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Chapter 1. James -Nairobi 

One

James--Nairobi

We touched down in Nairobi after a long flight from Heathrow. I had slept little and fitfully on the flight down. I was excited to be coming back. I was nervous that my family wouldn’t love Africa like I did. The Air Kenya flight had been uneventful. We had gotten excited, poring through the in-flight magazines, staring at the photographs with pleasure. We enjoyed talking to the flight crew in their colorful and traditional garb. We struggled to read the Swahili signs and instructions. What little I had of the language was limited to conversational needs--hello, thank you, please, lion, and such. The basic needs. Pidgin English had always gotten me through. It is the arrogance of the Westerner to expect others to make the effort. We landed like an uncoordinated stork, bumping along the runway. I saw the gleam of excitement and anticipation in the girls’ eyes. These women were the beautiful stars at the center of my universe. Emma, my wife, relaxed and confident; blonde, green-eyed and small boned, with an elfin turned-up nose and a wide-eyed wonder. She was a woman of ineffable energy, who absorbed the world hungrily. She was a mass of ‘can-do’ excitement, untiringly curious, daring, and complex. Her dark moods were few and her laughter came easily. Emma was originally American. She had lived in England so long and had two English husbands, so she seemed less American than most teenage English do. Her accent was still there, faint, and muddled. It had transmuted over time into a mid-Atlantic drawl, not quite new world and not quite of the old. She mixed slang and jargon from both. I was sure she had forgotten the origins of many phrases she used. She had lost the brashness of her upbringing but retained the energy. She had absorbed the old world sensibilities but not the petty snobbishness. Emma still carried a US passport, a point I had argued with her about several times. She was simple in her reasoning; her roots were her roots. She could not deny them, nor did she want to do so. We occasionally struggled in sharing terms of reference; her childhood memories and experiences were so different from mine. Where I saw the world through muted eyes, she saw color. She brought the teenage energy of her country; I brought the heritage. Sometimes we missed each other’s nuances, but together we were a formidable team--new world and old, energy and sagacity, confidence and restraint. A constant conflict, yet a constant source of strength.

My gaze traveled to my step-daughter, Samantha. She was still Sammie to me even though she preferred Samantha now. It sounded more grown up. Samantha was her mother in miniature. From her father’s side, she had inherited the fine porcelain skin reserved for the English. Sammie was the future, a hybrid of both cultures. She was also at the cusp of womanhood, irrespective of nationalistic heritage, a much more powerful force. At thirteen, the gawkiness of childhood was rapidly loosing the battle with a pose of maturity. Emma and I had been married a little over five years. This trip was our belated anniversary present to each other. I had known Sammie since she was seven. I had seen Sammie grow from a mass of scabs, smiles, and tangled blonde hair into this almost-woman child.

I had held back this trip until I thought Sammie old enough to experience Africa fully. I held her care in my responsibility. I had promised her safe return to her father, Grant. He and I had a serious talk about the security issues involved in this trip. He was concerned but trusted my judgment to make sure Sammie remained safe. Her father and I had had reached a truce of understanding over the years. In a different situation, we would have been close friends. In the cauldron of this post-nuclear family, we circled warily. We maintained cordiality and shared parental responsibilities. I liked him, but there would always be an air of reserve in our relationship. We still both loved the same women--mother and daughter, ex-wife and child. We shared the onus of their care, me for now and the future, and him for their treasured past. I took my responsibility for Sammie’s safety seriously. Sammie was so used to our mixed up family that she just took comfort from having two fathers that treasured her. His passing of the trust to me on this trip was another burden of care I carried.

We struggled off the airplane into the terminal. We were traveling in low season and the heat and humidity slapped us with a fetid wave. It was hot and steamy. I smelt Africa again; that distinctive combination of dust, musky sweat, humidity and heat. Sweat instantly began to bead on my top lip and trickle down my back. Heat, humidity and the possibility of the ‘long rains’ made it the low season. Low season saw fewer travelers and lower prices. We were on a limited budget. I will admit I am an average architect. My practice ticks over but never enough to meet our needs fully, mainly domestic remodeling, and an occasional small commercial project. Emma’s royalties from her children’s books provide a slim supplement to our funds. We were trying to do Africa in both luxury and on the cheap; something had to give. Low season travel was the compromise. We would take the risk on the weather, and stay in better properties. After five years of delicate financial balancing, we were well used to the art of compromise. A late renewal of Sammie’s passport meant we didn’t have our visas in advance. We joined the queue for visa processing, weary but philosophical. It was Emma’s first introduction to African administration and she rolled her eyes at the inefficiency. Firstly, a queue for the paperwork, then another to reach the processing officers. You can only pay for visas in sterling or US dollars in a country hungry for foreign currency. It took forty long and steamy minutes to get through the paperwork. If the arrivals hall had ever had air conditioning, it had long stopped functioning. The deterioration of infrastructure is a malaise in Africa. Africans prefer to build anew or replace things when they are broken. The concept of routine maintenance does not come naturally.

Emma expressed curiosity as to what security checks they made on travelers before the authorities issued visas as no computers were in evidence. There was just a man with a stamp and a receipt book at the end of a long line of tired and frustrated travelers. I laughed condescendingly. I explained to her that it was not about security. It is just another levy, an additional way for Kenya to make money from tourists. African workers follow administration procedure painfully and unerringly by the book. Triplicates issued where duplicates would suffice. I had said it before; you could remove the visa process and replace it with an additional airport tax, which would be simpler and quicker. Africans don’t innovate with administration. They had no real experience or need for petty paperwork prior to the Europeans’ arrival. Kenya inherited moribund and cumbersome procedures from the English. Simple but lengthy procedures adopted from other parts of the Empire. This was the model they were taught. The African philosophy towards this system is simple; it works, they know how to do it, so why change? All it takes is time, and time is something there is an abundance of in Africa. Don’t worry, relax and go with the flow was my advice to Emma. You have to get used to the Hakuna Matata mentality. Africans get things done, but never quickly. Pointless paperwork, queuing, and waiting for approval stamps are as inherently African, as safaris and hunting. After visas, came the wait for passport control; bored eyes and a lazy stamp were all we received before we entered the mayhem of Kenyatta International. It is a grandiose name for what is little more than a provincial airport.

We gathered our baggage and walked out into the main hall. Drivers waving signs and the ever-eager taxi drivers hawking for business assaulted us in numbers. The newly arrived tourist is the best mark in town. One eager taxi owner who wanted to show me his English-style cab proudly pulled me over to it. I judged it as probably a mid-sixties model, bravely held together with fiberglass and hope. I smiled kindly at the taxi driver. “Asante. Asante Sana. Thank you but we have a friend meeting us.”

The hawkers were also hitting on Emma and Sammie for business. I cast around the hall looking for my man, shooing away the swarm of drivers, all trying to drag our luggage cart towards their vehicle. They dodged and weaved, all trying to get control of the cart. My hand stayed firmly on the handle. Our man was meeting us; I had made the arrangements in advance. Finally, I heard the voice I was waiting for call out my name. “James! James over here.”

