by Pamela Jekel
“That’s so,” she said, looking over the pictures again. “Yes, then, let’s choose
that lad. And what about a girl?”
“Says here, he has a little sister.”
“Ah yes, here she is. Well, what a darling angel!” Asha looked at the photo carefully. “Six is young, of course, and Desta will be disappointed that she’s not a bit older.” She thought for a moment. “It would surely be a shame to take one and not the other. Perhaps they would help each other adjust. It’s ghastly to break up a family in this manner. Their parents must be shattered.”
“If they’re even alive,” Jomo murmured.
“Yes. Well, we must prepare for that eventuality as well,” Asha said. “We take them on for good, or we don’t take them on at all. Are we in accord on that?”
“Right. Anything else would be foolhardy.”
“Then it’s these,” she said, passing him the two photos. “Should we choose some alternatives? Back-ups, as it were?”
“Ours was one of the first posts in, I’m told. I’ll pull some strings. I should imagine we’d get first choice.”
She gazed out the window to the flower fields beyond. “This will make quite a change to our lives, Jomo. Are we ready for this?”
“Duty doesn’t always call when one’s ready, love,” he said. “I doubt their parents were ready to give them up, either.”
She patted his hand. “We’ll be fine. Baako may have a bit of a jolt, but that’ll be good for him as well.”
* * *
It seemed like no time before Jomo received word that the ship from America would dock January 20th 2025, and he made the trip by rail to Mombasa to meet the children they had selected. Several other ships from different nations had arrived, and the Maathais knew three other families who had already welcomed children from Bombay, Beijing, and Madrid. This ship, however, an old Princess cruise vessel, was the first from America.
The Mombasa train was a relic, but a much-loved one, and Jomo looked forward to the slow overnight journey to the coast. It would give him solitude to think, and lately there had been much to ponder, indeed. He drove the two hours to Nairobi, left the Escalade in the closed lot, tipped the boy extra to make sure his tires were all present upon his return, and boarded the train just before dusk. His porter showed him to his compartment, a tiny stall with a sitting couch which made up into a lower cot, an upper cot that folded back against the wall, a miniature toilet behind a closed door, and a sink.
He opened a window, and the smell of dust, the crowds of sweating Nairobi vendors, elbowing each other aside for first thrusting rights at open windows, trying to sell cigarettes, candy, newspapers, the women pushing bananas, oranges, cooked chickens, and chapatti up at travelers from the platform; it was all wildly wonderful and signaled a journey about to begin. The wide windows in his First Class compartment looked out onto the dark Kenyan landscape as the train pulled out of Nairobi, clanking and rocking, picking up speed. Jomo went to the lounge car to the rear.
He sat beside a young man in business attire at the bar, ordered his Beefeaters and tonic, and said to him, “One would think in a tropical country, one might have a decent lime, eh?” holding up the slim slice of fruit provided by the barkeep.
“We ship them all to Canada, is why,” the man replied. “Reggie Mboya.” He offered his hand.
Related to Thomas Mboya? Jomo wondered. Thomas Myboya was a political leader in Kenyatta’s regime, assassinated for his skullduggery while in office. But it would be rude to ask.
“Not related,” Reggie offered. “I do get that question from time to time, even seventy-five years after the fact. Kenyans are like elephants, eh?” He grinned. “They never forget.”
Jomo shook his head. “Hadn’t thought of it. See here, might I have another lime?” he asked the barkeep. “This one’s done for.”
The bartender brought him a small plate of limes, wiping his hands on his apron.
“That’s more like,” Jomo said.
“Watch out for UFO’s,” Reggie said.
“Pardon?”
“Unidentified floating objects. Don’t know if they wash those limes.”
Jomo grinned. “Ah, yes. So. Traveling for business?”
“What’s left of it. Between the bloody sickness and the arseholes in the sky, I’m lucky to keep my offices open. Run a travel bureau in Nairobi, another in Mombasa and a third in Kisimu, so I’m on this train more than I’m behind the wheel. You?”
