by Pamela Jekel
“He’s right, lad,” Jomo said walking up. “Peter, bring up the guns to the range, and we’ll try Chase on Baako’s old .375.”
As they walked down the dirt path away from the river Jomo said, “I have one thing to say to you two gentlemen. You, Baako, are my son. My first-born. You will inherit the responsibility for your mother, for your sister, for your clan. I expect you to remember your place and live up to your duties. One of your duties is to accept responsibility for your foster brother as well. You, Chase, are my foster son so long as you live under my roof. You are not a guest; you are now a member of our family. It is your responsibility to help Baako when you can and to respect his position, while remembering your duty to your own family, should it come to that. You will have your own chores and duties, like every other member of our family. I will not tolerate any discord in my household, and I will hold you, Baako, as elder son, responsible for keeping the peace between you. Chase, I will expect you to work out any difficulties between you, and I don’t wish to hear of any petty snits, umbrage, or treacheries. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
“Yes sir.” Chase nodded with relief. He put out his hand to Baako.
Baako hesitated for a moment, glanced at his father, and then took Chase’s hand for a brisk shake. “Okay, then.”
“Good,” Jomo said, as they reached the range. “Come to that, Baako, I want you to show Chase how to use your rifle properly. Once you think he’s ready and only then, will we take him hunting.”
The range was in a low swale with open land stretching behind it. A line of hay bales with pinned targets were set out at different distances. Peter was there with the jeep, and several rifles lay in the open back, alongside boxes of ammunition. The heat shimmered over the range, and Chase squinted at the targets, wishing for a cap, some shades, and a cold drink. The land was dotted with low thorn bushes, something he thought must be acacia trees and a flowering bush or two. The grass was weathered by the sun and yellow-gray. It occurred to him that a lion could hide in that grass invisibly.
“Take this one,” Baako said, handing him a rifle. “It’s a .375 H & H Winchester magnum, with a good scope. It’s dependable, not bad kick, good for your first.” While Jomo watched with a smile, Baako directed Chase to a low-lying tree, showed him how to prop up and find his target in his open sights. Chase followed his direction carefully, squeezed the trigger slowly, and the target puffed close to the center. “Good shot,” Baako said, slapping his back. “Just remember to press it against your shoulder, not your bicep, or it will knock you down and give you a bitch of a bruise. Try the farther targets and keep to it.”
Jomo was shooting with another rifle; Baako took his own to his shoulder, and for an hour or more, they stood, squatted, or lay in the dirt, trying their weapons from different angles. Chase was quietly proud of his performance. He was not the shot that Baako was, of course, but he could see that with some practice, he’d be fit to hunt with them both. He had never killed an animal in his life nor had his father ever hunted, in his memory. But somehow, here in Kenya, the idea of hunting game did not seem as impossibly brutal as it might in Atlanta.
Before Chase would have believed it possible, Jomo asked, “You think he’s ready?”
Baako nodded.
“Right. Well, let’s make a go of it then.” Jomo led the way back to the barn, Peter got two more horses saddled, and they whistled up the dogs. Two came immediately, as though they knew their jobs, and followed behind the horses. They rode outside the fence and down towards the river. Jomo took the lead, Chase followed, and Baako brought up the rear. After riding for a half hour or so, they stopped, tethered the horses, sent the dogs out and followed them into the bush on foot, carrying their rifles at their sides. The dogs were very quiet, tracking scent and listening closely, their ears pricked forward, and the men kept up with an effort. Chase imitated everything Baako did, and he soon saw that conversation would be minimal. Jomo and Baako communicated mostly with hand signals and occasional low murmurs, and at last they emerged onto a broad plain. Now, the dogs began to whine in excitement, for they had found the prey. They circled and twisted around Jomo, and he downed them with a single low whistle.
There was a herd of zebra close to them, and Jomo gestured Chase and Baako to get down as well. They flattened their backs into the tall grass, moving closer to the herd. Finally they were in position where they could clearly see the stallion, standing about five hundred feet away. The stallion looked intently in their direction and barked, stamping his foot in warning. Jomo whispered, “Hapana piga. Don’t shoot. We’ll leave this lot. He’s got foals in the herd, looks like a half-dozen or more. The next stallion will kill them when he takes over. We’ll try for him in another season.”
