by Tim Merriman
Copyright © 2007 Heartfelt Publications.
The Leopard Tree. No material in this manuscript may be reproduced without permission of the authors.
ISBN 978-0-9793933-0-3
With love and honor to Lou Brochu and Rosa Merriman, who taught us about kindness, honesty, and caring in every way, this book is dedicated to the thousands of aid workers, donors, and caring people who try to ease the suffering of children around the world.
Acknowledgements
Thank you L. Frank Baum, for inspiring us throughout the years to dream about other places and the potential of other worlds through the magic of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. As the road map for Daudi, Ramla, and Masozi, we enjoyed yet another journey with Dorothy and friends.
A special thanks is due friends and family who served as readers and provided thoughtful comments and encouragement. They are: Lou Brochu, Sheila Caputo, Julie Cutler, Dee Flower, Lana Merriman, Amy Simpson, Kris Whipple, Jill Wodiuk, and Joe Wodiuk. We would like to thank Paul Caputo, whose assistance with design and editing was invaluable.
Chapter One
Tears traced glistening trails through the chalky red dust on Daudi’s face. He did not attempt to wipe them away, just watched the slow drip, drip from his chin land in the dirt at his feet. Each drop exploded as it hit the earth, leaving a tiny crater behind, until enough tears had fallen to settle the dust. Still he watched the ground, anything to avoid looking at Mamere’s plain wooden casket as it sank into the trench that was nowhere near as deep as his pain. Sounds of mourning replaced the shrill, beautiful morning calls of weaver birds. The preacher-man handed him a fistful of the rich red earth and pushed him toward the gaping hole with its slender box. Gently, he said, “Daudi, you must toss it onto the coffin. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. It is written.”
Daudi clutched the dirt, and remained exactly where he was. He could not do that if Mamere was truly in there, no matter how the preacher-man urged him. Covering Mamere with dirt meant she was gone forever. The coffin was small. It seemed too small to hold the enormous spirit of his grandmother. How could so much of a human be held in so little a frame? It seemed impossible to him, remembering how her fragile arms wrapped around him so completely. She had seemed so strong, so much larger in life. Probably larger than she really was, he thought. He stood lost in an overwhelming misery, too full and too empty of emotion to appreciate the number of other mourners present. The entire village of 163 souls had turned out to watch a local legend disappear within the earth. They chanted and sang their sorrow, recognizing their loss and knowing Daudi’s fate. The preacher gave a final prayer and the crowd began to disperse, leaving Daudi rooted at the foot of the grave.
“Daudi. It is time to go. Come with me.” Daudi lifted his eyes from the sad wooden box and stared into the sunglasses looming above him.
“Get in the car.” The man seemed a giant to Daudi, a scary giant. In spite of the heat, he wore a dark suit with a white shirt and thin red tie. Daudi had never seen him before, but he had seen others like him. When they visited the village, something bad always happened. Mamere called them the vultures, always hovering in the background, dark figures waiting to flock to the dead and dying, nature’s janitors at work. Mamere believed that all creatures had a place, a job to do. This man, she would say, is just doing his job. The vulture-man pointed to the waiting car.
“Let’s go.” Still squeezing the hand full of dirt, Daudi allowed himself to be pushed toward the vehicle. He noticed the vulture-man’s latex gloves. Daudi had seen that look before, seen the gloves on others. Some would touch him. Some would not. He closed his eyes in the back seat of the car. He could not remember ever riding in a car and had dreamed of when he might do so, but there was something terribly wrong with what should have been a special moment in a young boy’s life. Mamere was not there to share it.
* * *
Daudi glanced toward the vulture-man’s shiny black glasses. Softly, politely, he asked “Where are we going, sir?” The man didn’t say a word as he drove Daudi to Mamere’s small house. Chickens scattered as he stopped the battered Volkswagen in front of the small shaded home Daudi so cherished.
“You have two minutes to gather your things. I’ll wait here,” Vulture-man ordered.
