Walking Home (28 page)

“But it sounded so real.”

“Dreams can be like that.” I had to say more. “I am just surprised you were not dreaming of giraffes. Those you have seen. Maybe one will come up to the tree and give you a goodnight kiss!”

She giggled and I felt relieved.

“If a giraffe comes, I will wake you. Now go back to sleep.”

“Goodnight, Muchoki.”

I looked around for signs of the lion, but I could not see any. The water container was lying on the ground below. The lid was off and water was leaking out. It looked as if it had been hurt in the battle with the lion and blood was flowing from a wound suffered in our defense. What a brave water container. Certainly braver than I had been.

I pushed myself up higher, getting closer to Jata and farther from the ground. I wasn’t going to sleep now, but I wanted to not sleep higher up in the branches.

“B
ut why can’t we go down yet?” Jata asked.

I hadn’t told her anything about the lion, and I wasn’t going to. It was best that he remained part of a dream she hadn’t had.

“I’m waiting for the giraffe to come to kiss you good morning, since it did not kiss you goodnight. If you get down, it will not work. Giraffes do not bend down to the ground very well.”

It was no longer dark but it was not yet light. There were too many places still left for a lion to hide. “But my legs are sore. I need to stretch,” she said. “There is plenty of space in the tree to stretch. It is a big tree. Do you ever hear monkeys complain about being cramped?”

“I am not a monkey,” she protested.

“That is only
your
opinion.”

“I am hungry. Can we have food?”

“I can hand you some raw maize if you want. But we are going to walk before we eat.”

“So can we walk, then?” Jata asked.

“We will rest before we walk, and walk before we eat. Rest your legs and your mouth.”

I continued to peer out, trying to pierce the gloom with my glare. The sun was coming up quickly, and I was starting to be able to see farther, clearer, truer. Still I saw no sign of the lion. That didn’t mean he was gone, of course—only that I couldn’t see him.

“I have to go,” Jata said.

“We will go, but not now.”

“I mean I have to relieve myself.”

That she couldn’t do in the tree. I took one more long look around.

“Wait,” I called out to her.

I climbed down and then jumped to the ground, trying to land as softly as possible. Still, it would not have been soft enough if there was a lion close by. I turned the water container and picked it up. It was less than a quarter full. I took the lid from the ground and wiped it on my shirt before putting it back in place.

“Can I come down now?” Jata yelled.

“Yes, but be quiet.”

In the dust were the tracks of the lion. They were enormous! With my foot I smudged them, brushing
them away. I didn’t want Jata to see the tracks—dreams didn’t leave footprints. Head up, eyes still looking, I used both feet to destroy the evidence. The tracks led back to the ravine. Any thought I’d had of going for more water was gone. We’d take what we had and leave.

“Here,” Jata said. She was holding my bundle and lowered it to me as I reached up. I slung it over my shoulder and then helped her down the last part of the trunk.

“We have to go right now,” I said, picking up the water container.

“But I told you I need to stretch.”

“And I need to walk.”

I grabbed her hand and practically dragged her toward the road. Glancing from side to side, I moved as quickly as possible, imagining the lion hiding everywhere. My club was right there, sticking out of the waistband of my trousers. If the lion came, I would meet him. I wouldn’t be able to win a battle, but I could win enough time for Jata to escape—as my father had done for us at the church.

Just then, a big lorry thundered past, barreling down the highway. It was gone in an instant, but for that brief second we were not alone. Surely the sound and sight and smell of the big truck were enough to drive away a lion. Surely. I dragged Jata right up onto the road with me. There was another lorry in the
distance and we’d have to step aside before it came, but right now we needed to be there. Those few centimeters of roadway separated us from the lion. There was now nothing to fear. And if he did reappear, I still had my water container to protect us.

Jata sat on my shoulders, hanging on tightly. I supported her with one hand while I held the empty water container in the other. We’d traveled far and fast. The rush of the lion had driven me forward, and that rush had lasted throughout the morning. We hadn’t stopped for breakfast or lunch. We ate oranges as we walked—three each. We peeled each section and popped it into our mouths, slowly chewing, sucking out every little drop of juice before swallowing what remained. No oranges had ever tasted more succulent.

In my mind I thanked Omolo and wondered and worried about him. Had he been able to get home safely? I felt bad that I wasn’t able to help him the way I know he would have helped us—the way he
did
help us.

As we walked, we left behind a trail of orange peels. Peels behind and a string in front. I could picture a lion following the peels just as we were following the string toward Kikima. Neither was real, of course, but that didn’t stop me from imagining lions behind every shrub we passed. But I had no need to fear. Between
the traffic on the road and the people walking beside it, no lion would come near.

