by Frank Coates
He pulled a couple of bench seats together. He would sleep for a couple of hours before trying again to get some sense from Mutisa.
Jelani slept poorly and awoke before dawn. His canvas sheet had done little to fend off the chill mountain air. He was stiff with cold and fatigue. When the clearing brightened with first light, he climbed out of his canvas cocoon, stretched, and vigorously rubbed his arms to warm them.
His hands shook with the cold as he checked the pistol, working the safety catch on and off and spinning the chamber. Then he replaced it in its sheath and tucked it into his belt.
The clearing skirted the lion’s head landmark. On the other side was the path to the camp. He couldn’t recall how much further it was from there, but he thought it probably another mile or so. He remembered a swampy lake fringed with rushes that would afford him the cover he needed to make his final approach. Before that, the path rose with the ridge; he’d be able to reconnoitre there and refine his plan.
The bush was coming alive with sounds. Every snap or scuttle in the undergrowth made his heart leap. A gentle breeze came up, shaking the dew from the high branches. It fell in heavy drops like the sound of approaching footsteps.
A hadada ibis gave its long mournful cry: Haw haw haw!
Following it was the shrill keening call of a fish eagle. He looked up. The clouds had cleared and the eagle hovered against a pale blue sky.
The lake! It must be close, which meant he was nearer to the camp than he thought.
He caught a movement out the corner of his eye. A man with matted hair, in a ragged shirt, trousers torn off at the knees and bare feet, stepped from the foliage.
He pointed the barrel of his ancient rifle at Jelani.
The Aberdare Ranges brooded in the long shadows of morning. Sam thrust his aching body through the bamboo forest where the thick poles resisted his every step. The dew on the scimitar leaves drenched him and the blades cut him and itched him, but he pressed on up the steep rise until he reached the crest.
The continuing cloud cover gave him hope. He had no way of knowing the exact time the bombers would come, but if the clouds didn’t lift, the bombing run would be aborted. Of course, the Lincoln bombers were only part of the problem. His son was in even greater danger should he end up in the hands of the Mau Mau.
Before him stretched the endless foothills, climbing layer on layer into the hazy blue where the jungle disappeared into the clouds. On the rise directly ahead, was the lion’s head rock. It was just as Collins Mutisa had described it when Sam left him at the track out of Barako village. Mutisa was suffering badly from the changa’a of the previous night, and Sam knew he’d be more hindrance than help, so he left him there to make his way home.
He arrived in a clearing and rested on a fallen tree while his heart pounded in his ears and his vision clouded with tears of exhaustion. He was fifty-four, and felt it.
Somewhere in the distance, a bull elephant grumbled in annoyance, then silence returned briefly before he heard rustling in the bush.
He froze. A small herd of male impala came into the clearing, pawing the ground in the heat of the rut and jousting with lowered antlers. They did mock battle for a few minutes before they caught his scent and bounded away.
He considered what to do when he reached Kimathi’s camp. He now thought it unlikely that he would catch Jelani before he got there. He therefore needed to anticipate Jelani’s next move. What was in his head? Why had he come here? What did he plan to do? He guessed Jelani would do what Sam would have done at his age and under similar circumstances: he would try to kill Kimathi — the man responsible for the death of his loved one. But he knew Jelani was smart enough to know he must watch and wait for an opportunity. In that case, Sam might have time to find him before he put himself at risk. His next task would be to convince his headstrong son to abandon his mission. That would be more difficult, but it was a problem for another time.
He dragged himself to his feet, and followed the edge of the clearing towards lion’s head rock. Just off to the side, under a tree, he noticed a canvas sheet. He kneeled to examine it and found it was clean, and appeared to have been very recently discarded. Had it been Jelani’s?
He turned to the clearing to find it awash with sunlight. Above him, the cloud had lifted, and the sun flared brightly in a pale blue sky.
Jelani headed down the track with the rifle of his taciturn captor close to his back.
