Walking Home (24 page)

“Road blocks, burning vehicles, people being attacked and killed by both protesters and the police.”

“The
police
are killing people?”

“They are trying to wrest control from the rioters, but a fired bullet does not know you or your sister from a rioter. Of all areas, you must avoid Kibera particularly. But everywhere you go, beware and keep safe.”

“I will keep my eyes and ears open.”

“Once you are east of Nairobi, you are free of the worst. The guards told me that, from what they have heard, rioting has been absent in the Machakos region.”

“There has been none?”

“That region is all Kamba people, so there has been no tension, no rioting, no looting and no need for people to flee to their traditional lands. But you must get safely through Nairobi before you come to Machakos.”

I stood up. “First I must leave here.”

“No. First you and your sister must eat. I will walk with you for the first part, to make sure your route is reliable.”

We walked together to the top of a hill. Stretching out before us was an endless city. Houses and stores blurred together until I could no longer see where one stopped and another started. Vehicles bumped along already busy roads. In the distance, I could make out gigantic buildings reaching into the sky. I had heard of these buildings—these skyscrapers—but never before had I seen them. What would it be like to stand beneath them looking up? What would it be like to stand at the top and look out? From there, you must be able to see forever. Maybe even Kikima could be seen.

It was still early, but not as early as I had hoped to leave. Jata had continued to sleep and I didn’t want to wake her. Dreams were a place of refuge. When she
had finally stirred and eaten, she’d seemed reluctant to leave. I knew that reluctance. It felt good to be behind strong walls, with guards to protect us, a friend beside us and warm food to fill our stomachs.

At least some of Nairobi was still slumbering. That didn’t mean it was quiet or empty, but not every space had been filled with a car or a person yet. Not like yesterday.

“Follow this road until you find yourself beside a large sports stadium. The sign will say
NYAYO STADIUM
. At that point, you will find the highway. It will be marked and you turn toward Mombasa.”

“Is it far to the highway?” Jata asked.

“You see those buildings that stick up in the distance?”

There were buildings everywhere, but I knew he was referring to those that stood tallest against the distant horizon.

“Yes, I see them.”

“Those buildings are as tall as the cliffs of the Rift Valley, but they are so far away that they appear to be small. You will reach the heart of the city, although right now some would argue that this place has no heart, or soul, just anger and danger. From that turn you will be halfway to the highway.”

I thought back to what the sergeant had said about Nairobi grabbing us and not letting us escape.

“If you walk with speed, you will be at the stadium by midday. Once there, your destination is to the right, but be certain to look for the cutoff to Machakos. It will be no more than fifty or sixty kilometers along the highway.”

That was two or three days’ walk, depending upon Jata’s pace.

“You will go to the left when you find that junction to Machakos Town. I am sure there will be signs to show you the way.”

“We don’t need signs,” Jata said, “because we have the string.”

Omolo gave a questioning look.

“It is a Kamba tale,” I explained. “We simply need to follow a trail of string to return to our home.”

“In that case, I wish you not a string to follow but a thick rope. May God go with you.”

“And you.”

We shook hands.

“Goodbye, little sister.”

Jata wrapped her arms around him in a big hug.

“Jata, can you do me one more favor?” Omolo dug into his pocket and pulled out some change. “At some point on your journey, when you are tired and hungry, I want you to purchase two
mandazi
, one for you and one for your brother.” He offered her the money.

Jata’s eyes brightened at the thought of one of her
favorite treats—a sweet, sugary, doughy snack. It made my mouth water to think about it.

“We cannot take any more of your money,” I said.

“I am not offering it to
you.
I am offering it to your sister. And it is not wise to refuse a gift from a Luo. It is an insult, you know.” He smiled broadly.

“Thank you so much, my friend,” I said.

“You have fresh water, correct?” he asked.

“I filled the container.”

“And you have oranges?”

“You stuffed my bundle so full I can hardly carry them.”

“Eat them and trade them. Oranges are as good as shillings. Now, go and remember me, as I will remember you.”

Omolo turned and started walking away. I expected him to turn back again, but he didn’t. His back was straight and his stride strong. He was practically marching.

“Goodbye, Omolo!” Jata yelled out.

He hesitated, then turned and waved. We waved back, and then all three of us, at the same instant, started walking toward our different destinations.

W
ith each step, I became more hesitant. The city was growing more active, the streets getting more crowded with people, and all along our path there were signs of struggles. Burned-out cars and trucks were spaced along our route. We saw storefronts and homes that had been set afire, their charred timbers standing upright, their twisted iron gratings not able to withstand the looters.

