Echoes From a Distant Land

By Frank Coates

The people, the tribes, the landscape, the legends . . . no one knows Africa like Frank Coates.
A powerful story of doomed love against the backdrop of Africa ... Caught between the traditions of his Kikuyu tribe and the disturbing new ideas of the missionaries, Sam Wangira is offered a new life far away in the white man's world. Between the wars, white Kenya is a land of hunting safaris, horse racing and outrageous parties. Dana Northcote is a celebrated socialite but when she embarks on a dangerous, passionate affair, the consequences will echo through the generations. Spanning the first half of the twentieth century and culminating in Kenya's fight for independence from the British Empire, ECHOES FROM A DIStANt LAND is a vivid evocation of a nation in turmoil, and a story of a love that dared to cross the divide. 'powerfully recreates the turbulent past' - COURIER MAIL 'blockbuster adventure with authenticity' - WEEKEND AUStRALIAN

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Apr 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9780730497721

Frank Coates

Frank Coates was born in Melbourne and for many years worked as a telecommunications engineer in Australia and overseas. In 1989 he was appointed as UN technical specialist in Nairobi, Kenya, and spent nearly four years working, travelling and researching in Africa. Frank now lives in Sydney. This is his fifth novel.

Book preview

PART 1

SAM

CHAPTER 1

1906

The sun had long ago disappeared behind the overpowering presence of Nyundarua as Wangira hurried home. The mountain range dominated the surrounding land, its bulk dictating even the length of the working day because, without the mountain’s great shadow, the women could spend more time tending their food gardens.

Wangira was late from school. It was not his fault, and he was unhappy to be walking through the forest at the time when the shadows merged — the time when the old people said that the irimu came looking for wayward children.

It was said that the irimu could emerge from a tree or rock and snatch a child. He might be whisked away into a waterfall where he would be imprisoned until the irimu grew bored with him and then either ate him, or let him run home. It was never made clear how that decision would be made. Either way, Wangira was worried.

The irimu had existed in his imagination for as long as he could remember. It lived among the many stories his grandfather told him, but since Wangira had been attending the mission school, he had learned from the nuns of numerous other demons. Apparently there were demons for all occasions, depending upon your sin. Sister Rosalba frequently reminded the class of the many known demons. There were demons to tempt you into wrongdoing, and when they did, there were others to ensure you were thoroughly punished. They would offer fruit, called apples, and if you took a bite from such a fruit, you would be thrown out of your village and would wander alone until you died. The only consolation Wangira could find in the apple demon story was that no matter how clever demons were, he could never be tempted because there were no apples to be found in Igobu, the village where he lived. Or in any of the neighbouring villages, so far as he knew.

The missionary school was established soon after the British administration opened the country to settlement. The Protestants had Embu District; the Independent Church of Scotland had Meru; and in Igobu, three years ago, the Consolata Sisters had staked their claim by erecting a makuti-roofed, open-sided shelter that served as their church.

The great majority of the people were suspicious of the newcomers and chose not to change their old form of worship, or give up educating their children through stories, or discard traditional medicines for the treatment of the sick. The new, untested regime had been largely ignored.

Wangira never knew why he had been the only one chosen out of all his family to attend the school. Like most of his father’s decrees, this one had been obeyed without question.

After a nervous beginning, Wangira had enthusiastically embraced the white man’s ways, especially the games the nuns organised before and after school. Wangira’s strong body equipped him well for football and athletics, in which he excelled.

His enthusiasm spread into the classroom. He always sat taller and straighter in his chair than anyone else in his class, just as Sister Rosalba had taught them to do. He was first to shoot up his hand with an answer and the best at deciphering the simple texts they used for readers.

The Consolata Sisters distinguished between those who attended school and the remainder of the population: there were the athoni — literally, those who could read — and the Kikuyu — those who could not. Wangira found this classification difficult to understand and he felt uncomfortable about revealing it to anyone outside the school. It seemed to separate him from his family. He wanted to belong to both tribes, but the Consolata Sisters insisted he could be only one — an athoni — and that was not negotiable.

‘You are different from the others in your tribe,’ Sister Rosalba often reminded them. ‘You will be leaders because you are athoni, you can read. It is your duty to go forth and preach the story of Jesus Christ our saviour. If you do, He will open doors for you.’

Wangira was eight years of age — a fact unknown to any in his family until he informed them. It was Sister Rosalba who proclaimed it. The news had astounded him, but made no impression on his parents, who cared nothing for white people’s counting. They simply reminded him that he was just a child, and would remain so until the tribal ceremonies promoted him to boyhood and then warriorhood.

But even at eight years of age, and as Sister Rosalba’s big boy in class, he was ashamed of himself because, secretly, he was terrified of both the Kikuyu’s irimus and the Christians’ devils.

It was the reason he was now hurrying home, looking over his shoulder after every dozen or more paces, and throwing sideways glances at trees partially concealing faces in the gnarled bark.