The Mau Mau camp was a shambles. There was no shame in living in huts made entirely of bush materials, nor of cooking on simple open fires that could be doused should enemy aircraft be heard, but the camp was dirty and unsanitary. There was nothing of the noble warrior in any of the men’s demeanours. They watched him pass with greedy eyes: What did he have that could be useful to them?
Jelani and his guard were joined by two others and they led him to a hut, slightly larger than the others, but equally shoddily made. Kimathi sat outside it with a long-bladed knife, slicing strips of bark from a small sapling. He was now heavily bearded and his hair, which had been braided into Rastafarian rat-tails, had grown out, and hung in long matted coils. He had a rolled newspaper cigarette hanging from his mouth.
Jelani stood flanked by his escorts for some time without comment from Kimathi. He seemed preoccupied by his whittling. Finally, he looked up through the curling smoke with bleary red-rimmed eyes.
‘So … you’ve come,’ he said, as if he’d been expecting no one else.
He took a long draw on the cigarette and exhaled a lung-full of smoke into the air above him. The acrid scent of cannabis struck Jelani’s nostrils.
‘Hello, Dedan,’ he said.
‘You may address me as Field Marshal Kimathi.’
Jelani guessed he would have to choose his words carefully. This was not the young man he had helped escape from custody and who had sat with him in the Ngong Forest discussing philosophy and freedom.
‘I’m sorry. Of course. Field Marshal Kimathi.’
‘A long time, my friend,’ Kimathi said. ‘You are looking very prosperous. Life in Nairobi must be good, ah?’
One of his guards placed Jelani’s holstered revolver on the ground beside Kimathi.
‘Oh-ho! What is this, my friend? Have you brought me a gift? No? Or were you planning a hunting expedition?’
He looked at Jelani, but he made no response.
‘Green eyes. That’s it. I always wondered about that little bit of green in your eyes. And your fair skin.’ He took the revolver from its sheath, and twirled it around like a Hollywood cowboy. He pointed it at Jelani. ‘Bang!’ he said, grinning. Then he pointed it at his own head. ‘Bang!’
He flicked off the safety and pointed the pistol in the air and let off a couple of quick volleys.
Two of the guards fell to the ground.
Kimathi roared with laughter. ‘Look at them!’ he said, pointing to the men now climbing to their feet, abashed. ‘Cowards. And they are meant to protect me. Hah!’
He narrowed his eyes at Jelani. ‘And look at you, my friend,’ he added with venom. ‘You are a spy.’ He spat on the ground beside him. ‘And I sentence you to death.’
Sam heard two quick reports of a firearm. The sound echoed around the valley. He strained to hear anything more, but the low belly rumble of a distant elephant was all he heard.
He hurried on, trying to imagine what might have prompted the shots. His gut was in a knot; he pictured his son confronted by armed Mau Mau thugs, struggling with them, attempting to flee. Falling. Bleeding.
A gasp of exasperation and anxiety escaped him. He was panting, straining every fibre of his body to get to the camp while he could still help him.
The rumble came again on the wind. This time it was more of a roar. But it was not an elephant as he had imagined.
‘Oh, no!’ he groaned.
Like soaring vultures high in the heavens, the Lincoln bombers appeared.
He dashed on, missing the turn in the track, plummeting into the t
hick understorey, bounding, falling, rolling, rising and running again. He sobbed with the effort and he knew he would be too late. The deep droning of the heavy engines were above him, but he kept going.
The first thousand-pound bomb struck the hillside a half-mile ahead of him. The ground shook. Moments later another fell. And another. The ground heaved with every ear-shattering explosion.
From immediately ahead came a trumpeting shriek. Moments later, the forest was torn apart as a herd of stampeding elephants crashed from the undergrowth, shattering saplings and small trees in their path.
Sam dived for the cover of a large tree and cringed at its base until the herd had thundered past.
Scrambling to his feet, he returned to the track.