“Oh, I’ve got a little py farm in Nyeri,” Jomo said, “and I expect business will be bloody awful for us as well.” He saw no need to mention his District Commissioner post. Tended to change the tone of the conversation, once a traveler knew there was someone with whom he could file a complaint, should he have one. And they always seemed to have one. “Actually,” he ventured, “I’m on my way to pick up a young chap from America. Coming into Mombasa tomorrow by ship. Part of that Children Transfer Program. Heard of it?”
“Give us another pint, mate,” Reggie nodded to the barkeep. “Yes, indeed. My sister’s taken in some refugee from Delhi, can’t half understand the little bugger, though according to him, he speaks the Queen’s English. Quite a row about it, in my family.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“Because, of course, we’ve got plenty to save on our own continent, eh? Five hundred a day orphaned in South Africa from AIDS alone, they say. Why should we take on the refuse from the rest of the world? My dad’s screaming blue murder about it and baying for the head of somebody.” His voice turned rueful. “But I do beg your pardon. I’ve been intolerably rude. There’s that lot in the corner there,” he said, pointing to a table in the rear of the lounge car. “They’re picking up kids themselves.”
Jomo shook the man’s hand again, gave him thanks, and took his drink over to the far table. “Gentlemen,” he said as he approached. “I’m meeting the boat from America tomorrow. Anyone else?”
Several heads nodded, and room was made for him to sit down. “How many you fetching?” one man asked.
“Two,” Jomo said. “Brother and sister, for a starter. We’ll see how it goes from there.”
“Me as well,” another man said, extending his hand. “Gamada Owito. Nairobi.”
“Jomo Maathai, Nyeri.”
“Ah! Mister District Commissioner! Tell us the news from the Central Province.”
Jomo shook his head, a little surprised to have his name recognized. “No bigger news than the troubles, that’s for certain. What do you hear in Nairobi?”
Owito shook his head. “New estimate is that one-quarter of the whole world is dying or dead. A much larger percentage in India and China, less in other places, but overall, there’s the tally to date.”
Shock made him flinch. He did the quick sum. “Two billion. Bloody hell.” Jomo took a long swig of his drink. “I had no idea it was that bad; we’d not yet heard the numbers. No wonder they’re sending their children off. How do the governments even bury that many?”
“They don’t,” he replied. “The pyres in India and China are tall as second-story buildings, according to the papers. Even in America, burial is now illegal. They must be burned instead.”
“Like rubbish,” a man murmured, shaking his head. “I wish I could afford to take more. I am taking only a boy. He can help me in the fields.”
Jomo could tell by the man’s dress that he was a small farmer.
“How are we assured they don’t carry the sickness, whatever it is?”
Now that’s courage, Jomo thought. Without a true understanding of what the disease even is, the man is still willing to take in those who may carry it. “It’s Legionnaires disease,” he said. “It’s not contagious. They’ve all been quarantined for thirty days before they get on the ships, and then the voyage itself takes two weeks.”
“How do you know that’s the truth?” another man asked.
“Sorry?”
“I mean, let’s just speak out what everyone fears. What g
uarantees do we have that this isn’t a plot by the mtu embaba, the Thin Ones, to infect the whole planet?”
Jomo said, “By sending twenty-eight hundred children on a ship from America to Mombasa? I should think if infection were their goal, there are surely easier ways to accomplish that end. How many are you taking in?”
“Two. Ages twelve and ten, both lads.” The man took a long pull on his pint. “I suppose if they were going to be sick, they’d have done by now.”
“No guarantees anyway,” another man said. “It’s a pig in a poke. One does one’s duty, and that’s the end of it.”
“Quite,” Jomo said. “Well, it’s not salvation, but it’s a start. We’ve an opportunity to make something good out of grave misfortune.” He emptied his drink. “A quarter of the world, then?”
“So they say.”
Jomo got up and shook hands all round. “Well, here’s to heroes, gentlemen. It’s Kenya’s turn at bat.”
