Echoes From a Distant Land

by Frank Coates

  Ira rushed to him and felt his pulse. It was racing, and his brow was hot and lathered in perspiration.

  ‘Sam,’ he whispered, but the young man only gave a low moan by way of reply.

  When he stood to call the tent boy to bring water, Sam vomited.

  That night began the worst days of Ketterman’s life. Sam was mortally ill and Ira suffered dreadfully from feelings of utter helplessness: he could do no more than tend to Sam’s comfort. He piled on blankets when he shivered. When he sweated, Ira pulled them off and sponged his feverish body to reduce his temperature. At times Ira didn’t know what was needed and sat wringing his hands and weeping in frustration.

  Even from the depths of his delirium, Sam reacted to his body’s trauma.

  ‘No! No!’ he cried on one occasion, as Ira drenched him with cooling water. Then he flung his arms around, sobbing and muttering incomprehensibly.

  Although Ira had abandoned his God, he dropped his face into his hands and begged for divine intervention.

  Sam was losing his battle and Ira felt he would lose a love beyond all knowing.

  Sam existed in a timeless, bewildering world. He stumbled through the searing heat of the Great Rift Valley with a raging thirst. A tiny figure stood on the escarpment. Somehow, Sam knew it was his grandfather and he called to him, but his throat was swollen and all that came from his mouth was a strangled sob. But the hand of Mogai appeared from a hot mist and dripped honey water into his mouth. He slept then.

  When he awoke he was on the chilly peak of Kirinyaga, buried in whiteness. His father was at his side, bathing him with icy water. Sam was chilled to the bone, but dared not offend his father in his act of kindness. With so many children, his father was seldom able to afford him the attention he craved, so he said nothing until the cold became so intense he had to beg him to stop.

  ‘No! No!’ he pleaded; and his father faded and was gone. Sam immediately regretted his pitiful weakness and called to him to return, but in vain.

  There were moments when Sam would find himself back in Ira’s tent. Most of these were mere flickering images, but on one occasion he lingered longer. There was a lamp sputtering indecisively on the table where Ira sat in his chair, an open book in his lap. He was staring at the blank tent wall, a picture of wretchedness. Sam tried to reach out, to touch him, to reassure him, but his arms were leaden. He slept.

  When he awoke some time later, Mothoni stood in the far corner of the tent, her face concealed in shadows. She had not been in his thoughts for a long time, and he wondered why she’d come to him, but when the lantern flared, throwing a light on her face, he realised it was not Mothoni, but a beautiful white woman.

  She held two babies. She walked forwards, offering the children to him. Sam couldn’t free his arms from the weight of the cotton sheet and, after a brief and pitiful effort, he became exhausted and fell into unconsciousness again.

  Upon arriving in Nairobi, Ira wasted no time in getting Sam admitted to the small hospital. It was two more anxious days before the young man’s fever broke. Ira was unspeakably relieved; he hid his joy by fussing about Sam like a mother hen.

  The Indian doctor told Ira that although Sam said he felt fully recovered, he thought it prudent that he remain in bed for further rest.

  ‘Your servant was lucky to survive, Mr Ketterman,’ he said. ‘He must have the constitution of a bull. But we shouldn’t take any chances.’

  That afternoon, when Ira came to visit, he told Sam about the doctor’s orders.

  ‘But I am well.’

  ‘I know you want to see your family again, but it’s only a day or two more.’

  Sam looked unhappy.

  ‘And your time here has given me the chance to make some arrangements,’ Ira said.

  ‘Arrangements?’

  Ira nodded. He hadn’t planned to tell Sam about his enquiries until he’d confirmed all the details, but he felt sufficiently confident of the outcome to use the news to lift Sam’s mood.

  ‘Sam, you’re a bright young man,’ Ira began, ‘and you’ve made it patently clear to me that your most cherished wish would be to continue your education, but …’

  He paused. It was the wrong emphasis.

  He started again. ‘What I’m trying to say is: I have no family. No heirs. I suppose when I die I could leave my money to the dogs’ home, but I don’t like dogs.’

  ‘Why are you talking about dogs and dying?’ Sam asked. ‘Was I not the one who was sick?’

  ‘You were, and thank God you are well again, but that’s what got me thinking. Sam, you saved my life. I know you say it was only what anyone would do, but the fact is … it was you, and um … What I’m trying to say is, about your education … You know that here there are only limited opportunities for a native like yourself. Nobody gets any further than what your mission school has to offer. And no chance to use even that. But in New York you could receive a real education. I was admitted to New York University because, historically, entry there is based on merit, not birthright or social class. And now they’ve gone further: they’ve started a positive discrimination policy. I have a friend at NYU who would be interested in taking on a student such as you. Someone who is keen to learn and will work hard. A role model. And someone who is, uh, black. It’s a great opportunity and … Did I say I will set up a trust to pay for your living expenses? Well, yes I will. New York is not like Nairobi, you know. It’s very expensive, but don’t let that worry you.’

  Sam looked puzzled.

  ‘Sam, what is it?’

  ‘Mr Ketterman, are you telling me you want me to go to New York to study?’

  ‘Yes, I am. Oh, wait until you see New York, Sam. It’s so exciting. The buildings. Take the Woolworth building — fifty-seven storeys! And the parks … the shops. Sam? What is it?’

  ‘New York, Mr Ketterman.’

  ‘Yes?’ Ira said, his enthusiasm growing in the telling of it.

  ‘New York is far.’

  ‘Certainly, it’s far, but I will pay for your berth. Everything. Sam, I want to do this. I want to do this for you.’

  Sam was looking uncomfortable, and Ira’s smile faded.

  ‘Mr Ketterman,’ he said. ‘I can’t go to New York.’

  CHAPTER 8

  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.