by D C Macey
The shadow man advanced and Helen saw it was the elder from the boma gate. He shook hands with Mauwled as others followed him into the dim solar-powered light. A second old man appeared, and then four tall men, morani, each carrying a spear and a rungu, the Maasai throwing club, so lethal in the hands of an experienced moran. She knew that the cloaks they wore were bright red patterned though there was no hint of colour in the closing darkness. Then came two women, leading donkeys burdened down with large water drums and supplies strapped to their backs. Last came two more morani.
Mauwled shook the second elder’s hand. Once again, Helen noted how the conventional handshake morphed seamlessly into a thumb clench. She and Sam looked expectantly as Mauwled and the two older men came up onto the veranda; the morani followed them up and gathered behind their elders. Meanwhile, the two women led the donkeys off towards Mauwled’s failed fire.
‘They have come to greet you, to thank you,’ said Mauwled. ‘The boys have told how you both went into the water to save their friend’s life. That was brave, that is what the morani would have done.’
‘Morani?’ said Helen.
‘The morani are the Maasai warriors. They will always stand to protect their people and their animals.’
The older men stepped forward and reached out their hands; in turn, they shook Sam’s, him making the morph to thumb grip with ease, having mastered it years before. They reached out to Helen, each shook her hand. She muffed the thumb grip, but they showed no sign other than warmth.
One of the elders plucked at Helen’s still damp top, spoke to his companion then shouted off into the shadows. A female voice answered. Helen turned to see the two women had been busy. A fire was now flickering in the firepit, flames rising as it grew in strength, and a huge pot was suspended above the flames, a second smaller one beside it.
Mauwled and the elders talked a little, pausing now and then to keep Sam and Helen informed.
‘The boy you saved was one of the elder’s grandsons. A son of the chief and from his senior wife. They owe you a great debt and wish to honour you. There will be a welcoming ceremony for you in the morning.’
Sam and Helen both smiled towards the elders.
‘Please tell them it will be an honour to meet the chief. We did only what any good person would do to help a child in need, and we are pleased the boy is well,’ said Sam.
After Mauwled passed on the message, the elders shook their heads at Sam and laughed before replying.
‘They say what you did needed the courage of a lion. You cannot deny it. They honour you.’
The elders spoke again, and Mauwled listened carefully before translating.
‘It seems you are now their guests. The elders are going back to the boma now. The morani will stay to ensure your safety through the night and will bring you to the boma in the morning.’
‘Wow, that’s great,’ said Helen.
The elders smiled and nodded to her. One reached out again to her damp top and tweaked at it once more, showing it to the other. Then he turned and shouted at the women.
A woman’s voice came back again. Helen looked towards the firepit. The women were standing beside it. One was pouring the smaller pan of boiling water into an enormous teapot, which she placed on the table beside the fire; in the flickering light, Helen could see a row of mugs arranged beside it. The other was calling instructions to two of the morani as they shuffled from the shadows behind the clinic, dragging an old galvanised bathtub towards the flames.
‘There is tea for you to drink,’ said Mauwled. ‘The elders are returning to the boma now and will see you in the morning.’
Goodbye salutes were exchanged, and the two elders disappeared into the darkness as Mauwled led Sam and Helen across to the fire.
Tea was served, and Helen was happy to sip the hot, sweet brew while standing by the fire to catch a little heat.
Mauwled chatted to the morani who had all happily taken tea from the two women. Then he turned to Helen and Sam. ‘Helen, you are to bathe now, then Sam.’
‘What?’ said Helen.
‘The women have heated water for you.’
Two of the morani had taken leather patches in their hands and carried the giant pan of boiling water to the bath, where they poured it in. The women hoisted another pan of water over the fire.
Helen looked round at the ring of watching morani. ‘I’m not stripping off for a crowd. Forget it. I’d rather be dirty and cold.’
