Walking Home (15 page)

Now we walked beside the tarmac. For the first few kilometers we had moved off at the sight of traffic and then back on again. Now the stream was so steady that there was no point. Those first few trucks that had come along were a welcome sign that we weren’t alone. I could hear the engines and then see the lights and feel warmed by their passing. Now they were just noisy and smelly. I kept my eyes open for a
matatu
, but so far there had only been lorries.

“Are you tired?” I asked Jata.

“I can walk farther. How far is it?”

“We will walk for days,” I said.

“How many days?”

“It depends on how fast we walk.” I would have given her a better answer if I’d had it. I had no idea how many days it would be.

“I can walk faster.” She tried to pick up our pace, but I held her back.

“Do you not remember about the tortoise and the hare?” I asked.

“I remember that story, but I do not necessarily believe it. It would be better to move faster to get there sooner. If we moved very fast, how long would it take?”

I still had no answer. I didn’t know the distances, and I didn’t know how far we could move each day. “We will get there when we get there.”

“That is not a good answer,” she said reproachfully.

“It is the best I can give.” Just then, I heard an approaching vehicle and looked behind us. It was a
matatu
! “Do you want to move faster?”

“Yes, much faster!”

“Good, because we will move very fast now.” I put down the water container and raised my hand high for the driver to see. He blew by us, leaving nothing but a hail of stones and dust and … he pulled off to the side! I grabbed the container and we ran after him. It was a big yellow
matatu
and its roof was piled high with
boxes and barrels. By the time we arrived, the door was open and the conductor was hanging out.

“Nairobi?” he yelled at us.

“Yes.” I pulled the money out of my pocket and handed it to him.

He unfurled the bills, then said, “We are going to Nairobi, but you are not.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is not enough to get you there—not even one of you.”

“Can you carry us as far as the money will allow?”

“That I can do, but it will not be far. Climb aboard, quickly now!”

Jata jumped into the open door and I climbed up after her, burdened with the bundle and the water container. My feet had hardly hit the step when the conductor thumped against the side and the vehicle leaped forward, practically knocking me into the arms of an old woman in the first row of seats.

“Sorry, sorry!” she yelled as she offered me support.

The
matatu
bumped back up onto the tarmac, but this time I was ready and steadied myself with the side of a seat. Jata and I stumbled down the aisle. There were people sitting on the floor toward the back, which signaled that all the seats were taken. I wanted to move as close to the back as possible, somehow hoping that the conductor would forget about
us a little longer and allow us a few extra kilometers. Slow and steady won the race, at least between the tortoise and the hare—but I didn’t think either could outrace a
matatu.

As I passed each row of seats I looked at the people. Most were still asleep and couldn’t look back. There were men and women, some with their children, sleeping together in tangled groups. At their feet and poking into the aisle were bundles and bags—their possessions. I couldn’t help wondering how many of them were fleeing from the same storm we had left behind.

Jata slumped down onto the floor at the back. I put down the water container next to her. It was lighter from a night of drinking but still heavy. I heard the water sloshing around inside. Next I removed my bundled blanket and set it down as well. Finally I sat down on her other side and she settled into me, resting her head on my shoulder.

“Go to sleep, little one, and I will watch over you.”

Instantly her eyes closed and her breathing changed. She was asleep. I decided I’d just close my eyes for a few minutes too.

“Hey, wake up, boy!”

My eyes popped open and I was blinded by a bright light and confused as to where I was. It was the
matatu
conductor standing over top of me.

“You have ridden more than your fare! It is time to get off the bus!”

“Yes, we will get off.” Jata’s eyes were only half-open. “Come, sister, we need to get off.”

I stood up and pulled her to her feet. The conductor retreated down the aisle toward the front of the still-moving
matatu.
We may have traveled too far, but with each second we were traveling farther. Deliberately, I grabbed her blanket and then the bundle with one hand and the water container with the other. I went slowly down the aisle, pushing past others who had boarded since we did. Now not only every seat but also most of the aisle was taken by passengers. I looked out the windows at the passing country. It didn’t look much different from where we had started, and I wondered how far we had come.

When we finally arrived at the front, the conductor signaled to the driver and we pulled off the tarmac onto the dirt shoulder, a big cloud of dust rising up behind us.

“Where are we, sir?” I asked.

“We are as far as your fare could take you and then more.”

“And Nairobi?”

“It is sixty-five kilometers ahead on this road.”

“How far did we ride?”

“It should have been only twenty kilometers, but
it is now closer to forty. You should be paying more.”

“We have no more to pay, sir. Thank you for allowing us to ride longer,” I said.

“I did not allow. I simply forgot.”

