kenya for legal reasons imposed upon him by the government.

He retained his small flat in the grounds of the Muthaiga Club although he let his membership lapse. He now found it unpleasant to deal with members of Nairobi's business world. He had lost money
on the coffee scheme, but it was the manner in which he had been treated by the bank and the shallowness of people he had liked and respected that created the lingering distaste. He now preferred to deal with simple African farmers and had no need for the social life and the type of company on offer at the Muthaiga Country Club.

However, he found the Muthaiga flat convenient when he was in town on business, and kept up the rent. It was also useful on the occasions when he found a woman whose company he could enjoy for a day or so. He managed to avoid any longer term commitments, no matter how charming these women were in his bed, because his busy upcountry schedule kept them at a safe distance.

The expansion of the bank was restricted as Sam was its only source of capital, but it grew slowly, enabling him to extend his network into other tribal areas. Soon he had at least a small presence in most parts of the country.

 

Jomo Kenyatta came out of the New Stanley Hotel as Sam was entering it. Kenyatta had gained a few pounds and now sported a beaded rimless hat and a colobus monkey-fur fly whisk. As far as Sam was concerned, the outfit was all part of Kenyatta's self-promotion.

The two men seldom met, but when they did, it usually resulted in a mental joust or a barely restrained slanging match.

Kenyatta was also sporting an attractive woman on his arm. He'd heard that Kenyatta had married a white woman during his stay in England, but had left her there, choosing instead to find a Kikuyu wife more appropriate to his political aspirations.

‘Ah, Wangira,' Kenyatta said, beaming. ‘You are looking extremely fine this morning.'

There was no doubt he had the attributes of a successful politician. His smile could be quite disarming.

‘Thank you, Jomo,' Sam replied. ‘Good morning. And good morning to you, ma'am,' he added, nodding to the woman on Kenyatta's arm.

‘You see, my dear. That's what an American education can do for you. Good manners, like a true southern gentleman.'

But Kenyatta didn't bother to introduce his wife, preferring to go on the attack.

‘I hear you are becoming something of a capitalist in the reserve,' he said.

‘You mean the Rural Bank of Kenya? It fills a need, don't you think?'

‘You're missing the point, my friend. You can't buy the Kikuyu's allegiance with shillings.'

‘What makes you think I need allegiances? I'm a businessman, meeting people's requirements.'

Kenyatta studied Sam in silence for a moment. He had the most compelling eyes. Sam had seen him demolish opponents in a debate before he opened his mouth by the sheer power of his presence. Sam was aware of Kenyatta's tactics and didn't flinch under his gaze.

‘If you'd come along to our meetings, as I've suggested on so many occasions,' Kenyatta said, ‘you'd find out that the most important thing on every Kenyan's mind — in fact, every African's mind — is his land.'

‘You may be right. But I know he also needs the capital to develop it. Kenya can't build a nation on subsistence farming. That's the fate of a colony; and we must make whatever changes needed to make the break.'

‘
Pah!
While you were being indoctrinated into capitalism in America, I was studying agrarian reform in Russia. They know about the importance of land. Every communist is a Kikuyu at heart.'

‘But is every Kikuyu a communist at heart?' Sam countered. ‘I don't think so.'

‘I'm an African first, a Kenyan and a Kikuyu. Where do you stand?'

‘What makes you think I'm not all of those things?'

‘Because you are too close to the imperialists. You and your fancy American accent and your British banker's ways. Be careful, my friend. Be very careful.'

‘Why?'

‘Because there will come a time when you will be asked to state your allegiance. And your very life may depend upon your answer.'

 

As Sam was visiting one of his bank's representatives in the Embu District, four hundred miles away in Abyssinia, a dense cloud darkened the sparse grasslands. It floated over Abyssinia's southern border with Kenya where the candelabra euphorbia stood like sentinels and the spiky sansevieria blades poked holes in the breeze. Turkana herdsmen tending their goats and camels looked up in awe at the cloud, and Turkana children ran to find hiding places.

Locusts had not been sighted in East Africa for more than thirty years; and what had now caused this plague of biblical proportions was unknown, but they came from faraway Egypt in such numbers they turned day into night.