Walking Home (9 page)

“I’ll be back,” I said softly, whispering in my sister’s ear. “It’ll be all right. I’ll always be here for you.” Even though she couldn’t hear me, I needed to say those things. Maybe I needed to say them for me to hear.

I slipped out of the tent. The sky was filled with a hundred million stars and a big, bright full moon. Between them was an eerie glow that seemed to reflect off the white tents. I’d never seen snow, but I’d read about it in books. Was that what snow would look like? I took a deep breath and in the silence could hear it release. There was no wind at all. It felt like the camp itself had fallen asleep. It must have been as exhausted as the people.

On silent feet I moved among the tents. There
were no sounds other than my muffled footfalls. I was struck suddenly by the terrible thought that all the tents were empty, that all the people had gone, leaving me and my sister and my mother alone. I knew that wasn’t true—that the tents were filled with sleeping people, hundreds and thousands of sleeping people—but really we
were
all alone. Alone in a crowd. We had nobody. Well, except for Jomo.

I was near his tent. I had an urge to lift the flap and shake him awake so I would have somebody to talk to, to ask questions of. Of course I wouldn’t do that, but tomorrow I would ask his mother for advice. She was a good woman, and she and his sisters had been very kind to Jata, to me, to our mother.

I hesitated for a half second by their tent. It was identical to all the other tents in the row, in the camp, but there was one difference: the people inside lived in hope. They still went to sleep every night and woke up every morning hoping that this would be the day their father would return and take them away. And with each passing day, the hope both grew and faded. It grew because it only made sense that each new day was one day closer to his return. And it faded because with each day he didn’t return, some of their hope was replaced by the fear that he never would. How could something get bigger and smaller at the same time? I didn’t know, but I knew it was true.

I had hope too—hope that my mother would get better and we would then leave and her family would welcome us. I had started to realize how powerful hope was. After water and food, shelter from the weather and a place to sleep, it was the most powerful thing that could sustain a person. That was why my mother had never gone back home. She needed that hope, and I worked to convince her, to allow the hope to grow and the fear to fade. It would soon be time for us to test our hope. As soon as she got better.

As I approached the hospital tent, the silence was replaced by a gentle hum. It was the sound of the generator. In a sea of darkness, the hospital tent was a little island of electricity—a few dribbles of light leaking out through the cracks in the canvas. I wasn’t sure what I would say, or if anybody would even talk to me, but I had to try something.

I circled around the side where the entrance was located. There was a big truck parked right by the tent and two men came out, carrying something between them. As they heaved it into the air, I suddenly realized they were tossing a human body. It landed with a thud in the back of the truck! I skidded to a stop and then darted over to the side so I was sheltered in the darker shadows.

Two more men came out of the hospital tent, and they were also carrying a body. They were more delicate
in placing it in the truck. It looked to be smaller. Could it be a child? All four men disappeared back inside. In the light, I could see that they were all wearing masks over their faces and gloves on their hands. The first two reappeared with another body. How many were there? I stood there, frozen in place and barely daring to breathe, and watched and counted—five and six … seven and eight. And then nothing. Was that all of them? I continued to wait, giving the men more time to return, until I realized I didn’t want to see any more bodies. I turned and rushed off. There was nobody in there I wanted to talk to tonight.

I
opened an eye and closed it immediately to the bright light. It was morning. I didn’t even remember drifting off, but I must have at some point. I forced my eyes open and allowed them to adjust to the brightness. I looked over at the cot—my mother wasn’t there! I jumped to my feet. My sister was gone as well. I pushed through the tent flap and there they were, sitting around the fire eating porridge.

“Good morning, Muchoki,” my mother said.

“Good morning.” I looked at her hard. “Are you fine?”

“Much better … Weak, but better.”

“I’m sorry I fell asleep.”

“You needed to sleep. Come, have some porridge.”

I felt so relieved that my whole body seemed to melt to the ground right beside my sister. I watched
my mother intensely as she served me some porridge. She said she was better, but I had to see it with my own eyes. Her hand had a slight tremor but her color was good—except for the yellow in her eyes. Had they ever been that yellow before?

“After breakfast, I will walk Jata to school and then go out and get more firewood,” I said.

“Perhaps I can come out with you,” my mother said.

“I can handle the wood by myself. You should stay here. Sweep up, or lie down if you need to.” Resting was what I wanted her to do, what she
needed
to do.

“You are a very considerate son.”

If I was considerate, I would have stayed up all night to watch over her.

“Muchoki!”

I turned around at the sound of my name being called. It was Jomo.

