Walking Home (10 page)

“There is no other way. All roads lead
to
and
through
Nairobi.”

“But how will we get through?” Jomo looked anxious.

“The protesters block the roads, and then the police clear them away. We will travel during the day, when it is most safe. The police and army will protect us.”

“They didn’t protect us in Webuye,” Jomo said.

“There are more of them now, and they are more determined. Still, we will be most safe when we get to our village. Sometimes you must pass through danger to get to a better place,” Jomo’s father said. “We have to leave soon or darkness will delay our trip one more day.”

“Thank you for speaking of this to me,” I said. “I will leave you to finish. I need to get back to my mother.”

His father and I shook hands again, and then Jomo came over and offered his.

“Goodbye, Jomo.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not goodbye. We will meet again, my brother.”

“Until again,” I said, smiling.

The girls were hugging Jata, and all three were in tears.

“You must promise us you will bring her to see us,” Kioni said.

“I promise.”

“Perhaps we could trade?” suggested Makena. “You keep Jomo and we get Jata!”

“No,” I said. “Jomo is my brother, but Jata is my sister. She must always be at my side to be cared for.”

“As it should be,” Jomo’s father said. “As it should be.”

I stood sheltered from the sun by the tents, Jomo’s blanket draped over my shoulder, trying to see but not be seen. I wanted to be there to watch them leave. I knew it was going to happen, but somehow I needed to see it with my own eyes.

I heard the little engine first and then saw the car—the one carrying Jomo and his family away. It had mattresses on the roof, and they were all crammed inside. I was close enough to see, but not close enough to see well. I could make them out inside the vehicle, but I couldn’t see their faces clearly. I didn’t have to, though, to know that they would all be smiling.
They were going to a new home, and they were going together.

The little vehicle rocked and bumped along the footpath until it came to a stop at the gate. One of the guards walked up to the driver’s side of the vehicle while the second opened the gate wide enough to let them pass. The car started up again and eased through the narrow opening. Once outside it picked up speed, kicking up a cloud of dust that trailed behind. I just hoped they didn’t look back at the camp as they left. I wanted them to only look forward. Forward was where they were going, toward their future. Behind was nothing worth seeing or remembering. I wished them the gifts of forgiveness and forgetfulness.

The car got smaller and smaller until it took the rise and disappeared over the other side. Soon even the plume of dust was gone. I felt sad and happy. Sad that they were leaving—that my friend was leaving—and happy because it meant it was possible to leave. Somebody I knew and cared for was going to a better place. I was happy for my friend, and I was happy because it meant that maybe someday I could go through that gate to a better place as well.

“C
ould you tell me about Kikima?” I asked my mother as we sat around our fire, and she stirred the food in the pot.

“It is a village like any other village.” She shrugged and offered a sad little smile. “It has been a long time since I left.”

“So long that you don’t remember?”

“So long that it has changed, I am sure.”

“Is it like Eldoret?” Jata asked.

Mother laughed. “Eldoret is a big city. Kikima is a small town, more like a market. Or at least it was then. Most days it is a sleepy little place, but Mondays and Thursdays are market days. People flow in from the whole Mbooni district to buy and sell. The square is filled with stalls and blankets laid out with produce and merchandise, and it is so filled with
people that you can hardly move. It is very exciting.”

“It would be fun to be there on a market day,” Jata said.

“When I was a little girl, those were my favorite days.”

“Was your school far away?” I asked.

“It was no more than a twenty-minute walk to Kyangoma—that is the name of the school I attended.”

“You and your brothers?”

“My brothers and my cousins. And now I’m sure my nieces and nephews must go there as well.”

“Do we have lots of cousins?” Jata asked.

“Dozens and dozens and dozens I am sure.”

“It will be wonderful to meet our cousins,” I said.

“If we go, you will meet them,” she replied.

“It should not be
if
,” I countered. “It needs to be
when
.”

She looked hesitant, almost afraid.

“We can’t stay here, Mother, and there is no place to go back to. Our home is not safe … if it is even there anymore.”

“The government will help us go back to Eldoret,” she insisted.

I shook my head. “Nobody is being allowed back. The government says it isn’t safe.”

“And how do you know this?”

“I listen. I ask questions. I speak to the sergeant every
day. He has told me. He knows.” Our dinner guest had become my friend—almost against my will. Who would have thought that I could become friends with somebody of his tribe after all that had happened? We spoke often about the weather and other small pleasantries, but sometimes we also talked about things that were significant.

“You know that Kikima is not close,” my mother said.

“Is it as far as Eldoret?” I knew how far that was from the trip to the camp.

“Not as far,” she admitted. “But right now, it is far for me. I cannot even go as far as the front gate.”

“We are not leaving today. We need to wait for you to recover.”

“Yes, I must get better before anything can happen. Even then, it will still be far away.”

“Do we travel through Nairobi?” I asked.

“Through Nairobi, and then toward Mombasa. Along the route to Mombasa, we head north toward Machakos Town. It is almost as big as Eldoret, except that all the people are Kamba.”

“All of them?” I asked.

“The whole region. That area is called by some Kambaland.”

