Walking Home (12 page)

“I’m scared,” Jata said.

“Scared of what? You have your brother here, so nothing can ever harm you. You know that.” I needed to distract her, calm her. “Look at all those stars in the sky. Aren’t they beautiful?”

She nodded. They weren’t just beautiful but bright. Between them and the moon—which was almost full—there was a gentle blanket of light that filled the night. The tents seemed almost to glow, and I could see clearly into the distance, tent after tent, row after row, until they disappeared.

“Do you see it?” I asked.

“See what?”

“It is very hard to see, so I’m not surprised you can’t.”

“See what?” she demanded.

“The string.”

“The string?”

“Yes. I see it going down the passageway between the tents.” I pointed with my finger to trace the path of the invisible string. “It goes out through the front gate and then down the road to Nairobi. And do you know where it goes then?”

She shook her head.

“It goes all the way to Kikima, to the home of our grandparents.”

“You can’t see that.”

“Of course I can’t see it all the way! I can only see it as far as the gate. I’m just surprised that you can’t see it at all.”

She strained to look, trying to make out the string in the moonlight.

“It glistens, reflects the light. Look harder. Can you see it?”

“I think I can see it … I think.”

“It’s okay if you can’t. I can see it. It will lead us to our grandparents’ home, to our
new
home. But don’t worry if you can’t see it, because I can.”

She gave a big yawn.

“Are you ready to go back to bed?”

“I’m ready.”

I opened up the flap and carried her back inside. I pulled back the blanket with one hand and set her down on the bed to snuggle back down. It was good that none of this had woken up our mother. She was quietly sleeping. In fact, she hadn’t moved at all. I held my breath, listening for hers. I could hear her … or was it Jata?

I bent down and placed my ear by my mother’s mouth, straining, praying, hoping for a sound. There was nothing. I touched her face with my hand. It was cold.

My mother was gone.

“I am sorry for your loss,” the man said.

“What?”

“I am sorry for your mother’s death.”

“Thank you, sir.” I took a deep breath and worked hard to keep the tears inside. It would not be right to cry in front of a stranger—especially a stranger who was this important. It was time for me to be strong. That was what my father would expect, what my mother would want and what my sister needed. She was in the hospital tent being watched by a nurse. I needed to get to her soon, but right now, I needed to be here.

The stranger was a large man and he sat behind a desk piled high with papers. I had never met him before, but I had been told that he was the chairman of the camp—the man in charge—so he was
very
important. Before coming here—being forced to come here, like all of us—he had been a very successful businessman and a respected elder in his community.

“How old are you, son?”

“Thirteen … fourteen in a few months.”

“And your sister is how old?”

“She is seven, sir.”

“Do you have any other family in the camp?”

“No, sir. We were alone.” If Jomo hadn’t moved, I could have claimed that his family was our family—they would have helped us. “We were going to be leaving soon, sir.”

“So you have some family elsewhere? Excellent, most excellent.” He smiled—a big smile. “Can they come and get you?”

I shook my head. “They do not know we are here … I do not know how to contact them.”

“But you were going to go there?” he asked.

“When my mother recovered.” Now she would never recover. “We were going to return to her village.”

The smile disappeared and the man let out a big sigh.

“Sir, may I be excused? I need to be with my sister, to care for her.”

“The matron at the hospital will provide care.” He sighed again. “It is most unfortunate that you are not turning sixteen in a few months. Then I could ignore the things that need to be done, lose the paperwork for a while … I could perhaps do something by doing nothing.”

“I do not understand, sir.”

“You are not of age to care for your sister, or for yourself. I must take action to provide supervision.”

I nodded in agreement, although I still had no idea what he meant.

“I have to sign the papers,” he said.

Did he mean the papers for the funds to help us get to our grandparents?

“When can we leave, sir?”

“It will be soon. Probably your sister will leave first.”

“I do not understand,” I said again. “She is too young to be going on her own.”

He looked as confused as I felt. “She will not be going alone. A matron will escort her.”

I felt a sense of relief—we were not going to have to go alone—somebody was going to take us to our grandparents. But still… “Why am I not going with her at the same time?”

“Because you are not going to the same place,” he said.

“But we are both going to our grandparents.”

He shook his head. “You are going to where you can be cared for as orphans.”

“Our grandparents will care for us.”

“You tell me that their village is far away, and that they cannot come and get you. That they do not even know you are here. How would you get there?”

“There is money given to help some families leave,” I said. “I was told that.”

“There is some money for families, but not for two children. Do you expect us just to give you money and allow you to walk out of here alone? Do you think that would be responsible?”

I didn’t know what to say.

“And how do we even know these people will take you when you arrive—if you arrive?”

I hadn’t considered the possibility that they wouldn’t, so again I had no answer.

“You will both be well cared for. You will be provided for at the children’s homes.”

