Walking Home (16 page)

“What happened to it?” Jata asked.

“An accident. You know how
matatu
drivers are. I’m surprised the roadway isn’t littered with more of their remains.”

It sat there, at the side of the road, facing forward, sitting right side up, and the body, other than the blackened frame, was not dented or damaged. The roadway, though, had been swept clean of any pieces from the collision, and there were none of the glistening pebbles of glass that usually lingered on the road for months or even years after an accident. This must have happened long ago, because nobody would ever clean up after an accident, especially out here where there was nothing but scrub bush to witness it.

“Do you think we could ride on this
matatu
?” Jata joked.

“It’s about the only one we can afford, although it would not go very far.”

It did look as if it was simply waiting for passengers the way it was sitting. I could almost picture the conductor hanging out the open door.

As we came right up to it, I could see that it would be a most uncomfortable ride. The seats had been completely consumed by the fire, so there was no place for the passengers to sit, and there was a blackened mass in one of the seats. In an instant of trying to make sense out of nonsense, then denying it and then realizing it was real, I knew. It was the burned remains of a man, still covered in shreds of clothing, the white of his skull the only contrast to the blackened, burned body.

I pushed Jata away, still holding her hand, trying to get some distance and to use my body as a screen between her and the dead man. I wanted to protect her, to stop her from seeing, or suffering from the sight.

“Up ahead in the next village we will stop for water,” I said.

“I am thirsty.”

“So am I. Very thirsty. How about if you sing me a song to pass the time?”

“But you told me not to sing because it takes away my breath and makes me more thirsty.”

“You are only going to sing until those next buildings, and then you will have something to drink.”

She began to sing. “
Charity, charity, charity, charity
…”

We left the
matatu
behind. Her little sweet voice had blocked the sight from her eyes. She hadn’t seen. I just wished I hadn’t either.

I started humming along with her.

I could tell there was something happening on the highway, but I couldn’t be certain of what. The trucks and cars were slowing down and then stopping. Was it rioters? I couldn’t see any smoke, and nothing was on fire. It would be easy enough for us to leave the tarmac and go into the bush, where we could detour around without being noticed. I didn’t want to do that, but if necessary I’d try to take as short a detour as possible. I needed to get closer to see exactly what was happening and how I would need to act. There were people coming slowly toward us on foot. Not only had they not been harmed, but they could tell us what was happening ahead.

I put down the water container and grabbed Jata by the hand, the better to move her fast if I needed to. With my free hand I sought the comfort of feeling the knife tucked into the band of my trousers. It was there. That was reassuring in a small way.

“Excuse me, sir,” I called out to an old man moving slowly toward us.

“Yes, young boy? What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering, sir, what is happening on the road ahead?”

“Security. The police and army are checking vehicles.”

“So there is nothing for me to fear?”

“Not unless you are a thug or a rioter.” He gave a raspy laugh.

“Thank you, sir.”

I picked up the water container and started back along the road, towing Jata along behind. Up ahead, the line of vehicles was growing. I took us on a route farther off the road so that I could see around the cars.

There were dozens of vehicles and more than double that number of police and soldiers. Across the road were metal barriers that completely blocked one lane of the highway, forcing vehicles in each direction to alternate in passing through the opening when the soldiers allowed. The gap was blocked by two soldiers, each holding a machine gun. Soldiers moved down the line in pairs and stopped at each vehicle. They were on the road to provide security. I should have felt safe, but instead I felt frightened. They were soldiers, but they were still men with guns.

I tried not to look at them as we passed, but it
was hard not to. They were in green uniforms with red berets. They wore big black boots and each held either a rifle or a machine gun. They were giving loud orders—yelled out in Swahili—to the drivers. Nobody seemed to be saying much in response. The drivers listened, allowed the soldiers to look inside their vehicles and then drove off when they were allowed.

“Do you think any of them are friends with the sergeant?” Jata asked.

“I’m sure he knows them all,” I replied. I wanted her to feel reassured.

We passed by the checkpoint and continued to walk in silence, unnoticed and untroubled. The soldiers by the waiting vehicles didn’t even glance in our direction. It was as if we were invisible.

“T
here’s one over there,” I said to Jata, pointing out a piece of wood off to the side of the road.

She ran over and picked it up, adding it to the bundle she was carrying. We were gathering fuel as we walked so that we could have a fire to cook our meal over.

“Do you think this is enough? It is getting heavy.”

“Here, give me the pile to carry,” I said.

“It is not
that
heavy.”

“Well, you will not need to carry it much farther. I think I see the spot.”

