Softly Calls the Serengeti (3 page)

Flight BA65 crept along the Heathrow access runway, throwing a long shadow across the grass-covered verge. It rumbled over a patch of worn tarmac and came to a shuddering halt. From her window seat, Charlotte Manning could see a queue of monoliths preparing to depart to all parts of the world. Ahead was the golden lion of Singapore Airlines, Qantas's flying kangaroo and another she couldn't recognise.

An American Airlines plane dropped to the runway with a roar and a loud screech as smoke puffed from the landing gear. The navigation lights disappeared from her field of vision long before the blast of its jets receded.

Charlotte tried to concentrate on the in-flight magazine, but the words were muddled and made no sense. She would have argued with anyone who'd dared to suggest it, but the fact was that at twenty-eight years of age, she was still as nervous about flying as she had been as a child.

Today, she felt even more nervous than usual because she'd lied to her tutor about her travel arrangements. Her strict upbringing had taught her to be truthful in all situations, no matter the cost, but getting her professor's approval for her first visit to Kenya had put the price of truthfulness too high. Regrettably, she had lied through her teeth to Professor Hornsby. The field visit in Kenya and the PhD thesis that relied upon it were too important to her, and she'd feared that if he learnt she'd changed her plans and intended to travel alone, he wouldn't have approved the funding for her trip. She needed first-hand information from leaders of the Luo community, otherwise her thesis would simply comprise a desk study and would do nothing to convince a leading research organisation
that she had the stuff required for a position in field anthropology—her great obsession since childhood.

An African man occupied the seat beside her, reading a magazine under the beam of his personal reading light. His rather large wife sat in the aisle seat. Charlotte felt a familiar claustrophobia rising.
What if there were an emergency and all passengers were told to vacate the plane immediately?

A
ding
sounded and a flight attendant began to demonstrate the safety drill. Charlotte dwelt on every word. The method of inflating the life vest, the implausible whistle. She wished she could check for the row of little lights that would guide her to the nearest exit, but her neighbour and his oversized wife blocked her view.

Her palms began to sweat.
Oh, gross!
she thought. She fumbled for a tissue, trying to calm herself as she calculated how long it would take to reach her nearest escape exit.

The cabin hummed with air-conditioning sounds and the whir of invisible equipment. Somewhere behind her a baby howled.

The British Airway's jumbo lurched forward, rumbled, and again came to a halt, this time with a faint screech that sounded like bad brakes. The thought sent a flutter through her midriff. She tried to dismiss her fear and looked out the window again. The jumbo she didn't recognise roared down the tarmac, leaving a heat mirage in its wake that caused the distant terminal buildings to shimmer.

Her plane lurched forward again, creaking as it wheeled towards the main runway, pitching her gently onto the black man's shoulder.

‘Sorry,' she said.

He nodded and smiled.

The four jet engines screamed, but the plane continued to amble along. Beneath her feet she could feel vibrations, slow at first, then increasing in periodicity. It felt like a galloping horse—or, she thought with some alarm, a flat tyre! The plane gathered speed and the sound level rose, but it appeared to
Charlotte they were travelling no faster than a suburban bus. She closed her eyes and, after an interminable period, the rumbling ceased, the engines whined rather than screamed, and, after a final bump as the landing gear was stowed, the cabin became relatively quiet.

Charlotte took a long breath and relaxed, opening her eyes. The plane had levelled out and below them the French shoreline came into view. She leant back, suddenly feeling very tired from the expended emotional energy.

Even the check-in and departure process had been emotional. She had expected her mother and father to be there, but she hadn't expected to see Bradley. He hadn't changed one iota: hair immaculately in place, well-dressed, smiling as if they had been separated for only a week rather than three months.

Had she missed him during those three months? She wasn't sure. Their relationship had fallen into a pattern, one of friendship more than anything else. Their love-making—when it happened at all—had become perfunctory and predictable.

‘So you're actually leaving,' he'd said.

She wasn't sure if he'd meant leaving their relationship or leaving the country. ‘I am,' she'd replied. It was the correct answer to both possibilities.

‘Going to Kenya. Alone. You surprise me, Charlotte.'

