The Leopard Tree

by Tim Merriman

  “Let us go, Masozi. I think Ramla is most wise. We will follow her.”

  Ramla led them down a tree-lined corridor into the heart of Salina. After walking for some time, they stopped to rest in a city park and drink cool water from a fountain. When they saw a police car go by and a policeman glance over at them, they turned down an alley, hoping to see no more authorities of any kind. They held hands, walking to the east for several hours, following the highway labeled Interstate 70. They were almost positive this was the road Joey had pointed out to Daudi on the map. It wasn’t yellow or brick, but it just might get them where they needed to go.

  Chapter Eight

  Rosa Carson was in Reno, Nevada, at a conference for photojournalists. The keynote speaker was a Pulitzer Prize winner but tedious in his description of his bravery on location in Lebanon. She believed every word he said about how dangerous it was. She’d been there too. She just thought his fame had turned his head a bit and his self-congratulatory speech was a little more than she could take. She decided to retreat to the Starbucks down the corridor from the ballroom for a cup of dark roast coffee and a pastry. When she got there, a long line had formed to buy beverages so she scanned the newspaper rack, looking for great photos, her passion in life. Her attention was caught by the dark eyes of a familiar face peeking above USA Every Day on the front page of a local paper. She pulled it from behind and was shocked to see her three African friends looking back and smiling, draped in T-shirts much too large for their thin figures. The Reno-Gazette carried a front-page story about Special Olympics with the photo of a trio of kids from California who were enjoying the event. The caption carried only their first names and the accompanying story was totally lacking in useful information, but she was sure these were her kids from Nyumba wa watoto.

  The line at the cash register had moved along and Rosa ordered a large mocha and a bearclaw. She settled into an easy chair and dug her PDA phone out of the small utility camera pack she carried everywhere. She used the PDA to go on the Internet and search for the newspaper name. Within a minute she had a phone directory for the paper while she munched on the sweet treat she had bought. She kept one finger on the name of the photographer as she punched the number into her phone. Two rings later, a switchboard operator took her call and let her know the photographer was not in but she would page him. Rosa gave her number and hung up.

  She studied the photo as she drank her coffee, wondering how on earth these children had managed to get to Reno in the few days that had passed since she saw them last in the Nairobi airport. She had scoured the airport looking for them and would never get over having to go back to Sister Mary and tell her that she had lost the children. Sister Mary’s chilling response still haunted her, as the nun explained that no agency would attempt to find three missing orphans. These were children without a future and their disappearance only meant that there would now be more food, more medicine, more supplies for others at the orphanage. She told Rosa horrendous stories of kidnapped children, children sold into slavery or turned into soldiers, children who simply died alone for lack of care when their families died before them. Rosa had asked if she could adopt the children if they were found and Sister Mary readily agreed to help make that happen, but could offer no real hope that they would be found. She was saddened to lose them, but also realistic about their chances, as she still had dozens of other children who needed her immediate attention.

  A ring tone of galloping horses startled her away from the photo and her dark thoughts as she fumbled for the phone.

  “Hello, Rosa Carson here.”

  “Dennis Fernandez returning your call. I took the Special Olympics photos.”

  “Oh, thank you for calling back, Dennis. I’m also a photojournalist. I’m intrigued by your photo of the African kids.”

  “What African kids?”

  “Special Olympics on the front page of your paper.”

  “Oh yeah, them. They may have been from Africa originally but they claimed to be from California.”

  “Really? Wow. I was with them a few days ago in Kenya at an orphanage. If they were in California, it couldn’t have been for very long. Did they say where they were staying?”

  “I’m not much help. I’m sorry. I had five photo assignments that morning so I took fast shots at the park there and then got on to a casino for the high rollers welcome for a World Poker Tour event. I even forgot to get full names and I had to call the event organizers to get what I got.”

  “Can you give me a name? Someone with Special Olympics?” Rosa asked with growing frustration.

  “Sure, give me a sec.” He came up with a number and name and Rosa thanked him for his help. She then called Sandi Turner at the Special Olympics office and caught her immediately.

  “You nearly missed me,” Sandi said, out of breath. “I’m supposed to be on my way to a Rotary meeting.”

  “Three young black children photographed by Dennis Fernandez at your newspaper were at the recent event at the park there. Do you remember them?”

  “Who could forget them? I had very little time to talk with them, but one of the boys read to the other kids at the event all day. Some kids book.”

  “The Wonderful Wizard of Oz,” Rosa guessed with certainty.

  “Yeah, you got it. How’d you know that?”

  “Educated guess. Can you tell me what they gave as their address or where they went?”

  “I wish I could. The blind boy came in third in a race. Later we realized we didn’t have an entry form for him and don’t even know his last name. Things were a little chaotic. Someone said they left with a group from Kansas. We never did know if those were their official sponsors or what—these kids sort of seemed to come out of nowhere,” Sandi explained and then asked suspiciously, “So, just what is the nature of your interest?”

  “Nothing bad, I assure you. I met them in Kenya not too long ago. They’re very special kids, but I think they may be in trouble at this point. I just want to help.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you the name of the orphanage in Kansas and the contact, just a minute.” Sandi checked her computer and read the phone number. “It’s Tammy Davies you’re looking for. They may not even be back there yet, though. They had quite a drive ahead of them. This was a regional event and people came in from all over the western U.S.”

