Literally World : Oh! Sweet Home
A short story by Gaylord Njui, Ajabu Africa News, posted October 28

Kenyans on Moi Avenue, Nairobi

I vowed in the name of Ngai the God of Kirinyaga never to land my feet in another embassy for a visa. Indimuli, my sociology lecturer, had vehemently declared in class that a lizard in Kenya cannot become a crocodile in America. “A university degree is not a direct ticket to the job market. That you have kales is not a surety that they will find their way to the kitchen of buyers.” Indimuli would expound. I had seen my friends who had graduated before me wriggle and wiggle from Wabera street to Tom Mboya street and back to their humble abode with contorted faces under the sullen sky. The signs of ‘tarmacking’ for a job were very vivid in my mind. They were signs of a still birth. It was like a woman carrying a tumour in her belly in the name of a baby.

I would turn in the middle of the night and shudder in fear of leaping into the harsh cancer of looking for a job. Sandwiched between six girls was not a cosy placement for me. A graduate and the head of the Demetrius family-elect was quite a tall order for me. My dad Demetrius expected more than I could deliver. He was the talk of the village for having educated girls to college level. He was bent on proving to his peers that he was a man of vision and insight. The rest of the girls in my village never went beyond class eight. Two or three had made it to form four.

My dad expected me to be a financial pillar and educate my two younger sisters. The fortunes from agriculture were dwindling and in particular coffee. Times were getting harder. It had ceased to be the black gold with the fall of the world prices and dad needed a financial pillar. There was no provision for a financial lizard!

I was meant to be a financial crocodile. To dad, a university degree was equal to a well paying job. I was a beacon of hope at our Kiarutara village. I needed a strong financial base to soothe my dad’s ego. But a sociology degree was a feeble tower to stand upon. A lawyer or a medical doctor would have been better. To me it would take a miracle to land a job, its pay not withstanding. I rested in the hope that wonders like day and night never cease to happen.

Born Paul Kahiu Demetrius, I was the only whipping boy of my father and a delightful son of my mother (Kahiu literally means knife). My father – Demetrius – was a real African man; tall, dark and strong with piercing eyes. He was fierce in his views and speech and had a boom box voice; sometimes garrulous and given to bringing the roofs down with his laughter. He was amiable, fast thinking and tough. If you weren’t well exercised, his handshake would break your wrist. The blackness of his complexion revealed the good looks of an African man. He was always hot on my heels to impact on my will, intellect and emotions what makes for a total man.

I was born and brought up in the slopes of Mt. Kenya. The streams with crystal clear water and the natural smell generated by the trees of the forest was a perfect antidote for every whip I received from my father. The lush vegetation was so beautiful that one always felt like sleeping outside except for the icy nights and chilly mornings. The Athi River, springing from Mt. Kenya always looked mystic, roaring as it headed down to the coast. From the slopes, one could see the sprawling savannah grasslands that were dotted with the oxbow lakes created by the zigzagging Athi.

With the agility of a cobra, I ploughed through books and pocketed my degree. The twilight of my university education had brought with it an opportunity to go sunbathing at the Coast. Hamisi, my classmate had regaled me with ogre-like stories. He would conjure up images of a rough mermaid-ridden ocean. They were stories of adventure and I desired to pay a visit. The one hour aboard Kenya Airways Boeing 737 was like a short stint in paradise. The ripples of sunlight were dancing through the Indian Ocean waters. Fancy tourists were sunbathing and pecking their star spouses in congratulation and recklessness. The sea was like therapy for their sore joints and broken hearts. The massaging movements of the water and the waves soothed like a lover’s caress.

The hotel we stayed in could not be described as a 5 star establishment, but we visited some of the world-renown hotels and what I had seen from the plane I was now seeing up close. This was the definition of the good life. Their beaches were exclusive and very clean; unlike Kenyatta Beach which was so crowded you could not even sit down. They lazed around reading in the sun, taking the occasional dip in the ocean which was a rich deep blue colour. They all looked extremely happy; not a care in the world! I liked this kind of life.

On coming back to Nairobi, the same ghost that had haunted my friends located me. Looking for a job became a monumental task. It was an unforgiving career that drove me to major offices and organisations with little to show for it. “Remember you are now the one to pay the fees for your sisters’ secondary education.” The letter from dad was a confirmation of what he had shared with me. “It’s now three months since we were last paid our coffee dues,” the letter continued. “I have also been told by your sister that you are flying to places.” He concluded.

Kenya highlands

Is this what life has to offer? Who started this sociology degree? It was not my choice. I was pushed into it. I needed a prophetic voice that would shatter the darkness that had hovered over my destiny. And the voice would be a voice calling me for a job. It would dispel the darkness of my starless destiny.

