Girl with the Golden Voice

by Carl Hancock

  On the second leg of the journey, Tom spent time testing Rebecca on the lyrics of four new songs that Toni Wajiru had sent across. But when the blinds were drawn down and the cabin became silent, they dozed fitfully, holding hands. Mary and her father met them at John F Kennedy.

  ‘Just two suitcases?’ Toni smiled with feigned disbelief. ‘Hakuna Matata. Henry will take care of them.’ The strikingly handsome young blond man who had been hanging about in the background since they first met the Wajirus stepped forward and picked up the cases as easily as if they were empty.

  Mary explained. ”Becca, Henry’s new since you left. He’s like an extra member of the band. Joined us here in New York.’

  Henry grinned and nodded a greeting, fixing his clear blue eyes first on Tom and then, for noticeably longer, on Rebecca before turning to go off. As he began to thread his way through the crowd he gave his thick mane of hair a flick, drawing attention to his beautiful head and muscular shoulders. He rejoined them as they sat around the table having a coffee.

  Toni made some introductions. ‘Henry, Rebecca and Tom are with us for a month.’

  ‘I’ve heard a lot about you guys from Mary.’ The accent was cut-glass Kensington. Henry was quick to pick up Rebecca’s surprise. ‘Sorry about the voice. Just about all I got from five years in Eton. Actually, it’s pretty handy over here. Get loads of job offers.’

  Mary was an enthusiast. ‘Henry knows everything about this city. Sorry, Papa. You’re right. I do go on a bit. But I’m excited! ‘Becca and I are together again. Can’t wait —’

  Henry cut in. ‘I can’t wait to hear the pair of you belting it out on stage …’

  It was Toni’s turn to interrupt. ‘Actually, we never belt it out.’

  Tom was pleased to hear this mild put-down. He had snapped out of his lethargy. This Henry was taller than him, taller than Rebecca, handsome, polished, confident and shamelessly keeping his eyes on her. He had the same arrogance as the only other Etonian that he knew, Julius Rubai.

  They were easing into the traffic squeezing out of the airport and on to the expressway. Tom admitted inwardly that Henry gave them a smooth ride. And he knew the sights. He and Toni sat up front while Rebecca sat between Mary and Tom in the rear. Not a lot was said on their journey to Midtown. Henry mentioned the names of many of the places they passed but in a low tone as though he was reminding himself exactly where he was on the route. He was constantly checking in his mirror not so much for traffic reasons but to take his chance to look at the gorgeous creature who lived there for a whole hour.

  ‘Just entering the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. Think of all that water up there in the East River.’

  Leaving the tunnel they picked up Forty-second Street where there were sights to wonder at on every block. Henry kept his subdued commentary going. ‘On the right that great waste of real estate, the UN edifice. Chrysler lump of concrete and glass, Grand Central … still see it in the best movies. Ah, Times Square.’

  He took a right into Broadway and soon they were pulling up outside the Flamingo. Henry carried off the bags while the others took a few moments to get their bearings.

  ‘The Flamingo, that’s something to remind us of home.’

  ‘The name Harry Thuku mean anything to you, Tom?’

  ‘Um, politician, ‘round about the Kenyatta days?’

  ‘I’m impressed. See, Mary, Tom’s the first to get that right.’

  ‘Yes, but this Harry Thuku, the grandson, is no politician. About our age, but much, much richer.’

  ‘Believe it or not, the family have owned this place for forty years. Wasn’t called the Flamingo back then. You’ll see what this Harry’s done to it …’

  ‘Papa, ‘Becca’s freezing to death out here. African clothes, haven’t you noticed?’

  * * *

  From the outside the modest twelve-storey block fitted in well with the rest of the Midtown buildings on Forty-eighth Street. This was not where the Thukus had spent their development money, changing shops and offices into something very different.

