The Newcomers: a novel of global invasion , human resilience, and the wild places of the planet

by Pamela Jekel

  On Sunday, Jomo drove his family to Our Lady of Consolata Cathedral, as he had every Sunday since his wedding day.

  “When do I get to practice driving?” Baako asked his father. “These roads are straight; this is a good place.”

  “Not with your sister and mother along,” Jomo said again. “I wasn’t driving all over my father’s lands at fourteen years of age, and you’ve already taken the car over every conceivable pot-hole on the farm.”

  “And you don’t wash it after, either,” Desta grumbled, trying to brush at her skirt. “When I’m kneeling for the Host, the whole church is going to see my dirty backside.”

  “When did you last make confession?” Asha asked her son.

  “Last week just!” he said with prompt indignation. “I haven’t had the chance to do anything to confess. You won’t let me hang with my mates, nothing but school and lessons, can’t even get on the computer, the bloody thing’s been useless for two

  weeks—“

  “Well, look on the bright side. Now you have something to confess,” Asha said calmly. “Disrespect for your parents and vulgar language. No, Baako, until we see how these world troubles are going to affect Nyeri, I’m more comfortable with you staying closer to home. If this disease comes to Kenya, it shall have to find my children on our own farm, not in the homes of your mates. And Desta, if you turn that skirt around, your kanga will drape down to cover it. Be sure to show the stain to Jata before you put it in the laundry.”

  Mass that morning was to be celebrated in Latin, as it was every other Sunday, and Asha looked forward to the solemn rhythm of the old words. She had studied Latin in Catholic school, of course, and she was pleased that her children, also studying the ancient language, would be able to hear it spoken in a place where tradition still had meaning. They entered the Cathedral, and she was struck, as she always was, at the beauty of the building. The solid stone walls, the high bell tower, the stained glass windows which glowed in the morning light, all made her feel part of something both eternal and comfortingly familiar. With each member of her family, she dipped her right fingers in the holy water, made the sign of the cross on her forehead, breast, and each shoulder, and genuflected for a moment, murmuring, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen.” All around her, members of the congregation, her community, filled the church.

  The Maathais took their place in the front row, where their clan had customarily held seats for a generation, genuflecting again to the altar, and Asha breathed in the reassuring fragrance of the incense, the holy walls, and the cedar pews. Neighbors murmured around them, the organ radiated music up the vaulted walls, and the sounds of hushed voices made her feel safely at home.

  Father Griga entered with the four altar boys, each of them known to Asha since they were small, and they stood to sing “Glory to God in the highest and peace to his people on earth…” The priest bowed to the altar, kissed it, and turned to sing along with the congregation. As they finished singing, he said, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and the Holy Spirit”, and they all responded, “Amen.”

  “The Lord be with you.”

  “And also with you.”

  This was a Sunday for sprinkling, so they remained standing while Father Griga took the Holy Water and walked among them, scattering drops of water on everyone, murmuring, “This water will be used to remind us of our baptism. Let us ask God to bless it and to keep us faithful to the Spirit he has given us. We ask this through Christ our Lord,” each person sprinkled said, “Amen,” and they sang the “Kyrie”, ending with the chorus, “Christ have mercy; Lord, have mercy.” Asha thought this new Father had a voice like a drum; all rhythm, no tone, and she pondered whether or not the Archbishop thought of that when choosing the Priest to lead Sunday Mass. Surely someone could be found with a better singing style. And then she noticed that Mother Superior, seated on the right side of the altar with the nuns of the order, had glanced her way. Asha smiled, hoping her inattention had not been noticed.

  Father Griga led them through the Opening Prayer, and when they got to the last line, “Grant this through Christ our Lord”, she heard Desta say “Amen” with a particularly emphatic note. Her daughter was still in the prayer position, her eyes closed as though asking for a personal blessing, and Asha wondered if perhaps her children were more worried about the wretched troubles outside Kenya then she knew. She sighed and brought her mind back to the Mass, through the Liturgy of the Word, the First Reading, the Psalm, the Second Reading, and then they stood again for “Alleluia”.

  This was usually the time when Jomo’s stomach would begin to rumble, and right on cue, it did so quite audibly. Her husband was accustomed to a large breakfast each morning, and the fast before Eucharist required of him a spiritual and physical sacrifice which his body did not consider helpful. Through most of the Gospel, everyone politely ignored Jomo’s gurgling for it was a part of every Mass, as predictable as Father Griga’s choice of Homily.

  But this Sunday to her surprise, the Priest departed from his usual discussion of peace with neighbors and keeping the word of God in their daily behavior. He spoke instead of the terrible ordeal facing the world, the suffering of millions, and the difficulty of keeping faith when Newcomers arrive with powers which seem to exceed those of God Himself. Asha was amazed to hear the words from his lips, and she instinctively glanced at Mother Superior, but the nun’s face was hidden behind her cowl in prayer. A Children Transfer Program! A plea for foster families to step forward and save the children of the world, a prayer that each family in the congregation would live the words of Jesus, “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.” She glanced at Jomo, but he seemed transfixed by the Priest’s message, silently nodding as though in accord.

