by Carl Hancock
Alex was for saying nothing. He would have liked it if everyone else could have held back, but perhaps if it all spilled out now when they were all relaxed and receptive it would work out for the best.
Bertie was ready to try to explain himself to the boys. ‘Tom Mboya. Remember the name?’
‘I’ve heard Dad mention him.’
‘Rollo, that man was a hero to me and your dad. Where do you think your brother gets his name? And Rusinga, his home town. He was a Luo. He had everything — brilliant mind, good-looking and the people adored him. I was in Nairobi the day they got him, gunned him down like a rat. Kenyatta and the rest of our enlightened rulers, they couldn’t stand to see a giant in their pygmy land.
‘That was the day when this country began to die. Nineteen sixty-nine, six years after Uhuru. They’ve gunned down a few more since then, but he was the best. After that the hands were never out of the till.
‘Poor Africans, robbed every day of their lives. And people breeding faster than malaria. Aids, TB can knock them out. I’m sorry. Forgive me for going on. Alex, my friend, pass me a stiff drink!’
‘When, Bertie?’
‘I’m not sure, Rollo. Probably after Easter. I want to make sure the money’s got to Perth. American dollars.’
Tom wanted to be angry but was afraid and knew it would help no one. And he loved Bertie and Ewan so much. But it was unbearable to see this strong man giving in. Perhaps the memories were killing him. But he wanted to ram it down the throat of this beloved man that he was selling more than just the one farm. Unless some Kenyan had the guts to knock Rubai off, he would keep chipping away until he had the whole lake for himself. Then God help everyone!
* * *
See the puffs of dust thrown up by three vehicles speeding along the empty road on Boxing Day morning and climbing gently along the eastern flank of the Rift Valley. Headlights were pointed arrow straight. No one in the cars saw the few bits of game flicking an ear and peering through the last darkness of the night to see if there was danger in the noise. Tom set the pace in the slowest mover, the blue Land Rover. Lucy sat next to him and Rebecca by the half open window. Maura had Rafaella and Angela for passengers in the Land Cruiser and Bertie bowled along behind in the white 504. Doris had a lively Ewan under control in the back seat. Rollo had changed his mind about flying and he was at Bertie’s side, this time with no sign of a gun. The rifle and box of ammunition were stowed under the top layer of clothes and kit in the boot. Bertie had reminded himself that when they stopped in Nairobi on the way home he must go in search of some suitcases.
After the Italian church the road became steep as it snaked its way out of the Valley. On the top they joined the dual carriageway that would bring them down to Nairobi. Rebecca knew this road very well from her schooldays down in the city, but she had rarely been on it so early. Small townships lined both sides of the road and she enjoyed seeing the growing numbers of people out and about starting a new day and the thin columns of blue smoke rising from the little chimneys of the houses and the dukas. She hated the deep piles of garbage. She hated but she understood. It will rot away — eventually.
Breakfast had been ordered at the Muthaiga for seven o’clock. Tom was not surprised when Rebecca turned down the offer to eat in the famous L-shaped club dining room. She stayed with her mother and Doris and later took Ewan for a walk on the wet fairways of the golf course.
The twenty-sixth of December is the second best morning of the year for travelling by car along the main roads of the city. Uhuru Highway, right down to the Mombasa turn-off, was almost empty. They filled up at the last service station for a hundred kilometres. The journey south to the ocean had really begun. They decided that from here on they would drive at their own speed and meet at Voi for a break and a fill-up.
The line of the single carriageway was as straight as a good French road and the verges were wide. But there were hazards. It was slightly too narrow for easy overtaking, especially on normal days when hundreds of trucks were humping their big loads up to and down from the hinterland. Often the drop from the bitumen to the verge was as much as a foot deep and watch out for those dips and crests in the road, invisible even from a distance of two hundred metres. Fortunately, Chinese engineers had been at work on the surfaces and the worst of the potholes, some of them real car-swallowers, were gone, at least for now.