They called the dogs up, walked a while longer, and their shadows were getting long in the grass. Suddenly, the dogs halted, their bodies all pointed in the same direction silently. Jomo made the halt/down gesture to dogs and men, and as they crouched, he pointed to a zebra mare grazing about six hundred feet to the side of them. There was no foal at her side. Baako quickly pulled his rifle to his shoulder, sighted, and shot. She dropped instantly to the ground, crumpling forward on her knees.
“Well done,” Jomo said. They walked to the mare with the dogs leaping around them in joy. The rest of the herd seemed almost unaware of the death among them, but they galloped off quickly at the sight of the men standing erect and the dogs. The mare was kneeling, tilted down as though examining the grass before her. At her shoulder, where her stripes angled and made a natural target, a dark hole was oozing bright blood. Jomo clapped his son’s shoulder. “A heart shot. Your mother will be pleased.” He turned to Chase. “Asha loves a good zebra roast.”
Chase felt dizzy with the speed of the kill, the heat, the dust, and the sight of the blood. The mare’s inner ears were speckled with fat brown ticks, engorged and dark against the light brown of her skin, and her eyes were ringed with flies as though she wore eye-liner makeup. Her facial stripes were gray rather than black.
“She’s an old lady, good choice. No more foals for her. Go and get the horses,” Jomo said to Chase and Baako. The dogs waited patiently at Jomo’s side.
As they walked back across the plain, this time upright and unconcerned about the staring zebra herd watching them, Chase asked, “How long have you been hunting?”
“Since I was about six, I guess,” Baako said. “Your first time?”
“Nobody in my family hunts. Does your mother hunt? Does Desta?”
“They’re both decent shots, but mostly, they keep at home. What women do is shauri Mungo. God’s business.” He paused for a moment as though considering his next words carefully. “Listen, I don’t care what my father says. You don’t belong here.”
“Ya think?” Chase rolled his eyes. “Believe me, I’m outta here just as soon as I can figure out a way to get back home.”
“Fucking Americans,” Baako glowered. “You have the white man reek on you. I hate the way you smell. Like a wet cat and a dead warthog. Sodding stink.”
“Look, dude, we’re on the same page. I want to go home; you want me to go home. Let’s just try to get with the program and make that happen. I might actually be able to help you guys, you know?”
“Help us? You’re the biggest problem on the planet!”
“Yeah, right.”
“You are! Who do you think is the number one polluter in the whole world? The American military, that’s who. You use the whole planet like it’s one big personal pisspot. And now, they’ve sent you to my country to fuck that up, too. Americans always think they’re such sodding hotshots. If we all used up the planet like you do, we’d need three earths just to hold the rubbish. Wait ‘til my mates get hold of you.”
Chase fell silent at that.
At the horses, he tied Jomo’s mount to his own mare, and they rode back through the bush. After a long silence, he said, “I’m going to respect my father’s wishes. Just don’t disrespect me, a
nd we’ll get on.”
“Okay,” Chase said.
Now, twilight was full on them, and Chase heard a wail and yelp not far off. “Hyena.” Baako kicked his horse to a trot. The dogs were up and barking a warning to whatever predators might be near.
They found Jomo next to the zebra, and he had already butchered large cuts of meat from her flanks and her back. “Just in time.” They wrapped the meat in plastic bags and piled it in their saddle bags. The hyena whoops and yells were louder now. The dogs growled, and Jomo called them to stay close. As they rode off, Chase looked back to see swift shadows circling the dead zebra, and the whoops turned to yips, yelps, and weird chuckling laughter.
“We left a lot of it,” he said to Jomo.
“We took the choicest cuts, and trust me, lad, nothing will be wasted. By tomorrow morning, there won’t even be a bit of the tail left. The hyenas will take most, the lions may saunter in and fight them for it, the jackals and vultures will take the rest, and the foxes will bury any of the bones for snacking later. Africa is very efficient at passing out protein.”
