Burn My Heart

by Beverley Naidoo

  Mathew kept to the open grass with the thicket of thorns on their right. Despite shaking his head, Mugo had followed. This time, Duma obstinately pushed to the front.

  ‘Don’t you dare bark this time!’ Mathew whispered. Duma cocked her head with an offended ‘Do you think I’m that stupid?’.

  Mathew strained to keep inspecting the ground ahead as well as constantly skimming his eyes in a hundred-and-eighty-degrees arc. When the undergrowth thickened beneath the thorn trees on their right, he was aware of a little nagging voice inside him: ‘Give up! Anything – or anyone – could be in there!’ But Mugo was right behind him, wasn’t he? Mugo knew the bush like the back of his hand. Mugo was surely only worried because of Father’s anger if he found out. If he actually shot the impala, Mathew could say they had seen it near the fence and they had just scrambled underneath to get it, couldn’t he?

  The ground became rockier as they neared the ridge. Clumps of boulders rose between the long dry grass as they headed for the viewing hut built by his grandfather. Mathew opened the door.

  ‘Here, Duma, here!’ he called quietly. ‘Inside, Duma, here girl!’

  Duma obediently returned and followed Mathew into the hut. As soon as she was in, he slipped out and shut the door. If he found his impala he didn’t want her frightening him off again, Duma lifted her front paws up to the viewing window and whined. Mathew poked his arm through the window and fondled her ears.

  ‘Won’t be long, Duma, girl!’ he said and turned to survey the riverbank below. It looked deserted. Without rain for a few months, there was almost as much bank as water. Either side of the clearing below were tall yellow fever trees. The thorns and bush on their right extended down the slope not very far from where they stood.

  ‘Anything?’ Mathew asked Mugo. Impalas would blend easily with the shady red earth under the fever trees, but he couldn’t detect any movement. He felt disappointed and irritated, especially as Mugo remained quiet. ‘We’ll see more if we go down a bit.’

  Without waiting for a response, Mathew cut diagonally across the slope. If he couldn’t see anything from halfway down, he would give up. Patches of sunlight penetrated the giant fever trees below, illuminating the yellow-green bark. The shade looked inviting and cool. Mathew looked back up the slope and stopped. If he went much further to the right, he would lose sight of the viewing hut. He became aware of the sweat between his palm and the blue steel. For the first time he began to have doubts. Perhaps his Red Ryder had made him feel braver than he was.

  He was about to admit defeat and turn back when Mugo’s hand touched his shoulder. He followed the line of Mugo’s index finger. Good old Mugo, after all! There was his impala! It stood stock-still between two tree trunks with its head and fine horns raised in profile. Had it heard them? For it to be in range, he needed to get a little closer. He began to tiptoe forward as softly as possible, first one step, then another, his heart beating louder than his footsteps. Entering the umbrella thorn trees, he ducked the lower branches to avoid the thorns and not to rustle their long golden seedpods. Just a little further and his position would be perfect.

  For a second time he silently raised his gun. He aligned the sights before slowly bringing them to bear on his target. He had to aim for the head and not tremble. His finger curled around the trigger. Steady, he told himself. Steady! He squeezed the metal. The after-shock went through his body at the same time as he heard a terrifying trumpeting and a crashing of branches. Before he could see whether he had brought down the impala, Mugo was tugging him and yelling.

  ‘Ndovu! Ndovu!’

  Elephant! Great flailing ears and a trunk raised above a massive grey head came plunging through the bush on the slope above them. Mathew felt his left arm being almost wrenched out of its socket as he stumbled behind Mugo towards the river.

  The only way to go was down. They were trapped between the beast and the water. Even the lowest branches of the fever trees looked too high to climb. How safe was a tree anyway from a charging elephant? Only one tree offered any hope of escape. Its trunk was split in two with one section soaring upwards at an angle. Mugo pushed Mathew in front of him. Up, up, he signalled. Clambering on to the tree, Mathew tried to pull himself up but the gun under his right arm hampered him. He was gripping all he could with his left hand while his knees scraped along the bark.

  ‘Haraka! Haraka!’ Mugo urged him. Hurry! ‘Give it!’ Mugo held out his hand for the gun.

