by Tim Merriman
“No.”
“A tragedy. We must get to her before they are all gone. She always brings chocolates for us.”
“What good is chocolate? She might have brought medicine instead, but did not.” Daudi’s customary good humor had disappeared.
Masozi was quiet, understanding Daudi’s frustration. Masozi’s infirmities were evident, with his damaged eyes and leg. His friend Daudi had a hidden disease and without medicine, his condition could only worsen. Already, Daudi seemed without the energy of just a few months ago.
“Perhaps tomorrow, Daudi. We must hope for change every day,” Masozi encouraged. Ramla looked at Daudi with great pain in her eyes and gently stroked his arm. Rosa wandered the orphanage taking pictures for four days, each day growing more fascinated by Daudi, Masozi and Ramla. She would see them in places other children didn’t go. They always had their nose in a book, and she was curious to learn what it was the first moment possible. It happened her second day in camp when she spotted the trio at the acacia that had become known as the Leopard Tree. After learning about the leopard, the other children stayed away from the tree, but Daudi, Masozi, and Ramla felt safe there, almost under the protection of the cat in a strange way. Still, they always let Ramla check it out first. She would scan the horizon and watch for movement, seeming to feel rather than see the leopard’s presence. If the leopard could not be seen, she would wave the others on. They would sometimes sit in the tree’s lowest limbs to read, marveling at a sun-bleached gazelle skeleton draped over an upper limb where the cat had left it on a previous visit.
The three hovered over the book as Rosa approached.
“What are you reading up there?” she asked, shading her eyes from the glaring mid-day sun. She snapped a photo before they realized it and caught all of them looking back at her with a hint of fear in their eyes.
“Sister Rosa knows we’re here,” Daudi said defensively.
“I know that,” Rosa assured them. “She told me where to find you. Why do you like this tree so much? And what are you reading?”
Masozi spoke for all of them. “This is the Leopard Tree. A leopard often comes here but we’re not afraid of him. He is our friend.” He quickly tilted his head to make sure he did not hear the leopard approaching the tree, hoping what he said was true. Ramla studied the American woman with reddish-brown hair cut short like a man, almost like the Maasai.
She smiled and asked, “So what is the book about?”
“It’s about a wizard,” Daudi said.
“The Wonderful Wizard of Oz?” she asked immediately. “I’ve read that.”
“Yes, but how did you know?” Daudi asked in amazement.
“It’s very famous in the United States. Everyone reads it. Or at least they’ve seen the movie.”
“Have you been to Kansas?” Masozi asked.
“Oh, yes,” Rosa explained. “I’m from Colorado, very near Kansas.”
“It is very dangerous there, I think. Tornadoes that pull houses from the ground, witches with terrible powers.” Masozi shook his head from side to side.
“It’s a wonderful book you are reading, but it is a story, a fictional story. Most of what is in the book isn’t true at all.”
“Oh, I know that,” Masozi said, unwilling to show his naivete. “Daudi told us that when he started. It is just a story. Still, Kansas seems very dangerous. Are there leopards there?”
Rosa laughed in a way that invited the kids to join her. She had a way with youngsters, sharing their enthusiasm for small details. “No leopards. Not even a hyena.”
Rosa shaded her eyes and focused on Ramla. “This young lady is very quiet. What is your name?” Rosa probed. Ramla shifted uncomfortably under Rosa’s gaze.
“She is called Ramla, Miss Rosa,” Masozi answered. “She doesn’t speak.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Masozi. Why can’t she speak?” Rosa asked quietly, knowing the truth might be unsettling.
“She was found near a dead village. I think she has seen unspeakable things, and so she speaks of nothing.
“She seems to take good care of you, Masozi. That’s very nice.”
“She is my friend, my eyes when I walk, and sometimes my good sense,” he said, laughing at his own joke.
Rosa laughed with him and studied Ramla. She shrunk back a little but looked intently at the strange woman from so far away.
Daudi had been watching the interchange between Masozi and Rosa, finally deciding to ask an important question.
