Walking Home (18 page)

“Then there will be other dangers. You will not travel alone.”

“I do not understand.”

“My son will accompany you farther in your journey. He will lead you.” He squatted down and picked up a stick. “This is the route of the road.” Wilson made a line in the dirt. “It must cut far to the west to allow the trucks to travel up the steep valley wall. But you can go more directly.” He drew a second line cutting through the curve of the road in an almost straight line. “This way is shorter and safer—as long as you are in the company of a Maasai.”

“Thank you again, sir. I’m … I’m … so grateful for your kindness.” I didn’t have the words to let him know how truly appreciative I felt. To continue to travel in safety under the protection of Wilson the son was more than I could have hoped for.

“Offering to help is our way. The route you will walk is rough and very steep, but it is the path our people travel.”

“Today, with your permission, sir, we will walk as if we are Maasai.”

Wilson the son led. Free of the herd, he started the trip quickly, eating up ground with his big, bouncy strides. At times Jata was forced to run to keep pace. Finally he noticed her plight and slowed.

“Wilson, are there lions here?” she asked.

She sounded concerned, so I had to ease her fears. “Of course there are no—”

“Not many,” he said, interrupting me.

“So there are some?” I asked.

“Not many,” he repeated.

“What will we do if we see one?” I asked.

“It depends on what the lion does. If it allows us free passage, then I will allow it free passage.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“I have my spear,” he said, holding it up.

“You will kill it?” Jata asked.

“I have been a part of slaying a lion before.”

“When you say ‘a part,’ does that mean you were not alone?” I asked.

“There were many of my age mates in the hunt.”

“But here it is just you.”

“Even better!” he exclaimed. “That way, both the tail and the mane will be mine. I will have all the honor of the kill.”

“Or you will
be
killed,” I said.

“Perhaps, but then I will die in a way that will be sung about.”

“Aren’t you afraid of lions?” Jata asked.

“I am Maasai. Lions are afraid of me.” He paused. “But an elephant is different. One needs to be afraid of them.”

“Are there elephants around here?” Jata asked.

“You will not see one today.”

That was reassuring to hear.

“They are even more rare here than lions. But there are some, nonetheless.”

I looked all around to see which bush could hide an elephant. But I realized that any elephant that could hide in that brush would be so small it could probably be handled.

“If we see an elephant, you must stay close by my side. We will go downwind so that it cannot smell us. But if it sees us and comes in our direction, you must run very fast away from him in a straight line, and I will wait this long”—he held up four fingers—“because I am faster than you. We will hope that it chases me, but it will probably chase you, because even elephants are afraid of Maasai.”

“Do not worry, Jata,” I said. She had no need to worry because I was worrying enough for both of us.

“Do not worry, but run. If it does chase you, then stop running straight and start running zaggy-zaggy.”

“Zaggy-zaggy?” I asked.

He waved his hand back and forth like a snake. “Elephants do not turn very well and he might fall over.” He started laughing.

“Isn’t there something else we could do?” I asked. He shook his head. “It is an elephant. Unless you have a gun, it cannot be stopped.”

It was a sign of progress to leave the flatland behind and start up the face of the cliff. The path was challenging—steep and curving—but it had to be free of elephants and lions. Wilson led the way and we struggled to keep up with him. As we climbed, the valley opened up behind and beneath us. It stretched out so far into the distance that it didn’t look real. On the horizon darker clouds had formed, and they seemed to be chasing after us. A storm was coming.

Wilson stopped and turned around. “This is where I leave you.”

“Is the road just up ahead?”

“Ahead, but not just. Continue up, and when the path divides, take the fork to the right.”

“Couldn’t you come with us until we reach the tarmac?” Jata asked.

He shook his head. “I must leave to return to my father. I will not find his camp until after dark.”

“I understand. Thank you, Wilson the son, and thank Wilson the father,” I said.