A high-pitched whistle hurt his ears and, an instant later, the earth erupted in a fireball ahead of him. He was thrown backwards by the concussion. He was oblivious to the shower of splintered plant debris, rock and dirt that fell on him.
When the first bomb came whistling from the sky, Jelani remained standing as Kimathi and his guards dived to the ground. It struck an enormous tree a hundred yards away, splitting the massive trunk into kindling. A succession of bombs caused chaos and men dashed about in all directions.
After his initial shock, Jelani regained his senses and darted for the bush. Amid all the surrounding noise he didn’t hear the pistol shots, but Kimathi’s bullet zinged close to his ear. He ran on in a crouch and rolled into the concealment of the forest.
Behind him were screams and explosions. The whole jungle seemed alight with star bursts. Trees shattered. Rocks bounced around him like basketballs as he ran.
He was about a mile away when, as abruptly as it had started, the bombardment ceased.
As he continued his dash through the forest, the ringing in his ears slowly abated and the sounds of the bush returned. He stopped when he came upon a forest hog snorting and snuffling in the newly turned earth of a bomb crater. It looked at him with baleful red eyes before it grunted and turned away. Jelani waited until its bristly ridged back disappeared into the undergrowth.
Jelani looked to the sun to gain his bearings, then continued down the mountain at a brisk walk.
Sam climbed from the abyss of unconsciousness into a realm of searing light and a deafening ringing in his ears. He was on his back, looking at the sky through tree branches that had been stripped of their canopy of leaves. His head pounded and his body was numb and heavy.
He looked around him. It took him a moment to regain his bearings. He was in the forest. Near Mt Kinangop. The Mau Mau camp.
Jelani.
He lifted his head, but the remainder of his body refused to respond. He looked down to his feet. His leg looked very strange.
Bomb craters pock-marked the forest around Jelani as he hurried down the track. He thought it unlikely that Kimathi would bother rallying his troops to pursue him, but, unarmed and revealed, he knew he was best to leave retribution to the administration’s heavy weaponry.
He picked his way through the remains of a huge podocarpus tree that blocked the track. It had been shattered by a bomb, and the ragged stump, four feet thick, stood defiant and alone at the centre of a space denuded of all vegetation. The deep crater had exposed even the roots of the once mighty monolith.
He saw a man lying off to the side of the track. Most of his clothes had been torn from him and he lay unmoving, an arm shielding his face.
A splintered section of tree trunk had smashed and partially removed his leg below the knee, severing an artery. Blood continued to weakly pump from the mutilated stump. There were no other wounds, except one ear that oozed blood.
Jelani looked around, then kneeled by the body, and reached to take the man’s pulse. The figure lifted his arm from his face.
‘Sam!’
He opened his eyes.
‘Jelani,’ he whispered. ‘Thank God. I was coming to get you, before … before …’
‘It’s all right,’ Jelani said, but knew it wasn’t. He was amazed to find his father still alive. He stared at his leg. He knew little of medical matters, but it was obvious his father would not make it out of the forest.
‘It’s not good,’ Sam said.
For a moment, Jelani thought he should lie. Wasn’t there something about making a dying man comfortable in his last moments? But looking into Sam’s eyes he could see that attempting to deceive him would be useless. And in the case of someone as smart as his father, demeaning.
‘No,’ Jelani conceded. ‘It’s not good.’
‘I can’t hear you,’ Sam said, ‘but I’d say you agree with me.’ He smiled and added, ‘For once.’
Jelani reached for his hand and held it. He was surprised to feel the strength in his father’s grip.
‘There’s so much to say,’ Sam said. ‘So much time to make up, and yet … there’s no time.’
‘Sam,’ Jelani said. ‘Father.’
‘Shh,’ Sam said, gripping his hand tightly again. ‘I can’t hear you, remember?’ He closed his eyes and struggled to take a breath before continuing.
‘I didn’t know about you. I didn’t know I had a son. Tell Dana, your mother … tell her it’s all right. Tell her I understand. I only wish she could have told me. It might have been different. I could have … I could have …’
His hand went limp in Jelani’s grip.
