An exasperated snort. “So now I’m blind?”
“Look again, msee.”
“I’ve seen. For many years, I’ve seen. Move, move.”
“You never told me.”
A sigh.
Fourteen days later, under a pure blue sky, the travelers stumble upon a neighborhood made of neglected corrugated iron triangle-huts fringed by several giant-milkweed bushes with white-and-purple flowers in bloom. In the center of a field, a tattered red, black, green, and white flag quivers on a rusting pole. They stroll past it. Their camel scans the world in small increments, its mouth in the shape of an “O.”
The desert’s transitory rivers and lakes evaporate.
Within sight of what had been Wuoth Ogik, a spread-out acacia sprouts green life. In there, a colony of gossipy weavers admonish the world from nests hanging like grass fruits. Roaming winds there ambush a timeless, dense, solitary airstream heading toward the Indian Ocean and pass above a trader and his grizzled, turbaned friend slumbering on the remains of a guitar in one of the day shadows of Mount Kulal. The bluster of air currents flanking the country disturbs the quiet care of a graying midwife crouched in front of a long-limbed, panting woman who has just given birth to twins — a boy and a girl, who emerged with little arms entwined around each other. The winds blunder toward Nairobi and become the tail end of an evening storm, the suddenness of which startles a pilot whose packed plane carries a lofty man from Brazil with a jagged scar that traverses his right hand and disappears up his sleeve. The thundershower pivots, and inside of three minutes swamps a squalid, downtown bar behind River Road, where accordions belting a gritty mugithi compete with Fadhili Williams on tape who croons, Hakuna mwingine zaidi yako, ni wewe, ni wewe wa maisha, moyo wangu na mapenzi yangu nimekuwachia.…
Acknowledgments
This book has been breathed to life through the thoughts, words, and deeds of composite souls, creatures, and landscapes:
Thank you to the Wylie Agency and Sarah Chalfant, who sought, saw, and believed, and then turned the story’s delivery into a cause. Dear Jacqueline Ko, for putting up with random ramblings with such tenderness and strength. To my brilliant, patient editor Diana Coglianese at Knopf, who peered through convoluted word thickets and shone light upon scenes while humanely killing assorted “darlings,” thus infusing order into a long, long tale.
David Godwin, your wily pursuit of this story covered four continents. That this book is in existence is evidence of faith moving mountains. Thank you. Binyavanga Wainaina, for whip-wielding tough love, daring, friendship, relentless faith, and a space-to-breathe residency; Jackie Lebo, for ruthless, brilliant reviewing; Kate Haines, for scalpel-edged insight and story sense — thank you, dear ones. Thank you, RL Hooker, for the sense of colored-in spaces and gifted story-sight; James ole Kinyaga, for interpreting the book of landscape for me; and Olivier Lechien, for a thorough, hands-off review.
Soul gratitude to you, my Amazonian comadres—Maryanne Wachira, Ann Gakere, Sheila Ochugboju, Claudia Fontes (especially for the “Reconstruction of the portrait of Pablo Míguez”), Saba Douglas-Hamilton, Caroline Ngayo, Deirdre Prins-Solani, Michelle Coffey, Shalini Gidoomal, Andrea Mogaka, Garnette Oluoch-Olunya, Marie Kruger, Nancy Karanja, Lucy Mulli, Beverly Singer, Doreen Strauhs, Ashminder Dhiawalla, Hildegaard Kiel.
Thank you, Marcel Martins Lacerda Diogo and Claudia (again!), for “Braziliana”; Langi Owuor, for “camel water poetry”; Jimmy Gitonga, for forensic imaginings; Amolo Ng’weno, David Coulsen, and TARA, for Northern Kenya experiences; the amazing staff at the National Museums of Kenya (Nairobi, Loiyangalani) and all those exceptional souls at the Kenya National Archives. To Chimamanda Adichie, Billy Kahora, Angela Wachuka, the Kwani Trust team. Annette Majanja, Parselelo Kantai, Keguro Macharia, Michael Cunningham-Reid, Dickson Wambari, and Michael “Kobole” Maina, my debt of gratitude.
To the many who fed my hopes and then unexpectedly crossed into unreachable realms — Mary Komen, Agnes Katama, Uncle Ben “Odidi” Winyo, Gichora Mwangi, Morris Odotte, Anthony Dzuya — supernal thank-yous.
