Walking Home (20 page)

“No, they are not. They have their mother.”

Her words entered my heart like daggers. I felt sadness, but much more for her than for me.

“You are right. There is a difference—in fact, more than one. Neither of those little babies has a big brother who is there to provide for them. You have that.”

She took my hand. That was her answer.

“Do you know what we would be doing today if mother were here?” she asked.

“It is Sunday morning, so we would be in church.”

We had passed by a dozen churches already this morning. At times we could hear the singing flowing out the window to meet us on the road.

“I like church,” Jata said. “It is good to be close to God.”

“God is everywhere,” I said.

Almost as if in answer to that, God spoke—or at least sang to us. The sounds of singing came drifting through the air. Somewhere up ahead was a church, and with each step we took, the sound got louder. I knew the song. It was the one that Jata had been singing—“Charity, Charity.” She started to quietly sing along.

We quickly came up to a wire and wood fence that surrounded the church compound. We stopped and peered through. There were a few people outdoors, but most were inside, singing and worshipping. I could see them across the courtyard, through the open doors and windows.

“Muchoki, do you think we could go in?”

“It is not our church.”

“But wouldn’t we be welcome to worship?”

“Well … yes.”

“It would make our mother happy if we went to church.”

It would. And we could use a rest. “Come.”

Jata squealed as I took her by the hand and led her up to a path.

The church was a big building, solid brick, with a cross on the side of the tower. Some of the windows were wide open, while others were filled with colorful stained glass. It was a church of substance. Would we—two strangers, two orphans dressed in mud-stained clothing—be welcomed? I put my water container beside a bush and then tucked it in so it was hidden by the leaves.

The music of the church got louder with each step.

“Good morning, children. May God be with you!” a woman called out in greeting. She was dressed in her church clothing.

“And with you,” we answered in unison.

“You have missed more than you will hear.”

“We were just passing by,” I said.

“And God called you in?”

“God and the singing.”

“Joyous singing. I do not know you. Where do you usually worship?”

“Far away.”

“Welcome. Go in, go in!”

We entered the church. The pews were mostly filled, and the people at the back turned as we passed by, looking for an open seat. At the front, five men sat on a raised platform. Off to the side I saw an electric organ and two men playing guitars. In front of the platform two dozen young girls were singing and dancing. The song was in Kikuyu. It made me feel both at home and uneasy. I’d been to church a number of times in the tent at the camp, but this was the first time I’d been inside a real church since … well, since it all happened. Anxiously I looked around to find the doors, the ways out. What I didn’t find was anything that suggested danger. The fear subsided and faded away until only a sense of being safe and at home remained.

We sat down as the singers came to an end and the parishioners gave them a cheer. One of the men at the front got to his feet, clapping, and then went to the microphone in the center of the platform.

“Some items have been brought as an offering,” he said. “We will auction them to raise money for the church.” He held up a plastic bag and pulled out a pea pod. “This is filled with sweet peas. Will somebody give me a bid?”

“Fifty shillings!” a man called out.

“Does anybody wish to bid more?”

“Eighty shillings!” a woman offered.

“Any other offers?” the man asked. “Any?”

There was silence. He came over, and he and the woman exchanged the bag for the shillings.

Three more items—a pumpkin, some pears and some beans—were also auctioned off. This happened in our church as well, although I’d never been so interested in items of food.

The middle man on the platform got to his feet. He wore a suit and tie, and there was a large red Bible in his hand. I assumed he was the pastor.

“Good morning, and may God be with you!” he called out.

“And with you!” the congregation called back.

“If a lion were to kill your goats, would you be justified in killing that lion?” he asked.

“Of course!” a man called out. Others agreed with raised voices.

“Yes, you would,” he said. “We all know what is going on out there.” He gestured beyond the wall. “Kikuyu
have been killed by Luo. Kikuyu have been killed by Kalenjin. So are we not justified in killing them?”

The parishioners roared out their approval and agreement. I understood what he was saying, but that didn’t stop me from feeling sick to my stomach. Did these people know what any of that meant beyond just words?

The minister raised his hands to silence the members of the congregation. It took a while for some to notice and others to react, but finally the room was quiet.

“No,” he said softly. “No, no, no, no!” Each word got louder until the final one was like thunder. “Jesus said, ‘Love thy neighbor.’ He did not say, ‘Love
some
of thy neighbors.’ He did not say, ‘Love only your
Kikuyu
neighbors.’ Each of us is God’s child. Each of us was made in his image, and we have no right to strike down that image.”

His words caught me by surprise. This wasn’t what I had expected. I could feel the tension in the air. I could read in some faces expressions of confusion or even anger.

“Some of you may not agree with me,” the minister bellowed, “but you would be wrong.
I
know the Word. When Moses went to the mountain to receive the Commandments, God did not simply speak to him. Words can be misremembered and misspoken. God did not simply write the Commandments on parchment, because parchment can be ripped. He did not simply
write the Commandments on wood, because wood can be burned. He wrote the Commandments on stone, because stone is eternal—as eternal as our lives if we accept those Commandments.”

There was a rumble of approval from the congregation.

“And while each of the Ten Commandments is sacred, and it is not for me—a mere man—to place one above the others, I will speak of only one: Thou shalt not kill.”

He said each word with emphasis, making each one louder than the last.

“I know that the commandment does not say, ‘Thou shalt not kill a Kikuyu.’ It simply states, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ If each of us is made in God’s image—if each of us is precious to God—then who am I, who are
any
of us, to take that life and kill God’s image?”

I leaned forward in my seat not only to hear his words but to be drawn closer.

“In time, each of our lives shall pass. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. When you stand at the gates of heaven, before your maker, before the Almighty, you will be held to account. None of us is perfect, all of us have sinned, but some sins will not be forgiven. Some sins will block the path through the gates.”

He took a long pause and not a sound could be heard.

“Thou shalt not kill.” He thumped his hand against the pulpit and I jumped, as did Jata and half of the rest of the congregation.

“A Swahili proverb states, ‘The hurt of one finger is a hurt of the whole body.’ Our body—our country—has whole arms and legs that are hurt. You do not heal one arm by harming another. You do not heal the loss of one eye by blinding the other. We will stand strong as a community of God.

“Now, I am not saying that we will not act in our own defense. We will not allow ourselves to be killed, but we will not kill. We will defend, but we will not attack. We must go forth as Christians, as Kenyans, as Kikuyu and spread the message we have been taught. These are not just my words—this is
The
Word.” He held his Bible high. “Let us pray for peace.”

As one, the heads of the congregants dropped. I closed my eyes as the minister started to pray. I listened to his words, but the images inside my head were stronger. I thought back to all that had happened. It was easy to say those words, sitting here inside this church where there was so much, where it seemed as if nobody had lost anything. Would he still be saying the same things if his father had been murdered? Would I kill the men who killed my father if I had the chance? Yes. It would be my duty. Would I kill those who were innocent, even if they were Kalenjin or Luo? I
knew what I would have answered in the weeks that had passed before we were befriended by the sergeant, before we were helped by the two Wilsons, before I’d heard his words. I felt my whole body become lighter, as if the heaviness of anger was seeping into the ground at my feet. Thou shalt not kill. I would not take the life of one who meant me no harm. I would not do to another what had been done to me.

He finished the prayer. “Now go forth, and may God be with you.”

“Come, it is time to leave,” I said to Jata, as everybody started to get to their feet. I took her by the hand and led her down the crowded aisle. We had been close to the back and were among the first to leave. The courtyard filled up as the entire congregation spilled out. I kept moving away, stopping at the bushes to retrieve my water container. I felt lighter, but it still felt heavy.