Daudi’s voice was low and calm. “That’s behind me now. I wouldn’t have come back if I didn’t want to take responsibility for my family.”
“What about Charles?” Uncle Kingoo interjected.
“Yes, him too. Charles is my oldest son, and I will take him to Molo, where the rest of the family are waiting. We should never have left him behind.”
Charles’s heart sank as he heard these words. How could he endure another round of drunken violence? It was much better to stay with his mother and grandmother, even if food was scarce. Fear of the future began gnawing at Charles’s soul as surely as hunger gnawed at his stomach.
The conversation inside his grandmother’s hut went on and on, and Charles could sense that his father was wearing his mother’s relatives down. At last Uncle Ndambuki said, “All right, you can leave with Rhoda, but you must keep your promise to mend your ways. And you must take the boy with you.”
Charles knew there was no point in arguing. His fate was sealed.
The following morning the Mulli family—including Charles—were up early. It was time to leave. A knot the size of a mango had settled in Charles’s stomach. The night before, his mother had told him they would take a bus to Nairobi and then another bus to the village of Molo in the Rift Valley. That was where his mother had been beaten and where his two brothers remained working at the Kavulu farm, owned by a rich white farmer. His mother had still more news for him. She informed Charles that his little sister Katumbi had died of a fever. Charles was shocked. What else regarding the move to Molo didn’t he know about?
Chapter 2
The Familiar Knot
Charles peered out of the bus window. He was on his way one hundred miles northwest of Nairobi to Molo, to a white man’s farm where his family worked. As the arid red landscape flashed by, Charles hoped for a new beginning. Even though he found it hard to believe, he hoped that his father meant what he said, that the seriousness of his mother’s last beating and the burns on Zachariah made him permanently want to change his ways. Charles also hoped that his mother would keep her promise that he could go to school at Molo.
It was late afternoon when the bus dropped off the Mulli family at the bus stop nearest to the Kavulu farm. But the family still had seven miles to walk. They did not have much to carry. Charles’s mother slung Zachariah on her back, and his father carried a sack holding a few vegetables. Charles had a small bag of salt his grandmother had given him.
As the sun sank, Charles followed his father along a path between white chrysanthemums that bloomed as far as he could see. “They use the seeds in the flowers to make a liquid that keeps insects away from plants,” Charles’s mother told him. A little farther on she announced, “We are nearly there.”
Sure enough, Charles soon spotted three mud huts in a field. They looked the same as the huts at Kathithyamaa, with their mud walls, thatched grass roofs, and holes for windows. Just a few yards away, two young boys were digging holes for planting. “Musyoka! Dickson!” Charles yelled, running toward them. The three brothers hugged each other and danced around. Charles turned to see his parents grinning. Perhaps, he allowed himself to think, this really will be a new beginning for us all.
“I will boil some vegetables,” his mother said, and to her husband she added, “You take Charles to his grandfather.”
Charles’s father nodded. “You will have to stay there. There’s not enough room in the hut for all of us,” he told Charles.
Charles felt fear rising in his chest. He could not remember Kaleli, his father’s father. What if Kaleli was like his father? Or even worse? Was the nightmare about to begin all over again?
It was dusk when they arrived at grandfather Kaleli’s hut. He was a strong man and very dark, like Charles’s father, with gleaming white teeth.
“I heard you were coming. I’m glad you are here,” his grandfather said, encircling Charles with a firm hug. Charles was stunned. In his whole life he could not remember anyone saying he was glad to see him. Perhaps things would be better here than he had dared imagine.
Charles and his two brothers played outside while his father and Kaleli talked inside. Then it was time for them all to go, leaving Charles alone with the old man.
“Sit here,” Kaleli said. “You must be hungry.”
Charles grinned. How good it felt to be offered food instead of having to beg for it.
Soon the two of them were sitting side by side, Kaleli on a three-legged stool and Charles on an upturned tree trunk.
“How old are you, boy?” Kaleli asked.
“Nine years old,” Charles replied as he scooped up another mouthful of delicious sweet potato.
“Ah, when I was that age, my grandfather used to tell me stories. Would you like to hear one?”
His mouth full, Charles nodded.
“A long, long time ago, there was a very poor little boy named Chochote. He had nothing, and he decided to leave his land in search of a better life. Chochote built a boat and sailed across the water. After many days he saw a small island and went ashore. There he found a wonderful paradise—with many fruit trees and happy people. He met a beautiful girl, the daughter of the king, walking along the beach, and they fell in love.”
Charles took another mouthful of food. He was amazed that his grandfather was telling him a story. No one had ever done that for him before.
Kaleli went on. “Of course, the king did not want his daughter to marry such a poor man, a man with nothing. But the princess loved Chochote, and eventually the king gave his permission for the marriage. ‘But first let us visit your family,’ the king said. Chochote worried that the king would change his mind if he saw how desperately poor his family was, but the king insisted. He called for his big boat, and the whole royal family, along with Chochote, set off across the water. They came to the village where Chochote’s family lived. They were now even poorer than when he had left. Their crops had failed, and no rain had fallen for months.
