The Land of Nod
by Mike Resnick
Copyright (c) 1996  


  
  Once, many years ago, there was a Kikuyu warrior who left his 
village and wandered off in search of adventure. Armed only with a 
spear, he slew the mighty lion and the cunning leopard. Then one 
day he came upon an elephant. He realized that his spear was 
useless against such a beast, but before he could back away or 
find cover, the elephant charged. 
     His only hope was divine intervention, and he begged Ngai, 
who rules the universe from His throne atop Kirinyaga, the holy 
mountain that men now call Mount Kenya, to find him and pluck him 
from the path of the elephant. 
     But Ngai did not respond, and the elephant picked the warrior 
up with its trunk and hurled him high into the air, and he landed 
in a distant thorn tree. His skin was badly torn by the thorns, 
but at least he was safe, since he was on a branch some twenty 
feet above the ground. 
     After he was sure the elephant had left the area, the warrior 
climbed down. Then he returned home and ascended the holy mountain 
to confront Ngai. 
     "What is it that you want of me?" asked Ngai, when the 
warrior had reached the summit. 
     "I want to know why you did not come," said the warrior 
angrily. "All my life I have worshiped you and paid tribute to 
you. Did you not hear me ask for your help?" 
     "I heard you," answered Ngai. 
     "Then why did you not come to my aid?" demanded the warrior. 
"Are you so lacking in godly powers that you could not find me?" 
     "After all these years you still do not understand," said 
Ngai sternly. "It is _you_ who must search for _me_." 
                          *   *   * 
     My son Edward picked me up at the police station on Biashara 
Street just after midnight. The sleek British vehicle hovered a 
few inches above the ground while I got in, and then his chauffeur 
began taking us back to his house in the Ngong Hills. 
     "This is becoming tedious," he said, activating the 
shimmering privacy barrier so that we could not be overheard. 
He tried to present a judicial calm, but I knew he was furious. 
     "You would think they would tire of it," I agreed. 
     "We must have a serious talk," he said. "You have been back 
only two months, and this is the fourth time I have had to bail 
you out of jail." 
     "I have broken no Kikuyu laws," I said calmly, as we raced 
through the dark, ominous slums of Nairobi on our way to the 
affluent suburbs. 
     "You have broken the laws of Kenya," he said. "And like it or 
not, that is where you now live. I'm an official in the 
government, and I will not have you constantly embarrassing me!" 
He paused, struggling with his temper. "Look at you! I have 
offered to buy you a new wardrobe. Why must you wear that ugly old 
_kikoi_? It smells even worse than it looks." 
     "Is there now a law against dressing like a Kikuyu?" I asked 
him. 
     "No," he said, as he commanded the miniature bar to appear 
from beneath the floor and poured himself a drink. "But there _is_ 
a law against creating a disturbance in a restaurant." 
     "I paid for my meal," I noted, as we turned onto Langata Road 
and headed out for the suburbs. "In the Kenya shillings that you 
gave me." 
     "That does not give you the right to hurl your food against 
the wall, simply because it is not cooked to your taste." He 
glared at me, barely able to contain his anger. "You're getting 
worse with each offense. If I had been anyone else, you'd have 
spent the night in jail. As it is, I had to agree to pay for the 
damage you caused." 
     "It was eland," I explained. "The Kikuyu do not eat game 
animals." 
     "It was _not_ eland," he said, setting his glass down and 
lighting a smokeless cigarette. "The last eland died in a German 
zoo a year after you left for Kirinyaga. It was a modified soybean 
product, genetically enhanced to _taste_ like eland." He paused, 
then sighed deeply. "If you thought it was eland, why did you 
order it?" 
     "The server said it was steak. I assumed he meant the meat of 
a cow or an ox." 
     "This has got to stop," said Edward. "We are two grown men. 
Why can't we reach an accomodation?" He stared at me for a long 
time. "I can deal with rational men who disagree with me. I do it 
at Government House every day. But I cannot deal with a fanatic." 
     "I am a rational man," I said. 
     "Are you?" he demanded. "Yesterday you showed my wife's 
nephew how to apply the _githani_ test for truthfulness, and he 
practically burned his brother's tongue off." 
     "His brother was lying," I said calmly. "He who lies faces 
the red-hot blade with a dry mouth, whereas he who has nothing to 
fear has enough moisture on his tongue so that he cannot be 
burned." 
     "Try telling a seven-year-old boy that he has nothing to fear 
when he's being approached by a sadistic older brother who is 
brandishing a red-hot knife!" snapped my son. 
     A uniformed watchman waved us through to the private road 
where my son lived, and when we reached our driveway the chauffeur 
pulled our British vehicle up to the edge of the force field. It 
identified us and vanished long enough for us to pass through, and 
soon we came to the front door. 
     Edward got out of the vehicle and approached his residence 
as I followed him. He clenched his fists in a physical effort to 
restrain his anger. "I agreed to let you live with us, because you 
are an old man who was thrown off his world-- " 
     "I left Kirinyaga of my own volition," I interrupted calmly. 
     "It makes no difference why or how you left," said my son. 
"What matters is that you are _here_ now. You are a very old man. 
It has been many years since you have lived on Earth. All of your 
friends are dead. My mother is dead. I am your son, and I will 
accept my responsibilities, but you _must_ meet me halfway." 
     "I am trying to," I said. 
     "I doubt it." 
     "I am," I repeated. "You own son understands that, even if 
you do not." 
     "My own son has had quite enough to cope with since my 
divorce and remarriage. The last thing he needs is a grandfather 
filling his head with wild tales of some Kikuyu Utopia." 
     "It is a failed Utopia," I corrected him. "They would not 
listen to me, and so they are doomed to become another Kenya." 
     "What is so wrong with that?" said Edward. "Kenya is my home, 
and I am proud of it." He paused and stared at me. "And now it is 
_your_ home again. You must speak of it with more respect." 
     "I lived in Kenya for many years before I emigrated to 
Kirinyaga," I said. "I can live here again. Nothing has changed." 
     "That is not so," said my son. "We have built a transport 
system beneath Nairobi, and there is now a spaceport at Watamu on 
the coast. We have closed down the nuclear plants; our power is 
now entirely thermal, drawn from beneath the floor of the Rift 
Valley. In fact," he added with the pride that always accompanied 
the descriptions of his new wife's attainments, "Susan was 
instrumental in the changeover." 
     "You misunderstood me, Edward," I replied. "Kenya remains 
unchanged in that it continues to ape the Europeans rather than 
remain true to its own traditions." 
     The security system identified us and opened his house to us. 
