The Leopard Tree

by Tim Merriman

  “You can go anywhere you wish, my special grandson. Anywhere. But you must take special care of yourself. You have been handed a special burden in life’s journey. You have the HIV. I have always told you this. But it cannot take away your life if you do not let it.”

  She had always explained everything to him with patience and love. Almost any answer from Mamere included cautions and encouragement. She wanted him to understand the terrible disease he had inherited from his mother at birth. His mother had not lived but a few months after he had been born, being without medicine for her full-blown AIDS disease. Jaha had been Mamere’s only child and far too young to die. Mamere had raised Jaha to be dignified in all ways, as her name suggested. But life in their village included many temptations and Jaha had been attracted to a young man who had come to work on a construction project. He was very good looking and had found favor with many young women. And he carried the dreaded disease that would now be Daudi’s constant companion.

  * * *

  One day when the sun seemed closer to the red soils of Kenya than ever before Sister Mary sent the children out to play in the open courtyard of dust and grit. The boys kicked a soccer ball with enthusiasm, but this was an activity that Masozi found hard to master. He was grateful that Daudi seemed to have little interest in the sport, without realizing that Daudi gave it up so that Masozi would not feel so left out. Daudi enjoyed being around Masozi’s optimism, preferring to have quiet time to think about their future and the future of Africa. He did not begrudge the time the other boys spent on soccer, but wondered what would become of them all. Daudi’s brooding was almost always interrupted by his eager young friend.

  “Daudi, read the book, please,” Masozi suggested. There was only one book.

  “It is too hot, Masozi. Our rock by the dormitory is hot and the storks in the big tree have messed it with their whitewashing poop,” Daudi insisted.

  Ramla pointed at the sprawling umbrella acacia on the higher ground behind the dormitory. She usually just went wherever Masozi wished, so this was an interesting moment. Ramla had a suggestion.

  “Ramla thinks we should go to the small tree on the hill. It may be cooler there. I will read there if you wish,” Daudi said.

  They walked hand in hand toward the tree, avoiding the chaos of the soccer game. Masozi was in the center flanked by his two friends. As they approached the slope to the hill, Ramla balked, dragging Masozi backward, while Daudi tugged him forward.

  “Eiyee, you are trying to tear me in two,” Masozi protested. “What has happened?”

  “You wanted to come here, Ramla. Why are you dragging us backward now?” Daudi said impatiently.

  Ramla’s eyes were fixed on the center of the tree and had grown as round as saucers. She pulled them backwards, saying nothing, transfixed on the tree.

  “It is hot here, Ramla. Let us get to the shade,” Daudi insisted, pulling Masozi uphill.

  Ramla dug in, jerking both Daudi and Masozi backward. “Ramla, what is it?” Masozi questioned. “Do you see something?”

  She pointed toward the canopy of the thorny, shaded tree.

  “What are you pointing at, Ramla? This is silly. I do not see anything and we are cooking our brains, standing in the sun.”

  “Look, Daudi. Look carefully,” Masozi warned. “Ramla sees things others do not. Take a careful look before we go further.”

  Daudi rolled his eyes in frustration, but stepped in front of the other two and shaded his eyes, attempting to peer through the heat and gray-green shadows. He gasped at what he saw. A large leopard was draped along the large sprawling limb of the main trunk, watching the children with interest.

  “Stop!” Daudi yelped. “A leopard is in the tree.”

  “Walk backward, facing the tree,” Masozi suggested. They held hands tightly and walked in unison backward downhill, watching the tree intently.

  “Ramla, thank you,” Daudi whispered. “You saved us.”

  “She is our friend, Daudi. She watches out for us.”

  A tiny smile crept into Ramla’s face undetected by the boys. Though she did not speak, she watched everything.