I broke out in a broad smile of recognition as I saw my old friend and guide, Vincent.

Vincent bounded over with his big antelope hops covering the ground quickly. It was his trademark run. I knew he could cover vast distances across the African plains without tiring. He embraced me in welcome. Vincent was tall; lithe and painfully thin, not an ounce of fat covered his muscle. He was as black as a moonless night; the only colors you saw were the flash of his eyes and his white teeth. He was also, in my opinion, the best guide I had ever had, and I thought of him as a friend. This took Emma aback. I had kept my correspondence with Vincent private, as I wanted it to be a surprise. I saw Sammie shyly assessing Vincent, to her he must have looked an odd character; tall, black and adorned with tribal beads. Vincent was a Masai, regal looking, proud and athletic. He was one of the tribe that had forsaken traditional village life. He was a true warrior but had become quite westernized. He was the best of both worlds, a skilled warrior who could track anything, and an informative safari guide. I had first met Vincent years ago when he was still a trainee, over the years his quick mind and amiable manner had won him many return clients. Vincent now ran his own show as an independent guide. Vincent was the new face of Kenya, self-reliant and successful. Kenya is producing many of these new entrepreneurs.

Vincent swung me around without effort, holding my hand in the African way of friendship. He turned to face Emma and Sammie. Vincent looked at them and his face lit up with a huge smile.

“Jambo. Welcome, welcome Karibu,” he said. “You are so welcome to Kenya. Thank you for coming.”

Emma looked a little amused; she smiled and stepped boldly forward. You couldn’t daunt Emma for more than a second. At five feet two, Vincent’s long, lanky frame dwarfed Emma in comparison. What Emma lacked in height she compensated for in attitude. In many ways, she was the biggest person I had ever known. She thrust out her hand in greeting. Vincent brushed it aside and hugged her too; it was Vincent’s way. He was an unabashed hugger. It seemed such juxtaposition, Emma, small and fair, engulfed in the arms of this tall, dark and handsome warrior.

Emma looked at me over his shoulder and said, “Well, there’s a fantasy in here somewhere.”

I laughed. Emma always welcomed new experiences; throw her down in the middle of Africa, wrap a Masai around her without warning, and she could accept it without reservation.

Vincent was still chanting “Karibu, Karibu Sana. I am so pleased to meet you. You are Emma. Wife of James”

Emma nodded in agreement.

“Yes. Wife of James. Emma.” She echoed the rhythm of his speech instinctively.

“I am Vincent,” he said. To him this was explanation enough.

Vincent wasn’t his real name. Most tribal Africans adopt what they call their ‘bogus’ Western name; it is easier for the tourists. Vincent had told me his real name once, but like the tourist I didn’t want to be, I had forgotten it. Vincent was easier to say and remember for my lazy Western mind. Emma smiled at me in her adorable way. She had echoed Vincent’s rhythms not in sarcasm, but in her open and endearing way. She was truly happy. Vincent advanced on Sammie. She had witnessed everything and knew what to expect. Vincent wrapped her up in his bear-like hug.

She said quickly, “Hello. I’m Samantha. Daughter of James and Emma.”

Vincent lapped up her teenage poise. He stepped back in mock seriousness to examine her. He rubbed his chin and made admiring eyes at Sammie. She blushed.

“You are welcome Samantha, daughter of James. Karibu Sana. Welcome to Kenya.”

Emma looked to me to give her an answer for Vincent’s presence. I just laughed happily.

“Vincent will be our guide. He is an old friend.”

Vincent was already pushing our cart out towards the exit, all energy and excitement.

“Come, come,” he said and waved his arm in encouragement. “Come and see Kenya with me.”

We followed his trail, safe and secure. I looked at the girls; they were beaming with excitement. All in all, a good start, I thought.

It was unusual for Vincent to be in Nairobi; normally he picked me up in the Mara. Vincent was in town to train some young guides. He had stayed on to meet me, an auspicious arrangement. Vincent walked quickly even burdened with the cart. I had to stride, and Emma and Sammie almost jog to keep up. We approached our white minivan emblazoned with the driver’s logo. It had sliding doors, three rows of seats, a pop-up roof, and a small area for luggage. These vans are really better as people movers than luggage carriers, but necessity requires they do many things. Vincent was introducing me to the driver. The driver was shy and quiet. He shook my hand gingerly and set to loading the bags, cursing in Swahili at the other hovering drivers. I ignored it. He could fight his own battles. Vincent slid back the door and gestured us in, keeping up his babble.

“Welcome, karibu sana.”

Emma got in first and took the window side of the bench seat. Sammie got in next and shyly tested the Swahili she had been trying to learn.

“Asante. Asante sana.” Thank you. Thank you very much. Vincent gave her a huge smile. “Karibu, Samantha. Karibu Sana.” Welcome. You’re welcome very much. I slapped Vincent on the shoulder in thanks and climbed in.

Vincent habitually locked the door as he slid it closed. Nairobi did not earn its nickname ‘Nairobbery’ lightly. Thefts from cars and passengers are common. The code is simple; arms kept inside the vehicle to protect watches and jewelry and keep the door locked. I was closest to the door, if there was any danger this is from where it would come. It was hot, humid, and stuffy in the car, so I slid the window open for some air. The driver climbed in, and Vincent took the passenger seat. The van started and we left the airport towards town.

Emma and Sammie looked out the window, eager for sights. Kenyatta is like any other airport, the only thing marking it as African being the inhabitants. We pulled up to the security point. Emma and Sammie got their first look at something uniquely African. The security guard had a knobkerrie stuck in his belt. It is the club of the Africans. A heavy stick, about fourteen inches long, with a smooth shaft and topped by a heavy knob, offset at an angle. The knob forms the weapon’s striking point. A good hit with a knobkerrie can fell a leopard, and Africans ubiquitously carry it in the bush. It is also a security weapon of choice. Sammie pointed and I nodded, smiling. I had told her about the knobkerrie and now she saw one for real. Emma reached across and took my hand. I looked at her. She was smiling, happy and thrilled to be here. Africa was exciting them and delivering the experience I wanted. We left the car park and entered the madness that passes for traffic here. The local taxi vans crammed with people and even more hanging off the side. Trucks belching black smoke that would have had our EPA on their back. Old Renaults, Peugeots, and Toyotas shipped to Africa at the end of their useful life in Europe. Mixed in with this were the bicycles, sometimes with a passenger balanced on the handlebars. We saw hand carts loaded with market wares or vegetables. Our driver ably steered his way through the madness and on towards Nairobi town center. The roads were good in town, better than the last time I had been here. Vincent brought me up to speed. The new Government was spending money more wisely. Kenya was less corrupt than in the past. Corruption is as endemic as malaria in Africa. Africa has some of the poorest economies and richest presidents. The new government was trying to redress the balance. We traveled down the highway, with the Ngong Hills appearing over the national park.

I said to Emma as I pointed them out, “Those are the Ngong Hills. Karen Blixen. Out of Africa.”