  Harry and his wife, Elena, met them in the foyer. Rebecca was the centre of attention. Tom watched the hugs, the beaming faces and half listened to the excited chatter, but he was more taken up with looking around this part of the place which would be his home for the next four weeks. There was a steady stream of people coming out of the room which he quickly realised was a restaurant. Lunch had just finished. It must have been a big place judging by the numbers leaving. He would discover that it was popular with black Africans working at the UN building.

  Dinner had to be booked at least a month in advance. The food was a draw especially the East African dishes, but there was another attraction, the major alteration that the Thuku family had made to the building two floors above. They had knocked down the ceiling separating the third and fourth floors, gutted the interiors and set up what Tom would have called a theatre but which Harry described as a spiritual space, his dream place. He was excited at the prospect of seeing Rebecca performing for his customers. He loved giving treats in his little empire, his home.

  Toni called Tom over. It was his turn for the welcome treatment. This time it was a handshake and questions from Harry about the journey and about how things were on the Naivasha farm. Tom was clearly surprised.

  ‘Yes. Londiani. I think I’ve been on that farm. Your grandfather was the bwana then. I always remember, he had a very beautiful wife.’

  Toni broke out into a peal of laughter. ‘Let me tell you, Thomas, the Thukus are known for their smartness with money, their good hearts and their fast way with words. Harry, these kids have been on the road for so many hours. We got to let them rest up. You two can talk when we are … working.’ He put a smiling emphasis on the last word.

  * * *

  At five-thirty about twenty people sat in a rough circle on the stage of the Flamingo. Tom and Henry sat exactly opposite one another, the only white faces in sight. Ten minutes later the number was halved, the band and Henry stayed, the remainder made a noisy exit right led by Monica, the wife of Charlie, the drummer. Tom stopped to peer into the darkened auditorium to try to get a feel for the place but soon found himself grasped around the waist by a fleshy arm and led off. Monica had come back for him.

  ‘Follow me, young man. I know a good place. By the way, I’m Charlie’s wife, Charlie the drummer man.’

  Monica Mgoya was another African woman taller than himself. When she turned to speak to him, he had smiled. He could not stop himself. This lady sparkled, and not simply from the jewellery she wore in all the right places. The light brown skin glowed slightly moist, the perfect background for the heavily lipsticked mouth and those dark eyes that made him feel warm and welcome.

  She led him to the far corner of the Naivasha Room and sat him down in a leather armchair. She looked at him solemnly but could hold the pose for no more than five seconds before breaking into an African woman’s sexy chuckle, accompanied by another bursting dazzle of a smile.

  ‘Thomas, I’m normally a hugging kind of woman! Anyone I meet. It gets me into trouble sometimes, but that’s all part of the fun. But your arm, how is it? One of my hugs might have done some damage!’

  ‘I’m nearly over it now …’ He hesitated.

  ‘Oh, yes I forgot. Monica Mgoya. Everyone in the band calls me Mama. Now then, let’s have a drink and I’ll set you straight about some of the stuff that goes on ‘round here … You know, I should hate you!’ She was smiling as she reached across to grasp his knee. ‘Just a little knee hug! Okay?’

  ‘Oh, thanks. Hate me? Welcome to New York!’

  ‘Let me explain. ‘Course I don’t really hate you. Kenya boy, and a good-looking one! ‘Course not! Look, Harry was over on the west coast about a month ago. So, as usual, he drops in to see the band. First time he’s seen Rebecca. He was speechless. “Toni,” he says, “the kid’s sensational. You got to bring her to the Flamingo.” He says a terrific band is going to be a great band. No trouble. Then you co
me along and … she’s not staying. See why I should hate you? Only fooling! If a kid like Rebecca loves you like we know she does, you must be a bit sensational, too. And for one month we’re all going to have a ball.’

  Rebecca did not sing with the band on that first night. When the concert was over Monica threaded her arm through Tom’s and took him to one side.