We walked through the foyer, past the broad winding staircase the 
led to the bedroom wing. The servants were waiting for us, and the 
butler took Edward's coat from him. Then we passed the doorways 
the lounge and drawing room, both of which were filled with Roman 
statues and French paintings and rows of beautifully-bound British 
books. Finally we came to Edward's study, where he turned and 
spoke in a low tone to the butler. 
     "We wish to be alone." 
     The servants vanished as if they had been nothing but 
holograms. 
     "Where is Susan?" I asked, for my daughter-in-law was nowhere 
to be seen. 
     "We were at a party at the Cameroon ambassador's new home 
when the call came through that you had been arrested again," he 
answered. "You broke up a very enjoyable bridge game. My guess is 
that she's in the tub or in bed, cursing your name." 
     I was about to mention that cursing my name to the god of the 
Europeans would not prove effective, but I decided that my son 
would not like to hear that at this moment, so I was silent. As I 
looked at my surroundings, I reflected that not only had all of 
Edward's belongings come from the Europeans, but that even his 
house had been taken from them, for it consisted of many 
rectangular rooms, and all Kikuyu knew -- or should have known -- 
that demons dwell in corners and the only proper shape for a home 
is round. 
     Edward walked briskly to his desk, activated his computer and 
read his messages, and then turned to me. 
     "There is another message from the government," he announced. 
"They want to see you next Tuesday at noon." 
     "I have already told them I will not accept their money," I 
said. "I have performed no service for them." 
     He put on his Lecture Face. "We are no longer a poor 
country," he said. "We pride ourselves that none of our infirm or 
elderly goes hungry." 
     "I will not go hungry, if the restaurants will stop trying to 
feed me unclean animals." 
     "The government is just making sure that you do not become a 
financial burden to me," said Edward, refusing to let me change 
the subject. 
     "You are my son," I said. "I raised you and fed you and 
protected you when you were young. Now I am old and you will do 
the same for me. That is our tradition." 
     "Well, it is our government's tradition to provide a 
financial safety net to families who are supporting elderly 
members," he said, and I could tell that the last trace of Kikuyu 
within him had vanished, that he was entirely a Kenyan. 
     "You are a wealthy man," I pointed out. "You do not need 
their money." 
     "I pay my taxes," he said, lighting another smokeless 
cigarette to hide his defensiveness. "It would be foolish not to 
accept the benefits that accrue to us. You may live a very long 
time. We have every right to that money." 
     "It is dishonorable to accept what you do not need," I 
replied. "Tell them to leave us alone." 
     He leaned back, half sitting on his desk. "They wouldn't, 
even if I asked them to." 
     "They must be Wakamba or Maasai," I said, making no effort to 
hide my contempt. 
     "They are Kenyans," he answered. "Just as you and I are." 
     "Yes," I said, suddenly feeling the weight of my years. "Yes, 
I must work very hard at remembering that." 
     "You will save me more trips to the police station if you 
can," said my son. 
     I nodded and went off to my room. He had supplied me with a 
bed and mattress, but after so many years of living in my hut on 
Kirinyaga, I found the bed uncomfortable, so every night I removed 
the blanket and placed it on the floor, then lay down and slept on 
it. 
     But tonight sleep would not come, for I kept reliving the 
past two months in my mind. Everything I saw, everything I heard, 
made me remember why I had left Kenya in the first place, why I 
had fought so long and so hard to obtain Kirinyaga's charter. 
     I rolled onto my side, propped my head on my hand, and looked 
out the window. Hundreds of stars were twinkling brightly in the 
clear, cloudless sky. I tried to imagine which of them was 
Kirinyaga. I had been the _mundumugu_ -- the witch doctor -- who 
was charged with establishing our Kikuyu Utopia. 
     "I served you more selflessly than any other," I whispered, 
staring at a flickering, verdant star, "and you betrayed me. 
Worse, you have betrayed Ngai. Neither He nor I shall ever seek 
you out again." 
     I lay my head back down, turned away from the window, and 
closed my eyes, determined to look into the skies no more. 
                             *   *   * 
     In the morning, my son stopped by my room. 
     "You have slept on the floor again," he noted. 
     "Have they passed a law against that now?" I demanded. 
     He sighed deeply. "Sleep any way you want." 
     I stared at him. "You look very impressive..." I began. 
     "Thank you." 
     "...in your European clothes," I concluded. 
     "I have an important meeting with the Finance Minister 
today." He looked at his timepiece. "In fact, I must leave now or 
I will be late." He paused uneasily. "Have you considered what we 
spoke about yesterday?" 
     "We spoke of many things," I said. 
     "I am referring to the Kikuyu retirement village." 
     "I have lived in a village," I said. "And that is not one. It 
is a twenty-story tower of steel and glass, built to imprison the 
elderly." 
     "We have been through all this before," said my son. "It 
would be a place for you to make new friends." 
     "I have a new friend," I said. "I shall be visiting him this 
evening." 
     "Good!" he said. "Maybe he'll keep you out of trouble." 
                             *   *   * 
     I arrived at the huge titanium-and-glass laboratory complex 
just before midnight. The night had turned cool, and a breeze was 
blowing gently from the south. The moon had passed behind a cloud, 
and it was difficult to find the side gate in the darkness. 
Eventually I did find it, though, and Kamau was waiting for me. He 
deactivated a small section of the electronic barrier long enough 
for me to step through. 
     "_Jambo, mzee,_" he said. _Hello, wise old man._ 
     "_Jambo, mzee,_" I replied, for he was almost as old as I 
myself was. "I have come to see with my own eyes if you were 
telling the truth." 
     He nodded and turned, and I followed him between the tall, 
angular buildings that hovered over us, casting eerie shadows 
along the narrow walkways and channeling all the noises of the 
city in our direction. Our path was lined with Whistling Thorn 
and Yellow Fever trees, cloned from the few remaining specimens, 
rather than the usual introduced European shrubbery. Here and 
there were ornamental displays of grasses from the vanished 
savannahs. 
     "It is strange to see so much true African vegetation here in 
Kenya," I remarked. "Since I have returned from Kirinyaga, my eyes 
have hungered for it." 
     "You have seen a whole world of it," he replied with 
unconcealed envy. 
     "There is more to a world than greenery," I said. "When all 
is said and done, there is little difference between Kirinyaga and 
Kenya. Both have turned their backs on Ngai." 
     Kamau came to a halt, and gestured around him at the looming 
metal and glass and concrete buildings that totally covered the 
cool swamps from which Nairobi took its name. "I do not know how 
you can prefer _this_ to Kirinyaga." 
     "I did not say I preferred it," I replied, suddenly aware 
that the ever-present noises of the city had been overshadowed by 
the droning hum of machines. 
