Echoes From a Distant Land (30 page)

He paused to allow Jelani to absorb the images, before adding, ‘Join us. One day, you may be a part of that government.'

The
dak
bungalow at Kibwezi had served train travellers to Mombasa for half a century. Based on the system of rest houses throughout India,
dak
bungalows provided basic food in sufficient quantities for passengers who wanted a quick meal while the train took on fuel and filled its water tanks.

Sam alighted with the other passengers, but didn't care for a meal. Instead, he settled into a cane chair on the veranda with a cup of tea. He was on a business trip to Mombasa, one that would take him away from Nairobi for just a couple of days. Scattered over the table beside him were some newspapers. It had been a few months since he was last in Mombasa, and he picked up a three-day-old edition of the
Mombasa Post
to see what was making news on the coast.

He read the front page story on North Korea's invasion of the south, then scanned a story about an American senator claiming more than one hundred known communists were in government employment, to the local news with the headline:
Rioters Routed in Kilindini
.

Sam thought it odd that the
Mombasa Post
reporter had not previously heard of Jomo Kenyatta. Sam had no urge to follow his political career but as he was a member of the Legislative Council who needed to keep abreast of current events through the newspapers, it was impossible not to occasionally see his old rival's name in print.

Kenyatta had risen quickly to prominence in the Kikuyu Central Association. A few years later he was sent back to London to lobby on behalf of the organisation's aim of winning land rights for displaced Kikuyus. While there, he received financial assistance from the communist party to study economics in Moscow. He then attended the London School of Economics and wrote his thesis,
Facing Mt Kenya
. It was an exposition of Kikuyu culture and the need for it to remain intact. He conceded that the British had a lot to offer Africans, but asserted that they had withheld most of the material benefits while removing the African from his land — the pillar of his culture and his means of sustenance — so as to exploit his labour.

Sam had read the book and found he agreed with most of its contents. Kenyatta's recent utterances, however, confirmed Sam's impression that while he and Kenyatta might agree about the importance of land in Kikuyu culture and the immoral nature of its
confiscation, they differed on the means of resolving the problem. Kenyatta appeared to be following the communists' solution of an armed struggle. Sam had faith in the system, and believed change would come by engaging the whites in a political debate. To do so effectively, Sam knew that Africans would have to broaden their awareness of the European system of democracy so they could beat the British government at its own game.

Expanding young Africans' view of the world and its social structures was important in winning the debate in favour of equality. Assisting in that process was the main reason Sam was travelling to Mombasa.

 

Sam stepped from the carriage to the platform and loosened his tie. He squinted up into the bright morning sunshine. He'd forgotten how hot Mombasa could be.

At the end of the platform he hailed a driver from the line of waiting taxis then slid into the rear seat.

‘Court Chambers building,' he said, and the taxi jerked into motion.

When the Governor nominated him to the Legislative Council, Sam had hoped to convince his fellow members to establish a government-funded program to select black Kenyans who showed leadership qualities, and develop them for the day when Kenya became independent. It was the subject of his maiden speech to the council, which received a cool, but generally polite hearing, although some of the settlers' representatives were openly hostile, saying he was a dreamer: why would the taxpayers of today pay for something that was clearly decades away. Sam persevered for a time, then gave up trying for official support.

Instead, he decided to establish a fund himself, but his finances were insufficient for what he had in mind, so he sold some of his shares in Ketterman Industries. He felt it was consistent with Ira's wish that he make use of some of his inheritance to help his fellow Africans overcome the restrictions of poverty.

He found the offices of White and Webb on the first floor of the Court Chambers building, and introduced himself.

Graeme White shook his hand and led him into his office. He was balding, with projecting, fly-away tufts of hair reaching out over his collars.

Sam sat opposite him, reading the papers White had prepared for him.

‘I think you'll find all the instruments of the trust are as you intended, Mr Wangira,' he said when he'd finished.

Sam nodded, returning the papers to the lawyer's desktop. ‘Thank you, Mr White. It all appears to be so. I'll instruct my bank to transfer the funds as soon as I get back to Nairobi.'

‘Excellent. Is there anything more we can do for you?'

‘No. Thank you again.' He stood to leave.

‘One more thing, Mr Wangira, if you don't mind. Not that I'm complaining, but I'm curious as to why you have chosen White and Webb rather than one of the Nairobi law firms. I should think they would be far more convenient for you.'

‘Perhaps, but if you'll recall our first telephone conversation, I wanted to keep this matter strictly confidential.'

‘I see. You believe the Legislative Council might think you a little, um —'

‘I think the expression is
uppity
, Mr White.'

White smiled, a little embarrassed. ‘Well, I hope it all goes as you intend it, Mr Wangira,' he said, extending his hand.

Sam took it and wished him good morning.

 

Sam caught a taxi to the station, but since he had plenty of time, decided to detour via Kilindini. He'd been intrigued by the report of the riot and wanted to see for himself what the working conditions might be at the port.

The taxi waited outside the gate as Sam strolled onto the wharf to watch the last of the cargo being loaded onto a very rusty ship, the MV
Mogadishu
.

The name evoked strong memories of his visit almost exactly nineteen years earlier, when he was just a young man of thirty-four.

As if it were yesterday, he saw himself hurrying along this very wharf, in his last desperate bid to find Dana before she embarked for England.