  Mathew hesitated. He knew the rule even if it wasn’t written down. ‘You never put a gun in the hands of a servant.’ Father trusted Kamau more than any other servant but he had never asked him to hold his gun for him. ‘You, and you alone, are responsible for your gun.’

  ‘No, I can –’ He was about to say he could manage when his ears were blasted by another trumpeting. If the elephant chose, it could reach the tree within seconds. Mathew shakily passed his rifle to Mugo. Using both hands now he scrabbled upwards. He heard Mugo shuffling behind. Mugo had better not drop the gun! The elephant would crack it just by putting his foot on it. But Mathew didn’t dare look back until they were high above the elephant’s reach. He prayed silently. Please God, don’t let the elephant try to push the tree down or shake us off! He had once seen an elephant demolish a tree. It had lifted it up, roots and all, just so it could eat the juiciest leaves at the top. That tree hadn’t been quite as big as this one, but a maddened elephant could do almost anything.

  As the branch narrowed, Mathew began to feel dizzy.

  ‘I can’t go any more!’ he whimpered, although he still wasn’t sure that they were high enough.

  Mugo eased himself up close. The Red Ryder seemed to be safely tucked under his arm.

  ‘Lie down.’ Mugo mouthed the words. Mathew understood. Elephants couldn’t see well but had brilliant hearing. Or maybe it would smell them up there! Mathew pursed his lips and cautiously lowered his head against the branch. The rough powdery bark brought a memory of hairy stubble pressed against his cheek while being carried when little on horseback. Was it Father or Kamau? Whoever it was, he had felt safe with the rough skin. It was nothing like the violent throbbing he felt now.

  By twisting his neck, he could see the elephant out of the corner of his eye. It had stopped, not more than twenty paces away. Its giant crinkled ears still rippled ominously and although it had lowered its trunk, it was swinging it. For the first time he saw that the elephant was missing one tusk. Had he lost it in a fight? He prayed again. Please, God, if you make him go away, I promise I won’t disobey Father again. How could he have been so stupid to let himself be carried away by an air rifle? What good was a .22 against an elephant? It would be like shooting at a tank with peas. ‘Some idiots have more guns than sense.’ That’s what Father always said. Why had he ignored all Mugo’s warnings and how had they missed seeing the elephant earlier? It was his own fault for making Mugo follow him in such a wild hurry! He blushed, feeling the hot blood in his cheeks. He didn’t even know if he had brought down the impala. Had he seen a swirling of horns? It could have been the impala fleeing. He didn’t care any more. Even if his trophy were lying there, he would leave it. The only important thing was to fetch Duma from the viewing hut and get back home.

  The elephant now stood like an armed guard, considering whether to pursue the intruders. It seemed like hours before he slowly turned and lumbered back towards the slope. Mathew felt weak with relief. He waited for Mugo to make the first move.

  ‘He’s going to eat mgunga seeds. He likes them too much,’ Mugo said softly when the elephant had completely disappeared into the umbrella thorn trees. Elephants liked to shake down the yellow-brown pods for their seeds. This one must have been busy with his feast when the shot from Mathew’s gun had disturbed him.

  As they slithered down the fever tree, it amazed Mathew how calm Mugo was. He let Mugo lead the way, at first close to the river and as far as possible from the elephant. Mathew thought about asking Mugo for his gun but stopped himself. Maybe Mugo
was letting him keep both hands free in case they needed to climb another tree in a hurry. But even when they came out from under the trees and reached the open slope, Mugo held on to the gun. If Mugo didn’t hand it over when they got to the viewing hut, he would ask for it.

  Mugo set a brisk pace up the slope. He constantly looked around, especially keeping watch on the thicket of thorn trees. Mugo reached the hut and released Duma just as Mathew was scrambling to the top. Duma leapt from one to the other with excitement and then, realizing that they were going home, she dashed ahead. Mugo put two fingers in his mouth and gave a low whistle. Duma returned and Mugo signalled to her to calm down. The last thing they wanted was to bring the elephant after them again.

  Duma’s antics distracted Mathew from asking Mugo to return his gun. Mugo was slightly ahead of him, leading the way back to the fence. It would mean calling out to him and that felt silly. His relief at seeing the farm boundary ahead couldn’t take away his feeling of having been a total idiot. When they reached the fence, Mugo waited to let Mathew crawl through. Once on home soil, he scrambled upright. Thank goodness, there didn’t seem to be anyone in sight.