     "Then you _do_ miss Kirinyaga." 
     "I miss what Kirinyaga might have been. As for these," I 
said, indicating the immense structures, "they are just 
buildings." 
     "They are European buildings," he said bitterly. "They were 
built by men who are no longer Kikuyu or Luo or Embu, but merely 
Kenyans. They are filled with corners." He paused, and I thought, 
approvingly, _How much you sound like me! No wonder you sought me 
out when I returned to Kenya._ "Nairobi is home to eleven million 
people," he continued. "It stinks of sewage. The air is so 
polluted there are days when you can actually see it. The people 
wear European clothes and worship the Europeans' god. How could 
you turn your back on Utopia for this?" 
     I held up my hands. "I have only ten fingers." 
     He frowned. "I do not understand." 
     "Do you remember the story of the little Dutch boy who put 
his finger in the dike?" 
     Kamau shook his head and spat contemptuously on the ground. 
"I do not listen to European stories." 
     "Perhaps you are wise not to," I acknowledged. "At any rate, 
the dike of tradition with which I had surrounded Kirinyaga began 
to spring leaks. They were few and easily plugged at first, but as 
the society kept evolving and growing they became many, and soon I 
did not have enough fingers to plug them all." I shrugged. "So I 
left before I was washed away." 
     "Have they another _mundumugu_ to replace you?" he asked. 
     "I am told that they have a doctor to cure the sick, and a 
Christian minister to tell them how to worship the god of the 
Europeans, and a computer to tell them how to react to any 
situation that might arise," I said. "They no longer need a 
_mundumugu_." 
     "Then Ngai has forsaken them," he stated. 
     "No," I corrected him. "_They_ have forsaken Ngai." 
     "I apologize, _mundumugu_," he said with deference. "You are 
right, of course." 
     He began walking again, and soon a strong, pungent odor came 
to my nostrils, a scent I had never encountered before, but which 
stirred some memory deep within my soul. 
     "We are almost there," said Kamau. 
     I heard a low rumbling sound, not like a predator growling, 
but rather like a vast machine purring with power. 
     "He is very nervous," continued Kamau, speaking in a soft 
monotone. "Make no sudden movements. He has already tried to kill 
two of his daytime attendants." 
     And then we were there, just as the moon emerged from its 
cloud cover and shone down on the awesome creature that stood 
facing us. 
     "He is magnificent!" I whispered. 
     "A perfect replication," agreed Kamau. "Height, ten feet 
eight inches at the shoulder, weight seven tons -- and each tusk 
is exactly 148 pounds." 
     The huge animal stared at me through the flickering force 
field that surrounded it and tested the cool night breeze, 
striving to pick up my scent. 
     "Remarkable!" I said. 
     "You understand the cloning process, do you not?" asked 
Kamau. 
     "I understand what cloning _is_," I answered. "I know nothing 
of the exact process." 
     "In this case, they took some cells from his tusks, which 
have been on display in the museum for more than two centuries, 
created the proper nutrient solution, and this is the result: 
Ahmed of Marsabit, the only elephant ever protected by 
Presidential Decree, lives again." 
     "I read that he was always accompanied by two guards no 
matter where he roamed on Mount Marsabit," I said. "Have they also 
ignored tradition? I see no one but you. Where is the other 
guard?" 
     "There are no guards. The entire complex is protected by a 
sophisticated electronic security system." 
     "Are you not a guard?" I asked. 
     He kept the shame from his voice, but he could not banish it 
from his face: even in the moonlight I could see it. "I am a paid 
companion." 
     "Of the elephant?" 
     "Of Ahmed." 
     "I am sorry," I said. 
     "We cannot all be _mundumugus_," he answered. "When you are 
my age in a culture that worships youth, you take what is offered 
to you." 
     "True," I said. I looked back at the elephant. "I wonder if 
he has any memories of his former life?  Of the days when he was 
the greatest of all living creatures, and Mount Marsabit was his 
kingdom." 
     "He knows nothing of Marasbit," answered Kamau. "But he knows 
something is wrong. He knows he was not born to spend his life in 
a tiny yard, surrounded by a glowing force field." He paused. 
"Sometimes, late at night, he faces the north and lifts his trunk 
and cries out his loneliness and misery. To the technicians it is 
just an annoyance. Usually they tell me to feed him, as if food 
will assuage his sorrow. It is not even _real_ food, but something 
they have concocted in their laboratories." 
     "He does not belong here," I agreed. 
     "I know," said Kamau. "But then, neither do you, _mzee_. You 
should be back on Kirinyaga, living as the Kikuyu were meant to 
live." 
     I frowned. "No one on Kirinyaga is living as the Kikuyu were 
meant to live." I sighed deeply. "I think perhaps the time for 
_mundumugus_ is past." 
     "This cannot be true," he protested. "Who else can be the 
repository of our traditions, the interpretor of our laws?" 
     "Our traditions are as dead as _his_," I said, gesturing 
toward Ahmed. Then I turned back to Kamau. "Do you mind if I ask 
you a question?" 
     "Certainly not, _mundumugu_." 
     "I am glad you sought me out, and I have enjoyed our 
conversations since I returned to Kenya," I told him. "But 
something puzzles me: since you feel so strongly about the Kikuyu, 
why did I not know you during our struggle to find a homeland? Why 
did you remain behind when we emigrated to Kirinyaga?" 
     I could see him wrestling with himself to produce an answer. 
Finally the battle was over, and the old man seemed to shrink an 
inch or two. 
     "I was terrified," he admitted. 
     "Of the spaceship?" I asked. 
     "No." 
     "Then what frightened you?" 
     Another internal struggle, and then an answer: "_You_ did, 
_mzee_." 
     "Me?" I repeated, surprised. 
     "You were always so sure of yourself," he said. "Always such 
a perfect Kikuyu. You made me afraid that I wasn't good enough." 
     "That was ridiculous," I said firmly. 
     "Was it?" he countered. "My wife was a Catholic. My son and 
daughter bore Christian names. And I myself had grown used to 
European clothes and European conveniences." He paused. "I was 
afraid if I went with you -- and I wanted to; I have been cursing 
myself for my cowardice ever since -- that soon I would complain 
about missing the technology and comfort I had left behind, and 
that you would banish me." He would not meet my gaze, but stared 
at the ground. "I did not wish to become an outcast on the world 
that was the last hope of my people." 
     _You are wiser than I suspected,_ I thought. Aloud I uttered 
a compassionate lie: "You would not have been an outcast." 
     "You are sure?" 