Daudi crawled out of the car and closed the door. He ran to his home of ten years and stopped just inside the cool darkness beyond the door to think. What did Mamere tell me to do when she was gone? I never believed it would happen, but she is gone.
Struggling to hold back more tears, he raced to his pallet in the corner of the room, afraid that Vulture-man would come to take him away before he had time to do what he must. He dug around the bedding, finding his one other shirt and shorts. He spread the shirt and tossed the shorts in the center. He found a photo of Mamere and himself given to them by a tourist who had visited the village last year. He snatched up his small pillow, hearing Mamere’s voice in his head, reminding him to always keep it with him, no matter what. He stuffed it in the center of the sad little pile lying on the shirt, glancing around for his most treasured possession. Where was it? Since before he could remember, Mamere read to him the only book they owned. It was tattered and worn, but dear to him in every way. Panicked, realizing that his time was running out, he still took the time to move Mamere’s things tenderly, catching sobs in his throat as he drank in the familiar smell drifting up from the well-worn fabric of her everyday dress. He rubbed the soft fabric against his cheek and whispered “Oh, Mamere, don’t ever leave me.”
With a sad sigh, he dropped the dress and grabbed the book from where it had been hiding. He bundled the book with the small heap of belongings gathered in his shirt and looked around one last time, trying to impress every detail of his life with Mamere in his memory. Since his parents had died, Mamere and this small mud-brick house had been all he had known for the twelve years he had been on this earth. He had no idea where he would be taken from here. Vulture-man was walking toward the door so he jumped outside, not wanting to be scolded or hit.
“In the car, now!” the big man demanded. His scowl clearly indicated that he had lost patience with Daudi’s grief. He was a busy man with much to do, and taking Daudi to his new life was only one thing on the list. Daudi’s fear prodded him into the car. He clutched the packet of belongings and hugged the door as tightly as he could to put space between himself and the vulture-man. Chickens scattered as the car bumped and growled over the red rocky drive. Daudi’s thoughts swirled through and right out of his head, disappearing in the cloud of dust and gravel trailing behind the car. Mamere is gone. Mamere is gone. Now I am alone. And I am sick. Mamere is gone. The litany in his mind made him no more fearful and no less. It had just become the simple truth of his simple life.
Chapter Two
The Volkswagen wheezed its way through the choking dust for several hours, finally pulling to a stop under the battered sign of Nyumba wa watoto. Vulture-man leaned across Daudi, opened the door, and said, “This is it.” Daudi scrambled out of the car, relieved to be out of Vulture-man’s reach after the long uncomfortable drive, but wondering exactly what “this” was. He crouched in the shade of a tree and waited for whatever might come next as the car disappeared in a cloud of dust. He hadn’t waited long when a woman in a red dress approached from inside the gate.
“You are Daudi, yes?”
He scrambled to his feet and tried to speak, but nothing came out. His throat was dry. He had not had anything to eat or drink all day. A quick nod was all he could manage.
She extended her ungloved hand and he took it. “I am Sister Mary. Come. We will find you a drink and some food.” She smiled and he wished he could smile back, but what would he smile about? He could not think o
f any reason except Mamere’s rule that he always be kind. He offered a small smile and took her hand as she led him into the heart of the refuge.
Nyumba wa watoto rose from the red earth like a disheveled human version of a termite mound. The adobe walls had been built by Christian volunteers with generous spirits and left for good people to try to run with no sustainable source of income to do so. The staff consisted of three unpaid women from the Little Sisters of Mercy with a desire to help and the ability to pray, but none of them could drive a nail. Their prayers went largely unanswered, but occasional donations from well-meaning visitors to Kenya and meager support from the government kept them and their charges from the depths of despair. Nyumba wa watoto, the child’s home, was a place for refugees and orphan children. Some who came here stayed for just a few days and then moved on, some stayed for a year or more until a new home could be found, but most found a permanent place of rest in the growing cemetery behind the building.
