Chasing the Sun with Henry

by Gary Brockwell

  ‘The children joined us and stared quietly at the remains of my picnic. “You will have to come back with us and eat,” she suddenly said, smiling. I protested, but she was insistent and so very beautiful. She introduced herself as Kamili, and again smiled warmly.

  ‘I felt obliged to accept and found myself heading back, not to a school as I presumed, but to my surprise an orphanage. The children in the park were merely the tip of the iceberg – the dusty grounds of the orphanage teemed with life, from toddlers to adolescents, and the same number again peered through the open windows of a block of low-level buildings at this stranger, but that soon developed into smiles and waves as their natural curiosity fought and won the battle against their shyness.

  ‘Kamili explained that she was the full-time principal, part-time nurse, and teacher of the orphanage. She shared over lunch her hopes for the future of the children who were safe in this environment, her realisation that this work merely skimmed over the surface of child poverty in the city, and her frustration at the lack of government funding. She also introduced me to Makini, the full-time cook, cookery teacher and part-time nurse, and to Amali, a man who acted as a caretaker for the orphanage and taught practical life skills to all the children. A Dr Rahma would normally have been here today too, but she was delayed treating another orphanage that had had an outbreak of measles.

  ‘Kamili’s passion and dedication swept me up; her optimism sparked in me, inspired me. Here was I, useless at every aspect of the coffee business, but paid an allowance and living in comfort, and the same would potentially still be the case when I took my place on the stock exchange floor; my shortcomings cushioned by monetary wealth. I was humbled by the selfless actions of these wonderful, gifted people. I wanted to help, felt an urge to contribute, and offered there and then to teach English to the children. Kamili’s face lit up and she hugged me, and that when I knew it – I was in love.’

  Gus stopped speaking again and looked up, I presume to gauge our reaction, to ascertain if he should continue. But we all just stared at him blankly; his words absorbed Mary’s tears of sorrow. Of all the stories he had told down the years, this was truly the most memorable, and the one we could connect to most of all.

  ‘I know what you are thinking – love at first sight, yeah, right! But it was; it’s the only way I can explain the emotion that consumed me. On an otherwise uneventful day, that sunny afternoon, four thousand miles from home, in the middle of noisy, dusty Nairobi, I had stumbled across my purpose for existence.

  ‘After an introduction from Kamili, I spent thirty minutes teaching a group of younger children the I’m a Little Teapot song and actions. You know the one?’

  We all nodded as Gus placed a hand on his hip and formed a spout with his other arm.

  ‘After the lesson ended, I headed back to the City Park, waited for the estate manager and told him I wouldn’t be going back with him that day. He gave me a knowing look and said he understood totally. But he didn’t understand at all; his presumption of lust leading me was misplaced. I spent the next week living, eating, teaching and sleeping in the orphanage. When the estate manager returned the following Monday, I advised him I wouldn’t be back for a considerable time. I knew it wouldn’t be an issue for my father; I believed I had a free rein within reason. The estate manager nodded respectfully and commented that she must be very special.

  ‘It was that night that I was invited to share Kamili’s bed for the first time, and that was where I slept for the rest of my time in Kenya. I enjoyed the teaching, the enthusiasm of the young people, the energy they radiated, and I marvelled at how they could flourish and reach their individual potential despite the terrible scenes they had witnessed or circumstances they had been dealt. As I had promised Kamili in the City Park, I organised them into three football teams. The initial coaching, if I am honest, was soul-destroying, but one by one they got it, the whole essence of the game of football. They stopped running around after the ball en masse and instead finally held the positions allotted to them and passed and moved, passed and moved their way across the pitch. I enrolled them in a city league; one team reached the semi-final of the cup competition, another finished third in the league, and the last remained, sadly, a work in progress.

  ‘One day Kamili sat with me watching the children play and told me that over half had lost their parents to AIDS, and that a quarter of those were themselves HIV positive. The remainder, she explained, had witnessed rape, torture, murder and abject poverty, but the repercussions of this turmoil remained trapped deep inside of them. With support from Kamili and the rest of the tireless staff, the children gladly grabbed the second chance presented to them. We lived and loved in that orphanage and didn’t seek the sadness that we knew ultimately would have to be revealed as the months became weeks, the weeks became days and the days became hours before I had to break away and return home.

  ‘Three days before my departure, as Kamili lay in my arms, listening to the nocturnal world come alive outside our window, it struck me. I didn’t have to go into a profession I knew and cared little for; I had a choice, I could decide. I should apply for a work permit to return to Nairobi and make a difference to children’s lives, to support these young people on a long-term basis. We could do so much more good work, but this would need funding. I decided to speak to my family, to relay all the selfless deeds done here to better the lives of others, and what a real difference it made in revealing a future where before there was none. When they were aware, I knew my family would happily donate funds to this cause I believed in so strongly. I shared my vision with Kamili and told her, excitedly, that Amali could have a proper set of tools for maintenance of the orphanage, and a workshop kitted out with workbenches to teach in. Makini would have a purpose-built kitchen and a food science area to pass on her knowledge. We could employ a full-time nurse and a counsellor to work on the children’s health and all would receive a salary or allowance. The children would have new beds, new clothes, new classroom desks, new books – in fact, new everything!’