As the big boy of the class, it was his Friday duty to carry all the books back to the compound where the sisters lived, and to stack the slates and chalks until the next school day. It made him late, but today he was even later because Sister Rosalba, who thought he had an interest in such things, had shown him a picture book of angels and demons. The angels were beautiful, as expected, but the demons were horrifying. They lived in a fiery place and had faces contorted with anger and pain. And now, as the sun fell further behind Nyundarua and the shadows merged into a monotone of grey light, they also lived in his mind.

His haste made him thirsty and the burbling stream following his path tortured him with the promise of a delicious cool drink. He tried to lick his dry lips but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He had to drink regardless of the demons lurking in the bush.

He squatted in the semi-darkness at the side of the stream and scooped handfuls of sweet cool water into his mouth. He closed his eyes and let it slide down his parched throat.

That was when he heard it.

The faintest snap of a twig.

His hand paused on its way to his lips, the water leaking through his fingers.

Wangira’s ears rang with the effort to detect the source of the sound, now gone, but threatening to return in a rush and a whoop of demonic and hysterical shrieks.

Silence.

A frond on a short palm shivered, catching his eye. A rustle in the undergrowth.

He strained his eyes.

He could see nothing, but he knew in his soul that something was lurking just beyond his sight. He should run, but a lesson ingrained in his child’s mind warned him that to run was inviting an even greater tragedy. Maybe it was something his grandfather had taught him, for he was always giving Wangira good advice about hunting and stalking. But Wangira could not run even if he wanted to. He was stuck to the ground, squatting on his heels where he would no doubt be found, dead, by his grieving family sometime the following morning.

The bush trembled.

A leopard strolled from concealment.

Wangira suppressed a gasp and nearly wept with relief, before realising that although it was not a demon or an irimu, he was still in serious danger. The leopard, or one of its kind, had taken many children in and around Igobu.

It came to the stream not ten paces from him, with rippling muscle and sinew and eyes from another world. Fear and awe intermixed. He’d never seen a leopard so close and marvelled at its deadly beauty. Surely it was the most beautiful animal in the world.

He watched, fascinated, as the leopard daintily lapped water from the stream. It raised its head from the water, ran its fat pink tongue around its white fangs and stared at Wangira for a moment with large green-gold eyes. Before Wangira could jump or otherwise alarm the leopard, it moved on across the stream, tongue lolling, to disappear into the darkening forest.

The boy remained at the stream long after the leopard had gone, feeling the pounding of his heart subside as the moments passed.

He felt he’d been touched by a presence outside his experience. One of Sister Rosalba’s perplexing Bible stories came to mind. Now he understood what she meant by divine visitation. Wangira had been in the presence of a superior being, one quite capable of taking his life, but which, for some inexplicable reason, had spared him. He felt the tears of joy well in his eyes. He was blessed!

He suddenly remembered the lateness of the hour and dashed from the stream, running down the path to his village.

His grandfather, standing as straight as a bow string within the circle of huts, watched him arrive, running at breakneck speed.

‘Guuka!’ Wangira said. He had forgotten that his grandfather would visit that day.

His grandfather’s face creased in a multitude of wrinkles. ‘May Mogai smile on you, the child of my child,’ he said.

Wangira stood before him, head lowered to receive his blessing.

‘Look at you,’ Wangira’s grandfather said, smiling at the boy, who was almost at shoulder level. ‘How tall you are already. And this body! Soon you will be a bull like your father.’

He was referring to Wangira’s father’s legendary strength. There was no one in all of the highlands who could out-lift, out-run or out-fight his father, whose name was Kungu. Many said he should be called Wamugumo after the gigantic man in legend who could thrust three-fourths of a hunting spear into the earth, and whose size and appetite were spoken of down the generations.

‘But I have waited so long for you to come,’ his grandfather said. ‘Already the goats are tethered and you are not home.’

‘I was coming along the path from the missionary school and I thought I saw an irimu. But it was just a leopard.’

‘Hmm,’ he said, flicking his giraffe-hair fly whisk. ‘Your father is still sending you to the mission school. I would hear about this place. Come, sit with me; my old legs have carried me far this day.’

Wangira sat at his grandfather’s feet as the old one lowered himself to a squat three-legged chair — one of the insignias of his status as an elder. Wangira loved his grandfather like no one else in his family. The relationship didn’t suffer the formalities required between father and son; in many ways it was much closer. Every first-born grandson was given the paternal grandfather’s name, in this case, Wangira. The special closeness was also inferred by the nickname that grandfathers used for the first-born son of a son: wakine. It meant my equal. Their relationship had indeed developed as between equals. It was the reason the young Wangira could confide in the old Wangira to an extent he would not dare do with his father.

The old man took a large pinch of snuff from the kudu horn on his beaded belt and snorted loudly. ‘Now, tell me about this mission. What is it that you learn there, and cannot learn from your father or even your old guuka?’

‘Of course you teach me well, guuka. Even my father, who is so busy with his wives and other children, teaches me. But in the mission school we are learning to speak Kiswahili and also English.’

‘Hmm …’

‘And also we are learning to read and write.’