  * * *

  Daudi missed the little house he shared with Mamere, but having been an only child in a village without many children, he liked the chaotic dormitory filled with other boys ranging in age from newborns to thirteen. The dormitory was divided into three sections, one for the very young, one for the five to nine year olds, and one for those over nine, but the dividers were only sheets hung from the rafters of the ceiling. Most of their time was spent outside in the courtyard or the classroom under the trees, but at night, when all the boys were preparing for bed, the noise level increased dramatically until the last of them fell asleep. Those children who were not adopted and survived to their thirteenth birthday were expected to leave the orphanage and find work to support themselves if they were able.

  The challenges of living in the crowded situation with so many others who had stories tragically similar to Daudi’s took his mind off of Mamere and his own health. As he became part of the orphanage family, his calm determination to achieve solutions won the respect of the other children and they often turned to him for comfort or to resolve minor disputes. At twelve, Daudi became the one who most frequently handled the counseling needs of the orphans, relieving Sister Mary of one of her many tasks. His assistance did not go unnoticed or unappreciated, as Sister Mary began to rely on him to keep her informed of how things were going with the other children. Soon, she was meeting with Daudi for a short time daily for a morning walk before classes began and their friendship deepened.

  One morning, she noticed a slight frown on Daudi’s usually serene face. “And how are things, Daudi?” she asked as she did every morning. He sighed, an unusual response for him. “I have some concern,” he admitted. “Yesterday in class, Sister Louise made a mistake in her arithmetic. It did not matter, but the older boys began to tease her. She became more confused and they laughed more. It was not laughter in fun. Their teasing was mean-spirited. They have been aiming it at some of the younger children also. I have heard them whispering in corners and yesterday evening, I stopped them as they were teasing Masozi. It feels like something is wrong with these boys. They laugh and tease, but not in a kind way. They seem to hide anger behind their laughter. I am concerned about who may be their target when the anger wins at last.”

  “These are the same boys who laughed at you that first day? Rashad and his friends?” Sister Mary asked.

  “Yes. I do not worry for me, but for the young and the weak.” In his head, he heard Mamere’s voice reminding him to take care of those who could not care for themselves.

  Sister Mary smiled at his assertion that he was neither young nor weak, though he was barely twelve and after two months at the orphanage was beginning to show signs of his illness without the life-sustaining medication. “Thank you, Daudi. I will watch them carefully. They are due to leave in just another month, but you may be right. Please let me know if anything else happens.” She watched him as he went off to classes. Without any urging or any real knowledge of doing so, he had assumed responsibility for so many. His grandmother would be proud, Sister Mary thought. I only wish I could keep my promise to see that he stays healthy.

  Daudi was the first to reach the dormitory that evening. He pulled out his book and quickly became engrossed in the story, though he could almost recite it entirely from memory. He heard a few other boys come in, but did not look up until he felt their presence surrounding him. It was Rashad and his gang of two. He had successfully kept his pillow and book in the bunk he shared with two other boys by stashing them under the blanket each day out of harm’s way. Since no one at the orphanage had much in the way of belongings, they tended to respect the few things that others brought with them. With one look at the sly smiles looming above him, Daudi knew that the time had come for the angry confrontation he had predicted. He looked each of them in the eyes and waited for them to speak.

>   “You look tired, Daudi,” Rashad said. “But I think I am more tired than you. You should give me your pillow, so I can rest.” He reached for the pillow, but Daudi held it firmly. The pillow was small, tattered, and truly ugly, not comfortable at all. Mamere explained that it was lumpy and hard to remind him that he could not rest on life’s hard road. She warned him to not wash it, but to keep it always and protect it.

  “Come now, Daudi.” The three boys tightened their circle, hyenas at the ready. “I have heard you say your grandmother insisted that you be kind. So be kind now and give me the pillow.”

  “Mamere kept her kindness for those who would be willing to pass it on to others. I do not believe you have that intention,” Daudi said evenly. His eyes were locked on the older boy, his hands locked on the pillow.