There had been too much death in a short space of time, and it took Jelani a few moments to accept that his father was gone.
He didn’t weep. Sam had been too remote; too far removed from his life until recent times. Even then, he’d emerged as a figure more easily identified with his enemies than with his friends and family. He couldn’t weep for his father, but he could weep for a man who’d lost his life while trying to save another.
And he could weep for the other lives lost in the savage war to win precious Kikuyu land. The war — which he could now see was a long way from over — was between white and black; between the colonial government and the Mau Mau, with idealists bent on compromise trapped and immobilised in the middle. It was a war that would have no winners.
Jelani decided that he, and all the combatants, would simply have to find a path to peace that as many Kenyans as possible could accept.
EPILOGUE
13 DECEMBER 1963
Nyayo Stadium was buzzing with excitement. In the section of the grandstand decorated with national flags and red, green and black bunting, was the podium that awaited Jomo Kenyatta, the recently elected Prime Minister of Kenya.
The Duke of Edinburgh chatted with the Governor and in the tiered seats at the back of the stand were members of the Kenyan government, seated in strict order of seniority.
Jelani had reserved Dana’s seat among the special guests immediately she agreed to come to the independence celebrations. She was grateful for it. Her health had not been good since her heart attack; and standing among the crowd, even in the cool of the Nairobi night, would have challenged her. But she would not have missed seeing Jelani take his place, seated about midway among the government seats of this, the world’s newest independent nation.
The muted monotone of crowd sounds rumbling around the packed stadium suddenly changed. It was as if the night had become charged with static electricity. A camera flashed at the foot of the stairs to the podium, followed by a dozen others — one of them undoubtedly Emerald’s.
A collective sigh escaped the twenty thousand throats before everyone was on their feet, roaring as Jomo Kenyatta mounted the steps to the podium.
It had been ten years since their last reunion. On that occasion no one had been joyful. And although it took something as monumental as Kenya’s independence to draw the three of them together it gave Dana enormous joy to witness her two children reunited.
She seldom saw Emerald since she’d taken up her position as the New York Times’ senior photojournalist. At the tender age of thirty-one, she was considered among the best in her field. The appointment vindicated her deci
sion to forgo the position of chairperson of the Middlebridge industrial empire. Dana had supported her in that decision, much to Oswald’s chagrin. When he died a year later, Emerald inherited half his fortune anyway, and had the luxury of pursuing her career without the need for it to support her.
The last time Dana had come to Kenya was two years after Sam’s death, when she’d helped Jelani set up the trust that would continue Sam’s scholarships for young Kenyans. The government had buried Sam a hero who died while trying to verify the position of the Mau Mau’s main camp. Governor Baring called him a true patriot. At least he got that part right.
Before that trip she had not been as close to her son as either of them were to Emerald, but during that time, as they worked together to create a legacy for his father, she knew that Jelani came to feel real love for her. He’d made two visits to London since then, one as part of the Kenyan delegation to negotiate the terms for independence, and they had used those visits to build a friendship she felt very lucky to have.
After Oswald died, Dana moved to a small house in Mayfair, where she lived a quiet, some said lonely, life. But she was content. She’d had a memorable youth and those memories kept her well entertained even now. They had been tumultuous days with Edward and the Zephyr club and her dear horses — and, of course, Sam. She had loved every minute with him. They’d been among the happiest moments of her life. To be in Kenya again, a country barely healed from a period of brutality, greed and fear, surrounded by tentative hope for the future — and her two beautiful, shining children — was more excitement than she had imagined she would experience again.
Kenyatta held aloft his signature colobus monkey-fur fly whisk and waited until the stadium was silent.
Then he began: ‘This is one of the happiest moments of my life …’
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction. Many of its events are historically accurate, but all characters are fictitious except for the British officials, some of the Mau Mau leaders and Jomo Kenyatta.