The powerful drone of Land Rover engine was no encouragement to conversation. One girl at his side and Tom would have been chattering away merrily. But with the mix as it was, each of them felt their own kind of awkwardness. There was too much need for measuring words. The landscape and its frequent changes were more than enough distraction. Two hours into the journey and they spotted their first baobab tree.
‘Luce, this is where the heat begins to crank up.’
About fifty kilometres out from Voi his mirror told him that a big black car was coming up fast. It turned out that there were four black cars, all Mercedes, the leader honking loudly from a hundred metres back. He glanced across as they sped by. The Rubais! Tom felt his grip tightening on the steering wheel.
The first two and the last cars were being driven by chauffeurs, big men in full grey livery. From the first, Abel himself raised a stiff-armed wave and a solemn nod. In car two Sally Rubai was more enthusiastic. She turned away from her two youngest to wave happily, until she noticed Rebecca leaning forward to look across. In a flash she was bolt upright with her eyes fluttering her discomfort. Third by was Julius. He stayed alongside for many seconds, scrutinising and scowling. The Landy passengers stared rigidly forward. They let out a collective, relieved sigh when the great rally driver accelerated away in pursuit of his parents. Car four followed immediately.
In all years the family had come to the coast for the New Year Tom had never seen sight of the Rubais. He knew that they came down. It was Abel’s time for visiting his two hotels, one at Kilifi, the other on the sands of Diani beach. Tom had seen the large villa they had built in a palm grove close to the beach at Ukunda. He hoped that this would be the last he saw of them on this visit. It wasn’t.
They were still a fair way out of Voi when he found himself picking up fast on another black Mercedes. He was beginning to think that half the strong men in the country were out on the road. There must be a problem with this one that was limping along at less than seventy. He prepared to overtake. As he passed he saw yet another Mercedes fifty metres further along, ambling down a slight incline. The road ahead was clear, another easy pass. When he was upsides, the smiling face of its driver beamed across at the Landy passengers. Tom was not surprised to see Julius. His right hand was signalling them to hurry on by. Instinctively Tom began to slow down intending to cut to the inside lane. Too late. The first Mercedes that he had passed was limping no longer but pushing dangerously close to his tail. He was forced to try to pass Julius. That did not work either. Julius matched Tom’s speed and kept him out in the danger zone. The three cars were clipping along at well over a hundred on a road that was still straight but too narrow. What if he suddenly found himself hurtling towards one of Mr Shahouf’s sixty tonners on its way north to Uganda?
He must get off the road but not at this speed. The drop-off and one relatively small rock would send them rolling over. And there were some solid, heavy trees close to the verge. He wiped his damp hands one at a time on his shorts. He hunched closer to the steering wheel. One, two gentle presses on the brake. He heard and felt a nudge on his back bumper, nuzzling him forward. To his left Julius seemed to be edging just that little bit closer. Tom contemplated some ramming of his own. Much too dangerous. He had watched too many Hollywood films, but he knew that, even on a quiet day like this, at this moment something would be closing in on him from the south.
‘Girls, make sure your belts are tight!’ He was surprised by the calm in his voice.
He tried one last spurt of speed to see if he could catch Julius off guard and slip in front of him. Not a hope. All he got was a condescen
ding smirk and a wave of a finger warning him off any more attempts at the clever stuff.
When it happened it was very quick. The verge on his right opened up into an inlet of baked earth. It was treeless and, Tom hoped, stoneless. He pressed the brake once, hard, then veered off the road at a very sharp angle. A heavy thump as they left the tarmac was followed by a judder, judder as he pumped the brakes and hoped. A controlled skid sent up a cloud of red dust. When the engine cut out they found themselves looking up a sharp slope and, on its crest, less than five metres away, a pair of totos in ragged clothes grinning and waving at them.
The only sound was a car horn whining as it sped out of sight. A matter of seconds later a white matatu passed them, heading north. A dozen heads turned to check out the scene. What kind of stupid driver does a thing like that on a dead straight road? Better for them that they did not know the explanation for the bizarre sight.
Those who did know stayed put waiting for the trembling to stop and their heartbeat to return to normal. They were so still that the totos were beginning to believe that these strangers must be dead.