He opened the door and I jumped down, helped Jata off with my free hand. Her feet had hardly touched the ground when the engine roared and the bus started off. The conductor leaned out the door. “And do not forget: it is this way. You cannot miss it!” he yelled.

The
matatu
bumped up onto the tarmac, driving off. Soon, the dust it had created dropped down and the sound of the engine faded to near silence before it was replaced by the noise of an oncoming truck.

I looked around. No homesteads, stores or people. We were alone in the middle of nothing. Behind us—well behind us—was the camp. We were far enough away—they would never bother chasing us this far. Stretching out ahead was the road leading us onward. I knew that the road would lead to another and then another until it finally reached our destination. I just prayed that we were on it when it got there. I felt that sense of fear rising in my chest again. We were alone, so alone.

The sun continued to rise until it was directly above our heads. We had passed through dozens of little towns and markets—some no more than two stores together, and so broken down that they seemed to be leaning against
each other as a way to stay upright. There were always people in the markets—little roadside stands put there to sell food or services to the passing trucks. Mostly we just passed through, ignored. I was grateful. We were not the only people moving between these places. We would come across others—by themselves, in pairs, sometimes whole families—who were either passing us or moving in our direction. Some would overtake us, and others we would overtake. Some moved slowly because they were burdened heavily with their possessions. We were not the only ones who had no better way to move than on our feet.

As we passed these people I would be respectful in how I observed them, but I still observed. Some seemed friendly, and almost all gave us a greeting. Others, though, had that look I’d seen in the eyes of people in the camp—a look I’d seen in the eyes of my mother. They were beaten down, afraid; they had witnessed things, and things had been done to them. It was in their eyes, visible in that instant when we passed, in a nodding of the head. I wondered if they could see those same things in me?

I was vigilant and wary of all but still welcomed their presence. In the great stretches of road that we were walking, even the company of strangers made me feel less alone. We were sharing a journey, even if we were headed in different directions.

Jata and I were walking to leave farther and farther behind everything that we had ever known, every place we had ever been, to go to people we had never met in a place we’d never been. But I couldn’t allow myself to think about that. I was already carrying enough weight.

As the sun climbed throughout the day we slowed. It was hot and we were tired and hungry. A rest was needed, as was food.

“Are you hungry? Do you want to stop?” I asked.

Jata slumped down to the ground.

I offered her my hand. “I did not mean right here and now. We need to find the right spot.”

She took my hand and got up. “I do not see any right spots,” she said. “I only see this.” She motioned around.

In front and behind were open sections of road. There were no homesteads or shops, and even the trucks had seemed to abandon this stretch. Off to both sides, as far as I could see, was only scrub brush, cactus and the occasional tree. The only thing that broke the scene—the thing that gave me hope—was in the far, far distance: the rising rim of the Rift Valley. I knew we’d be climbing it eventually. I wasn’t looking forward to it but I knew it was the high point that stood between us and Nairobi, so it would have to be scaled.

“I want to find a spot off the road,” I said. I was still thinking that sometime today those people who
had been sent for us would be traveling this road. They might not recognize us and would view us as nothing more than two of the hundreds of people walking along the highway. Still I would rather not chance being seen by them at all. We were far from the camp now. Between the forty-kilometer ride in the
matatu
and the distance covered by foot, we had traveled perhaps fifty-five kilometers. That meant that Nairobi was only another fifty kilometers away. We couldn’t get there today, but we could be there in two days. But after that I had no idea. How far was Machakos from Nairobi, and how far was Kikima from there? Was it two hundred kilometers or three hundred or more? I wanted to know, but perhaps knowing would have been bad. It was easier to walk these steps at least having hope that it was close.

Twice it had looked as if it would rain, but then it hadn’t. The rainy season was upon us, but the rain wasn’t. Rain was a blessing from heaven, and there appeared to be no blessings this day. At least when the clouds came, they shaded us from the sun. There were times when the tarmac was so hot that it was spongy under foot. It was better to travel along the side of the road, not simply to avoid the traffic but to be free of the heat rising from the tarmac.

Up ahead I could make out the outline of a few little buildings. Smaller still were the figures moving
slowly about in the midday heat. They were moving because there was some cause to move. I knew that if I had no reason, I would surely be sitting in a spot shaded from the sun instead of walking along the side of the highway.

Between us and the buildings, there was a vehicle off to the side of the road. It was a vehicle, but it was not a vehicle. At least not anymore. It was a wreck of some sort, I was certain. Getting closer, I could make out the skeleton of a small
matatu.
Gone were the tires and the glass of the windows, and even the white of the frame was scarred and blackened by fire. It had been in an accident; a fire had consumed it.