  “Of course I do. Watch.” Before Daudi could react, the older boy grabbed the pillow and tossed it to one of his friends. Laughing, they tossed the pillow to each other, passing it just beyond Daudi’s reach. Much smaller than the other boys, Daudi could not hope to recover the pillow from the three of them.

  “Please, please,” he pleaded. “It is of no value. It is lumpy and hard and ugly.” He hoped to make it clear that it had no value except to him, but knowing that simply gave them the power to torment him further.

  The game went back and forth and he was wearing out. He began to cough, but Rashad paid no attention. Finally two of the boys were pulling on it and he could hear it starting to rip.

  Daudi yelled, “Stop, you are tearing it. Stop now.” They only laughed at his distress.

  He fell against the bed, coughing violently now. Sister Mary entered at that moment with a number of other boys in tow. Immediately, Rashad stopped the game, but the smile on his face did not reach his wicked eyes.

  “What is this?” she asked Rashad.

  “Nothing, Sister Mary, we were just playing catch.”

  “Daudi, is that right?”

  “Yes, they were playing catch, Sister Mary, but with my pillow. They have torn it.”

  “Give it back, Rashad. And leave it alone in the future.” Rashad’s smile faded. In the last month, he had grown tall enough to look Sister Mary in the eye. As she stared him down, Sister Mary thought that Daudi had been right about this one. Though she knew that Rashad was likely to find his way back to his war-torn home country and become a child-soldier as soon as he left the orphanage, it was time for him to move on, out of the orphanage and away from the other children. Slowly, Rashad handed the pillow back to Daudi and turned silently, motioning to his friends to follow.

  “Enough, everybody. Get to bed now and tomorrow will be a better day.” Sister Mary shooed them all to their nightly routines, then smiled knowingly at Daudi as she left the room. Masozi sat next to Daudi on the bed while the other boys prepared for bed. Daudi studied the battered pillow. He ran his hands over the familiar cloth and discovered something protruding from the torn corner. He didn’t want to make the hole bigger, but he was curious about what might be inside the pillow. He also didn’t want anyone else to see what was there, but since Masozi blocked the view of the other boys, he took the opportunity to wiggle it and worry it out through the tear. He found a packet of cloth that made up the core of the pillow. It was colorful and patterned in contrast to the plain brown muslin of the outer cover.

  He studied the packet. He could see papers through a seam. Even though Masozi could not see the packet, he sensed that something was happening. “What is it, Daudi?” he asked quietly.

  “Shhh. I’ve found something in my pillow. I don’t want the others to know yet. Stay where you are for a minute and let me look.” He retreated further against the wall to the waning light below the window above his bed. With his back to the others, he pulled at a loose thread. The side of the packet opened and he could see the papers inside. The first he removed was a letter in Mamere’s neat hand.

  Dear Beloved Daudi, my miracle boy,

  I am writing this letter because I know I will not be with you much longer. I am sorry that you were unable to stay at our small house. The bank was very kind to let me stop payments so I could buy your medicines this past year, but they will take the house when I am gone. I know it will be difficult for you to continue to get the medicine you need if you remain in Kenya. You must get to America as quickly as you can. There are some things you will need in this packet. Show it to no one, for there are many desperate people who will pretend to be your friend so that they may take what is yours. You must find a way to get to Nairobi and leave this country if you are not receiving your medicine. You will do good things in your life and always make me proud. I know this to be true.

  My love is with you always.

  Mamere

  Tears streamed down Daudi’s face and he glanced over his shoulder to be sure he was alone. The other boys had settled into their beds. Even Masozi had fallen asleep. A quick glance through the packet revealed a passport and a handful of paper money. Though Mamere always encouraged him to keep a positive attitude, he was suddenly very aware that he was becoming very sick. He had no medicine and no real hope of getting any here. He was now without any living family. He was alone. But as he hugged the letter close to his chest, he also understood that he could not give in to despair. He had hope, because Mamere had left him that.