Tom was the first to move. He started the engine and reversed slowly until they were on level ground. They slid from their seats and while the girls walked off unsteadily in opposite directions, Tom checked around the car. There was no visible damage, not even to the exhaust system. He reached into the cool-box and took out three bottles of water. They drank in silence. Tom spoke the first words since the ordeal had begun seemingly hours before.
‘Another entry for your African diary, Luce. You’ve probably got enough to last you a while.’
Lucy forced a smile, but the green tinge in her fair skin gave a better sign of how she truly felt.
‘Anyway, are you two ready to move on? We’re about ten k out of Voi. I promise we’ll have a very sedate drive into town.’
Rebecca and Lucy exchanged a glance and obediently climbed back into the Land Rover, without a word.
When they reached the roadside parking in Voi, three hearts sank. The Rubais, the whole tribe, had also decided to take a break at this popular spot. The four Mercs were parked two on each side of the 504 and the Cruiser. Julius was leaning cross-armed against the door of his car while the chauffeurs of the other three were buffing up the shiny bodies of their charges. Lucy and Rebecca took a long detour to the cafe, avoiding all contact with Julius. His response was another wide grin and a knowing nod of the head as he watched them go.
Tom hung about by the Landy. He fiddled with the lock, then reopened the door and pretended to look for something. When he moved off with his head down, he went straight towards Julius. When he came within range of Julius’s brown boots, Tom looked up with the best expression of friendly surprise he could muster.
‘Jules old chap,’ (Tom knew how he hated the nickname) ‘fancy seeing you here! Oh, I see the fleet’s out today. Do you think you could ask one of these chaps to give the old Landy a rub over?’ He made as if to move on then stopped, looked around as if about to share a secret. ‘You know there are a couple of nutters on the road today. Tried to run us off, but we sorted that out. Must be drunk or on something. Keep your eyes peeled. I’d hate to see a lovely piece of steel like that bashed up.’
Tom took two steps towards the cafe then swung back ‘round. He’d just remembered something from their old days together.
‘Do you remember those Saturday night video shows up in Pembroke? I loved those Clint Eastwood westerns.
Remember, afterwards we used to swagger ‘round the dorm, twenty Clints on the loose. “Go on. Make my day!” And my favourite, just right for today, don’t you think? “Have a nice holiday, punk!”’
Not to be left out of the seasonal jollity, Julius struck back. ‘Where did you get that puffy lip, Mr Anglo-Saxon arsehole? And is that a black eye I see decorating that porky pink face? Why, don’t you want to tell me about the nasty person who did these terrible things to you?’
‘Well, Jules, at least my black eye will be gone by New Year. How about yours? Kwaheri!’
With a little bow and a smile Tom was gone.
From the shadows of the cafe veranda Abel had watched the exchange between his beloved son and the European. How he hated that white kid’s arrogance. Clearly, Julius had lost out again. He partly blamed himself and his indulgence of his son’s playboy lifestyle. Perhaps he would never learn to be hard and ruthless. But something must be done about this particular McCall. That family! There they were in that far corner, noisy, stuffing themselves like the lords of creation. Julius was coming to join his people, head down and walking slowly when Abel rose from the table. Many eyes watched him as he strode towards the far corner. Everyone knew that tall, well-built figure with the athletic roll in his step.
From a full five metres away he called out his greeting. ‘Merry Christmas, McCalls!’
Sally, who had been quick to trail her husband, prodded him and chuckled. ‘Heathen, it’s the feast of Stephen. Too late for Merry Christmas.’
‘Like it’s too late when I call you a fool on April the second.’
‘Something like that …’
A few minutes chitchat saw it through. There were tentative invitations, to be discussed further and confirmed, or rather forgotten about later when they were all wallowing in the long, hot, humid days which was their life at their smart places on the shores of the Indian Ocean. No clocks down there, only the white sand and the blue sea inviting them to dive, to swim, to play, to laze. Not for them the sweaty labour of pulling a heavy water-cart up and down the streets of Ukunda or passing ten hours under a baking sun, hacking out slabs of white stone from the coral quarries that ribbed the land not a hundred metres behind the shoreline.