Emma had watched that movie so many times and was determined to visit Karen Blixen’s house. Vincent turned in his seat to face us and told us the legend of how the Ngong Hills were formed. I was never sure whether his stories were true or invented color. He framed them in a way that you couldn’t disprove. He began with a qualification.

“Some of the local people used to believe, though I can’t say if it’s true or not.”

I laughed, try pinning that down in a court of law!

“They say that the Ngong hills were formed because their God got angry with them. He didn’t like what they were doing and so he struck the earth with his fist as a warning. That is why the hills look as if they are in the shape of a fist. Do you see God’s fist?”

Emma and Sammie looked intently. I had heard the story before and watched their faces for reaction. Sammie held her fist up to compare it to the profile of the hills.

“I see it. Look Mum. They are in the shape of a fist.”

Vincent beamed that big smile of his. Emma had to say what was on her mind. She always did without any censorship. I had often jokingly accused her of having Tourette’s Syndrome.

“We will see Karen Blixen’s house, won’t we Vincent?”

Vincent reassured her. “Yes, this very afternoon. Sure. Sure.”

Vincent reached over and squeezed my hand. It is the way of friendship in Africa. He was happy to see me and wanted me to know it. I got a strange look from Sammie who was not used to this. I squeezed Vincent’s hand back, then freed mine and patted his shoulder.

“It is good to see you too, Vincent. How have things been for you?”

Sammie interrupted us with a cry. “Look, look SD!”

SD was her abbreviation for step-dad. She had worked that one out herself early on. Daddy was reserved for her father, and she felt uncomfortable calling me James. She thought Step Daddy sounded weird, so SD it became. Vincent’s quickly spun to face what Sammie was pointing at so excitedly. Vincent was eagle eyed and saw it before I had even focused.

“Ah yes. That is a Dik-Dik. He might be small but he is very fast.”

Right next to the road behind the high fence that guards the park, was a very small antelope, no taller than twelve inches high. A Dik-Dik, small, fast, and agile, and a favorite snack for the carnivore that is quick enough to catch it. The Dik-Dik grazed contently impervious to the traffic racing a few feet away. Samantha had her first animal sighting. Nairobi is unusual in that it has a national park abutting the city where wild animals roam free. Lion, leopard and antelope live right next to the city. Poaching for food or illegal shootings takes some, but they remain there, as they would have before they built the city. Emma reached for the camera but we were well past it now.

“Don’t worry, honey,” I said, “we’ll get lots of pictures in the bush.”

She nodded her agreement. Vincent told them about the park in an answer to Emma’s question.

“Yes, a lot of animals in there. Lions, leopards but no elephant. We have no elephant in this park.”

Emma asked about whether there were any problems with the animals being so close to the city. Vincent laughed in his infectious way.

“Sure, sure, sometimes. Not long ago a leopard wandered out of the park. It killed a few dogs and terrified the local people. The wildlife service came and tried to capture it. They couldn’t, so they had to shoot it. It was a shame but the local people were concerned about their cattle. You can take no chance with a leopard. The leopard is fast and dangerous. Remember that.”

As if on cue, a small Masai boy and a herd of cows appeared in view. The cattle grazed on the grass next to the road. They were the Braham cows of Africa, with humped withers and floppy folds of skin around the neck. Sammie smiled at the sight. This is modern Africa, cows, goats, man and cars, all competing for the same space. Rural and city life, traditional and new, all colliding and fitting around each other.

I asked Vincent to confirm our schedule. I needed to make sure we had all the necessary vouchers we would need for the trip. Everything in Africa works on the voucher system. You pay up front, and the voucher confirms accommodations and trips with the relevant operator. I had learned a hard lesson a while ago, no voucher--no accommodation. It is the African obsession with procedure. Vincent handed me back the package of materials. I opened it and we ran through the schedule to make sure I had all the right paperwork. In Africa, you check and recheck everything. There is a saying, AWA, Africa Wins Again. It is a catchall to explain screw-ups. In Africa what shouldn’t go wrong surely will. AWA. Vincent ran through the trip and I checked the corresponding vouchers.

“We have today and tomorrow in Nairobi. You stay at the Norfolk Hotel. We will see Karen’s Blixen’s house today and the animal orphanage tomorrow.”

Emma nodded with reassurance on the Blixen visit.

I was following him and mentally checking off the vouchers as I went through them. Vincent had done his job well and all the vouchers were present.

“We have four nights at the lodge in the Mara, then back to Nairobi for your next flight. I must leave you at the Mara. That is my home. Then you go on with Zimbabwe.”

He turned and looked at me. “You are only with us for a short time on this trip my friend.”

He paused as if in reproach, then continued.

“I have made the bookings in Zimbabwe for you as you asked. Thank you.”

I could have made the Zimbabwe bookings direct, but I wanted Vincent to get the commissions. I replied exactly as I felt.

“Karibu. Karibu Sana.”

I owed Vincent. He had shown me more of Africa than any other had. Vincent flashed me another of his grins.

Emma was nervous about the Zimbabwe leg. The political situation there was a little shaky, but I had fought hard to have an edgy part to our trip. I really wanted them to do the canoe trip down the Zambezi, but making sure we stopped well before that dangerous old colonial lady, Mozambique. I wanted them to have their stories to tell, too. In Zimbabwe, we were to fly to Kariba via Harare, the capital. We would then take a five-day canoe trip down the river from Mana Pools. I had done the trip previously. I wanted the girls to experience Africa in its totality, to get beyond the camps and the fences into the wilds, to live, smell and breathe the real Africa I loved. It was edgy, but I thought safe enough. I had fully briefed Sammie on the safety procedures. She knew about the risks, as did Emma and Sammie’s father. He and I had discussed it at length. I knew the girls to be confident and capable; I had no concerns about that. After the canoe trip, we were to fly to Victoria Falls for the adrenaline pumping, African Disneyland, part of our trip. Sammie was excited about that leg of the trip, whitewater rafting, and bungee. I had made sure to include the romantic steam train day trip into Zambia. Emma would like that, even though I knew the romance was an illusion. Zambia is a poor and abused country. The steam train reminds you of the romance of the old colonial days, but the ragged, snotty kids begging by the side of the track bring reality uncomfortably into focus.

We fought our way through the downtown traffic and turned left into the approach to the Norfolk Hotel. The Norfolk has been a fixture in Nairobi since 1904, when the roads were little more than dirt tracks. Nairobi came of age late, with advent of the railway from Mombassa. Since then, Nairobi is everyone’s stopping off point as the entrance to Kenya. Many legendary names have graced the Norfolk--Delamere, Cole, Blixen, Hemmingway, Roosevelt, Markham and more. It has seen more tall stories and wild celebrations than most dockside bars. The Norfolk is an institution to the whites and black Africans now accept it too. The last time I had been at the Norfolk, she was starting to show her age, now she had the long overdue renovation and looked back to her fine old self. We were welcomed with cold fresh towels to refresh ourselves, and a tropical punch drink. This wasn’t standard as far as I remembered, and I smiled in thanks at Vincent for this little touch. His eyes acknowledged my thanks shyly and he lowered his head in self-depreciation. These little extras kept Vincent’s customers returning. Vincent had told me once about a woman who had visited Kenya every year since 1967. She always had the same driver, even though the driver was old now and needed young helpers himself. Vincent wanted this sort of relationship with his clients. Vincent was the best; people keep coming back to him.