     "I am sure," I said, laying a comforting hand on his bony 
shoulder. "In fact, I wish you had been there to support me when 
the end came." 
     "What good would the support of an old man have been?" 
     "You are not just _any_ old man," I answered. "The word of a 
descendant of Johnstone Kamau would have carried much weight among 
the Council of Elders." 
     "That was another reason I was afraid to come," he replied, 
the words flowing a little more easily this time. "How could I 
live up to my name -- for everyone knows that Johnstone Kamau 
became Jomo Kenyatta, the great Burning Spear of the Kikuyu. How 
could I possibly compare to such a man as that?" 
     "You compare more favorably than you think," I said 
reassuringly. "I could have used the passion of your belief." 
     "Surely you had support from the people," he said. 
     I shook my head. "Even my own apprentice, who I was preparing 
to succeed me, abandoned me; in fact, I believe he is at the 
university just down the road even as we speak. In the end, the 
people rejected the discipline of our traditions and the teachings 
of Ngai for the miracles and comforts of the Europeans. I suppose 
I should not be surprised, considering how many times it has 
happened here in Africa." I looked thoughtfully at the elephant. 
"I am as much an anachronism as Ahmed. Time has forgotten us 
both." 
"But Ngai has not." 
     "Ngai, too, my friend," I said. "Our day has passed. There is 
no place left for us, not in Kenya, not on Kirinyaga, not 
anywhere." 
     Perhaps it was something in the tone of my voice, or perhaps 
in some mystic way Ahmed understood what I was saying. Whatever 
the reason, the elephant stepped forward to the edge of the force 
field and stared directly at me. 
     "It is lucky we have the field for protection," remarked 
Kamau. 
     "He would not hurt me," I said confidently. 
     "He has hurt men whom he had less reason to attack." 
     "But not me," I said. "Lower the field to a height of five 
feet." 
     "But..." 
     "Do as I say," I ordered him. 
     "Yes, _mundumugu_," he replied unhappily, going to a small 
control box and punching in a code. 
     Suddenly the mild visual distortion vanished at eye level. I 
reached out a reassuring hand, and a moment later Ahmed ran the 
tip of his trunk gently across my face and body, then sighed 
deeply and stood there, swaying gently as he transferred his 
weight from one foot to the other. 
     "I would not have believed it if I had not seen it!" said 
Kamau almost reverently. 
     "Are we not all Ngai's creations?" I said. 
     "Even Ahmed?" asked Kamau. 
     "Who do _you_ think created him?" 
     He shrugged again, and did not answer. 
     I remained for a few more minutes, watching the magnificent 
creature, while Kamau returned the force field to its former 
position. Then the night air became uncomfortably cold, as so 
often happened at this altitude, and I turned to Kamau. 
     "I must leave now," I said. "I thank you for inviting me 
here. I would not have believed this miracle had I not seen it 
with my own eyes." 
     "The scientists think it is _their_ miracle," he said. 
     "You and I know better," I replied. 
     He frowned. "But why do you think Ngai has allowed Ahmed to 
live again, at this time and in this place?" 
     I paused for a long moment, trying to formulate an answer, 
and found that I couldn't. 
     "There was a time when I knew with absolute certainty why 
Ngai did what He did," I said at last. "Now I am not so sure." 
     "What kind of talk is that from a _mundumugu_?" demanded 
Kamau. 
     "It was not long ago that I would wake up to the song of 
birds," I said as we left Ahmed's enclosure and walked to the side 
gate through which I had entered. "And I would look across the 
river that wound by my village on Kirinyaga and see impala and 
zebra grazing on the savannah. Now I wake up to the sound and 
smell of modern Nairobi and then I look out and see a featureless 
grey wall that separates my son's house from that of his 
neighbor." I paused. "I think this must be my punishment for 
failing to bring Ngai's word to my people." 
     "Will I see you again?" he asked as we reached the gate and 
he deactivated a small section long enough for me to pass through. 
     "If it will not be an imposition," I said. 
     "The great Koriba an imposition?" he said with a smile. 
     "My son finds me so," I replied. "He gives me a room in his 
house, but he would prefer I lived elsewhere. And his wife is 
ashamed of my bare feet and my _kikoi_; she is constantly buying 
European shoes and clothing for me to wear." 
     "_My_ son works inside the laboratory," said Kamau, pointing 
to his son's third-floor office with some pride. "He has seventeen 
men working for him. Seventeen!" 
     I must not have looked impressed, for he continued, less 
enthusiastically, "It is he who got me this job, so that I 
_wouldn't_ have to live with him." 
     "The job of paid companion," I said. 
     A bittersweet expression crossed his face. "I love my son, 
Koriba, and I know that he loves me -- but I think that he is also 
a little bit ashamed of me." 
     "There is a thin line between shame and embarrassment," I 
said. "My son glides between one and the other like the pendulum 
of a clock." 
     Kamau seemed grateful to hear that his situation was not 
unique. "You are welcome to live with me, _mundumugu_," he said, 
and I could tell that it was an earnest offer, not just a polite 
lie that he hoped I would reject. "We would have much to talk 
about." 
     "That is very considerate of you," I said. "But it will be 
enough if I may visit you from time to time, on those days when I 
find Kenyans unbearable and must speak to another Kikuyu." 
     "As often as you wish," he said. _"Kwaheri, mzee."_ 
     _"Kwaheri,"_ I responded. _Farewell._ 
     I took the slidewalk down the noisy, crowded streets and 
boulevards that had once been the sprawling Athi Plains, an area 
that had swarmed with a different kind of life, and got off when I 
came to the airbus platform. An airbus glided up a few minutes 
later, almost empty at this late hour, and began going north, 
floating perhaps ten inches above the ground. 
     The trees that lined the migration route had been replaced by 
a dense angular forest of steel and glass and tightly-bonded 
alloys. As I peered through a window into the night, it seemed for 
a few moments that I was also peering into the past. Here, where 
the titanium-and-glass courthouse stood, was the very spot where 
the Burning Spear had first been arrested for having the temerity 
to suggest that his country did not belong to the British. Over 
there, by the new eight-story post office building, was where the 
last lion had died. Over there, by the water recycling plant, my 
people had vanquished the Wakamba in glorious and bloody battle 
some 300 years ago. 
     "We have arrived, _mzee_," said the driver, and the bus 
hovered a few inches above the ground while I made my way to the 
door. "Aren't you chilly, dressed in just a blanket like that?" 
     I did not deign to answer him, but stepped out to the 
sidewalk, which did not move here in the suburbs as did the 
slidewalks of the city. I prefered it, for man was meant to walk, 
not be transported effortlessly by miles-long beltways. 