  All through the Homily, the Nicene Creed, and the Apostles’ Creed, Asha’s heart was in turmoil, and the usual peace she felt as Eucharist approached was gone. She knew when she convinced Jomo to keep their family small, that she went against both the tradition of the clan and the tradition of her Church.

  “Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth.” It was a command by God that the Church and most Kikuyu took seriously. Each time she had packed the herbs within her that prevented conception, she knew she had sinned, and she had to confess her sins over and over, both to herself, to her Father Confessor, and to her God. Each time she showed Jomo that their lovemaking could be far more enjoyable without a big belly between them, without the worry and sickness of pregnancy looming over their lives, she knew she sinned. Each time she took pride in the fact that her breasts were still relatively high, her body still lithe, instead of worn down and dried up from too many births, even as she relished her husband’s manhood, she knew she sinned. And she also knew that there were Kikuyu who pitied them both, assuming that they could not have more children than they had.

  “Take this, all of you, and eat it: this is my Body which will be given up for you.”

  She glanced at her children, so precious to her. Each child was precious to someone, she knew. But she believed as deeply as she believed in her God, that she could not have mothered her children so well, could not have loved them unselfishly, if she had more of them.

  “Take this, all of you, and drink from it: this is the cup of my Blood, the Blood of the new and everlasting covenant. It will be shed for you and for all so that sins may be forgiven. Do this in memory of me.” The bells were ringing, and Asha’s heart was thudding with fear. It was very possible that her sins would not, could not be forgiven. That by denying God’s will, she had denied her own salvation. Perhaps even that of her husband, for she had led him away from Christ’s teachings.

  “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.”

  She watched as her children rose to approach the altar for communion, and in that moment, she saw that again, Mother Superior was watching her. Her heart froze. But then, as thou
gh reading her mind, Mother smiled at her so lovingly, with what seemed like such support and encouragement, that Asha’s eyes welled up with gratitude. She would be forgiven, she could indeed be cleansed. God, her Church, and the world were all offering her a way to embrace salvation.

  She took her turn beside her husband, next to her children, and as Father Griga placed the Host on her tongue and said, “The body of Christ”, she closed her eyes and murmured, “Amen.” She let it dissolve slowly, so as to totally absorb His blessings. The Priest then offered her the chalice, saying “The blood of Christ”, and this time she looked right into his eyes and responded with more conviction, “Amen.”

  One by one, they returned to their places, standing until everyone had received communion. They then knelt to pray, and Asha repeated to herself, “Lord, may I receive these gifts in purity of heart, may they bring me healing and strength, now and forever. And may God show me what to do in these times of troubles and open my heart to accept His children who need salvation and refuge. Amen.”

  As the Mass ended and the Priest said the Dismissal, “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord,” Asha knew that she had been sent forth to take Christ into the world.

  “I’m famished,” Jomo said with relief as they emptied out into the sunlight, and she laughed with pleasure at her husband’s earthy desires, which she had served often, served happily, and hoped to continue to serve all her days.

  * * *

  Luncheon that afternoon was unusually rowdy. Everyone had an opinion about the Priest’s announcement. Each had a word to stick in edgeways, and as Jata came and went with their customary Sunday platters of roast beef, mustard and horseradish, steamed potatoes, gravy, and curried vegetables, Jomo’s stomach quieted, but his soul did not.

  Desta was very clear in her position. “I think it’s splendid, and I think we should adopt several children, all girls.”

  Baako, of course, disagreed. “It’s not like picking up a stray pup you fancy. When we’re living with some tosser who can’t be trusted not to bash us in our beds, you can’t quite send him back, and what about this sickness?”

  “I believe the children are being sent by ship,” Asha said, “and so of course, if they’re ill, I should think they’d certainly show symptoms before they reach Mombasa.”

  “And of course, if they are sick, they’ll just ship them back, right?” He took a big bite of roast beef. “Doubtful. Here they’ll be, and here they’ll stay, and best they stay where they are, I say.”

  “And yet, once it’s all sorted out, we do have a certain duty to our fellow man, I should think,” Jomo said. “We of all people should understand that much.” It troubled him that his son seemed not to have the compassion he would expect in one so young. Too much violence on the television; too many toughs in his crowd?

  “Why ‘we of all people’?” Desta asked.

  “Because, of course, our own country has been helped by many nations of the world, and our own people have had their share of misfortune that others stepped in to help set right. Come to that, you certainly know that scads of young people have come from America and other places to work in the villages, building wells and clinics,” Jomo said. “They did what they could, just because they thought it right.”

  “And hospitals. You surely remember the Doctors Without Borders group that came to Nairobi during the fever. They’ve been working on this continent for decades,” Asha added. She glanced at her husband. It was clear to her that they were of the same mind.

  “Oh!” Desta said, “Might we get a French girl? That would be brilliant!”

  Baako grinned. “I might have a go at that myself.”

  “Yes,” Desta said sweetly. “And then you could hear ‘bog off’ in one more language.”