‘What is this read and write?’

‘Writing is a way to send messages or thoughts to another,’ Wangira said.

‘Do we Kikuyu not have the gichandi for that purpose?’ his grandfather asked. A decorated gourd with strings and beads on the outside, and seeds and stones on the inside, actors and storytellers shook the gichandi in various ways to enhance their stories.

Wangira thought it best not to mention that the nuns were discouraging such old traditions.

‘It is different to the gichandi, guuka. It can send messages at a distance.’

‘Pah! That is what the macoro, the kudu horns, are for.’

‘Oh, no, guuka, with writing you can send very long messages, messages too long for the drums.’

‘Then you send a messenger.’

Wangira sighed. ‘May I show you how I write, guuka?’

The old man feigned great disinterest, but shrugged noncommittally.

Wangira selected a suitable stick from the firewood pile, smoothed the dirt at his grandfather’s feet, and used the stick to write Sam.

The old man studied the scratching for some time. ‘What is it?’ he asked at last.

‘That is my name. Well, it is my mission-school name. Sam.’

‘It is so small.’

Wangira used the stick to add another three letters. ‘There,’ he said. ‘My full name is Samson.’

‘Hmmph,’ his grandfather muttered, before rising with a groan. He glanced down at Wangira’s dirt scratching, and then turned away in disgust. ‘Ah-ah-ah. These days you young people have too much time to waste on such nonsense. All that work for one small name. And not even your correct name.’

He strode to the door of his son’s hut.

‘And one more thing, my young Wangira. This leopard you saw …’

‘Yes, guuka?’

‘What makes you think it was not the irimu in the disguise of a leopard?’

The red murram road to Nyeri wound among the green hills where scores of women bent over their hoes, tilling the fecund earth of Kikuyuland. Long rows of maize stood tall in the blood-red soil, their cobs near bursting. Fields of millet, banana, cassava, beans and the purple-red sugarcane much loved by new mothers, filled every cleared plot between stands of virgin bush. Here and there were the white flowers of pyrethrum — the only cash crop permitted to be grown by the Kikuyu. It was a popular crop, not least because the pyrethrum flowers were an ideal height for children to pluck. The much more profitable coffee and tea crops were the exclusive preserve of the whites.

Wangira was thankful for a reprieve from the pyrethrum field. It was mostly girl’s work anyway. He was helping his mother take her produce to market, which was also girl’s work, but as his sisters were quite young, he couldn’t avoid both. At least there would be the excitement of a big market day to enjoy in Nyeri.

The push cart was laden with so many sweet potatoes that the wheels wobbled alarmingly each time they jolted into a pothole. He and his mother tried to steer the cart around them, but there were so many it was impossible to miss them. The most difficult part was in crossing the many shallow, fast-running streams that ran down from Kirinyaga. Even a small stone could bring the cart to a shuddering halt and they would have to stand in the freezing water, straining to make the obstinate cart move on.

After a particularly difficult crossing, Wangira’s mother called a rest stop and they sat together at the side of the road. Wangira thought it a good opportunity to raise some matters arising from his Christianity classes that made him feel uncomfortable. They were contrary to all he’d learned in his first eight years of life, and he was forever trying to reconcile the facts as proposed by the nuns with the view of the world he’d learned from people he respected, like his parents, his grandfather, and the extended family.

‘God does not dwell on Mt Kenya,’ Sister Rosalba informed the class one day. ‘That is, he doesn’t dwell on the mountain that you Kikuyu call Kirinyaga.’

There was a collective intake of breath.

‘He lives in heaven with all the angels and saints.’

This worried Wangira for a long time. He tried to fit this blasphemous statement to what he knew to be true from his family, but couldn’t. Sister Rosalba hadn’t fully explained where heaven exactly was, and Wangira wondered if it might actually be on Kirinyaga, which would provide the reconciliation he craved. But no, she later added that heaven was above the earth, suspended in the clouds.

Being the oldest of his father’s wives, Wangira’s mother presided over the religious practices within the family. She would know.

‘Mama, I have been thinking about the beginning of the world,’ he said.

‘Mmm,’ she said with a sigh. She might have been merely tired, but she made a similar sound whenever he had a difficult question for her.

He pressed on. ‘Sister Rosalba tells us the story about the beginning of the world, but it is different to ours. She said the first people on earth were called Adam and Eve.’

‘And what have we taught you about that?’

‘You have said that the first man was Gikuyu and the first woman was Moombi.’

‘Do you not know the whole story?’

He took a big breath. ‘Mogai was very pleased with Gikuyu, so he took him to the top of Kirinyaga, where the brightness lives, and showed him all the dark forests, the silver rivers, the yellow grasslands and the animals, and he told him he would give Gikuyu all he could see.’

His mother nodded. ‘That is correct, my son.’

‘But Sister Rosalba said the place was called Eden.’

‘Perhaps Kirinyaga is the place they call Eden.’

‘No, Kirinyaga they call Mt Kenya.’

‘Eden … Mt Kenya. These are names the whites use.’

