Walking Home (26 page)

“Are we safe?” Jata asked.

“We are safer than we were but not as safe as we will be. Keep with me.”

We continued to trip along the tracks. The line of people behind us grew thin, and nobody passed us as we walked. The shops thinned out and then stopped as we crossed a small bridge over an even smaller stream. Ahead was a road. My whole body felt light, free, almost as if I could fly.

A big
matatu
rumbled toward us along the tarmac. In the window sat a big sign:
MOMBASA
.

The string was still showing us the way.

B
eing finished with Kibera did not mean being through with Nairobi. It stretched out along the highway—people and shops and homes and vehicles in an endless line, as if we weren’t really moving forward but simply passing the same spot again and again. But I had made sure we were moving in the right direction. Three times I’d asked people to confirm our route, and three times they had pointed us toward Mombasa. And then, finally, we had seen the sign:
MOMBASA
495
KM
. We didn’t have to travel the whole way, but what if it was half the distance? Omolo had said he thought Machakos was no more than sixty kilometers. That would take us at least two days. But then how far was Kikima from there? We could get more water, but we might not have enough food unless we only ate smaller portions. If nothing else, being put
into the camp had shown me that I could eat less and less often. I had gone two days without food when we first arrived. But then we had only been sitting, shifting around, trying to stay out of the blazing sun. Here we were walking endlessly, and there was no escape from the sun unless a cloud drifted over top. We would need more to eat and more to drink.

Little by little, the city became less and less. There were fewer people on the side of the road, and fewer homes and stores as well. The only thing that remained constant was the traffic on the road. Lorries and
matatus
formed the bulk, but there were also cars, some holding only one or two people. There in the back, free and empty, were seats that could have carried us on our way. What would take us days would take the drivers only hours. I wondered who could be rich enough to have an expensive car all to himself.

Almost all the vehicles left behind a trail of dust and a stench of fumes. You could see the thick black smoke coming from some of the trucks, but you could smell the results from all—so strong I could taste it in my mouth.

“Look,” Jata yelled out. “That
matatu
is going to Machakos!”

There, written in big letters above the windshield, was its destination:
MACHAKOS
. Without even thinking, I waved at the driver and he pulled off the road,
bumping onto the dirt and pushing up a thick cloud in his wake. He was not going to be pleased when I simply asked questions and didn’t climb on board, but he had knowledge I needed. A few days ago, I would never have flagged him down or dared to ask him questions. Days ago felt more like another life ago.

I struggled through the dirt cloud, running as fast as I could with Jata in tow.

“Sir, are you going to Machakos?” I asked the conductor.

“We are. Climb aboard, quickly.”

“How far is it?” I asked.

“Not that far.”

“But how far?” I persisted.

“Are you stopping to ask questions or to ride?”

“What is the fare?”

“Three hundred and fifty for you and another three hundred for the girl.”

I knew the little money in my pocket would not be enough. “Sorry, we do not have that much. But thank you for your time.”

“How much do you have?”

“Not nearly enough. Sorry, sir. Could you tell me the distance?”

He gave me a scowl and then slammed his palm against the side of the vehicle, signaling not just his anger but his impatience for the driver to leave. The
matatu
squealed away, leaving us in another cloud of dust, but also in a state of hope. I didn’t know the exact distance, but that fare wasn’t too much. Machakos wasn’t ten days away, but maybe two or three, confirming what Omolo had told me. We had enough food to last at least until then. We could make it.

“Giraffes!” Jata yelled.

There they were, not more than a hundred paces away—three giraffes pulling leaves from a tall tree.

“They are so beautiful! I have never seen one before.”

“I have,” I said. “I was with my classmates when my school took a trip to see them in a pen. They have the most wonderful eyes, so big and moist.”

“I would like to be close enough to see their eyes,” Jata said.

“That was in a pen. Here they would run or kick if we got too close. Did you know that even a lion fears a giraffe?”

“No, I did not.”

That got me thinking. I hadn’t seen any lions or zebras, but this looked like the landscape for them.

“I wish I could have a giraffe as a pet,” Jata said.

“I thought you wanted a dog.”