Seed-planters: family, teachers, mentors. Daddy, irrepressible, eternal, dearly missed Tom Diju; Mummy, gorgeous great-souled story-woman, Mary Sero; long-suffering siblings who have survived some dangerous yarns, always love. Gilbert Kairo, life saver; Uncle Okoyo, who convinced a child that hares lisp and plot; Mrs. Saunders, who stuck five gold stars to a desperately shy student’s first poem; Margaret Odhiambo, who lit fires in darkness; Sr. Maureen, who tore open the essence within words; Ben Zulu and the ASDF, who demanded more from the stories Africa tells; Eugenio Ferrari, CM who asked, “The book?” Then prayed.
Nick Elam and the Caine Prize for African Writing family, thank you for the flame. Chris Merrill, Hugh Ferrer, Natasa Durovicova, Kelly Bedeian, and the 2005 IWP cohort — you salvaged story sense for me. I am indebted to the Lanaan Foundation for the treasured gift of time and place, and always to Beverly Singer and Jon Davis, for dragging open New Mexico’s doors for me, land of light-painted memory and enchanted friendship journeys; to all the students of the IAIA, for your beauty, inspiration, and the anvil of words; monks of the Monastery of Christ in the Desert, New Mexico: I needed the liturgy, the starkness, that silence. I needed your hearts and The Presence, thank you.
Brisbane! The 2010 Writers’ Festival community, the array of zealous readers. “Didgeridoo” Joel, Carien, Theodora Le Souquet, Joe Bageant, who summoned songs from darkness, and honey-voiced Christa, who pointed out a way. Later, the University of Queensland and Veny Armanno, for the gift of inspired space to create unfettered, Gillian Whitlock, for order out of chaos, and Paul and Kay Bertini, who made their hearts a sanctuary for a wandering soul.
A long but still an imperfect thank-you litany: Michael Onyango, Elly Kaniaru, Ken and Pauline Mbogo, Ebba Kalondo, Rob Burnet, Munira Humoud, Mshai Mwangola, Wambui Mwangi, Bettina Ng’weno, Ngwatilo Mawiyoo, David Oluoch-Olunya, Lucia Rikiaki, Reinhart Kisaala, Joseph Ngala, Joy Muballe, Reshma Khan, Shiko Kihara, Chris and Irene Okoko, Dodo Cunningham-Reid, Ludovico Gnecci, Sarah and Tristan Callinan, Jin-Hee O, Aghan Odero, Atsango and Maureen Chesoni, Chiuri Ngugi, Giang Nguyen, Christine Bala, Kim Lee Seok, Gerry Gitonga, Kitenga Muhidin, Maina Kiarie, Georgina Okoyo, Nilofer Elias, Arthur Moke, Alphonse Ouma, Anto Poruthur, Jean-Marie Bilwala-Kabesa, Haji Gora Haji, Helen Peeks, Sammy Muvelah, Daudi Were, Guillaume Bonn, Debra Mugobogobo, Isobel Manuel, June Wanjiru, Kees van Velzen, Jane Omollo, Ntone Edjabe, Joan Vilakati, Mary Odongo, Chris Odongo, Emerson Skeens, Newton Osiemo, Musonda Mumba, Rasna Warah, Jael Alaro, Anna Okayo, Myra Mutsune, Wanjiru Gikonyo, Luhindi Sinzomene, James Murua, Alex Awiti, Emma Ganda, Onesmo ole Moiyoi, Julian von Hirschberg, Njalis ole Shuel, Salim Talib, Don Henry, Leah Gachui, Godrick Otieno, Paul Nyawade, Nestanet Tadesse, Gladys Gitau, Peter Kariuki, Pete Tidemann, Antoinette Kankedi, Tom Burke, Fiona Cunningham-Reid, Shailja Patel, Peter and Danielle Onyango, Esther Achieng, Rafique Keshavjee, Christine “Maga” Agallo, Eric Orende, Muthoni Garland, Jan Selman, Andrew Harrison, Monica Karanja, Davis Tashboya, Mercy Ojwang, Fellician Mabunda, Maryann and Marilyn Skelly, Martin Kimani, Tony Mochama, Mike Murnane, and many, many others who knowingly or unwittingly participated in this adventure.
Finally, thank you, Kenya — my canvas, haunting, rage, passion, song, impulse, yearning, love, frustration, and inspiration, and your fierce, fun, and fascinating peoples, who laugh at themselves, and muddle hard toward a good ached for. To “disappeared” Kenyans, the ones we prefer to forget. Thank you jo’ nam lolwe and denizens of our northern lands, gifted teachers and trustees of life; I beg your indulgence. I have reshaped trails, places, words, narratives, people, creatures, landscape, and names in order to carve out this story.