He didn’t want to raise the fact that the nuns also believed that heaven was not on the mountain.

‘And she said the first man had only two children. And both were sons.’

‘Hmm …’

‘But that is not what you have told me.’

‘And what have I taught you?’

‘That Gikuyu and Moombi had nine daughters.’

‘And …?’

‘And when Mogai was pleased with Gikuyu, he sent him nine young men who married the daughters and formed all nine Kikuyu clans.’

She nodded contentedly. ‘There you have it,’ she said, obviously pleased with his answer. ‘Come, Wangira, the market is waiting.’

She struggled to her feet.

‘But Mama,’ he said. ‘What do I believe?’

She showed her surprise. ‘What to believe? Ai-ya, do I have a fool for a son? If this Adam had only two sons, how do we have our nine clans? Ah?’

She waited for him to explain, but his head was in a spin.

‘There!’ she said with some finality. ‘Now come.’

But Wangira was not satisfied. The inconsistencies were compounding.

Wangira wanted to be a Kikuyu, but he wanted to keep the best ideas of the Catholics too. He worried about the contradictions between what his mother and grandfather told him about Kikuyu beliefs and customs, and which Wangira felt obligated to believe, and what Sister Rosalba said, which was what Wangira often preferred to believe.

The Consolata Sisters had been trying to stamp out many Kikuyu customs, including the Kikuyu custom of inheritance. When Kamau wa Ngengi arrived in Igobu with his mother to live with his uncle after his father was killed in a dispute with Maasai warriors, his uncle had inherited his mother and all her possessions. But at the mission school, Wangira’s teacher said that what Kamau’s uncle had done was wicked.

‘Wicked?’ his guuka said. ‘What is wicked about his father’s brother taking the boy and his mother? Who else is going to feed and shelter them? Should they be left to die?’

‘I don’t know,’ Wangira said thoughtfully. ‘But I would not want to leave my mama’s village. This is where we live. This is the place where I play with my friends.’

‘That is so, my son, but it is not a matter that anyone can change. Even I, a member of the council of elders, cannot change these things. They are what they are. They are the Kikuyu ways and you and I and all of us must follow them.’

‘If I went to another village would I see you again, guuka?’

‘Of course you would, my boy. Are you not the son of my son?’

‘And when you came, would you teach me about hunting?’

‘Do you not already know the best method to throw a hunting spear? From whom did you learn?’

‘From you, guuka,’ Wangira conceded. ‘And would you teach me all I need to know so that I can grow up to be a warrior like you were?’

The old man chuckled. ‘I would, boy. But why are we talking about such matters? It is not your father who has died.’

Wangira couldn’t answer. His father had always appeared to be indestructible and, until Kamau’s arrival, he’d never considered the consequences of a death to any of his family. People generally avoided the topic. It was considered impolite to discuss the death of a family member, so although Wangira knew of the custom that had changed Kamau’s life, it had been like many others: mere pieces of esoteric folklore, to be learned, but which would ultimately have no effect on his own life.

‘Who should I believe, guuka?’ the boy asked.

‘You can only listen to one voice, my son. You know what we say: There should only be one wife in a man’s hut while the ugali is cooking.’

‘Then which one?’

‘Many in our village want to learn the wazungu ways,’ his grandfather said with a sigh. ‘Even me; there was a time when I thought we merely needed to heed the white man and everything would be good for us.’

‘Is that so?’

He shrugged. ‘There are many good things to come from them, but we have found that even the wazungu cannot save the crops in the drought. A goat will die when it is ready and sometimes the chickens don’t lay. These things happen.’

‘Should we keep to our ways and also the wazungu’s?’ Wangira asked, voicing the question he’d been afraid to mention earlier.

The old man smiled. ‘That is something only you can decide, my boy.’

CHAPTER 2

Wangira had been the undisputed leader of all the young boys in the village. Now Kamau was a rival on the playing fields, where he would test Wangira in serious mock battles, and also in the classroom, where he vied with Wangira for Sister Rosalba’s attention. The rivalry entered a new phase when Kamau took his new Christian name, Johnstone Kamau.

Wangira challenged Kamau’s choice. ‘Why do you choose such a strange name?’ he asked. ‘Johnstone Kamau … Who said you should call yourself Johnstone Kamau?’

‘I chose it,’ Kamau who was now Johnstone said. ‘I have already been Kamau wa Muigai when I was born, then Kamau wa Ngengi when my mother and I moved here. So why not Johnstone Kamau now? It is a modern name.’

But Wangira felt cheated by Sister Rosalba. It was her suggestion that he take the name Samson. Upon reflection, Samson Wangira paled into insignificance against the far more flamboyant Johnstone Kamau.

Also, Samson had obligingly accepted the diminutive Sam, but the young Johnstone refused to accept John. Somehow it added fuel to their feud.

Each time he heard the name it further injured Wangira’s pride. ‘The winner of the race to the millet field is Johnstone Kamau. Sam Wangira second. Johnstone Kamau takes this month’s prize for English spelling. Sam Wangira also did well.’