I had managed to buy a mobile phone. I needed to communicate with the outside world. Otherwise how would my expected employers’ voices find their way into my ears and my insatiable soul? Doing some tuition work among class eight students at Gachie was a major reprieve. I was hopelessly cheerful, yet with resigned persistence. I had managed to also buy a pair of shoes.

“Wairimu and Sophia have been sent away from school due to lack of school fees. Dad is also concerned that you didn’t come for December holidays. He is not happy at all. He fears that you have joined bad company. Please find time to go home.” My eldest sister who was married not far from home wrote me this short message. I removed the leather jacket I had on, (It belonged to my friend Timmo) and hooked it over my shoulder with a lazy finger. I ran the trembling fingers of my left hand through my short hair. I shot a glance at the short message on my mobile and then looked down. Icy tears ran down the gullies of my face and I flinched in fear and desperation. Fear of plunging into the unknown and desperation from shouldering mammoth expectations that were beyond my capacity. My dream of turning into a financial pillar had been turned into a mirage. But I fervently whispered, “I will make it in life,” as I paced up and down the room like a wizard.

Suddenly, Timmo burst into the room.”Wazzup Knife?” he quickly asked me. The question stirred the air and I shuddered. It was a gripping moment. “It’s a short message from home. My sisters are out of school and dad can’t comprehend that I am jobless.”  A light smile played on his lips and he started whistling an anxiety-busting, feel-good tune, “Malaika, I love you Malaika.” Timmo had a wicked dash of humour and we all broke into laughter. Then he said, “If you continue like this, the job may find you dead and buried. What happens to you is not important. What happens in you is most important. Do not allow joblessness, coffee issues, your father’s ego and expectations to happen to you. You already have a very taxing career of looking for a job.”Timmo said. With these words my emotions retreated into a quieter inner world.
Timmo always had a way of plucking out the truth, isolating it humorously and guarding it with the whole of his heart. He was a very present help in times of challenges. Timmo’s soothing words were a short term solution. Otherwise a job--- job--- job is what I needed for now.

I decided to go home to ease the tension that had built up. “What became of you since you left the university? Aren’t jobs there for graduates? I thought a university degree was as good as a well paying job,” dad expressed his disappointment. And as the night matured, dad came to the grim reality that joblessness had become a genie that we couldn’t put back in the bottle. A genie that was terrorising qualified good-looking youth with an unquenchable ambition. “What is the government doing to arrest the situation?” dad asked me with an unfamiliar sensation beginning to spread from the pit of my stomach. I pitied him. His ego had been beaten small. My twin sisters had not gone back to school for their fourth form after the December holidays.

We were in a catch 22 situation. The only option was to hive off a quarter of an acre and sell it or I get a job. Selling a piece of land would be the anticlimax of our progressive history. Mother confided in me about how our neighbours mocked us. To my beautiful sisters they would say, “Beautiful, brainy, absolutely stunning but yes, still at home without school fees; twirling their necklaces as if obsessed by ghosts.” As for me, their comments were even harsher. “He is like the red jungle fowl, the ancestor of all domestic chicken . . . he is neither here nor there with his worthless degree.” Dad had taken this as a man but my sweet mother was hurt. “Mother, all will work for our good,” I assured her.

“Now that jobs are not forthcoming, why don’t you get a visa to the U.S.?” my father asked. “I am told there jobs look for people. I am also told that the dollar is eight times superior to our Kenyan shilling.” And as the night wore away into the dawn of a new day, I became fixated on leaving Kenya for a life in the U.S or elsewhere as long as there would be a job! The shame had to be averted. I had to re-invent myself. There was no room for despair and hopelessness. I remembered the thrashing of my father and his tough training and I vowed to turn things around. I was not a weakling. My moment of reckoning was now! And as I went to bed, mother whimpered, “Please Kahiu…” with tears welling in her eyes, blurring her vision. The message was clear. I remembered Timmo and his sense of humour which more than made up for any challenges that withstood me. But he was now miles away and I had to stand like a man. And as I went to bed, I tried to break down sentences into legible sounds and slowly filter them until sleep came but there was no sleep. I would wait for day so as to sleep more in sunshine because the concerns of my home had made me sleep less in the moonlight. The few hours of the night became long silent hours but thanks to the crucifix I beaded my way through the night until it was morning.

Back in Nairobi, I went and shared with Timmo, my confidant, and as usual he downplayed the whole thing with a coy smile on his face. “It’s like a buffalo has trampled your ego into smithereens. The way you dashed home – ah! It was a mad dash. You ran home to explain failure that didn’t translate into school fees for your sisters and now the same issues have attacked your ego with the ferocity of a mini-hurricane. The frustrations are written all over your face! Your major assignment is to look for a job. That way you will arrest all those things you are calling problems.” He said as he read a magazine. He was also jobless and looking for one.

