Girl with the Golden Voice (33 page)

Bursts of discomfort frequently upset those long stretches when she was gliding along enjoying the life of the young lady in that sheltered, elite academy. Now it was a February night in a cold city in a warm, spacious room where she could lift the receiver and call up a sumptuous meal at any hour of the day. Over to her right she could see the outline of half a dozen dresses she had bought but not needed. She shed a tear for the red dress she had bought in the matumba in Naivasha town. And what was the Lord God playing at? Why that voice that she was told was a special gift? Within months she would be the wife of the only man she had ever loved. Why could she not simply be ecstatic with happiness at her good fortune?

Toni had told her how much money she would earn by the end of her month in the Flamingo. It was a ridiculous sum, many times the amount her Mama would earn in her whole life. Oh God forgive me for coming to this crazy country. Perhaps I will never be myself again!

The words of Sister Columba, the Irish geography teacher and choir mistress at Santa Maria were with her once again. The well-meaning sister could never have imagined the impact that the little cliche she had offered at a morning chapel would have on her star singer.

‘Remember, ladies, that you are the very cream of Nairobi society. Think of each year of your life as a vast sheet of pure white paper that God in His wisdom and mercy has presented to you. You are the writer, the artist who must use that paper. He has given you a completely free choice on how to do so. Never forget that once a mark has been put down, it is there, it has happened and you cannot change it … Remember, too, to be kind to yourselves. You cannot forgive others if you will not forgive yourselves.'

She could not turn down the sponsorship, unravel the good years at school and the rest of it. Every moment of her life had been leading up to this one. Even thoughts made their mark, left their shadow.

The McCall family was wonderful and she loved them all deeply. The Rubai family was wealthy beyond her family's dreams. Guilt was still taking a toll. Martha and Jane could yet have their chance. Perhaps it was her duty to accept Julius. Where had this thought come from to terrify her?

She fell to her knees, pressed her face into the coverlet and prayed furiously, aggressively demanding that her Father in Heaven cleanse her mind and her heart. The battle raging inside her caused her body to perspire. Why was she remembering the times in her life when Julius Rubai had tried to show kindness to her? He was a handsome man but spoiled. She could have taught him better ways, could still teach him. Then she felt again his heavy body pressing down on her, grasping at her, and the relief from the horror as he was pulled away.

African men are not like Europeans. They are more open and simple. They want something, they want a woman, they reach out to seize her. She had heard one of the farm boys talking about such things, a clever boy but without the paper qualifications that might have changed his life. ‘Stone age to space age in four generations. That's what the mzungos say of us. So what else can they expect from us when we do a little grabbing at their wealth and we are not nice with our women? What is this nice?'

Rebecca Kamau, you, too, are an African woman. You are from a poor family. You should rejoice in your Africanness, have seven children. Fifty years from now what difference would it make? You would be a mama with all your grandchildren around you on your farm somewhere up north. You would sing them a lullaby, tell them to worship God and be good to their children. What was this romantic nonsense these Western people preach about love. They marry with a big fuss, get fed up after a few years, bored stiff, then jump into bed with anyone who invites them.

Early next morning a maid found her on the floor, still in her show clothes. Mary rushed into the room behind the maid and she suffered seconds of genuine terror until she was close enough to see the gentle movement of her breathing. A single touch to the head and Rebecca's eyes opened and looked up. The tears flowed as she reached up to grasp her friend's neck.

‘Mary … I'm so scared!'

For the next few minutes they sat on the pale green carpet embracing, saying nothing. When her tears subsided, Rebecca began again. ‘One of the policemen said that Thomas could be in prison for twenty years. I feel so helpless.'

”Becca, there is hope. Always there is hope.'

Rebecca leaned backwards and stared intently into Mary's eyes, willing her friend to explain herself.

‘Darling, please, forgive me if I am saying too much. It's just that Monica and the girls … they think that they have found something which will make a big difference.'

‘But …'

‘We cannot know until tomorrow. Look, they cannot be sure. ‘Becca, you are going to take a shower. I'm going to order some coffee and sweet biscuits. Papa always takes this medicine when he has some important thinking to do. We'll take our time. Then I'm going to tuck you up in bed and we'll pretend that the night is just beginning. Above all, we are going to be patient and hopeful, and think beautiful thoughts.'

y the time Rebecca woke up, Monica and the girls had set off for the police office with their company. It would be a day of transition for Rebecca and Tom. From then on their time in New York passed quickly and very happily for them both. The excitement levels were high and every show seemed inspired. The spiritual space in the Flamingo was a hot ticket. Critics competed to write the most complimentary reviews and found it unbelievable that this new star would soon be leaving them for life in an African backwater.

Mary and Rebecca spent time together after rehearsals and gradually Mary had helped her best friend to rationalise away her fears about Julius Rubai. It was a confident and excited Miss Kamau who approached the British Airways desk in Kennedy Airport, arm in arm with her fiance. There was more good news for them when they checked in. They had been upgraded to first class for both legs of the journey to Jomo Kenyatta. The desk clerk could not explain this piece of luck. Rebecca was puzzled, too, by the series of warm looks the pretty girl with the strong Brooklyn accent kept giving her. As they turned to go, the girl gently slid a small open book towards them.

‘Miss Kamau, would you please sign my autograph book? Me and my sister love your voice.'

Rebecca hesitated, giggled shyly and signed. She turned to find Tom with his arms folded and grinning. ‘Don't you dare tell anyone about this when we get home!' she scolded.