Although nobody knew their birth dates for sure, it was generally assumed that Johnstone was a year or two older than Wangira as he was the bigger of the two boys. This did nothing to reduce Wangira’s determination to be stronger, quicker and smarter than Johnstone Kamau.

Wangira and Johnstone agreed that the big race to celebrate the end of the harvest would decide who was the better athlete.

Wangira was feeling strong and fit in the lead up to the day. He’d spent all his spare time in the preceding weeks climbing trees, lifting rocks and running up and down the hills surrounding the village.

On one occasion, while on the ridge above Igobu, he saw Johnstone Kamau running beside the stream. Wangira watched from his hiding position, pleased to see him in training, knowing that Johnstone’s abilities did not come naturally — a secret fear that Wangira had held for some time — and were as difficult to achieve and maintain as his own. But at the same time, he was concerned that his rival was equally determined to beat Wangira as in the past. Wangira resumed his training with even greater determination.

The mission school was closed for that part of the season to allow the children to assist the family with the harvesting and to visit family and friends afterwards, as was the custom. So Wangira didn’t expect to see Johnstone again until the day of the race.

On occasions such as this, with the school children, most of the village, and even a good number of the warriors present, Johnstone usually held centre stage. He would arrive with a noisy group of friends and supporters, find excuses to call to others in the crowd, and then enter into an elaborate display of limbering up and demonstrating his skills with short sprints through the assembled spectators. But today, until the field was called to the starting line, nobody had seen him. When he did arrive, almost at starting time, he looked and acted differently.

There was no time to ponder the significance of the new Johnstone Kamau, because the elder given the responsibility of setting the field and giving the signal to start had called the contestants to gather beside him.

When the starting signal sounded, Wangira and Johnstone vaulted to the front, leading all others up the rise and into the jungle.

Wangira ran like the dreaded irimu of his childhood was in pursuit, but Johnstone stayed doggedly on his heels. Wangira tried not to think of his pursuers, but focused instead on his image of himself when, in a few years, he became a warrior. He could see himself leading the charge into battle against the Maasai invaders. He would save the village almost single-handedly.

The track slanted down to an eroded culvert where it crossed a dry section of the stream. Wangira skipped over the boulders and dashed up the far side. He heard a loud cry from Johnstone, and looked behind. Johnstone was not in sight. It spurred Wangira onwards and upwards until he’d cleared the forested part of the course and was at last in sight of the village. He risked one more glance over his shoulder, and was elated that Johnstone Kamau had not yet emerged from the forest.

It was only after he’d splashed through the swampy patch within sight of the village that he dared to look again. There was still no sign of Johnstone.

The women’s high-pitched ululations greeted his arrival, and his classmates rushed to congratulate him. Wangira tried to be undemonstrative in victory, but he’d had barely a win in the previous three seasons, and it was hard to be humble.

He caught Sister Rosalba’s face in the crowd, beaming with joy. There were friends and family. His grandfather was there and, unimaginably, his father, more reserved than the others, but obviously pleased.

Moments after Wangira completed the course, some of the better runners began to arrive. Wangira was surprised and even more delighted at his dominance over Johnstone when he was not among the first few.

The remainder of the field arrived either singly or in panting, exhausted groups. All except for Johnstone.

Soon it became obvious that something was wrong, and the elder supervising the event sent two warriors to check the course for the missing runner.

Wangira was determined that Johnstone Kamau would not steal his glory by arriving at the village at the height of the mounting concern for his safety. He felt Johnstone was shamming an injury, or perhaps conjuring a death-defying feat that caused him to default from the race. While the crowd was distracted by concerns for his wellbeing, Wangira took a short-cut back to the part of the forest where he’d last seen him.

He joined the stream a short distance from the crossing and, making his way quietly along its rocky bed, he came to a bend that kept him concealed.

Johnstone Kamau was backed into the bank of the dry stream, surrounded by eight or ten hyenas, who snickered and yelped excitedly. He was throwing stones at the nearest of them, but his efforts were ineffective. It emboldened the scavengers to press their attack.

Wangira selected two round, fist-sized rocks and scampered out of the river bed. He climbed the slope to get a vantage point. Once in his position, with Johnstone concealed under the bank, and the hyena pack in plain view, Wangira took aim and let fly. He missed the animals, but the crack the rock made on striking a boulder set half the pack back on its heels. He threw his second rock. It struck the hyena nearest to Johnstone on the back with a sound like a man striking a hollow log with his war club. The hyena screamed and scuttled away, dragging its hindquarters. The entire pack retreated, yelping.

Wangira slid down the embankment to Johnstone’s side, and gasped at what he saw: his foot was a mass of blood and torn flesh.

‘Did one bite you?’ Wangira asked.

‘No. Jiggers.’

Jigger fleas were a constant annoyance, burrowing under toenails to lay their eggs. Untreated, the maggots could erode the flesh of toes and feet and ultimately lead to an agonising death.

‘I have never seen jiggers so bad.’