But like an unexpected visitor at midnight, a job with a tour company came calling on my mobile. I had applied for it earlier and forgotten. Amberkon Tour Company became half an answer to my dream of becoming a financial pillar. After two months training as a tour guide, I started off with a salary of 15,000 shillings but the tips were more than double that. Moreover being a multilingual – German, French, English, Kiswahili and my local dialect – came in handy to the tourists. And going by the number of tips that I got, the tension and anxiety began to fade away. I cleared my sisters’ school fees with one cheque. I bought my father two dairy cows and five sheep for my mother. Nobody remembered the U.S again.

Anytime I would go home, tears would shimmer in my mother’s eyes, tears of joy triggered by the washing away of bad memories of my jobless state in the past. She now had fond memories of financial uplifting. I was building them a new timber house. These latest memories had become a salve for her heart that had bled during the short stint when I was jobless. When her mockers came visiting, she would burst out laughing again. “Surely the red jungle fowl, the father of all domestic chicken that was neither here nor there has found a place to roost,” she would say, while serving sweet potatoes and porridge. I had taken photographs with many white tourists in the jungle and stuffed animals. My father kept them and would show them to his peers who had expressed their contempt at my ever making it. I had bought my twin sisters expensive jeans, eye pencil and mascara. They looked like queens to the chagrin of their mockers. That spell out of school for three months had become the much needed shot in the arm. They had resolved to work extra hard and their resolve had paid dividends. They had reduced the mockery in the village to just idle cocktail chatter, and when their results were announced the following February both had scored clean A’s. They were headed for the university.

University of Nairobi

On the other hand, my job was going great. Our advert on the Tourist Guide Magazine helped raise my spirits for adventure. “Close to the earth, nothing can equal the thrill and the calm of a tent in the African night. Our intimate private camps in scenic locations offer first-class bush cooking, hot showers, flush toilets in large two-person tents, 4 wheel drive vehicles and expert drivers/guides to go along with you on unlimited game drives.” From Maasai Mara it was Tsavo. From Tsavo to Amboseli! I sometimes wished Timmo was here to share this experience. A few months after I got my job he also landed a very lucrative position in a multi-national NGO and was immediately transferred to their New York headquarters.

It was a joy to see and hear apes gibber and a covey of partridges doing their surrealistic jigs. The gurgling of rivers with a parliament of owls screeching in the night was the perfect setting of an African bush. The crackling of a pine bonfire outside our tents in the moonless night with its lilac flames resembled man’s first illusions of paradise.

A flashy smile that pulls apart my thin lips as though they were elastic, exposing a singular pattern of teeth where the upper row narrows into a V-shape, became my trademark. I was very happy with my motherland. Taking the tourists through the paces of an African bush was adventurous. Giraffes, eland, gerenuk, dikdik, warthog, and kongoni marked the rich fauna in the African wild.

 Alighting from our Toyota 4WD with eight tourists one particular Saturday in the Maasai Mara was marked by unusual experience. We had just come from a very exhilarating drive in the park where the tourists had been pleasantly thrilled seeing a pride of lions hunt. Vivian, one of the tourists, in particular went wild and her camera never stopped clicking. However, the mood was about to turn for the worse. Near Hotel Mara were two game warders. From a distance, a herd of eight elephants were sand bathing with the male trumpeting to warn other intruders. On the east side there were two male buffaloes. They were engaged in a fight kicking up clouds of dust; it was a no go zone to any mortal man who valued life.
Other guides were explaining that it was a war of supremacy. There was a herd of ten female buffaloes not far from the war zone. All the cameras were capturing the different scenes while dangling from the necks of the tourists. I was enjoying every moment of this fight. It was a stark reminder of what I had gone through and come out victorious.

 The sky seemed more azure that it had been with the brilliant sun smiling benevolently as though nothing was happening. Silence froze over the heads of the eight tourists like a crystal chandelier. This was too much for some. Vivian, who I had come to admire, was the most concerned of all the tourists. She sighed, gasped and sighed again. A trembling of lips gave way to a frown. It was a frown that said, “Someone should stop this fight otherwise death will swallow one of them.” Suddenly one of the males was gouged in the belly and with a loud bellow of rage, it took off in the direction of the two game wardens. The winning bull, like an obsessed man never followed suit. But it went at high speed towards the herd. After all, why should one fight a defeated man? To Vivian, it was a reprieve; to me, the fight should have continued.

The defeated buffalo fixed its eyes on one of the two game wardens. Suddenly, as if supercharged, the dark-skinned four-metre long animal raced murderously towards him. Its wild mad-dash sent a thick cloud of dust flying in its wake. There are few things as terrifying as the intense fury of a dejected male buffalo. At the slightest excuse, it attacks at the velocity of a tsunami and the anger of disturbed bees. I was utterly stunned. The warden, an unwilling matador, stood in the beast’s path and had no chance of escaping as it bore down on him.

