Echoes From a Distant Land (8 page)

During Sam's tramp home along the red-dust road to Igobu, he was plagued by the temptation to return to Nairobi and tell Ira he'd accept his generous offer. But he couldn't. He was the oldest son: his father expected him to take his place when he became too old to protect the farm. He would be needed to guide its expansion as the family grew in number. It would be a terrible disgrace to his parents if he shirked that important responsibility.

‘Sam, I respect your wishes,' Ira had said. ‘But can't you at least ask your father for permission?'

‘I cannot. It would show that I have no regard for what I have been taught since I was a small boy. People would say that Kungu Wangira has raised a thankless child.'

‘Well, would you at least think about it? I'll be in Nairobi for a week or so. If you have a change of heart …'

Sam had thought about it. A lot. He thought about what he'd learned from Sister Rosalba and how much more he could learn from teachers in Nairobi, where Ira said he would at first attend preparatory school. And then America. He thought about how he'd love to be an engineer, like Ira, and make things that could be used in motor cars. Or maybe he could be a doctor and treat the sick. His family would be so proud.

When he arrived outside Igobu at the end of the day, the children spotted him and ran ahead to spread the news. A small crowd had gathered by the time he reached his father's compound. He saw his brothers and sisters, his aunts and uncles. They'd heard of his escape from death when his fellow porters returned home at the end of the safari. His mother came to him and embraced him with tears in her eyes.

And there was his father, standing tall and obviously proud. His son had faithfully carried out his duties as demanded by his chief.

Kungu Wangira waited until the women and children of his family had stopped fussing and called his son to him. They met eye to eye: Sam had grown in the months he'd been away. His father spread his arms and swept Sam into his crushing embrace.

Sam was glad he'd decided to return home. He now resolved to keep the whole matter of Ira Ketterman's offer to himself.

 

Sam spent the following morning with the many members of his extended family, who all wanted to hear about his adventures with the white hunter and his fight with the lioness. At noon he went to the mission to see Sister Rosalba.

‘I heard you were home,' she said, throwing her arms around him for a brief hug. ‘Look at you! Have you grown even more?'

He laughed and was soon answering all the questions she fired at him in quick succession.

He told her about the engineer, Ira Ketterman, and his amazing breadth of knowledge. He said one of Ira's greatest skills was with cameras, and that he had taught Sam how to take photographs and even how to develop and print them.

Sister Rosalba pressed him for more.

Ever since he was a child, Sam could conceal nothing from Sister Rosalba if she had set her heart to knowing it. She had a way of searching his eyes to find the corners of his mind that contained the truth. When she asked him for more about the engineer Ira Ketterman, Sam told her about Ira's offer of an education.

‘He offered to send you to university! And you did not accept?' she asked, aghast.

‘I did not,' he said, appalled at his weakness for revealing matters he'd promised to keep to himself.

‘Sam … Sam … Why?'

He dropped his head. ‘You know, Sister: it's Papa, and … well …'

She patted his shoulder. ‘It's all-a right, Sam. I understand what you're saying. I know your traditions, your culture. Why do you think I don't give you a big long hug like I want to, ah? Yes, I
know you Kikuyu don't like these big shows of affection. Yes, I understand about you Kikuyu. But this … this was such a big chance for you.'

He nodded, feeling worse now that she'd voiced what had been his own feelings.

‘Oh, Sam. I'm sorry. I will go to the chapel and I will pray for you.' She nodded, deep in thought. ‘Yes, I will pray, because I have already said too much and I shouldn't speak what you don't want me to say, but …' She looked up at him again. ‘But what have you done, my son?'

She turned then, and hurried away towards the little palm-fronded chapel.

Sam watched her go while resisting the temptation to feel sorry for himself. Rather than mope, he went to the new garden plot and threw his energy into tilling the hard earth in preparation for planting.

After an hour, he looked over the plough-ox's haunches to see Sister Rosalba storm past him. He knew that walk — it was the way Sister Rosalba walked when she was angry — and she was headed towards his father's hut. He let slip the reins and followed her at a discreet distance.

Kungu Wangira was inspecting the new granary his wives had built. It was needed now that the extra produce that his hardworking fourth wife contributed had come to harvest. He saw or perhaps sensed Sister Rosalba's approach, and turned to await her arrival. Sam had always thought his father was slightly intimidated by the forthright little Consolata nun.