  ‘Here.’ Mugo, still on the other side of the fence, held out Mathew’s gun. His arms moved like he was cradling a baby as he passed it carefully through the barbed wire.

  ‘Thanks. Asante. Asante sana.’ Mathew grasped the gun, repeating his thanks without looking up at Mugo’s face. He had made such a fool of himself and Mugo knew it. If Father found out, each would be in terrible trouble. He would only tell him that the wire was broken, nothing else. He watched Mugo slip under the fence and put on his white tunic and fez.

  ‘It’s our secret, hey?’ Mathew said awkwardly.

  ‘Ndio,’ Mugo said quietly. Yes. His fez tilted with the slight nod. It was their secret.

  2

  Trouble

  Mzee Josiah was chopping meat and didn’t look up when Mugo entered the kitchen. The cook’s right hand seemed joined to the knife as his fierce strokes beat the wooden board, slicing the red meat. He stood at the far end of the table that filled the centre of the kitchen. On the dresser behind the cook, next to the larder, Mugo saw the white enamel bowl filled with potatoes. Next to it was a pumpkin, a bundle of green beans and a smaller bowl with tomatoes. Mzee Josiah always laid out the vegetables for Mugo to prepare. The slim black finger on the white clock above the dresser ticked as severely as Mzee Josiah’s knife rapping the board.

  Mugo hesitated. To reach the dresser he would have to pass within reach of Mzee Josiah. He knew he was in trouble. Mzee Josiah had told him to be back by four and the little hand of the clock was almost halfway between the five and the six. Mzee Josiah stopped chopping. He scooped up the chunks of meat and thrust them into a black pot on the stove to his left. Quickly Mugo slipped along the other side of the table, hoping to retrieve the vegetables while Mzee Josiah was busy at the stove. But no sooner had he grasped a bowl in each hand than a cuff to the back of his head sent potatoes and tomatoes bouncing across the dresser, scattering and rolling on to the floor.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Mzee Josiah boomed.

  Mugo cowered, waiting for the next blow. Instead, Mzee Josiah’s hands gripped his shoulders and swivelled him around like a wrench.

  ‘What kind of kitchen toto are you? Playing all day! Your own father didn’t know where you were hiding.’

  So Mzee Josiah had spoken to Baba! There was going to be trouble at home as well. Big trouble. Mathew expected him to keep everything secret, but Baba would expect the truth. Mugo squirmed as Mzee Josiah’s thumbs bore into the flesh under his shoulder bones.

  ‘What time did I tell you to come?’

  ‘Mzee… the young bwana –’ Mugo didn’t finish. The second blow made his head feel that it might split open like the soft tomatoes at his feet.

  ‘Is the young bwana your employer? Is it the young bwana who gives you shillings to work in his kitchen?’

  ‘No, Mzee,’ he whispered.

  ‘So why do you tell me about the young bwana? Eh? What must I say to the memsahib when she complains that I am late with the dinner? Eh?’

  Whatever he said would be wrong. Surely Mzee Josiah must have guessed that his lateness was to do with the memsahib’s son? Mugo flinched, expecting another blow. But Mzee Josiah now thrust him down on to his knees.

  ‘Pick up those things. Look what you waste! Like you waste the time! Clean and cut them! Hurry! Mmmmhh!’ Mzee Josiah breathed angrily. People said elephants had long memories if you crossed them. Mugo was sure that Mzee Josiah’s would be just as long.

  As he scrubbed and peeled the potatoes at the outside sink, he tried to block out Mzee Josiah’s muttering inside the kitchen but he couldn’t miss hearing ‘Is this toto stupid?’ and ‘When you work for the wazungu, you must keep their time!’ Mugo gritted his teeth. Mathew was a mzungu and he clearly hadn’t bothered about this thing they called ‘time’. It was too unfair! After a while, however, the cook’s muttering gave way to humming and then to Mzee Josiah’s favourite song.

