The Gods Are Weeping

By Sheriff

The Gods Are Weeping is the story of Lisa Watson, an American teacher at a girls school in Kenya. Twenty-five of her students are kidnapped on a field trip, and the two teachers chaperoning are murdered. Their bodies are dumped in a forest, but a wild honey gatherer discovers them.
He shares the terrible news with Lisa. Lisa has to run for her life after she reports the murders to a corrupt police boss who is in cahoots with the kidnappers. Even as she runs for her life, Lisa must find and save the kidnapped girls who will otherwise end up as sex slaves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496922434

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© 2014 Sheriff. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   06/26/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-2244-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-2243-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014911435

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

INTRODUCTION

Guilt stricken and haunted by the ghosts of her husband and son who perish in a car accident, a depressed Lisa Watson’s on the verge of a mental breakdown. Mental health experts seem unable to help as she sinks deeper into depression. In desperation Lisa decides on a change of scene and goes to Kenya where she finds work as a teacher in a girls’ school.

Busy and with a new sense of purpose, her mental health improves as she settles to the simple but peaceful life of a village teacher. But this peace is soon shattered when she finds the remains of her two colleagues dumped in a nearby forest. When she reports the deaths and the disappearance of students the two dead teachers were chaperoning, an attempt is made on her life. Lisa is soon running for her life even as she tries to find her missing students…

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Living in harsh, semi-arid northeastern Kenya, I’d learned, as they say, to sleep with one ear open. A change in the birds’ song woke me to the sound of fast-approaching footsteps. I reached for the flashlight under the pillow as my other hand touched the whistle hanging on my neck in a chain, like a locket.

I’d never had a chance to try it, but I was assured the shrill of the whistle would bring the entire village to my door. Knowing help was just a shrill away, I wasn’t entirely worried as the bony knuckles rattled the door.

Are you awake, Miss Lisa?

It’s 6:20 on a Sunday morning, for heavens’ sake.

It’s me, Kioko. I wouldn’t disturb your sleep if it wasn’t so important.

What’s so important? I muttered, checking the floor, aware I was in scorpion country. The creatures seemed to find their way in, no matter what. At least this morning, they’d kept away.

I stepped out of bed and reached for my kimono hanging on a nail behind the door. I gave the robe a mighty shake since geckos loved to wear it too. Again, I was in luck. No geckos. I put on the kimono and opened the door.

Always smartly dressed in pressed shirt and pants, it took me a while to recognize the old man standing outside with a bare chest and tattered brown khaki shorts. It was Philip Kioko, a revered village elder and herbalist.

Please forgive my appearance, he started. I didn’t have time to go home to change.

It’s all right, my dear elder.

I lead him to my living room, a picnic table wedged between two umbrella-shaped acacia trees, dwarfing the little grass-thatched mud hut.

Sit down, my dear elder. And tell me what distresses you so.

I waited as the old man fidgeted with his hat. It’s tactless and impolite to rush an elder into talking. But I couldn’t hold my tongue any longer.

What is it, my elder?

"Mwalimu, things are elephant," he said, using my nickname that was Swahili for teacher. Actual names were rarely used among friends. A nickname purporting one’s vocation is used in camaraderie and to confuse the Grim Reaper when he comes a calling.

I pray the elephant’s not in your homestead, or is it?

Instead of answering, the old man left the table. He moved a yard or so away. Even with his back turned toward me, I could tell he was crying by the way his shoulders trembled.

Things, as the villagers say when faced with an arduous task, were truly an elephant. You don’t see a teenage boy weeping in public, let alone a sixty-year-old man, especially not in front of a woman.

He finally faced me. Onesmus is gone.

For a moment, I didn’t understand why he was stating the obvious. The entire village was there to see Onesmus drive off with his precious cargo of exuberant girls. But then the euphemism hit me.

Kenyan roads are narrow, potholed, and probably the most dangerous in the world. What with the matatus, the twenty-five-seat rattletraps cramming passengers thrice the number, racing perilously on the potholed roads as if propelled by demons.

If not the matatus, there are the equally dangerous long-distance trucks, operated by drivers high on something most of the time. And then, there are the animals.

A zebra, buffalo, or even an elephant will suddenly appear in the middle of the road, standing dazed as if on drugs or a suicide mission. My heart shuddered at the thought of the poor girls trapped in a mangled wreck of the school bus.

