Rare Earth (9 page)

M
arc's taxi crawled through rush-hour traffic. Nairobi's official population was two and a half million. Experts with the international aid groups placed it closer to five million. But these numbers were just estimates. There had never been a decent census, and even this would not have solved the riddle.

Because of the drought, thousands poured into Nairobi from all over the nation. They entered the slums where their tribal groups were concentrated. They built hovels of plastic wrapping and corrugated iron and wire and concrete and wood. Billboards and fencing never lasted long in and around the city's poorer districts. They were torn down and turned into homes.

As a result, Nairobi had outgrown its road network, its power grid, its water system. Traffic jams were the stuff of legends. One could wait at the same stoplight for half a day.

The city had not had a real water supply for two years. Tankers served the wealthier neighborhoods each week, refilling the cisterns that topped every building. The city had become carved into a series of districts, each dominated by a tanker company who paid kickbacks to city officials so that the water system was not repaired. But slum dwellers depended on bore-hole pumps. Most walked miles every day for fresh water.

Marc arrived at the Sheraton compound to find Charles standing on the sidewalk in front of the hotel's guard station. Marc paid off the taxi and walked over. Charles offered a solemn greeting and a native's loose handshake. “Kitra and I owe you our lives.”

“Where is she?”

“Come.” He led Marc around the corner to an ancient Mercedes parked beneath the shade of a blooming tree. The car had once been either white or beige. Charles directed Marc into the front passenger seat, slipped behind the wheel, and asked Kitra in the back seat, “Have you spotted anyone?”

“No. Let's go. We've been here too long already.”

Marc turned to look at her. Kitra's features were a taut mask. He thought of all she had endured, and simply said, “I'm sorry about what happened last night.”

She glanced at him, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses, and said, “Thank you, Marc.”

Charles ground the starter, slipped from the curb, and joined the sluggish stream. Marc asked, “Where are we headed?”

“We have friends who wish to meet you. It is important that they decide how much to tell you about what we are facing.” Charles sounded apologetic. “Long before Serge was taken, we have heard rumors that your company is fronting for, well . . .”

“The bad guys. I know.” Marc leaned against the side door so as to be able to look at both Charles and the lady in the back seat. Seen in profile, Kitra's nose was arrow-sharp, her cheekbones slanted. Marc thought she had never looked more appealing. “Do you have any word on who these bad guys are?”

Charles glanced again in the rearview mirror before answering, “Sorry. No.”

“I don't think the rumors about Lodestone are correct.”

Kitra said, “After what happened last night, you still think this?”

“One bad man does not mean the entire Lodestone team works for the dark side. Don't forget, the other men didn't join in.”

Kitra inspected him from behind the shield of her sunglasses and did not reply.

Charles broke the car's silence. “We are taking you to Kibera, the largest slum in Africa. I spent my early years here. How many exactly, I cannot say. Just as I do not know where I was born, or when.”

All the car's windows were cracked open half a hand's width. The A/C did not work and the heat was fierce, but Marc did not lower his window any further. Young children were trained to approach as beggars, then reach into open windows with lightning speed and grab valuables, using knives or razors to slash away purses and backpacks and even watches.

Charles went on, “My earliest memory was of living in a drainage pipe with my sister. She was older and she looked after me. She taught me to hide in the pipe's shadows when she went looking for food. I do not know how old I was, perhaps three or four. My clearest memory of that time is her voice. Sometimes I still hear her in my dreams, telling me to never leave the shadows.”

They became locked in a jam encircling a massive roundabout. Charles turned to look at Marc, but it was unlikely the pastor saw anything of the car's interior. “Then one night my sister did not return. I remained where I was. I don't know how long. Days. I knew I was dying. Even so, I obeyed my sister and remained hidden inside the pipe where she had left me.”

Marc studied the world beyond the car's safety through the lens of Charles's words. A boy and a girl approached Marc's window, little stick figures with solemn eyes. Their skinny arms were rimmed with gaudy plastic bracelets, which they offered to him without hope. Marc pulled a bill from his pocket and passed it through his window. The boy took it and murmured what might have been a blessing, or a condemnation. The pair shuffled away.