The warden let out a piercing scream and flung himself on the ground to dodge it, a survival tactic he had learnt. The animal turned and launched a second wave of attacks, gouging him on the thighs with its huge horns. It was in a killing mood. The man, as we came to be told later, could feel the strong pungent smell of the beast above him. His fellow warden, sensing death cocked his 303 bullet calibre rifle and shot in the air to scare off the enraged mammal. The beast froze at the sound of the gun fire. We were all shouting, “Kill it! Save him!” it was not time for animal rights. It was time for human rights to prevail. The animal fixed its eyes on its subdued enemy. This was very clear from Vivian’s sophisticated video camera. The animal only appeared rattled by the sound of the gun. It fixed an ominous glare on the warden, giving him a cold feeling then it turned around and thundered into the bush.

The game warden with the rifle and other people rushed to the scene of the attack. The man’s muscles had been torn apart with deep cuts on his face, hands and wherever the vicious beast had decided to gouge him. He had been trampled upon by a wild animal but he held on to life while writhing in endless pain. The thought of that attack just made my blood pressure shoot up. Danger lurks in this environment that necessitates an uneasy co-existence between man and animal. The man was air-lifted after half an hour and taken straight to the theatre for collective surgery.

As we all retreated to our hotel rooms, our heads were downcast. I was not very happy. Going to bed was like putting a video show of what I had seen in the day. The blood-curdling experience was beyond what my soul could bear. It was painful. I had not known the bush in this manner. I knew that the wild was very dangerous but the images of the attack on the warden were very scary.

However, as we woke up the following day to prepare for the next expedition, we had overcome the previous day’s trauma. We were very careful and we made sure that the warden was very experienced. A repeat of yesterday was to be avoided by all means.

“Oh my God!” Vivian’s startled cry brought us all to a sudden stop. “No, no please!” her second cry, followed by a scream brought us all rushing to where she had stopped. Thinking it was a cobra that wanted to make a meal out of her, I held a big stick, but what awaited our eyes was much worse. The sight was absolutely awful. An eland had been garrotted by a rusty wire, undoubtedly laid by poachers. Beside it the dusty, inert body of an impala lay, stifled to death by a blade-like noose fastened around her neck. Her lifeless eyes were glassy, saliva covering her beautiful coat. The heads were still tangled in the hangman’s noose they inadvertently walked into. Blue bottle flies were crawling in and out of their nostrils and eyes by the thousands.

“What a mess!” “Is it a curse?”  “Why did I come to the famed Maasai Mara?” Murmurs rippled through the shaken tourists. Vivian was now drenched in tears and sobbing uncontrollably. She vomited and I rushed to help her. This was a sharp contrast to the happy, smiling, and care-free girl she had been the previous night. The Luo traditional dance – Ohangla – with a traditional, one stringed orutu, a flute known as silili, a shaker tied to the leg called gara and ogengo, a circular rod played on top of a special wooden box had driven Vivian crazy and drowned the memories of a scorned buffalo gouging a man.

Luo traditional artist, Nyandundo, (center) being introduced to the American dancing styles upon his landing in the USA for the first time for president Barack Obama's innauguration ball by the Kenyan community held in Maryland.

I was shocked into silence. One day an animal is killing a man, the next, the slaughter of wild animals stares you in the eye. What was it about this bush? Was it really a curse? I stared at the macabre scene with a tired resignation. Fatigue set in me.

I had recited to the tourists the landmarks that made me proud to be a Kenyan: The many gold medals our athletes had won in international athletics meetings, the repeal of section (2A) of our constitution that had ended the ‘single party era’ and ushered in multi-party politics with a lot of freedom, the rich flora and fauna that could never be found anywhere else in this world, the world renown Maasai Mara Game Reserve that we were in. . .!

Vivian’s startled and perplexed expression sent a cold shiver into my heart. The confidence that had been building in me fizzled out sending me on a guilt trip. “It happens in Alaska among the bears.” I tried to defend myself but Vivian gave me a weird look that sent me sprawling emotionally. “But it also happens in Alaska among the bears,” I tried to defend myself again before Vivian and the rest of the group. “That’s no defence Paul. What I am doing here is my life. I am an actor in America and I was sent here by an organisation that wants me to do a documentary about wildlife and later do a film,” she opened up. “But what kind of documentary can I do on dead animals!” she continued.

“Ok, Vivian, but it’s the proper management of the parks that is most important though Vivian.” I said. “Sorry. I can’t accept that.” Vivian vowed. I decided to change the subject. “Eeeeh, how are the skyscrapers…”

Two hours later we were back at the hotel. I was having a drink by the pool. Vivian came out of the hotel and stood uncertainly not knowing whether to go for a swim or just relax and have a drink in the sun, but as soon as she spotted me she opted for the drink. She made a beeline for my table and sat down. After the harrowing events of the past two days we were a bit acquainted with each other. After she had ordered her drink, she gave me a stern look and asked me, “What are you doing among the dead? After all those arduous hours in the bush, I feel exhausted.”

