Vehicles screeched in the traffic, motorcycles weaving dangerously in and out of the road. The air choked him. Voices yelled, elbows shoved, faces frowned down on him. Those that knew better steered clear of him.
The billboards burned his eyes. The roads seemed flooded with blood. Leaden rods replaced his bones. He wanted to stop, just stop and die.
“Not yet,” said Kanana, only a step ahead of him. “Keep going.”
He did not know how far he had walked from the hospital. The sun had risen through the city smog. The endless hordes trudged up and down the streets at all hours. The Capital never slept.
He did not know when he left the city. He could only sense the change in the air. Instead of rubbing shoulders with the city multitudes, the eyes only watched him from afar, the fingers pointed from across the roads, from behind screens and windows. Trees grew out of concrete. His boots dragged him forward, Kanana always ahead, close enough to touch.
Through the suburbs Muthomi marched unmolested—they were safer behind their walls. The Authorities would find him. They made their anonymous reports on their devices. Someone would pick him up eventually.
Night came. Kanana led Muthomi to a waste bin. She found bottles of clean water half full, apples barely eaten, leftover junk food: a heavenly feast. Muthomi finally sat heavily on the cold concrete, drank and ate what he could. Kanana placed whatever remained in his bag. Muthomi slept right there by the bin, Kanana his unyielding sentry.
The waste collection truck rumbled down the street. Kanana shook Muthomi awake. Every part of him screamed in pain, but Kanana could not be denied. She had led him out of the city. She had fed him. Lose her, disobey her, and die.
The Capital was shrinking. The big stone houses gave way to smaller ones, then to metallic ones made from dilapidated, rusty bits of iron roofing and old canvas. Heaps of garbage lay everywhere. The multitudes returned, looking more and more like the people in his village: patchwork clothes, worn-out shoes, tools of their trade in sacks, or thrown over their shoulders, and sharp eyes.
“Do not linger here,” Kanana said. A gang was stalking them. They saw one lone, weak young man swaying on his feet, but carrying a bag. Might be valuable. Muthomi kept to the main roadway where they could not attack.
In the night, he followed Kanana, weaving between shacks, keeping to the shadows. The gang split up, searched for him, sniffing him out like a pack of hunting dogs. But it was easy for Muthomi to keep still: his feet bled in his boots. He was running out of water. He could sit wherever Kanana commanded and patiently wait for death.
“Let them have the bag”, said Kanana. Whatever was in it—leftover scraps from bins along the way—she tossed away. She pulled Muthomi up by the hand, leading him through more sheds and sacks. A whistle sounded a minute later: the gang found the bag. It would be good for barter. They had no more use for the boy. Muthomi trudged on.
Morning came. Now the masses dwindled. Only one vehicle raced past every several hours. The air grew heavier, the sun hotter. He kept walking, always downhill. He was running out of water. There were no bins to forage through anymore. And still, urged forward by Kanana, he kept on walking.
Until he couldn’t. He crumpled onto his knees, lay still...
***
They found him on the roadside, parched, starved, delirious. He was still alive, but barely. They argued about what to do. He looked young enough. Where was he from? Where was he going? Should we feed him? Give him some water at least? But nobody would touch him. He can be restored, argued one of the strangers. We could use the help when the big trades come. But who would take him in? Nobody had the room, or the food, or the medicine. What if he dies on you? Will you be responsible?
A decision was made: let us pray for him. The Creator will decide his fate. And so they did, holding hands, mumbling a healing prayer, and left.
But one of the strangers returned, pulling a cart behind him. He whispered his own prayer as he hauled the boy onto the cart. The Creator sends blessings in unexpected ways.
He pulled the cart, slowly, gently, hoping that no bumps would hurt the boy any further. He headed back to Okite, his home. Maybe the boy was going there too, he thought. When he is fully restored, he will tell us everything.
***
Muthomi woke up.
This was not the Heavens. A thatched roof, mud walls, the smell of smoke and soot. A dark, elderly woman’s face looked down at him.
As the pain returned into his body, Muthomi wept.
Why? The question burned in his mind. Why would the Creator give him such relief from life only to bring him back? Had he not suffered enough? Why let him sleep in empty darkness, turn off his pain and his thoughts and all his questions without answers, and then bring him back here? Why am I not dead?
He turned in the rough bed, his back towards the stranger, pulling away from her touch. She left him to his tears, shaking her head in sorrow.
At last, Muthomi slept.
***
“Say what I say,” Kanana commanded.
The strange old woman had returned. She brought with her a warm mug of porridge with a wooden spoon. Muthomi tasted it carefully: it was sweeter than his mother’s gruel, and he could taste something else in it, a spicy tang, unfamiliar but acceptable. An old man came in too, and sat on the floor beside the woman, watching him carefully.
“How are you feeling?” said the woman.
“Fine,” said Kanana.
“Fine.”
“Are you feeling any pain?” she asked.
Muthomi flexed his fingers around the mug, rolled his shoulders. They ached, but it was dull, distant. He noticed the bandages on his feet, wiggled his toes. Bolts of pain shot through him, but he bore it silently. He moved his tongue in his mouth, feeling the wet gaps inside.
“Eat your porridge very slowly,” said the woman. “Your mouth is healing.”
“What is your name?” asked the man....