“Wrap it in a part of the belly when the belly is clean.”
“Good.”
“Give them a good piece of ordinary meat.”
“Ndio.”
I wanted to give away more meat but I knew it was not right to do so and I covered my conscience with the fact that it was necessary for the next two days’ operations and remembering this I said to Ngui, “Put in plenty of stew meat too for the Shamba.”
Then I walked away from the lights of the car to the tree just beyond the light of the cooking fire to where the Widow, her little boy and Debba were waiting. They wore their bright, now faded, dresses and they leaned against the tree. The little boy came out and bumped his head hard against my belly and I kissed the top of his head.
“How are you, Widow?” I asked. She shook her head.
“Jambo, tu,” I said to Debba. I kissed her on the top of the head too and she laughed and I raised my hand up over her neck and her head feeling the close, stiff loveliness and she butted me twice against my heart and I kissed her head again. The Widow was very tense and she said, “Kwenda na shamba,” which meant, let’s go to the village. Debba said nothing. She had lost her lovely Kamba impudence and I stroked her bowed head, which felt lovely, and touched the secret places behind her ears and she put her hand up, stealthily, and touched my worst scars.
“Mthuka will take you now in the car,” I said. “There is meat for the family. I cannot go. Jambo, tu,” I said, which is the roughest and the most loving you can talk and ends things quickest.
“When will you come?” the Widow asked.
“Any day. When it is my duty.”
“Will we go to Laitokitok before the Birthday of the Baby Jesus?”
“Surely,” I said.
“Kwenda na shamba,” Debba said.
“Mthuka will take you.”
“You come.”
“No hay remedio,” I said. It was one of the first things I had taught her to say in Spanish and she said it now very carefully. It was the saddest thing I knew in Spanish and I thought it was probably best for her to learn it early. She thought that it was part of my religion, which she was learning, since I had not explained to her what it meant, but only that it was a phrase that she must know.
“No hay remedio,” she said very proudly.
“You have beautiful hard hands,” I told her in Spanish. This was one of our first jokes and I had translated it very carefully. “You are the Queen of the Ngomas.”
“No hay remedio,” she said modestly. Then in the dark she said very fast, “No hay remedio, no hay remedio, no hay remedio.”
“No hay remedio, tú,” I said. “Get the meat and go.”
That night while I woke listening to the hyenas talking and disputing over the refuse from the butchering and watching the firelight through the door of the tent I thought about Mary sleeping soundly now and happy about her good stalk and clean kill on the wildebeest and wondered where the big lion was and what he was doing now in the dark. I figured he would kill again on his way down to the swamp. Then I thought about the Shamba and how there was no remedy nor any solution. I was full of remorse that I had ever become involved with the Shamba but no hay remedio now and maybe there never was a time. I did not start it. It started by itself. Then I thought some more about the lion and about the Kamba Mau Mau and that we would have to expect them from tomorrow afternoon. Then, for a moment, there were no night noises at all. Everyone had stopped and I thought shit this is probably the Kamba Mau Mau and I have been sloppy and I took the Winchester pump that I had loaded with buckshot and listened with my mouth open to hear better while I could feel my heart pounding. Then the night noises started again and I heard a leopard cough down by the stream. It was a noise like the C string on a bass viol being stroked by a farrier’s rasp. He coughed again, hunting, and all the night began to speak about him and I put the shotgun under my leg again and started to go to sleep feeling proud of Miss Mary and loving her and being proud of Debba and caring about her very much.
I GOT UP AT daylight and went out to the cook tent and the lines. Keiti was always conservative so we inspected the camp in a very military manner and I could see he was not upset about anything. Our meat was hung wrapped in cheesecloth and there was plenty of meat for three days for the men. Some of it was being roasted on sticks by the early risers. We went over the plans for intercepting the Mau Mau if they should come to any of the four Shambas.
“The plan is good but they will not come,” he said.
“Did you hear the quiet before the leopard last night?”
“Yes,” he said and smiled. “But it was a leopard.”
“Didn’t you think it might be those people?”
“Yes. But it was not.”
“All right,” I said. “Please send Mwindi to me at the fire.”