Here was little hope for dozens of children like Daudi, made homeless as war or disease claimed their parents and older siblings. Daudi glanced around at the faces of the other children as Sister Mary led him to the kitchen. Most looked much like him, too thin and showing signs of HIV infection. Some wore vacant expressions while others seemed whole and happy just to be alive and safe within the Nyumba wa watoto. A few older boys clustered in a corner of the yard stared hard at Daudi as he passed. They did not return his smile, but leaned over and whispered quietly to each other. Daudi tightened his grip on the little packet of belongings and ignored them, making a mental note to keep out of the way of these boys.
“Pay them no mind, Daudi,” Sister Mary mentioned quietly. “They will not be here long and they will not harm you.” Daudi nodded and looked beyond the boys to an odd pair seated next to the kitchen entrance. A boy, just a year or two older than Daudi, sat next to a young girl of eight or nine. The boy smiled broadly in Daudi’s general direction, his eyes registering nothing.
“Jambo,” the boy shouted. He leaned over to the girl and said, “Ramla, meet my new friend.”
“Everyone is your new friend, Masozi.” Sister Mary smiled. “Let me get Daudi settled in and then you two can talk.”
“We three, Sister Mary. Ramla will have much to say also,” Masozi said, smiling. Ramla, the girl, didn’t look like she would say much to anybody, Daudi thought. In sharp contrast to Masozi’s open grin, Ramla’s face was closed, her eyes downcast, with an expression that suggested the wariness of a prey animal. She glanced up as he passed, and he felt the judgement bestowed by her soulful eyes. She sat so close to Masozi, so dark and quiet, she could be his shadow. Indeed, she was as quiet as a shadow, Daudi thought. On the other hand, Masozi’s grin was so infectious Daudi could not resist smiling back, in spite of his tiredness and sorrow.
“You will have time to get acquainted later, Daudi. Masozi is a good boy. He and Ramla take good care of each other. They have been with us longer than anyone else and can help you get to know the other children.” Daudi glanced back at the pair as he and Sister Mary entered the kitchen. Masozi was still smiling at nothing, while Ramla picked up a wooden crutch and placed it beside his left hand. It was only then that Daudi noticed the dirty bandage covering the stump below the knee of his right leg.
“You can sit there,” Sister Mary said, pointing to the stool at the kitchen table. Daudi took his seat, holding his bundled shirt on his lap. Sister Mary handed him a plate with fruit and bread and a small glass of water. “Now, tell me about Daudi,” she said gently.
Daudi already had a mouth full of bread. He chewed thoughtfully, and then said simply, “Mamere died and I am sick, so I was brought here.” Sister Mary’s expression hardly changed, though her heart was breaking for this young boy, as it did for all her charges. She smiled inwardly at Daudi’s straightforward answer. She could not detect any self-pity or anger, just acceptance of the truth as he knew it. He swallowed another chunk of bread and raised his eyes to hers. “Will I be here long?” he asked.
Sister Mary took in Daudi’s earnest eyes, and found herself unable to give him the quick, cheerful response that usually sufficed. These were the eyes of an old soul in a young body. He deserved the truth. Without looking away, she said, “That is difficult to know, Daudi. It is unlikely that a boy of your age will be adopted into a new family. The virus you carry complicates things. We know that your grandmother tried her best to get you the drugs you need to keep your illness under control whenever she could. But as difficult as it was for her to get them, it is harder still for us. Supplies are very limited, and there are many here who need them just like you. I don’t know how long you will be with us, but I hope that your stay will not be hard on you.” She rested her hand on his shoulder, unafraid to touch him as so many others seemed to be. “While you are here, you will study with Sister Louise like the other children, and we will pray that you stay healthy.”
Daudi nodded, as satisfied as he could be with the honest appraisal of the situation. He finished his fruit in silence, his exhaustion beginning to show. Sister Mary took him to the dormitory and showed him where he could stow his belongings and where he would sleep. Within minutes, he was sound asleep, his head resting on the tattered pillow he had brought from home.