  “Well, I daresay we needn’t have a row about it,” Jomo said. “I think your mother and I have a sense of your feelings about this, yes?” He glanced at Asha.

  She nodded with a smile.

  “And so we’ll decide what’s best for the family, and then we’ll discuss it again.” He glanced at their plates. “Now then, Jata, I think we’re ready for that lovely tart of yours,” he called back to the kitchen.

  That night, they took their tea to the garden and sat out on the lawn, watching the dark shapes of the herd boys moving the livestock into the boma below them. Jomo loved the nights, their soft velvet darkness with the warm, moist air, the great vastness of the sky above with a billion stars, and the smells of the African land around him. The blooming sweetness of the frangipani from Asha’s garden, the cow and horse dung from the pastures, the smoke from the kitchen fires, the odors of baked stones and dirt from the heat of the day, all were the smells that let him know he was at home. A hyena whooped in the distance, followed by a jackal’s call, rather close to the stockade for comfort.

  “Remind me to tell Peter to move the bull in, too,” Jomo said. “I do believe that pride has moved back to the kopje.” Two seasons past, they had lost two yearling calves to lions, but they had flushed them from their rocky outcropping four miles from Jomo’s land.

  “Because of the hyena’s cries?” Asha asked.

  “Because of the tracks down by the river. Not to worry, we’ll harry them on again. It’s a small pride; they won’t give us much trouble.”

  She gazed out over their land, down to the distant lights of Nyeri. One hundred hectares, half in py plants, half in river, fields, and good grazing land, not enough to make them rich but sufficient to keep them well-supplied with beef and tarts. Jomo had always been a good provider, a sound businessman, and his salary as District Commissioner, equal to what they earned from their pyrethrum fields, was enough to feed larger families. They had more than they needed, she knew, in a world where many had not enough. She waited for her husband to speak. She knew that if it was his idea, there’d be less likelihood of resentment, if it went sour in the end.

  “What do you think then, love?” he asked. “Shall we say cheers to our peace and quiet and take on a mate for Baako and a chum for Desta?”

  “Well of course, they might be neither,” Asha said. “And Baako’s spot on about one thing. We can’t send them back once they’re ours.”

  Jomo was quiet again. Ours, she had said. They would indeed be as brothers and sisters to his own, eventually. Should be, in fact, if all went well. He remembered Mother’s words. If he set the example, others would follow. The thought of being not only District Commissioner but also a sort of spiritual leader for his people very much appealed to him. It was in his blood, he knew. The Maathai clan was known for its leadership. He should have the will to do something that mattered. “How many should we take on?”

  “I should think two for now,” Asha said.

  She had obviously given this thought, he realized. “Right. Doubling the load of noise and hoo-ha in the household should be all one can bear.”

  She reached over and took his hand. “But no nappies, though, please God.”

  He chuckled at her candor.

  They sat for long moments, holding hands and feeling the pride of ownership, as they watched the night move over their lands, heard the sounds of the game in the distance. “I’ll post our response to the PC straightaway, then,” he said. “Two, it is. Care what country they hail from?”

  “Not really. Canadians would be lovely, of course, and Brits would likely do. But mostly, just from where the need is greatest.”

  “Oh, I imagine we’ll muster them in, no matter where they call home.”

  “If where they called home was still home,” she said, “They’d not be sent off at all. We shall have to give them time to grieve, you know.”

  “Ah, yes.” He had not thought that children coming to his home might be anything but grateful. He stared into the darkness. There were always dangers lurking out there, beyond his sight, out of reach of his hands. He had handled those; he would handle these.

  The next morning over breakfast, they announced their decision. Baako sighed,


  resigned to be in the minority. “Right, then. Just keep them out of my kit.”

  Desta was thrilled to spread the news to her chums, and as the children hurried out the door to where Peter waited with the jeep, Asha said to her daughter, “Try not to sound too much like Lady Bountiful, my dear. It’s not attractive.”

  One month later, the Provincial Commissioner announced that they had received answers on the District’s central computer, offers from all over the world, and Jomo brought home a printed flyer with photos and small descriptions of a dozen prospects whose parents had selected Kenya as their first choice of refuge for their children. “I cannot imagine how difficult this must have been,” Asha said as she looked over the photographs and the short paragraphs describing each applicant. “How does one make this decision, to send one’s child into the arms of complete and utter foreigners? Not just strangers, but strangers in a strange land?”

  “One does what one must, I suppose,” Jomo said. “What about this one, then?” He pointed to a young boy from India who was two years older than Baako.

  “I think it would be easier to bring in a lad younger than our son. Baako would feel less displaced, I believe.”

  “Right. This lad?” He indicated a young boy from America.

  “An American? I hadn’t thought of an American. They seem to have such troubles there. Such a penchant for violence.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Jomo said, “Perhaps that’s just for the television. Certainly, there seem to be more of them queuing up from America than from other countries.”

  “My father used to say that America was made up of the sweepings of Europe.”

  “Those same ‘sweepings’ saved Europe’s bacon more than once, as I recall.”