Walking Home (17 page)

I looked back to the top of the slope to see if there were any more animals still to come. Standing there, with the setting sun behind him, was a Maasai warrior! In his hands was a long spear and strapped to his side was a machete, the fading sun glistening against the blade. He stood there like he was frozen, as if he were a statue made of stone. Then he started skidding down the slope himself, coming toward us.

He stopped a few meters away and looked at us. He towered over me. I moved a few steps forward, not to threaten but to put myself between him and Jata. He remained silent and still, staring, as if he was studying us.

Suddenly, Jata moved past me. In her hands was her almost empty bowl.

“Greetings,” she said. “Would you join us for dinner?”

The Maasai didn’t react.

“We have enough to share,” she added. “We have more than this.”

His expression didn’t soften or change in any way.

I stepped forward again to shield her. “Perhaps he doesn’t understand,” I suggested. “Or—”

“I know some Kikuyu,” he answered in Swahili.

Of course he now knew that we were Kikuyu—just as I knew that as a Maasai he was of the Nilotic people, like the Kalenjin who had killed our father.

“Would you join us?” Jata asked, this time in Swahili.

“You two are alone out here?” the man asked. His head swiveled from side to side, looking around.

Before I could even think to deceive him, Jata answered, “We are alone.”

“Are you sure you have enough food?” he asked.

“We do not have much,” I said. “But we have enough to share.” It was wise to offer because he could have taken it if he’d wanted.

He nodded his head and offered a small smile. “That is kind. Thank you.”

Jata extended her bowl, but I stopped her. “I will get you a fresh bowl. We also have water. I wish I had tea to offer.”

“Water, milk and blood are what I drink, so water would be fine. Thank you, friend.”

We sat on our rocks around the fire, which was now the only heat and light left in the land. I missed the heat of the midday sun, although I never would have thought that possible as I passed along that scorching tarmac. An occasional vehicle would roar up and then past us on the road, leaving behind the smell of fumes and a silence that seemed deeper. All around us, moving in
and out of the light thrown by the campfire, were parts of the Maasai’s herd. They were corralled by the sides of the gorge, and one of his sons stood watch up on top. He had come after we finished dinner—his name was the same as his father’s, Wilson—and after he was introduced, he had silently taken up his position caring for the herd … and for us.

“You have traveled far,” Wilson the father said.

“We have much farther to travel still.”

“The Maasai can travel from sunrise until sunset.”

“We started before the sun came up and traveled nearly until it set,” Jata said proudly.

“Perhaps you are not Kikuyu but Maasai.” He laughed.

He laughed a lot. He was very happy and friendly. The few Maasai I’d known—or had
seen
, not really
known
—always looked so fierce and intimidating and they always carried weapons. Wilson had a spear, a machete and a club tucked into his belt. I remembered what I’d been told about how the Maasai were short-tempered and quick to anger, but Wilson only seemed quick to laugh. Still, I was careful of what I said, trying not to give him reason to be angered.

“I am saddened for you for the loss of your parents,” he said.

We had told him everything.

“How old are you, boy?”

“Fourteen in a few weeks.” I knew I should probably lie and say sixteen, but I didn’t. If I had told that chairman I was sixteen, would he have left Jata in my care?

“Then perhaps I should not call you ‘boy’ any longer. You are a man, in age and in responsibility. You are now the father.”

“And mother,” Jata said.

“It is unusual how people are related and what they are called. Kalenjin think of us Maasai as cousins,” Wilson said. “But we are not. We are Maasai. Do you know that if a Maasai takes the life of a person who is not a Maasai—even one who is a Kalenjin—then it is not murder?”

“It is not?”

He shook his head. “It is only murder if a Maasai kills another Maasai.”

“That is not right,” Jata said.

“It
is
right. I know our customs and laws and legends.” Wilson’s expression had hardened.

“She was not meaning to question you,” I said, trying to ease her words in case they had offended. “She knows you are wise.”

“Your sister is also wise,” Wilson said. “To take the life of any other is to murder. We Maasai have tried to stay separate always—to follow our own ways—but some things are simply wrong. Many of us have stayed
separate from the problems that are out there. We are content to mind our herds.”

“That is wise.”

“We have neither killed nor been killed. Although as warriors we are armed and trained to take a life if necessary.”

“Most people know and understand that,” I said. “We show respect.”

“As it should be. We ask for respect and we show respect in return.” He paused for a moment. Deep in thought, he stared into the distance before turning back to face me. “I have no interest in politics or politicians or political events.”

“None?”

“We ask only that politicians leave us to live our lives in the traditional way.”

Everybody knew that the Maasai were the tribespeople who most followed their past. Some admired them, but others called them “dirty primitives,” although never to their faces—short-tempered, proud and well armed was a bad combination to offend.

“Of course we have different ideas about livestock. Do you know that all cattle in the world belong to the Maasai people?”

“They do?” Jata asked.

He laughed. “It is one of our creation legends. In the beginning, God gave all the cattle to the Maasai.
That means that other people with cattle have either stolen them themselves or inherited them from ancestors who stole them.”