  Rosa thanked her for the details and immediately called the number for Tammy Davies in Independence. The harried administrator at the orphanage could only tell her that Tammy was hung up with some problem in Salina, runaway kids of some sort. Rosa was quickly piecing what she learned together with what she knew about Daudi and his friends. She knew they couldn’t be here legally, so were likely to be terrified of authorities.

  She turned over options in her mind. She had a keynote presentation to give in two hours that included her African photos. The national and international press would be present. What could she do from here to help the kids? She finished her coffee and pastry and hurried back to her room to prepare for the talk, mulling over what she would do. She had only three days before flying to London and had intended to stay at this meeting for her remaining time in the States. Did the kids really need her intervention? She thought the answer to that was a big “yes”.

  Rosa’s talk in front of 200 photojournalists, editors and wire service reps went very well. She had used the two hours before speaking to rearrange her photos. She ended her talk by saying, “We are not just journalists and photographers recording the march of history past our camera lens. We choose to be spectators to catastrophes in the making. I can’t record even one more tragic death of a child and submit it for rewards. I must find a personal way to help, to make a difference. I hope you will too. She hit a button on her laptop and a quote from Judith Stone filled the screen.

  “Travel is not only broadening, I’ve realized, but burdening too. I carry these lives and places with me. But I’m grateful for the ballast; it’s keeping me from tipping into total complacency.”

/>   After a few seconds, the quote dissolved into a montage of Daudi, Masozi, and Ramla reading in the Leopard Tree, playing in the red Kenyan dust, lining up for a plate of food lovingly prepared by Sister Mary. The images of their smiles became interspersed with darker images of children in the clinic, children severely underweight, children with open sores covering their ebony skin, children with eyes glazed in the final stages of a life miserably shortened by AIDS, tuberculosis, or malaria. Tears streamed down Rosa’s face as she stood in the semi-darkness and watched her photos run with the soft music of East Africa playing from an MP3 embedded in her laptop. The audience was held in rapt attention, profoundly touched by the contrast of horrific circumstances and the kindness captured in a close-up of Daudi’s intelligent eyes.

  Rosa took a deep breath and turned up the lights with the button on the dais. “This boy, Daudi, is HIV-positive, trying to live without medication. His friend, Masozi, lost a leg and his vision to a land mine. He is assisted by Ramla, a young girl who doesn’t speak after watching her family slaughtered by rebel soldiers. Yet when I talk to these children, I am struck by their ability to pull hope from thin air. They have more hope for their future than I have for my own. What will we do to help them towards that future? What will you do?”

  A deafening silence followed her presentation and she stood there, unable to gauge the reaction. The applause started with one person and grew to a tumultuous roar that brought them all to their feet. Rosa was stunned. She certainly didn’t want this to be about her or the quality of her photos. She truly wanted everyone in the audience to ask, “What will I do? How can I help?” She hoped she had accomplished that, but was unsure how to measure the results of her presentation.

  By the time she returned to her room, she knew she had to cancel her flight to London and booked a flight to Topeka instead. She wasn’t sure what she would do when she got there, but knew she had to find the children and help them in any way she could, and Topeka seemed to be the nearest airport to where they were. She dashed off a note to a friend in Nairobi, asking her to let Sister Mary know that the children were in America. She realized there was little Sister Mary could do, but didn’t want her to worry any further about the three runaways. By now, Sister Mary had no doubt filled their beds with more of the unending supply of orphans in east Africa, but she knew these three had been special favorites amongst the hundreds of children Sister Mary had cared for over the years.

  Rosa smiled to herself. They were certainly unique. How could they have traveled on their own half way around the world? It seemed impossible, improbable at best. She settled into the task of finding them. She had spent years trying to help needy children through second-hand consciousness-raising. Now she had the opportunity to help three children who needed her, right here, right now. She wasn’t about to let them down.

  * * *

  Ducking and hiding to avoid police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks seemed like a never-ending game of hide and seek. Often Masozi would tell them a vehicle with a siren was approaching long before the others heard anything. Once they hid from an ice cream truck whose melodic songs confused them, but what kind of emergency vehicle deliberately tries to attract a crowd, and a crowd of children at that? They could not imagine, but hid from it anyway just to be sure they’d be safe. When they realized the other children left the truck with a frozen treat, they wondered if they should join in and spend the last of their money but decided they would do better to hold out for something more substantial.

  Masozi was most frustrated by their foodless predicament, though he never taunted Daudi for leaving the bag behind.

  “Daudi, I would have eaten five waffles this morning had I known we were going for a walk. I am ready to eat the leather strap on my leg. Can we not find a McDonald’s again? Do we have any money at all?” Masozi asked.

  “We can certainly find a McDonald’s, but we now have two dollars only, Masozi. I do not know if McDonald’s has much for so little money. We can try. I can see the golden rainbow in front of us about ten minutes walk. We will try.”

  They walked on, ever wary for authorities. When they arrived at McDonald’s, they stood outside and Daudi read the drive-through sign.