Nods and murmurs of agreement, and Jomo took himself to the supper car before his spirits could become more disturbed. Never did he imagine, of all the calamities he had feared in his life, that the world would suffer such as this. Thank God he had his government salary, he realized. The market for his pyrethrum crop was going to be devastated. And now, he’d have two more mouths to feed. Most of what they imported came from China and India. In a few months, anything they had to import from off the continent would be dear.
It occurred to him that he could simply not meet the ship. Or tell Asha that the children were not onboard. Keep that secret to his grave. But what would become of them then? He pictured his own Desta when she was six. Much too young to be thrown to the world at large. He thought of Mother Superior’s words, of his own aunt, who had fought hard for the rights of women and children all her life. He sat down at the white-linen covered supper table, took up his menu, and shook off his fear. All would be well in the end. It always was. One must keep steady on, and have faith that God had a plan for His children. All of them.
The waiter came to his table with a short bow. “The beefsteak please, sir,” Jomo said. “Medium well, and another Beefeaters and tonic. Extra lime.” At least one could still afford filet.
The next afternoon, Jomo stood at the dock, waiting for the children to disembark. He saw several of his lounge companions in the crowd, and he nodded but preferred to wait alone. There were roped-off areas along the dock where the children were to queue, and signs informed him that each child would be carrying a placard with his or her surname, followed by the name of the foster family the child was to meet. He took his place in queue to show his papers and receive his own sign which read, “MAATHAI” in bold letters. He held the lettered side against his chest, still hoping for a modicum of anonymity in the crowd.
At the rail of the docked vessel, hundreds of children were crowded, looking down on them, waving and pointing, and the noise of them made him wonder what sort of saints had volunteered to escort them here. And then he saw a few soldiers on deck. Had they expected pirates? But here the children came now, down the gangplank, ordinary-looking kids, carrying paperwork as though they intended to set up shop on the dock selling notions. He looked up and saw one small girl waving frantically. He turned around, wondering who she could be waving to, and then realized she was waving to him. He smiled tentatively and waved back. There but for the grace of God, he realized.
Desta and Baako could well have been in such a state, had the aliens decided Kenya was worth their attention. But no, he realized. Asha would perish before she’d send off her own. And so. Perhaps someone had.
Now the children were being herded away from the rail and into an assemblage of sorts by a few crew members, still calling to each other, a flurry of din and chaos, and finally here they came, one by one, marching down the gangplank like an invasion of army ants, some of them dressed rather smartly and wheeling valises behind them, others ragged as street toughs with nothing in their hands. There were several soldiers in their midst, gently herding them together. He faded back into the crowd slightly, letting others go before him. He was ashamed of his temerity, but somehow it seemed almost impossible in this moment that he was going to collect two strange children and take them home with him, quite possibly forever.
He was also startled at the difference in size and height of the refugees; some tall and gangly and nearly adult to his eyes, others small and toddling, holding to the hand of an older child. Men stepped forward, and the children were slowly parceled out, matching names to names. Some of the children were crying openly, suddenly frightened to go with a stranger. Others were angry, standing with their arms crossed over their placards, as though refusing to be a part of this at last. Many children though, seemed determined to make a good show of it, stepping forward and smiling, shaking hands as though they were at a reunion.
Jomo realized suddenly that a young boy was standing before him, watching him, a small valise at his side. A shock of blond hair, tanned and lean. Decently dressed. On his chest, his sign read “Maathai”. “Well then,” Jomo said, quickly consulting his paperwork. A match. He put out his hand. “I am Jomo Maathai. Jambo. Welcome to Kenya.”
“Chase Cummings, sir,” the boy said, his face impassive, shaking hands.
A firm handshake for one so young. “Good lad. Where is your sister?” He realized he was speaking rather loudly and distinctly, and not just because of the noise. Somehow the difference in the boy’s accent made him feel he must raise his voice to be understood.
“They changed their minds.”
“Sorry?”
