Walking Home (2 page)

I wrapped myself in my own arms, the only protection from the chill air aside from my thin clothing. It would be better to do something than stand and do nothing. Moving would make warmth.

Carefully I pushed aside the tent flap and reached back inside, fumbling around until I found our water container. We needed water and this was a good time to get it, before the morning, before there was a line at the tap. I didn’t know how many people were in the camp, but I did know how many taps there were—only three. Large black plastic tanks had been placed on high wooden platforms, and water trucks came daily to
fill them. They were the water for all of us. Sometimes the lines would snake away from the tower, hundreds of people and hundreds of containers sitting side by side, marking the owners’ place in line. With each container filled, the remaining people would slide forward in the dust. They shuffled forward patiently, silently. There was never any pushing or shoving or arguing—or conversation or laughter. Just people quietly waiting their turn.

There was usually enough water for everybody, but the tanks sometimes ran dry toward the end of the line and the end of the day. When that happened a thin thread headed out through the gate and off into the distance. A thirty-minute walk away there was a small stream, almost dry now, where a trickle of water could be scooped up and put in the containers. The water wasn’t clean but it could be used for washing and cooking, and boiling it made even bad water fit for drinking. I’d gone to the stream a couple of times with my sister to get water when there was none to be found in the camp.

I had no way of knowing if there was water in the tanks now as I walked toward them. They could have run dry last night, and then there wouldn’t be any until the water truck rumbled in. It didn’t matter. I’d put my container in line and be first when the water did arrive. It wasn’t like I could head out in the dark to the stream by myself. It wasn’t safe. There were wild animals out there.

And other dangers as well.

This was all so different from the life I’d always known. Our homestead had a well full of sweet and clean water, plentiful enough to irrigate our crops. I’d never known what it was like to worry about water. It had always been there for us when we needed it.

I walked softly and silently now, trying to be invisible as I moved between the tents. They called out to me—a gentle
flap, flap, flapping
, as the wind pushed against the canvas. There wasn’t much wind, so there wasn’t much noise. It was almost reassuring, as if each tent were offering a quiet greeting to me as I passed—a rhythm like music.

That was so different from the sounds made when the wind was strong or the rain was heavy. Then it was desperate. The tents flapped wildly, like the wings of big white birds — like storks—trying to take off and fly away as if they were crying out because they too wanted to be sheltered from the storm. The noise—rain on canvas and canvas flapping—was almost deafening.

On those stormy nights, we could hardly hear each other talk, and the noise was very troubling to my sister. She was so sensitive, so scared of loud noises now. During the last heavy rain, she’d sat on the cot, hands over her ears, blanket over all of her, rocking slightly. I could only wish we were back on our homestead. There, the rain had pinged off the metal roof, softly and safely.

Now our house wasn’t safe. Now it maybe wasn’t even there anymore. Maybe everything was gone.

Each week every family in the camp was given a ration of food—mostly beans, rice and maize flour. On weeks when extra refugees flooded in or the trucks didn’t arrive on time, there was less food. Some families ran out by the fifth or sixth day and went hungry. My mother never let that happen.

Whatever we got each week, big or small, was divided into eight parts—enough for seven days and one extra in case the next relief supplies were late in coming. It had been late three times—once a full two days. There was always a lot of complaining and hunger on those days, especially when nobody knew if the truck would be a day or two or even a week late.

My mother said it was better to be a little bit hungry all the time than starving for a short time. She said we could adapt to having less, and we had. We weren’t eating nearly as much as we had before, but we seemed to be able to get by. I didn’t mind that much. I was more worried about her. Sick people needed food. It was medicine to fight the sickness. I tried every day to persuade her to eat just a little bit more, but she refused.

We now had a little supply, almost five days’ worth, carefully hidden under the thin mattress on which my mother and sister slept, where nobody could see it. Most
people respected their neighbors’ things, so there wasn’t much theft, and those who did steal were chased out of the camp under a hail of rocks and angry words and threats. But hungry people could be desperate people. I knew it wasn’t much food that we’d stored, but it was something—a little cushion standing between us and nothing that could be a temptation to some. Still, it made my mother feel good. It made me feel good. It was nice to have something to feel good about.

In the still and quiet dark, sounds seemed to travel so much farther. The roosters still called out in the distance, but closer at hand was the constant sound of coughing and sneezing. Lots of people were sick. Pneumonia and malaria were everywhere, and rumors about the rise in tuberculosis and cholera were spreading throughout the camp. So far it was mostly rumors, but the big hospital tent was completely filled with people suffering from one condition or another. Outside of that tent, in the dirt, were those who were unwell but not sick enough to warrant a bed.