  ‘Thomas, I hope you’re keeping a close watch on that Henry. He’s randier than a lion on heat. Couldn’t take his eyes off Rebecca. Thank the good Lord she’ll be up on stage tomorrow night. A man must protect his woman. You get yourself a nice sharp panga. Any bother and you cut off his credentials, turn him into a soprano. Maybe Toni’ll give him a spot in the show. Meantime, you two kids, go for a short walk. Times Square is just two blocks. Oops, you need a rest. I forgot. We’ll meet for breakfast and I’ll take you for a walk while the band is rehearsing.’

  Tom took Monica’s advice about the walk. After midnight and to him it could have been early evening. In the middle of the colour and noise of these busy streets, he was thinking about Londiani. Luka and Erik would be getting ready for their lie-down in some peaceful corner. The farms around the lake would be dark and quiet. He and Rebecca held hands but did not speak much. She was very tired, apprehensive and excited about the show that night. She was unaware of the growing sense of anxiety in her companion. He was even contemplating the possibility of returning soon to Naivasha, but he was glad he had come. It made him realise what kind of life Rebecca would have if she pursued this longing to sing. In years to come she might well have deep regrets about not seizing this chance. In New York there would be none of the nonsense about black and white. But this city where she would blossom and grow into her best self would see him shrivel in no time. There was no role here for a farm boy.

  The thought of Henry crossed his mind. No, Rebecca would know how to deal with this pushy newcomer. The gleam of hope was that in, say, five years it would be a better time for them, except that no one could know how far she would have changed by then.

  If Rebecca could have understood the heavy pessimism that was hanging over him, she would have scolded him and gladly volunteered to return home on the first plane out. But for both of them the lingering goodnight kiss was as sweet as ever. Sleep did not come quickly to Tom, but Rebecca floated away on a cloud of joy. In a few hours she would be singing in a great city with Tom no more than fifteen metres from where she stood.

  After a late breakfast, the band went off upstairs for a rehearsal. Tom was reading The Daily Post in the foyer when his four female escorts appeared. They were strikingly dressed in frothy, colourful Nairobi ladies’ outfits, but on their arms they carried warm coats to put on when they ventured into the chilly New York morning to do some exploring. Monica had been joined by the wives of three other band members — Dorcas Latema, Miriam Olmana and Ruth Chenga.

  Tom was swept off in a whirl of chuckling laughter and loud conversation. Ruth set down the single ground rule, or thought she did.

  ‘Thomas, I expect you have noticed that my sisters and I all have names taken out of the Good Book. This will tell you that God will protect us on our little adventure, but I must tell you also that we don’t know much about this wonderful Beeg Apple, so we appoint you Bwana and leader for the day.’

  Miriam added her footnote, ‘Make sure we have plenty of icecream and cups of Kenya coffee, and you will have four happy ladies!’

  And Dorcas had a request. ‘Not too much walking. These shoes are killing me already!’

  Monica would not be left out. ‘Thomas, I have the dollars, you have the map and I suggest we take one of these yellow cabs. I’m sure the driver will take us to some good place.’

  Four hours later, the mamas flopped down at a corner table in the Kisumu Room, the Thikus’ version of an old-fashioned American icecream parlour. After ordering more chocolate sundaes and coffee, there was a wash-up of the morning’s excursion. They had stayed with the driver who had picked them up the Flamingo. He was from Brooklyn and made them laugh a lot. He took them the length of the island. Most of the stops had been to let them have a peep inside churches and spend time in yet another coffee shop. There was very little walking involved.

  Those four hours in close company lifted Tom’s spirits. The ladies had swapped life stories with their chauffeur. Extroverts all, their tales of village days of twenty years before on the one side mingled hilariously with their new buddy’s reminiscences of his early days behind the wheel, driving out from a depot in the Bronx on to what to Tom seemed to be completely lawless streets. They shared the gift of being able to bring out the humour of the most gruesome events. His mamas were very kind to their Kenya brother and there were constant references to his good luck that the most beautiful girl in Africa had fallen in love with him.

