Walking Home (7 page)

“Jomo! Where are you?” I yelled out.

“Here! I am here!”

He followed after his voice, running out from behind some brush, and he was still carrying his spear.
I looked over at the gazelle—which had now stopped moving—and at the spear sticking out of it. How was that possible?

Then I saw the Maasai warrior. He was standing stone-still beside some rocks, the red of his clothing the only thing that marked him. He glided forward, straight for the gazelle, and stopped right over top of it.

“Hey, that was our gazelle!” Jomo yelled as he ran toward him.

He skidded to a stop in front of the man. The Maasai was a full head taller than him, but Jomo continued to yell. I hoped the man didn’t understand Kikuyu.

I ran over. “My friend does not know what he is saying,” I explained, switching to Swahili in the hopes that he’d understand the common language.

“He is saying it very loud,” the man answered. “I don’t know the words, but I know he is angry with me.”

I knew the Maasai from Eldoret. They often traded in our store. My father had told me that they prided themselves on being short-tempered, and that they always carried weapons. And, if what I had heard was true, those weapons had been turned on Kikuyu in parts of the country. He had a machete hanging from his belt.

“That is our gazelle!” Jomo yelled as he too started using Swahili.

“How did
my
spear get into
your
gazelle?” the Maasai asked. He took the handle of his spear, twisted it
into the animal, placed his foot on its side and pulled the spear free. Blood and guts dripped from the end of the weapon. He held it up. “Does your spear have blood?”

“We were chasing it,” Jomo said.

“A dog can chase a
matatu
, but that doesn’t mean the
matatu
is his,” he said. The warrior turned to me. “You were the one screaming like a girl?”

“I was driving the gazelle toward my friend.”

“Instead you drove it to the tip of
my
spear.”

“He was chasing it to my spear, but you got in the way,” Jomo cried.

“
That
is not a spear.
This
is a spear.” He held it even higher and I felt afraid.

“Come on, Jomo. We have to get going.”

“We are not going anywhere without
our
gazelle!”

“You did nothing to deserve any part of this kill,” the man said. “There is only one way this can be settled.”

Lightning-quick he drew the machete from its sheath. I staggered backward as he pointed the tip of the blade directly at me.

“
You
,” he said menacingly, looking at me. “
You
did something. You drove the gazelle to me. Part of the kill belongs to you.” He plunged the blade into the side of the animal.

A
ll eyes were on us as we walked through the gate. Each of us supported one end of the spear, the remains of the gazelle concealing the middle section. The Maasai had given us the back legs and part of the torso. It would have been more impressive to have the head and horns balanced between us, but still it was obvious that we were returning with a kill. Besides, you could not eat the horns or head.

I felt like a proud hunter. Of course, neither of us had killed this animal, but the people watching didn’t know that. The man, the Maasai, had said I could decide what to do with my portion of the kill and I could share it with my friend if I wished, “although he deserved none.” Of course I was going to share it. Jomo had started to complain again when the man portioned out what looked like less than half the animal, but I told him that if he
didn’t shut up, I would not only give him nothing but also kill him myself. Luckily, he had closed his mouth.

“Do you see the kill?” Jomo asked now, goading one of the guards who had teased us on the way out. “Not bad for a toy.”

He seemed incapable of not causing problems.

The soldier removed his hat and bowed his head slightly. “My apologies for doubting you.” He paused. “I have never tasted gazelle before.”

“And you still aren’t going to!” Jomo yelled back.

The guard scowled.

“But if you come to my tent,” I said, “you are welcome to share a bowl of soup made from the meat. I would be honored if you joined us.”

“Will
he
be there?” the guard asked, pointing at Jomo.

“No, he will not.”

The soldier smiled. “Then it would be my honor to join
you
at your table.”

“My family tent is in the center, in the row that runs from the central water tank.”

“I will follow the smell. Thank you.”

I started walking again, towing the gazelle and Jomo behind me.

“He is not getting any of
my
share,” Jomo declared.

“You must spend your entire day thinking of ways to get in trouble.”

“You are so wrong! I hardly think at all!”

I laughed, and he laughed too.

“First you fight with a Maasai with a machete, and then you taunt a soldier with a rifle. Neither of those is very wise.”

“Maybe not, but I just do not like being bullied. That soldier would not act that way if my father was here. Maybe he will arrive in time to share my part of the animal.”

“Maybe. I look forward to meeting him.”

We continued to walk, with every eye in the camp on us. I did feel proud, even if all I had done to deserve this was scream like a girl. Nobody had to know that part.

Our pot simmered over the fire. I stirred it so the food wouldn’t burn. It was a mixture of beans and rice—nothing different there—but the gazelle was a welcome addition. The smell of the meat drifted across the whole camp. I’d taken one section of meat for our meal, while my mother had begun drying a bigger section in the tent to preserve it. Still one more section had been traded for a warmer blanket and a few other items. I was so grateful for that blanket—my mother needed more warmth to chase away the chills that seemed to be overcoming her each night as she slept.