Up ahead was a small bridge in the near distance. As we got closer, I could see a deep gorge. At the bottom were a few pools of dirty, brown water and a thin thread of water linking them together. This was the spot. We wouldn’t use the water, of course, but the depression
would shield us from other eyes, from the wind, and from the sun until it set. It was—I believed—close to evening, and time was passing into the distance. Within two hours the light would be gone completely, but until then I wanted to escape its glare and the eyes that could be upon us. This might be the place to stay for the night.

Carefully Jata and I worked our way down from the road and into the gorge. It was hard going, with one hand on the water container and the other steadying my sister. The banks were damp. During the last rainfall—which had been recent—there must have been a raging torrent of water filling up the entire gorge. Now it had all run off, leaving nothing but the damp reminder of a trickle in the sand.

Reaching the bottom, I edged over into the shade provided by the steep carved wall of the gorge. The sand was giving off a coolness that was a welcome change from the heat of the tarmac. There were droppings from goats and cows. The little water that was there was being used to quench the thirst of the local herds. Jata dropped the bundle of wood and then slumped down to the sand. I wanted to do the same, but there was work to do before we could eat and nobody else to do it.

I started gathering stones and placing them in a circle as a fire pit, with one stone in the very center for
the cooking pot to rest upon. For good measure, I also hauled back two larger rocks that we could sit on. After that, I took the branches Jata had gathered and broke them into small pieces, arranging them in the circle. Next I pulled up some fine dry grass that made the perfect starter for the fire. I tossed the grass onto the kindling but also threaded it into the twigs and branches. Satisfied, I took out a small box of matches. There were eighteen left—enough for the rest of our journey, and probably more than enough for the amount of food we carried, but still not even one to waste.

I squatted low and struck the match, shielding the flame with my hand, and then lit one part of the grass and then a second and a third. All three caught, and soon the fire spread to the twigs and the branches. I put more branches on top so that there would be more fuel.

Finally, I undid my bundle and pulled out the pot, a big serving of beans and maize, two cups, two bowls and two spoons. I just wished that we’d needed three of each—that my mother had been sharing the third. I took the water container and carefully poured water in both cups and then into the pot. The container had grown lighter throughout the day as we drank, and now it was lighter still. That was good for carrying but bad for our ongoing needs. There was no telling when I could get us more clean water. Still, there was plenty for tonight, tomorrow and a little into the third day.
I put the pot onto the stone in the middle of the fire, poured in the beans and maize, and gave it all a stir.

“Jata, it won’t be long until—” I stopped myself when I saw she was sound asleep. I’d wake her when the food was ready.

I took one of the blankets and draped it over her. If I hadn’t been afraid to wake her, I would have placed the second beneath her to offer some protection against the ground. The thin mattress on the cot in our tent would have been most welcome now.

Perhaps it would have been wise to travel farther, but it was better to stay out of the sun and heat than to keep going now. I knew that to beat the hare, the tortoise had to keep moving, but that tortoise did not have as far to go as we did. We needed to rest, and this was a good time. Any thoughts of moving for the night were now gone. This was where we’d sleep. Not that I could rest yet. We’d need much more fuel for the fire first—both for the warmth it offered and for the protection it provided. It wasn’t just cows and sheep that needed water. But I knew that animals were afraid of the fire, and that it would keep them away. Strange, that. You’d think it would only show them where you were so they could come and make a meal of you.

Jata finished the serving I had put in her bowl. The walking had made us both hungry. Very hungry. I would have
to rethink how many days of food we had. Our supply would not last as long as I had hoped. Still, there was some left in the pot. The portion had been too large. In my head I knew it was only for two, but in my heart and in my habit I had put in enough for three.

“My feet are sore,” Jata said.

“So are mine.” I looked down at my shoes. The big toe on my right foot was peeking through a hole that had become larger throughout the day. Would my shoes last through this journey? If I had to, I’d walk barefoot. The lack of shoes wasn’t going to stop me.

“Do you hear it?” Jata asked.

“Mostly I can just hear you talking and singing.”

The rest and the meal had raised her spirits and she was my Jata again, talking to herself, softly singing and—

“There it is again,” she said.

I had heard it that time too. There were voices … and maybe a bell tingling. I got to my feet just as two goats spilled down the side of the gorge! They were followed by two more, and then more still, until a whole herd was sliding and surging down the slope. Cattle followed. The first few hesitated at the top, but they were propelled down by those coming from behind. It was a big herd—dozens and dozens of goats and many, many cattle. They all rushed forward, ignoring us as they found the water they were seeking. The cows,
which were far larger and had bigger horns, plowed aside any goats that weren’t wise enough to scamper away on their own.