‘Mr Wangira,' she said, standing bolt upright before him.

That particular stance was familiar to Sam too. Whenever Sister Rosalba had serious matters to discuss, she stood ramrod straight to maximise her diminutive stature and she always put her head back so as to fix her eyes on her target — in this case his father — who looked slightly uncomfortable being on the receiving end of such intense scrutiny.

‘Sam has told me about-a his decision to stay home.'

Kungu shot a glance at Sam.

‘What do you think about-a that?' she demanded.

‘Ah, Sister Rosalba. He is a fine son. He will make our family strong. He works hard.'

‘That is all very well, but what about-a the Kikuyu people?'

‘The … Kikuyu people?'

‘Of course. What about-a the Kikuyu people? Who will make them strong?'

His father appeared at a loss for words.

‘Mr Wangira, self-government is coming. Your boy could be a leader. The Kikuyu need someone like-a Samson.'

His father opened his mouth to speak, but Sister Rosalba was in full flight.

‘I have been tutoring that young man for ten years.' She pointed directly at Sam, who had until then thought she was unaware of his presence. ‘Ten years! And is it so he can work in your farm? Is it so he can carry sixty-a pounds all over the countryside for a bag of
posho
and a few rupees? No! He is very clever, and he must-a do more with what he has. Oh, when Sam told me he'd been offered a chance to go to university and had refused, I asked myself what can I do about it? He is not mine to tell him what he should do with his life. But then I say to myself: Rosalba, what are you-a thinking? Can you give up ten years for nothing? But more than that, can you see a young man with such a gift,
and
the offer of a free university education, waste his life in the Kikuyu Reserve? I say
no
! Is not good. And so I come to you, Mr Wangira, to say what must-a be said.'

Sam suspected his father had missed a significant portion of his teacher's heavily accented tirade, but it didn't seem to trouble Sister Rosalba who, after drawing breath, continued.

‘If you have your people's best interest at heart, you will send that boy back to Nairobi. Not after the harvest. Not next-a week. Now! You will tell him to go to school and tell him to work hard; and if he can do good with his studies, you tell him to go to New York.'

His father looked from Sister Rosalba to Sam and back again.

‘Mr Wangira,' she said. ‘For the love of-a God, if you won't do it for Sam, do it for your people.'

 

The silence around the fire that night, where Sam, his father and grandfather sat after the meal, was electric with undeclared sentiments. Sam could see his father had been greatly embarrassed by Sister Rosalba's outburst. It was bad enough that Sam's actions had attracted the attention of a white person, but because it was from a woman, and one with such strange notions about customs and beliefs, matters were quite a lot worse. Sam could feel the heat of his father's resentment as keenly as the heat from the flames.

His grandfather had come to discuss Sam's future, not knowing about Sister Rosalba's outburst until advised by one of his daughters-in-law. His presence added further gravitas to the occasion. Sitting on his short stool across the fire from Sam, he pinched closed a nostril with his finger and thumb and took a sharp intake of breath. The instant rush from the snuff caused an involuntary cough.

Sam felt reassured by his grandfather's presence, but he also had no doubt the old man didn't approve of the changes the whites had brought to their village: especially the changes to the way some Kikuyu were being educated. He thought his
guuka
couldn't understand the white people's version of education and, even if he could, he would think it a waste of time. Which, of course, it would be — for anyone who planned to be a farmer, living the same life his forefathers had.

His grandfather was the first to speak on the matter, as was appropriate. With eyes still watering from the snuff, he asked Sam's father, ‘What do you make of this
mzungu
woman?'

‘
Kali sana
,' his father answered.

Except for a few particularly expressive words, Swahili was seldom spoken by Sam's family.
Kali sana
— very fiery — was one Swahili phrase his father found useful.

The old man sighed. ‘I have heard that she is telling the
askaris
that the Kikuyu must stop circumcising the girls,' he said, and took another snort of snuff. ‘And there is talk of them increasing the hut tax so that we will have to send more of our young men to work in white farms to bring home the rupees.
Ai-ai-ai
. So many changes.'

‘Too many,' his father agreed.

‘In my day it was the younger men who fought for our Kikuyu ways. Men who had the fire in the belly to make them fight.'

It was unclear to Sam if the admonishment was intended for his generation or his father's. He glanced at his father, but read nothing in his expression to suggest he took it personally.

The old man nodded and sniffed. ‘But she admires the boy.'