He stood there letting the memories wash over him. In his desperation to find her, he had almost taken a
dhow
to the island of Lamu, where some demented old fool had said she'd gone. The world had seemed to stand between him and what he believed was his one great love back then.

For a long time after that, his life seemed to have no point. Even when he had the best intentions, fate turned against him as it had when he formed his rural bank. Of course there were other times when he had acted selfishly and caused others pain.

He felt bad even now when reflecting upon Sister Rosalba's love and affection. He always found reasons for not replying to her letters when he was in New York. He didn't appreciate how much they meant to him until they stopped; and even then, he didn't trouble himself to enquire why.

And Ira. He never properly thanked him for his generosity of spirit. Only when he died did Sam realise that Ira loved him in a special way. His defence was to ignore that love, when a simple acknowledgement of it would have meant so much to his dear friend.

And if he'd only recognised his feelings for Dana on that last day at Muthaiga, or at least understood that he needed to consider them properly, his life might have turned in completely different circles.

He wondered about Dana and where she might be. He wondered too if she ever thought of him, and what her life had become.

The butler knocked once then entered the bedroom carrying a silver tray, a white china teapot and two cups. He placed the items on the little round table in the bay window beside Dana, and poured the tea while she gazed out over the sun-dappled garden. The gardener was tending the espaliered pear tree on the back wall. It was in full flower and would soon fruit. She remembered the day, shortly after she moved into the Mayfair house, when she'd planted it. It seemed a lifetime ago.

The memories weighed her down. She'd slept poorly, and when she looked into the mirror earlier that morning her puffy eyes confirmed it.

Oswald came in from his adjoining bedroom. His eyes were also puffy, but that was not so unusual for him. He was approaching seventy-five, and looked it. His belly protruded over the waistband of his pyjamas and his heavy jowls tumbled over the collar of his robe.

He took the napkin from his seat and sighed as he lowered himself to his chair.

‘Sleep well, my dear?' he asked.

Dana took a sip of tea. ‘Well enough, darling. And you?'

‘Quite well.' He loudly cleared his throat. ‘We should have a good crop of pears this year,' he said, admiring the tree on the back wall. ‘Do you remember when we planted it? It must be eight or nine years ago.'

‘Eleven,' she said. ‘But yes, I agree. A good crop this year.'

They sat in silence. Oswald reached for the morning's edition of
The Times
.

Eleven years. They'd been tranquil if somewhat humdrum. She had known from the outset they would be, but it was for a good cause.

It was not always helpful, and she tried to avoid it, but her life with Edward in Kenya occasionally intruded. She could scarcely
recall the person she'd been back then. As if she was watching a racy film of someone else's life, she'd see herself making love, sometimes with two men at once. There were titillating parlour games as the voices of Al Jolson and Bing Crosby sang the music of Oscar Hammerstein and Cole Porter.

Everyone in the Zephyrs knew it couldn't last — and perhaps it was that excuse, and the fact that they were all outcasts in the furthest corner of the Empire, that allowed them to act so outrageously.

During the years following her departure from Kenya in 1932, Dana had found it difficult to settle down in England. She missed her beautiful farm in the White Highlands. In those first days back home, while driving between London and Edward's country residence, she found herself idly scanning the fields for giraffe. Jersey cows were eland, and frolicking lambs were little Thommies. Even the best of days in the Midlands lacked the sparkle of the Kenyan highlands.

She lavished upon her daughter all the love and affection denied any other outlet and although she found great joy in seeing her child blossom and grow, it wasn't enough to overcome the tedium in other aspects of her life.

She turned once again to the thrill of extramarital sex and found one man after another. Edward stormed and raged, but she didn't care. When he engaged a private detective, who ultimately found her
in flagrante delicto
with a young member of the golf club, he demanded a divorce.

Dana's main concern was for the life she and her daughter would lose if Edward carried through on his threat, and chided herself for not getting evidence on his philandering before he did. She felt she had endured enough during the marriage to justify a sizeable settlement. Edward held other views.

The court case was messy; the private detective's evidence graphic and damning. Dana pleaded for support for their daughter, which finally softened Edward's heart, although his lawyer made it impossible for Dana to have access to the trust account.

It was only when she divorced him that she realised her stupidity. She was alone and vulnerable again.

With the single-minded determination once devoted to finding sexual pleasure, she set about finding another rich husband.

Oswald Middlebridge was an irascible bachelor, and even older than her first husband, but he was rich: very rich. Dana was again safe. But at a cost. Sex with Oswald was unexceptional at best, and often failed completely. After a few months he moved into an adjoining bedroom and soon gave up any idea of sharing hers.

Dana locked away her libido. There could be no dalliances. Oswald would not tolerate her casting even a sideways glance at another man, and she knew if she strayed even once, it would be the end of her marriage.

Being a dutiful wife wasn't as hard as she'd imagined. She'd enjoyed a passion with Sam that she'd been unable to replicate with others, and rationalised that in the absence of a similar obsession she could tolerate her enforced fidelity. It also helped to remind herself of the reason she'd entered into marriage with Oswald in the first place.

She'd denied herself a son and a lover to retain security for herself and her daughter, only to throw it away in a bewildering procession of beds.

She would not allow that to happen again.