     I approached my son's enclave and greeted the guards, who all 
knew me, for I often wandered through the area at night. They 
passed me through with no difficulty, and as I walked I tried to 
look across the centuries once more, to see the mud-and-grass 
huts, the _bomas_ and _shambas_ of my people, but the vision was 
blotted out by enormous mock-Tudor and mock-Victorian and mock- 
Colonial and mock-contemporary houses, interspersed with needle- 
like apartment buildings that reached up to stab the clouds. 
     I had no desire to speak to Edward or Susan, for they would 
question me endlessly about where I had been. My son would once 
again warn me about the thieves and muggers who prey on old men 
after dark in Nairobi, and my daughter-in-law would try to subtly 
suggest that I would be warmer in a coat and pants. So I went past 
their house and walked aimlessly through the enclave until all the 
lights in the house had gone out. When I was sure they were 
asleep, I went to a side door and waited for the security system 
to identify my retina and skeletal structure, as it had on so many 
similar nights. Then I quietly made my way to my room. 
     Usually I dreamed of Kirinyaga, but this night the image of 
Ahmed haunted my dreams. Ahmed, eternally confined by a force 
field; Ahmed, trying to imagine what lay beyond his tiny 
enclosure; Ahmed, who would live and die without ever seeing 
another of his own kind. 
     And gradually, my dream shifted to myself: to Koriba, 
attached by invisible chains to a Nairobi he could no longer 
recognize; Koriba, trying futilely to mold Kirinyaga into what it 
might have been; Koriba, who once led a brave exodus of the Kikuyu 
until one day he looked around and found that he was the only 
Kikuyu remaining. 
                             *   *   * 
     In the morning I went to visit my daughter on Kirinyaga -- 
not the terraformed world, but the _real_ Kirinyaga, which is now 
called Mount Kenya. It was here that Ngai gave the digging-stick 
to Gikuyu, the first man, and told him to work the earth. It was 
here that Gikuyu's nine daughters became the mothers of the nine 
tribes of the Kikuyu, here that the sacred fig tree blossomed. It 
was here, millennia later, that Jomo Kenyatta, the great Burning 
Spear of the Kikuyu, would invoke Ngai's power and send the Mau 
Mau out to drive the white man back to Europe. 
     And it was here that a steel-and-glass city of five million 
inhabitants sprawled up the side of the holy mountain. Nairobi's 
overstrained water and sewer system simply could not accomodate 
any more people, so the government offered enormous tax incentives 
to any business that would move to Kirinyaga, in the hope that the 
people would follow them -- and the people accomodated them. 
     Vehicles spewed pollution into the atmosphere, and the noise 
of the city at work was deafening. I walked to the spot where the 
fig tree had once stood; it was now covered by a lead foundry. The 
slopes where the bongo and the rhinoceros once lived were hidden 
beneath the housing projects. The winding mountain streams had all 
been diverted and redirected. The tree beneath which Deedan 
Kimathi had been killed by the British was only a memory, its 
place taken by a fast food restaurant. The summit had been turned 
into a park, with tram service leading to a score of souvenir 
shops. 
     And now I realized why Kenya had become intolerable. Ngai no 
longer ruled the world from His throne atop the mountain, for 
there was no longer any room for Him there. Like the leopard and 
the golden sunbird, like I myself many years ago, He too had fled 
before this onslaught of black Europeans. 
     Possibly my discovery influenced my mood, for the visit with 
my daughter did not go well. But then, they never did: she was too 
much like her mother. 
                             *   *   * 
     I entered my son's study late that same afternoon. 
     "One of the servants said you wished to see me," I said. 
     "Yes, I do," said my son as he looked up from his computer. 
Behind him were paintings of two great leaders, Martin Luthor King 
and Julius Nyerere, black men both, but neither one a Kikuyu. 
"Please sit down." 
     I did as he asked. 
     "On a chair, my father," he said. 
     "The floor is satisfactory." 
     He sighed heavily. "I am too tired to argue with you. I have 
been brushing up on my French." He grimaced. "It is a difficult 
language." 
     "Why are you studying French?" I asked. 
     "As you know, the ambassador from Cameroon has bought a house 
in the enclave. I thought it would be advantageous to be able to 
speak to him in his own tongue." 
     "That would be Bamileke or Ewondo, not French," I noted. 
     "He does not speak either of those," answered Edward. "His 
family is ruling class. They only spoke French in his family 
compound, and he was educated in Paris." 
     "Since he is the ambassador to our country, why are you 
learning _his_ language?" I asked. "Why does he not learn 
Swahili?" 
     "Swahili is a street language," said my son. "English and 
French are the languages of diplomacy and business. His English is 
poor, so I will speak to him in French instead." He smiled smugly. 
"_That_ ought to impress him!" 
     "I see," I said. 
     "You look disapproving," he observed. 
     "I am not ashamed of being a Kikuyu," I said. "Why are you 
ashamed of being a Kenyan?" 
     "I am not ashamed of anything!" he snapped. "I am proud of 
being able to speak to him in his own tongue." 
     "More proud than he, a visitor to Kenya, is to speak to you 
in _your_ tongue," I noted. 
     "You do not understand!" he said. 
     "Evidently," I agreed. 
     He stared at me silently for a moment, then sighed deeply. 
"You drive me crazy," he said. "I don't even know how we came to 
be discussing this. I wanted to see you for a different reason." 
He lit a smokeless cigarette, took one puff, and threw it into the 
atomizer. "I had a visit from Father Ngoma this morning." 
     "I do not know him." 
     "You know his parishoners, though," said my son. "A number of 
them have come to you for advice." 
     "That is possible," I admitted. 
     "Damn it!" said Edward. "I have to live in this neighborhood, 
and he is the parish priest. He resents you telling his flock how 
to live, especially since what you tell them is in contradiction 
to Catholic dogma." 
     "Am I to lie to them, then?" I asked. 
     "Can't you just refer them to Father Ngona?" 
     "I am a _mundumugu_," I said. "It is my duty to advise those 
who come to me for guidance." 
     "You have not been a _mundumugu_ since they made you leave 
Kirinyaga!" he said irritably. 
     "I left of my own volition," I replied calmly. 
     "We are getting off the subject again," said Edward. "Look -- 
if you want to stay in the _mundumugu_ business, I'll rent you an 
office, or" -- he added contemptuously --"buy you a patch of dirt 
on which to sit and make pronouncements. But you cannot practice 
in my house." 
     "Father Ngoma's parishoners must not like what he has to 
say," I observed, "or they would not seek advice elsewhere." 
     "I do not want you speaking to them again. Is that clear?" 
