Softly Calls the Serengeti (39 page)

M
ARCH
2009

‘Isn't this great?' Riley's publicist whispered as he entered London's largest bookstore on Charing Cross Road. ‘I Googled you this morning. Your gig here is top of the sites. And look at that.' She indicated the queue at the register. ‘You're selling like hotcakes! Now, take a deep breath—I'm going up to introduce you.'

Riley had arrived late for the lunchtime launch after spending the morning working the phone and searching the internet for Charlotte Manning. He cursed his foolishness. It had been a hectic time since leaving Kenya, but he'd never doubted he would make contact with her when he was done with his commitments. But it wasn't as easy as he'd thought. What had possessed him to believe he only had to call the Oxford anthropology department to find her?

When the applause subsided, he began his launch speech.

‘I went to Kenya in 2007 for a few reasons, including to research a historical novel set there at the beginning of the twentieth century. But historical novels can be such a pain. One never knows where the history ends and the novel begins. So, instead, I decided to write a book about contemporary Kenya, inspired by the events of the 2007 post-election violence that erupted along tribal lines. Over thirteen hundred people were killed during that violence, many thousands more sustained terrible injuries, and almost half a million became what are called “internally displaced persons”, that is, refugees in their own country. Many of these are still too afraid of retribution to return to their hometowns and villages.'

There was not a sound as he paused to survey his audience. The faces raised towards his lectern were attentive. Apart from his beaming publicist, they were all strangers.

‘This is a damning condemnation of the country's political leaders,' he continued, ‘many of whom have been identified as instigators and supporters of the violence. Yet they continue to hold office and positions of power and influence.

‘The Kenyan people are friendly and welcoming to visitors. The country has much to offer the tourist. Some say Kenya is beautiful, while others might describe it as magnificent rather than beautiful—'

He could see the Great Rift Valley escarpment. He was there with Charlie.

The audience exchanged glances as the silence persisted.

‘I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, just lost my train of thought for a moment. As I was saying, Kenya has magnificent scenery, friendly people and is a great holiday destination, but there is an underlying ugliness that we must challenge in every way we can. I encourage you to press our government and those of other countries to…to demand accountability…'

Again, his thoughts faltered, and suddenly he'd lost the energy to continue. This morning's lack of success had affected him more deeply than he realised. He looked around the room and decided to wind things up.

‘Um, I'm sorry…it's all explained in the notes on the signing table. Thank you.'

Riley stepped down from the lectern amid generous applause, and was led by his publicist to a stack of books on the signing table. After half an hour, his mind was numb and his wrist ached. Still they came, book in hand and itching to chat.

‘Who would you like me to sign it for?' he asked for perhaps the fortieth time.

‘You could make it out to “Charlotte”, please, Mr Riley.'

The voice. Her voice.

‘Charlie!' he said, looking up at her in disbelief.

‘Hello, Mark,' she replied. ‘Congratulations.'

‘Thank you,' he said, standing to take her outstretched hand. ‘I've been looking everywhere for you and…well…How've you been, Charlie?'

She smiled. ‘Nobody's called me Charlie since Kenya. But I'm fine. And you?'

He nodded. ‘I'm okay.'

A snug-fitting black dress—too light for the weather that day—hugged her body underneath a tan leather jacket trimmed along the lapels with fake fur. The burgundy scarf tied loosely at her slender throat gave her face a healthy glow of colour—as he remembered she'd looked after a couple of weeks in the Kenyan sun.

‘You look great,' he added.

‘Thank you.'

‘I didn't see you in the crowd.'

‘I was passing and, well…'

‘I can't believe it! Just as I'm giving my talk.'

‘It's a small world,' she said.

He remembered their last night together. She was fresh from the shower in the white terry-towelling robe, her hair wet and with pearls of water glistening on her skin, his lips on the firm flesh of her throat.

She caught his eyes on her and flushed. Her fingertips fluttered over the silky smooth skin just below her ear where he'd kissed her.

‘How's your doctoral thesis going?' he asked.

‘It's Dr Charlie now, if you don't mind.'

‘Congratulations! That's great news.'

She smiled. It was the same smile as on the inside cover of her book.

‘You look great,' he said.

‘Thank you. Again.'

He struggled to think of something to fill the void his mind had become since her sudden appearance. He moved from behind the table and took her hand again.

‘It's just that…I'm so amazed that we've bumped into each other here today, out of all of the millions in London. It just proves my point about synchronicity, don't you think?'

She raised a shaped eyebrow. ‘Maybe. If it wasn't for Google.' She wore that I-know-stuff smile.

‘What!' he said, then laughed as he understood.

He drew her to him, holding her body close.

Charlie wrapped her arms around his neck, smiling into his eyes.

He kissed her.

 

A soft breeze played over the stony, dry earth of the Seronera parade ground. The short rains were yet to bring the verdant flush of new grasses, but Joshua loved the fragrance of dry grass and dust. It was hot, but he didn't mind. He stood to attention with his ten fellow recruits while the chief game warden made a speech about conservation, park management and the park's history.

‘The Maasai call this place
Siringitu
,' he said, ‘which means “the place where the land moves on forever”. The Maasai have always appreciated the beauty of the Serengeti; and it is you new recruits, gathered here today, whom the Maasai now entrust to protect that beauty. If you complete your training to become game wardens, you will have the skills necessary for the task. But it is how you use those skills that will determine the success or failure of your mission.'

Joshua glanced towards Mayasa, who stood with her hands clasped beneath her swollen belly as if to hold the weight of their unborn child. She had been determined to attend his induction, regardless of his pleas to avoid the heat. But his father was at her side, holding a large umbrella to shelter her from the Serengeti sun.

Joshua filled his lungs with the scent of the Serengeti—dry
grass; dust; the peppery organic fragrance of growth, death and rebirth—and looked above the semicircle of government huts to the endless, clear blue sky.

He blocked out the chief game warden's voice and listened instead to the voices playing on the breeze: the twitter of birds, the rustle of tree leaves, the distant bark of a zebra. The sounds of the Serengeti.

Perhaps the call of the Serengeti had always been present in his mind, but it was a call too soft to be heard over the din of Kibera. Now he could hear it. Every sweet soft sound of it.

In August and September of 2008, I spent a month in the Nairobi informal settlement area of Kibera while researching this novel. Although the vast majority of Kibera's residents are law-abiding, I was warned that to attempt to go unescorted into many parts of Kibera would be dangerous. I was therefore very fortunate to have the assistance of a number of people to enable me to spend time in Kibera and complete this research.

I wish to thank Michelle Osborn, who at the time was a doctoral student in Nairobi, Kenya, for her advice and her assistance in arranging for me to meet a number of individuals who agreed to act as my guides in Kibera.

The assistance of Jared Nyamweya during my visits to Kibera is gratefully acknowledged. Jared is one of the many private citizens of Kibera who selflessly devote their time and limited resources to provide community assistance programs within the settlement.

There were others who offered information and opinions on the political situation in Kenya but who have asked to remain anonymous. Their contributions are gratefully acknowledged.

Many thanks go to my editors, Nicola O'Shea and Kate O'Donnell, and my publishers at HarperCollins, Anna Valdinger and Linda Funnell.

As always, my agent and friend, Selwa Anthony, has been a constant source of encouragement and guidance, which is gratefully acknowledged.

Finally, I also acknowledge Wendy Fairweather and James Hudson for their support and feedback on my early drafts.