Green City in the Sun (40 page)

     He stroke across the circle and came to stand before an elder seated on the dirt. The old man wore a blanket and carried a staff; around his neck hung a small metal container.
"Mzee
, "said Johnstone in a quieter, more respectful tone, "what is that necklace you are wearing?"

     The man regarded him with caution. "You know what it is. You carry one yourself."

     "Yes!" cried Johnstone. "It is the
kipande
, the identification the
wazungu
force us to carry. But because most of you do not wear clothes with pockets, as I am able to do, you must wear your identification around your neck,
like a dogtag!"

     The audience froze. A chill descended over the group as the eyes of the
mzee
met those of the firebrand. After a moment the dignified elder came to his feet, and he said in a soft, deadly voice, "The white man came and brought us out of the darkness. He showed us the greater world, of which we knew nothing. He brought us medicine and God, roads and books. He brought us a better way. This
kipande
which I wear tells other men who I am. I am not ashamed of it. And I do not have to listen to you."

     He made a stately turn and departed from the clearing as if leaving his own throne room. The rest of the elders also rose and left with him. But the younger men remained, and these Johnstone now addressed. "It is seven years since the massacre in Nairobi of our own people over the detainment of Harry Thuku. Thuku is still in jail for his activities in
uhuru
, independence. A hundred and fifty of our men and women, who were unarmed themselves, were gunned down in the street like animals. Will we continue to allow this?"

     He met the gaze of each man in the circle, caught the look in each one, and held it with his own magnetism, until they had to look away. "I tell you this," said Johnstone Kamau with quiet force, "if one of you here works for a white man, then he is no African. Do you hear me?"

     
"Eyh,"
said a few of the men.
Yes.

     "Is not our manhood worth more than sugar and oil?"

     
"Eyh,"
they said a little louder.

     "Shall we continue to ride in third-class train cars while the white man rides first? Shall we put up with the indignity of requiring a pass to travel
from one village to another? Shall we suffer their rules that forbid us to smoke in the presence of a white man, that force us to lift our caps when he passes, that make us stand up when he walks by? Or will we live like men?"

     
"Eyh!"
they cried.

     Wanjiru felt her young heart begin to race. This charismatic man, Johnstone Kamau, spoke with magic in his voice. She understood little of what he said, but the power in his delivery heated her blood. Her wide, unblinking eyes watched as a few more men in the group, disagreeing with the radical and afraid of the police, got up and marched away. She saw nervous, excited glances go around the circle; men shifted uncertainly on their buttocks. Some murmured in support of him, others remained silent. She thought of him as a stick stirring embers. The old dead coals fell to the wayside, warm ones sat glowing weakly on the edges; but the hot new ones, red and burning, poured their heat into the center of the cook fire. These were the young men, Wanjiru saw, youths in khaki shorts who had been taught to read and write but didn't have a shilling in their pockets. They were discontented young men flaring into flames from the hot breath of Johnstone Kamau.

     To her surprise Wanjiru saw the medicine woman slowly rise and approach the young man. The group fell silent. She went up to him, and they exchanged words of respect. Then Wachera, widow of the legendary Mathenge, said, "I have a vision, son of Mumbi. The ancestors have shown me your future. You will lead the people back to the old ways. You will free us from the yoke of the
wazungu.
I have looked into your tomorrows, and I have seen what you will one day be: You will be Kenya's lamp, you will be
Kenya taa."

     Johnstone's eyes flickered; a look passed briefly over his face. Then he smiled and nodded and watched her walk away.

     When Wachera came back to her son, she reached for his hand and said, "You will remember this night and this man, David."

     Wanjiru overheard. She would remember, too.

T
HUNDER CRACKED
. T
HE INTERIOR OF
B
IRDSONG COTTAGE
was briefly bathed in the white glow of lightning. Grace picked up Rose's letter. It began:

My dear Grace,

     The weather is frightfully awful here, and I am going mad with being bound up in the house. Bella Hill is such a gloomy place! When Valentine is home (he spends so much time in London speaking in Parliament on behalf of the whites in Kenya), he and Harold argue so fiercely that it's all I can do to keep sane.

     But I have been doing some wonderful stitching! I found the most beautiful shade of red in one of the village shops. I shall use it for the petals of my hibiscus flowers. Did I tell you that I had decided to put hibiscus in my tapestry? I don't know if they grow on the slopes of Mount Kenya, but they seem appropriate somehow. What do you think of a variation on the Hungarian stitch for the sky? Is it too much? I am still
at a loss over the blank spot. I cannot fill it in for the life of me. The mountain is coming in nicely; some of the trees have received their final bark detailing. Now I shall turn my attention to the leopard lurking behind the ferns. It will no doubt take a year or two out of my life! But what on earth do I put in the blank space?

     In answer to your last two letters, there is nothing yet to report on Arthur's condition. You needn't scold me, Grace. Just because I don't mention him doesn't mean I don't care. One Harley Street specialist had the audacity to tell Valentine to take Arthur to a Freudian! What a row that caused!

