“He will be fine,” said Mama Oti. She sat on an old wooden stool outside her house, a plate of boiled maize kernels balanced on her lap. It was late afternoon, and the village had slowed down in the heat. The elders dozed on the shady side of their huts, the children napped indoors, and the traders were yet to return to the village. Hot afternoons were usually very quiet in Ndoro Village. The ground shimmered in the sun.
Makena sat on the bare ground beside her mother-in-law, eating her own plate of maize. Business had been slow, Mama Oti knew, but Makena seemed to visit more often lately. She was a shell of a woman now. Her heart had boarded the bus with her son.
“He was my best and brightest,” continued Mama Oti, between mouthfuls. “He will show those university people a thing or two.”
“Maybe.” Makena kept a brave face. Mama Oti saw right through it.
“He is just like his father, you know,” said the old woman.
Makena ate her meal and said nothing. Mugambi had been a man with a cause, a man ablaze with passion. Once, Makena was proud of her husband. Now…
Mama Oti chewed the sweet, soft kernels slowly. “My grandmother,” she began, “would tell me about birds singing in the trees, butterflies with eyes on their wings, bees hunting nectar for honey as thick as tar…” she chuckled. From where she sat, she could see the Ndoro tree, its gnarled branches reaching above the corrugated rooftops of the village. It must be hundreds of years old, she thought.
Every half decade or so, the tree produced small, red fruits that grew more bitter with every harvest. The old people—much older than herself—believed that in the time before time, when the Creator planted the tree and made it grow, its fruits were the size of a man’s head, sweeter than the sweetest honey. All year round, the tree was heavy with fruit, until man’s greed seeped into the land, and the tree refused to nourish mankind.
The tree was still standing because there still was the hope that one day, man would redeem himself, and the Ndoro tree would be restored once more. Mama Oti wondered whether there was anyone left that believed that anymore.
“We bring misery upon ourselves, and then we complain,” she said. “It is we who must uproot ourselves from it. We are not too far gone yet, not while a Njema walks the earth.”
Makena set her plate aside and stood up. “Enough with the riddles, Mama,” she said.
“Why did you come here then?”
Makena sighed. She really did not know what she had expected from her mother-in-law. She was numb; she needed to feel something, even if that was resentment.
“Your Mugambi is gone, and so is Muthomi, said Mama Oti. “Pity changes nothing. Sit down, child.”
Makena saw what was coming: yet another fairy tale. She knew that when Mama got like this, there was no getting through to her. She seemed stuck in a completely unfamiliar world, and the older she got, the deeper into it she went. Makena knew that she could not follow her there, or bring her back.
Sympathy was the last thing she expected to feel, but it came unbidden when she looked into the old woman’s eyes. Makena sat down and listened.
“A lifetime ago, my Moses was neck deep in his work, you know, his research. Our children were barely in primary school, and in my head, we were still on our honeymoon,” said Mama Oti. “I had completed my teacher training when Moses married me. I wanted to work in a proper school, but he said, ‘You will teach Mugambi.’” She laughed. “Teach Mugambi, as though our daughters were nothing. His son was his pride, his last born, and he knew his girls would be married off anyway. He was right.”
The old woman sighed. Makena saw every one of her eighty-odd years etched on her face.
“One day he came home, looking like he had seen the face of death. Who knows, maybe he had. He showed me the numbers, the graphs, he was worked up… I found it all amusing, and so I laughed. And then he slapped me.” Mama Oti winced, feeling the blow afresh. “Moses had no violent bone in his body, you see. Yet he slapped me, and did not apologise for it, and he never did for as long as he lived. It was only after he wrote his book that I understood what had happened.” She picked at the maize on her plate with her withered fingers. “My husband had seen the end of the world,” she whispered, “the end of his world.”
His own world, not ours. Not mine, Makena thought.
“My son was not ready,” she said.
“You were not ready,” soothed Mama Oti, “just as I was not ready either. Nobody can prepare for war, especially not a soldier’s wife or mother. We just happen to be both.”
A tear fell down Makena’s cheek; she wiped it off furiously with the back of her hand.
“Is that why you did it?” she demanded. “Did you have to meddle? It was not your decision to make. Did you have to force my son into that godforsaken school?”