Up ahead was a market. There were stores with small stalls in front. Many lorries and
matatus
had pulled off to the side of the road. Others slowed almost to a stop as they came up to the big speed bumps on the tarmac. The lorries groaned in protest as they thumped over the bumps, and then roared and belched out black smoke as they struggled to pick up speed again.

Off to the side was a man sitting on a bicycle that he’d converted to a sharpener. There was a grindstone where the front wheel would have been, and he used that stone to sharpen knives and axes. He sat there, pedaling away, his efforts turning the grinding wheel. He had on pink plastic sunglasses—the kind that would be worn by a child—to protect his eyes from the sparks that flew into the air. In his hands was a machete. I felt uneasy but watched transfixed as he moved it back and forth, back and forth across the stone, sparks flying as the blade became razor sharp. I both feared it and wished I possessed it. A machete could do so much more to protect us than my little knife. I tightened my grip on Jata’s hand and pulled her into the crowd.

“I am thirsty,” she said.

Our water had run out more than an hour ago. This marketplace needed to have water to survive.

“There will be a place to draw water here, I hope.”

We crossed a small bridge over a river … well, at least a riverbed passed beneath.

“Stay,” I said to Jata.

I looked down over the side of the bridge. The river was dry and men were working with shovels, putting sand into piles. They weren’t digging for water but gathering sand to be used with cement. If there was any water beneath the sand, it was so far below the surface that I could never dig deep enough to get it.

I started back—but where was Jata? In a panic I looked around, then spotted her next to a man roasting maize. I rushed to her side.

“Do not wander away from where I have placed you, little sister.”

“I am sorry.”

“No need to fight,” the man said in Kikamba. “Buy some maize and be friends.”

“No, thank you, sir,” I answered back in hesitant Kikamba.

“I offer the best prices and the most tender maize in the market.”

“I am sure, but we do not have money.” That was a lie. We had money, but not for maize.

“Where are you from?” he asked, this time in Swahili. “Your Kikamba is … well, not so good.”

“Our mother is Kamba,” I said, still using my Kikamba. “We were forced from our home by the problems with the election.”

“Terrible, terrible.” He had switched back to Kikamba.

“I was wondering, sir, is there a place where we might get water?”

“The ravine.”

“But it is dry.”

“Up farther the water still runs at the surface. Not much, but it is there and it is fresh. I need to go myself. I am almost out of water.” He pointed down at the container by his feet.

“I could fill it for you,” I said.

“I have no money to give you.”

“I am not asking. The distance is the same to walk whether I carry one container or two, and I have two hands.”

“Your Kikamba is bad, but your manners are good.” He picked up his water container and handed it to me. “Go down the ravine and up the dried-out bed. You will find the water.”

“Come, Jata.” We went back along the road to the bridge. It always felt bad to retrace our steps and move in the wrong direction, but at least there was purpose this time.

Carefully we crossed the highway. It was much
easier here, with the traffic slowed to a crawl by the speed bumps. When we came to the ravine, we skidded down the steep sides until we stopped at the sandy bottom. I looked back and could see the high-water marks along the bridge. It appeared that during the rainy season, the river almost flooded the road. We would have had water more than three times my height above our heads.

It was easy to see that we were headed in the right direction. Some children were coming toward us, struggling under the weight of full containers of water, and others were going in our direction, carrying containers that were empty. One group was moving with much more speed.

Eventually the sand of the creek bottom gave way to rocks and a small but steady stream. The water danced among the rocks and then vanished beneath the sand. I joined the others filling their containers. Dropping to my knees, I took the man’s container, turned it on its side and allowed the water to enter to the level of the flowing water. Next I removed a cup from my bundle and cup by cup poured in the water until it was full. I did the same with my container and put the lid back in place. His container lacked a lid.

Standing up, I grabbed both containers and lifted them. I was caught off guard. The two seemed to weigh much more than twice the one. Perhaps my offer had
been too generous. Both containers were too heavy for Jata to carry. Laden down with the water, I shuffled slowly along the dry creek bed. When I reached the road, I put one down and scaled the slope, leaving the other at the top, and then repeated it and returned with the second.

“Come now,” I said to Jata. “The way is clear.”

We crossed the road, dodging between the slow-moving trucks, and then made our way back to the stand.

“Here is your water container,” I said to the man.

“And here is your maize.” He offered me a cob of roasted maize.