by Pamela Jekel
“And you think that aliens came to earth and caused these pandemics?”
She waved a finger at him. “It’s certainly possible. Don’t scoff until you’ve heard the story. In the Nineteenth Century, we had wars, so pandemics weren’t necessary. The American Civil War was the most destructive war in that country’s history, almost seven-hundred thousand killed, and the Napoleonic Wars, the Taiping Rebellion, and the Crimean War killed off millions more. Then famine in India and China killed another forty million. We really didn’t need any Advisors to get the job done; we got expert at doing it ourselves. By the end of the Twentieth Century, we’d killed off thirty-nine million in World War One and another sixty-million in World War Two. Aliens didn’t have to come and lead us to the brink. Like lemmings to the sea, we ran and jumped. But now the wars are more likely to be nuclear, and they can’t have that, so they’ve come to cull us down again, so that the planet can handle us once more.”
“My goodness, Mother, how in the world do you remember all these details?” Asha asked. “What a head for figures!”
“If you had as little to do and as much time as I have, my dear, you’d have no trouble at all remembering something so important as the future of humans on this planet. You know I’ve always loved reading and researching. Thank God, those faculties are still intact. I’m simply saying that better heads than mine suspect that it is no accident that each time we overpopulate the earth, we’re reduced to a number that the earth can sustain. Perhaps it is a planned re-shuffle of the deck.”
“Why not just kill us off altogether, then? And why is Africa left untouched?”
“Untouched? Jomo, you are becoming parochial. North Africa is decimated by this Legionnaires, and South Africa is a ghost-land. The continent is scarcely untouched. Perhaps the hanta epidemic in Nairobi was their doing, as well. Maybe even AIDS.”
“But Kenya is a refuge. Why send the children here, if they mean to destroy it?”
She looked almost wistful. “Yes, Kenya is a refuge. Relatively. We are now the refuge for the ‘gifted’, whatever that may mean. And the Great Rift Valley is untouched. The cradle of life, some say. More biological diversity than most places on the planet. That the Newcomers have not interrupted those life processes may not be an accident either.” She sighed. “Well, I can theorize, but I can do nothing about it. I can only help a few now. One thing I have learned, family is all that lasts. So how is our Chase doing?”
“He’s doing very well, considering,” Jomo said. “You can feel him trying to fit in. Some of them aren’t doing half so. A few have been sent to the hostel, I know. Too difficult, too hostile. Scarred, I should think.”
“It must be hard to be good all the time and to keep one’s anger inside,” Asha added. “Imagine a lad, playing and laughing and learning and then suddenly remembering that others, perhaps his own family, are suffering and dying.”
“Like a bird with a broken wing,” Wangari said. “You try to help it, but it fights to escape. It may need you to hold it, but it pecks at your hand just the same. Well, he seems to be adjusting well enough, despite his troubles, and I’m very glad to hear it. I did not wish to speak of it before him, but of course, the news is not good from most of the occupied nations. Have you seen the recent footage on the television from America?”
Jomo shook his head. “The last time we watched the news from America, it upset him so much, we’ve avoided it.”
“Is he not frantic to know the fate of his family?” Wangari asked, amazed.
“’Frantic’ would hardly describe it,” Jomo said. “He seems to be doing his best to avoid thinking of it altogether, I should say. He’s very young to deal with such. Of course, I have read in the papers about the terrible diseases. Smallpox in Los Angeles? What a horror. I understand they have no medicines at all, and Iceland and New Zealand are sending supplies as they can. I read that Britain is out of flour altogether, and all the diabetics are dead, what with no refrigeration. I gather the only places that have power are those with hydroelectric generators, and some of those have been destroyed. In a year, Europe has regressed a thousand years, they say. But I doubt Chase knows of that. Baako tells me that they have been instructed in school not to discuss the troubles with the refugees, except very generally.”