‘Idiot. I kicked a rock and fell.’ Johnstone held up his right hand. His wrist was badly swollen. ‘I wouldn’t have needed you, or anyone, if I had two good hands.’

‘Can you walk?’

Johnstone struggled to his feet and tentatively touched his foot to the ground. He bit his lip and limped a few steps.

Wangira came up beside him, and Johnstone reluctantly rested his weight on his shoulder.

The warriors met them before they’d gone far and, taking Johnstone onto their shoulders, carried him in triumph back to the village.

A big crowd hailed his return and the medicine man set about preparing his unguents and herbs, his rattles and tokens. But the missionaries, seeing Johnstone’s bleeding feet, wasted no time in getting him to the clinic in Nyeri.

It was clear that Johnstone’s feet had been infected for some time, and his courage and endurance in making a start to the race had only been surpassed by his brave fight against the hyenas.

Everyone in the village was in awe of his grit, and said that he was surely destined to do great things one day.

Johnstone Kamau had won yet again.

When Wangira arrived at the clinic in Nyeri he found Johnstone sitting up in the last of the six beds with a tent erected over his legs and his right wrist covered in plaster.

Wangira dragged his feet to the bedside where the boys exchanged mumbled greetings.

Johnstone seemed uncomfortable with the unexpected visit. Wangira wasn’t sure why he’d come either, although his guuka had said that a good warrior always paid tribute to a brave and fallen enemy.

If he’d been honest, part of Wangira’s reasoning was to gloat about his victory, but upon seeing Johnstone in the clinic — where, to his knowledge, no one in his village had ever been — he felt contrite and a little sympathetic.

His gaze fell to the tent covering Johnstone’s legs. He wondered what magic the white medics could have performed to repair Johnstone’s ruined feet.

‘When will you come back to school?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. They haven’t told me what will happen now.’

‘You must stay in the bed.’

‘Yes.’

‘What about when you have to … to go?’ Wangira asked, looking at the bed sheets covering his legs.

Johnstone looked uncomfortable. ‘They bring something.’

‘What do they bring?’

‘… a pot.’

‘A pot?’

Now Johnstone appeared agitated.

Wangira was tempted to make a joke, then felt unworthy. He changed the subject.

‘Do they give you food?’

‘Yes.’

‘I meant to bring you a banana, but I forgot.’

Johnstone nodded.

Wangira couldn’t take his eyes off the tent.

‘There’s nothing to see,’ Johnstone said, following his gaze.

‘Nothing?’ Wangira said, looking from Johnstone’s face to the missing legs. ‘You mean they have …?’

‘No, idiot. I mean they have wrapped my feet and legs in mericani. There is nothing to see until they remove the cloth.’

‘Oh.’

Wangira looked around the clinic. There were four others in the ward. A white woman in a crisp white uniform rolled a trolley through the door to the first bed. She filled the patient’s glass with fresh water.

‘These white people … did they punish you?’

‘For what?’

‘I don’t know. They look like askaris.’

‘They are the doctors. If it wasn’t for their help I would be as you thought — without toes, or even legs.’ He looked towards the nurse before speaking in a lowered voice. ‘I tell you, Samson, these people are clever. We can learn much from them. When I finish at the Consolata mission school I will find work with the whites where I can learn more. Much more.’

Wangira knew that Johnstone, like he, had been offered a place in the mission’s secondary school in Nyeri.

‘Are you not continuing at school?’ he asked.

‘There is no money for books and pencils. My uncle said I must either work in his shamba or work for one of the settlers. But I don’t want to work on a farm — not my uncle’s, and not the white’s.’

‘What will you do?’

‘I will go to Nairobi.’

It was such an implausible notion, Wangira smiled.

Johnstone became irate. ‘You don’t think I can?’ he demanded. ‘You stand there with that funny face and you think I can be nothing more than a shamba boy because I am taken to live with my father’s brother? Well, one day you’ll see — I will be a leader.’

Wangira felt awkward. At any other time he would have responded to the challenge posed by Johnstone’s words and manner, but to argue with a boy in bed with bad toes seemed shameful.

He thought it best to leave, and said goodbye.

He was at the door of the ward when Johnstone called to him. ‘Sam.’

Wangira waited, but Johnstone said nothing more.

He turned to go again.

‘Sam,’ Johnstone repeated. ‘Come here.’

Wangira bristled, but again made concessions because of his injuries.

‘I didn’t thank you,’ Johnstone mumbled.

It was the last thing Wangira expected from his mouth, and so he replied that it was nothing special.

‘You might have been attacked by the hyena too,’ Johnstone insisted. ‘You were brave. Very brave.’

Wangira shuffled from one foot to the other, anxious to be gone.

‘I … I …’ he stammered in response.

‘And you … you saved my life.’

This was too much. Wangira couldn’t believe his old enemy could talk that way.

Johnstone glared at him with the intensity that Wangira had learned to respect when meeting him in a contest.