I handed over the voucher, as was requested. I filled in the returning customer paperwork and entered my passport number. Our room was in the Delamere wing, a reputed name and a venerable tradition in this place. The Delamere’s had stayed through all the troubles and still farmed upcountry. It was the grandsons now, of course. The liberal and complex Lord Delamere of old was long gone. Delamere was a man before his time. He favored giving back the country to the Kenyans, people considered such a thought treasonous at that time. We followed our porter to our room, hungrily devouring the photographs that lined the corridor--Roosevelt with his kill, Hemmingway in the bush, Blixen riding a zebra. These were to many, the old, great days of African adventure. There hadn’t been as many rules then, so few limitations. Africa was a wild and free place, there for the taking, with endless ivory and hunting prizes on every plain. We hadn’t yet understood that we were not dealing with endless resources. The porter opened the room, like a well-rehearsed marionette, and ushered us in with a “Karibu. Karibu Sana.” Welcome.

The room was more than serviceable; it positively smelt of old colonial Africa with striped wallpaper and oversized dark wood furniture. The porter deposited our bags, but seemed in no rush to leave. I understood his hint. The Kenyans had caught on quickly. The ‘smile and hover’ were in anticipation of a tip. I pulled the unfamiliar Kenyan shillings from my travel wallet and gave him one hundred. This was generous by local standards where the average monthly wage is around five thousand. He seemed grateful enough, and he ‘asanted’ and smiled his way out of the door.

Emma was curious.

“How much did you give him?”

“One hundred” I caught her look of concern. “Tipping is pretty standard here but you don’t want to drive up the prices. One hundred as a small thanks. A driver gets about two hundred and fifty a day.”

I could see her running the math. She was quick.

“You only gave him about seventy five pence.”

“Love, he only earns about forty or fifty quid a month. Give a guy a fiver and he will follow you for life.”

“Oh.”

I knew the issue would come up again. She would want to know more and make her own judgments. She always did. We had interconnecting rooms, and Sammie had gone into hers to compare. She was back now leaning on the doorframe between the two rooms looking inquisitive.

I started to pull a few things out of my bag. I smiled at her.

“This morning we rest and shower. This afternoon we’ll get out a little. We’ll get an early night and be right as rain tomorrow.”

Sammie nodded her acceptance and went back to her room, closing the door for privacy. At thirteen, she thought herself all grown up. I stood and wrapped Emma up in a huge hug. I kissed her tenderly. She wriggled, faking disgust.

“Get off me you old pervert. You smell like a bear. Go shower already.”

I always showered first as I was quick and tactical. She had a more extensive regime. I grabbed my wash kit. I knew she would have my clean clothes ready when I came out. She mothered all of us. I stopped and scratched my head, feigning confusion.

“Don’t suppose it’s too early for a bloody do you?”

She laughed

“At eight a.m. No way, we’re on holiday!”

“Call room service, will you?”

She did. I shaved, and could hear her dealing patiently with the procedure involved in getting anything done in Africa.

“Yes room four-thirty-one. Four-three-one. Two Bloody Mary’s please and make them doubles. I know it’s early, but we have been traveling.”

Emma inserted an aside in sotto voce. “Not that’s its any of your business thank you very much.” She returned to the telephone conversation but I knew she still had her own dialogue running in her head.

“Yes, two, both doubles and light on the bloody.” She paused to hear the reply. “Just a little joke. What that means is...”

The hot water drowned her out. Damn I love that woman. I remembered an old saying. ‘Bloody before breakfast, drunk before lunch.’

She called out to me.

“Do we have shillings for a tip when he gets here?”

“My travel wallet is on the bed. But no more than a hundred. You hear?”

“Yes, dear.”

I washed the soap from my face knowing she would give more. In all ways, she gave more than most people. I felt better, if a little out of body after my shower. The bloody helped me get a grip. Emma was showering now. I walked in to the bathroom to watch her. I liked to see her through the steam; all pink, soft and soapy. It was a glass walled shower, perfect for a lecher. I watched her lathering her body and began to feel less out of body by the minute. I was thinking about joining her when Sammie knocked on the interconnecting door and came in. She was wearing a Norfolk bathrobe and had obviously showered, too. I could see her in the hallway mirror. She came round to the bathroom and saw me standing there drinking a bloody and watching her mother.

“You are a disgusting old pervert SD.”

I guessed that Sammie knew the mechanics of sex by now, but I wasn’t looking forward to talking about her first experience. That was one for Emma, but I knew I couldn’t dodge it--in for good, in for all.

“Absolutely,” I said, “and I hope to uphold that fine English tradition until the end of my days. We have been the world’s leading perverts for centuries. It is what our fine schools train us for.”

Sammie laughed and pushed me away. It was her way of showing me she was happy. I gave her a hug, she protesting at first that she was too old. I felt her snuggle in and in the reflection of the mirror; I saw her face, happy. Emma climbed out of the shower.

“Unhand my daughter you dirty old man.”

Like all men, I was sensitive to the accusation. There is something complex in the relationship of father to daughter--grown man to young woman, father to girl, girl to man. I had known Sammie as a child and now she was almost a woman. Our relationship was changing as she emerged from her chrysalis to be a full-blown woman. I saw Emma in her and part of me instinctively reacted. Sammie fake slapped me as if I had questioned her honor.

“Unhand me, you cad”

I responded in kind. “Away, you varlet.”

I am sure Sammie had no idea what a varlet is. I wasn’t so sure it was a real word myself. She got the drift, however her retort was theatrical.

“I shall away to a nunnery.”

I saw the girls’ smiles and suppressed laughter, mother and daughter mirrored in each other’s eyes. Two faces, one look plucked from the gene pool. Reflections and ripples of each other. They were a mirror to my soul. I joined the banter.

“Well, I only wanted to hug her so as to feel what you must have felt like before you got so old.”

It was a thin and dangerous line I was treading, but Emma was far too happy to be petty. Emma had her towel loosely wrapped and I flicked at her bare bottom with my fingers. Jet lag and the bloody were making me horny.

Sammie groaned.

“I’m outta here. Two oldies making sexy is grossing me out. It’s making me gag.”

Sammie retreated as if in disgust, miming fingers down her throat as if she wanted to vomit. Emma smiled at Sammie, love reflected dearly in her eyes. Mother and wife, lover and protector--a delicate balancing act. She watched Sammie’s dramatic exit. She kissed me tenderly, then answered the unasked but fairly obvious question.

“Later, honey, let’s go and see a bit of Africa first before you ravage me.”