“You know what they do with the dead in some of the old villages?” Baako asked him. “They put them out in the bush. Actually before they die, if they can, because it’s bad luck to have someone die in the house. They have to move and re-build the whole thing. So if someone is dying they carry them out in the bush, and when they’re dead, the hyenas take care of them.”
“Gross,” Chase said.
“Not at all,” Jomo said calmly. “It’s Kikuyu mazoezi. Customs. Quite sensible, actually.”
“Kikuyu say that’s why the hyena laughs. Because he knows sooner or later, everybody must come to him,” Baako grinned at Chase. “So don’t go wandering about in the dark, eh?”
Jomo added, “Good advice. There only thing more abundant in Africa than life is death. Infinite ways to die here. If one stays, one must be prepared to bleed.”
Night came swiftly then, and as they came within sight of the farmhouse, blazing bands of blood-red orange streaked across the dark horizon, with none of the gentle pinks and purples of a Georgian sunset. Peter greeted them at the barn, they dismounted, and carried the zebra steaks up to the house, where Asha stood waiting for them at the door. “Ah, what have you brought me, my dears!” she stood aside to let them come into the light.
“Your favorite,” Jomo said, his smile proud.
She turned to Chase. “Now you’re in for a treat; zebra is better than beef filet. Jata!” she called. “Bwana brings us punda-milia, eh? We’ll have it after Mass tomorrow.”
The cook hurried out, took some of the bags of meat in her arms, and Baako helped her carry it off. The smell of blood was heavy in the air, but somehow it mixed well with the odor of wood smoke and cooking, and Chase felt lighter in his heart. He hoped when he ate the steaks, he would not recall the zebra’s long white eyelashes or her muzzle, soft dove-gray and fragile, still warm with her last breath.
That night, he discovered that squatting over a hole in the floor felt more natural than he would have expected, and showering before an open window, standing on concrete floor, was a fine way to get clean of the day’s dust. He brushed his teeth in the shower, so as to leave the sink for Desta.
He was in his room examining the uniform he was to wear to school when Asha knocked on his door. “Are you getting settled in?” she asked.
“Yes, thanks.”
She beamed. “On Monday, Jata will wake you with tea at half-past six, and Peter will drive you all to school after breakfast. You’ll eat luncheon at school, and Peter will fetch you after your last class. But tomorrow is Mass and a day of rest. Would you like me to listen to your prayers?”
He hesitated.
“Or not. That’s fine. Desta likes for me to pray with her, but Baako’s too grown for that now. If you’re ready, I’ll tuck you in.”
He got in the bed, noticing that the sheets were rougher than those at home and the blanket was softer. She sat at the side of the bed, tucking the blanket tightly around his ribs. “I know this is hard for you, Chase, and you must miss your family dreadfully,” she murmured. “I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for your mum and dad to send you to us. Such a fine lad.” She put her hand on his arm. “We’ll get you a new wardrobe in town tomorrow; those pajamas are a little worse for wear. After Mass tomorrow, you must write to them, and Jomo will post it straight away. They’ll be desperate to hear from you. And now that you have a new address, they’ll be able to write to you regularly.”
“Is there anything on the news here about the U.S.? Any video of the cities or anything?”
She gazed at him. “Yes.” She smoothed the blanket again unnecessarily. “Not from Atlanta, but there has been some film from New York City.”
“Can we watch the news tomorrow night?”
“We’ll see. I’ll discuss it with Jomo.”
He frowned. “You have to discuss it with your husband before we can watch the news on the television?”
“I think it wise, yes.” Her voice was brisk.
It must be pretty awful, Chase thought, if it needs a parental agreement before it can be seen.
She reached up and stroked his hair. “Please don’t fret, lad. You’re safe here, and these things have a way of working out.”
Yeah right, Chase thought, carefully keeping his mouth neutral. He used his anger to keep his tears in check. “I’m really tired.”
“I’ve no doubt. You’ve had much to sort out at your young age.”
“My mother and father are coming for me when things are better,” he said. “They promised me.”
“Well, then of course, they’ll do so. I’ll leave you to your prayers. Omba Mungu, we say. Pray to God.”