Chapter Three
Daudi soon learned he could have anything he wanted from the Sisters, just as with Mamere, but they had very little. Food was limited, clothing was minimal and specialized drugs, especially for HIV, were almost nonexistent. With his innate curiosity and ability to solve problems, he soon became a favorite of Sister Mary. She admired his ability to find simple truths in daily life and hope in adversity. She enjoyed talking with him when she could, but he was only one of forty-two needy children in her care, so meaningful conversations between them were few and far between.
As Daudi settled into the routine of the orphanage, his quick mind enjoyed the challenge of daily classes and his natural storytelling ability made him a favorite among most of the other children.
Ramla and Masozi found Daudi each day and asked him to read from his book about Oz. As they listened to the fantastic story, they dreamed of going to the Emerald City. Or Kansas. They could go there. They had lived many places in their short lives, but anywhere else sounded wonderful to them. They felt safe with Sister Mary, but hungered for a family and a life away from orphanages.
Ramla had been found wandering on the border of Rwanda, a Hutu child six years old, left completely on her own. For the first six months after she was found and brought to Nyumba wa watoto, she reacted little to anything that happened and said nothing. Fear, joy—any emotion at all—seemed to elude her. She had seen things no child should see. She had been at the orphanage for three years, without one word. Still, she watched everything and everybody, sensing danger when others did not. One night shortly after she arrived, she stopped the other girls as they began to enter the dormitory. She tugged at them and pulled them back from the door. They laughed, but she was so insistent, they finally gave in to her silent demands and stayed in the courtyard.
“What’s all this?” Sister Mary asked the girls, as she spotted the girls gathered outside the dormitory. They giggled nervously, but blamed the silent one for keeping them outside. Sister Mary stepped into the dormitory and stepped back out immediately, face white. She called for Sister Louise and together they removed a remarkably large cobra from the dormitory on the end of a rake. The girls laughed and cheered when they realized Ramla had saved them from a great danger. How did she know? She had arrived nameless, but that was the night she became known as Ramla, the prophetess.
Masozi came from the province of Darfur in Sudan. His orphanage history began at age eight when a land mine took his eyes, his leg, and his remaining parent. Now thirteen, he was resigned to his fate as an amputee without vision. He listened to the world around him and hobbled around with a wooden crutch or on a metal pegleg designed for him by a local mechanic from auto parts. The artificial leg worked, and M
asozi was proud of it, but the fit was not good and it rubbed the calloused stump raw after a short time. In spite of his losses, Masozi kept his smile intact. Ramla found it fascinating that Masozi always knew when she was around, especially since she made virtually no sound. It wasn’t long before the two of them became inseparable during all waking hours. He became her voice. She became his eyes. Together they were a whole person, each one helping the other cope.
Conversations between Masozi and Ramla sounded funny to Daudi. But by the time he met them, they had known each other for almost three years and had developed a system of communication that worked extremely well.
“Ramla,” Masozi would say, “do you want to hear about Oz and Dorothy from our friend, Daudi?”
Her hand on his arm gave a gentle squeeze and he would smile.
“Ramla says YES! Read your story, Daudi. Please read,” Masozi insisted.
The two of them had quickly become addicted to listening to Daudi read from the book filled with magical places and characters. So Daudi would find the place where he read last and begin with predictable results. Masozi always interrupted, even though he soon knew the book by heart.
“Back up, back up,” Masozi commanded. “We must be reminded of what happened last. You are smiling, Daudi. I can tell when you smile.” He was indeed smiling. He purposely started in the same spot to hear Masozi urge him to back up. It was a ritual and for these children, things that did not change meant a great deal.
Daudi read The Wonderful Wizard of Oz with the passion of one who sees himself among the pages. He loved the first paragraph because it reminded him in many ways of the little house he had shared with Mamere.
Their house was small, for the lumber to build it had to be carried by wagon many miles. There were four walls, a floor, and a roof, which made one room; and this room contained a rusty looking cooking stove, a cupboard for the dishes, a table, three or four chairs, and the beds. When Mamere had read him the book, he had asked questions just like Masozi asked him now. “Mamere, is Kansas a place I can go one day? I want to see the house where Dorothy lived.”