“Would you help us go to America?”
Rosa was very quiet for a moment, studying his face, knowing this was not just a childish question of curiosity. She had spoken of Daudi’s condition at length with Sister Mary, and knew he had every reason to dream of a place where his problems might not be so overwhelming.
“Yes, of course, if I could. But Kenya is your home. You might not like the United States,” she suggested.
“There is medicine there for all who need it?” he asked quietly.
“Usually, yes. But sometimes it’s difficult even there to get medical treatment.”
“Here it is hard every day. I have had no medicine for HIV for over two months now. Mamere taught me this is very dangerous.”
“Yes, Daudi. I’m sure your grandmother was right.” She hesitated to say encouraging things without meaning, having learned that some of the realities of life for these children were too big to gloss over with platitudes. They had to face hard truths daily. Rosa could not in good conscience deny anything.
Daudi wanted to know more. “What is Colorado like?”
“It is like here in many ways, Daudi. Beautiful, tall mountains like Mount Kenya cover the western part of the state. I live near them, like you live near Mount Kenya. The grassy plains that lead up to the mountains stretch clear across eastern Colorado through Kansas. Oh, wait.” Rosa dug in her daypack and found a pocket atlas sent to her with her passport by the visa service. She flipped through and found the U.S. map and showed them the expanse of states comprising the Great Plains.
The conversation went on for an hour or more with Rosa and the children asking each other many questions. She was taken with their simple eloquence and courage in the face of doubtful futures, qualities she often felt she lacked in spite of her success as a photojournalist.
* * *
Rosa continued to chat with Daudi, Ramla, and Masozi during the remaining days of her visit. The others at the orphanage were interesting, but this trio of young people seemed special in a way she could not describe. She took hundreds of photographs of them, hoping their unique qualities would show somehow in the printed pictures. She was filled with questions for them and they for her. A friendship blossomed in the sweltering heat of Kenya’s summer.
“Daudi, are you reading today?” she asked on her third day.
“I am reading every day, Miss Rosa,” he answered with an intensity that spoke of the importance of continuing the story.
“What is happening?” she inquired.
“The Wicked Witch of the West is most evil, Miss Rosa. I have never known such evil.”
Masozi spoke up at that. “I have known worse. My village was emptied of people by wicked people from the north. This evil witch in the book was surely from their village.”
Ramla shifted uncomfortably. She knew more of what they spoke than any of them. She hoped the subject would change. Rosa must have picked up on her discomfort, because she abruptly did just that.
“What do you dream about, Daudi?” Rosa asked.
“I dream about Mamere,” Daudi answered with certainty.
“No, I meant what do you hope to do? The other day, you said you wanted to go to America. Is that your only dream? Perhaps I could help you with a smaller dream.” Rosa hoped they would want a gift of something she could provide. Getting them to America seemed unlikely.
“I would like to see again, Miss Rosa,” Masozi said. “Like the Tinman needing his heart to beat once again in his chest, I could su
rely use my eyes.” He smiled in Rosa’s direction. He didn’t know what she could do, but knew his vision would not return. “And Ramla needs her courage, just like the Lion. When the time is right, and she once again feels brave, she will speak.”
Rosa realized her mistake. These children were beyond wishing for toys or useless gifts. They had real needs that mattered a great deal. Daudi remained quiet, having already expressed his deepest desire. She sighed. “I asked a very big question, didn’t I, Masozi? I wish I could be the Good Witch Glinda or the magnificent Oz and help you with those things. I fear I’m more like Dorothy and not a witch at all. In fact, I’m just a picture taker with a very big mouth.” With that she snapped another photo of the three friends draped like young leopards over the limbs of the tree, and then asked, “What would you do if you get to America?”
“We will go to see the wizard,” Daudi stated without hesitation.
Masozi chimed in, “Yes, the wizard. But who is the wizard?”
“There must be someone who is very powerful, who can grant wishes and help those in need. Who would that be, Miss Rosa?” Daudi asked with sincerity.
