by Pamela Jekel
He was cornered in the stall, with no way to get out except to pass the snake. He might be able to leap up the sides, pulling himself to safety, but he would have to move very fast and hope the snake didn’t strike his bare leg as he jumped. He knew the mamba was famous for its speed, its aggression, and its inclination to strike high, even on the face. Jomo told him he heard of a man bitten in a boat by a mamba, struck him from some overhanging branches. He was found with his anti-venom kit open, not even time to use it. It was called the three-step snake, because that’s how many you had before you died.
A sound made Chase look towards the door, and he saw that Baako had come into the barn and was standing and staring at the snake. The mamba felt new vibrations and reared up higher, spreading its neck like a cobra and hissing malevolently, its tail twisting in the dust and straw.
“Do something,” Chase pleaded.
But Baako didn’t move. He stood frozen, his hands wide, empty, and useless.
“Get your rifle!”
“No time.” Baako’s voice was calm and gentle. “Maybe if you don’t move, it’ll go away.”
“Shit!” Chase put his hands down and readied himself for a desperate leap up the side of the stall, and in that moment, Peter shoved past Baako, whirled his panga at the rearing mamba, dodged the strike, and slammed the snake into the floor, axing its body again and again until it stopped moving, its head separated from its neck by a foot. Peter stepped forward, kicked the head into the straw, and asked, “You are okay, young mister?”
Chase nodded, feeling nauseated. He pushed himself to his feet on shaking hands. Baako still had not moved; his eyes were hooded and sullen.
“Where is your panga, Bwana kijana?” Peter’s frown was disapproving.
Baako shrugged.
Peter strode to the door of the barn and picked up a blade. “This is your panga, yes?”
“Yeah. Guess I left it there. Sorry, mate,” he said to Chase lightly.
Peter stared at Baako for a long moment. “Bwana kijana must keep his panga ready.” He spoke swiftly in Kikuyu to his master’s son, and though Chase could not follow the rapid words, he saw Baako’s face grow stiff with resentment. He nodded, but Chase saw something in his eyes, something dark and bruised. Baako took his panga from Peter’s hand, turned, and left the barn.
Peter turned to Chase. “Young mister must have panga. Peter will make this today.” He took the muck shovel and slid the body and head of the mamba on it, holding it well out and away. “Young mister will be more careful.” It wasn’t a question.
“Thanks, Peter.”
“I cannot tell my woman that young mister is dead. So keep panga on belt.” He touched the loop of the leather he had made. “Much better than hammer, eh?” He walked out of the barn.
Chase turned and began to measure the board again, now that his hands had stopped shaking. He thought of the times he and Baako had laughed together, shared some moment of exploration or trust, and he had felt he almost had a brother. He ran through them in his mind, searching for those times, turning them over and over to feel comforted. But there were more moments when Baako had taunted him, humiliated him, tried to trip him up or make him look like a fool. On occasion, he had stood by while others did the same. He remembered a conversation they’d had in the tent on safari one night.
“We need to talk, mate.”
“Great,” Chase said. “Love our chats. Live for them.”
“You need to quit the team. You’re not good enough; Coach just put you on because of my father, you know. That, and he feels sorry for you.”
“You’re not exactly Kick-Ass yourself, mate.”
Baako just shook his head. “I’m good now, and I’ll be even better next season.”
“Bullshit,” Chase said. “You’re just afraid I’ll make you look bad.”
Baako laughed. “You’re too small, too slow, and not near tough enough. Face it; you’re just our token white boy. He put you at striker to try you out, and you just took up space on the field.”
“Guess I’ll let Coach make that decision.”
“He won’t kick you off; he won’t dare because of my father. But we can’t win with you on the team, and everybody knows it. Do the right thing, mate.”
“Yeah. I’ll pray on it,” Chase said.
“You’re going to get hurt.”
“By who?”
Baako had shrugged. “Just saying.”
“Bring it, dickhead.”
Baako had just laughed mirthlessly.
Chase cut the plank and took it to the side of the stall where he’d removed the old board. He could picture the look in Baako’s eyes when he saw the snake. Fear, yes, but something else that Chase could not name. A quiet waiting, maybe. Something in that look made Chase feel cold as he replayed the scene in his head. He took out his hammer and pounded the board in place as hard as he could, crashing again and again into the wood until it split.
Crap. Clearly time to quit for the day. Chase covered his tools and belt with a tarp against the moisture, yanked on his shirt, and left the barn. He headed for the kitchen, hoping Jata had something baking.
* * *
Chase’s favorite class was World History, and Sister Margaret who taught the subject was also his favorite instructor. She was Canadian by birth, but she had lived in America for some time. He found her accent familiar and her world-view intriguing. For example, she did not think Kenya was the center of the universe nor Catholicism without its problems. When Chase was transferred to her upper division class, she had welcomed him with a peculiar smile, as though she had known him before. “Ah, the Yank,” she’d said as she shook his hand. “I’ve prayed for you and yours.”
“Thank you, Sister.”
“Your point of view will be welcome in this little village.” She gestured to a seat a few rows back.