     "Yes," I said. "It is clear that you do not want me to speak 
to them again." 
     "You know exactly what I mean!" he exploded. "No more verbal 
games! Maybe they worked on Kirinyaga, but they won't work here! I 
know you too well!" 
     He went back to staring at his computer. 
     "It is most interesting," I said. 
     "What is?" he asked suspiciously, glaring at me. 
     "Here you are, surrounded by English books, studying French, 
and arguing on behalf of the priest of an Italian religion. Not 
only are you not Kikuyu, I think perhaps you are no longer even 
Kenyan." 
     He glared at me across his desk. "You drive me crazy," he 
repeated. 
                             *   *   * 
     After I left my son's study I left the house and took an 
airbus to the park in Muthaiga, miles from my son and the 
neighbors who were interchangeable with him. Once lions had 
stalked this terrain. Leopards had clung to overhanging limbs, 
waiting for the opportunity to pounce upon their prey. Wildebeest 
and zebra and gazelles had rubbed shoulders, grazing on the tall 
grasses. Giraffes had nibbled the tops of acacia trees, while 
warthogs rooted in the earth for tubers. Rhinos had nibbled on 
thornbushes, and charged furiously at any sound or sight they 
could not immediately identify. 
     Then the Kikuyu had come and cleared the land, bringing with 
them their cattle and their oxen and their goats. They had dwelt 
in huts of mud and grass, and lived the life that we aspired to 
on Kirinyaga. 
     But all that was in the past. Today the park contained 
nothing but a few squirrels racing across the imported Kentucky 
Blue Grass and a pair of hornbills that had nested in the one of 
the transplanted European trees. Old Kikuyu men, dressed in shoes 
and pants and jackets, sat on the benches that ran along the 
perimeter. One man was tossing crumbs to an exceptionally bold 
starling, but most of them simply sat and stared aimlessly. 
     I found an empty bench, but decided not to sit on it. I 
didn't want to be like these men, who saw nothing but the 
squirrels and the birds, when I could see the lions and the 
impala, the war-painted Kikuyu and the red-clad Maasai, who had 
once stalked across this same land. 
     I continued walking, suddenly restless, and despite the heat 
of the day and the frailty of my ancient body, I walked until 
twilight. I decided could not endure dinner with my son and his 
wife, their talk of their boring jobs, their continual veiled 
suggestions about the retirement home, their inability to 
comprehend either why I went to Kirinyaga or why I returned -- so 
instead of going home I began walking aimlessly through the 
crowded city. 
     Finally I looked up at the sky. _Ngai_, I said silently, _I_ 
still do not understand. I was a good mundumugu. I obeyed Your 
law. I honored Your rituals. There must have come a day, a moment, 
a second, when together we could have saved Kirinyaga if You had 
just manifested Yourself. Why did You abandon it when it needed 
You so desperately?_ 
     I spoke to Ngai for minutes that turned into hours, but He 
did not answer. 
                             *   *   * 
     When it was ten o'clock at night, I decided it was time to 
start making my way to the laboratory complex, for it would take 
me more than an hour to get there, and Kamau began working at 
eleven. 
     As before, he deactivated the electronic barrier to let me 
in, then escorted me to the small grassy area where Ahmed was 
kept. 
     "I did not expect to see you back so soon, _mzee_," he said. 
     "I have no place else to go," I answered, and he nodded, as 
if this made perfect sense to him. 
     Ahmed seemed nervous until the breeze brought my scent to 
him. Then he turned to face the north, extending his trunk every 
few moments. 
     "It is as if he seeks some sign from Mount Marsabit," I 
remarked, for the great creature's former home was hundreds of 
miles north of Nairobi, a solitary green mountain rising out of 
the blazing desert. 
     "He would not be pleased with what he found," said Kamau. 
     "Why do you say that?" I asked, for no animal in our history 
was ever more identified with a location than the mighty Ahmed 
with Marsabit. 
     "Do you not read the papers, or watch the news on the holo?" 
     I shook my head. "What happens to black Europeans is of no 
concern to me." 
     "The government has evacuated the town of Marsabit, which 
sits next to the mountain. They have closed the Singing Wells, and 
have ordered everyone to leave the area." 
     "Leave Marsabit? Why?" 
     "They have been burying nuclear waste at the base of the 
mountain for many years," he said. "It was just revealed that some 
of the containers broke open almost six years ago. The government 
hid the fact from the people, and then failed to properly clean up 
the leak." 
     "How could such a thing happen?" I asked, though of course I 
knew the answer. After all, how does _anything_ happen in Kenya? 
     "Politics. Payoffs. Corruption." 
     "A third of Kenya is desert," I said. "Why did they not bury 
it there, where no one lives or even thinks to travel, so when 
this kind of disaster occurs, as it always does, no one is 
harmed?" 
     He shrugged. "Politics. Payoffs. Corruption," he repeated. 
"It is our way of life." 
     "Ah, well, it is nothing to me anyway," I said. "What happens 
to a mountain 500 kilometers away does not interest me, any more 
than I am interested in what happens to a world named after a 
different mountain." 
     "It interests _me_," said Kamau. "Innocent people have been 
exposed to radiation." 
     "If they live near Marsabit, they are Pokot and Rendille," I 
pointed out. "What does that matter to the Kikuyu?" 
     "They are _people_, and my heart goes out to them," said Kamau. 
     "You are a good man," I said. "I knew that from the moment we 
first met." I pulled some peanuts from the pouch that hung around 
my neck, the same pouch in which I used to keep charms and magical 
tokens. "I bought these for Ahmed this afternoon," I said. "May 
I...?" 
     "Certainly," answered Kamau. "He has few enough pleasures. 
Even a peanut will be appreciated. Just toss them at his feet." 
     "No," I said, walking forward. "Lower the barrier." 
     He lowered the force field until Ahmed was able to reach his 
trunk out over the top. When I got close enough, the huge beast 
gently took the peanuts from my hand. 
     "I am amazed!" said Kamau when I had rejoined him. "Even I 
cannot approach Ahmed with impunity, yet you actually fed him by 
hand, as if he were a family pet." 
     "We are each the last of our kind, living on borrowed time," 
I said. "He senses a kinship." 
     I remained a few more minutes, then went home to another 
night of troubled sleep. I felt Ngai was trying to tell me 
something, trying to impart some message through my dreams, but 
though I had spent years interpreting the omens in other people's 
dreams, I was ignorant of my own. 
Edward was standing on the beautifully rolled lawn, staring 
at the blackened embers of my fire. 
     "I have a beautiful fire pit on the terrace," he said, trying 
unsuccessfully to hide his anger. "Why on earth did you build a 
fire in the middle of the garden?" 