  The good humour continued at the communal light dinner before the show began. Tom shared a few words and embraces with Rebecca. ‘Thomas, pray for me. I’m nervous about having you in the audience. Toni says that there will be some important people from the music business here tonight.’

  ‘You are going to be fantastic, so successful it makes me scared.’

  ‘But what do you mean? Why scared? Toni, please …’

  Toni was pressing his musicians to prepare themselves. They were risking a late start, something he would not tolerate. Just enough time for one last hug for Tom and Rebecca.

  ”Becca, it’s all right. We’ll talk later.’

  For the third item on the program a voice from backstage announced the first appearance of ‘the new African sensation, Rebecca Kamau!’

  Tom gulped with shock when the tall, black figure was suddenly there in the spotlight on centre stage. A round of applause greeted the composed beauty in the red dress. Only a week ago this girl was standing at her mother’s side bashing soaking wet clothes in the wash garden in Londiani. This vision up there in front of him belonged to another world. The doubts that had troubled him on their walk together on those chilly, night streets were strengthened. He felt that every song she sang would take her further away from him. Surely she would feel it as strongly as he did!

  She began. Tom had heard the title announced by the backstage voice, ‘When love comes round again,’ and he recognised the words he had listened to on the plane two days before. He was not enjoying the experience. In the first place his body felt very weak, the way it was in a dream when it was impossible to move to avoid the express train bearing down on him. And all these faces around him were focused and rapt with delight. In some way they were sharing his Rebecca and he stupidly, (he admitted) and selfishly resented the idea.

  When the song ended and the applause and the cheering began, Tom was aware of an arm across his shoulders. He turned to see Monica. Her handsome face wore a quiet, comforting smile. ‘Don’t worry, Thomas, this moment was waiting for you. You had to go through it. In spite of everything you see up on that stage, that beautiful person is still the same Naivasha girl you know better than anyone.’

  The show continued. Tom, calmer now but feeling more numb than elated, was amazed to watch the effect Rebecca’s voice and very presence was having on the audience. There were no empty seats and every free space was filled with people beginning to understand that this musical event at the Flamingo was special. They were entranced and loving the experience.

  There were two blue armchairs in Rebecca’s room and she and Tom faced each other from them. She was still on an emotional high while he was drained almost to emptiness. As soon as the concert had ended she had sought him out and they had stood with linked arms and holding hands, facing the crowd of well-wishers congratulating her and wondering who he was. And now the quiet of the seventh floor room.

  ‘Thomas, why scared?’

  ‘Do you really want to …’

  ‘Of course I do. Tom, what’s the matter? I’m worried. You’ve been so down since we got here. It’s not working, this New York, is it? Londiani, you’re still there, aren’t you?’


  ”Becca, I’m in over my head. These people love you so much. Londiani, it’s so dull compared to all this. You can’t waste this gift.’

  ‘Thomas, you want me to stay over here?’

  ‘No. But I don’t belong here. I feel useless.’

  ‘You might hate me for saying this, but I think you feel sorry for yourself just now. You’re forgetting everything. We are here for four weeks. You’re a farmer and I’m going to be a farmer’s wife. If there is a gift, then God gave it to me and God will show me how to use it. Singing my children to sleep for a start.’

  She left her chair to sit on his lap. Her closeness worked is magic on him. The smell of her, the smooth firmness of her body, the touch of her skin. During their passionate embrace, the urge to take her completely came strongly and he felt that this time she would be ready. She sat up suddenly.

  ‘Thomas, your arm. I was forgetting. Is it all right? Is it hurting?’

  His smile reassured her. ‘This is the best piece of doctoring I’ve ever had. You should bottle it.’

  ‘Why bottle it when the doctor is always available?’

  There was a tap on the door. It was Henry. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt. You forgot your shoes from your first song.’

  ‘Thank you, Henry. I put them down on the side of the stage and later I just couldn’t find them. And don’t look embarrassed. We are practically married.’

  ‘Oh, yes, one other thing. The party’s started downstairs. Harry says he hopes you’re coming down’