Vivian showed genuine concern. “I wouldn’t say it’s appealing but it’s a start. Rome wasn’t built in a day you know.” I replied. This line of questioning was getting uncomfortable and I looked away searching for another topic to put up for discussion. However she may also have sensed this and she asked about my family. That moment marked the beginning of four of the best weeks in my life. We were inseparable from the very onset. We talked about anything and everything. I found out she worked with the Florrick Foundation and she also found out that my sisters had just passed the K.C.S.E with flying colours.

We just clicked. We finished each others sentences and it was as if there was a great force pushing us together. I did not dare call it love because in the back of my mind I knew that she would have to leave, and it would be painful. Ah! But I was getting too far ahead of myself. I was happy for now. The future would get here whether I wanted it to or not, so what was the point of worrying about it?

“Are you married?” Vivian asked me one day, three weeks later. We were sitting on a balcony in our room at the Tsavo Hotel, staring out at the waterhole where animals were drinking. The sun was setting over the horizon and it cast bright orange rays all over the sky as if to say “I am the king of the sky! Lest you forget this while I am gone.”

I pondered over her question for a second. “No.” I replied. Had I missed something? I stared at her but she was looking out towards the animals with a smile that she couldn’t quite manage to hide. “Why do you ask?” I said, trying to make my voice calm, wishing dearly that she could not hear the hammering in my chest as my heart speeded up. “No reason.” She replied casually, turning to face me with a dazzling smile. She seemed to realize that I was about to uncover her agenda so she changed the subject. “Have you ever acted in your lifetime?” She asked? I had been an active member of the Sayari Travelling Theatre Group at the university. “Yes I have been an actor since my high school days up to the university level.” I answered her. “You are a bright and outgoing young man. Moreover with your multilingualism you can be very effective in my organisation as an actor, like me, a writer and later on even a producer. Would you like to work with us?” My heart skipped three beats in succession. I looked at Vivian. With all sincerity, she was a screen goddess; that glamorous, gorgeous film icon. She looked it through and through. “I mean look at your life,” she continued. “Is this what you envision yourself to be doing in thirty years? Surrounded by so much death and agony?” it didn’t take a genius to know that she was right. For sure what was I doing in the bush?

Was it not only but half an answer to my dream of becoming a financial pillar? Was I going to wait for a rhino with its sharp pointed horn to gouge another game warden to death to know the signs of the time and move ahead? The signs were already written on the wall! I hated all the animals and the bush experience. I fumbled for the right words, darted my gaze and gestured helplessly. As quick as 1-2-3, my hopes of being a financial pillar got fired up. For heavens sake, what was I doing with a skulk of foxes, a sounder of wild boar and a rout of wolves – nothing absolutely!

Vivian had revealed to me that one film was worth millions of shillings. The fame and the money would culminate in celebrity status. Wow! I was ready to quit the highways of Kenya that were gridlocked with traffic, bumper to bumper. I was not a lizard; I was not a salamander any more. I had proved myself in the bush. It was time I moved to the U.S and walked hand in hand with Vivian. Act together the film I titled ‘The Last Flight of the Little Prince’. We would work together, make money and trot the globe as a celebrity couple while giving Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes a run for their fame.

There was no comparison between an actor and a tour guide. That salary of 15,000 shillings was not enough. There would be low seasons when it would be summer in Europe and business would crawl. With no tourists, the tips would be no more. It was an eye opener. But an actor in the U.S – boy oh boy! I would be on top of things. No more would our mockers wag and flap their tongues. I would spoil my dad with dollars and his ego would never know defeat again. There would never be another round of torments.
“I want to be like Brad Pitt, that movie icon and do some good music like Justin Timberlake.” I had gone hyper! Vivian was the highway to the land of opportunities. We forgot about the dead animals. We forgot about the game warden. We sat there till late into the night discussing the glamorous life of actors and actresses in Hollywood and every moment we sat there, I could feel that we were falling in love. I knew she felt it too. I could see it in her eyes. That was the best night of my entire life. She was leaving the following day, having extended her stay in Kenya for two extra weeks. It was part of my duty as a tour guide to see the tourists off at the airport. It was a tearful goodbye at the airport, but we had already made plans for me to move there. “I don’t think a visa will present much of a problem. Your credentials are solid.” She had told me.