“There is footage on the Internet showing the waters of the Colorado River as it rushes from the Glen Canyon and the Hoover Dams. Masses of water, I do not know who took the films, it is almost more than one can bear to see it. Ghastly flooding. Whole segments of steel removed from the dams themselves by the Newcomers with some sort of light beam. The Rogun and the Nurek in Tajikistan, the Three Gorges in China, the Sayano in Russia, many of the largest dams in the world seem to be targets. They opened the penstocks, let the water gush out, then sliced holes in the dam faces. One can only hope the downriver regions were evacuated.”
“Bloody hell. Why in God’s name have they done such a thing? It’s a clean form of power!”
“No doubt for the health of the planet. Regardless of what it may do to mankind. They’ve left the smaller dams intact, but the big ones are gone, likely forever.”
They were silent for a moment, their thoughts on the billions of lives lost.
“But let us speak of something else, or we shall be unable to face the children,” Asha murmured. “Is there no bit of good news, Mother?”
Wangari stroked Asha’s hand. “One can always find something, eh? Well, here is a bit, then. Have you heard about the trees? They are sending out work teams all over the occupied regions, not just in America, but all over the planet, and they’re planting native trees. Just as we have done in Kenya.”
“So it’s a global Green Belt Movement, yes?” Asha asked.
“Exactly. Except of course, it’s scarcely voluntary. But the effect will be the same, less deforestation, water tables will rise, soil erosion will slow, it is all to the good. One must hope that these efforts will slow climate change. I’ve seen no footage of Atlanta, but the recent films from New York City and Philadelphia show fields of seedlings where cities once stood. I should think the same thing is happening in Rome, London, Munich, and Johannesburg.” She shook her head with pursed lips. “While I would never have wished such disaster on our populations, I must say these changes may alter our planet for the better.”
“Our Father full of grace,” Asha whispered, “pray for us now and at the hour of our death.” Wangari took both their hands and bowed her head. The sounds of the village outside her door seemed almost unnatural, as if the disasters they pictured in their minds were the only reality, and the commonplace noises were from a dream. Wangari wiped her eyes with a cloth napkin and sighed. “Let us speak of happier things. How is Baako adjusting to his new step-brother? He is resigned?”
“Resigned to what? So far as he’s concerned, his position is only enhanced. Two younger ones to boss now instead of one. That’s his official position on the subject.” Jomo added, “I had thought they would get on a bit better by now.”
Asha attempted a smile. “And what of the village? Any family news?”
“Muta has a new baby girl, after all these years. Such a great blessing, I told him he was like Abraham, having his children so late,” Wangari said. “Safi has a promotion, and his wife is in a state, worried he will have to travel, but I can’t imagine that he will, given the dangers of doing so now.”
Jomo and Wangari discussed the current gossip, and Asha kept her smile in place and listened with one ear, turning to her own thoughts. Thank God they had kept the children from the television. And yet, how could they protect them from this reality? Should they do so? This would be the world they would inherit, after all. Would Desta be gifted with the Maathai intelligence and leadership spirit? She already showed signs of promise with her writing, and her curiosity about the world and its peoples boded well for her future. Would Baako be able to go to college and make a living for his own family? What sort of future would they have? What would be possible for e
ither of their children, no matter their potential? And poor Chase. Would they be able to help him at all? Would there even be a world left for them to inherit?
Kenya was relatively unscathed, it was true, certainly when compared with Europe, America, China, and India, but they were not an island. They could not thrive without the rest of the world. Harvest was nearing, and the crop looked healthy, but who would buy their py flowers? The Cooperative could not possibly sell all the growers would harvest. China and India had been the major markets for all py from Kenya; what now? She realized that her smile had slipped downwards with her thoughts, and she pushed her fear aside and concentrated on the conversation, taking Bibi’s hand in apology for having slid away from the attention Wangari Maathai deserved.