“I did, but you cannot ride on a dog.”

“And you think you can on a giraffe?” I asked.

“You could on
my
giraffe. It would be very gentle and have a special seat so I could ride everywhere.”

“Would you let me ride your giraffe sometimes too?”

“Of course, but not alone. You would ride behind me.”

“That would certainly be better than walking. Can you imagine the scene we would make when we entered Kikima? I would lean down and ask directions to our grandparents’ home. Perhaps from up there we could even see their home!” I exclaimed.

One of the giraffes turned in our direction. I got the strange feeling he had heard me and understood that I was making fun of him. I didn’t want him to kick me, but fortunately he turned away, far more interested in the leaves than us.

“Muchoki, I was wondering about the string story.”

“It is a good story.”

“Yes, but in the story the string was broken and they couldn’t find their way home.”

“It will not break for us,” I said. “It will lead us all the way home.”

“And if it does break?”

“Then we’ll do without it. We do not need a string when we have brains and roads and signs. Even if we cannot follow the string, we can still follow the tarmac.”

“But you can see the string, right?”

For a split second I thought about telling her the truth, but I quickly realized that a kind lie was better than a cruel truth.

“I can see it as clear as I can see you. Let’s keep looking for more giraffes.”

There were more giraffes scattered along the route. And some antelopes, a few little gazelles and some zebras. I wished we hadn’t seen the zebras. I knew it made no sense because lions ate all of the others except the giraffes, but it was that saying—see zebras, think lions. That thought kept us from venturing out into the scrub bush that extended into the distance on both sides of the road.

Behind us the sun was starting to set. We were walking east and it was setting in the west. I didn’t need a watch tell to me that our shadows were becoming longer and the day was growing shorter. It was good to have the sun on our backs instead of in our eyes, but soon it would be good just to have it. It would be missed. We needed to find a place for the night. There were very few homesteads around, and those few were set well away from the road and surrounded by walls and barbed-wire fences. We hadn’t seen a store for over an hour, and I could see none in front of us either. There was nothing more. And dusk was approaching quickly, falling from the sky faster
than we could move forward. We needed shelter and there was none. There was nothing except for shrubs, cacti and scattered trees. Trees … lions did not climb trees. I remembered reading that. Now I just needed to find the right one.

We traveled on until we came to what I was looking for—a large tree that we could climb with a crook where we could sleep. I stopped below the perfect tree. I could push Jata up and then climb up after her.

“We’ll have our evening meal here,” I said.

“And sleep in the little ravine?”

I’d been looking up for trees so hard that I hadn’t looked down for water. We needed that as well.

“No, not in the ravine, but close. You sit and put your back against the tree while I gather wood.”

She didn’t argue. She was tired but had never complained, not even once. She was as brave as I was pretending to be.

I didn’t have to go far to get wood. There was deadfall everywhere, and it was as dry as old chicken bones. This whole area was dry. There had been no rain here for a long time. I didn’t miss the mud, but I missed the water. We had no more than a few mouthfuls left in the container, and I’d have to find water early tomorrow. We could go without food, but we couldn’t go far without water.

I dropped the wood at Jata’s feet and picked up the water container. I poured some into the pot—just the amount we’d need to cook the beans and maize.

“There isn’t much water left now, so I want you to drink it.”

“I am not thirsty.”

“Of course you are.”

“You should drink it,” she said.

“Do not worry. We’ll get more water, and I’ll drink it then.”

“Is there water in the ravine?” Jata asked.

“I have not looked. But even if it is dry, there will be water if I dig into the sand.”

“Clean water?” she asked.

“I hope, but I cannot know. That is why you need to drink this water from the container. I know it is clean. I do not want you to get sick.”

“I do not want
you
to get sick,” she said.

“It is more important that you are well.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head violently. “It is more important that you are well. If I am sick, you can carry me. If you are sick, I cannot carry you.”

I didn’t know what to say. What she was saying was true.

“We could share the water in the container,” I finally suggested, “and then get more from the ravine.”

Jata shook her head. “That would be worse. If we
both drink from the ravine and it is bad water, then we
both
will get sick.”