     "That is where a fire belongs," I answered. 
     "Not in _this_ house, it doesn't!" 
     "I shall try to remember." 
     "Do you know what the landscaper will charge me to repair the 
damage you caused?" A look of concern suddenly crossed his face. 
"You haven't sacrificed any animals, have you?" 
     "No." 
     "You're sure none of the neighbors is missing a dog or a 
cat?" he persisted. 
     "I know the law," I said. And indeed, Kikuyu law required the 
sacrifice of goats and cattle, not dogs and cats. "I am trying to 
obey it." 
     "I find that difficult to believe." 
     "But _you_ are not obeying it, Edward," I said. 
     "What are you talking about?" he demanded. 
     I looked at Susan, who was staring at us from a second-story 
window. 
     "You have two wives," I pointed out. "The younger one lives 
with you, but the older one lives many kilometers away, and sees 
you only when you take your children away from her on weekends. 
This is unnatural: a man's wives should all live together with 
him, sharing the household duties." 
     "Linda is no longer my wife," he said. "You know that. We 
were divorced many years ago." 
     "You can afford both," I said. "You should have kept both." 
     "In this society, a man may have only one wife," said Edward. 
"What kind of talk is this? You have lived in England and America. 
You know that." 
     "That is their law, not ours," I said. "This is Kenya." 
     "It is the same thing." 
     "The Moslems have more than one wife," I replied. 
     "I am not a Moslem," he said. 
     "A Kikuyu man may have as many wives as he can afford," I 
said. "It is obvious that you are also not a Kikuyu." 
     "I've had it with this smug superiority of yours!" he 
exploded. "You deserted my mother because she was not a true 
Kikuyu," he continued bitterly. "You turned your back on my sister 
because she was not a true Kikuyu. Since I was a child, every time 
you were displeased with me you have told me that I am not a true 
Kikuyu. Now you have even proclaimed that none of the thousands 
who followed you to Kirinyaga are true Kikuyus." He glared 
furiously at me. "Your standards are higher than Kirinyaga itself! 
Can there possibly be a true Kikuyu anywhere in the universe?" 
     "Certainly," I replied. 
     "Where can such a paragon be found?" he demanded. 
     "Right here," I said, tapping myself on the chest. "You are 
looking at him." 
                             *   *   * 
     My days faded one into another, the dullness and drudgery of 
them broken only by occasional nocturnal visits to the laboratory 
complex. Then one night, as I met Kamau at the gate, I could see 
that his entire demeanor had changed. 
     "Something is wrong," I said promptly. "Are you ill?" 
     "No, _mzee_, it is nothing like that." 
     "Then what is the matter?" I persisted. 
     "It is Ahmed," said Kamau, unable to stop tears from rolling 
down his withered cheeks. "They have decided to put him to death 
the day after tomorrow." 
     "Why?" I asked, surprised. "Has he attacked another keeper?" 
     "No," said Kamau bitterly. "The experiment was a success. 
They know they can clone an elephant, so why continue to pay for 
his upkeep when they can line their pockets with the remaining 
funds of the grant?" 
     "Is there no one you can appeal to?" I demanded. 
     "Look at me," said Kamau. "I am an 86-year-old man who was 
given his job as an act of charity. Who will listen to me?" 
     "We must do something," I said. 
     He shook his head sadly. "They are _kehees_," he said. 
"Uncircumcised boys. They do not even know what a _mundumugu_ is. 
Do not humiliate yourself by pleading with them." 
     "If I did not plead with the Kikuyu on Kirinyaga," I replied, 
"you may be sure I will not plead with the Kenyans in Nairobi." I 
tried to ignore the ceaseless hummings of the laboratory machines 
as I considered my options. Finally I looked up at the night sky: 
the moon glowed a hazy orange through the pollution. "I will need 
your help," I said at last. 
     "You can depend on me." 
     "Good. I shall return tomorrow night." 
     I turned on my heel and left, without even stopping at 
Ahmed's enclosure. 
     All that night I thought and planned. In the morning, I 
waited until my son and his wife had left the house, then called 
Kamau on the vidphone to tell him what I intended to do and how he 
could help. Next, I had the computer contact the bank and withdraw 
my money, for though I disdained shillings and refused to cash my 
government checks, my son had found it easier to shower me with 
money than respect. 
     I spent the rest of the morning shopping at vehicle rental 
agencies, until I found exactly what I wanted. I had the 
saleswoman show me how to manipulate it, practiced until 
nightfall, hovered opposite the laboratory until I saw Kamau enter 
the grounds, and then maneuvered up to the side gate. 
     _"Jambo, mundumugu!"_ whispered Kamau as he deactivated 
enough of the electronic barrier to accomodate the vehicle, which 
he scrutinized carefully. I backed up to Ahmed's enclosure, then 
opened the back and ordered the ramp to descend. The elephant 
watched with an uneasy curiosity as Kamau deactivated a ten-foot 
section of the force field and allowed the bottom of the ramp 
through. 
     _"Njoo, Tembo,"_ I said. _Come, elephant._ 
     He took a tentative step toward me, then another and another. 
When he reached the edge of his enclosure he stopped, for always 
he had received an electrical "correction" when he tried to move 
beyond this point. It took almost twenty minutes of tempting him 
with peanuts before he finally crossed the barrier and then 
clambered awkwardly up the ramp, which slid in after him. 
I sealed him into the hovering vehicle, and he instantly trumpeted 
in panic. 
     "Keep him quiet until we get out of here," said a nervous 
Kamau as I joined him at the controls, "or he'll wake up the whole 
city." 
     I opened a panel to the back of the vehicle and spoke 
soothingly, and strangely enough the trumpeting ceased and the 
scuffling did stop. As I continued to calm the frightened beast, 
Kamau piloted the vehicle out of the laboratory complex. We passed 
through the Ngong Hills twenty minutes later, and circled around 
Thika in another hour. When we passed Kirinyaga -- the true, snow- 
capped Kirinyaga, from which Ngai once ruled the world -- 90 
minutes after that, I did not give it so much as a glance. 
     We must have been quite a sight to anyone we passed: two 
seemingly crazy old men, racing through the night in an unmarked 
cargo vehicle carrying a six-ton monster that had been extinct for 
more than two centuries. 
     "Have you considered what effect the radiation will have on 
him?" asked Kamau as we passed through Isiolo and continued north. 
     "I questioned my son about it," I answered. "He is aware of 
the incident, and says that the contamination is confined to the 
lower levels of the mountain." I paused. "He also tells me it will 
soon be cleaned up, but I do not think I believe him." 
