Green City in the Sun (96 page)

     Mama Wachera shook her head. It all was a mystery to her. Women
were meant to raise babies and work on the shamba. The things her granddaughter spoke of were alien to her.

     "Why such a dream, my child? You must find yourself a husband first. You are old enough to have children by now, and yet you have none.

     Sarah drew designs in the dirt. The Nairobi experience had been harsh and eye-opening. Several of the bankers had refused even to talk to her, two had been plainly amused with her plan, and three had made sexual overtures. For certain favors, they intimated, perhaps a loan could be arranged....

     Sarah was frustrated.

     All over East Africa women were becoming emancipated. They were entering higher schools and coming out as doctors and lawyers, even as architects and chemists. But such pursuits, she had decided, were sanctioned by men. Those women were being carefully ushered through male channels, under constant male guidance and authority. There was a kind of patronizing, paternalistic acceptance of women who put on the barrister's wig and attended court. They were still under the male thumb, no matter how liberated they thought themselves. But women who wanted to go into business for themselves were another breed. They demanded total independence, and then it became another matter.

     "We're a threat to them," Sarah had tried to explain to her mother in Nairobi. "A woman owning her own business is truly a woman standing on her own two feet. No man above her, to make the final decisions. It frightens men. Plus we're competition for their own businesses. But I'm not going to let them stop me. I'll find a way of getting started somehow."

     Sarah had gone to her mother on the thin hope of gaining some support, but Wanjiru was as against her daughter's plans as the bankers were. "Finish school," she said over and over. "Why do you think I sacrificed so much for you? Divorcing your father, living in the forest, and spending all those years in detention camps? It was so you could have a good education and make something of yourself."

     "I don't want to live
your
dream, Mother. I want to live my own! Isn't that what freedom really means?"

     On the quiet Sarah had approached Dr. Mwai, whom her mother lived with in the Karen District. But although he was sympathetic with her, he
had said, "If I were to give you money, Sarah, your mother would never speak to me again. In this case I shall have to side with her."

     "Grandmother," Sarah cried, "what am I going to do?"

     Mama Wachera regarded her granddaughter, who was not a true Mathenge but whom the old woman loved nonetheless. "Why is it so important to you, child?"

     "It's not only important to me, Grandmother. It's important to Kenya!"

     Seeing that her grandmother didn't understand, Sarah went to her hut, took the sketchpad out of her suitcase, and returned with it.

     "Look," she said, slowly turning the pages. "See how I've captured the soul of our people?"

     Mama Wachera had never seen pictures before. Her eye was not trained to grasp and understand an image. But she did recognize certain pieces of jewelry—a Masai necklace, Embu earrings. She gazed at the baffling lines on the paper and tried to comprehend what the girl was feeling. Although Sarah's words were strange to the old woman, there was a language that Wachera did understand—the language of the spirit.

     And she felt it now, as they sat in the sun and Sarah turned her pages and spoke excitedly about the fabrics she was going to create, the dresses she was going to design, the "style" she was going to give to her African sisters. Mama Wachera felt a youthful energy fly out of Sarah and enter her own ancient body.

     "And for this you need money?" Wachera finally asked.

     "Mrs. Dar has promised to sell me one of her old sewing machines. I shall then need to rent a small space in town—nothing much, but where there is electricity and a room to spread out and cut my fabrics."

     Wachera shook her head. "I don't understand money. Why can't you trade with Mrs. Dar? You are welcome to whatever is in my garden. My maize field by the river is more plentiful than ever. Or perhaps she would prefer goats? I am a rich woman, Sarah. I own nearly a hundred goats!"

     In exasperation the girl shot to her feet. Her grandmother lived in the past. Buying a sewing machine with goats! "I need proper money, Grandmother. Pounds and shillings. If I were to try to work for it and save it up, it would take me years. I need it now!"

     Mama Wachera looked thoughtful. Then she said, "Perhaps you are looking in the wrong place, child. You should look to the soil for your answer.

     Sarah fought to curb her impatience. Trying to talk to her grandmother was almost as bad as talking to her mother. Older people simply did not understand. They lived in the past! If only Deborah were back from Kilima
Simba
—
she
would understand.

     Wachera slowly rose, retrieved her hoe, and said, "Come with me."

     Sarah wanted to protest, but it would have been disrespectful. So she followed her grandmother down to the maize plot by the river.

     "The Children of Mumbi have lived on the soil ever since the First Man and Woman," Mama Wachera explained as she led her granddaughter among the tall stalks. "We sprang from the soil. When we take an oath, we eat the soil to bind our spirit to our words. The land is precious, Daughter, you must never forget that."

     When they reached the corner of the plot, Wachera bent and struck the earth that lay in the shade of tall banana plants. "When one forgets the old ways," she said as she broke the earth, "then all is lost. In the soil lies our answers."

     Sarah gazed out at the river, feeling her annoyance rise. She was in no mood for a lesson in planting.

     But when the hoe struck something, she was suddenly attentive.

     Wachera bent at the waist, keeping her legs straight as if she were weeding or harvesting, and dug into the loose earth. When she brought out a large leather bag, Sarah stared in amazement.

     "Here," Mama Wachera said, handing the bag to her granddaughter.

     Baffled, Sarah quickly undid the drawstring and blinked down at the great hoard of silver coins in the bag. There must have been a hundred pounds' worth in there!

     "Grandmother," she said, "where did you get this?"