The women had been watching her and understood exactly what the problem was. They laughed and shouted at the morani, pointing towards the clinic’s veranda. The men looked at one another and laughed too but didn’t move. One of the women moved towards them, scolding, and the men retired to the veranda. A woman picked up the giant teapot and handed it to Mauwled, then pointed him and Sam towards the retreating morani.
Helen stood alone by the fire, wondering what would happen next. She threw frequent glances back at the veranda where she could see the shadows of the men moving about. Then the two women swung into action.
From the back of one donkey, they lifted a roll of stitched cowhides, it unfurled into a long strip with four wooden stakes attached. They banged the stakes into the earth, creating a three-sided vanity screen. It enclosed the bathtub and was positioned to block out the line of sight to the clinic while the open side faced close to the roaring fire.
The women took Helen by the hands and led her behind the screen where they began gently pulling at her clothes. Suddenly, Helen felt tired, weak and dirty. She didn’t resist as her clothes were peeled off and she was hustled into the hot bath. She lay back and closed her eyes, letting the heat warm her body. At the sound of giggles, she opened her eyes. The women were standing over her; one held a bar of soap the other a smaller pan of hot water.
Helen sat up as the hot water was added, topping up her bath. Then the senior woman leaned behind Helen and vigorously scrubbed at her dirty back. Back clean, she straightened up and handed Helen the soap. More hot water was added, and the two women allowed Helen to complete her bath while they inspected her dirty clothes.
Bath over, Helen decided it was time for bed and happily retired to her chosen room while the morani organised a bath for Sam. The women left with all the river-dirtied clothes, their donkeys and an escort of two morani.
Eventually, Sam made it to bed too. Mauwled climbed up to his tent on the Land Rover roof, and the two morani left behind to guard the guests squatted down on the clinic’s veranda; the muttered noise of their low voices the only sound in the quiet of the night.
30.
Saturday, 2nd November - AM
It was dark and still outside. Through the dormitory’s mesh-covered window frame, from which the glass had vanished long ago, Sam could hear the first stirrings of nature preparing for the dawn. He sat up, lifted the side of his mosquito net and flipped it over his head, letting it fall back onto the bed behind him. Slipping a hand back under the net, he pulled out the clean set of clothes he had placed under it the previous evening, and he dressed. Then, flicking on his torch he looked down at his boots, lifted them up and shook them one at a time. Nothing nasty came out, and he pulled the boots on. Having spent some hours beside the fire the previous evening, they were almost dry.
The coming of the dawn had been one of his favourite times of day when he’d served in Kenya. Now he wanted a little quiet time to revisit the experience while thinking through the impending meeting. He opened the door and stepped out onto the veranda. Closing the door quietly, he passed a moran who was sitting on a tiny three-legged stool.
Sam wandered across the clearing, coming to a halt beside the remains of the fire. He sat quietly at the table and let the emerging sounds of dawn envelop him. At first, it was quiet, almost silent. With each passing minute, the noise rose as more and more birds and insects roused and started their rituals to welcome the new day. Bit by bit, the soundscape developed as different creatures chipped in. He lay flat on the bench. In the
east, the skyline was lightening. Sam knew it was going to get much louder as morning broke.
The moran on the veranda stood, glanced over in Sam’s direction then walked to the far end. He looked out across the clearing, beyond Mauwled’s Land Rover to where he knew his friend was standing in the shadows, watching. He saw the shape of his friend and silently returned to his little stool and sat, waiting. In a little while, their long watch would be over.
The sound of approaching footsteps seemed too heavy to him, he knew it was not his friend. It must be Sam, returning, having walked right round the clinic. The moran looked up to greet Sam but could do nothing as a knife flew across the veranda and sunk into his chest. He stood, cried out, staggered forward and then fell with a thump, groaning. A dark stain spread out from his body across the pale concrete surface.
