Walking Home (22 page)

Jata seemed overwhelmed by the movement, the roar, the foul smell. I was overwhelmed too, but my fear could not be shown. As disturbing as the bustle of the city was, it was also reassuring. Despite the crowds, nobody here was fighting or seemed to be afraid. The world was going on. Had I finally come to a place where there was peace, if not quiet?

The road started to rise up, and the traffic slowed and bunched together. Horns sounded as those trying to go around the carts changed lanes. Some boys who had been standing at the side of the road jumped out into traffic, put their shoulders against the carts and began pushing, helping them up the hill. That was so kind that they were helping … but no, there had to be more to it than that. They must be getting something for their trouble.

“Hey, boy!” a man called out in Swahili.

I looked at him. He was not an old man. He was leading a donkey and trying to pull a big cart laden with oranges up the hill. It looked as if the hill was winning.

“You, boy. I am talking to you,” he yelled directly at me. “If you help, I will give you two oranges.”

I looked down at Jata. “We could use oranges, come.”

I looked for a break in the traffic, then ran out and started to push.

“I only want you, boy,” he said.

“She is my sister. She must be with me.”

“She can try to push, but it will still be only two oranges.”

He led the donkey and we started to push. The cart was heavy and seemed to push back. I fought against it and it finally gave way, moving up the hill.

“Good, good! Put your shoulder into it!” the man called out. “We shall do this!”

The hill became steeper, but our speed still picked up. Cars zoomed up behind us, narrowly missing before they swerved and changed lanes to pass us by. Maybe, I thought, it would be better if Jata did go back to the roadside … no, if I was hit and killed, it would be better for her to suffer the same fate than to be left alone without me.

Finally the hill flattened out. We had done it! Now I just had to get the oranges.

“Come here!” the man called out.

I took Jata’s hand again and ran to the side of the cart.

“There are two more hills to come. If you come along with me, I will give two more oranges.”

If he was offering me two oranges for one hill, I thought, shouldn’t he give me six oranges for three
hills? But I couldn’t afford to argue. Four oranges were better than two, and it looked like we were going in the same direction regardless.

“Yes, we will do it.”

“Good, good.” He jumped onto the seat of the cart. “Come ride with me. There is space for both of you.” He offered a hand.

I hesitated for a second but quickly realized that riding would be better than walking. Especially for Jata. I picked her up and swung her up beside him. Then I tossed up our bundle and water container and jumped up myself. The cart sank with my weight and the donkey slowed slightly.

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

“No need to call me ‘sir.’ I am not a teacher or a minister. I am simply a man with a donkey and a cart.”

“It is a fine donkey and a good cart and a full crop.”

“We have come far. That is why my donkey needs a push.” He leaned far forward and gave the donkey a little slap on the rump. “I have heard that there are problems in Nairobi. Is that true?”

“I do not know. We have just arrived.”

“Arrived? Where are you from?” he asked.

“Eldoret,” my sister blurted out before I could say anything.

“Eldoret! There was so much violence. Is that why your family came to stay in Nairobi?” he asked.

“We are not staying. We are passing through on our way to a town called Kikima,” I said.

“I have never heard of such a place. Is it far?”

“Not as far as we have already traveled.” I didn’t know that, but it was what I wanted to believe and what I wanted Jata to hear.

“And where are your parents now?” the man asked.

“They are gone. My brother is my mother and my father,” Jata said.

“Your parents are dead?”

“Our mother died of malaria last week,” I told him.

“And your father?”

“He was killed in Eldoret. In the violence.” Saying that suddenly made it seem real again. My father had been killed. My mother was dead. Our home was gone. In a few short weeks, all of life had changed.

“And what are your people?” he asked.

I was afraid to answer. What if he was from one of the other tribes? I’d noticed a club and a machete strapped to the seat by his side. But he couldn’t strike out at me right here on this crowded street. The worst that could happen was that he would kick us off the cart, maybe deny us the oranges. But I would fight back and take two oranges from the cart as we left. That wouldn’t be stealing. They were ours—we had earned them!

“Well?” he asked.

“My mother was Kamba and my father Kikuyu.”

“Then I must offer an apology. My people are Luo, and they killed many Kikuyu in the uprising.”

“My father and his family were killed by Kalenjin.”

“Are you certain?”

“I heard them chanting in their language … I was there. I saw them when they set the church on fire.” He shook his head. “I have heard of that church in Eldoret. Those people who did that were animals, but there were animals on all sides.”

“I have heard that. I know there were Kikuyu who did evil against Luo. They set a house on fire. They were just as evil. I owe you an apology too.”

“Some of my family reported problems, but none were killed. I just wish for it to be safe here in Nairobi. I have heard rumors that there are problems in many areas of the city.”

I glanced around hesitantly, looking for unseen danger. I had heard the same things from Jomo’s father.

“Why did you come into Nairobi if it is safe where you were and dangerous here?” I asked.

“Safe or dangerous, a man must eat. If I do not get our crop to market, we will not have money for food. Here there is a chance of problems, but not coming here there is a certainty of problems. Where I am going, I will avoid the worst places.”

“And where is the worst?” I asked. I needed to avoid those places too. I just hoped the Mombasa highway was not one of them.