Vivian had revealed to me that one film was worth millions of shillings. The fame and the money would culminate in celebrity status. Wow! I was ready to quit the highways of Kenya that were gridlocked with traffic, bumper to bumper. I was not a lizard; I was not a salamander any more. I had proved myself in the bush. It was time I moved to the U.S and walked hand in hand with Vivian. Act together the film I titled ‘The Last Flight of the Little Prince’. We would work together, make money and trot the globe as a celebrity couple while giving Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes a run for their fame.

There was no comparison between an actor and a tour guide. That salary of 15,000 shillings was not enough. There would be low seasons when it would be summer in Europe and business would crawl. With no tourists, the tips would be no more. It was an eye opener. But an actor in the U.S – boy oh boy! I would be on top of things. No more would our mockers wag and flap their tongues. I would spoil my dad with dollars and his ego would never know defeat again. There would never be another round of torments.
“I want to be like Brad Pitt, that movie icon and do some good music like Justin Timberlake.” I had gone hyper! Vivian was the highway to the land of opportunities. We forgot about the dead animals. We forgot about the game warden.

We sat there till late into the night discussing the glamorous life of actors and actresses in Hollywood and every moment we sat there, I could feel that we were falling in love. I knew she felt it too. I could see it in her eyes. That was the best night of my entire life. She was leaving the following day, having extended her stay in Kenya for two extra weeks. It was part of my duty as a tour guide to see the tourists off at the airport. It was a tearful goodbye at the airport, but we had already made plans for me to move there. “I don’t think a visa will present much of a problem. Your credentials are solid.” She had told me.

Her penetrating eyes, puckish nose and sensitive lips lent her a special charisma – a glamorous person indeed and whose dress was a perfect fit. In the meantime, my mind was racing with dreams of Vivian. I was already at the Grand Canyon shooting ‘The Last Flight of the Little Prince’ with the movie crews getting orders from me and Vivian.

The reigning Miss Kenya USA

The consular went through my documents with surgical precision and confirmed their authenticity. Then as though from a deep sleep, the consular nodded at the bank statement. She gave me a quizzical look causing me to twiddle my thumbs. Raising her scrawny neck she stamped “cancelled” on my passport and told me that my bank statement was fake. She then called the next person. I took a frozen posture like an iceberg while suffering a moment of temporary blindness. I came out of the place dejected.

I had been ready to punctuate my victory with a celebratory fist pump in front of my distinguished rivals but the show just flopped. The consular’s utterances and actions were blasphemous. Even my mother with her messiah-dependency syndrome could not help matters either. It was like the glamorous lady had put me in an ante chamber of the next circle of hell. I was no longer hanging in the jaws of defeat. I was defeat personified! “No more Vivian, no more movie-making,” I mourned. My voice went hoarse with lamentations. And as the taxi drove off back to the city centre, its rocking motion slowly lulled me into that mid-world between sleep and consciousness.

Had I erred on the side of caution and confidence? I was intrigued. I was groaning with anguish filing my heart. I had moved from excitement and happiness, to contentment and then suddenly dropped into a pit of hopelessness. It was too much doom and gloom for me.

“A lizard in Kenya cannot become a crocodile in America.” These words reverberated in my mind like a kayamba – the music instrument – playing at full throttle. Vivian called my mobile to find out the outcome of the interview. “They have denied me the visa to the U.S.” I told her. “Ooh no! It’s not fair. Its evil and a denial of human rights,” she screamed. It was the most haunting and depressing scream I had ever heard, drawn out and high pitched. She then broke into tears and my own rolled freely and she hung up. I trembled all over. My limbs became rigid and as I alighted from the taxi, the driver called me. “Sir is everything all right?” he inquired. “I’m ok,” I told him as we parted. I staggered into the matatu (public transport) that dropped me in the estate where I lived. I bought a packet of milk – I had heard that it had a way of bringing adrenaline levels down.

As soon as I got into my house I went into the bathroom and washed my face as if trying to wash away the pain. I raised my head and stared into the mirror. The face that stared back had a black, mask-like, expression, an indication that my ego had suffered the worst beating. Eating became a problem. I found myself sweating excessively and finally depression took over. I went straight to bed, leaving the packet of milk untouched.

I hated the consular with her scrawny neck. This was a case of paradise lost. My vision of ‘The Last Flight of the Little Prince,’ vanished in a whisp of smoke. My position was a tour guide and not a prince after all. It was difficult to settle for scraps. But I was headed back there and that was the truth! It was beyond Parkinson’s disease. It was a disease inflicted on my destiny by a mortal being. It became Destiny disease. The flight of swallows would fly above my head, reminding me of the Boeing 747 that was supposed to have taken me to Vivian, my beautiful actress.