One of Park’s guards hurried across the veranda. Stopping at the groaning moran, his hands reached down. One clamped over the dying man’s mouth, the other trailed across his chest, seeking the dagger handle. Found, it was wrenched out and the moran shuddered in pain. Then the suffering ended as the blade was drawn across his throat.
Night watch over, the second moran, returned to the clinic in response to his brother warrior’s stirrings. He turned the corner in time to see the killing cut and shouted out in anger.
The crouching guard turned in surprise; he had seen only one warrior. In a single motion, he stood and drew back his knife hand. He had to pause for a moment to adjust his grip on the bloodied weapon. And it dropped from his fingers. He took an involuntary half step backwards, looked down at his chest and cried out in shock and pain. That lost moment had cost him his life. The head of the moran’s spear was embedded in his chest, seven feet of shaft sticking out in front of him. He gripped the shaft and collapsed to his knees, he screamed only once.
At the first sound of trouble, Sam’s moment of indulgence was dismissed, and he ran for the clinic. He reached the end of the veranda in time to see two men running towards him from the bush line. They had passed the Land Rover and were crossing the clearing in front of the clinic: each held a pistol and was firing as they ran. Sam grabbed the moran and pulled him down and off the end of the veranda as several rounds bit into the clinic wall punching little holes in the plaster.
The moran was furious at Sam’s intervention and struggled free. Sam signed him to keep down and then crawled to the corner. He peered round to assess the situation and found himself looking at a man’s legs. He turned his head to look up and was confronted by a Korean man pointing a pistol directly into his face. It was Park’s driver. The driver spoke into a communication headset, Sam recognised the language, Korean. It was a language he didn’t speak but he didn’t need to understand the words. From his captor’s elated tone, it was clear he was reporting a success.
The remaining Korean guard was peering over the edge of the veranda, looking for the surviving moran, but he had vanished.
‘Are you Cameron?’ said the driver. His pistol pointed unwaveringly at Sam.
Sam remained silent.
‘Are you Cameron? Boss is coming now, don’t move.’
Sam stayed still, weighed up his options; they were limited. He wondered who the boss was. Ro Soo-Ann? Here? Or was it Park?
The Korean guard was checking his fallen colleague for signs of life while still glancing about for the missing moran. He pronounced his colleague dead and stood up as another Korean appeared. Park walked quickly towards the clinic from the bush beyond the Land Rover.
As Park strode past the vehicle, there was a flurry of motion and Mauwled leapt out of his tent and down from the roof on to the passing Korean. The confusion was racked up as the tent came down to earth too, deflecting Mauwled’s machete carrying hand. Nonetheless, he still drew a deep wound across Park’s arm. Standing over Park, Mauwled lifted his blade and made to chop at Park’s prostrate body.
The Korean guard shouted in anger and aimed at Mauwled. The first shot hit Mauwled’s shoulder, the second grazed his head. Mauled dropped like a stone landing on Park’s legs and pinning them to the ground.
The driver had made the mistake of looking away for a moment in an effort to assess what was happening and Sam struck. From the ground, he couldn’t overpower the guard, but he could reach up just high enough to grab the pistol barrel tight. He did, twisting its aim away from his head. The weapon fired twice, the rounds punched harmlessly into the dry earth.
Then, as Sam clung on to the weapon and tried to get to his feet the driver kicked him hard in the chest. Kicked again. Sam had control of the weapon’s direction but was unable to get up. Each kick weakened him further.
From his vantage point on the veranda, the guard glanced at the driver and reckoned he had it under control. He knew Park needed assistance and took a step forward. While he had been looking away from the building towards where Park lay, Helen had opened the bedroom door, her only available weapon was the moran’s abandoned little stool. She stooped, picked it up and with a shriek of effort swung it hard at the back of the guard’s head.
It proved only a glancing blow, but it was enough to propel the guard off the veranda. As he stepped clear of the building, he was dropped on by the surviving moran who had scaled the veranda roof. The guard fell to the ground, rolled over but never got up as the moran’s rungu crushed his skull, twice.