  Gus went quiet again, choosing his words.

  ‘At the airport, I told Kamili I loved her and that I would return as soon as my working visa was approved. We walked slowly to the departure gate, willing time to stop, even for a short while, and to ensure I didn’t cry, I made the practical suggestion that she should set up a bank account for the orphanage, as the funds would start arriving before I returned.’

  Gus stopped speaking and looked ahead, anxious.

  ‘Imagine those ridiculous words being the last ones spoken between us,’ he added.

  Clifford reached for his hand and held it firmly, like a father would a child’s.

  ‘Oh, Gus,’ murmured Mary.

  ‘I never saw her again,’ he whispered, confirming what we had already surmised.

  We sat, wanting to know more, but not prepared to probe – it was Gus’ decision whether to proceed or not.

  ‘One week after I left, a military coup tried but failed to overthrow the National Assembly, which led to a spate of civil unrest, looting and rioting in Nairobi. Kamili, for whatever reason, was in the wrong place at the wrong time and was killed by a bullet fired from the security forces as they struggled to regain control during a riot. It took me six weeks to receive tangible confirmation that she had died; one of the older children I had taught English to wrote me a letter – this is pre-mobile phones, remember, but it was mere confirmation; inside I already knew she was gone, I just knew it.’

  Gus looked up and smiled ironically. ‘It’s funny, you know, that first week back home, I never got the chance to tell my father about the orphanage and the funding required. Every time I prepared to discuss it, which was often, he appeared disinterested and swung the conversation around to the city etiquette I would need to adhere to. And when I knew, instinctively, watching the evening news reports coming out of Nairobi, that Kamili was dead, I made the
decision to come quietly, to conform, I knew I couldn’t take up the task on my own and sadly scrapped the idea of providing support, of bringing safety and refuge to those who were disadvantaged, as my – and I don’t say this lightly – soulmate was no longer there; my spark, my purpose was gone. It now felt as if my spontaneous lurch into happiness had been foolish, a sign of my immaturity which I should not share with anyone, least of all my father. But inside I had died. I wanted to run away.

  ‘A week later, I plucked up the courage to tell my father I wanted to travel for another year before I started work and surprisingly, he readily agreed. But on two conditions: I mustn’t return to Kenya and I was to pay my own way; I would have only limited funds. I booked a flight on Qantas and nine weeks later touched down in Sydney. The following year was and remains a bit of a blur – Australia, Swiss Alps, Florida – but you all know the stories that I can remember!’

  We laughed politely at his confession of memory loss.

  The buzzer sounded, confirming visiting time was over, and seemed to conclude Gus’ willingness to divulge any further personal and painful details.

  Clifford moved the mask over his nostrils again in preparation to speak.

  ‘Sorry I asked you now, son, that must be painful to retell,’ he said, taking hold of Gus’ hand again.

  ‘Actually, feels good talking about it, been a long time,’ Gus insisted, placing his other hand on top of Clifford’s and rising.

  ‘Have a good trip. And enjoy the race. Life is too short,’ Mary stated, and regretted her choice of words instantly.

  Gus smiled and walked past the bed with a wave, as Clifford placed his mask fully over his face once more. Gus stopped and looked at us all in turn.

  ‘Do you know what the name Kamili means in Swahili?’

  ‘No, Gus,’ Mary and I said.

  ‘It means “perfect”, and she certainly was,’ he said, and walked out of the ward without another glance at us.

  ‘I’ll pick you up at 8.30, Gus,’ I called after him, which he acknowledged with a wave of his hand.

  The three of us sat (and lay) in silence, each processing their own interpretation of Gus’ doomed affair. It was obvious he still loved this woman, even after all these years. Despite what he had said to Clifford, the pain of speaking and remembering that year long ago in Africa was still intolerable for him, but I respected him for his efforts to ensure that Clifford’s final time here was as comfortable as it possibly could be.

  I was sure Gus wondered what life would have planned out for him and Kamili. What adventures they would have had together, how the orphanage would have grown, brought more love, more support and comfort to a stream of forgiving children. Perhaps he imagined their own family growing around them; perhaps he wondered what life would be like with Kamili by his side that very day, that very moment in time. I couldn’t understand why he did not go back to the orphanage, why he did not explain to his father the need for finance and the good it would encourage. But then again, I didn’t know his father, and I did know that grief taunts everyone in an individual way; in the particular way we are, as a person, most crushed – no two experiences of it are ever the same.

  Movement around me and the sound of chairs being pushed back signalled that it was time for my departure too. Besides, I knew Clifford’s favourite TV quiz show was scheduled to begin soon and his concentration would be fully on that.

  Mary stood and wheeled over the TV to the foot of the bed in preparation and untangled the earphones caught around it. She clicked through the channels, ready for the familiar host and studio set to be revealed soon on the screen.