     "But Ahmed must pass through the radiation zone to ascend the 
mountain," said Kamau. 
     I shrugged. "Then he will pass through it. Every day he 
lives is a day more than he would have lived in Nairobi. For as 
much time as Ngai sees fit to give him, he will be free to graze 
on the mountain's greenery and drink deep of its cool waters." 
     "I hope he lives many years," he said. "If I am to be jailed 
for breaking the law, I would at least like to know that some 
lasting good came of it." 
     "No one is going to jail you," I assured him. "All that will 
happen is that you will be fired from a job that no longer 
exists." 
     "That job supported me," he said unhappily. 
     _The Burning Spear would have no use for you,_ I decided. 
_You bring no honor to his name. It is as I have always known: I 
am the last true Kikuyu._ 
     I pulled my remaining money out of my pouch and held it out 
to him. "Here," I said. 
     "But what about yourself, _mzee_?" he said, forcing himself 
not to grab for it. 
     "Take it," I said. "I have no use for it." 
     _"Asante sana, mzee,"_ he said, taking it from my hand and 
stuffing it into a pocket. _Thank you, mzee._ 
     We fell silent then, each occupied with our own thoughts. As 
Nairobi receded further and further behind us, I compared my 
feelings with those I had experienced when I had left Kenya behind 
for Kirinyaga. I had been filled with optimism then, certain that 
we would create the Utopia I could envision so clearly in my mind. 
     The thing I had not realized is that a society can be a 
Utopia for only an instant -- once it reaches a state of 
perfection it cannot change and still be a Utopia, and it is the 
nature of societies to grow and evolve. I do not know when 
Kirinyaga became a Utopia; the instant came and went without my 
noticing it. 
     Now I was seeking Utopia again, but this time of a more 
limited, more realizable nature: a Utopia for one man, a man who 
knew his own mind and would die before compromising. I had been 
misled in the past, so I was not as elated as the day we had left 
for Kirinyaga; being older and wiser, I felt a calm, quiet 
certitude rather than more vivid emotions. 
     An hour after sunrise, we came to a huge, green, fog- 
enshrouded mountain, set in the middle of a bleached desert. A 
single swirling dust devil was visible against the horizon. 
     We stopped, then unsealed the elephant's compartment. We 
stood back as Ahmed stepped cautiously down the ramp, his every 
movement tense with apprehension. He took a few steps, as if to 
convince himself that he was truly on solid ground again, then 
raised his trunk to examine the scents of his new -- and ancient 
-- home. 
     Slowly the great beast turned toward Marsabit, and suddenly 
his whole demeanor changed. No longer cautious, no longer fearful, 
he spent almost a full minute eagerly examining the smells that 
wafted down to him. Then, without a backward glance, he strode 
confidently to the foothills and vanished into the foliage. A 
moment later we heard him trumpet, and then he was climbing the 
mountain to claim his kingdom. 
     I turned to Kamau. "You had better take the vehicle back 
before they come looking for it." 
     "Are you not coming with me?" he asked, surprised. 
     "No," I replied. "Like Ahmed, I will live out my days on 
Marsabit." 
     "But that means you, too, must pass through the radiation." 
     "What of it?" I said with an unconcerned shrug. "I am an old 
man. How much time can I have left -- weeks? Months? Surely not a 
year. Probably the burden of my years will kill me long before the 
radiation does." 
     "I hope you are right," said Kamau. "I should hate to think 
of you spending your final days in agony." 
     "I have seen men who live in agony," I told him. "They are 
the old _mzees_ who gather in the park each morning, leading lives 
devoid of purpose, waiting only for death to claim another of 
their number. I will not share their fate." 
     A frown crossed his face like an early morning shadow, and I 
could see what he was thinking: he would have to take the vehicle 
back and face the consequences alone. 
     "I will remain here with you," he said suddenly. "I cannot 
turn my back on Eden a second time." 
     "It is not Eden," I said. "It is only a mountain in the 
middle of a desert." 
     "Nonetheless, I am staying. We will start a new Utopia. It 
will be Kirinyaga again, only done right this time." 
     _I have work to do,_ I thought. _Important work. And you 
would desert me in the end, as they have all deserted me. Better 
that you leave now._ 
     "You must not worry about the authorities," I said in the 
same reassuring tones with which I spoke to the elephant. "Return 
the vehicle to my son and he will take care of everything." 
     "Why should he?" asked Kamau suspiciously. 
     "Because I have always been an embarrassment to him, and if 
it were known that I stole Ahmed from a government laboratory, I 
would graduate from an embarrassment to a humiliation. Trust me: 
he will not allow this to happen." 
     "If your son asks about you, what shall I tell him?" 
     "The truth," I answered. "He will not come looking for me." 
     "What will stop him?" 
     "The fear that he might find me and have to bring me back 
with him," I said. 
     Kamau's face reflected the battle that was going on inside 
him, his terror of returning alone pitted against his fear of the 
hardships of life on the mountain. 
     "It is true that my son would worry about me," he said 
hesitantly, as if expecting me to contradict him, perhaps even 
hoping that I would. "And I would never see my grandchildren 
again." 
     _You are the last Kikuyu, indeed the last human being, that I 
shall ever see,_ I thought. _I will utter one last lie, disguised 
as a question, and if you do not see through it, then you will 
leave with a clear conscience and I will have performed a final 
act of compassion._ 
     "Go home, my friend," I said. "For what is more important 
than a grandchild?" 
     "Come with me, Koriba," he urged. "They will not punish you 
if you explain why you kidnapped him." 
     "I am not going back," I said firmly. "Not now, not ever. 
Ahmed and I are both anachronisms. It is best that we live out our 
lives here, away from a world we no longer recognize, a world that 
has no place for us." 
     Kamau looked at the mountain. "You and he are joined at the 
soul," he concluded. 
     "Perhaps," I agreed. I laid my hand on his shoulder. 
"_Kwaheri,_ Kamau." 
     _"Kwaheri, mzee,"_ he replied unhappily. "Please ask Ngai to 
forgive me for my weakness." 
     It seemed to take him forever to activate the vehicle and 
turn it toward Nairobi, but finally he was out of sight, and I 
turned and began ascending the foothills. 
     I had wasted many years seeking Ngai on the wrong mountain. 
Men of lesser faith might believe Him dead or disinterested, but I 
knew that if Ahmed could be reborn after all others of his kind 
were long dead, then Ngai must surely be nearby, overseeing the 
miracle. I would spend the rest of the day regaining my strength, 
and then, in the morning, I would begin searching for Him again on 
Marsabit. 
     And this time, I knew I would find Him. 