Charles continued, “And then a new shadow fell upon my hiding place. A tall shadow, with a kind voice. I was too weak to see this person clearly. I felt hands reach in and take hold of me. Even in my weakened state, I knew I could trust these hands. Even though my sister had told me to trust no one. Even though I could not understand the words this tall white man or the woman who accompanied him were speaking.”

Kitra asked, “Why are you telling him this?”

Since they remained stuck in traffic, Charles was able to turn fully around and look at her. “You know as well as I do that a person who is ruled by fear does not last long in Nairobi.”

Kitra's mouth opened, but no sound came out.

The traffic started moving again. But Charles remained where he was until a truck beeped its horn. Charles resettled himself behind the wheel and started off.

Marc asked, “What happened then?”

“I was taken into an orphanage operated by World Vision. I was taught in their school. The missionary pastor and his wife, the couple who had rescued me, took me back to America with them. I could have remained over there, in safety and peace. My new family wanted me to stay. But I knew that God had rescued me for a purpose. My mission in life was to return and help others like myself. Young ones huddled in fear and hopelessness. With no strong arms reaching down to them.” Charles glanced in the rearview mirror and directed his words at Kitra. “That is why I speak to this man as I do. Because he has proven himself to be our ally, and he needs to know who we are.”

They turned off the main road and left the asphalt behind.

The lane was deeply rutted, so much that their car swayed and rolled and groaned as they entered Kibera. Most of the people who surrounded the car were walking. A few rode bicycles, all of which were laden with goods or passengers or both. The number of children was astonishing. Many wore precise school uniforms of navy tops and khaki short pants or skirts. Those who did not, the young ones in rags, stared sullenly at the uniformed children. The uniforms were neat, but faded and threadbare from multiple washings. The people they passed gravely examined the car for danger, then lost interest. The car rolled on, accompanying the afternoon tide of humanity entering Kibera.

Charles glanced over and warned sternly, “Do not look at these people with pity. It puts you up and puts them down.”

Marc acknowledged the truth of his instruction, but did not take his eyes off the vista beyond his window.

“The adults are returning home after twelve hours' work,” Charles explained. “The fortunate children come from school. You cannot fathom the sacrifice their families make so their children can enter a school and gain a ticket out of Kibera.”

The ramshackle houses were rammed up as close together as the refugee camp huts. The older ones were built of concrete siding with corrugated steel sheets for roofs. The newer ones were built from anything and everything.

“They walk three miles out at sunrise, catch buses into Nairobi, and work or study all day long,” Charles told him. “Now they walk back home from the bus stop. Their journey can take two hours each way. Now they will do errands. They must be inside before dark. That is when the gangs come out and take over the streets of Kibera.” Charles glanced over. “You have never experienced darkness like the night in a Nairobi slum.”

They passed a line a quarter mile long, people of all ages waiting at a public faucet. Their buckets and plastic jerry cans formed a colorful punctuation to the poverty.

They passed hundreds of storefronts, more people standing patiently in lines. All business was done through wire-mesh openings. No one went inside or touched the merchandise until first the money was handed over.

Ladies on the side of the roadway fried fish in rusty woks over open gas flames. Others sold items from filthy burlap sacks—onions, sweet potatoes, turnip greens, single cigarettes. Open-sided coffee shops played reruns of soccer matches on decrepit televisions bolted to pillars. The drinking houses were filthy and dingy and dark. Women leaned in their doorways and watched the car's passage, their eyes smoldering like their cigarettes.

Charles and his passengers slowly bounced into a dusty square. Surrounding them were what at first glance appeared to be just another dozen or so storefronts. They all sported the same rusting hand-painted signs as the shops they had passed. Only here the names were different. Red Cross. World Vision. Catholic Relief Services. Southern Baptist Mission Board.

Charles said, “These mission groups used to be located separately around Kibera. It has a nice sound to the people back home, how they are lonely islands in the sea of Kibera. But the gangs began attacking the mission workers. Some were kidnapped. So the groups decided they could better protect everyone if they gathered together. Now there are eight of these clusters. They have become centers of sanity. People pay double the rent to be close to these squares.”