  ‘Onward Christian soldiers marching out to war…’

  Mzee Josiah and his wife, Mama Mercy, were Christians. Once a week they set off in their best clothes to meet other Christians and pray in a little wooden building. They always went the long way by the road, while if they were to cut across the bush it would take half the time. Mugo’s mother had joked that they liked everyone to see them in their best clothes. When he was younger, Mugo and the other children whose parents didn’t go to church sometimes amused themselves by watching and passing comments on the churchgoers. That was when he had first heard this song. At the time he didn’t know any English, but his older brother, Gitau, had translated for him. Gitau had also added that it was funny how Christians sang about war because his headmaster was always telling the pupils at his school that Christians loved peace.

  Right now, Mugo thought that Mzee Josiah sounded much more warlike than peaceful. After preparing the vegetables he carried them back into the kitchen. Mzee Josiah’s eyes scoured the bowls, checking that he had cut everything to the right size.

  ‘Bring more wood,’ Mzee Josiah ordered. ‘You want my fire to die?’

  Mugo hurried out again. Everything was his fault now! In the morning he had cut and stacked a pile of branches beside the stables. He had meant to bring them across to the shed outside the kitchen but the memsahib had called him to help her carry a box of books to the car. Then Mzee Josiah had given him all the knives, forks and spoons to polish and he had forgotten the wood.

  The sky was now purple and getting darker. The lower slopes of the mountain, their great Kirinyaga, had completely disappeared and it seemed that clouds were thickening. Everyone was waiting for the first rains to break the dry season. The air felt heavy. As Mugo sprinted across the grass to the stables, he saw that the light was on in Mathew’s room. On his return journey, with his arms piled up with wood, he walked close to the house, slowing down as he passed Mathew’s window. The mzungu boy was sitting at his desk, studying a piece of paper. Thin wooden shapes were spread out in front of him. He was going to stick them together to make another aeroplane to join the others on top of his cupboard. When it was finished, he would bring it to Mugo to admire. Mugo could hear him already: ‘Can you carve one like this, Mugo?’

  ‘Where is that wood? Where is that boy!’ Mzee Josiah’s questions rumbled from the kitchen door, making Mugo scurry towards the kitchen.

  The bell tinkled from the dining room. Mzee Josiah strode ahead with a tray. He had learned to cook for the wazungu in their big war against Hitler and he walked like he was still in the army. Eyes down, with a small serving dish in each hand, Mugo shuffled quietly behind him. Ever since he had accidentally dropped a plate that belonged to what Mzee Josiah called ‘Memsahib’s set’ he was nervous. When he first came to work in the kitchen, he had admired how the same picture had been painted on so many different plates, cups and dishes and how it never washed off. Blue birds fle
w over twisted blue trees with feathery leaves and tall blue houses with strange curling roofs. When he had asked Mzee Josiah about the tiny blue figures crossing the little blue bridge over the river, Mzee Josiah had told him they were people in China. But when the memsahib had seen the shattered pieces at his feet on the stone floor beside the sink, she kept repeating: ‘This china has come all the way from England! Do you understand, Mugo?’

  It was a terrible scolding. The memsahib had said he would lose his pay for a week. Through his tears, the broken pieces had looked as if they were drowning. But when the memsahib and Mzee Josiah left him to sweep them away, he discovered that the little bridge had survived on a wedge the shape of a spearhead. He had hidden it, and later taken it home to put in his leather bag of small treasures. That week he had no money to give his mother. He felt bad even before he had received a second scolding. His only comfort was that he had the little bridge with its tiny people from both China and England in his bag.

  As they entered the dining room, Mugo was determined not to let Mathew catch his eye. The three wazungu watched in silence as Mzee Josiah set down the dishes in front of the memsahib. Mugo handed Mzee Josiah the two bowls and stepped back. Even when Mzee Josiah lifted the lids and the steam rose with mouth-watering smells, no one said a word. Mzee Josiah handed Mugo a couple of lids. Mugo suddenly felt hungry. He had not eaten anything all day. But he would have to wait until the wazungu had finished their meal and he had washed all the pots and dishes, and swept the kitchen, before Mzee Josiah would let him go home.

  The memsahib was still busy serving, while Mugo and Mzee Josiah held the lids, when the bwana broke the silence.

  ‘I am angry, Mugo.’

  Mugo’s fingers gripped the china.