I recalled the buffalo that had reduced the game warden into bits of flesh and I now felt the pain that the animal had to endure. It would stay in the bush outside that prestigious herd, always watching from afar but never able to join the herd.
Was it a case of gender? Is it that she didn’t like my face? What could possibly have led her to deny me a visa? Is that what she did all day, every day? Crush people’s hopes and dreams? Timmo had been given the visa without a hitch so why did she feel the need to deny me one? I could feel the anger building up in my heart. If I had a gun I would have shot down the consular. Vengeance was running in me like bad blood. Timmo called and the news sent him crushing emotionally. He had wonderful plans for me once I got to the U.S.A.

I called our office and extended my leave to three more weeks. I recognised the downward spiral of hate and depression I was heading into and realized that I had to do something. I went to a counsellor and paid him six thousand shillings to give me a dose of reality. I needed to understand why all this was happening. Every unanswered question was like an open wound and the unsuccessful search for answers was akin to pouring salt in them.

The plaque on the door read Dr. Martin Mwema, M.D. psychiatrist. I didn’t know what he was going to do but Timmo swore by his mental-healing capabilities. I waited by the receptionist for ten minutes and then I was ushered into his office. The doctor introduced himself, led me to a chair and asked how he could help. After I had poured out my soul, he sat contemplatively for a minute.
“Kahiu Paul,” he began, “you don’t gamble with reality. You can make it in this life. You will get other Vivians and get good children. Success is the ability to move from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm.” He gave me that piece of wisdom from Winston Churchill, the statesman of yore.
“You must be resilient. It’s the ability to come back after great disappointment and pain, after great loss or failure, and be truly alive.

Truly alive is the key! Now you look like a chicken ready for slaughter. A wet chicken indeed! Success is not a function of location. It’s a function of the position of your mind. Wake up young man and return to the bush.” His description of events in life and the way forward was decked with sufficient details. His counselling was littered with wisecracks and anecdotes. “Your problem is what people will say, Paul,” he would continue. “You are already tuned to NNC channel, Negative News Connection. It is a channel for the defeated! You have not been planted on earth to carry men’s approval. Arise and shine. Arise and act!”

“What you need, Paul is to reassess your priorities. Right now you have lost your perspective in life and you need to find it. This often happens when one experiences great emotional trauma. Think back to before this visa nonsense. What were your priorities then? What did you care about most?” that was easy. “My family,” I replied instantly. “That’s good. I want you to go visit your family. Take a few weeks off. Reconnect with them. Your family will remind you what you value most in your life. Just remember to be there for them and all will be fine. Come back after a couple of weeks and we’ll see if there is any improvement. Ok Paul?” I nodded numbly, “Good.”

And with that he was done. Quite frankly I didn’t see what a half-hour lecture would accomplish but I was desperate. I had to get rid of this anger and resentment somehow. So I decided to take the doctor’s advice. I packed my bags and headed for home.

It was a subdued home coming for me. I told my father that I had been denied the visa. But to my surprise he only smiled and changed the topic. When I asked him why he was so calm about it he replied, “I tried to tell you that it was a very tricky process. Without someone in the U.S to sponsor you, it is next to impossible to get a visa.” “But Timmo got a visa without a hitch!” I countered. “That was because he had his N.G.O to back him up. Kahiu, I may live in the village but that does not mean I am ignorant.” He said with a smile. “Now come and help me milk the cows. I may be intelligent but I’m still old.”

Slowly but surely I could feel the meaning of his words sinking in. He was my father so I guess I was naturally programmed to take his words as the gospel truth. As the days went by I didn’t think much about anything. The pain the wounds caused by the denial of the visa seemed to be fading into acceptance of the fact that it was not my fault. The problem, it seemed, was that I had taken it too personally. I, in my moment of endless anguish, had erroneously led myself to believe that I hadn’t done my best. But as soon as dad opened my eyes to the fact that it was not my doing, I began to feel less burdened. I could think clearer; I could see that I was just a victim of the biggest bureaucracy in the world.

My twin sisters, Wairimu and Sophia, were not around. I had been informed that they were in Nairobi but at that time my mind was in such disarray that I did not bother to ask what they were doing. A week into my visit, I was busy in the shamba picking tea when I was startled by loud ululations from our homestead. I didn’t want to speculate, because I was still emotionally fragile, so I rushed to see what was going on. At first I couldn’t understand what was going on. Wairimu was on my mother’s back, Sophia was on my uncle’s shoulders and they were dancing around in joy. My father was doing a dance which I had thought he was too old for. For a split second I thought they had gone insane but dad, having spotted me, shouted “They have been accepted! They have been accepted!”

It took an hour before everyone had calmed down, and another half hour until the elderly had caught their breaths, but one thing was unmistakable: The smiles on their faces indicated I was about to hear very good news.
“Kahiu,” my uncle started, still a bit winded, “Did you know what your sisters were doing in Nairobi?” I shook my head. “They were applying for a scholarship to the U.S and they succeeded in getting visas!” At this point, everyone looked at me warily, as if waiting for me to explode in a fit of jealousy and rage. To be honest, I also half expected it too, but what I felt was pure, unadulterated joy. I jumped up with such joy and enthusiasm that it sparked off another bout of dancing and singing, albeit much shorter than the last. I immediately knew why I was so happy. I had facilitated this mammoth step in their lives. My hard work had finally paid off. Maybe not for me, but my sisters were certainly the beneficiaries. And there was no way I could be jealous of my sisters.