She did not bend to kiss him, and Chase was grateful for that. One final pat, and she left him in the dark. He lay and listened to the sounds of the household readying for bed. The dogs shuffled out by the door, with an occasional bark into the night. Desta’s door opened and closed. Baako’s heavier footsteps down the hall and into his room, small sounds of Jata putting things away in the kitchen, the murmur of Jomo’s voice from somewhere near the dining room, all of it unfamiliar and yet so reminiscent of nights in his own home. No television noise to fall asleep to, no ringing of a telephone, no clicking of a laptop in another room, no whoosh of the dishwasher, only the noises of people winding down their day.
He would not pray. He was too full of grief and panic and fury. He was as angry at God as he was at his parents, at his country, at his fate. Suddenly, he heard a strange distant coughing sound, a rasping rhythmic groaning roar, over and over, coming right through the walls. Lions. He lay transfixed by their faraway warnings. They were telling the African night that they were coming, coming to kill, threatening all intruders, signaling all prey that tonight might be their last night alive. It seemed to him in that moment that the song of the lions was one of terrible beauty, of an ancient power that was untouched by aliens, work camps, and computer messages. He listened intently, feeling the roars in his heart and his belly, and somehow the powerful calls of the lions took him away from his bitter anger and into sleep.
The next morning Chase dressed in his one decent set of clothes, and they set off for Nyeri with nothing but water and toothpaste in their stomachs. As he climbed in the back of the Escalade next to Desta, Asha turned and said, “I would imagine it’s been some time since you’ve been to a proper mass, yes? We’re going a bit early, so you can go to confession.” She smiled at Baako. “And you may join him as well, my dear.”
Chase glanced at Baako, and they exchanged a wry grin. “You can go first,” Chase ventured. “Since you’re the first-born and all.” Owned.
Desta giggled and rocked against Baako’s shoulder.
The trunk road from the Maathai farm to Nyeri was not as good as the highway out of Nairobi, but it was better than the dirt roads of the farm. As they approached the town, Chase saw a tall mountain moving closer.
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sp; “That’s Mount Kenya,” Desta said. “Those two snow peaks are Batian and Nelion. It’s the tallest mountain in Kenya. In all Africa, only Kilimanjaro is taller. Many Americans come here to try to climb it. My father has been to the top.”
“For real?” he asked Jomo.
“Long ago,” he said, “when I was a young man.”
“And dinosaurs still roamed the earth,” Baako said solemnly.
“For our clan, the Kikuyu, Mount Kenya, is sacred. We call it Kirinyaga, or Place of Brightness,” Jomo said, ignoring his son. “Every good thing comes from it, the rains, the rivers, our fertile soil, everything. So when we pray, we face the mountain and when we build our houses, we face them to the mountain. Or anyway, we used to do.”
“Those are the Aberdares,” Asha added. “They’re part of the Aberdare National Park. They’re older than Mount Kenya, and that’s where Treetops Lodge is, have you heard of it? It’s where Princess Elizabeth was on her honeymoon, and they called to tell her that her father had died, making her the Queen of England.”
“That’s also where the Mau Mau caves are,” Jomo said. “When we were fighting for independence from that same England, the guerrillas used those caves for hiding from the British army. Nasty piece of business, that.”
Desta said, “We’ve had some famous Kenyans you may remember. Catherine Ndereba came from Nyeri; she was an Olympic marathon runner, and a four-time Boston Marathon winner. And Barack Obama, his father was Kenyan, from the Luo tribe. He visited his clan here before he became President, and his grandmother, Sarah Hussein Obama from Nyang’oma Kogelo village said he was born in Mombasa. There’s a plaque that marks his birthplace. And Richard Leakey, the famous paleontologist who proved that man first walked upright near Lake Turkana more than two million years ago, he was from Kenya as well.” Her voice was proud. “We have a very long history.”
As they came into the city, Chase was surprised to see tall buildings and traffic lights, modern cars, and even some names he recognized: a Best Western Hotel, a Coca-Cola bottling plant, and a very old Holiday Inn. There were no sidewalks, and even the banks looked plain and uninviting, nothing like the banks in Atlanta that resembled miniature Southern mansions. Wildly colorful minibuses whizzed around them, raising the dust and honking.
