It is said that when the time was there, and old Kingsley suffered through his daunting and disorienting last days, he kept to his bed, and, ultimately, turned his face to the wall. "Kill me, you moron!"— he could be heard screaming to his son; but in essence, he waited. Passively. For the end.
Shani Hadebe knew what it was to die passively. Like Babylon and Tikal, many greats went quietly, and unnoticed.
A hand landed hard across Hadebe's cheek.
She grunted, gritted her teeth. On the other side of the bed, Charles pushed the girl down onto the sheets. Forearms strained to her torso. The girl stilled slowly, her body jerking in fits before it finally fell back against the matrass. Hadebe held the skin of her arm taunt and slipped the IV needle into her median vein before she could start moving again. She taped the whole thing down to her arm and then nodded at Charles. The man released the hold he had.
The girl immediately started to seize, fever burning high on her cheeks. Dhakiya arrived with a cooling pack and spread it over the girl. It did little good. The arm where the IV pushed fluid into her system had begun to bleed, bright red blood leaking out around where the needle punctured into her skin to drip down her arm to the floor below as she continued to shake. Hadebe knew if she opened the mouth, it would be filled with blood, if she listened to her lungs, they'd be filled with fluid. Hadebe swallowed and carded a hand over her eyes.
❧
The young men arrived at noon. Shani Hadebe had Daudi prepare a basin of water for her on the patio before the main ward, out in the fresh air.
The scooters drew up alongside the acacia tree and the concrete wall covered with shards of glass, and the unhinged chipped black metal gate. Some of them rode by the three or four. They climbed off their rides and began to talk amongst themselves and greeted her with a respectful: "Doctor." but kept their distance. Two of them carried a rifle.
One young man approached: about twenty years old, with a charming face that would be considered handsome once he grew fully into adulthood; with eyes equally capable of being fearsome as bashful. A young man strong, passionate, and full of love, fearless and thoughtful, eager to take risks, and quick to judge; empowered by defiance. He was proud, naive, and open.
Hadebe washed her hands and watched him come with a heavy feeling in her heart.
"Doctor." The young man spoke. He had a pleasant, soft voice. A voice for singing. "Why did you not come?"
She poured the water over her hands. "I thought the herons might finally hatch."
"And did they?"
"They might have."
"Why did you not come?"
"What would I have done there?"
"You would have heard what is happening to our people."
Hadebe pointedly regarded the ward, pouring the water over her hands. And with a great sigh, she spoke: "I know what is happening to our people, Isaac. And I know what they are doing to others."
"Then why did you not come? And I am not 'Isaac' — I am Akida, the name our people gave me."
"Well, boy, the truth is, I can no longer think of myself as 'our people'. Only as human."
Akida's nose wrinkled and he spoke, dubiously: "You take part in the community as one who is still part of us."
"It is a way of saying — 'goodbye.'"
"To what?"
"I do good work. Right here."
He threw up a hand. "I do not contest that, doctor. And I understand your sentiment— do not look at me like that, I do— but we need..." he looked over his shoulder, "there is a need for leaders. We need your husband's wife... we need that woman."
"I was never that woman. Even then."
"You were one of the great—"
"I am not."
"I do not believe that." And here he stepped closer and leant in, softly, pleadingly:
"Doctor, we have waited a thousand seasons for these 'guests' to leave us. Your people need you." There was an undercurrent of urgency and torment in his voice that pained Hadebe, and still she shook her head.
"If they need someone to heal them after, and hold their hand — I am here. A leader I am not."
"Then become one again!"
"I am not interested in killing. Anyone. Especially harmless old missionaries and their wives."
"Nor I. Nor any of us," he regarded the young people standing and smoking and talking around the yard, "but they are a part of it."
"They sing hymns!"
"No, then not missionaries. But Grigg. The Butcher. Do you understand?" He took one step closer.
"I understand you only have some rifles, and the spears of your fathers," she righted herself, drawing up to her full height, and looked at him, "pass me that towel," and once he did, shge spoke: "There are, at this moment, some of our countrymen who are in Nairobi. Getting posts. Getting admissions. Give it time. Give it a chance."
"A chance? A chance — for what? To trade white overseers for black!"
"There will not be a puppet in place of—"
"But who will control the army? The mines? The ministers? Whoever gets that government office, a government car, a white government secretary to warm their bed — 'who fears the lion after his teeth are pulled?' — No, doctor. When we drive out the invader, we will have peace. Only then."
"I am not Mwando."
"No— but we need not him. We need you."
Hadebe threw down the towel in anger. Her voice rose. "I am not Mwando! It is not my affair anymore!"
"Doctor! The oppression, the injustice—"
"I know it all, boy! It is not my affair anymore!" She sank to her knees, "I do not care what happens here—anywhere!" She cried and her shoulders writhed in agony, "I am not responsible! It is not my affair."
"Doctor—"
"Hadebe? Hadebe!" Charles passed the yard with large, urgent, rushed strides. "Hadebe, my god, woman, you are shaking!" He turned to Akali as he helped Hadebe sit down on one of the chairs. "What did you say to her, boy?"
Akali sneered. Charles looked between Hadebe and the young, unknown man: "What happened here?"
Akali turned to Hadebe and spoke: "You understand? We are determined."
Hadebe just shook her head. Akali regarded Charles and sneered aloud: "European," and moved off the veranda, he was immediately approached by two of his friends, his lieutenants, who looked over Akali's shoulder at Hadebe and Charles and asked him something. Akali moved his head forward and then indicated their rides: "Back. We go back. Nyuma. Tunarudi nasema! Back, I say!" And he turned round to the people on the patio only once more. Dissatisfied. Disappointed.
Charles set himself on one knee beside Hadebe. Looking back and forth between her eyes. A frown disfigured his face into something dangerous and considering.
"Who are they?" The man asked.
"Nobodies." Hadebe said. "And I pray, for their sakes, they stay that way."
They watched the scooters leave and loudly dissolve between the cassava and manioc fields.
The noise died away. "They will be returning?" Charles asked.
"I suppose."
"Good God."
"Yes," Hadebe said, and she remembered those words she had heard so many years ago at university, so very well put by Eliot. She turned away.