“Who sponsored you?” I asked after everyone had settled down, remembering what my father had told me about sponsorship. “It’s an organisation called the Florrick Foundation.” Wairimu replied. My heart skipped a beat. “Really!” I said, trying to keep my face expressionless and my heart from bursting through my chest. A myriad of questions rushed through my mind. Could it possibly be Vivian’s doing? Could she have found it in her heart, even after I caused her so much pain, to give my sisters the chance of a lifetime? Sophia’s voice broke through my thoughts. “A lady from the organisation contacted our former high school. She said that the organisation she worked for was offering scholarships and Wairimu and I, being the best, had won!” she said enthusiastically.

I wanted to know the lady’s name, but before the words left my tongue Sophia said, “Her name was Vivian.” I could feel my heart swell with love and my eyes started watering. I conjured up an excuse to leave the room and rushed back into the tea farm where, in my solitude, I let the tears of joy and gratitude run freely down my face.Later that night I could not believe what Vivian had done for me, for my sisters. If there ever was a definition of true love, that would be it. That was the first night in weeks I slept without nightmares.

Two weeks later, I was back in Nairobi. I went back to see Dr. Mwema and inform him of the shift my family had made on my mentality. The six thousand shillings I paid him was worth it. I went back to work the following Monday, full of happiness. I had embraced my predicament through guidance and counselling.  Philosophy became a cool fountain that would quench my now thirsty brain. Even my fellow warders, thinking I would come back depressed, were quite surprised. The warden who had been attacked by a buffalo was also back to work. He was using crutches, but they did not dim his enthusiasm to work, although he was restricted to desk work. I went straight back to work. I took a group of tourists through the valleys, hills and plains of the Tsavo and I could tell they enjoyed their tour immensely. Although every time I turned around to face them I half expected to see Vivian standing there smiling back at me. I still couldn’t get my head around the fact that she had found it in her heart, after I failed her by not getting a visa, to sponsor my sisters and give them a life I could only dream of.

“Knife!” The receptionist at the hotel my company usually booked for us tour guides called me, dragging me out of my reverie. “You have a letter.” “Who is it from?” I asked, wondering who could possibly be sending me letters at work. “I don’t know,” he replied. “It arrived while you were on your extended leave.” I took it from him and ripped it open. Inside was a single sheet of pink, perfumed paper. The perfume was faintly familiar. Who could it be? I was sure it wasn’t my family. If they wanted to talk to me they would call. The only other person who knew they could reach me at my address was . . . Oh my Goodness! All the pieces fell in place like a jigsaw puzzle. The perfume brought back happy memories. I grabbed the letter, eager to see what it said. It was short and precise, but the effect on me was still profound: 

My Dearest Paul
It has been hard living here without you.
 Sometimes I just feel like getting on a plane and coming to Kenya, but I have responsibilities here that I cannot ignore.
I wish I had known your credentials would not be enough; I would have done something to help you.
I can’t call because the sound of your voice will drive me to tears so I thought a letter would be most appropriate.
I was able to get the organisation to sponsor your younger sisters’ visa applications in time.
I could not bear the guilt if something like that happened to your family and I could have done something about it.
Even if you didn’t get a chance, at least they will. I will communicate later.
My love for you hasn’t reduced in the slightest in time we will find a way to be together.
You are forever in my heart.
Love
Vivian.

Words could not describe the utter joy I felt at reading those words.  I read the letter six times over. There was a tear stain right next to the word ‘love’, and my own were rolling down my cheeks. I put the letter in my shirt pocket, close to my heart. Everything seemed so surreal, like I was in a beautiful dream that had no end. I climbed up the stairs to my room without even noticing. It was like I was floating on this invisible cloud of joy that nothing could destroy. I stepped out onto the balcony to gaze at the endless landscape and peace filled my heart. The sun, a huge fiery ball, hung low in the sky. The animals were lazing around the watering hole. I could not think of a more perfect setting.

 I finally realized it is life we need, to enjoy things and not things to enjoy life. I didn’t need to be a super star or a celebrity, to live a fulfilled life. I had all the love and support that anyone could ask for. I had the purest form of beauty a stone’s throw away; nature. I love the twittering of the swallows and the squeaking of the mice. I love the eland – whether dead or alive – with a passion. I love the buffalo, terrifying as they may be. I love every single thing about this great country of mine, my home. I am thrilled to say ‘I am proud to be a Kenyan!’

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