Please don’t tell me there’s been an accident, I pleaded as if Kioko had any control over the matter.

The old man sniffed and shook his head. He remained silent with a somber, thoughtful expression. Finally, with a shaky hand, he pointed to the woods some five miles away.

Onesmus is laying there.

What’re you talking about? You know very well Onesmus left on Friday for Nairobi with the girls.

But Kioko continued as if he’d not heard me. He was murdered, and his body was left there for hyenas. Better call the police to take him away before the animals … The old man contorted his face as if pained by the thought of animals tearing Onesmus apart. He cleared his throat noisily. You better call the police.

I don’t know who the poor soul out there is, but Onesmus—as you know—should be in Nairobi by now.

Kioko remained silent, facing down for a while. He whispered, I couldn’t believe it myself. But it’s him, all right. I was checking on the beehives when I stumbled upon him.

This at least explained his semi-nudity. While dealing with bees without protective gear, the less clothing one has, the safer they are since there is little danger of the stinging insects getting trapped inside a shirt.

I don’t mean to disrespect you, my dear elder, but you’re mistaking the poor soul for our headmaster.

Even as I said this, images of Friday afternoon’s departure came to mind. I saw the school bus full of exuberant girls disappearing around the corner of the rutted dirt road, a huge cloud of dust chasing it.

I could see a cheerful Onesmus in the driver’s seat, next to him on the passenger seat, a most reluctant chaperone. Two months pregnant with her first child, Alice Ndunda was in no mood for adventure, especially not with the boisterous bunch. But she had no choice.

Kioko cleared his throat, drawing me from my reminiscing. This hot sun, he said. If Onesmus isn’t moved soon—

Come with me to the office, I said, standing up. We’ve got to call the police.

You’ll do that on your own. I don’t want police trouble.

How does reporting a crime put you in trouble?

He was silent for a moment as if carefully choosing words. If you knew anything about the Kenyan police, you wouldn’t ask that.

But we must report this to the police, I said.

You’re an American. They can’t touch you. For me, it’s different. They’ll blame me for the man’s death and throw me in a cell until my family is able to raise whatever money they demand.

But I can vouch for you, I said.

No, you can’t, he retorted. Being an American is no guarantee either. They can kill you too if you give them reason to—so don’t try to argue with them on my behalf.

I was beginning to lose patience. If that’s the case, how do you expect them to find the body? I can’t just call the police and say, ‘Go to the forest. There’s a dead body.’

If I told you where—

You know that’s ridiculous, Kioko. One end of this forest looks just like the other. You don’t expect me to tell them to go to the tall, blue gum tree, acacia tree …

The old man stood erect and put on his crumpled hat. I’d reached the height of insolence by raising my voice and addressing him by name.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude, dear elder.

He shrugged. I must go now to organize a search party for our kidnapped daughters. No one will look for them if we don’t. As for the headmaster, we’ll let the animals take care of him just as our ancestors did to their dead.

Until then, I hadn’t considered the girls were in any danger. But the old man’s adamancy sowed seeds of doubt in me. I wished Onesmus had a cell phone with him. But living so far out of cell phone signal range, none of us owned this little wonderful communication gadget. It’d have been so easy just to call and know that all was well.

He’d promised to call on arrival, probably this afternoon or tomorrow morning. But could I afford to wait? Suppose Kioko was right, and I waited for a call that would never come. Wouldn’t I be giving the murdering kidnappers time to cover their tracks? As improbable as it was, I knew I’d not have peace until I proved the dead man wasn’t Onesmus.

All right, my dear elder, I said. Take me to the scene.

The old man shook his head. He cleared his throat and spat the results to the ground. Slowly and deliberately, he buried the mess with his foot. You don’t want to see the body.

Of course I don’t want to. But how else do I direct the police to the scene?

I see you’re angry with me, he said. But I can’t risk my life meeting the police.

You don’t have to meet them. Take me to the scene.

I wish there was another way, he whispered.

Don’t worry, I said going back to the hut. Give me a minute while I change.

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Stepping out of the hut in jeans and hiking boots felt strange. I’d worn the culturally and weather-appropriate attire almost the entire seven years I was in Kenya. But the ankle-length chiffon dresses and sandals would not do in the thorny brush.