When the plane came to a halt in Nairobi, the captain apologised and announced that because of a malfunctioning landing gate, passengers had to use stairs to disembark. Rebecca was pleased. Before all the fuss with passports and baggage she could feel the warm morning air around her and take in breaths of the special scents of Africa.

The surprises were not finished. In the arrivals hall both their mothers were waving — and weeping. Behind them and waving Kenyan flags, a group of about thirty girls. For a second or two it did not register with Rebecca that it was a uniform she knew well. They were girls from Santa Maria and they were chanting rhythmically, ‘Rebecca! Rebecca!'

Rebecca was wide-eyed with amazement. ‘Thomas, I hope our wedding won't be as noisy as this. The world has gone crazy!'

It was easy for the old girl to oblige the new girls and their teachers. The school was just off the Westlands Road and not even out of their way. Maura followed the yellow bus along Uhuru Highway and into the courtyard of Santa Maria. A bell rang and in ten minutes the school hall was packed with girls, alert, tense and smiling. There were emotional reunions with the sisters and the older girls. Mother Superior said a few words, but it was a new young face who sat at the piano ready to be of service if she was needed.

Rebecca sang two songs she had sung with Mary in the concert in the Bomas Centre in front of the president. For her last song she called up all the sisters to join her on the stage.

‘Amazing grace, how sweet the sound …'

She had wondered if the school still sang it at the end of every Friday service. The answer came loud, and full of girlish enthusiasm. The faces in front of her seemed to make up one wide smile. Tom, looking on from the side, was the only male in the hall apart from the camera crew filming from the gap between the stage and the front row of the youngest girls. He was trying to keep up, but events were challenging his balance. He sensed that he was being watched and looked up to see his mother, head cocked slightly to one side with that quizzical look she gave when she was concerned that all was not well with a situation. She had noticed that he was not smiling and he wore that reflective, almost sad expression that she had seen so many times since his earliest boyhood days. He raised his hand and smiled.

He was beginning to grasp the idea of fame and it troubled him. He had heard of actors and musicians, singers especially, who said they felt most alive when they were on stage performing. It was a potent drug. In the last month he had watched Rebecca seem to become a different person when she sang in front of her adoring public in the Flamingo. Confidence, power, control, they were all there and they gave out an emotional charge that was intoxicating even to watch. How could she suddenly shut all this down?

He wanted to leave behind cities, crowds and look down on the lake from the top of the escarpment.

There was more hugging. Rebecca autographed a dozen of her own compact discs. She was amazed that the girls had got hold of them in Nairobi.

Soon they were back on the road to the north. During a brief stop at the ABC shopping centre for Maura and Angela to collect some shopping at Gilani's, Tom and Rebecca enjoyed watching the traffic out on Waiaki Way hurrying in and out of the city centre. He had been getting used to the constant, low rumble that dominated the New York streets, but he much preferred the informal mix of lumbering trucks and speeding colourful coaches, matatus and cars, ancient and modern moving up and down the warm, dry road in the clear light of late morning.

* * *

Their footsteps crackled on the dusty tracks that crisscrossed Crescent Island. At last, they were really home, amongst the little groups of zebra, wildebeest and the rest who looked up briefly from their nibbling before shuffling on their easy way around the familiar patch of their universe. They tore at the thin brown grass against the background sound of a warm breeze. For a time few words were spoken. Rebecca savoured the feeling of freedom and the almost tangible sense that in this place warm, safe arms protected them. Tom could not shake off the fear that Rebecca would sooner or later realise that this beautiful place could not satisfy newly discovered deep needs. She would be bored. It was she who spoke first, interrupting the afternoon sounds of the bush.

‘Quiet, isn't it, Thomas?'

‘Bit different from Midtown and the Flamingo.' He smiled.

‘I'd like to see a few real flamingos.' She did not sound enthusiastic.

‘We could drive the back road to Elementeita, even Nakuru.'

‘Maybe … How are Eddie and Rollo?' Her interest was half-hearted; her mind was focused on other thoughts.

‘Bursting with enthusiasm. They love working on the farm, plunging their hands into the soil. They love the workers, too. According to them, I'm just about out of a job!'

‘The farm boy without a farm.'

‘Yeah. Perhaps I could get a job in that zoo in Central Park.'

‘I'd miss you a lot!' She turned to him with that old sparkling, mischievous smile, challenging him.

‘You wouldn't come, then?'

‘Too busy looking after the babies.' She swung her arm and locked it around his neck. ‘And, for now, I've got an engagement party to organise. Less than two weeks. Hope you can come. Our mamas have put in a lot of work.'

One long embrace was followed by half a dozen more. Returning from their private world, they were in time to watch a group of waterbuck step gracefully into the lake for a drink.

‘Notice, ‘Becs, not a single splash from forty legs. These wild animals don't mess things up.'

They were down to the soft, wet edge of the lakeside when a voice called out from a distance behind them. They turned to see Luka coming towards them on his heavy, black Chinese made bike. He was waving and Tom hoped he would slow down and not fall off yet again by crashing into an unnoticed rock or pothole.

‘Bwana, Bwana! Come quickly! People have come. Two very smart men. Beautiful suits and white shirts. Very shiny shoes.'

‘Asante, Luka. Tell them we're on our way.'

The askari found it difficult to get up speed as he pushed his bike hard through the deep dust on the track.

‘I think I can guess who they are, but how could they know we are back?'

Rebecca grasped his arm. She was only mildly interested in these visitors, whoever they were. ‘Thomas, what's wrong?'

‘Wrong? No, these men, you've met them. Remember the rugby up in Pembroke?'