‘There are a number of things about me that would surprise you, Bradley. Unfortunately, you've never tried to discover them.'

He'd given her his usual smile, partly condescending, partly amused, and then stood with her parents to wave her off. He was so unaware of her passions, her fears, so oblivious to her true personality, that it made her feel sad for him. Bradley the corporate lawyer, the indifferent lover, had no idea what had gone wrong with their relationship.

Inside the departure lounge, out of sight of Bradley and her family, she'd wept, not knowing why.

Now, looking out the window, her sadness was replaced by a
flutter of excitement. Below and to the left of the plane, the Mediterranean glistened like mercury on a platter. In spite of her apprehensions, she couldn't wait to see Kenya for the first time. Ahead, the rugged Atlas Mountains were visible—the gateway to an adventure that made her spine tingle with anticipation.

 

An elderly man with closely cut speckled black and grey hair came smiling from his office to introduce himself to Charlotte. ‘I'm Paul Gilanga,' he said.

‘Dr Gilanga,' she replied, taking his hand. ‘Charlotte Manning. Pleased to meet you.'

She meant it. She and the director of the Institute of Primate Research had only been in contact by email so far, but even through that most impersonal of media she had felt his warmth. In person, he confirmed it.

‘Please, come in,' he extended a hand towards his office, ‘I have the kettle on. It's time for tea, don't you think?'

His office was cluttered with books, stacks of papers and magazines. On top of a four-drawer filing cabinet was a skull—a primate of some kind. He cleared a pile of papers from a chair and invited her to sit.

‘Tea or coffee?' he asked.

‘Black tea, please.'

‘And how is my good friend Professor Hornsby?' he said as he fussed with the crockery.

She brought him up to date with her tutor's activities and news of the department in Oxford where Gilanga had studied. He and Professor Hornsby had been friends ever since, and now Dr Gilanga was going to manage Charlotte's bursary, which was funded by Professor Hornsby's department.

‘How is your accommodation situation, my dear?' Dr Gilanga asked her when she had finished her update.

‘Very comfortable, thank you.'

He handed her a cup of tea. ‘Excellent! Now, before we get into discussing your work, this is your first visit to our country. What are you planning to do about seeing Kenya?'

‘I…I hadn't given it much thought. I suppose I'll be seeing some of it on my field trips.'

‘Undoubtedly. But that's not the best part. You and Mr Wainscote must spend some time in our national parks. There's so much more to Kenya than the villages, towns and cities. Go to any one of our wildlife reserves and you'll see the real Africa. Amboseli is quite close. Then there are places like the Masai Mara. Superb! You may even like to travel a little further into Tanzania. The Serengeti is simply magnificent.'

This was Charlotte's chance to tell Dr Gilanga that she and Bradley were not travelling together, as had been the original plan, but she was embarrassed about the lie she'd told Professor Hornsby. Now she had to keep quiet and hope that the truth didn't emerge.

‘If you do want to go to the Serengeti,' Dr Gilanga went on, ‘I will call my son-in-law, who is the head game warden there. He will show you around.'

‘Thank you, Dr Gilanga, that's very kind of you.'

‘And now, about your immediate tasks.'

Dr Gilanga had already sent her a list of resources, which they discussed. They agreed that the National Archives should be her first priority for contemporary history.

‘Here are some Luo people I've arranged for you to meet,' he said, passing a typed sheet to her. ‘They will be able to give you a good introduction to Luo oral literature—a very important part of your understanding of the culture, I'm sure.'

Charlotte ran her eye down the list. They were all Nairobi-based academics and businessmen. She asked if he also thought she should meet some more typical Luos, out in the Luo homeland around Kisumu.

Dr Gilanga adjusted his spectacles before replying. ‘Hmm,' he
said. ‘Ordinarily, I'd agree. But travel can be so dangerous for foreigners.' He frowned in concern. ‘I suggest we keep your interviews more structured, my dear. The people I have listed there are known to me personally. They're all very well acquainted with Luo culture and history. Let's keep it on the safe side, shall we?'

Charlotte thanked him and, shortly after, bade him goodbye, agreeing to meet again soon to plan the next phase of her study.