* * *
It was August and time to make the annual safari to the Serengeti, something the Maathai family looked forward to each year. They packed up the Cessna and flew over the Great Rift Valley towards the border of Tanganyika where Peter and Jata would meet them at their hunting camp, driving the jeep and the truck over the long, impossible roads, and bringing the coolers packed with supplies and their gear.
“It’s bigger than the Grand Canyon, mate,” Baako said to Chase, pointing out familiar landmarks in the Rift Valley as the plane’s shadow moved over the plains below. “More than six thousand kilometers from the Jordan River to Mozambique, fifty kilometers across in places, and almost five hundred meters deep. The Grand Canyon is only half as big and half as deep.”
“Rather like your mouth and Chase’s,” Desta said. “His would be the one half as big.”
“And yours would be the one full of beggings for help when the hyenas get too close to your tent.” Baako thumped the back of her seat. “Then it’ll be ‘oh my dear brother, please bring your big gun’.”
“And your big mouth,” Chase added.
Baako thumped the back of his seat as well.
They were headed for the edge of the Masai Mara, just outside the National Park lands, in the Mara triangle at the southwest border. Their camp was a perfect place to watch the herds as they crossed the Mara River and then spread out across the Serengeti plains, over two million wildebeest, a million zebra, half a million gazelles, and all the predators that such bounty would attract. Outside the National Park, they were permitted to hunt the herd animals, and the family looked forward to the excellent zebra and gazelle steaks they would all enjoy, packing home plenty to be frozen for the months ahead. Even in the harshest times of drought, the Mara River never completely dried, and after the long rains of late March and April, it rose high enough to make a marsh of much of the plains around it. But now, in August, it was a sea of rich grasslands and paradise for the largest concentrations of game in the world.
As they flew over the Mara and descended, they could see thousands and thousands of animals spread out over the plains. Great armies of wildebeest, impala, and the smaller clusters of Thompson gazelles thronged the grasslands, which were already cut short by the moving herds of zebras who liked the taller grasses. Hundreds of young ran among the adult herds, clumsy wildebeest calves, sleek and swift zebra foals, and the tiny delicate-looking Tommy fawns suckling and playing, bleating and racing in circles around their mothers. The plains were dark with their bodies, and the air was loud with their noise.
“’Mara’ means ‘spotted’ in Maasai,” Jomo said. “So this is the spotted country, speckled with a million moving creatures.”
They landed a few hundred kilometers from the camp, and Peter came out to greet them in the jeep. He and his cousin, Mano, had driven the two vehicles the several hundred miles from Nyeri. Jata had luncheon already spread out at the table under large acacia trees that barely shaded the four sleeping tents and kitchen tent, and she called and waved when she saw the jeep approach.
They sat down at the table, and Jomo smiled at Chase’s obvious excitement. “Now then, you’re on safari, lad. Is it what you expected?”
Chase was eating half a cold chicken with curry rice and steamed carrots, “Food’s better,” he said with a gleeful grin. “Are we going hunting after lunch?”
“No, it’s too late in the day; we’ll wait until dawn. We shall take out the jeep and reconnoiter, let Peter get the guns ready, and we’ll try for a Tommy in the morning.”
Peter said, “Not so many calves this season, Bwana.”
“That’s what I heard from the southern clans,” Jomo said. “Could be the drought. But look at them,” he gestured widely to the thousands of animals which made the plains seem to ripple with their moving bodies. “It’s still a wonder. Must be like your bison a few centuries ago, before your hunters shot it out, eh?” He gestured to Chase with a piece of ripe mango. “Kenya closed down all hunting in 1977, but after forty years the government finally stopped listening to conservationists from New York and started listening to conservationists from Africa, who showed them that managed hunting and the fees it produced could improve the health of the herds. Certainly, it was better for the animals than rampant poaching and the farmers shooting bush meat. So they finally opened up the hunting again, but no predators, only the herds, and only at certain seasons in certain times. Rather like it’s done in America, I should think. Kenya has a good reputation in the field of conservation, to my mind. Once we got the ivory trade shut down, that stopped most of the poaching for horns and tusks, and since then, the biggest problem we’ve got is too many human beings and too many cows. Not much to do about that, but we’re working on it.” He stood and gazed out over the plains, his hands on his hips. “I see it year after year, and it always amazes me. Flying over it, driving through it, absolutely thrilling. You can see elephants and lions and buffalo any number of places, but you can’t see two million wildebeest anywhere else on the planet. As it has been since the Pleistocene, an older story than man’s.”