Chase had tested at his normal grade level, but once he’d been in classes for a few weeks, Mother moved him a full grade forward in all his subjects. He was now in the upper division classes, what would have been called high school in Georgia, despite being a year younger than his classmates. He did well, except in Latin, where he floundered. Curiously, that was the only class he shared with Baako.
Today, Sister Margaret was discussing the impact of colonialism on developing countries of the world. “After the Berlin Conference of 1884, the powers of the world which were then Great Britain, Germany, France, Italy, Portugal, and Belgium basically carved up the African continent into spheres of influence,” she said, pointing to a world map. “And Africa wasn’t the only continent which was so divided. Can you name others?”
“India?” a student in the back ventured a guess.
“Indeed. South America, the Caribbean, other places were colonized as well. Did these powers work to develop the local populations? For the most part, no. They were seeking to expand their power and to make sure that the flow of raw materials and natural resources went back to the mother countries. But what did these world powers bring to the countries they colonized, in exchange for what they took?”
“Railroads,” a student said. “And telegraphs and roads and better medicines?”
“Yes, very good,” Sister Margaret said, “as well as many other modern advances. And what else?”
Chase raised his hand. “Christianity.”
“Indeed,” Sister smiled.
“Slavery?” another hand was raised.
Sister nodded. “Yes, absolutely, where they could. Although slavery was already here on the continent well before the Western powers arrived. As we’ve learned, the tribes captured and sold each other’s peoples to the slave traders from North Africa for generations. Remember that in western Sudan less than a thousand years after Christ’s birth, at least a third of the population were slaves. When the British assumed rule at the turn of the Nineteenth Century, there were already two and a half million slaves in Africa. What else did the Western powers bring to Africa?”
“The destruc
tion of our heritage,” a student said. “Our traditions. What makes us African. They colonized our heads.”
Sister pursed her lips. “One could make that argument about the Catholic Church as well, I suppose. But let’s talk about Africa instead for a moment. There are those who feel that Africa’s lack of good leadership, her slow progress in developing when compared to other countries of the world, and her basic inability to care for her own peoples is directly related to colonialism.” She held up their textbook. “You have read the arguments of African historians and writers, like our own Wangari Maathai, who claim that one of the reasons that Africans tend to sit and wait for their MP or their church or for other countries to solve their problems is because they don’t know how to take responsibility for their own lives. Because they were colonized for so many years. How do you feel about that?”
“What about Nelson Mandela? He was a great leader!” There was indignation in that student’s question.
“Yes, he was,” Sister Margaret acknowledged. “And one could argue that Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf and Desmond Tutu were excellent leaders as well. But for every Nelson Mandela, Africa seems to suffer through two dictators such as Ibrahim Babangida, Sani Abacha, Samuel Doe or Idi Amin. Or Mobutu Seko, Kenyatta, and Daniel arap Moi. Robber barons, most of them, making fortunes on the backs of their countries. Do we agree that in general, the leadership in Africa has not been what Africans deserve? And if so, is that because colonialism caused Africans to believe that they could not demand honest and ethical leadership?”
“Are we saying that ethics and morality are destroyed by colonialism?” Chase wondered aloud.
“Shall we say so? What do you think, class?”
Another hand went up. “You make us sound so backward! This is what our masters have told us for generations! That we’re not as good as other people.”
Sister Margaret went to the board and began to write some figures from a chart she held in her hand. “In the twenty years between 2000 and 2020, Korea’s average per capita growth was 8.8 percent a year. China’s was 12.6 percent. Singapore’s was 10.8 percent. By contrast, over the same period, Zimbabwe’s was half a percent, Nigeria’s a third a percent, and annual per capita growth rates—that’s the amount of money in each person’s bank account, people—actually dropped to a negative percentage in Ghana, Senegal, Chad, Zambia, Niger, Liberia, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Per capita growth rate is directly linked to the standard of living for the people.”
“What about in Kenya?” the same student asked, clearly affronted.
“Kenya was higher than some countries in Africa but lower than most of North Africa, all of Europe, most of Asia, Mexico, and all of the Americas. Eighty-fourth in the world, in fact.”
“What about India?” Chase asked.
She looked at the chart in her hand. “India was sixth in the world for gross domestic production, much higher than any country in Africa. Almost half of the population of Africa lives on less than one dollar a day, class. The highest level of poverty in the world. You see it every day yourselves. So I think we can agree that Kenya, like most African countries, is not keeping up.”
“Looks to me as though we’ve just taken the lead.” The student sounded smug. “China and India? They’re old news, Sister. So is the U.S.,” he added, glancing at Chase. “None of them will be world powers ever again.”
“Ever again is a long time,” Sister said. “Kenya has not been invaded by aliens, it is true, but half of Africa has. Are we content to say that thanks to an alien attack, Kenya can now compete on the world stage? Shall we emerge from this disaster with no better understanding of why our country is not able to advance? How long shall we blame colonialism?”
“India was colonized, too.” Chase said. “And India was doing super before the invasion. So it can’t be that.”
