Green City in the Sun (99 page)

     "Yes, Sarah. It's stunning."

     Sarah carefully folded the cloth, wrapped it up in its brown paper, and said, "I went to the Maridadi fabrics plant in Nairobi, Deb. I showed them this cloth, and they said they can produce it for me if I have guaranteed orders for it. You see, I could never do this myself. One dress alone would take weeks. And I would have to charge so much that no one but a very few women would be able to afford it. But Maridadi can mass-produce the fabric on its machinery, and then I can sew the dresses. But I have to have guaranteed orders, Deb. I went to the dress shops in Nairobi, but they wouldn't make any guarantees. Do you have any ideas?"

     Deborah tried to think. But all that came to her mind was
I wish Aunt Grace were here. She would have some advice.

     "What I was thinking," Sarah said, "is that maybe your uncle could sell my dresses in his lodges. You know, to tourists."

     "Uncle Geoffrey?" Deborah pictured Kilima Simba Safari Lodge with its little boutique that sold dresses imported from Europe. Now that she thought of it, she recalled her uncle's complaining not too long ago about recent government restrictions on importation in order to bolster internal manufacture and economy. In fact, she realized now, he had spoken of either closing the boutique, which never made money, or converting it into a native crafts shop.

     "Of course," Deborah said to Sarah, "your dresses would be perfect for my uncle's lodges. Tourists would love them."

     "I hope so, Deb," Sarah said softly.

     "I have to go to Nairobi tomorrow and let Professor Muriuki know that I'm turning down the scholarship. I'll see if Uncle Geoffrey is in his office. I'll show him your fabric."

     "Thank you, Deb. I know this is a difficult time for you."

     "I need to keep myself busy. It's what Aunt Grace would do. I shall sign up for classes at the university and get my life in order."

     They walked to the front door, where scarlet and salmon-colored bougainvillaea shed rainbows of color in the afternoon sun.

     "I'm glad you're not going to America, Deb. I'll be at home if you need me."

     "I'll be back from Nairobi day after tomorrow. Please come by and keep me company. Maybe you'd like to move in with me for a little while. You could have one of the bedrooms for a sewing room."

     "I would like that, Deb. Thank you." They embraced again. "I'm so glad you're going to marry Christopher. We'll be sisters."

     Deborah watched her go, thinking that Sarah's step was so light and confident that she seemed hardly to touch the ground. Then Deborah turned back into the living room where the boxes awaited her.

     Deborah didn't want to face them now; she wanted to put it off. Right after the funeral Christopher had said that he would meet her down by the river in their favorite spot. But it seemed to Deborah that she owed it to her aunt to perform this last duty, to leave nothing undone.

     It was in the last box that she found the letters.

     Strangely the envelopes were blank. When she opened one, she was surprised to see that there was no date and that it was headed "My beloved David..."

     Deborah turned the letter over and read the signature.

     Mona.

     Her mother.

     Deborah sat frozen in the sun, the love letter in her hand. She was remembering the day, ten years ago, when she and Christopher had sneaked into her grandparents' bedroom in Bellatu and had gone through the drawer of secret things. They had come across David Mathenge's passbook, which Christopher kept to this day.

     She looked at the letter, at the rest of the bundle, and wondered again why that passbook should have been among her mother's things.

     
David Mathenge and my mother—lovers?

     Spellbound, Deborah read the letters. There were no dates on any of them. "I shall give these letters to your mother," Mona had written, "as you told me to do. And she will pass them on to you. It is my one solace in this terrible time that we are linked in this way."

     Deborah was mystified. How had these letters come to be in her aunt's possession?

     She continued to read. The words on the pale pink and blue paper, with the Treverton crest at the top, could not possibly have been written by her hard, unfeeling mother! These words of love and devotion had been written by a young woman full of life and passion; she had put to paper exactly how Deborah felt about Christopher.

     Deborah's eyes filled with tears. What a terrible thing, to be separated from the man one loved, to be damned by society for loving a man of a different race.

     She suddenly wanted her mother to he there in the living room, to talk with her, to go back over the years together and start anew. How different things could have been!

     Deborah knew that David Mathenge had been killed during the emergency. But when or where was unknown to her. Just as her own father's
death had never been explained to her. "He died before you were born" was all her mother would say.

     
Was my father, too, killed in the emergency?
Deborah wondered, greatly puzzled.
Did my mother know him before or after she fell in love with David Mathenge?

     For the first time Deborah was suddenly curious about her father. She had always imagined him as some smiling, shadowy figure who had passed briefly through her mother's life. He had never married Mona; had he even really loved her?

     Deborah continued to read the letters. Halfway through came the thunderbolt announcement of her mother's pregnancy. Deborah read quickly now. A baby girl was born; Mona named her Mumbi for the First Woman. She wrote to David about their beautiful "love child."

     And then, mysteriously, the letters ended.

     
That must be when David was killed.

     Deborah gathered the letters up and frowned over them.
What happened to that baby? Where is Mumbi now?

     Deborah's mother had never mentioned another child, nor had Aunt Grace. Had Mumbi been given away for adoption? Or had she, too, died?

     Suddenly needing to know, Deborah stood up and looked around the living room, as if the answers were hidden there. She could write to her mother. But weeks would pass before a reply came. And then perhaps her mother wouldn't want to be reminded of that painful episode in her past and would not speak of it.

     Who else would know? Uncle Geoffrey, maybe. But then, if he didn't, Deborah did not want to disclose her mother's secret.