Piles of rocks that were used as blockades had been pushed to the side of the road to allow the traffic to move again. Fires that had once burned on the highway were now crushed down by passing cars and carts. The remains of burned tires littered the road and their foul odor filled the air.

The smell of the city was everywhere. It was what I imagined hell would smell of—not just fire but
brimstone. It came not only from the vehicles and the small fires people set to burn garbage at the side of the road, but from everywhere and nowhere all at once. The smell of fire brought back what I didn’t want to remember. It brought me back to Eldoret, to the church, to the fire, to my father. Would I ever be able to smell fire again without my father being in my memory? Maybe it was right that he should never be gone from my thoughts.

But there was something more in the air than the smell of the fires. I think it was the smell of fear and anger and desperation. It filled my nostrils and it filled my heart.

“There are so many people here, I cannot believe it,” Jata said.

“They are everywhere.”

Surely that should have meant it was safer, but it just made me more nervous. The more people we saw, the more I had to be watchful of. But how could I watch all these people at once?

“How many are there?” Jata asked.

“Many more than you could ever count.”

“I am the best in my class in mathematics. I can count to thousands.”

“But you cannot count to a million, and they say that there are six million people in the city of Nairobi,” I explained.

“I cannot believe there are that many people in the world!”

“You are so young. My teacher told me that there are billions of people in the world, and that is so much more than a million.”

“Why did God make so many people?”

“Because he loves us.”

“If he loves us, why did he let all those people die at the church? Why didn’t he stop those men from killing everybody?”

I shook my head. “I do not know.”

“Maybe it is because he made so many people that he didn’t need
those
people anymore. Maybe he didn’t need our mother and father.”

“They are in a better place, Jata. They are in heaven, looking down on us.”

“I want them here with us, not looking down on us from above.”

“So do I, but it is God’s will.”

“God wanted them to die?”

“Well … I… there are many things we cannot understand.”

“Did God make those men kill our father?” she asked.

“Of course not! What they did was the work of the devil!”

“But isn’t God stronger than the devil? Couldn’t he have stopped those men?”

“God is great and most powerful.”

“Then why didn’t he stop them?” She started to cry.

“God cannot be everywhere all the time.”

“The minister told us that God is everywhere, so where was he when those men came?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I am not a minister. I do not know what God is thinking.”

“But I just—”

“I do not wish to talk about this. I do not have any answers, so you have to stop asking me questions. Understand?”

“I just—”

“No more. Stop right now!” I yelled.

We walked along in silence. I think we were both stunned by my words and my reaction. But I was so distressed by her questions. She was asking things that I didn’t want to speak about. Why had it happened? Why was God not there in his own home, the church, to protect those people? Was the devil stronger? Would thinking such things invite the devil to take me over the way he had taken over those men?

I reached out and took Jata’s hand. She gripped my hand tightly. I could feel her quivering. She was fighting to hold back tears. I stopped and bent down so that I was looking her directly in the eyes.

“I am here to make sure that you will be cared for, that you will always be protected,” I said.

“Wasn’t our mother supposed to care for me? Wasn’t our father supposed to protect me?”

“They did. Our father died protecting both of us. He gave his life so we could get away. And our mother cared for you until she had no life left to live.” With the back of my hand I gently brushed away her tears. “And now I am not just your brother, but also your mother and father. I am
your
family and you are
my
family. I am sorry that I spoke harshly to you just now. I do not have the answers to your questions and I was sad, so it came out as anger. I do not know why those men did what they did, but evil overtook them—just as it overtook those Kikuyu who killed other people simply because they were of another tribe. Evil was waiting for the moment to come forth.”

“And that was the moment?”

“That was an excuse for evil to come out. Maybe there is evil in all of us.”

“Is it in me?” she asked.

I smiled. “Not in you.”

“And you?”

I thought about what I would do if I could find the men who had killed our father. Would I kill them if I could? Would I do to them what they had done to him? Wouldn’t it be right to avenge his death? But then I thought about what the sergeant had said—evil was evil. Light was needed to take away darkness. I had
once felt that it was my duty to avenge my father. But now, when I thought of the sergeant and the minister and Omolo—when I thought of all the people who had helped us along the way—I knew that I had already chosen a different path.

“The devil speaks to us in moments of desperation, but we decide if we are going to be his instrument, the weapon of his evil. I will not listen to the whispers of the devil. I will do no evil to any of God’s children. Not even if they have done evil to me.”