  Chapter Four

  Plumes of red dust followed an olive green Land Rover into the drive. Sister Mary glanced up and smiled as she recognized her dear friend, Rosa Carson, behind the wheel. Rosa traveled the world, taking pictures to document the unrelenting wars between people and people, people and places, people and plagues. She came to Kenya several times each year to visit Sister Mary’s orphanage and take photos. She donated her photos to HIV/AIDS charities in the U.S. and Europe, believing they might bring money, medicine, and a little hope to her friend’s work. Ironically, pictures of poverty paid a good living to Rosa, especially after a Pulitzer Prize for her work in Darfur created new demand for her photos. Though her gypsy lifestyle meant that she had managed to remain childless herself, she wanted to make a difference for the children forced to suffer from the foolishness of adults. Hers was a harsh world, one in which little victories meant a great deal. So she donated what she could and tried to create awareness in the hopes that others would follow suit. It would never be enough, but it was what she felt she could do.

  Rosa veered towards the school gate and screeched to a halt, causing Sister Mary to take a step back and wave the dust away. Rosa noticed that the gate had fallen off its hinges once again, and Sister Mary seemed thinner than she had been on the last visit. Rosa’s smile masked her heartache when she climbed out of the Land Rover.

  “Sister Mary. You’re looking so beautiful and so tired, my friend,” she said, shaking the dust off her khakis.

  Sister Mary laughed and raised her thumb to Rosa’s cheek to clear a smudge of dust from her face. “And you, Rosa, you have no time to be tired, always rushing around so. It is wonderful to see you.”

  Children crowded around the two of them, forming a group hug. Sister Mary’s eyes sought Rosa’s and she asked quietly over the children, “Have you brought me a package?”

  Rosa’s smile tightened and she shook her head slightly. “Chocolates, yes. What you need, I’m sorry, but no,” Rosa answered softly, knowing the disappointment she had brought. She often served as a courier, bringing medicine for the children who needed HIV drugs. World Health Organization funds often did not reach the smaller, out-of-the-way orphanages like Nyumba wa watoto, and there were never enough charitable funds or church monies to go around to every place in need.

  “It’s been several months since all of our supplies ran out. I have prayed for more, but no good news has come.” Sister Mary sighed and shook her head. “Please forgive me. I am glad to see you, Rosa, whether you bring anything or not.”

  Daudi pressed in behind Sister Mary and listened to every word. He understood the implication of the conversation only too well. No medicine. />
  Sister Mary pulled him forward. “Rosa, meet Daudi, our newest friend and student.”

  Rosa stuck out her hand and Daudi shook it. “Daudi. A handsome name. What does it mean, Sister Mary?”

  “Beloved,” she explained. “Daudi was raised by his grandmother after his mother’s death. The sun rose and set on Daudi for her. You will see why as you get to know him.”

  Daudi studied the two cameras dangling around Rosa’s neck. “You take photographs?” he asked with curiosity.

  “Yes, that’s my work. Would you like to see yourself in a photo?”

  Daudi was quiet, watching her intently. She raised the larger digital camera and took aim at him. When the camera clicked, she quickly looked at it and then turned it around for Daudi to see. His image looked back at him from the small shiny window.

  “It looks like me,” Daudi remarked without enthusiasm.

  “A handsome young man is always a good subject for a photo.”

  Daudi retreated from the group that was scrambling for Rosa’s chocolates and found Masozi and Ramla near the well, drinking cool water.

  “Daudi?” Masozi asked, hearing his footsteps. “I know it is you, my friend.”

  “It is me, Masozi,” Daudi answered.

  “What is the news? Who arrived in a Land Rover?” Masozi knew vehicles by the sounds of their engines. He was rarely wrong.

  “A photographer. Rosa, I think.”

  “Yes, Sister Mary’s good friend. She comes often. Did you get us chocolates?”