We ate brunch on the Delamere Terrace, hungry even though we had eaten every four hours on the plane. With the time difference I didn’t know if I wanted cereal or steak, I just followed the menu prompts. We were amazed at the maelstrom of life we saw pass by us. A cart pulled by a young man stacked so high that he couldn’t stay connected to the ground. It was so heavily loaded that he moon-bounced to make progress. We saw an old man bearing the tribal scars of initiation on his face, like leopard claw marks on each cheek. I had a field day lecturing everybody on that one. Knowledge is power but it is also an incredible source of vanity. We saw Africa pass by us. The young dressed in the trappings of the west, the old, the crazy, the red teeth of the betel nut addict, the mommas’ bearing bundles of brightly colored cloth loads on their head, the poor, and the dispossessed. Most of all we enjoyed dissecting the tourists.

We had a game we played called ‘Where in the World.’ The rules are simple. You had to guess where a stranger comes from just by looking at them and before you heard their accent. Majority vote wins. In case of a three-way tie, someone had to go up and confront the stranger to find out. Some were easy. Some we guessed on stereotypes. Gum and sneakers meant American. Pale and bad teeth, ours, English. Blonde and big backpacks, Scandinavian. We allowed Scandinavia as a category because who could tell a Dane from a Finn. Some were tricky, an Italian or a Spaniard? That one was tough. We played, keeping score and awaiting an outright winner, as we breakfasted, lunched or whatever it was. I had another bloody, which caused raised eyebrows from Sammie. I was feeling the need to opine, Bloodies have a habit of doing that to me.

“To the most beautiful ladies in all of Africa. To my small tribe, the best there is,” I toasted.

Bloodies before breakfast, drunk before lunch. Emma rode with it with an enthusiastic grin but Sammie gave me the old-fart stare. The one that says that you are such the embarrassment.

I found it difficult to be philosophical about teenage truculence. Emma was much better at it.

“Sammie. I’m on holiday. Cut me some bloody slack! No pun intended.” Light-headed, I thought myself quite the wit. Emma gave the raised eyebrows symbol, the back off and leave it alone look. I relaxed. I sucked them both up like oxygen.

“To you two. Welcome to Africa. To the first day of our trip.”

They responded to the sentiment at least and raised their imaginary glasses.

We went back to playing “Where in the World” when we reached an impasse. I was sure the tall blonde man coming into the hotel was a well-traveled Englishman. Emma had gone for an Australian. How would you know the difference except for the depth of tan, was my response? Sammie was still on the fence. We waited for Sammie’s decision. Sammie hesitated, finally she decided.

“I am going out on a limb here. I think a white African. Yup. He’s African.”

I ridiculed her decision. It is, after all, a father’s prerogative. It is the last vestige of control over a soon-to-be adult. How would she know anyway, I challenged. The man came up onto the terrace. He was meeting the people on the table behind us for breakfast. We waited in trepidation to catch his accent. He spoke loudly.

“Jambo,” Hallo. “So good to see you again.”

No mistaking the guttural tone. I needed to hear more to say which, but South African or Zimbabwean, no mistake. This was a white African. Every crude vowel announces its shire. Sammie smirked with self-satisfaction. Damn, I hated it when she was right as she became so smug. We were forced to award Sammie that day’s ‘Where in the World’ award. We had nearly finished our meal when Vincent pulled up in front of the hotel. I could see him from the terrace. Vincent was out of the van quickly and antelope bounding up the ramp. I stood in greeting.

“Jambo, Vincent. We’re ready.”

I looked at Emma and Sammie. Sammie looked a little weary. Vincent waved his hands in the international gesture of no hurry.

“Take your time, enjoy. I will be in the van when you’re ready.”

Vincent squeezed my shoulder and left. I could see him laughing and chatting with the driver and the porters. The head porter’s uniforms had to be hot. He was dressed in a long green frock coat and top hat. Traditionally English, but not very practical in the heat. In this humidity, my shirt was damp and clinging to me. I didn’t like to think how hot the head porter was. Emma and Sammie scuttled to the bathroom to touch up their make-up. We did not allow Sammie to wear make-up at school, but weekends and holidays Emma treated her as a girlfriend. Double make-up meant double the wait for me. I sighed in resignation. I signed the check to the room and sauntered down to Vincent.

“They will be here in a minute. Just doing girl stuff.”

Vincent laughed.

“You are a lucky man James. You seem so happy. Well done.”

Vincent beamed his big white teeth smile. The girls arrived. We got in the van and went through the door locking routine. We were off to Karen in the Ngong Hills. Karen Blixen was such a legendary name in the area, that they named the town of Karen after her. I leaned back in the seat looking at Emma and Sammie. They were chatting excitedly with Vincent as he pointed out the landmarks. I couldn’t help smiling, God I loved them. Vincent pointed out the normal and the unusual--the churches sprinkled everywhere, the Anti-Corruption Agency, the hospitals, the storks roosting on the treetops, the national park, and the massive shantytown at the edge of the city. Vincent explained that over a million people lived there; eight to a house no bigger than a westerner’s bedroom with no running water or toilets. Even then, life seemed better to the inhabitants than from where they had come. Vincent cautioned us.

“Stay out of the shanty. There is much crime down there. It is a bad place.”

We left the rush and crush of Nairobi behind, and entered the rolling green Ngong Hills. The houses were bigger; large country estates, walled and gated. Without needing to ask, you knew this to be a wealthy enclave. Originally the homes of the colonials, these days wealth, whether new or old, bought you entrance. If you lived in Karen, you had made it, Nairobi style. Emma loved it. She said that the air was soft and the light beautiful. Sammie was interested in the large schools we passed with impressive English sounding names. Vincent explained that these were some of the best schools in Kenya. We passed a Masai village on the side of the road, just dropped there out of place and out of time. Again, the African juxtaposition, large manors and privilege right next door to a nomadic Masai village. Cattle and scarlet clad tribesmen mingled in with the Land Rovers and the country club set. Such is Africa today. The girls’ bright chatter kept up all the way. Soon, we were exiting the main road and pulling into the car park that marked the entrance to Karen Blixen’s house. Emma sighed in satisfaction. It had been such an ambition of hers to visit here. I didn’t say a word and I hushed Sammie, too. I wanted to hear Emma’s reaction. She just sighed happily again as we got out of the van, and got our first look at the house and gardens. Emma spoke at last. “Out of Africa. I fell in love with Africa when I saw that movie, and now I’m here.”

She was filming and talking to the video camera. She was expressing to her imagination, not to us. This, above all, was Emma’s private time. The moment seemed reverential. I have never understood her fixation with the movie. I admired Blixen well enough, but the movie left me unmoved.

We toured the gracious grounds of the rather humble house. Blixen’s house was fixed in time. It was a big draw for the westerners seeking the history and romance of Africa. To the locals, it was a double-edged sword. It reeked of the oppressive colonial past, but it drew hard currency. Modern Africans are as adaptable as their ancestors were. They trade off the history, while resenting the recent past. Emma floated through the grounds, the video camera glued to her eye. She gave a running narration for posterity. She talked of the bitter-sweet time Blixen spent in Africa in the early 1900’s. She panned out with the camera towards Finch-Hatton’s final resting place. Finch-Hatton was either Blixen’s lover or friend depending on what version of the story you believed. I left Emma and Sammie ‘oohing and aahing’ while I spoke to Vincent.

“How are things under the new government, Vincent? People seem much happier.”