“I will. You will be safer now. If you come upon other members of my tribe, you tell them you are still under the care of Wilson.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Goodbye, my friends.”

We stood there watching until he disappeared down a small rise and into some trees. He was gone and we needed to continue moving forward—and up. The road awaited. I just didn’t know how far it was.

I thought about the distance we had already traveled. On this section we hadn’t followed any imaginary piece of string. Instead, we had been guarded and guided by two Maasai warriors. Someday it would make a wonderful story. I just wished my parents had lived to hear it. I leaned into the slope and started to climb again.

A few more steps forward.

Wilson had not lied—the road was not close. We struggled on up the hill, which never seemed to end. The forks in the path were few, and I followed Wilson’s advice and always chose to go to the right. It had been a long day. Jata and I had traveled for nearly six hours with both Wilsons—father and son—and then another four with Wilson the son. Now, it had been well over an hour since the son had left us to walk alone.

Behind us, the storm was gaining ground. The wind was offering a push forward and the sun had
been chased behind the storm clouds. It hadn’t started raining yet, but the sound of thunder and the sight of lightning were common. This was threatening to be a big storm.

I turned my head to the side to listen. I could hear something more than the wind in the trees. It was the roar of an engine. That could mean only one thing—the road was close. If not the highway, at least some road was ahead. It would be good to be free of the trees and the constant climb.

“Come, Jata, we must hurry.”

I reached back and took her by the hand to pull her forward, something I hadn’t been doing very often. The slope of the hill was more than I could handle with my heavy load and her in tow. We came through the trees. In front of us was a small homestead—a small but neat home and rows of knee-high maize—and beyond that was the highway. Two big trucks crossed in opposite directions. The road was lined with small stores and stalls, and I could see a few people moving quickly along the paths that lined the highway. A few drops of rain started to fall.

“Do we have to go much farther?” Jata asked.

“Not much. Our day is almost over and we have covered more than thirty kilometers. If we had some place to get out of the rain, then we could stop.”

“There is a house.”

“We do not know the people who live in that house—or which tribe they belong to. Just come and we will look for the right spot.”

We reached the road just as a big truck roared by in the direction we wished to travel. Behind it were a third and fourth and fifth—all traveling together. If any of those drivers had allowed us inside for a ride, we would have been in Nairobi in hours and not days. We carried on along the road, the sky darkening by the minute, more drops starting to fall. We didn’t have much time to get away from the rain.

Ahead was a small building. As we approached, I realized it was deserted and partly destroyed. On front, in big letters, was written
THE STAGE SHOP
. The name remained but the windows were gone, as were the door and part of one wall. But the tin roof still survived. I pulled Jata inside. Almost instantly the rain began pounding noisily, demanding to come through, but the roof would not allow it. Wind blew in through the openings, but there was a corner—two full walls—away from the windows and doors that seemed to be safe and hopefully would remain dry.

“Tonight we will sleep here.”

“It is already cold.”

“But it will stay dry, and I can chase away the cold if I can find fuel for a fire.”

I couldn’t go outside without getting soaked, and
all the wood would soon be wet. I looked around. There, in the far corner, were the remains of a chair. I walked over. There were wooden slats, two of the legs, part of the back, and some ripped cloth and foam from the seat. That would be enough kindling for the fire. This chair would never be sat on again, but it could still be counted on. Raindrops were coming in, but the pieces of the chair were still dry enough to burn—at least I hoped.

I brought them back over to the corner where Jata was sitting. She had her back in the corner and her blanket draped over her. I smashed the wood into small pieces and then stacked a few in a way that I hoped would quickly catch fire. Next I ripped the seat pieces, shredding the foam and sprinkling it about, then topping it with some ripped pieces of the cloth covering. Finally, I removed the matches from my bundle. The first was blown out by the wind before I could coax the cloth into lighting. That left only sixteen. I turned my body to act as a shield from the elements and then lit a second match, nursing it in my hands.