Chase followed his gesture, mesmerized by the giraffe he could see browsing nearby among the flat-topped acacias, the animals without number grazing all around him, and the vast plains beyond, shimmering in the heat.
“The Maasai call it the Siringit, the wide place,” Jomo added. “So much life! Makes one feel small, yes? Does one good.”
Asha asked Peter, “Did you find any problems with camp?”
“All was in good order,” Peter said. “Mano took away a cobra from the kitchen,” he nodded at Jata. “Made my woman jump and yell.”
Mano laughed. “Made me jump and yell as well, trying to catch the thing. Spat at me, but I dodged.”
After lunch, Asha decided a nap in the shade sounded just as thrilling as the herds, so Jomo took Chase, Baako, and Desta out to investigate the migration. They drove the jeep to the center of a wide expanse, with only the occasional yellow-barked acacia tree to shade the shimmering grasses. The air smelled of dust and game and grasses, grasses that rippled in the wind for mile after mile without a road, a fence, or another human. Forever in all directions, the animals covered the plains, and the noise of them was a constant cacophony of snorts and bellows, bleats and brays, groaning and lowing each to each.
They parked the jeep near a large termite mound, one of many that dotted the savanna. In the distance, they could see the heavier tree line that meant a small river or stream; most of the trees were thorny, either mimosa or acacia, and an infinite variety of birds, small and large, hopped or flew or stalked over the plains as though each pursued an important errand, all of them adding to the noise with their calls. The odor of dust and heat was now mingled with the smell of the animals and the piles of dung, all shapes and varieties, which lay among the bush. Buzzards and kites circled overhead, and the gazelles loped off before them, unconcerned as rolling ships on the sea. Kongoni and zebra cantered together, like brothers of the grass.
They sat on the bonnet and the roof of the jeep, glasses in hand, and surveyed the vast plains around them bordered by blue hills in the far distance. “These termite mounds are about the tallest things on the Mara,” Jomo said. “You should see the
m when they take flight, millions of them into the air like a cloud of feathers. Their wings break off, they come down to earth after they’ve done their mating dance, and they make new colonies and new mounds. I read somewhere they’re related to the cockroach. I don’t doubt they’ll be the last thing alive, when the earth collapses from the sheer weight of us. The old mounds are still standing, though, and a dozen smaller animals make their burrows in them. Right beneath us.”
“Like hyenas?” Chase trained his glasses down to the burrows at the base of the mound.
“And jackals, mongooses, foxes, porcupines, anything else that can dig and wants out of the sun. So here they stand, after the queen takes flight, empty of termites but ready for the next tenants. Like strange red towers of a lost civilization, ready to lease. I’ve no doubt the termites will eat us all, eventually. Every house, every wagon, every barn, every tree. They say the African past lies in the belly of the termite. Probably the future, as well.” Jomo took off his glasses and inspected them with a frown. “Blast. I call that bad luck. Six nights on safari and a cracked lens. Mind your feet,” he said as he rummaged in the gear box at the back of the jeep.
“Will we hunt at night at all?” Chase asked.
“Too dangerous,” Baako said, “once the sun goes down. And not even when it’s near to going down, in case you miss and have to track your kill into the bush. You don’t want to be out here after dark.”
“Lions?” Chase asked with solemn glee.
“And hyenas. They’re even bolder than lions. Take a man right off the road after dark.”