“Who is the wizard? A good question. The president of the United States is very powerful.” Then she added, “But Kamau Akama is the leader of the United Nations in New York City.”
“Is that good?” Masozi asked. “What is the United Nations?”
“It is a group of leaders from all over the world, every nation. They come there to resolve problems between countries. Kamau Akama is their president, the leader of the leaders. He’s African also, from the country of Ghana. He’s not a wizard, but he is a very wise man.”
“Does he know about us?” Masozi asked. “Does he know about the children who go hungry, the ones who are sick, and those who cannot walk outside without stepping on land mines?”
“He knows there are orphans and many other people hurting in Africa, Masozi. Most certainly he knows that and he cares.”
“I do not think he can know this. If he did, he would surely stop it,” Daudi said. Rosa could not begin to respond to the quiet despair in Daudi’s voice, but Ramla nodded in agreement with him. It was her first clear response to something being discussed. Rosa had wondered if Ramla was always fully aware of her surroundings. She often seemed to see things others did not, yet sometimes did not seem fully present even when sitting right next to Rosa.
Rosa pulled out the last of her chocolates with almonds and shared them with the children. When she announced she wanted to take them on a trip with Sister Mary’s blessing, they were astonished.
“A real trip, in the Land Rover?” Masozi wondered out loud.
“A short trip, Masozi, to see and hear music and dancing from other villages.”
“Where will we go?” Daudi asked. “To Nairobi?” He wondered whether there was any hope of getting to the airport, as a plan began to take shape in his mind.
“It’s a surprise. Go and clean up at the well, quickly now.”
They raced off as fast as Masozi could travel with Ramla and Daudi helping him. Rosa watched and wondered. She had seen many of the hard things they had seen and it had changed her forever. Why couldn’t they just be children, with nothing more on their minds than playing silly games? She could not grant their wishes for health and homes, but she hoped to give them an afternoon of happiness, at the very least.
* * *
As they drove through the Kenyan countryside outside of Nairobi, Daudi studied the roadside markets. People jumped in and out of matatus as the vans swerved to avoid potholes in the road. Aptly named “troublemakers,” the matatus served as the main form of public transportation in the bustling outskirts of town. Ramla and Masozi sat quietly in the back seat, listening to the noises of people and vehicles. The open windows brought a warm breeze filled with the rich smells of human sweat, animal manure, and sun-ripened fruits wafting through the bouncing vehicle.
“Where are we going?” Masozi asked, trying to contain his excitement at riding in a car just for fun. He had been transported to the orphanage but the thought of a trip for fun was alien to his experiences.
“The Bomas,” Rosa answered.
“Bomas?” Daudi and Masozi said in unison. They knew the word meant a hut, or type of native enclosure. It made no sense to be going to a village, but they didn’t ask and Rosa didn’t explain further.
Rosa parked next to a large building and they all climbed out of the Land Rover. The children followed Rosa as she paid a fee and took them into the interior of the main building. They learned that dances would begin in forty minutes so they went down the outside trail to walk while waiting for the dances. Rosa explained that the Bomas consisted of a series of small houses where native African crafts and dances can be visited to learn about the many cultures of the continent, forty-two in Kenya alone, one hundred nineteen in Tanzania to the south.
At each outdoor exhibit, Rosa would take them into the individual hut and the children would encourage Masozi to touch what they found. He tasted and smelled everything, also.
“You are going to be sick, Masozi, licking things like that.”
“Listen, lick, and learn like Masozi,” Masozi said, laughing. “I am a lizard or a snake. I need my tongue to tell me what I’ve found. You just look. It is easy for you but you miss much.”
“Okay,” Daudi chuckled. “I won’t tell you that the wall you just licked is made of cow poop. You must know the taste and have learned that, already.”
Rosa studied and photographed their every move. She had nieces in the U.S. who would like this colorful place but would not be as curious about the details. Ramla guided Masozi’s hands to interesting woodcarvings and fabrics in the market area, where local people were selling items both familiar and strange.
