Mackenzie Ford - The Clouds Beneath the Sun

Eleanor said something in Swahili, smiled, and then swallowed her kudu and drank some honeyed water.

Natalie tackled her meat. It was tough and strong-tasting. She sipped the water, and immediately knew she would have a problem finishing it. The water was far too sweet for her. She’d just have to go on sipping and nibbling.

The chief elder, a tall man with a very flat nose and large hands, wearing more jewelry than most, waited for Eleanor to finish her meat and her drink, and then the cup was taken from her. Larger bowls were brought and they both washed their hands.

“This is important,” she said, turning to the others. “As you can see, with so many predators around, bomas are built with defense as the first priority. They don’t build villages near rivers as happens in Europe. Elephants might come through at any time and trample over everything. Which means that the water has to be brought a long way; it is very precious.”

She turned back to the chief elder.

He had taken back his spear from the second elder, whom he had given it to, and now he sat on a chunk of wooden tree trunk that had been brought out. Another had been put in position for Eleanor, and she sat down.

The chief elder put his spear across his knees. Speaking through the interpreter, he began: “I see you are familiar with our customs.”

It was a barbed beginning. If Eleanor was familiar with their customs, he was saying, how could she have allowed such a terrible thing to happen?

“Chief Marongo,” said Eleanor. “Thank you for agreeing to see us.” She spoke without shouting but her voice was strong, forceful, pitched so that everyone could hear. “Thank you for the kudu and sweet water. You are a welcoming man and a fine chief. I hope that you will have many more children and that your cattle will remain healthy.”

Natalie listened to the translator’s murmur and marveled at Eleanor’s composure. Her African birth and her long years in the gorge meant she could utter these formalities without sounding in the least patronizing—it was clear that she meant what she said.

But then she paused, while she took off her hat and spectacles.

“This is a dreadful situation,” Eleanor said. “I cannot apologize enough for what has happened. But the two men who broke into your sacred burial ground didn’t know any better. You must know that I have sent the second man away, as a mark of respect for your tribe, and to preserve a life that I knew was at risk. Despite what has happened, I take your traditions very seriously.”

Eleanor sat upright. Natalie reflected that she had a dignified appearance and manner when it was needed. And it was needed now.

“You and I have known each other over many years,” continued Eleanor. “Since before you were a chief. We have never had any quarrel before. We have exchanged gifts, you have seen our work in the gorge, we have never interfered with your farming. We have helped you and provided vehicles when members of your tribe needed to get to the hospital quickly.”

She didn’t smile as she said, “You are a wise man, Marongo, a fair man,” pausing just a little as she said this. “And gracious. If you can find space in your heart, then you have the power to help me now.” She clasped her hands together. “Please ask the elders to change their minds.”

The chief listened to the translation, and then looked around him, at those standing behind him. He turned back to Eleanor and gripped his spear on his knees.

“Tell me, Dr. Deacon,” he said, “was Dr. Sutton married?”

“No.”

The chief nodded, half to himself. He looked off to his left and raised his arm, pointing, then beckoning.

Part of the throng of villagers which ringed Eleanor, Natalie, the chief, and the others shuffled to one side and a woman moved forward. She was small, with her hair in braids, and she had beautiful nut-brown skin, paler on her cheeks than elsewhere. She carried a baby and, behind her, two small children wrapped in tiny red cloaks followed, holding hands.

The woman walked up to the chief, who stood and put his hand on her head. He drew the two children to him.

“This is Atape, Ndekei’s wife.” He indicated the children. “These are Tife and Sanga, and the new one, Nbole, the rest of his family.”

He smiled as he spoke.

“They are lively children,” said the translator. “Tife, especially, makes a lot of noise.”

But then the chief’s features clouded.

“If Ndekei is hanged, or sent to prison for many years, Tife, Sanga, Nbole, and Atape will go without food and clothes. Their relatives will have to look after them, producing a widening circle of hardship.”

Chief Marongo’s features cleared but he raised his voice. “Is that fair or just? Ndekei did not break our laws, Maasai laws.” He gripped his spear and stamped it into the ground. “On the contrary. After the desecration of our burial ground, the land of our ancestors, the elders met. It was noted where Ndekei worked and he was chosen for the task of retribution, as tribal law demands.” Another stamp of the spear. “It was not a crime, it was an honor!”

The chief turned and spoke to someone behind him. Other heads turned, then an object was passed forward.

Natalie gasped noiselessly and held her hand to her throat.

“According to our custom,” said the chief, “Ndekei had to bring us something that belonged to the victim, with blood on it, to prove he had done what the elders asked. He did so. Now it has been washed, cleansed of the blood of the victim, and it can be returned to you. We do not want it.”

One of the other elders stepped forward and handed Richard’s watch to Eleanor.

No one in the camp had noticed it was missing.

She took it without speaking, turned, and handed it to Daniel.

As she turned back, the chief said, “Come.” The elders had already made a gap for him to leave by and he waited while Eleanor and the others moved forward.

He led the way out of the boma through some trees, then around the side of a large red rock. Mosses hung in luscious swags from the rock but there was also a smell of burning, where some stubble had recently been cleared away.

Rounding the shoulder of the slope, with the large rock now behind them, they found themselves on the lip of a small valley, cut into by the dried bed of a seasonal stream. On the far side of the dried bed, the valley slope was sprinkled with trees—flat-topped acacias, figs, whistling thorns. Among the trees they could see goats grazing, watched over by two small boys.

The chief beckoned again for Eleanor and the others to come and stand near him. When they were gathered, he lifted his spear and pointed with it to the trees and goats. He spoke in short bursts, to allow the interpreter a chance to catch up.

“This is our burial ground. Notice how wooded it is, how fertile. The gods look after our ancestors. This is our land and has been for generations. Many of our warriors are buried here. We farm this land, we hunt here, we fall sick here and die here. The people we remember are buried here.”

He turned to Eleanor. “Where will Dr. Sutton be buried?”

Natalie couldn’t be sure but she thought she saw Eleanor blush. “I don’t know exactly. In America.”

“And where will you be buried, Dr. Deacon?”

“With my husband, in Nairobi.”

The chief didn’t speak for a moment.

Together they watched the goats moving between the trees on the slope opposite. The boys lay dozing on rocks, or against the trunks of trees, one of them always keeping a lookout for predators.

The wind rose and fell in gusts. Chief Marongo was in no hurry. He let his words sink in.

“Nairobi. Where the government is. A white government that soon will go away. The black man will regain what is his.” The chief turned to Eleanor again. “The government has its laws, laws introduced by foreigners, the white man. They may suit his way of life but we were never asked about these laws. They are not our laws.”