Jata joined me at the fire. “It smells so good,” she said.

“It will taste even better. It will soon be ready.”

“Do not start without me!” our mother called from the tent. She pushed open the flap and came out. Her stride was uneasy, and although she was smiling, she didn’t look well. Her eyes were yellow and somehow she looked like she was faded.

“Come and sit,” I said, offering her my hand.

“You are a hunter, a cook
and
a gentleman.”

I eased her down so that she was sitting on a rock. That was the closest thing we had to a chair.

“I also have a guest joining us,” I said.

“Is it your friend Jomo?”

I shook my head. “He is eating with his family. It is a soldier from the gate.”

She gave me a confused and concerned look.

“He is a nice man, and I offered him the chance to taste gazelle,” I explained.

“You are such a kind boy … despite everything.”

There was no need for her to say anything more. We knew what “everything” meant. Kindness was important for its own sake, but this was done with something else in mind. It was important to ensure that people with weapons were our friends.

I picked up a wooden spoon and ladled the soup into one of the three little plastic bowls.

“Did you borrow those bowls from somebody?” our mother asked.

“No, they were part of the trade, along with the blanket.”

“You are a businessman, just like your father,” she said.

I had so many memories of time spent with my father in his little shop. Our store was on the main street of Eldoret. It was far from the biggest store but it was very busy. It was co-owned by my father’s brother—my uncle—and the two brothers worked together. My uncle’s two sons and I would help out, but we were all still too young to be left on our own. The walls of the store were lined with clothing and racks of shoes. Behind the counter were the radios, flashlights, cellphones and other electronic items—safe from any potential thieves.

“Your love of business makes you a true Kikuyu,” my mother said.

“And a true Kamba,” I added. “I would like to meet my Kamba family someday.”

“The meal tastes so good.” She was ignoring my comment, which meant she wasn’t comfortable with what I’d said. I shouldn’t have said anything. I wasn’t trying to make her feel worse than she already did.

She sipped quietly from the bowl—I wished I had traded for some spoons as well. Perhaps someone would swap for some of the soup. I had seen people in the camp with lots of spoons and little food.

“This is just so good!” my mother exclaimed.

“It
is
good,” Jata said as she sipped from her own bowl.

“And you and Jomo caught it!”

“Mainly we just helped the Maasai warrior.”

“They can be very dangerous,” my mother warned. “Always be wary around the Maasai.”

“I was wary, but he was kind and fair.”

“Your father always said that they drove a difficult bargain but were men of their word,” she said.

Jata used her fingers to scoop up the last of the food in the bowl. Then she licked the bowl and her fingers.

“Do you want more?” I asked her.

“Can I go and play with my friends?” She pointed down the passage, where two of her little friends were waiting, holding a skipping rope.

“It is getting late and—”

“Go and play with your friends,” our mother said, cutting me off. “But stay where we can see you.”

Jata put down the bowl and skipped off.

“She needs time to play, to be happy.”

My mother was right. It was good to see her happy. It almost made me feel happy too.

Without asking, I scooped some more of the meal from the pot and put it in my mother’s bowl. “Eat.”

“I think you have come to believe that you are my mother rather than my son.”

“You need to eat. Food is the best medicine when you are ill,” I said.

“It is the only medicine we have, and we only have it thanks to you.” She paused and looked at me thoughtfully. “Actually, I can see my mother in you.”

“Your
mother
?”

“In the eyes. You have my mother’s kind eyes. You would know that if you had ever met her.”

“Why haven’t I ever …” I let the sentence trail off. This was not what she needed.

My mother took another slurp from her bowl—a long slurp—and then looked right at me.

“I always thought I would go back. At first I did not because I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Of facing my family. My father—your grandfather—is a very, very proud man, and I know how much I hurt him.” She took another long, slow sip of the soup. “Then with the coming of you, caring for a baby, the distance, and the money that we did not have, it seemed like it would have to wait. But the longer I waited the harder it was to stop waiting and go. And then, in the end, I did not go because of hope.”

“I don’t understand. Hope?”

“I knew that the longer I waited, the harder it would be for my father to accept me back to his home. By not going, I had hope that he would not turn me
away. By going, that hope could have been crushed and I would have had nothing.”

“We have nothing now,” I said. “Not even hope.”

“I know what you are saying. I just do not know if I could go back now with nothing, with everything gone. It would be hard to face him.”

“It sounds like your father is not the only person with too much pride.”

She laughed. “My father always said that of all his children, I was the one who was most like him.”

“I would like to meet my grandfather and grandmother.”

“It would not just be them. You have aunts and uncles, and I would imagine there are dozens and dozens of cousins by now. But I do not even know if my parents are still alive. I wish I knew.”

“There is only one way to find out.”

She took a deep breath. “It is very far and I am not well.”

“But when you get well?”

“Kikima is not close, Muchoki.”

“Every journey, no matter how far, starts with one step,” I said.

“That is very wise. Who told you that?”