     Why are Novembers always so dreary in England? Have the rains come to Kenya? I do pray so. My roses and delphiniums will be needing it. I received a letter in the post this morning from Lucille Donald in Uganda. She talks of nothing but her good works.

     It appears we shan't be home for Christmas after all. Even after we leave England, the boat takes six weeks. My heart rests in Kenya, with you all.

     Love,

     Rose.

     Grace sighed and put the letter down. It had been written on delicate stationery of rose pink and teal blue, the Treverton colors, with the lion and griffin crest at the top. Rose's florid handwriting had filled the entire page without saying anything, as usual, Grace thought.

     She looked up at the underside of her thatch roof as more thunder growled down from Mount Kenya. Wind rattled the dry papyrus, joining the crackle of her fire. Grace was alone except for Mario asleep in his rondavel and Mona in her bed in the recently added room. With Valentine and Rose in England, the big house was closed up.

     Grace tried not to think of empty Bellatu. It only reminded her of her own emptiness.

     She poured a second cup of tea and listened to the wind. She had Mona. It if weren't for that, Grace knew the loneliness would overwhelm her.

     Bringing her mind out of the shadows that closed in on her, she tried
to concentrate on the latest problems demanding solutions. There was the trouble with the smallpox lymph, which arrived inactive from England because it did not travel well; inoculation had been a ritual in futility. There was the "nappy project" she was having difficulty launching: sending nurses into the bush to demonstrate to African women the making and
need
of diapers for babies. There was still the trouble with children burned from falling into cook fires and dehydrated infants who were not receiving fluid therapy in time; the need to check the water filter pots in all the huts to see if they were being used. Dysentery was breaking out again; parasites were becoming more of a problem, instead of abating; malnutrition was on the rise as the population continued its boom growth; newborn babies were dying of tetanus because of unsanitary delivery conditions—the list seemed endless.

     Grace battled two immutable obstacles: lack of education among the Africans and the persistent local preference for tribal doctors. The first she knew she could vanquish with schools, books, and teachers; the second was trickier. Despite increased pressure from the missions upon the Africans to turn away from the local medicine people, traditional healing was only being driven farther underground. Many was the night when Grace, unable to sleep, had stepped onto her veranda for some air and had seen, in the moonlight, furtive shapes enter Wachera's hut.

     
There
was her enemy. Wachera had to be stopped.

     Setting Rose's letter aside and reaching for the one she had received from James, Grace listened to the thunder growing closer. She knew it was only a matter of time before the storm hit. She wondered if Mona would sleep through it. James had written:

We have the same problems here in Uganda as you do. The villages are too far apart and too deep in the jungle for medical missionaries to see to everyone. These people are dying from the simplest things! Diarrhea, dehydration, malnutrition, infections—all of which can be prevented or cured if only there were some way to educate the Africans in basic health. So many times, Grace, I have gone into a village and seen the needless suffering and thought: If only there were some sort of guidebook that nonmedical personnel such as Lucille and I, or indeed
that the natives themselves could refer to! You are the person to write that book, Grace. We pray that you will someday.

     Her eyes misted; she put the letter down. A book. To take the place of a doctor. With simple explanations and drawings. That was what James envisioned. Grace stared into the fire for a long time, contemplating his dream and listening to the storm draw near.

     "Y
OU'RE NOT AFRAID
of a bit of lightning, are you?" Mona asked.

     David wore a stoic face. He wished he could run back to the hut where his mother slept. But that would have looked like cowardice, and he had to show the bwana's daughter that he was unafraid.

     She had dared him to do this.

     They had encountered each other down by the river that afternoon, Mona boldly announcing her
permanent
return to Kenya, David retorting that she would not be here long. They had argued then over whose land this was, David's authority being his mother, Mona's, her father. Out of that quarrel a dare had emerged: to meet at midnight on taboo ground. The one who was the braver was the rightful owner of the land.

     And so David was here, at this late hour, crouched against the thatch wall of the surgery hut—to prove his bravery to Mona. A cold wind cut through his thin shirt; lightning tore across the sky, illuminating the heavy black clouds that were bringing the rain. He didn't like storms; no Kikuyu did. This was not normal rain, he knew. Angry storms such as the one that was coming were rare; it made the Children of Mumbi wonder if God was angry with them—not the
mzungu
God Jesu, to whom they sang songs on Sunday and whom they praised in good times, but Ngai, the ancient god of the Kikuyu, to whom they reverted when their primeval fears surfaced.

     The wind whipped Mona's short black hair. Her Magyar-cut khaki overalls, covering a long-sleeved blouse, ballooned out around her. She had gone to bed fully dressed, and her aunt Grace hadn't known because when she had come in to kiss her niece good night, Mona had had the covers drawn up to her chin.

     "Let's see how brave a warrior you are," she said. "I dare you to go in there!" She pointed to the doorway of the surgery hut.

     It was a small structure, not much bigger than the hut David's mother lived in. There was no veranda, just an opening with a wooden door, which David now pushed with the flat of his hands. The door creaked away from him, and lightning cast a brief light on the wooden floor, cabinets, electric lights suspended from the beams, and a crude operating table.