Walking Home (31 page)

I felt overwhelmed, pushed in on all sides by the sounds and smells and movement. The few other times I had been in such a place—and I had never been in a station so large—I was watched by my mother and father. Here I was the one doing the watching. I tightened my grip on Jata’s hand as we wove through the crowd.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said to one of the conductors. “Can you tell me where I can get a ride to Kikima?”

“Over there,” he said, waving to the far side of the station.

“Thank you, sir.”

He had already turned away before I finished speaking.

“Come, Jata.”

We walked along, trying to avoid the hordes of people rushing on and off the vehicles.

“I want a
mandazi
,” Jata said.

“We do not have the money …” I began. But then I remembered that she
did
have the money. “I do not need one, but you can get a
mandazi
with the money Omolo gave you.”

“He said I need to buy two—one for me and one for you.” She pulled the money out of her pocket, balancing the few loose coins on the palm of her hand.

I wanted to say that we would be wiser to pool our money so we could ride closer to Kikima, but I didn’t. This was what Omolo had wanted—and I really did want a
mandazi.

“Come.” I led her to a little stall that had a shelf filled with
mandazi.
“You make the purchase.”

I allowed her to step forward and talk to the woman who was selling. That was what my mother always did with us. She said that we needed to know about money. I watched but allowed Jata to make the purchase on her own.

She turned around holding two
mandazi
, with a smile so bright that it was worth the price even without the treat—although I did want the treat too. Jata had eaten most of the banana this morning, and I’d had only a bite. I knew we had at least three more oranges in my bundle, but we would save those for the ride.

She handed me one
mandazi.
“Thank you,” I said, and took a big bite. The pastry was fresh and warm and sweet, and it practically melted in my mouth. It was the best thing I’d ever tasted in my life! I took another bite and another. I hardly needed to chew as the soft dough slid down my throat and filled my stomach.

When I finished, Jata tore off a piece of hers and offered it to me.

“I had more of the banana,” she said. “You give me more of everything.”

I took the piece from her and ripped it in two again, handing back half. Together we popped the last two pieces in our mouths.

“It is time to go to Kikima,” I said.

I led Jata back through the crowd, searching for the right
matatu.
The drivers all yelled out encouragement to the potential passengers, trying to convince them that their bus was the best. I tried to ignore the voices and looked instead for the names posted in the windshields. There were so many places I’d never heard of—Kalawani, Tawa, Tuvilani, Nzaini and Emali—but
there was no Kikima. Still, there were so many
matatus
that I wasn’t worried … yet.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out our remaining shillings. They were a crumpled ball, dark and worn from where my fingers had held them, wedging them in and making sure that they were safely buried deep in my pocket. Slowly, deliberately, I straightened them out. Three notes—three fifty-shilling notes—for a total of one hundred and fifty shillings. Would that be enough? There was only one way to know.

“There is our
matatu
!” Jata exclaimed.

She was pointing at a bright orange bus. On the windshield was its name and motto:
MUM
—
YOU ARE GREAT
. But I couldn’t see where it said Kikima.

“That is a fine
matatu
,” I agreed, “but we need to locate the one going to Kikima.”

“It is that one, I am sure,” Jata said. “Come and look.”

Before I could stop her, she ran toward it. She was so much smaller that she was able to move through the people quickly. She stopped by the
matatu
and I ran to her side. There, in the side window, was a smaller sign:
KIKIMA
. Jata burst into laughter and started jumping up and down. I felt like doing the same. This was the
matatu
—and she had known it all along.

“I knew our mother would lead us home,” Jata said.

She
was
leading us home. We would travel the last part of our journey with our mother. We were returning to her home with her.

If we had enough money.

A conductor was standing at the door, taking fares. The bus was already filled with people, and the roof was piled high with items.

“Good morning, sir. We wish to travel to Kikima,” I said.

“You are most fortunate, since that is where we are going. The fare is two hundred shillings for each of you.”

I let out a big sigh. My heart and my hopes sank.

“Do you not have enough money to pay the fare?” he asked.

He must have read my reaction. I shook my head.

“This is not a charity. You must pay to ride.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How much money do you have?” he asked.

“One hundred and fifty shillings.”

“That is not even enough for one, but I could take you partway.”

“That would be good.”

“And that partway could be longer if you ride on the roof instead of inside.”

I had often seen people doing that but had never done it myself. Our parents would never have allowed
that, and when we were with them we would never have needed to do it.

The conductor saw my hesitation. “Or you can ride inside—just not as far.”

“We will take the roof,” I said, handing him the money.

“Climb up, and make sure you help the little one. And stay low so nobody sees that I’m letting children ride on the top.”

Jata started up the ladder on the side of the bus. I climbed up after, shielding her from a fall. The conductor handed me my water container and I placed it on the roof, then followed up myself.

The roof was full of all manner of items. Barrels, boxes and bags, even a bed, a chesterfield and a cabinet were all tied in place on the rack. There was a spare tire tied down at the front. That would be our seat.

“Sit,” I said to Jata, directing her into the center of the tire so she was surrounded by its rubber walls. That would be the safest place. I sat on the rack itself, leaning against the tire, easily able to reach out for Jata if needed.

The engine roared to life and the low rumbling became a full shaking. I leaned over the side and watched as the
matatu
started to move. Slowly it edged its way through the other buses and the people dodging between them. It slipped through impossibly small spaces,
practically pushing vehicles and people out of its path.

When we came to the gate, the conductor and the gatekeeper yelled back and forth. If it not for the smiles and laughing, I would have thought they were fighting. Instead they were sharing a joke until the man opened the gate to allow us to pass. The conductor continued to talk to the gatekeeper as we rolled by and started off. Finally he ran after the
matatu
and jumped aboard as it began to pick up speed. We were off! We were either on the last leg of our long journey or else the first leg of one that I didn’t think I had the strength to finish.

The streets around the station were hardly less congested than the station itself. There were so many people and vehicles. Despite the crowds, the
matatu
began to pick up speed. Occasionally I could feel the driver apply the brakes, but mostly he used his size and his horn to open a way through.

We quickly left Machakos behind. The stores and stalls, people and homes spaced out. The driver passed several slower-moving lorries, swerving onto the other side of the road and back again before hitting any oncoming traffic. From up top I could see how close he sometimes came to running headfirst into those vehicles. But I wasn’t afraid. It wasn’t that I trusted this stranger, but I had lived through so much already that I had no fears of a crash. Somehow we had been
protected, and I knew we would remain protected all the way to our destination. It had been our destiny to reach Kikima.