“When the king saw all of this, he said to the family, ‘If Chochote is to be my son-in-law, you are also my people. Come aboard my boat. I will take you all back to the island, and you can live with us.’ Chochote could hardly believe his ears. But the king made it so. He took the whole family to the island, where they grew strong and happy, and Chochote and the princess lived happily too.”
Charles sat smiling. He was delighted to have a full stomach and a story in his head. “Do you know more stories like that?” he asked.
Kaleli chuckled. “Many more. My grandfather told me many stories. I will tell them to you also. But not now. It is time now to go to sleep.”
Charles lay down on a pile of sacks. Although he could feel the bumps on the ground beneath him, he was happy. He drifted off to sleep, thinking about Chochote and the princess. How wonderful it would be if a king came and took his whole family to a beautiful island where there was food for everyone.
The following morning, wearing a big smile, Rhoda said to her son, “Come with me, Charles. I am taking you to school.”
Charles could hardly believe his ears. Really? School? Where he could learn to read and write? His mind whirled with possibilities. Perhaps one day he would be able to read stories like the one Kaleli had told him the night before.
“Put on these clothes,” his mother said, handing Charles a gray shirt with buttons and a pair of khaki shorts. They weren’t new, of course, but they were clean and tidy.
Charles stared at them for a minute, taking it all in. He had a uniform. It was difficult to believe. He really was going to school!
Charles and his mother, who carried Zachariah bundled on her back, set out walking along the road to the west. After about a mile, Charles spotted a long, low building with mud walls and a corrugated metal roof. School at last! As they got closer, inside he could see rows of wooden benches with long stools under them and a very tall man standing at the front of the classroom with a stick in his hand. “That is your teacher,” his mother said. “Do what he says, or you will get into trouble.”
Charles didn’t need to be told that. He had dreamed of going to school for as long as he could remember. His father had attended school to second grade, and his mother to third grade. They could read and write simple sentences in Kikamba, their language, but neither of them knew a word of English. Charles dreamed of a time when he would be able to read and write in English and in Kikamba.
The teacher, Mr. Jengo, pointed to a bench, and Charles squeezed onto the end of it. Three other boys were already sitting there, all sharing one Swahili reading book. Although not Charles’s native language, Swahili was the official language of Kenya, and every student learned it in school. Charles did not have a pencil or notebook, and so he had to be content to watch as the other students wrote things down. He hoped his mother would buy him school supplies soon.
It didn’t take Charles long to realize that Mr. Jengo was a violent man, who lashed out when the children did not obey his commands. Because of the beatings from his father over the years, Charles had been left partially deaf and did not always understand what the teacher said. As a result, he often felt the crack of Mr. Jengo’s rod over his head. Despite this, Charles was grateful to be at school. He especially loved mathematics and soon learned to add and subtract numbers up to one hundred.
Sometimes after school Charles ate with his family, but most often Kaleli provided his meals. When Charles did visit his family’s hut, he was always on the lookout for signs that his father had been on a violent rampage. Sadly, there were many. His father often left for days looking for work and came back with no money and no patience. Charles also noticed the marks on his mother’s face and legs, and his brothers, Musyoka and Dickson, told Charles how their father beat them too. While Charles felt safe with his grandfather, what use was that if the rest of his family was in danger?
One morning when Charles arrived at school, several of the children pointed at him and started whispering to each other. He wondered what had happened. He soon found out. During the night, his father had returned to Molo very drunk and started a fight with a neighbor. It was a big fight, and neither man would give in. Eventually Daudi gained the upper hand and beat his opponent senseless. Then he turned his fury on Rhoda and on Charles’s brothers. When he learned what had happened, Charles excused himself from school and ran down the road toward the hut where his parents lived. As his bare feet raced along, he wished he were bigger—big enough to give his father the beating he deserved.
Breathless, Charles stopped in front of the hut. Immediately the familiar knot grew in his stomach. The hut was empty, not just of people but also of belongings. He ran on to Kaleli’s hut. His grandfather enveloped him in a hug and then spat on the ground. “Your father is useless,” he said. “He has gone and taken the children. Your mother has gone too, back to Kathithyamaa to be taken care of by her mother.”
The news felt like a physical punch to Charles. Once again his family was gone, leaving him behind. It was as if all the color had been drained from Charles’s world. He still went to school, but now the children taunted him, calling him an orphan, a forgotten one. And Kaleli changed too. He began to drink, and although he was not violent like Charles’s father, Kaleli’s drinking frightened Charles.
About six months after his family left, Kaleli motioned for Charles to sit beside him outside the hut. It was a cloudless afternoon, but Charles’s stomach knotted. Something bad was about to happen—he could feel it.
“I’ve had word from your father,” his grandfather began. “Your mother is better now, and everyone is living together in Nakuru. I am not able to take care of you any longer, Charles. You will have to go to your parents.”
“But my parents don’t want me. They left me behind, remember?” Charles replied.
“Even so, I cannot take care of you anymore. It is not possible. You are your parents’ responsibility. They have to take care of you, and you have to find them. They said they were in Nakuru. I’m sure you will find them there.”