A blood lust showed in the warrior’s eyes as he turned his attention towards the driver, who having seen the ferocity of the moran’s attack, stopped kicking Sam and panicked. He released his grip on the pistol and turned to flee. He had only gone three paces when the rungu struck him in the middle of his back, knocking him forward and down.
As he struggled to his feet, the moran caught him, forcing him to the ground. Pulling a knife from under his red cloak, he let the blade slice across the back of the driver’s hamstring. The driver screamed in pain and fear and rolled onto his back, reaching up in an effort to defend himself. The moran decided he would not take a chance on the driver having a hidden weapon. In a single motion, he kicked the Korean’s outstretched arms away and stooped to plunge his knife into the man’s chest. Instantly blood coughed and spluttered from the man’s mouth and then he went limp, dead.
Helen helped Sam up. He took the driver’s abandoned pistol and together they hurried across the clearing towards Mauwled. Park was gone, a trail of blood leading away into the bush. Helen knelt down to assess Mauwled while Sam got the first aid kit from the Land Rover and then stood guard in case Park resurfaced.
• • •
Less than five minutes after the Korean guard’s gunshots had filled the dawn air, a flurry of movement occurred on the path leading towards the boma as, signed by an array of red cloaks and glinting spearheads, a troop of morani trotted into the clearing. They fanned out, some working round the edges of the clearing, weaving in and out of the bush border, searching for threats. Others moved directly to the clinic. At their head was a tall slender man, his cloak bright red in the now risen sun.
The surviving moran of the guard detail bowed his head slightly towards the tall man and pointed at the dead moran on the veranda. Watching from where she was tending Mauwled’s wounds, Helen could see the anguished response of the chief as he knelt beside the dead moran and paid his respects.
Accompanied by several morani, the chief crossed the clearing to Helen and Sam. He stopped, looked down at Mauwled, assessing the condition of his wounds. Satisfied that Mauwled would live, the chief looked at Sam.
‘You may call me Charles, Charles Shanlan. I am the chief here.’ He spoke slowly, gently. A man who had to measure his words, but his English was perfect. ‘I am sorry for what has happened to your friend,’ he waved his club towards Mauwled. ‘You are all welcome here. These people have shamed me; my father had made you our guests, under our protection. This will be avenged.’
Registering the anglicised name, Sam reached out his hand and the two men shook solemnly. As he let go, Sam pointed to the blood trail leading
away into the bush. ‘One got away,’ he said.
The chief knelt down and inspected the trail. Followed the track for half a dozen paces then stopped. He beckoned over a senior moran and, pointing to the trail, spoke briefly. The senior moran looked at the blood splatter and turned back to the morani that had followed Charles across the clearing. He said just a few words then turned and headed into the bush, followed by a group of the morani.
Charles turned his attention back to the visitors. ‘You must come back to the boma. We can talk there. Will you need help with your friend?’
Sam glanced at Helen, then down to Mauwled. ‘No, thanks. I think we’ll manage in the Land Rover.’
Charles nodded and spoke in Maa to his men. Two stepped forward and gently lifted Mauwled, sliding him onto the rear passenger seat of the Land Rover. Sam thanked them, then stretched into the rear and patted Mauwled’s pockets, searching for the ignition keys - finding them.
Straightening up, Sam closed the rear door and turned back to Charles. ‘We’ll see you over there then,’ he said.
Charles waved them on. A moran leapt onto the rear of the vehicle as it moved off. He gripped hold of the roof rack with one hand, held his spear in the other and worked one leg over the rear door’s mounted spare wheel. He hung on as the vehicle left the clearing and made its slow bumpy progress along the rutted dirt track through the bush towards the boma.
‘Do you think they’ll catch the guy who ran off?’ said Helen.
‘I would think so. These morani will know the lie of the land like you know your home town.’
‘What will happen to him?’ said Helen.