‘I can tell you this, Samson Wangira,’ Johnstone said. ‘I do not forget these things. When I am a leader of the Kikuyu — a great leader — I will not forget you. You and your funny face.’

CHAPTER 3

1912

Wangira felt different. He was in his fourteenth year and his life had suddenly changed.

He knew he looked different, and when alone he would occasionally study the change in his body to confirm it. Each time he did he fought to control the enormous pride that welled up within him. The instructions that he and his age-mates received before their circumcision warned against such behaviour. It was unseemly to be so vain.

Three years before, when his ears had been pierced, he was promoted from child to boy. The ceremony allowed him to be in the company of men, and he could be a witness to his father’s business dealings, and therefore be the next generation’s repository of the family’s dealings with the community. At that time he felt reborn, but although it seemed an important step, his recent initiation to adulthood had eclipsed it.

At fourteen, Wangira was almost as tall as his father, who was himself tall for a Kikuyu. His body had broadened, his shoulders widened with musculature, and his voice had deepened. But that was not what made him feel different. He felt different because, following his initiation, he had become a man.

As had every other family of a boy being initiated on that same day, Wangira’s family had prepared him well for his graduation. He had learned the dances, the songs, the heroic stories of his ancestors, the laws and customs of the Kikuyu tribe. He had learned how to hunt with his bow. He could find food and care for himself and would no longer need to rely on his parents for basic necessities.

He was ready to assume the responsibilities that came with his majority. He was not only a man, but a warrior and the defender of his people. If ever the family, the village or the tribe were threatened, it was his duty to take up arms and fight to the death to protect them. The thought of noble battle sent a surge of exhilaration through his tense young body.

He was confident of his ability to fight because he had become proficient with his weapons — his spear, dagger and shield — and itched for the chance to prove his abilities. Johnstone Kamau remained his main rival — the incident with the hyenas now long forgotten — but by means of an unspoken agreement, he and Wangira seldom competed directly. In the meantime, Wangira and his age-mates had perfected the military manoeuvres they would use to engage with the enemy. And if he were required to survive alone in the bush, or on bivouac, he could do so effectively.

The elders declared that since the newly initiated age-set were now completely recovered from their circumcisions, it was time for them to move on to the next phase of their graduation.

All thoughts of war, weapons and enemies were now gone. In their place was the all-consuming excitement of the other entitlements of manhood: the love games that he and his age-mates were now permitted, even encouraged, to play with the young women of the tribe.

The convalescence period for the inductees had been a testing one, made worse because they were required to know the rules and regulations governing sexual relations. The images that these lessons brought to mind were a source of many painful and embarrassing erections.

Wangira had moved into the bachelor, or thingira, hut with a group of some ten other initiates who had graduated to warriorhood with him. It was larger than the hut he had until recently shared with his mother, and it was the only place where he and his age-mates could engage in the limited sex play allowed with any girl who wished to join them.

Now these rules would be put to the test. The young warriors would mix freely with the young women, they would talk, they would dance, they would choose one or more girlfriends and, in the thingira hut, they would learn the joys of sex within the loose constraints of their tribal taboos.

The young warriors marched from the darkness into the firelight, their skin glistening with oil and ochre and their muscles chiselled into sharp relief by the light of the fire. Drums pounded a rhythm as old as the culture itself. When they were all assembled around the fire, a musician blew on a choro horn to announce the beginning of festivities, and the young men began to chant and dance.

Seated outside the circle of male dancers were the young women, wearing short rear skirts of softest leather and strings of beads hanging from their waists to cover their fronts. More beads decorated their hair, and beaded necklaces and flowers hung between their breasts. Their bright eyes sparkled in the firelight and many hid shy smiles behind their cupped hands, for they would soon take to the circle and dance with their chosen one.

Wangira stood tallest among his brothers. His height was exaggerated by his towering black and white monkey-fur headdress, which was trimmed with red, white and yellow beadwork. His short calf-hide skirt revealed most of his long muscular thighs and the monkey-fur leggings, tied beneath his knees, flounced and danced with his every step. Beaded leather bandoleers crossed his chest and more beads hung from his neck. He had taken care with his hair, ensuring it was untangled and springy. The intricate white-ochre designs decorating his torso were finely drawn.

The pace of the drums increased, and with high kicks and exaggerated movements, Wangira demonstrated his physical abilities. Soon his body was running with perspiration. It glistened in the firelight.

As Wangira danced, he kept his eyes on the several girls he had selected as his favourites, any one of whom he would have been happy to have with him later in the night. It was considered a good strategy to gain the attention of as many of the young women as possible, yet there was one in particular he wanted more than anyone, but he knew she would be very popular with her long legs, her beautifully shaped breasts and appealing eyes.

The music changed, which was a signal for the young women to join their intended sweethearts. The more self-assured among the women edged towards their favourite warrior. Wangira was soon dancing with three, but Mothoni, the one he wanted most, was not among them. He found her at the edge of the circle, dancing with two young warriors. He kept his eye on her, and although he didn’t see her look towards him, he thought she had him in her mind.