Before Charles cut the motor, their car became surrounded with children. They besieged Charles with desperate joy. Marc had seen this scene any number of times back at the camp. Still, it amazed him, how the children responded to the pastor. They sang and danced and reached out to touch him, grip his arm, the tail end of his shirt, anything.

Marc and Kitra followed Charles and his children through an orphanage's open doorway and into a dusty compound. More children poured out of various doors. Charles squatted on the concrete stoop and allowed himself to be swallowed up by the kids. Marc climbed a set of steps so as to better watch how Charles sang and laughed and joked and listened, seemingly able to take in a hundred different voices at once. His dark eyes were filled with love.

Kitra climbed the stairs to stand beside Marc. “I have seen this happen many times, and still it astonishes me how the young ones respond to Charles.”

Marc observed, “He has heard his calling. He has obeyed his Lord. He is in his place, using his gift.”

Kitra removed her sunglasses and turned to face him. “You know your place, Marc Royce. But you fear yourself. As you should.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It is every soldier's burden. To have such power and remain human, you must temper it with the knowledge of all you have done. And will do tomorrow.” Her gaze was turned translucent by the sunlight. “You face the trial of David. How to hold fast to your faith when the power courses through your veins. When everything is within your grasp, even the power of life or death.”

Marc stood and sweltered on the courtyard steps, stunned by her ability to touch his very core.

Kitra nodded acceptance to his silence. “I am glad not to be you, Marc Royce. And Charles is right. I am glad you are here with us.”

F
inally Charles extricated himself from the children and led Marc and Kitra back across the square. They tramped down a dusty lane and entered a whitewashed church. Inside they found a group of elders similar to those at the refugee camp. These sat on the traditional carved stools in a semicircle to the right of the dais. Before them stood a trio of young women.

The church pews were full. Marc and Kitra were the only white faces. The congregation followed the proceedings with intense fascination. They glanced over when Marc and Kitra entered, then resumed their observation of the elders.

Charles led them to a pew at the back and directed their attention to the proceeding. Each time the elders spoke the people before them hummed a response, an almost musical choir to the elders' words.

When Marc had settled into the seat beside Charles, he quietly asked, “Tell me what I'm seeing.”

Charles smiled at him, vestiges of the previous joy from the children still there in his gaze. “The answer to your question is this. You are seeing a miracle.” He pointed to the man at the center of the semicircle, a true ancient who wore a multicolored robe draped over a black suit jacket. “That is Philip's uncle.”

“Philip, the chief at the refugee camp?”

“Yes, the same. Only it is not truly his uncle.” The time in the courtyard had sharpened his accent. “But the relation is very complicated. So ‘uncle' will do. His name is Oyango. Philip brought his uncle to faith in Jesus. This is a true miracle, but not the one I speak of now. The telling of two such miracles would take too long. So I will tell you only that for a young man to change the course of an elder's life is so rare that all the Luo tribe speak of it. They say it was not Philip, but Jesus working through the young man. They say this because Philip and the uncle, they both speak the same words. That Jesus reached through the voice of Philip and turned Oyango to the light.”

Charles crossed his legs and laced his hands over one knee. “The Luo tribe are Nilotic. Just like the Masaii—you have heard of them, yes? The Luo migrated down the Nile from the north. The first migration took place around a thousand years ago. There have been several more, the last during the Victorian era.”

“Philip spoke about it as though it was yesterday,” Marc recalled.

“Yes, that is how it is with people who remember through story. The children memorize the tale from the voice of an elder, who is chosen to be the memory of their village and their tribe. Each teller speaks the words in simple fashion, always in the present. Making the tribe's history live today. Even when the lessons are taught in a refugee camp. Even when their village is no more.”

Marc listened and studied his surroundings. On his other side, Kitra had gone utterly quiet. Overhead, a battery of ceiling fans turned in lazy circles, flicking the hot air around. The people seated before the elders rose up and bowed and said their thanks. As the group moved away, Philip's uncle raised one scrawny arm and gestured to the next group.

Charles went on, “When Christ comes to the Luo, the effect is
very
strong. Many Luo are Muslim; others still hold to the animism they carried with them down the Nile. Among many Luo Muslims there is still much witchcraft and superstition. When I tell you that Philip's uncle says he turned away, the words must be shouted to reveal the truth. He rejected everything from his past. He was stripped bare. He was brought to a newness that reaches back and changes not just him but his history. The change is . . .”