In the taxi on her way back to the hotel, she looked down the list of names again. In consideration of Dr Gilanga's efforts to help her, she would speak to these people, but she hadn't come all the way to Kenya to work in the constrained atmosphere of a cultural laboratory. She'd find a way to speak to the average Luo too.

 

Kwazi loaded his wheelchair with newspapers while Joshua sat on a nearby stack of them, reading. Beyond the lights of the distributor's storeroom, the compound was quite dark, but in the east there was a hint of pink. Kwazi knew they needed to hurry if they were to make Kenyatta Avenue by dawn.

‘Let's go,' he said brusquely.

‘We must register to vote, Kwazi,' Joshua said, his head buried in the newspaper.

‘Why?'

‘It says only registered voters can vote in the elections.'

‘So what?'

‘So what! So we can vote for Raila, of course.'

‘Who says I am voting for Raila? Or anyone else?'

Joshua looked up from the page. ‘You are joking.'

Kwazi busied himself with the newspapers, making them into a tidier stack on the seat of his wheelchair. ‘Maybe I am, maybe I'm not,' he said.

He was annoyed with Joshua for not helping him load the chair, and was in no mood for one of his election rants. Since
Joshua had become involved with Koske and his campaign to promote Raila Odinga for president, he'd seen little of his younger friend. When they did get together, Joshua was a bore, bragging about how he and his Siafu friends would harass Kikuyu stall-owners, painting slogans on their
duka
walls and threatening anyone who dared to protest.

Joshua scoffed. ‘Of course you are. You're a Kisii. You couldn't vote for a Kikuyu.'

‘Who says I'm a Kisii?'

‘You do!'

It suited Kwazi to be contrary at that moment. ‘Well, what difference does it make if I'm Kisii or Kikuyu or Luhya or what? I care nothing about the elections. Now let's go—it's getting light.'

Joshua remained seated. ‘How can you say that? It's very important that we boot out the Kikuyu.'

Kwazi looked at him and laughed. ‘Listen to you. They are all the same, these politicians. We booted out the Kalenjin because he was corrupt. Then the Kikuyu Kibaki comes in promising to end it. All the promises about this and that. And what happened?' He stuck his jaw out, but Joshua would not respond. ‘Nothing! Nothing happened. So don't tell me Odinga will do any better.'

‘I am telling you he will! Raila is a Luo. He will make a difference.'

‘Hah!'

‘He will make a difference to Kenya and he will make a big difference in Kibera.'

Joshua was referring to the fact that Odinga was not only a presidential candidate but sitting for re-election in the Langata electorate, which included Kibera.

‘What has he done for us in all these years?'

Joshua stood and threw his arms in the air. ‘What can he do with the Kikuyus running the government? Nothing. But when he is president, you'll see.'

‘Oh-ho. And what will I see, my friend?'

‘We will have jobs. Proper jobs. We will have money. You won't have to worry about your ugly face when we have money.'

Kwazi always feigned indifference to insults about his disfigurement, but coming from his friend, who should have known better, it stung.

Joshua continued, unaware of his insult. ‘When I have money I'll even take you back to Serengeti with me.'

‘Serengeti, is it?' Kwazi said. ‘Serengeti! What do you know about the Serengeti? You were born here in Kibera.'

‘But I have chosen the Serengeti as my homeland.'

Kwazi was in no mood for another of Joshua's flights of fancy. ‘You are the son of a Luo father and a Kikuyu mother. If you have a homeland, it's up in Mount Kenya or on the lake in Nyanza.'

‘Everyone must have a homeland and the Serengeti is mine,' Joshua retaliated. ‘One day I will be there. You will see.'

‘What, are you a Maasai now? Ah? Only the Maasai can call the Serengeti their homeland. Not a point-five like you.'

Joshua spluttered, stunned by Kwazi's use of the derogative term for a person born of different tribes. He had no idea his friend was reacting to the earlier insult.

‘So you can forget about Odinga and the elections,' Kwazi went on. ‘They will come and go and everything in Kibera will go on as it always has. We have nothing, and from the politicians we will get nothing.'