Kioko, his face expressionless, gave me a quick appraisal but remained silent. He turned and started walking toward the woods. The first three miles, but for the dust, were smooth sailing. Other than scattered cactus colonies, anthills, and an occasional tree, there was no vegetation to hinder our progress. It was ten minutes to seven, yet temperatures were in the high eighties.

The desiccated landscape changed suddenly as we approached the woods. We were soon wading through a thicket that appeared to have hands keen on clawing my every step of the narrow animal trails.

The going got easier as we reached the woods. There, under the verdant canopy, the undergrowth wasn’t as thick. We kept a good pace for about an hour.

Kioko suddenly stopped. Wait here, he said, disappearing behind trees.

What’s going on? I asked, alert to the slightest signs of danger.

I was, after all, a blonde, blue-eyed American with a bounty. Somalia just a few miles away, Kioko could easily fall to temptations and betray me to Al-Shabaab, a terrorist group linked to Al-Qaeda. Why couldn’t I’ve thought of this before I followed him blindly like a puppy?

Panicked, I started to run back the way we’d come.

Kioko, as if trying to block my way, reappeared with arms stretched forward. His hands were cupped and muddy.

Standing in front of me, Kioko—without warning—smeared my left cheek with the muddy stuff in his hands.

I realized he’d brought me to the forest not to sell me to Al-Shabaab but to sacrifice me to his gods.

There were rumors how victims were easily paralyzed when they were touched on any part of the body with a mysterious paint by those offering them for sacrifice.

Acting quickly before my skin could absorb the paralyzing paint, I double-punched Kioko on the chest and pushed him. As the old man fell to the ground, I quickly wiped the smudge off with my blouse ends.

Bent on neutralizing Kioko, lest he follow me, I was positioning myself to give him a kick that’d have given him a concussion, when someone shoved me from behind. I staggered but managed to maintain my balance, turning, fists raised guardedly, like a seasoned pugilist.

A boy of about fourteen years stood with a machete. Surprise and confusion showed on his face as his eyes moved from me to the supine old man and back to me.

Why did you do that? he asked, more shocked than angry.

Don’t come near me, I warned as the boy helped the old man up.

I turned to run but froze as two men armed with AK-47 rifles materialized from the thicket. Machine gun magazines crisscrossed their naked chests like metal brassieres. In addition to the automatic rifles, they both had pistols in black thigh holsters. Grenades dangled on the waistbands of their camouflaged pants.

The fact that the guns were not aimed at me brought no comfort.

"You’re in no danger, Mwalimu, Philip Kioko said, dusting himself. These are my sons."

If I’m not in danger, why then did you apply the sacrificial paint to my face?

The old man felt his chest and ribs. I’ve been kicked by a donkey… What sacrificial paint? Oh that? It’s a repellant to keep away the bees. Think of it as a mark for the bees to know not to touch you. When I stumbled upon our friend Onesmus, I sent my young son, who I’m training in honey harvesting, to summon these two. They didn’t know what to expect, and that’s why they came armed. If you hadn’t attacked me, you wouldn’t even have known they were there. Please don’t tell anybody about them. I want them to help me track the killers who kidnapped our daughters. The old man paused, staring at me in silence. He shook his head. You’re my daughter. How can I cause you harm?

He suddenly looked and sounded like the Philip Kioko I’d always known. My African dad who always lent an ear as needed. When the sunscreen lotion I’d brought from home failed to protect my skin from the harsh African sun, I had reluctantly tried his honey-based concoction. It worked so well that I wrote home, stopping further shipment of sun lotions.

Suddenly ashamed and guilty for punching and distrusting him, I whispered. Please forgive me. I don’t know what got into me.

There’s nothing to forgive, Kioko whispered. I should’ve explained why I was messing with your beautiful face.

I closed my eyes. Continue with the bee-proofing.

Without wasting time, Kioko touched my right cheek and forehead with the muddy stuff. That takes care of the face and head. Even as he talked, he applied the repellant to my shoulders and back. With noticeable discomfort, he touched the front of my blouse.

How come you don’t need the repellant? I asked. Do the bees know you?

He chuckled, shaking his head. "I don’t wear perfume like you.