  “We could share a cheeseburger,” Daudi said. “It is only one dollar. Would that be a good lunch?” he asked doubtfully.

  “It will not be enough lunch. Can we not have two of them?” Masozi asked. Ramla watched with great attention but remained silent.

  “I think no, Masozi,” Daudi explained. “If we spend one dollar now, only one dollar then remains for our evening meal. It is not very much so we had better make it last as long as we can.”

  Daudi went into the McDonald’s and returned in five minutes with a bag and a cardboard container with three cups of water. The clerk had supplied the six-cent tax out of the donation box for McDonald’s charities and made sure Daudi knew about the free drinking water. She could see Masozi and Ramla through the window, waiting for their friend at one of the outdoor tables and thought it had been a good use of the donated pennies.

  The kids settled in the shade of a locust tree that looked almost like their leopard acacia at home and carefully tore the small cheeseburger into three portions. When each had finished the food and drank the cups dry, Ramla seemed satisfied. Not so Masozi.

  “That was a very good snack. Now my stomach is growling like a lion. It would like to have lunch. It thinks we are going to be very hungry on this walk.”

  Daudi watched a Dodge Caravan pull past them and toss a large bag into the trash container. When the van pulled away, he looked around to see if anyone was watching, then walked quickly to the bin. He peered inside and carefully extracted the bag. Inside he found two large containers of French fries and an apple pie that had not been touched. He took them back to his friends and the feast was on. Masozi smiled as if they were having a very good meal indeed, grateful that there were people who had enough food that they could afford to throw most of it away.

  By dusk the trio was at the edge of the city and they huddled behind yet another McDonald’s. Easily recognizable, always available, and consistent with food choices, McDonald’s had become a touchstone. Masozi joked that the yellow brick road could be called the yellow arch road. He had gone in the restaurant with Daudi this time, loudly praising the fine food to be had here. The clerk, completely charmed by Masozi’s smile, silently slipped another cheeseburger and a large container of fries into the bag and the troupe rejoiced when they discovered the surprising bonus. As they were polishing off the last of the fries, Ramla pointed emphatically to the gas station next to the restaurant. Daudi wondered whether she saw a new danger or an opportunity. He was uncertain which until he saw a large pickup truck with double rear wheels, hauling a stock trailer filled with long-haired goats on a bed of straw. Ramla continued to point and Daudi’s imagination did the rest. While the elderly farmer went inside to pay his bill, they opened the rear gate and climbed in with the bleating goats. They hoped the truck was headed east, not back to the west and indeed they were lucky. When the farmer came out and started the truck, he drove over the highway and turned eastward. Ramla smiled as Daudi praised her brilliance. They settled in amongst the goats, enjoying the familiar smell. “It is almost like home,” Daudi whispered, remembering the livestock from his grandmother’s village.

  “This is a very noisy truck, Daudi. I do not think we have to whisper,” Masozi returned. “The goats are smelly, but their voices will cover ours.” As night descended, the truck rolled eastward and they slept among the warm bodies of the goats. The truck went through the Kansas Turnpike toll gates, but no one noticed the dark-skinned children asleep in a heap with kids of a different sort. Just after the truck passed through Topeka, a rainstorm began and lightning illuminated the sky while the truck sped through the night. When hail began to pelt the truck, the farmer sought the shelter of an overpass to wait out the worst of the storm. The Africans, wakened by the drenching rain, attempted to snuggle unde
r the goats for protection.

  They soon fell asleep again. Exhausted, they slept so hard they never heard the rain stop or the truck resume its progress. At an exit west of Kansas City, the truck turned off Interstate 70 onto a county highway and then a smaller dirt road until it rolled to a stop next to a dilapidated barn. The old man driving the truck honked once before climbing out. Another old man who looked a lot like the one driving the truck came out of the farmhouse. Without a word, they dragged a chute up against the stock trailer and opened the gate. The goats bounded over the sleeping children, down the ramp, and into a muddy paddock sheltered by an eave on the barn. When the last goat was out, the old men started to close up the trailer and noticed the three sleeping children.

  “Lane, you brought back some mighty strange-lookin’ goats,” Campbell said.

  “I reckon you’re right, Campbell. Not sure where I picked up these ones.” They stood staring at the children and stroked their whiskers like the answer might shake loose from the curly gray hair.

  Ramla was awakened by the talking and began squeezing the arms on both boys. Daudi didn’t stir, but Masozi sat up straight.

  “What is it, Ramla? Where are we? Where are the goats?” he asked in a sputter of questions.

  “How’d you young’uns get in my wagon?” Campbell asked.

  Masozi thought about the question and decided it might be best to put on the charm. “We fell from the Leopard Tree and landed with your goats.” He knew it wasn’t exactly factual but it sounded good to him.

  “Say, I don’t think this boy can see,” Lane observed.

  “You blind, boy? And why don’t this other boy talk?”

  “Ramla is a girl and she does not speak,” Masozi explained.

  “Where you young’uns from?” Campbell asked.

  Daudi finally woke, rubbing his eyes and then sat bolt upright when he realized they’d been discovered. “Where are we from?”