“Good point. So, if we agree that leadership has been poor in Africa and if we agree that Africa has not developed as quickly as many other countries, can we say why? Is it because this country was colonized by Britain for sixty years or is it something else?”
“AIDS?” another student asked.
Sister Margaret nodded emphatically. “Certainly AIDS and other diseases like malaria and sleeping sickness take a great toll on Africa every year.” She leaned forward and put her hands on the desk in front of her, and her eyes were intent. “Is it, as some might tell you, God’s will?”
“No!” a student said.
“Not even,” another chorused.
“You know that it is not uncommon for the average Kenyan to have to pay many bribes each month. Sometimes more than a dozen, depending on what business he may operate. Two out of three times a Kenyan deals with a government authority, he must pay a bribe to get what he needs. Kenya ranks as one of the most corrupt countries in the world, according to Transparency International.”
Chase raised his hand. “What’s that?”
“It’s an organization that rates more than two-hundred countries in the world according to corruption, fraud, bribes, that sort of thing.”
Chase thought of Jomo. He could not imagine the man ever demanding a bribe. And yet some of the students around him were nodding their heads in obvious agreement. He wondered how America used to rate on that scale.
“Are we corrupt because of colonialism? Will we become ethical when the aliens leave our planet?” She handed a sheaf of papers to the first student in the first row. “Please pass these out. Class, you will see a quote on this sheet from Wangari Maathai: ‘Why have so many Africans scorned justice, abandoned fairness, stolen from each other so freely, and let those among them who are cheats and rogues not only go unpunished but indeed be rewarded, while the weak and vulnerable are left unprotected?’” She paused, looking around the room. “How do you feel about that quote?”
“It’s a load of rubbish,” one student said.
“It’s absolutely true,” another interrupted. “And we learned it from the Western countries.”
“I want to hear what you have to say,” she said. “I want you to think about these issues, class, and I want you to write a paper on the following thesis question which responds to the challenge of ethics.” She turned to the board again and wrote, “Can Kenya Care For Her People?”
The class was silent.
“I want you to think about personal responsibility, I want you to think about your future, and I want you to think about what needs to be done for your nation. It has been said that the world is not going to wait for Africa. There is an opportunity now for progress. Kenya cannot stand still. How do you think your nation can move forward? Seven hundred words, three outside sources, and at least one footnote per page. Due in two weeks,” she wrote the date on the board.
As he was leaving, Sister Margaret stopped him. “I’m looking forward to your paper, Chase. You should have a unique point of view which might be of interest to the class.”
“Because I’m American, you mean?”
“Because you were raised in a democracy,” she said. “You’ve known freedom all your life.”
“Until now.”
“Yes,” she said. “Now, I guess your country is colonized, just like most of the rest of the world. But your country was colonized before, and America seems to have turned that experience into a success. Perhaps you can write about what you think freedom means to a nation and an individual in terms of ethics.”
From World History, Chase went to football practice, and as he passed down the hall, he saw that the door to Father Omandi’s office was ajar. Chase had spoken to him many times since his first confession, and he had come to trust the priest as someone who seemed to take a genuine interest in the students and, most particularly, in the refugees from other nations. “Hi, Father,” he waved as he went by.
“Oh, Chase, how are you?”
“Doing fine.”
Father Omandi rose, came to the door, and put his hand on Chase’s shoulder. “Yes? I’m glad to hear that. Sister Margaret
and Sister Miriam tell me that you are doing very well in your classes. And I know the team’s faring well so far this season. Have you heard any news from America?”
“Some,” Chase said. “I’ve got to go though, Father; if I’m late for practice, Coach makes me run laps.”
“Of course, of course, I understand, off with you then.”
Chase hurried down the hall, and when he glanced back, he saw that Father Omandi was still standing and watching him. He waved again and went out into the sun, following the rest of his teammates who spilled out of the building towards the field.
Practice that day was tough as usual, and as Chase limped off, Baako’s words came back to him. Suddenly, he seemed to see his efforts clearly. What a colossal waste of time, he thought. Baako was right. He was the smallest guy on the team, the lightest, and certainly not one of the fastest. Back home, he might have been a star; here, he was nothing special. Maybe the only reason he was on the team was because he was the new guy from America. The foster kid at the Maathai house. His leg was aching from the hit he’d taken, and his shoulder felt bruised. Hell with it, Chase thought.
That night over dinner, he said, “I think I’m going to drop football.”
Everyone looked up from their plates with different expressions. Jomo and Asha looked distressed, Desta surprised, and Baako skeptical. “Well indeed,” Jomo said, “far be it from me to question your decision, lad, but I must say I am taken back. I had thought you enjoyed it, and certainly you’ve made a mark on the team in a short time.”
Chase shrugged. “I guess I’m growing out of it. It’s just a game, after all.”
Asha glanced at Baako and then down at her plate. “Have you discussed this with Coach?”
“No, I’ll do that tomorrow. Wanted to let you know first.”
“Good of you,” Jomo said. “Is your leg bothering you?”
“No more than usual. I’d just rather do something else. I might take up tennis in the spring.”