McCall family tradition declared the official start of the holiday came after crossing south from Mombasa Island on the Likoni ferry and climbing past the tightly packed chaos of dukas on the long, straight road that led eventually to the Tanzania border.
* * *
They were in the air for twenty minutes. Tom was keeping his promise to deliver Rebecca to her father’s family who lived on the coast to the north of the island. At first he followed the line of the shore, sometimes dipping to the left to give her a better view of the landmarks he knew so well, the rich green oases around the luxury hotels, on to the huge stone warren of streets that was the city and low over the reborn beauty of the craters of the Bonbai cement factory.
Rebecca had a request. ‘A little further out to sea please. I want to sing a song Mary has sent me. She is singing it in the clubs of America. They have moved to the eastern coast. She says it’s cold there. She has asked me again to join her … Her father will send the money.
‘“The Lonely Lady Blues.” Mary usually sends me sad songs. Funny thing, she is always full of smiles herself.’
To the accompaniment of the low drone of engine noise she sang, her voice strong but not much above a whisper. The lyrics were a reworking of the old themes of longing for people and places out of reach. Toni Wajiru was a poet who could bring freshness and surprise to old ideas. He had the gift for words and the beautiful singer had the heart to bring out their power and richness.
Tom was enthralled. As she finished he was bringing the nose around to get ready for his landing at Malindi.
‘Rebecca, that voice scares me. They’d love you over there. But I love you over here and I’m selfish.’
Rebecca laughed.
‘Do that again!’
‘Do what?’ She was bemused.
‘Doesn’t matter. I just wish that this little machine could bring itself down and I could sit here and just look at you.’
‘I’m excited. I haven’t seen Papa’s part of the family for five years. They came up to see Mary and me sing in the Bomas.’
They were down and for their journey along the bumpy surface of the grassy airstrip they had company. A large lorry full of colourful, waving, noisy coasties kept pace with them all the way, their driver honking repeatedly. When
the little aircraft came to a stop, the crowd surrounded it. As she was about to step down, Rebecca was whisked off. She managed a brief turn towards Tom and shrugged. She was laughing again.
Before family and friends moved off they insisted on a song. Tom sat by his open door and listened to a repeat performance of the Wajiru melancholy call of longing for the homeland.
She finished and turned towards him again. He stood up and cupped his hands to shout, ‘On the fifth, early morning. Love you!’
She could see the words being mouthed, but she was touching her ears and shaking her head. Then she was caught up in the flow of people. No lorry ride, for her Uncle Solomon had polished his old blue Peugeot for her journey home.
On the first full day at Villa Simba they covered the tourist part of the holiday, in honour of their English visitor. So it was back across the water to the island. Alex and Bertie took the twins for a round of golf on the oceanic course of the Mombasa Club. Tom led Rafaella, Maura and Lucy on a tour of the old town with its mosques and very narrow streets. After an hour out in the humid warmth of the morning they were happy to retreat to the open spaces and shady walks of Fort Jesus. They were happier still to come together with the golfers for lunch in the open upstairs lounge of the neighbouring Mombasa Club.
The next four days were ocean delight. There were no rules, no set plans beyond following the fancy. Breakfast and lunch were on offer to anyone who was within range of the house and its tropical garden. Bertie kept regular hours for Ewan’s sake. His most regular other companion was Rafaella. She divided her day between searching out damaged corners of the garden and bringing them back to glory and reading nineteenth century novels she hadn’t looked at since her days in the University of Verona.
At five-thirty pm on the sixth day the evening breeze was beginning to move in from the sea on its evening business of making the mosquitoes uncomfortable. The older generation was still out to afternoon tea at the Buckle villa just down the road when Tom drove down the dirt track. He had been out to the Diani shopping centre to stock up on wine. He could hear Lucy’s shrieks a hundred yards away. Clearly the twins were giving her a hard time. Their tricks usually involved water in some way.