“My parents changed their minds. They kept her.”
“Ah.” A flood of compassion swept over Jomo then, as he saw the carefully-tended control in the boy’s face. “You have made the passage alone, then.”
The boy shrugged towards the kids milling around him. “Not quite.”
A sense of humor of sorts. Jomo smiled and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Let’s get your trunk then, and get out of this jumble.”
“This is it,” he said. “We were only allowed one bag.”
Clothes. They’d have to buy him a wardrobe almost immediately. The enormity of what he had just done slid away however, the moment he saw the boy pick up his suitcase and wheel it behind him. His back was straight, his mouth firm. Resiliency. Whatever had happened to him in the past year had made him stronger rather than bowed him. Jomo wondered if Baako could be so brave in the same circumstances. “Right. Then we’ll be off.”
Jomo stood in queue once more, this one much shorter, to sign paperwork again, have his name and the lad’s crossed off one more list, and finally they made their way through the crowd.
“Wow,” the boy said. “It feels like summer in Florida.” He shrugged off his light jacket.
“You’re below the equator now, lad. Our January is your July. But it’ll be cooler in the Highlands, where we’re going. Have you eaten?”
“Not since breakfast, sir.”
“Well, I’m famished,” Jomo said heartily. “There’s a sterling little grill right on the sea, just up the block, does that suit?’
“Sure.” The boy looked around. “Where’s your car?”
“Home. I took the rail. We’ll be taking it back from Mombasa to Nyeri, your new home. And you may call me ‘Jomo’. What do you fancy for lunch?”
“Do they make burgers here?”
Jomo laughed. “My boy, you’re in luck. Your parents have sent you to burger heaven. I daresay, you can likely have your choice of beef, pork, lamb, or wildebeest.”
Chase looked at him quickly to see if he was being mocked.
“Or zebra. But perhaps not today. Perhaps today, you’d prefer something more familiar.”
“With fries?”
“Chips, lad.” He put his hand on the valise handle and took it from the boy. Surely he had carried it alone long enough. “You’ll get the hang of it.”
Every restaurant walking distance from the station was filling up w
ith men and children. Jomo saw that Mombasa was no longer surprised by the sight of black men strolling with white children, brown children, Asian children, queuing up for food, chatting over a table, struggling with each others’ languages and accents. No one raised a brow at the sight, though some were clearly less than cordial at the prospect of foreign refugees crowding about. The smells of grilling meat pulled them closer, and Jomo found the familiar odors reassuring.
They found a free table, Chase waved to a few of the other children, and as they sat across from each other studying their menus, Jomo realized how very odd it was going to be to introduce this boy to his world. He was blond, he was white, he was American, he was displaced, he had suffered untold horrors, and he was all alone. Jomo could not imagine what it must be like, to be without one’s family, one’s tribe, even one’s history and its memories, with no sense of when or if one could ever go home again. And yet there he sat, choosing between a Tommy burger and a beef burger like any other lad looking forward to lunch.
“I think I’ll try the gazelle burger,” he said. “Is it good?”
“Choice. Prefer it to beef myself. I’ll have the shepherd’s pie, then,” Jomo said to the waitress, “and a Coke?”
Chase nodded.
“Two Cokes, then, with ice. And limes, if you have them.” She went off, and he folded his hands and leaned forward. “Well, then. I know two ladies who are going to be sore disappointed not to see your little sister. My daughter, Desta, was yearning for a girl to chum with, and my wife, Asha, oh she thought that little child was precious! An angel, she called her.” But he could see that this was not a subject which brought a smile to the boy’s face. “But you must have questions for me, yes? I know I would be eaten up with curiosity, were I in your boots, lad.”
“Do you have computers here?”
“Of course, we do. Got one at home, a Mac. Satellite television, too, though it’s been spotty lately.”
“Awesome,” he said with spirit.
“Did you bring your laptop?”
“They didn’t allow it. No cells or Ipods, no laptops, cameras, nothing electronic at all.”