     "I have told you, Daughter, that I have no use for money. Every week for twenty harvests your mother sent money for your keep. I had no need of it, as I fed you and your brother with food from my own shamba. I did not need to buy medicines, as I made my own. And when the school insisted
that I pay for your uniforms and books, I sent goats, which they accepted. I do not understand coins. But I kept them, knowing they contain power."

     Sarah stared at the old woman a moment longer. Then she cried, "Grandmother!"

     "Is this what you need? Will this make you happy, child?"

     
"Very
happy, Grandmother!"

     "Then it is yours."

     Sarah hugged the old woman, then spun deliriously in a circle.

     Wachera laughed and said, "What will you do now, Daughter?"

     Sarah came to a standstill, her eyes shining. She knew exactly what she was going to do with the money. But she would have to hurry. There wasn't much time.

     Deborah was leaving in two weeks.

G
RACE REMOVED HER STETHOSCOPE AND FOLDED IT INTO THE
pocket of her white lab coat. To the sister at the bedside, an African nun in the pale blue habit of her order, she said, "Watch him closely and report to me at once any change."

     "Yes, Memsaab Daktari."

     Grace took one last look at the boy's medical chart, then, absently rubbing her left arm, walked out of the children's ward.

     As she followed the treelined street from the hospital to her house, Grace was greeted by many people: a priest hurrying to a baptism; student nurses clutching books; blue-robed Catholic nuns; patients in wheelchairs; visitors bringing flowers. Grace Mission was like a small town; it was a self-contained, self-sufficient community that filled every inch of its thirty acres. And it was said to be the largest mission in Africa.

     Grace Treverton was still the director, but much of the running of the mission was in the hands of others, to whom she had, over the years, gradually
relinquished authority. At eighty-three Grace could no longer do all the work herself, as she would like to.

     Streetlights came on with the descent of night. People hurried to dining rooms, to evening classes, to vespers in the church. Grace slowly climbed the steps of her comfortable and familiar veranda and was glad to see, when she walked through the front door, that Deborah was back from Amboseli.

     "Hello, Aunt Grace," Deborah said as they embraced. "You're just in time. I've made tea."

     The inside of the house had changed little over the years. The furniture, now considered antique, was protected by slipcovers and antimacassars. Grace's enormous rolltop desk was as cluttered as ever with bills, orders, medical journals, communications from all over the world.

     "How was Kilima Simba?" Grace asked as she accompanied her niece into the kitchen.

     "As luxurious as ever! And so overbooked that they had to double up the guests in their rooms and still turn people away! Uncle Geoffrey said he's going to build a new lodge, right here in the Aberdares. To rival Treetops, he said."

     Grace laughed and shook her head. "Now there is a man who could truly see into the future. Ten years ago we all said he was mad. Now he's one of the richest men in East Africa."

     Although there had been some trouble in the early days of independence—the Kenya Army had revolted, some lawless people had tried to terrorize the whites—none of the serious, anticipated trouble, such as a second Mau Mau, had happened. Through hard work and cooperation, and the spirit of
harambee
, "pulling together," and under Jomo Kenyatta's strong leadership, Kenya had emerged united and prosperous, earning for itself the title of Jewel of Black Africa. Only time would tell if this stability was going to continue in these next ten years of
uhuru.

     As she buttered the scones and put the jam and clotted cream on the table, Grace studied her niece. Deborah was not her usually lively self tonight.

     "Is everything all right?" she asked, sitting at the table. "Are you feeling okay, Deborah?"

     The smile that came was a lifeless one. "I'm all right, Aunt Grace."

     "But something is troubling you. Is it your trip to California?"

     Deborah stared down into her tea.

     "You're having second thoughts about going," Grace said gently, "aren't you?"

     "Oh, Aunt Grace! I'm so confused! I know it's a marvelous opportunity for me and all, but—"

     "It frightens you, is that it?"

     Deborah chewed her lip.

     "Is it something else then? You're not worried about me, are you? We've been over that already. I want you to go. I shan't be lonely. And the three years will go quickly."

     To eighteen-year-old Deborah three years sounded like three centuries.

     Grace waited. In their years together, living more as mother and daughter than as aunt and niece, Deborah had always been able to come to Grace with her fears, her questions, her dreams. They had spent many nights by the fire, talking. Grace had told Deborah stories of the Trevertons, and the girl had listened raptly. There had never been any secrets between them—with the exception of the identity of Deborah's father, which Mona had made Grace promise to keep a secret. And with Mona's departure from Kenya and only her sporadic, impersonal letters to take her place, Deborah had no other family than her aunt. They were as close as two people could be; they lived for each other.

     Finally Deborah said softly, "It's about Christopher."

     "What about him?"

     Deborah stirred her tea with the look of someone searching for the right words.

     "You two haven't had a row, have you?" Grace asked. "Is that why he went off to Nairobi the day he got back from England?" She was remembering the little boy Deborah had brought home for tea one day, a boy whom Grace had recognized instantly as a reincarnation of David Mathenge. From that day until the day he left for Oxford, Deborah and Christopher had been inseparable.

     "I don't know why he went to Nairobi, Aunt Grace. I don't know why he's staying away."

     "Well, he isn't away now. You must patch up your quarrel tomorrow.

     Deborah brought her head up. "What do you mean, he isn't away now? Is Christopher home?"

     "I saw him this afternoon. He had his suitcase, and he was going into his hut."

     "He's back!"

     When Grace saw the look in her niece's eyes and heard the excitement in her voice, she suddenly understood.

     "I have to see him," Deborah said, standing up. "I have to talk to him."

     "Not now, Deborah. Wait until tomorrow."