     
Aunt Grace would have known, but she's no longer here.

     Deborah went to the veranda and looked out. There was one other person who would know what became of that baby. After all, she was David's mother, and these letters had been given to her.

     But it daunted Deborah to go to the medicine woman. She had always felt vaguely afraid of Mama Wachera, had always squirmed slightly beneath that masked gaze. But Wachera was, after all, Christopher's grandmother and soon, Deborah told herself, to be a relative through marriage.

     And she would know what had happened to that baby.

     As she followed the old worn path that lay between the playing field and the river, Deborah felt her grief slowly give way to excitement. Not alone after all! There was a chance that that child had lived and was alive today. Mumbi—a half sister!

     Mama Wachera was at the homestead, wrapping sweet potatoes in leaves while a millet stew bubbled on the outside cook fire. Deborah approached her shyly, clearing her throat first and then murmuring traditional greetings of respect in Kikuyu. She spoke the language well; Christopher had taught her.

     The old woman regarded her with a stony expression. There was no greeting in return, no offer of beer or food. Recognizing that she had been received with the height of Kikuyu rudeness, Deborah spoke quickly.

     "Please, I have found these letters among my aunt's things. I need to know about them. You are the only person I can think of who can tell me."

     The medicine woman's eyes flickered to the letters in Deborah's hands. "What do you want to know?"

     "They were written to your son, David, by my mother. She tells him of a baby, a daughter named Mumbi. She would be my sister, and I want to know what happened to her. Do you know, Lady Wachera? Is Mumbi still alive?"

     The old woman's gaze was steady as she said, "I know of no baby."

     "It's here in these letters. My mother tells David that Mumbi is his daughter. No one ever spoke of that child to me. Surely you know what became of her. Please tell me."

     "I know of no baby," Wachera said. "You are the only child to come from your mother's body."

     Deborah tried to think of a better approach. Perhaps with Christopher's help—

     "You are the only child to come from your mother's body," Wachera repeated.

     "But there was
this
one," Deborah argued. "The one called—"

     She stopped. She looked into the enigmatic eyes of the medicine woman.

     Then Deborah looked down at the letters in her hand.

     They bore no date. But she knew they had been written during the emergency.

     
I was born during the emergency
....

     She looked at the medicine woman again. "What are you saying?" Deborah whispered, feeling suddenly cold and frightened. "What are you saying?"

     Mama Wachera didn't speak.

     "Tell me!" Deborah cried.

     "Go away from here," the old woman finally said. "You are
thahu.
You are cursed."

     Deborah stared at her in horror. "Am I—" she whispered. "Am I that baby?"

     "Go away from here. Go away from this land where you do not belong. You are
thahu.
You are taboo."

     "It can't be!"

     
"Thahu!"
Wachera shouted. "You are a child of wickedness! And you have slept with your father's son!"

     
"No!"
Deborah screamed. "You're wrong!"

     She backed away. She stumbled. Then she turned and ran.

T
HE FOUR YOUNG BLACK WOMEN STOOD WITH THE EASE AND
confidence of those who know who they are and where they are going. They wore their hair in the new Afro style, smoothly sculpted bouffants of tight black curls. Their dresses were made of brightly patterned Nigerian fabric and heavily embroidered in white silk thread at the sleeves and neckline. They wore enormous hoop earrings, and rows of copper bracelets, and necklaces made of iron and wood. They had names like Dara and Fatma and Rasheeda. They were chic, fast-talking, politically wise, and beautiful. And they had, a few weeks ago, cut Deborah Treverton out of their circle.

     She watched them now, from across the enormous recreation room that was filled with Christmas partyers. Her eyes betrayed feelings of confusion, envy, and solitude. She had not intended any offense when she had tried to make friends with them, but there was an enormous gulf, Deborah had discovered, between her and these Afro-American women that could never be bridged. Her initial hope, that she had found something of Sarah in them,
had been crushed back in September, when just two weeks after starting the new term at the California college, Deborah had petitioned to join them.

     "Women Against Repression is a black women's group," said the one who called herself Rasheeda, although her real name was LaDonna. "Why do you want to join?"

     It had been impossible for Deborah to put into words her feelings of loss, of needing to belong somewhere, of how they reminded her of Sarah, of how lonely she was in this bewildering new country.

     America seemed as alien to Deborah as she imagined Kenya must have been for the first white people. She didn't understand the language, even though it was English, because slang prevailed, words like
bummer
and
freakout
, or saying "bad" when one meant "good." She couldn't sort out the complex social rules, which were so different from Kenyan rules. And she was nonplussed by the many layers of subcultures through which all Americans seemed easily to swim. Deborah was searching for her niche in this baffling new land that seemed to have a place for everyone, and so she had simply said, "Because I am black."

     To her surprise they had accepted that. Even just one drop of black blood, they had explained, placed a person in the ranks of the oppressed. And they welcomed her, for a while, as their sister.

     But black skin, Deborah soon learned, did not make Africans of them. Although they staunchly regarded themselves as such, Deborah had seen none of her Kikuyu friends among these aggressive, worldly-wise, man-hating women who spoke freely and, in Deborah's opinion, shockingly about abortion, sex, and the emasculation of the American Negro male. There was none of the African naivete, the demure respect for elders, the feminine modesty in them that she was used to seeing in Sarah and her friends. These were angry women, and they fought a mutual enemy whom Deborah had, so far, not found as threatening as they so vocally claimed, the white male.