  ‘I’ll get those papers for you tonight, Mary,’ I said, putting on my fleece.

  ‘What papers?’ she replied, offering up the earphones to Clifford.

  ‘From Ted’s, for the diesel.’

  Mary shook her head in a lack of recognition.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out, it’s not a problem.’

  ‘Mrs Wilson?’

  Mary turned at the sound of her name.

  ‘Could I have a word with you, please?’ asked the consultant now standing at the foot of the bed, a laptop trapped under his arm. ‘Mr Wilson,’ he addressed Clifford respectfully.

  Clifford nodded slowly to the white-coated man.

  ‘We’ll go to the relatives’ room,’ he suggested brightly.

  I stood awkwardly as Mary followed the doctor slowly toward the far end of the ward before he disappeared around a corner. She stopped after a few steps and looked behind her at me.‘Eddie, will you come too, please?’

  I put my hand up to Clifford, and without saying a word I followed her to a part of the ward I had not previously visited.

  The relatives’ room door was open, and sitting on a table with his legs swinging freely was the consultant. Beside him, he had the laptop open.

  ‘Please, please, do come in, close the door,’ he instructed us both. ‘Are you the son?’ he directed at me.

  ‘No, this is Eddie, a very good friend,’ said Mary as an explanation.

  The consultant nodded and looked at the laptop, searching for a file on the screen.

  ‘Okay,’ he started, looking up again, ‘Mr Wilson has been here for a while now. We have tried two types of antibiotics on him, to fight the infection.’

  Mary nodded in agreement.

  ‘The second course was successful.’

  This time I nodded, feeling positive.

  ‘But as you see, his condition has not improved.’

  Now Mary and I looked at each other, confused, but remained silent.

  ‘So this morning, we carried out a further CT scan on him to see what was really going on in there. I’ve got the results here, cracking pictures.’

  He turned the laptop around to share the images of Clifford’s lungs on the screen with us. He moved a finger across the control pad and animated the images back and forth, back and forth. To Mary and me, it looked like an indecipherable ink splat that expanded and receded into itself with each showing. Running it backwards or forwards made no difference to us.

  The consultant stopped the animation suddenly and told us to look at the screen. He pointed to a small area that was coloured white, and turned to us.

  ‘This is Mr Wilson’s problem, here,’ he said knowledgably.

  ‘What is that?’ I asked.

  ‘Unfortunately, it shows clearly now that there is an excessive formation of CT.’

  ‘CT?’ asked Mary.

  ‘Sorry, connective tissue build-up, otherwise known as fibrosis.’

  We sat in silence, not fully understanding what was being relayed to us.

  ‘Actually, to give it its full title, the disease is called “idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis, on account of the fact that we have no idea where it has originated from for Mr Wilson.’

  We still did not understand.

  ‘Now you know what it is, how do you treat it?’ asked Mary.

  ‘Mrs Wilson…’ began the medic. He paused for a moment, before leaning forwards from his seated position. ‘The prognosis is bad,’ he said quietly, with compassion in his voice. ‘It is not treatable, I am afraid.’

  Mary put a hand up to her mouth and shook her head.

  ‘Those white areas here are scarring,’ said the doctor, pointing once again at the screen. ‘They are where Mr Wilson’s lung capability has died. Whatever was in there causing it is still there, it will get worse. There is nothing we can do to halt this. I am really sorry.’

  ‘Have you told him? Does he know? I thought it was bad, but I thought he would get better, come home,’ lamented Mary.

  ‘Yes, he does know, we spoke to him at length this morning. He wanted me to tell you tonight after visiting, wanted to make sure you had one less day to worry about it,’ revea
led the doctor, with a sympathetic half-smile on his lips. ‘He is a very special man, Mrs Wilson,’ he added.

  I took hold of Mary’s hand as she bowed her head. By the bedside earlier, when she appeared to give up hope, there must have been something inside her still believing that her Clifford, the summer fete bouncer, would recover, would go home. Maybe not able to work on the farm, but home in any case. But the words of the consultant had destroyed that hope and opened up a reality that she didn’t want to see.

  ‘How long?’ she asked simply to the floor.

  ‘Hard to say, really – wish I could be more specific for you. A couple of days, I would estimate.’

  ‘And does he know that, a couple of days?’ asked Mary, still staring at the floor.

  ‘Yes he does, Mrs Wilson. Yes he does. He also wishes not to see anyone else now; only you, Mrs Wilson, it is his decision, his choice. Eddie,’ he began, addressing me directly, ‘this gives you an opportunity to say your goodbyes. In my experience, you should try to use this time; it will be invaluable for you all later.’

  ‘Is he in pain?’ I asked, and then felt foolish.

  ‘He continues to struggle to take a breath. We will give him morphine now, and this will help make him comfortable,’ replied the doctor, matter-of-factly.

  I nodded, not knowing what to say; the thought of saying goodbye so quickly, so rushed, so final, just wouldn’t compute.

  The medic allowed a respectful amount of time to pass before speaking again.