“Really?” Jata asked.

“We believe that when we take cattle from other people, we are merely taking back what is rightfully ours. Of course, neither the politicians nor the other tribespeople believe that.”

“And what do
you
believe?” I asked.

“If I raised a boy from the time he was a baby—if I fed him, cared for him, defended him, gave him my name—then he would be my child. It is the same with cattle. I will not allow the convenience of an old legend to justify what is clearly wrong.”

“You are most wise,” I said.

“I am old. Someday you will be wise … if you are blessed to live that long.”

A tingle went up my spine. Was that an innocent statement or a warning of what was to come? As if in answer to my thoughts, Wilson pulled back his robe to reveal the machete. It glistened in the light from the fire.

“Of course I would never allow
my
cattle to be taken. I would be prepared to kill or die in their defense.” He let the blanket fall closed again to hide the weapon. “I care not who is the president. I care only that my family, my tribe and my herd are left in peace.”

“That is most important,” I said.

“Your sister has gone to sleep,” he said.

Jata was lying on the ground, half on and half under her blanket, close enough to the fire to be warmed. This time it was no nap. You could see that she was in the deepest of sleeps.

“It is time for me as well.” He stood up. I’d forgotten how tall he was. “I will sleep close to my herd, and you can sleep close to yours.” He nodded at Jata. “You can sleep secure. I know that this is a time of worry, but at least tonight you will have no concerns. You are under my protection. No one would dare to bring you harm.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He walked away into the darkness and was gone—but not far. I threw the remaining pieces of wood into the fire. There weren’t enough to keep it alive until morning, but I was not going to go out in the darkness and gather more. I was going to sleep. I had no fear. I trusted Wilson. Besides, if he was going to take my life, he had no need to wait for me to close my eyes.

I took the second blanket—the one holding our remaining food—unloaded it and draped it over Jata, covering her legs and feet with a second layer. Then I lay down behind her, offering her whatever protection I could from the darkness and what it might contain.

Up above there were stars twinkling in the sky. The ground beneath me was cold and hard. All around
was openness that disappeared into darkness. I thought back to my bed in my room in my house. To being safe and warm and protected. It was all gone, no matter how much I wished it wasn’t so. Even the tent was gone. I closed my eyes and hoped for a sleep that would bring me escape, if only in a dream.

T
he smell of fire caused me to jolt awake. It was nothing—just the small fire I had made, still glowing and flickering and crackling. But the sky was also starting to show the first rays of morning light. How could both be possible? The fire should have died out hours before the arrival of dawn. Then I saw Wilson—the son—come forward with branches in his arms. He stopped by the fire and fed the branches into the flames, one by one.

“Good morning,” I said.

“And to you. That is for you and your sister.” He pointed to our pot. It was filled to the brim with porridge.

“It is special,” he said. “Made with cereal, and milk from our cattle.” He picked up the pot and handed it to me. “Eat, but leave some for your sister.”

“I will leave enough for everybody,” I said.

“There is no everybody. My father has eaten. I have eaten. It is for you and your sister.”

“We could never eat that much.”

“Never?” he asked. “Perhaps not this morning, but it will be there for later today and perhaps even tomorrow. It will not last till ‘never.’ ”

“Thank you for your kindness.”

“You offered your food and we offer ours. It is our way. You should awaken your sister. We will be leaving soon.”

“How soon?” I asked. It had felt calming to be under their protection, and now again there would be no protection except for my little knife.

“We will leave soon.”

Jata and I would not be ready that quickly, but this was a safe spot to be left.

Wilson the father walked over and offered his morning greetings.

“We will soon move our herd to graze. I have chosen to move them that way.” He pointed down the road in the direction we were going. “I ask if you would travel with us.”

“Yes, that would be most wonderful!” I exclaimed. “We will quickly ready ourselves for the journey.”

“But our journey together will not be for the full day. We will travel until the sun is overhead. Then we will rest, feed and come back this way for evening water.”

“Your company would be most welcome for as long as you offer it.”

“The road along this section is not safe, but you will be walking with us,” he said.

“I know, then, that we will be safe. Again, my thanks.”

We traveled well off to the side of the tarmac. We were close enough to the road to see it in the distance but far enough away that we could only hear the largest and loudest vehicles passing.

Wilson’s goats and cows moved slowly forward, nibbling from the brush and bushes. The goats would eat almost anything, but the cows were much more selective. Our pace was slow—certainly slower than yesterday—but at least we were moving forward. The tortoise would have been proud of us. And we were safe. I felt as secure as a goat or a cow knowing that both Wilsons—father and son—were our shepherds.

I looked around for Jata. She was being carried by Wilson the father. She looked tiny in his arms. She was smiling and laughing. He was smiling and laughing. She was my little star, twinkly and shining even during the day.

“This is where we will stop,” Wilson the father said.

“Thank you for your protection, but we must continue forward.”

“But there is danger for strangers. The road is not safe.”

“We could travel off to the side, away from the road,” I suggested.