“And from there where do we go?” I asked.

“From there, Kikima is not far. The people of Machakos all know of Kikima.”

“The sergeant told me that the government is giving money to people to help them get back to their traditional homes,” I explained.

Slowly my mother got to her feet. She stood there, looking a little unsteady, swaying a little bit, but still standing. She was silent, staring into the distance, not talking but thinking.

“I miss my brothers,” she said finally. “I miss my parents. I do not even know if they are still alive.”

“They are,” I said.

“How would you know that?”

“I don’t know. I just feel and hope.”

“Hope is all we have when everything else has been taken away. But I am afraid that we would arrive and then … well, perhaps we would not be welcomed.”

“Why would they not welcome us?” Jata asked.

“I have been gone a long time.”

“If I was gone a long time, would you welcome me home?” I asked.

“Of course. I am your mother.”

“And they are your parents.”

A small smile came to her face. It was a sad smile. “They are still my parents. I can only hope that they still think of me as their daughter.”

“There is only one way to find out,” I said.

“Yes. Only one way. When I am able, we will leave.
We will travel to Kikima. It will be a long journey, but we will do it.”

“We’ll be like those Kamba in the story,” I said. “We will follow the string to find our way home.”

“Let us hope that this time the string has not broken,” she said.

I couldn’t allow myself to think that it had.

I
walked along the fence, looking for the sergeant. I’d already gone to the gate, but he wasn’t there. They said he was on patrol around the perimeter of the camp. I just hoped that we were walking around in different directions so that we would eventually meet.

As I walked, I noticed that there had been a shift in the fence. New poles had been set farther out and the fence restrung to allow more room for tents to be put up. The camp was still growing. There was a saying that misery loved company. We had more and more company. More people meant that more food and water had to be brought in, more latrines dug, more soldiers to guard us, more tents to house us, more of everything.

Some of the new arrivals moved into tents that had been vacated by people like Jomo and his family.
But this expansion was filled with tents that were obviously new. They were bright white, not weathered by the sun or coated and made dingy by the dust, or ripped and worn through use or abuse.

Our tent was still holding up well. We’d weighed it down with rocks so it was anchored to the ground. I’d dug a little trench to catch the rain and direct it around rather than through our tent. My mother had stitched up the two places where it had started to rip. It was secure. It kept us dry and out of the sun, held our possessions and sheltered us at night. But still it was just a tent and could never be a home. We needed to leave to find that home, even if it was far away in a place I’d never been. Kikima … when I went to sleep, I repeated the name in my head again and again to make it feel like a place I’d known before.

Just then, three soldiers came into view. I didn’t know two of them but the sergeant was the third. I waved and he waved back.

“Good afternoon, my young friend,” he said.

“Good afternoon, sir. I was wondering, if you have the time, could I ask you some questions?”

“Certainly.” He turned to the other two soldiers. “You will continue your rounds and I will meet you on your next circuit.”

They both saluted and then continued their patrol.

“How is your family?” he asked. “Is all well?”

“My sister is fine. My mother is still feeling the effects.”

“Malaria is a difficult disease. She would be better in a hospital, or at least in a home with a bed and shelter from the elements.”

“That is why I am here to talk to you,” I said. “We are going to leave the camp.”

“To the faraway place that your mother spoke of?” he asked.

“Kikima, my mother’s village. It is in Mbooni district, by Machakos Town.”

“Machakos I know of, but it is not close. Would somebody come to get your family?”

“There is nobody who even knows we are here. We have to travel to them.”

“Then you would need funds to pay for a
matatu
ride.”

“We have nothing,” I said. “You told me before that the government will provide some assistance for those who are able to move out of the camp.”

“It is not much, but some resources are there for families who receive a recommendation for assistance.”

“Who makes the recommendation?” I asked.

“Any of the camp administrators, or a ranking soldier, such as myself.”

“Would you make that recommendation for us?”

“Most certainly. You know that. You are good people. Is your mother able to travel?”

“I think she will be ready soon.”

“Excellent. I will put forth the recommendation for a travel allowance so it will be ready when you are ready. I will miss my visits with you, but I wish you well as you rejoin members of your family.” He paused and his expression became serious. “I have never asked—and you have no need to tell if you do not wish—but your father … was he a casualty of the uprising?”

It was one of the things we had never discussed. I nodded. “My father, and his father and mother, and my uncle and cousins.”

“All of them?”

“All of them. It was just after dark when it began. We were already in bed. We were pulled out and told to run. My parents had been told the rioters were coming for us. It was my mother, my father, my sister and my grandparents, as well as my uncle, his wife and their three children.”

“You must have been very afraid,” the sergeant said.

“Even my father was afraid. I had never seen him afraid before. We fled with all the other Kikuyu we knew, trying to stay ahead of the mob. We were many, but they were so many more. They had clubs and machetes, knives, picks and shovels. And they were everywhere. We tried to get away along different routes, but
they were blocked. Rocks and tires strewn across the road, fires set, men chanting and yelling. They were pulling people out of vehicles and killing them. Unable to run away, all of the routes blocked, we took refuge in the village church.