Vincent knew me well enough to know our talks were confidential. He could talk openly. This was a new thing to get used to in Kenya.

“I am worried, James.”

I was surprised; everything seemed pointed towards a beneficial change of power. I was about to ask why, but Vincent went on.

“It is almost too good to be true. The first one hundred days of power have been perfect, given what we went through before. I am worried the people will expect too much, too quickly and become disappointed. After a long drought, you hope the long rains will come. A short rain season would be... well... a let down.” Vincent paused. “After President Moi, the corruption and everything, anything seems like an improvement. I hope we give the new Government enough time and room to try things. They are bound to make some mistakes. We just have to be patient.”

I made an obvious observation.

“Hell seems like a big improvement to me! The roads seem much better. I even saw new street lamps, and the mood of the place just seems less edgy than before.”

“You are right, James. Things are better. I just hope we give them enough time, is all. It is what the freedom fighters fought for. This is the freedom we wanted.”

I smiled. It was a wise man who said whoever writes the history controls the truth. To Vincent they were freedom fighters--to my parents and to others of that generation they had been terrorists. The Mau-Mau uprising with white farmers murdered in their beds. These had been the bogeymen stories for most whites growing up with family or friends in Africa. Kenya was a special place for me. My parents were to immigrate to Kenya in 1956, trading a farm in England for a plantation in the gentle highlands of Kenya. The climate there was mild but warm. The soil seemed to offer rewards and the country a healthier environment to raise kids. My father had already bought the farm, but my mother grew very sick during the pregnancy with my elder sister. They were unable to make the move, and they sold the farm to a Dutchman. The Mau-Mau murdered the Dutchman and his family in their beds, slashed to death horribly with a machete, in the home we had so fleetingly owned. Raped, murdered, and robbed, casualties on the road to Kenyan freedom. My parents raised me from the cradle seeing them as terrorists; to Vincent they had bought Kenyan freedom. I thought about this when I traveled to Africa, had we made that move, I would probably never have been born. AWA, Africa wins again. I sensed Vincent looking at me, seeing me lost in thought and memory. I rejoined the present. I answered Vincent’s unanswered question.

“Don’t worry my friend. Just ghosts from the past.”

Vincent smiled and clapped my shoulders. He understood ancestors and ghosts from the past. It was part of his psyche. He knew men had demons. Ancestor worship is still very common despite the wide scale Christian occupation.

“Hakuna Matata. Now you are at peace.”

He gestured towards Emma and Sammie coming out of the house enroute to the ubiquitous gift shop. “Now the ghosts have gone for you, James. You are a very lucky man.”

I returned Vincent’s smile.

“Yes, I am happy. I am lucky. I think... I hope, the ghosts and the demons have left me, but I don’t want to tempt them.”

Vincent brought levity back to the moment.

“I think you would be better keeping a watch on your daughter.”

I swiveled to stare at Sammie. She was chatting away to some amorous young Italians, late teenagers. The boys were old enough to be as dangerous as a wounded lion in a chicken shed. I didn’t need to play ‘Where in the World’ or ‘What’s my Motive’--another of our invented parlor games. The hand gestures and the leering smiles were enough of a giveaway. Emma was distracted, reciting her impressions to the camera for posterity, and had left Sammie to her own devices. This didn’t bother Sammie. They were swapping addresses, phone numbers, and email addresses. Time for me to intervene. Sammie, with a woman’s instincts, saw me coming well before I got to her. I checked to see if Emma might react before me. I was hoping she would rescue me, but it wasn’t going to happen. Emma was still waxing lyrically and continuing filming. I didn’t catch the words, but the sentiments were clear enough. She was back in romantic days of old British East Africa.

Sammie was busily flirting and swapping smiles and innuendos.

“Hey guys. What’s happening”?

I knew it wasn’t suave and sophisticated to teenage ears, but no other opening came to mind. Sammie huffed, she was tired, and the poised woman about Africa attitude was starting to break down--deep inside she was still a gawky teenager unsure of herself. I got the habitual roll of the eyes from Sammie. The boys laughed. They spoke teenager much better than I did. I gently ushered Sammie back towards Emma. Sammie earned sweet cooing goodbyes from the Italian lads.

“Ciao, Bella.”

I was impressed. With a line like that, maybe I would have laid someone earlier, rather than having to pour a lot of cheap sparkling wine into a reluctant and rather heavy girl called Belinda. I wasn’t ready for Sammie to be a Belinda just yet, different standards for my daughter.

I saw the boys’ father arriving late on the scene. I could see his wife also wedded to a video camera. Karen Blixen has a universal appeal it seems. The father didn’t need to speak. His eyes and hunched shoulders expressed it all. Italians have a special way of communicating through non-verbal expression. The father looked at me in consolation. His thoughts were clear. “How can I control the testosterone?”

I looked back in sympathy, “No way, pal. No more than I can control the estrogen. We couldn’t when we were that age.”

The best he and I could do was delay the inevitable. He shrugged his understanding and in a heavy accent, delivered the age-old alibi.

“Boys will be boys.”

I smiled and waved as we went back to the van.

“As girls will be girls. Ciao.”

He laughed. We had spoken the universal language of fathers. Sammie stomped back to the van. Emma rejoined the present with a question.

“What did I miss?”

She had finally turned off the video camera. She was seeing the present world again rather than the three-inch pixelled view of the past. Sammie sulked in the van. Vincent whistled in knowing ignorance. I smiled; this was family life as it really is.

“Nothing, honey. Your daughter’s honor has been preserved for another day.”

Sammie stared daggers at me. Emma looked back and forth between us.

“It’s a mystery to me. Fill me in when I need to do something,” she said

I laughed; no instruction book comes with a teenage daughter and a wife. We set off back to the Norfolk. Sammie was getting very tired and edging towards bitterness. Emma chatting about Karen Blixen and Out of Africa jollied her out of it. I heard Emma say that old line once again in her best phony accent. The first line from the movie.

“I once had a farm in Africa.”

We were all ready to sleep when we got back, no matter how early it was in African time. I had a brief amorous urge as we got into bed. Sammie was already in her room. It was still light outside. For a second tiredness and desire clashed in a conflict of manhood. I was still grumbling about a lack of satisfaction when I fell asleep. In the fuzzy, gray world of the almost-sleep, I felt Emma kiss my forehead. She closed the day with a eulogy.

“Sleep well SD. Sleep well my husband. We love you to the moon and back.”

I am sure I fell asleep with the biggest, self-satisfied grin on my face. If I didn’t, I should have.

The next day we were up before first light, we were still struggling with the time differences. Emma poked her head quietly into Sammie’s room. Sammie was also awake listening to her Walkman and reading a magazine. Sammie soon joined us for a communal wake up session on the big king-sized bed. We ordered coffee and hot chocolate, excitedly talking about the plans for the day. We had targeted today towards Sammie. We were to visit the animal orphanage and the Rothschild Giraffe Sanctuary. I hadn’t been to either of these places previously. Vincent had recommended them and Sammie had been very keen to go. We had showered, breakfasted and were already well in to a game of ‘Where in the World’ when Vincent arrived to pick us up.