“Seismic,” Kitra whispered.

The unexpected word caused Marc to shift around, only to discover that a tear trickled down Kitra's cheek. He had the urge to lean over and brush it away.

Charles said, “The Luo believers are known throughout Kenya. They are very fervent, very evangelical. And something more.”

Marc forced himself to turn back. “More?”

“They are open to mysticism. Some say that God speaks to them. Directly.”

“Like the dream Philip told us about,” Marc said.

“Just so. Philip dreamed that his uncle would become an instrument of Jesus. A beacon to the world. But only if Philip shared his faith with Oyango. Normally such a thing would never happen, for a young man to speak with a clan elder about such matters. But he followed this dream or vision or calling and shared his faith with Oyango. The conversation lasted three days. At sunrise on the fourth day, Oyango asked Philip to walk with him down to the river and baptise him.”

Charles began rocking in place. “One month later, Oyango's village was suddenly evacuated. They were bused into Kibera. Dumped here. Promised a new village. Soon, the bureaucrats said. Very soon. That was eighteen months ago. In the Luo's tradition, the chief should be held responsible for not protecting the village. For Philip to claim that God had spoken through a dream and told him that the uncle would become a leader of all Luos and more besides, this was . . .”

“Absurd,” Marc offered. “Impossible.”

Kitra leaned forward so as to glare at Charles and demanded, “Why am I hearing this for the first time?”

In response, Charles held Marc with his gaze. Unblinking. Waiting.

Marc asked, “Philip has had a dream about me?”

On his other side, Kitra's breath was a swift blade of surprise.

Then a sound from the front of the room drew them around.

Philip's uncle reached out a clawlike hand and gestured them forward.

Marc was directed into a chair drawn up before the semicircle. Charles started to sit down beside him, then seemed to think better of it and stood at his right. Kitra did not come forward at all but remained seated at the back of the room. Philip's uncle glanced back and nodded, as though finding her decision correct.

Marc felt his pulse racing. Not out of fear. More like the way it seemed when he was being dropped into action. Supposedly landing in safety, there just to get his feet solid on the ground before moving into the free-fire zone. But adrenaline-amped with the uncertainty of what was soon to come.

Charles addressed the elders, his tone respectful. Silence followed, as if the elders needed time to digest what they had heard. Then one of the others, not Philip's uncle, spoke at length. Philip's uncle directed Charles to seat himself beside Marc. The elders talked among themselves, a low murmur with long and frequent pauses. As though the silence was as important as the words.

Charles said softly, “I have told them of Philip's dream. And of the message he gave before sending me on the helicopter with you. That we are to entrust you with the secret if you gave me the sign.”

The unusual words jarred uncomfortably in Marc's head.
Dream
and
message
and
secret
and
sign
. He settled on what was probably the most important question of that moment. “Secret?”

“That is for the elders to say,” Charles replied.

“Sign?”

“When you saved Kitra at the compound. That fits with Philip's dream.”

“Will you tell me what Philip dreamed?”

“That you were to become a hero for his people and bring them home.”

“Back to their village?”

“No, Marc Royce.” The black eyes glittered with an otherworldly light. “Back to
all
their villages.”

The uncle looked at Marc and spoke. Charles listened for a moment, then translated, “Oyango welcomes the man whom Philip has seen in his journey to the True World. He wishes to know who you are, and why God has spoken through his nephew, naming you as the bringer of miracles.”

Marc had faced a White House hearing. He had spoken to a battery of generals. He had made presentations to professional intelligence agents. He had briefed the most powerful men in the most powerful nation. But never had he felt so exposed, so
visible
, as now. Beneath an array of creaking fans, in a whitewashed church, in the center of the world's largest slum.

He told them precisely how he had come to be here. Who he answered to. And what he sought. Charles's translation formed a murmuring backdrop to his tale.

The elders listened with the unblinking severity of hanging judges. When he was finished, the silence clung to them with the heat until Philip's uncle said, “You search for answers.”

Until that moment, Marc had no idea any of them spoke English. “I do.”

