Walking Home (5 page)

From the little rise we stood on, I could see the highway leading off in both directions until it curved and dipped out of sight. Even this early in the morning, the heat was building up and there were wavy lines rising up from the tarmac as the air wiggled and shimmied. There were people waiting by the road, their colorful clothing standing out against the red of the dust and dirt. Along the road there were a few vehicles moving. They were so far away—so small—that they looked like toys.

“If you travel to the left, you will reach Nakuru,” Jomo said.

I nodded. “We traveled through there to get here.”

“And if you go to the right, you will reach Nairobi.
My father will be coming back from that direction, and then we will all leave together.”

I couldn’t help thinking how lucky they were. I could only wish that my father was coming to get us.

“T
ime for bed, Jata,” my mother said.

“But I am not tired!” she protested. “Can’t I just stay up with you a bit longer?”

“I am not staying up. It is time for me to go to bed too.”

“Can you tell me a story?” Jata asked.

“I have told you every story I know dozens of times.”

“Please,” my sister begged.

“Only one, and only if it will help you get to sleep.”

I was pleased. I was too old to ask for stories but still young enough to enjoy hearing them.

“Which one do you want to hear?”

“Can you tell us a new one?” I asked. “Something we haven’t heard?”

“Are there any that I know that you do not know?” she asked.

“How about a story from when you were a girl?” I suggested.

“It was so long ago that they did not even have stories,” she said and laughed.

“Your mother didn’t tell you stories?” Jata questioned.

“She told me stories.”

“Can we hear one of those? Can you tell us a Kamba story?” I asked.

She nodded her head. “You know what ‘Kamba’ means, right?”

“It means ‘people of the string,’ ” I said.

“What does
that
mean?” asked Jata.

“That is what I will explain. That will be the story.”

I moved closer to the fire pit. The fire was almost out, but beneath the ash there were embers that still gave off warmth. I poked the ashes with a stick, and it sent up a puff of smoke and a gust of red and warmth. Both were good. The smoke chased away the mosquitoes, and the embers chased away the cold. I still found the smell of fire disturbing, but the other benefits outweighed the distress.

“The Kamba people did not originally come from what we now call Kambaland,” our mother began.

“Where did they come from?” asked Jata.

“Very far away.”

“Did they ride in a car or a
matatu
?”

Mother laughed. “This was long ago, before there were any cars or
matatus
—or even trucks or motorcycles. Not even bicycles. They walked.”

I thought of what Jomo had said about each journey, no matter how long, starting with just one step.

“There was a boy and a girl,” our mother explained, “and they loved each other, but their families told them that they could not marry.”

“So what did they do?”

“They decided that they were going to marry anyway. They would run away in the middle of the night and be together. They knew they would have to run far away, but after they were married, their families could not object anymore and they would return.”

“But if they went far, especially in the night, weren’t they afraid they would get lost and not be able to find their way back?” Jata asked.

“Yes, they were. You are a very smart girl.”

Jata beamed and sat up straighter.

“The girl had with her a big, big ball of string. She tied one end to the door of her home, and as they walked she let out the string.”

“So they could follow the string back, even at night!” Jata exclaimed. “
She
was a very smart girl!”

“She was,” Mother agreed. “They went off through the night, through the forest, down the side of the mountain, over a river and to a place where nobody lived. As
they walked, they let that string out behind them, knowing that they could go as far as the string was long.”

“That must have been a very big ball of string,” Jata said.

“It was big, but it was also very, very thin, so it went far,” she explained. “The boy and girl became one. They built a house and had a child and farmed the land—it was very good land. Then finally it was time to go home to show their parents their new grandson. They followed the string back. It guided them over the river and up the mountain and into the forest, and that is when it happened.”

“When
what
happened?” my sister asked.

“The string had broken.”

“That is terrible!” Jata cried out.

“It
was
terrible. They could not go back to find their families. All they could do was go back the way they had come, still following the string. And that is how the Kamba people—the people of the string—came to be. We are all the relatives, the descendants, of that first man and woman.”

“Were that boy and girl your grandparents?” Jata asked.

Again my mother laughed. “I am not quite that old, although some days I feel like I could be! Those would be your great-great-great-great-grandparents. Did you like the story?”

“Yes, it was very good. It reminded me of you and father,” Jata said.

“Why would you think that?” our mother asked.

“You were not supposed to marry, and you had to leave your home.”

“Who told you that we were not supposed to marry?”

“Mundi.”

“Our cousin has a big mouth,” I said. “And little brains.”

“But did he tell the truth?” Jata asked.

Once again my mother nodded her head. “My parents did not want me to marry a Kikuyu—especially one they had never met.”

“So you had to leave?”

“I had to leave.” She looked so sad.

“And you could not find the string to go back,” Jata said.

Our mother shook her head. “I wish I had been able to find the string to bring you home. Your grandparents would have been so proud and happy to meet you.”

“Why did we never go back?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking.

“It is complicated. There was never enough time or money, and there were always other things happening. My sickness …” She let the sentence trail off. “Besides, you are both Kikuyu.”

“We’re Kikukambas!” Jata sang out. “We are Kamba too.”

“No,
I
am Kamba. I married a Kikuyu, and when a female marries a Kikuyu, the children are Kikuyu. You are both named after your father’s parents, as is the Kikuyu tradition. You speak Kikuyu and you know the Kikuyu traditions.”

“You could tell us more stories,” Jata said. “We could learn the Kamba traditions and—”

“No, it is too late,” our mother said, cutting her off. “It is too late tonight. It is time for bed.” She got to her feet and took Jata by the hand. She looked shaky. Just before they entered the tent, she turned to me. “Do not be long, and make sure the fire is out.”

“Yes, I will make sure to do that.” I wasn’t ready for bed or sleep.

I knew the story my mother had told. Before my sister was born, my mother used to talk to me in Kikamba when we were alone late at night. There were so many words that were similar to Kikuyu, and although they were now foreign to my tongue, they were still familiar to my ear.

She also used to tell me about her home, growing up as the only girl with seven brothers and the grandfather and grandmother I never met. She talked about how someday I’d meet them all, about how we would go back to her home one day. But when her sickness
came, she stopped talking about them and stopped talking to me in Kikamba. And we never went back.

I took the stick I had used to poke the ashes and snapped it into four pieces, throwing them on the fire. I knew it was a waste to use fuel just to sit by, but I wanted to. Besides, Jomo and I had gathered a great deal of wood that day, and my share, my quarter, would keep us supplied for days to come.

Jomo and his family would be leaving soon. They didn’t need to follow a piece of string: their father was coming to get them. I didn’t have a father. I didn’t even have a piece of string.

Just then, I heard a voice coming from the tent. It was my mother, and she was singing. Her voice was soft and gentle. She was singing to Jata to help her fall asleep. I recognized the melody before I could pick out the words. It was a song she used to sing to me when I was little. It was a song about a little boy and his grandfather going on a trip together. She was singing in Kikamba.

Maybe I did have a piece of string.

T
he sun was hardly up, but church had already begun. I could hear the singing drifting across the camp. It was a familiar hymn. I stopped to listen and it brought me back to our church on the outskirts of Eldoret. It was where my family—all of our family—went to worship. After my homestead it was the place I felt most familiar with, most happy being there. My father was an elder in the church and our pew was close to the front. I’d sit there, my father on one side, my sister and mother on the other. All around us would be relatives and friends. The music was always good, and even if the minister went on too long I knew there would be time afterwards to play with my cousins, and visit and share a meal.