Sam understood that in his grandfather's eyes, he would always remain a boy. No matter he had been a warrior and a man for seven seasons of the long rains; no matter that he had survived a lion attack. He bore him no ill will because of it. He was his
guuka
, and all could be forgiven.

Sam's father gave a noncommittal grunt.

‘And she says she has taught him the
wazungu
ways for ten years,' the old man added, shaking his head in disbelief.

This time his father merely nodded thoughtfully.

A long silence gave Sam time to ponder what his grandfather was leading up to, for there was no doubt that his meanderings were not merely the idle thoughts of the aged.

‘Yes, in the old days the warriors would defend our Kikuyu traditions. But now, ah? Now it is impossible to fight the British. They are even more powerful than the Maasai were. And by them we were often defeated.' He sniffed loudly. ‘So what are we to do? We can sit idly by and watch the
mzungu
stop the circumciser's blade. We could let him increase our taxes until we all must wear trousers to carry the money in our pockets.' He paused. ‘Or we might send some of our best young men to learn their ways. We did that with the Maasai and, by so doing, we learned how to defeat them.'

The abrupt turn of the argument took Sam by surprise; he looked at his father, expecting to see shock and disagreement, but there was neither. His father must have known where the discussion was leading, and would not argue against the advice of one so old and wise.

Suddenly, it was agreed. Sam would attend preparatory school in Nairobi. After that, he would go to university in New York.

1917

Kinangop Academy — the impressive stone building with its high clock tower on Protectorate Road hill — was originally an orphanage for white children, but since the turn of the century had been developed into a secondary school for white children from poor families and gifted Indians and native Africans.

Sam found that life at the academy was nothing like he'd imagined it. He expected the pursuit of academic excellence would be paramount, which was the situation he sorely needed if he were to meet the minimum academic requirements for entry into New York University. In fact it was excellence in sport that appeared to be Kinangop's most important objective.

The academy had long suffered the stigma associated with its charitable past. It was a situation every member of the teaching staff appeared determined to eradicate by setting high academic standards, but more importantly, by demonstrating Kinangop's superiority on the playing fields. They were therefore highly motivated to find among their students those with good sporting abilities, and to encourage them to try out for team selection.

It proved to be both a benefit and a disadvantage for Sam. He was at least a year older than his classmates and this, coupled with his fine physique, brought him to the attention of the sporting staff.

While he was walking home to his dormitory one afternoon, the sports master imposed upon him to make up the numbers in a practice match. Sam tried to excuse himself by saying he knew nothing about rugby.

‘Well, there's nothing much to know,' the sports master said. ‘And you're big enough. Look, if someone gives you the ball, all you have to do is put it under your arm and run down the field with it.'

Sam did as he was told and scored a try with two boys hanging from his shirt-tails over the last ten yards. The master convinced Sam to sign up with the squad for the upcoming game against Goodswood Old Boys.

Kinangop Academy had not beaten their arch rivals since foundation, but thanks to Sam's dashing play on a flank, they won the very next game against Goodswood.

After his rugby success, he was drafted into several other sports teams, making his mark on the athletics field, where he won medals in high jump, the hundred-yard dash, the mile and field hockey. However, it was his expertise at rugby — which he soon loved with a passion — that made him the most popular boy in school and a favourite among the masters.

Of course, this all meant that Sam had less time to spend studying. His immediate task was to quickly catch up to the other students in almost every subject, but Ira told him he would have to do better than that. He had to finish in the top three to have a good chance to win selection for a place at NYU.

 

Although Sam had a gift for languages and was fluent in Kiswahili, Kikamba and English, and had a smattering of several other tribal languages, he struggled with Latin.

‘If Latin is a dead language, why do we have to learn it?' he asked his tutor, Mr Maxwell.

‘Because it is the root of many other European languages,' he said.

‘Will I need to know any of these foreign languages if I win my place at New York University?'

‘Not really. I imagine they only teach in English.'

Sam suggested Latin was therefore a waste of time, and not worth worrying about.

‘Hmm,' Maxwell said. ‘You know, Sam, in education we sometimes find gifted students in particular fields of study. We may find an excellent mathematician, a poet. But a true scholar is one who can master the complete field. You're quite an athlete, Sam. An all-rounder. You're good in many track and field events and you do very well in the decathlon. Are there any of the decathlon events that you don't enjoy?'