Both these venues were a big hit with the girls, especially Sammie. At the animal orphanage, Sammie saw the young animals rescued from the Nairobi wildlife park. These animals had either gotten lost, abandoned, had parents killed, or had been beset by some other tragedy. Some had been there for a while and were tame. They cannot release these animals back into the wild. The rangers had newly rescued some of these animals and they were edgy and scared. The new arrivals still carried the smell and sights of the bush in their mind’s eye. I liked these best, as they didn’t feel like zoo animals. One young leopard particularly impressed me; swiping at us with his paw trying to back us away from his enclosure. I knew by his snarl and wild eyes that if I were foolish enough to go in there, he would nail me in a second. Sammie preferred the tamer ones. She had hysterics when a young lioness, fresh in from the bush, roared and mock charged Emma. Emma jumped backwards instinctively. The roar of a lion you feel as well as hear. It is a deep, rolling sound that reverberates in your chest. It brings a fearful memory back from the tribal collective consciousness. You are mortally afraid. You can never mistake the sound and you will never forget it. Emma sat down to recover. She was panting and had a racing heart. Sammie just loved it. She laughed about it for ages.

The highlight for Sammie was the visit with the cheetahs. I have it captured on video. The guide allowed us into an enclosure to pet a couple of cheetahs. They were tame. Cheetahs are beautiful, but they are the most nervous of the carnivores. A large, aggressive bird can chase a cheetah away from its kill; nothing would dare try that with a lion, or even a leopard. The cheetahs behaved perfectly, they rubbed against the girls’ legs like domesticated cats. The cheetahs delivered a throaty purr of satisfaction. The girls were thrilled to be handling such natural beauty. In unison, they looked up and smiled alongside their cheetahs as I took their photograph. It is one of my favorites of them together in Africa; I carry it in my wallet. My girls loved Africa as I had hoped they would. I put my arms around them both as we left the orphanage. They snuggled in on either side of me like twins. They were excitedly comparing experiences with each other across my chest.

“You guys happy?”

They both responded with grins, and by tightening their grip on me.

“Welcome to Africa, I said. I was tearing up a little. “I’m so glad you like it.”

Sammie got over the bonding moment quickly. She punched me in the ribs, then she said, “You are such an old softy.”

She was right. Emma still held me tight.

“I know and that’s one of the reasons I love him.”

Emma always said the right thing at the right time. We went back to the van, Emma and I linked at the hip and Sammie jogging ahead of us excitedly. Sometimes she forgot her intention to be calm and poised.

The giraffe sanctuary was also a huge success. This attempt to save something of the old Africa had become a tourist success in the brave new world. Here, visitors get to feed the giraffes with pellets on a special raised platform. The giraffes are around sixteen feet tall and very impressive at close quarters. Sammie didn’t like the blue gooey tongues dripping silver strands of saliva on her hand, but under the encouragement of the handler, she was soon busily feeding them. It is pretty hard not to respond favorably when you have such a large and beautiful creature literally eating out of your hand. The guide told us about the house we could see in the distance. It was someone’s folly. A vast Georgian style mansion, covered in ivy. It looked as if it belonged in the English countryside as a seat of an aristocrat. It now served as an exclusive boutique hotel. The giraffes had full run of the grounds, and guests could open their upstairs bedroom window and a giraffe would greet them by poking its head in. Emma wanted to stay there next time. I could only imagine how expensive that would be.

On the way back to the hotel, Africa gave us a warning shot over the bows; reminding us she is dark and cruel, as well as beautiful. We rounded a blind corner at speed to face a herd of cattle and a truck blocking the road. A Masai boy, no more than ten years old, had been feeding the cows on the verge. The cows had gotten away from him and milled onto the road. The truck had stopped to let them cross. We had rounded the corner fast and had nowhere to go. Earlier, there had been a brief rain shower, the water steaming on the hot tarmac. It had left a greasy residue on the road, making it slippery and treacherous. We weren’t going to stop in time, despite the best efforts of the driver.

“Oh shit.” It was the best I could muster. “Please, God, don’t hit the kid.”

Sammie started to scream. Emma sucked in air, her silent scream even worse. I felt Emma’s fear, not heard it. She was gripping me so tight that her fingernails drew blood from my forearm. The whole thing only lasted a few seconds but we seemed to watch in slow motion. The scene telescoping into sharp close-up as we fishtailed down the road. The tires were squealing as they fought for grip. The Masai boy in his bright red wrap tied around one shoulder like a toga, ran in front of us trying to shoo his charges off the road.

“Oh shit! Oh shit!”

I was sure we were going to hit him. I saw Vincent reach over with one hand and turn the wheel away. Instinctively, with his other, he reached back to try to protect us. Vincent pushed the wheel over, and we went past the boy close on our left hand side. It was so close that the force of the air knocked him over. We were slowing fast now. The tires had finally found grip. We couldn’t avoid everything in our path. It was a slalom course with no possible way of winning. We hit a cow with the front right hand side of the van. The cow flew onto the verge, bellowing in pain and confusion. The impact swung the van around and we spun. We hit another cow with the rear of the vehicle. This cow went down and its crazed lowing added to the panic and mayhem. We had our lap belts on, but the impact threw us violently forward. I put my arm out, holding Emma and Sammie back as best I could. The belt cut painfully into my stomach leaving a welt and a bruise. The combination of my arm across them and Vincent pushing them backward kept the girls in place. They were shook-up but unhurt.

The van stopped spinning with a final slither. I felt dizzy. We rapidly checked on each other. The rapid deceleration had bruised me. Sammie was weeping, unhurt but badly scared. Emma was uninjured. She stoically tended to Sammie, trying to calm her. The crash had also badly bruised Vincent. I didn’t know how badly, it was hard to tell with his dark skin. After making sure we were all right, Vincent was out of the car to deal with the aftermath. The driver just sat there mumbling apologies. He was close to tears. I spoke more harshly then I intended.

“Jesus, man, don’t blame yourself! There was just no way through is all. Now let’s get our shit together and see what help Vincent needs.”

That brief absolution, no matter how cavalier, seemed to help. The driver nodded, he was in receipt of an order and reacted to that. He got out of the van.

I looked at Emma. She nodded. She had Sammie cradled in her lap. I wordlessly signaled to Emma to keep Sammie’s eyes covered. She didn’t need to see this. Emma, strong as ever, gripped my arm with her free hand.

“Be careful.”

She noticed the blood from her finger nails wounds on my arm and said “Sorry.” With her other hand she pressed Sammie further into her lap, smoothing her hair to calm her, and blocking her view. Sammie still cried but less urgently now.