“Did you not feel it, Makena?” pleaded Mama Oti. “The spirit of Moses has lived on through his heirs. He was right, he knew the truth, but he could not have known how fast, how soon the decay would spread through our nation. Muthomi must walk this path.”
Mama Oti held her daughter-in-law by the shoulders and looked squarely into her eyes. For once, there was no cheer in them.
“Muthomi will return to us. Who will save us, if not him?”
***
Amira Bundi pinched the bridge of her nose, shut her eyes, and sighed deeply. Her breakfast churned in her belly. It’s too damn early for this nonsense, she thought.
The monitors on her desk showed four restless, angry faces, all talking at her and over each other. They had been going on for an hour, driving Amira closer to the end of her wits. Calm down, she told herself. It’s not your fault that you are surrounded by imbeciles.
One voice piped up over the rest: “…and to make things worse, the attire that you chose for the orientation day. What would Clarence himself think? I’m sure that it was never his intention that the Chancellor of his prestigious institution would embarrass herself in such a manner…”
That was Reverend Bishop Nkatha Mawira, always ready to share her thoughts about Amira’s fashion sense. She was obviously jealous, Amira knew, but she had to put up with it: CU needed a religious figure for publicity’s sake.
The rest of the board members muttered their agreements, although Amira knew that the gents had enjoyed the view, the bastards.
She leaned forward, spread out her arms to appease the group. “All your complaints have been duly noted, gentlemen and lady. I’m sure Kendi can sort most of them out with her exceptional PR skills. As for my impromptu speech, as far as I can tell, it has been harmless. If anything arises, you shall be informed. Thank you all.”
She tapped her finger on the far edge of the screen desk, and the faces disappeared. It was so satisfying to cut the Bishop off mid-rant.
Blessed, blessed silence. Amira exhaled and wondered, as she had a million times, whether her taking over the Clarence administration was her father’s cruel joke. He had always wanted a son after all.
Catherine cleared her throat as discreetly as she could. She always looked sorry for Amira, especially after scathing board meetings, even though they both knew that most of the time, she brought their wrath on herself.
Amira knew better though. Miss Kate Kendi–CU graduate, Public Relations Extraordinaire who made waves in her industry before she turned 21, and one of the leading communications specialists in Eastern Africa—felt only one thing for Amira Bundi: envy.
Amira had been leaving work when she passed by Kendi’s office and overheard a snippet of a phone conversation. “We are age mates, almost to the day, but I’ve slaved to get to where I am,” Kendi vented. “All Amira had to do for her success was be born.”
“That will be all, Kendi,” Amira sighed; she was exhausted. “You know what to do. If there’s anything you need, message me.”
“Yes, madam,” squeaked Kendi. She gathered her Silvertouch and handbag, rose from her seat beside her boss, and strode towards the door, her heels muted by the carpet. She nearly bumped head-first into Jim Talla at the door.
“Watch where you’re going, little lady!”
Kendi could feel the easy laughter in his deep voice. She could barely look up at him, so tall he was.
“Sorry,” she said, and hurried away.
Jim looked at Kendi’s petite frame in her tailored suit, as she walked past the chancellor’s secretary and out into the corridor. “I think she likes me,” he said.
“So? How’s the boy?”
Jim laughed, but Amira, by the look on her face, was obviously not in the mood.
“No,” he said, striding towards the screen desk. “You really didn’t expect me to camp out with the vibarua, did you? I’m a third year, for fuck’s sake. What would my friends think?”
Isn’t it nice to be young and vain, thought Amira. Jim Talla walked around the desk and kissed her—or at least tried to. The Chancellor recoiled.
“I am paying you, am I not?” she demanded. Jim cowed at her tone.
“I just don’t see why you can’t get the damn print from him yourself—I mean, send Omondi.”
“I am not asking you to go sleep in the dormitory. I simply want you to befriend him, see if he can give it to you. I don’t want to interfere directly just now.” She was positive that her father knew of the breach, so why hadn’t he said or done anything yet?
Amira watched Jim as he sat in a chair beside her, leaned back and stretched out his legs. He still was not convinced, even though Amira had offered him enough cash to buy himself a sports car. He had a reputation to maintain, and to be seen with a kibarua would be social suicide,...