The music changed again, and this time it was the gothombacana — signalling that all dance partners must change. It was meant to ensure the less popular warriors had a chance to charm a girlfriend.

Before Wangira could make a move, another of his age-mates had moved to Mothoni. Wangira wanted to have her to himself and so he bided his time, dancing with several others until again the gothombacana began.

Wangira seized his opportunity. He slipped among the dancers and placed himself in front of the beautiful Mothoni. Her smile flashed in the firelight and a flock of birds fluttered in Wangira’s chest.

Now he threw himself into the dance. His long hair bounced as he leaped and twisted, letting the drums carry him into a trancelike state, until he almost collapsed with exhaustion. Mothoni clung to his arm, and he led her from the dancers, from the drums and from the firelight to the surrounding darkness of the forest.

As soon as they were secured by the darkness, Wangira turned to Mothoni.

‘Wangira, no,’ she said, pushing his hand away from her protective skirt. ‘You know it is forbidden to do those things.’

Mothoni was right: he did know it was forbidden to follow the raw urges of his body, but when he’d made his pledge in front of the elders, he had no idea it would be so hard to restrain himself.

‘We must go to the thingira hut with the others,’ she insisted.

But when they arrived at the bachelor’s hut there were already six young men there including Johnstone Kamau, and four girls. Wangira inwardly groaned. Since there were fewer girls than boys, he would be unable to immediately take Mothoni to one of the bed spaces. He ached for her, but had no choice but to await the time when the girls would choose their partner for the night. It was considered very poor manners to be possessive, and the girls were encouraged to show compassion towards the less fortunate boys who were unable to attract a partner of their own. The other four girls were appealing enough, but Wangira wanted Mothoni more than anyone else, and he felt sure that Mothoni only had eyes for him. He would try to be patient and enjoy the food and playful conversation until it was time.

Johnstone was the centre of the conversation. He held everyone’s attention with his witty remarks and made the girls giggle with his smutty jokes.

‘The wise old baboon was talking to the lion one day,’ Johnstone said, grinning. The girls leaned forwards, smiling in anticipation. ‘The old baboon told the lion about an old Kikuyu man who came to him to ask for help. He said the old man had four young wives and had difficulty keeping them satisfied. So the baboon told him to go out and kill a young impala. Oh, I see, said the lion. He was to kill the impala so he could eat the meat to make his penis strong, the lion said. No, that is not right, the baboon said. Ah, then it must be that he should eat the heart to make his penis strong, the lion said. No, that is not right, either, the baboon said. The lion scratched his head. Then it must be that he had to grind the horns to make a strong snuff to make his penis strong, the lion said. No, that is not right, either, the baboon said. Then what? the lion asked. The baboon said, He had to take two small ribs from the impala and tie them to his penis. That way his penis would be strong all night long.

The girls laughed.

Eventually, one of the girls suggested it was time to tie the grass — a euphemism for choosing their partners for the night. Wangira held Mothoni’s eyes with his as two of the girls chose their lovers, and when it came to Mothoni’s turn, he smiled at her, and her at him, but she stood and took Johnstone’s hand and led him from the fire to where they would make love all night.

Wangira stood transfixed until the remaining girl took his hand. He followed her to a sleeping space where, in the soft light of a flickering lantern, she undressed him. She shyly removed her garland and necklaces, and arranged her skirt and apron in the manner required by the taboos so that her private parts were tucked safely away, and then drew him down to her.

The tribe’s magician, the mondo mogo, sat in the semi-darkness of his hut, his face lost in the shadows cast by his smoking oil lamp.

Wangira felt no shame in coming to him for the love magic although the mondo mogo had expressed some surprise that one so young, so strong and so handsome would need it. But he said he would help Wangira provided he did not use it to seduce more than one woman.

Wangira could easily agree. In the days following his first night, when Mothoni had chosen another in his place, he’d found many girls happy to share his bed. He’d needed no special potion for them, and while he hadn’t avoided Mothoni — they’d even spent time together away from the thingira hut — he had not invited her back. He was unsure if on the next occasion in the thingira hut she would want to choose him, and he didn’t want to again be rejected.

Wangira still wanted Mothoni as much as ever. In fact, he could not keep his mind from her, nor from the image of her leading Johnstone Kamau away from the light of the fire. As he made love to the girl who had chosen him, he had wondered what Mothoni was doing to her chosen one. The thoughts haunted him.

‘Take this,’ the magician said. ‘It is the root of the moti wa ombani — the tree of love. You must use it carefully and only in the manner I will describe.’

Two nights later, Wangira invited Mothoni to the thingira hut. This time he had the reassurance of the piece of the moti wa ombani root sitting under his tongue.

There were many young people in the hut that night, and Wangira was generous with his attention and his compliments to all the girls present, but he paid special attention to Mothoni, who looked more beautiful than ever with her beaded hair and embroidered leather skirt.

When the time came, Mothoni chose Wangira.

In the seclusion of the sleeping space, behind the calf-skin curtain, Mothoni removed her upper garment. Her breasts were as perfect as