“We cannot be separated. We need to go to the same home.”

“That is not possible. One is for girls and the other is for boys.”

“But … but … she is my sister. She needs my care.”

“She will remain your sister and she will be cared for—far better than you would be able to.”

“My mother has been ill for a long time, sir. I have always been there to care for both my mother and my sister. I
can
care for her.”

“Not legally. You are too young. Do you know the trouble I would get into if I allowed you to care for her and something happened?”

I didn’t care about trouble for him, and anyway nothing was going to happen.

“Besides, it is not like you will never see her. I have been told that visits are possible.”

“Visits?”

“Yes. During school breaks, you will have an opportunity to see her—perhaps for an entire afternoon, if the two homes are not too far apart.”

“You don’t even know where they are?”

“I have enough to do inside this fence. Once people leave, they are not my concern.”

If we were outside the wire, would we be his concern?

“Would you like to tell your sister of the plans, or would you prefer I tell her?” he asked.

“No, you cannot do that … I will tell her.” But how? Telling her of our mother’s death was the hardest thing I’d ever done, and now she was going to lose me as well. “When will this take place? When will she leave?”

“Do you think you can provide care for the night?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. I can care for her.”

“It could even be two nights. You must watch and feed her, put her to sleep. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Does your sister go to our school?”

I nodded.

“Tomorrow you go there and tell them that she will be leaving and there is no point in her taking up a seat.” He stopped and considered me carefully. “I know this is not what you want, but what choice do I have?”

He could have somebody take us to Kikima, I thought, or at least give us the money to go there ourselves.

“You have to have faith that what is being done is what is best for you. And who knows? Maybe once you’re in the orphanage, somebody there will be able to connect you with your family.”

“They could?”

He shrugged. “Anything is possible, although I would imagine it would not happen soon. There are so many orphans and only so many resources. Nothing will happen quickly. Are you of faith?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are your family churchgoers? Are you a believer?”

“Of course. We go to church each week. Sometimes twice a week.”

I thought about my last brief glimpse of our church, the flames engulfing it, the smoke rising into the sky and—

“Then you must know that sometimes things happen for reasons we do not understand. It was God’s will that brought you here, and it is God’s will that you go to a children’s home.”

“No, sir.”

“No? What do you mean?” he asked.

“It is not God’s will. It is
your
will. You are sending us to these places. You are sending my sister away from me. God would not do that.”

His mouth dropped open. He looked shocked. And then he started to look angry.

“You are only a boy, and you must understand that adults—your elders—are wiser. Do you think you are wiser than me?” he demanded.

“No, sir, but I—”

“You have taken enough of my time. I am a busy man.” He got to his feet. “Go and take your sister. Be prepared to leave by tomorrow. There is no point in discussing this further. Go.”

I got to my feet and stumbled out of his office. He was right. There was no point in discussing it further, and we did need to go … just not the way he intended.

J
ata lay sleeping on the bed. It had taken a while for her to fall asleep. I’d rubbed her back until the tears had finally stopped and she’d drifted off. Then I was able to let my own tears flow. It was important that she not see me break down. Now more than ever, she needed me to be strong, to be in control. The only way she could believe was if I believed … or at least pretended to believe. Did I really think we could do this? I wasn’t sure. I felt all scared inside, so much so that I felt sick to my stomach. But I couldn’t show the fear. I had to act. What choice did we have? When there is no hope, even a little glimmer is better. Besides, the longest journey starts with one step. That was how it was done.

I sorted through our meager possessions. We didn’t have much, but I still didn’t know if we could
take it all. Everything had weight that I would have to carry, and at some point I might have to carry Jata as well.

Definitely we should take a blanket … or should we carry two? That would leave one—a small present for the people who would take up this tent when we were gone. The cooking pot definitely would be needed. The water container, the knife and most certainly all the food. Two bowls and two plates and a spoon. Would a second spoon weigh that much more? I had proudly traded some of the gazelle meat for those three spoons.

Thank goodness my mother had always planned ahead. There was extra food for three of us for five days. That meant there was enough for seven or even eight days for the two of us, although we were going to need to eat more than usual. We weren’t going to be sitting around doing nothing.

There was a gentle rapping on the flap of the tent and a rush of panic overcame me. Had they come early to get Jata? Was I foolish to have waited for morning?

“Muchoki, are you there?”

I recognized the voice. It was the sergeant. Had they sent
him
to get Jata?

I stayed perfectly still. If I didn’t respond, maybe he would go away. But the flap of the tent opened and he poked in his head.

“I needed to come to express my condolences,” he said.

“Thank, you, sir.”

“Your mother was a good woman. I am sad for your loss. I just wish she had survived long enough for you to go to the homestead of her parents.” He paused. “I inquired about your circumstances. I was told they are sending you both away.”

“They want us to be separated in two places.”