“Kibera has been the worst. Do you know of Kibera?”

“A little. I was told that it was not a good place, and that it was filled with people,” I replied. I remembered the sergeant telling me of the dangers of that shantytown.

“Some say it holds six hundred thousand people.”

“It is a city?”

“It is a city within the city of Nairobi. Tens and tens of thousands of little tin houses pushed so close together that residents can hardly move. People from different tribes flow into Nairobi—Kikuyu, Luo, Kalenjin, Kamba—and when they have no place else to live they end up there, side by side by side.”

“But if they are side by side …”

“That’s right. Neighbors are fighting neighbors. I heard on the radio that Kibera has been on fire and the flames have spread to the streets and neighborhoods that surround it. It is time to push again.”

“Oh, yes.” I hadn’t noticed that we were starting up another slope. “Come, Jata.”

“No, no, she can sit here. I will pull and you will push and we will succeed together—one Luo, one half Kamba/half Kikuyu, and mostly one donkey!”

I went to the back as he climbed down and went to the front. I knew that the cart would be heavier with Jata aboard, but somehow it felt lighter. I was so happy that she was able to move forward without having to use her feet, if even for just a short time.

The cart bumped up a curb and onto a smaller street. Soon there was rutted dirt under my feet, which made the work harder. We had left the main road behind—left people behind. Was the man being friendly to my face but luring us to a place where he could use that machete? If he drew that weapon, I would grab the club. No … he was friendly. He could not be that good an actor to hide his true intentions from me. Still, I would keep alert.

The hill flattened out once more and we surged forward. I ran around the side of the cart just as the man was climbing back to his seat.

“I should have asked earlier. What are your names?” he asked.

“I am Muchoki and this is my sister, Jata.”

“And I am Omolo. Tell me, this place—this Kikima—where is it located?”

“We are to go up the Mombasa highway until we reach a place called Machakos. From there it is not far.”

“And do you know where to find the Mombasa highway?”

“It is in Nairobi.”

“Nairobi is made of thousands and thousands of streets,” he said. “But do not worry. I will guide you to it.”

“Thank you so much. Once we find the highway, we can—”

I stopped speaking. Ahead of us were five men. I counted. In their hands were clubs, and they were coming toward us.

Omolo drew the machete from its holder. “You and your sister must leave. Get her off the cart—go now. There will be trouble, I am certain.”

“You must come with us. We can all leave,” I said. “We can get away.”

“I cannot leave,” he said. “I must stay to defend my property.”

“My father stayed to defend us and he did not survive.”

“If they take my donkey and my cart and my oranges, I am dead anyway. I will not give them up without a fight.”

The men were coming closer, moving faster, and there was something about them I recognized, a wildness and ruthlessness in their eyes.

“You must go quickly or there will be no time,” Omolo said.

“No,” I said. “I will stay. Two is better than one.”

“And five is better than two! Just leave. I cannot have your blood on my hands.”

I reached across him and grabbed the club. “I will not run and I will not leave you.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am sure.”

I moved to jump down, but he grabbed my arm.

“You stay on the seat and defend your sister.”

He jumped down from the still moving cart and yelled something to the men. They didn’t answer. Instead they fanned out so they could come at him—at
us
—from all sides. What had I done? Why hadn’t I taken my sister and fled when I had the chance? Now it was too late.

“Do not worry,” I said to Jata, hoping my words would calm us both. I gripped the club tightly in my hand, swinging it slightly to test the weight. It was strong and would deliver a blow if needed.

The men blocked the road completely and I brought the donkey and cart to a stop.

“Who are you and where are you going?” one of the men yelled in Swahili.

“I am going to market,” replied Omolo.

“You are going nowhere. Give us your cart and go while we still allow you.”

“Let us pass.” Omolo said as he held out his machete.

One of the men started to circle around to my side, away from Omolo. He had to be stopped. I jumped
down, but as I landed he rushed at me. I swung the club wildly and it came down hard, striking his shoulder and dropping him to the ground! I grabbed his fallen club and now held two. Omolo looked at me in shock, as did the other four men. The fifth remained on the ground, whimpering and writhing in pain.

“You are nothing but thugs!” Omolo yelled. “My brother has dealt with one. Move aside or we will harm the rest of you.”

They didn’t move—not back or forward—but I saw a change in their eyes. There was uncertainty, even fear.

“Move now or you will taste my machete!” Omolo threatened.

All at once, they scampered off to the side. They looked less like a gang of thugs and more like a group of beaten dogs. Omolo grabbed his donkey by the lead and pulled the cart forward. He held the machete high and waved it threateningly as we passed them by. I stayed close to the side of the cart and then moved to the back as we passed, guarding our escape. What did I have to protect me other than my club? I held on to the cart with one hand, looking anxiously over my shoulder, certain that the men would give chase at any second. Instead they gathered around their fallen member, who was still struggling on the ground.

“Muchoki, come onto the cart!” Omolo cried out.

I leaped up as he took a small twig and smacked the donkey on the rear. It roared out in response and jumped forward, moving us faster than I thought it could. I steadied myself with one hand, then stood up and looked back. The men had grown smaller in the distance. We had made our escape.