“Thank goodness you are here!”

“Where else would I be?” I asked.

“You could be fetching water or outside gathering wood, and then I would have missed you!” He was louder and more excited than usual.

“If you had missed me, you would have found me later.”

“No, no. There is no later. I am leaving!”

“Leaving?! You mean …?”

“Yes, my father has returned! We are leaving, we
are leaving!” He picked Jata up and twirled her in the air, then tossed her up high until she squealed with delight. He caught her and set her down.

“I am so happy for you,” I said.

“We are all happy. I just wish you were going to be leaving too.”

“We are talking about leaving,” I said, glancing in my mother’s direction.

She nodded her head ever so slightly in agreement.

“Wonderful. Could you come to meet my father? Could you come to say goodbye?” Jomo asked.

“Of course … if that is all right?” I asked my mother.

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“I need to say goodbye too,” Jata said.

“If you did not come, my sisters would be very disappointed.”

I got up, but before starting away, I turned to my mother. “I will clean away the dishes when I return,” I told her. “You need to go and rest.”

I expected her to argue but she didn’t. She nodded in agreement.

Jata took one of my hands and Jomo the other, and we started off for his tent.

“I am so happy that my father is here,” Jomo said. “I did not wish to mention it, but I was starting to get worried.”

“I knew he would come,” I said.

“I
knew
but I did not
know.
I was worried about him and worried that we would have to stay here forever. It would be terrible to have no place to …”

He let his sentence trail off. We both knew what he was thinking.

“But I am sure you will leave soon … I am sure of it,” Jomo said. “I just wish you could come with me. You are my best friend—no, you are more like a brother!”

“And you are my brother.”

“I wish that you and your sister and mother could come with us.”

“I understand it would not be possible.”

He nodded his head. “It will be hard already. My father has told us. We are going to something but not too much—it is a single-room hut with a patched roof. We will be sharing beds, and the fields are rocky.”

“You’ll get more beds, and in time you will remove the rocks,” I offered. “It will be better than living in a tent.”

“I just want
you
to have more soon.”

“My mother has said that once she is well, we will try to go to her people in Kikima.”

“That is so good.” He looked away. “How is your mother?”

“Better today than last night, but not as good as she will be tomorrow.”

“Malaria can be strange,” Jomo said. “It comes, it goes; it gets better, it gets worse. Sometimes it disappears for years, and other times it can be so bad that … it can disappear again.”

Or it can kill. Once again, I knew what he wasn’t saying. Sometimes friends agree not to mention things. I hadn’t talked about the possibility of his father not coming back, and he didn’t talk about my mother and what could happen to her.

There was an old car parked in the passageway between the tents. Jomo’s mother and sisters, along with two men—one of whom I knew must be his father—were loading their possessions into and onto the car.

“Papa!” Jomo called out.

One of the men stopped and looked over just as Jata broke free of my grip and ran to be swept up by Jomo’s sisters.

“This is my friend Muchoki.”

Jomo’s father handed the load he was carrying to the other man and came over to offer his hand. We shook.

“It is good to meet you,” he said.

“And you, sir.”

“I have been told that you are a good friend of my family’s,” he said. “Thank you for standing by them in my absence.”

“Jomo also stood by my family.”

“As it should be with friends. Jomo is distressed that we are leaving you behind.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“If there was more space, or we had more—”

“I understand, sir. I understand.”

“I have written down the name of our village and my family name.” He handed me a small scrap of paper. “Someday, perhaps, you will come and visit our homestead. You will be an honored guest.”

“The honor will be mine. Thank you, sir.”

“We are taking our few possessions with us.”

“But not all,” Jomo said. “This is for you.” He reached down, picked up a blanket and gave it to me.

“I can’t take your blanket.” I held up my hands to stop him.

“It is for your mother,” Jomo said.

That I couldn’t refuse. “Thank you,” I said, accepting the blanket.

“I wish we had more to leave for you, but we have so little where we are going.”

“You have also left me with your friendship and an invitation to visit. That is worth much.” But I had one more question I wanted to ask Jomo’s father. “Sir, out there,” I said, gesturing beyond the fence. “What is happening?”

He moved in closer. “There are still problems,” he said very quietly—so quietly that only Jomo and I could hear. “Nairobi has remained a tinderbox.”

“What does that mean?” Jomo said.

“There are still protests against the elections. There is still some violence spilling out from the slums. There are still clashes between different groups and with the police. There are still roads blocked with rocks or tires set on fire in parts of the city.”

“But don’t we have to travel through Nairobi?” Jomo asked.