‘Yes, sir. I don't like the high jump.'

‘Why?'

Sam shrugged. ‘I can see that running and throwing things can be useful, but jumping over a bar … I don't know if that's ever going to be needed.'

‘I see. Do you know who won the decathlon at the Stockholm Olympics in 1912?'

‘Yes, sir. It was Jim Thorpe.'

‘Correct. He was an American Red Indian. Quite an outsider, even in his own country. Yet the King of Sweden called him the world's greatest athlete when he handed him the gold medal for the decathlon. Now, Sam, imagine you're in the decathlon and Latin is the high bar. Are you going to lose the gold medal — your chance to win a place at New York University — because you can't see a need for the high jump?'

 

Weeks after the end of the school year, when most of the students and staff had gone home, Sam remained in his dormitory awaiting word from New York University regarding his application for entry.

He reclined on his bed, arms folded behind his head, staring at the chipped paint on the ceiling, recalling the excitement of graduation night. The Nairobi evening had been warm for that time of year and the small assembly hall had been filled to overflowing with students and a large number of parents and friends. The graduating class of 1919, in caps and robes, had been seated in the front rows. Sam had come top of his class in all subjects except Latin, where he came second, and had been made dux of the
academy. The applause had been overwhelming and Sam had been pleased, but the prize he wanted more than anything was his NYU invitation. Mr Maxwell, who was the coordinator for such matters, had said he'd heard nothing.

‘How long will it take, Mr Maxwell?' Sam had asked.

‘It could be weeks.'

‘I'm not being invited because I missed top mark in Latin, isn't it, sir?'

‘Not necessarily, Sam. Patience. These things take time.'

But the days had stretched into weeks. Sam had grown increasingly concerned.

There was a knock at the dormitory door and a moment later Mr Maxwell was standing there in the doorway.

Sam was immediately on his feet, studying Maxwell's face. He somehow knew he'd received news from New York.

‘The academy's received this letter from NYU,' Maxwell said, pulling an envelope, already opened, from his jacket pocket.

His teacher's expression gave nothing away. Sam was afraid to speak. He stood there with his fists clenched by his sides and his eyes on Maxwell as he solemnly unfolded the letter and made a show of studying the contents.

‘This time, a second in the high jump was good enough,' his teacher said as his face creased in a broad smile. ‘Sam Wangira … you're going to America.'

 

A few days after receiving his invitation to enrol at NYU, Sam caught the train to Nyeri to visit his village. He told his family he would be leaving Igobu, and British East Africa, for a long time.

Sam explained he would study in America, at a university in one of the world's largest cities. His father nodded but remained silent. Sam could see he was unable to comprehend the news, but was too proud to ask the questions that must have filled his mind.

Word spread through Igobu. It was received with shock and consternation by the older generation in the village. Soon the whole
community heard the news and large delegations came to Igobu to commiserate with his family. They spoke to his father in soft voices and glanced at Sam as if he were already dead. The old people came with sad eyes and blessed him for luck.

When it was time to leave, Sam's father embraced his son in a bear hug. He then held him by the shoulders at arm's length, and stared into Sam's eyes for a long time. Sam feared he'd find disappointment behind those stern eyes. He'd hoped for approval. In the end he found neither. It was impossible to know what was in his father's mind. Finally, Kungu dropped his arms and went to his hut.

Sam completed his farewells without seeing his father again.

 

Sam stood at the door of his rail carriage. Below him on the Nairobi Station platform were scores of his classmates, there to wish him bon voyage.

It wasn't Sam's first train journey. During his two years at Kinangop Academy, he'd made rail journeys home to Igobu for term holidays, but this time was different. He was about to travel over three hundred miles to the Indian Ocean, and Mombasa, where he would board a ship to take him to the other side of the world.

He was surprised at the turnout and wondered why so many had come to see him off. His journey to New York had obviously captured everyone's imagination. Most of the white boys' mothers had been sent ‘home' to the British Isles for their births and regularly returned there for leave. Since the outbreak of the Great War, however, they'd been confined in British East Africa. Sam was the first of them to escape; perhaps this was the reason he had become a celebrity. He wouldn't admit even to himself that his teachers and classmates admired and genuinely liked him; nor that this was the real reason they'd come to see him off.

