Burn My Heart (3 page)

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.

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 flew 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.

‘Your father and I have been struggling to mend the fence in the dark. The young bwana says both of you saw it was broken when you were playing. Why didn’t you tell your father straight away?’

What should he say? He could feel Bwana Grayson’s eyes on him. The memsahib had stopped serving. He felt everyone’s eyes were on him now. He hung his head low.

‘Young bwana here says he was waiting for me to come home. But you could have told your father. Kamau would have known what to do. Isn’t that so?’

‘Yes, bwana,’ he whispered.

‘Speak up, boy!’

‘Yes, bwana.’

‘Then why didn’t you?’

Mugo bit his lip, hesitating. From the corner of his eye he saw Mathew with his arms tightly folded, eyes fixed on the table. He looked like a small animal that had smelt a trap. If he, Mugo, told the bwana and memsahib the truth, Mathew would be punished. They would take his gun away for sure.

‘You have nothing to say? I thought you were more responsible. I’m very disappointed in you, Mugo. I’ve told your father.’ The bwana turned his back on Mugo. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. We can start,’ he said to the memsahib.

Mzee Josiah had been standing stock-still while the bwana questioned Mugo. Now he carefully replaced the lids on the serving dishes, then led the way back to the kitchen.

Neither spoke. Mzee Josiah simply raised his eyebrows and began preparing a tray with fruit salad and a creamy white pudding. Mugo collected the dirty pots and carried them outside. His thoughts churned like the water swirling from the tap into the sink. If the bwana was disappointed in him, the memsahib would say that she couldn’t trust him. She would get a new kitchen toto. He would lose his job. He would no longer have any
shillings to give his mother to put in the special leather bag for school fees that she carried on a string around her neck. Maybe Baba, his father, would never be able to save enough and maybe he would never go to school after all.

There was quiet inside the kitchen. What did Mzee Josiah mean by raising his eyebrows? He was sure that Mzee Josiah would be glad to have a new kitchen toto. The ache in his stomach grew sharper. He wanted to go home to eat, but going home would mean facing his father. Mugo blinked back tears as he rubbed, scrubbed and rinsed. After he had stacked the pots neatly, he wiped his arm across his eyes and entered the kitchen to fetch a towel. Mzee Josiah was sitting on his chair beside the door to the dining room, waiting for the memsahib to tinkle the bell. Mugo wished he were invisible.

‘Kitchen toto!’

Mugo winced and forced himself to look up. Mzee Josiah was holding a small plate of ugali. The maize porridge was covered with rich-smelling mince gravy.

‘Eat!’ said Mzee Josiah.

‘Asante, Mzee.’ Mugo mumbled his thanks in surprise and timidly took the plate. Mzee Josiah usually made ugali earlier in the day. He thought Mzee Josiah hadn’t given him anything because he had been so late. Another punishment. But, out of the blue, the cook had softened. Mugo didn’t know
why and he wasn’t going to ask. He hurried outside, past the sink, and sat cross-legged on the ground at the edge of the shaft of light from the kitchen door. With the fingers of his right hand, he kneaded some ugali and gravy into a small ball. He was about to slip it into his mouth when Duma appeared from the shadows, bustling up to him. Duma’s nuzzling forced a tiny smile from Mugo.