Rosa led them back to the main building where they sat on hard benches awaiting the entertainment. Drummers began a rhythmic beat that mesmerized the youngsters. They began to sway and move with the beat as performers in colorful costumes began dancing toward the center of the giant log room. The dancers laughed and sang as they told stories through their movements. Masozi leaned in to hear better and seemed to be absorbing every sound. Daudi and Ramla had their eyes glued to the gyrating bodies. Masozi looked upward and listened and laughed. It was a magical afternoon, exactly what Rose had hoped for.
On their way back Daudi asked the question he had been brooding over. “Miss Rosa, do you know where the airport is?”
“Yes, of course, Daudi. We drive very near it on our way back. Why?”
“Could we stop there?”
“Why would you want to do that, Daudi?” she asked with great curiosity.
Daudi looked her straight in the eye and said, “Because we’ve never seen an airplane.”
“Then we should probably stop there,” Rosa said, knowing there was something more to this than he was saying, but unable to put her finger on it. Still, they didn’t ask for much and seeing the airplanes that occasionally flew overhead at closer range would be a good treat for them.
When they pulled into the airport parking area, she looked at Daudi, studying his calm face. “Okay, you guys stay right with me; the airport is a busy place. I think we can go in and look through the windows to see the airplanes, but that’s all we have time for. I need to get you back.” The four of them trailed into the airport, the children gasping at the crowds surrounding the ticket counters.
“Ramla, hold on tight to Masozi’s arm. I don’t want him to get lost in here,” Rosa said. She had begun to wonder at the wisdom of bringing the children here. The airport was not usually this crowded, but on this day, major maintenance problems on two airlines at once and a computer shutdown had caused cancellations, overbooking and delays on several flights for the rest of the day. The crowd of unhappy passengers seemed to be growing as the problems created a domino effect. In the confusion, Daudi noticed several people pushing and dropping things. He stooped to pick up a trampled boarding pass and saw that it was for a flig
ht headed to San Francisco through Tokyo in less than an hour. He started to hand it to Rosa, then resolutely tucked it inside his shirt with a mental apology to Mamere for taking something that wasn’t his.
“You three wait right here.” Rosa pointed at a bench. “I’m going to see if there’s any way we can get to a window to look at the airplanes, but this may just have to wait for another day. I’ll be right back.” She walked a short distance away to talk to a security agent. No sooner had she turned her head, than Daudi motioned to the others to come with him. Without hesitation, Ramla pulled Masozi to his feet and he followed her lead. He sensed urgency and whispered, “What are we doing?”
Daudi didn’t answer, but simply pulled the others into the mass of people pushing their way into the security line. The harried security agent took a quick look at the boarding pass Daudi handed him and said, “You three together? Where’s your mom?” Daudi quickly said, “She is behind us and told us to go on ahead. That is her, there.” He pointed to a woman who had her hands full with two unhappy babies.
“Okay, fine. Go ahead. Next.”
The three quickly made their way past the security gate since they had nothing to put through the x-ray machine. The buzzer went off as Masozi walked through the metal detector, but one look at his leg revealed the source of the problem and he was waved through. Daudi let out a long breath, and said, “Okay, we need to move quickly. We are going to America, now.”
Ramla took Masozi’s arm and followed Daudi as he headed for the gate. The flight was due to leave in just a few minutes and he wasn’t sure they would make it. Masozi kept up, but was clearly concerned. “Daudi, what about Miss Rosa and Sister Mary? Shouldn’t we tell them we’re leaving?”
Daudi looked back over his shoulder. He could see Rosa scanning the crowds, looking for them, but she was not looking beyond security. He felt a sharp stab of guilt over the deception, but had to take this opportunity. Mamere had always told him he had to make things happen, not wait for them to happen, and that’s what he was determined to do, for himself, for his friends, and for all the children who suffered in Africa. He said, “We must go now, Masozi. They will understand that after a time. But for now, they might try to stop us if we let them know what we hope to do.”