The students and teaching staff all agreed that Sam's scholarship to New York University was a triumph for the Kinangop Academy, and his sendoff was therefore a cause for great celebration. The
tearful farewell at Igobu was forgotten in the jubilation of his school friends; and Sam was even more excited when a loud blast on the steam whistle signalled the train's imminent departure and Sister Rosalba appeared.

The students cleared a path for her and she stood before him with pride and sadness in her eyes.

‘Sister Rosalba,' he said. ‘Why … you're here!'

‘Yes. I'm sorry I missed you at Igobu. The bishop called me away. But now I am here.'

‘You didn't have to come all this way …'

‘Maybe I just-a want to make sure you go,' she said with a smile.

‘Thank you,' he said.

‘Oh, it's-a nothing. I took the donkey wagon to Thika.'

‘No … I mean, thank you for giving me this chance. I could never have passed the entrance test to Kinangop without you. And university would have been impossible.'

‘If you owe anybody thanks, it is God for giving you that wonderful brain.' Tears brimmed in her eyes.

The whistle screeched again, and the train jerked forwards.

‘Now go,' she said. ‘And don't forget to write to me.'

Sam stood on the carriage step, waving to all as the train gathered speed. Soon Sister Rosalba and his school friends were lost from sight.

Sam had never felt more alone.

 

Sam had seen the lake at Naivasha, but the blue vastness that ran from the ring of white stone buildings of Mombasa town to rendezvous with the sky was terrifying in its immensity.

As the train snaked down from the hills above the island, Sam watched the Indian Ocean's intricate colours blend from pale green near the shore to deep blue beyond the broken white line along the reef. Every feature of the land and the town seemed to invoke the sea. Nearest to the wharf, where a flotilla of boats and huge ships sat among a swarm of bustling watercraft, the buildings were
clustered around the shore like bees in attendance on the queen. From there, the paths and roads fanned out through lesser buildings set in clusters of greenery until, at the place where the long ribbon of the causeway anchored the island to the land, there was nothing but jungle and a thick mat of mangroves that swallowed whole sections of the silvered iron rails.

Later, after he'd gathered his various woven bags together and collected his ticket from the agent's office on Vasco da Gama Street, he stood on the dock with the black steel shell of the SS
Madura
looming above him. He felt so insignificant: he was a child again, holding his mother's hand as they stood below Kirinyaga, the mountain where God dwelled and which dominated the sky above him. People with eager faces lined the railing overhead. They seemed completely at ease, even pleased to be there.

He followed others up the gangway, which swayed, and something odd fluttered in his stomach. He clutched the handrail, but the feeling persisted. Even while standing on the deck, high above the water, which had now turned into a monolithic sheet of silver-blue, the world beneath his feet had become unnervingly indeterminate.

A food hawker moved along the deck offering passengers a selection of hot snacks from a box hung from a strap around his neck. Sam was staring into the water thirty feet below him when the whiff of curry pies brought a rush of bile to his throat. He vomited copiously over the railing.

 

As the
Madura
steamed north, Sam became increasingly unwell. His seasickness hardly ever left him. He lost weight and his sallow eyes retreated into their dark-ringed sockets. The brief ports of call — Mogadishu, Port Said, Naples — were mere respites between debilitating purges. At Marseille, Sam was almost incapable of walking. He left the ship and staggered into a waterfront hotel.

A bearded man sat at the bar with a glass half filled with a milky liquid. Sam watched as he lifted the glass to his lips and drained it.
Sam's stomach heaved, but only the bitter taste of the bile reached his mouth.

He leaned against the doorframe; the room, the bearded man and the woman behind the bar became blurred.

‘
Merde!
' the woman muttered when she noticed him in the doorway. Wiping her hands on a cloth, she came around the end of the bar towards him. ‘
S'il vous plaît venez à, monsieur
.'

Sam took a step forwards and his knees buckled. The woman caught him under the arm.

‘
Êtes-vous malade?
' she said, helping him to a table.

‘I'm sorry,' Sam said in English as he slumped into the chair. ‘I don't speak French.'

‘Are you ill?' she repeated with only a trace of an accent.

‘I … don't know. I just feel … very weak.'

‘
Un moment
,' she said and taking the bottle from in front of the bearded man she poured a measure into a glass and added water. The mixture turned milky. ‘Drink,' she commanded.

The aromatic fumes irritated his eyes, but the woman stood over him, arms crossed, so he took a mouthful. A surge of blood rushed to his brain and his throat constricted. An involuntary gasp escaped his burning lips.