Up ahead I could make out the dark shapes of people standing beside the water tank, and then I saw the ember of one cigarette and then a second. The smell of tobacco drifted over and drew me forward. I stepped into the clearing and the men stopped talking. I nodded respectfully and looked down. I knew they were looking at me.

“Early to get water,” one of the men said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Too early. No water in the tank,” the man said. He reached up and tapped it with his hand and it made a hollow sound.

“Hopefully by morning light,” another said.

“You can put your container in line,” said a third man, gesturing to the five water containers already waiting by the spigot.

I didn’t like to leave our container unguarded, but there wasn’t much choice. I put it down on the ground at the end of the line.

“Come, boy. Have a seat,” said the third man. He was clearly the oldest of the group.

I didn’t know any of them, but it would have been rude to say no because they were my elders.

“What is your name, boy?”

I hesitated for an instant. I knew what the reaction would be.

“Muchoki.”

They all burst into laughter. Of course I knew why—my name meant “the one who returns.”

“You have a most hopeful name,” the second man said. “I hope we all can return to our homes.”

“Those who have homes to return to,” the first said, and the last of the laughter stopped short.

“After all that has happened, they should have
called you the one who keeps having to return,” the eldest added.

I shrugged. “It is my father’s father’s name.”

“That is the Kikuyu way. It is good to be named after our ancestors. That way we never die. Has your grandfather gone ahead? Has he died?”

I nodded my head. “He is gone.” My father was gone too. It had only been a few weeks and I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, but if he had escaped, I would have known. It was so hard to believe that less than five weeks ago I’d lived in the town of Eldoret with my parents and sister. We had a house and livestock, a store, and so many relatives, and schoolmates. I was happy then, and now it was almost all gone. Along with my happiness. My sister and my mother were all that remained.

“You are Kikuyu?” the older man asked.

“Of course he’s Kikuyu!” the second man exclaimed. “Do you think they are putting Luo and Kalenjin in the same camp as Kikuyu?”

“He could be other things. He could be Meru or Embu or Mbeere or Kamba.”

They all looked at me. “Well, are you Kikuyu?” the eldest man asked again.

“Yes.” I paused. “My father is Kikuyu and my mother is Kamba.”

“Ah, we have with us a Kikukamba!” the first man exclaimed, and they all laughed again.

I cringed slightly. I
hated
being called that. It was bad enough when schoolmates said such things, but shouldn’t adults know better—especially now?

“Do not take offense, young man,” the older man said. “It is meant only as a jest. The Kamba and Kikuyu are brothers. We are all Bantu … the same.”

“The two are similar enough that the Luo or a Kalenjin would see no difference,” declared the second man. “For some, the only place for even a trace of Kikuyu blood is on the dirt at their feet.”

We always knew who was a Kikuyu and who was a Luo or a Kalenjin. It was important, but it really didn’t matter. Our homes were side by side; we sat together in school and went to each other’s stores. Then all at once, tribe was all that did matter.

“Where are your people from?” the old man asked.

“Eldoret.”

“Then you know about blood. What was the business of your family?”

“We have a parcel of land—our homestead—and a store in the main market.”

“Why is it that every Kikuyu wants to be either a soldier or a shopkeeper?” the old man asked.

“Or the president,” the first man said. “None of this would have happened if he had stopped being president and let the other take office after the election.”

“And let a Luo become president?” the second man demanded.

“If he had, this would not have happened,” the first replied.

“No, much worse would have happened. Our president stayed to protect us, to keep us safe!”

“Do you feel protected? Do you feel safe?” asked the first man.

“But how much worse would it have been if the Luo controlled the military? The slaughter would have been even worse and—”

“Silence!” the oldest man said as he got to his feet. “There is no point in arguing over what is the past and about things we do not know. We are not the only ones who have suffered. We are not the only ones who have tasted death.”

I knew he was talking about the rioting and killing in Nairobi and other places. Across the country there had been killings—members of one tribe slaughtering members of another. Luo and Kalenjin and Maasai killing Kikuyu and Kamba. Kikuyu and Kamba killing Luo and Kalenjin and Maasai.

“There is a difference between them killing us and us killing them,” the second man said. “That was done because the Luo had to be stopped. They had to be punished and—”

“Burning a home or killing a child is the same no
matter who wields the machete or tosses the match,” the oldest man said.

That seemed to silence everybody, although I wanted to argue against what he had said. Our killing was done in self-defense or to avenge the deaths of our people.

“What is done is done. It is over,” the old man said.