I needed to help Vincent. The brief and fragile silence was breaking. The crash had obviously injured one of the cows badly and it was bellowing crazily with pain. I also heard excited Swahili voices. I needed to get out there and help. The cow’s plaintive calls had started Sammie weeping more urgently. I had to see what I could do. I slid the door back, and saw the blood on the side of the vehicle. Behind the van, I found Vincent in the thick of it. He was holding the Masai boy and talking to him in their unique tongue. The boy was uninjured except for a scrape to his elbow. It bled a little but I am sure he had endured worse. The boy was babbling and pointing to the injured cow. The men from the truck were giving their excited commentary in strident Swahili. Our driver was trying to calm them down. Vincent was still dealing with the boy. The young Masai was trying to be brave, especially in front of a warrior like Vincent. The boy was also terrified of going home. He had to explain what had happened to the precious cattle. To the Masai, cattle are their lifeblood. Vincent had his hands full. The men from the truck were becoming angry, despite our driver’s best attempts to pacify them. Vincent cut me an imploring look. The bellowing of the injured cow was adding more mayhem to the atmosphere. I took in the scene quickly. The cow on the verge, the one we had hit first, looked dead. The rest of the cattle had moved on a little and were grazing. They were skittish but I knew they would settle quickly as soon as the lowing stopped. The injured cow was trying to get up. One leg was obviously broken; there were probably internal injuries, too. One of the truck crew was waving a panga around, the long, sharp, machete of the bush. Vincent stepped over to restrain him, the last thing we needed was an excited man brandishing a machete; someone would get hurt. The boy ran in between Vincent and the man, eager to protect his cattle. Order was rapidly breaking down. I walked over and took the machete off the man. I didn’t ask, I just took it and he acquiesced. The men from the truck went quiet. Country folk are still nervous in the presence of a white man.

I looked at Vincent and he shrugged his shoulders. Killing a cow would be difficult for him. He was a Masai. It went against what he knew, so it fell to me. I walked across to the injured cow not allowing myself to hesitate. I couldn’t afford to lose my nerve. I grew up on a farm and knew what I needed to do. I knelt down next to the cow. It tried to move away. I looked into its terrified eyes. It was in so much pain I had to act quickly to be humane. I grasped the cow around the throat feeling for its jugular. I found it instantly, pounding with blood. The panga was sharp. I quickly slit the cow’s throat making sure to sever the vein. The cow screamed at the further insult, then lay its head down to die. Blood pumped out, rich and deep red. The spray hit me and I felt the heat of its lifeblood. The first few gushes were violent as its heart was beating fast. The blood sprayed my clothes and face. It tasted hot, salty, and bitter on my lips. The blood slowed quickly as the heart failed, and the cow died. I stood up and turned around toward them. I looked like a character from a horror movie, Emma told me later, disheveled, and covered in blood carrying a wickedly sharp machete. I just felt exhausted. The sirens announced the arrival of the police. This would be a long day of African paperwork.

The Masai boy was crying now. He was trying to bite back the tears, wiping his eyes in denial. Vincent came over to me and took the machete out of my hand. Things were beginning to calm down as the police took control. Some of the Masai from the village had arrived. The boy’s mother or aunt was comforting him. With the simple hospitality of the bush, a Masai woman gave me water and a bowl, the water carried on her head in a large plastic container from the village. God knows how many organisms lived in that water, but I didn’t care. I washed eagerly and nodded my thanks.

“Asante. Asante Sana. Thank you so much.”

Her eyes acknowledged the thank you, but she said nothing. Thank you is complex in Africa. If you say thank you for a small kindness, they do not appreciate it. It means that you think the person would be too mean spirited to help unless you said it. To say thank you, demeans the act. To me this wasn’t a small act; it was a huge expression of compassion. I intended no offence. I was truly thankful. I couldn’t get the blood out my clothes, but my hands and face benefited from the washing. Vincent came over to join me.

I looked back at the dead cow. The mongrel village dogs had already arrived and were licking up the blood and eying the carcass. Nothing goes to waste here, that is the way of Africa.

“This is going to take a while. Lots of paperwork and I will need to visit the village. I will deal with it, together with the driver.”

Vincent cut an angry glance at the abashed driver standing within earshot.

“Don’t be hard on him, Vincent. There really wasn’t much he could do. It wasn’t his fault. It was just a bloody accident. AWA, eh?” I tried to break the tension.

Vincent’s dark mood vanished. His flashed me a smile.

“AWA. It always does. I’ll get you out of here.”

There was now a queue of traffic that couldn’t pass the crash scene. Some vehicles were beginning to turn around to find an alternate route. Vincent flagged down a tour van and spoke to the driver. Vincent waved me across.

“He will take you back to the hotel. I will call you later when we have finished.”

I expressed my thanks to the driver of our rescue van. The van was empty of other passengers; he had been enroute to a pickup. I heard the driver get onto his radio explaining the situation. Some tourist somewhere would get annoyed; their van would be late.

I gathered Emma and Sammie out of the crippled vehicle. It was going nowhere for quite a while. Emma held my hand in sympathy. The incident had shaken her, but she was a trooper. Sammie took in my bloody clothes and looked away in disgust. I knew I stank. I smelled of fear, sweat, blood, and death. I tried to shield her view of the crash scene as best I could, short of covering her eyes. I spared her some of the horror, but she must have seen some. It was inevitable. The flies had arrived and were settling on the carcass. The curious locals appeared, whole families, including the little children, watching the scene with interest. Blood comes early and often to African children. It is part of their life, along with malaria and a host of other lethal diseases. Life is short here, often violent and sometimes brutal. We left the scene gladly.

We drove back to the hotel in somber silence. That was the end of Nairobi for us. We needed time to heal. Emma and I discussed it after I had cleaned up and thrown out my clothes. There was no need for a doctor; we could tend to our minor injuries. Sammie was relaxing in a hot bath. The experience had traumatized her. We decided she would recover from the shock quickly. She was young and strong. We decided to go on with the trip, as long as Sammie agreed. I sat on the bed and drank a scotch neat from the mini bar. I wasn’t going to wait for the ice to arrive from room service. Emma went in to check on Sammie. Emma emerged a few minutes later. I was still sitting on the bed with a towel draped around my waist. I was on my second scotch. I needed to take the taste of death away.

“She wants to go on. She’s tired and wants to sleep. I expect it’s the shock. She’ll be fine. She told me to tell you something.”

I raised my eyebrows as a question.

“She says to tell you she’s very proud of you and that she loves you very much. She also told me to tell you, she still likes Africa, despite everything. She knows how important that is to you.”

I started to get up to go to Sammie, to wrap her up in an embrace. I loved her, too. Emma restrained me, but she was smiling.

“Let her sleep. She’s wiped out. She already knows how much you love her.”

I took Emma into my arms and held her tight. I never wanted to let her go. Emma tenderly touched my bruises and the scrapes on my arm.

“I better tend to those before they go septic.”

She got the kit and began to minister to me. We turned out the lights and a little later, made love gently and quietly so as to not wake Sammie next door. Celebrating life in the wake of death. We were in love and had survived. It made us grateful for each other. We slept afterwards wrapped together like spoons. I had a thought that was my salvation. Tomorrow we travel to the Mara. Sammie woke once with a nightmare. Emma tended to her. We slept with the curtains back, under a big full moon and African skies. I was ready for the bush. I always felt in more danger in the city. I hoped Africa had extracted her blood price from us and would now let us travel freely. I went back to sleep, dreaming of the wide-open plains of the Mara.

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