One of the other elders said, “We must know whether his questions are ours.”

“No,” another said. “His questions are fashioned by Western minds for Western problems. Ours are Kikuyu and Luo and Masaii and Nubian. What we must know is, will his answers become our answers as well.”

The discussion reverted back to Swahili. Marc gave it time, then asked, “May I pose a question of my own?”

If the elders were offended by his interruption, they did not show it. Philip's uncle said, “You may speak.”

“Charles called this gathering a miracle. Will you tell me why?”

“It is a good question,” a rotund elder said.

Oyango shifted his colorful robes. “You know my tribe?”

“You are Luo.”

“It is so.” He reverted back to Swahili. Charles translated, “The blood enemies of my people are the Kikuyu. And the Nubian. All of the clans represented here are bound by tribal loyalty. The enemies of my great-grandfathers are my enemies, as they will be the enemies of my children's children. These things do not change. You in the West make alliances and you make marriages and you break them all. This is not the Luo way.”

“Or the Kikuyu,” one of the others said in English. “The first president of Kenya after liberation was from the Kikuyu clan. The vice president was Luo. These two tribes formed the largest voting blocs. They had an agreement. After two years the Luo was to become president. But what happened, after one year and eleven months, the president fires the vice president and all the Luos on his cabinet. He says they were incompetent and could not do their jobs.”

Another of the elders said, “And all the Kikuyu, they cheer. They say, this is very smart. Because they know, the Luo are not to be trusted.”

Oyango went on, “And the Luo, they vowed revenge. Just as they have for a thousand years.”

“This is not just politics, and it is not just in the past,” the rotund elder said. “A hundred and fifty years ago, the British colonial government brought in Nubians from Egypt. They gave these Muslims from the north this land here, Kibera, as their own. At the time it was an outpost far from the colonial capital of Nairobi. Now the Nubians are our landlords. So those Luos who are Muslim formed alliances with the Nubians. The Luo gangs and the Nubian gangs, they prey on the Kikuyu and the Kisii.”

“Yet look now at what you see.” Philip's uncle pointed to each of the others in his circle. “Nubian. Kikuyu. Luo. Luhya. Kalenjin. Kisii. All of us sworn enemies. Yet here we sit in peace. How is this possible?”

Marc answered, “Because of Jesus.”

“You are a follower of the risen one?”

“I am.”

The chief turned one way, then the other. “I accept my nephew's direction now as I did before. At the turning. At the new beginning of my life. I say we should trust this man.”

After a time of silence, the elder at the far end said, “Tell him.”

One spoke, then another, then a third and so on. Back and forth the exchange went, almost as though they intended to add force to their words by weaving the sentences together jointly. Those who were not speaking hummed a single note of emphasis, a soft sound from the savannah, from the African night, from the vast seas of grass and beasts and days without end.

Charles translated, “The land of our fathers is not just for growing crops and hunting game and building our homes. It is our heart. It is our blood. It is our fathers and our mothers.”

Marc said, “It always comes back to the land.”

They responded with a unified drumbeat of sound, a deep resonant force. One of the Kikuyu reached down and grabbed a fistful of dust from the floor. He held it out and spoke. “This earth is dead. It is infected with all the city's ills.”

His words were taken up by another. “This earth is infecting our children.”

And another. “It is for the children that we speak with you. It is why we ask for your help.”

Marc said, “Tell me what I can do.”

Charles bound the voices together into one continuous dialogue. “With all the villages represented here, the process was the same. A bureaucrat they had never seen before arrived. He walked the village. He smiled at the elders. He spoke kind words.

“A few days came another man. And another. And a third. This last man, he came with papers and with trucks and with guns. He told the elders that the land was not theirs and never had been. The men with guns herded them into the trucks. The man gave the elders the papers that promised new villages. And payment for the land that was not theirs. Enough money to build new villages and plant new crops.”

Marc guessed, “The money never arrived. Or the land.”

“Soon, we are told. Tomorrow. Next week. After the rains. But the rains do not come. Or the land. Or the money.”

Philip's uncle said, “We can wait no longer. Our children hear the city's call. Do you hear what I am saying, Marc Royce? Our children, they are forgetting their name.”