Listening for Lions Read Online Free PDF Page A

his despair he forgot his English. “Bwana mzimu,” he said. It was in Swahili that I learned Father had died. I am ashamed that my first thought was for myself. Like my parents before me, I was an orphan. My mind became muddled with visions of lumpy porridge and being locked into a room for misbehavior and having to wear cast-offs. I thought of David Copperfield working fourteen hours a day in a London factory. I thought of having to leave Africa. Each thought more miserable than the next. At last I came to the worst thing of all—Father was gone—and I began to sob.
    It was Kanoro who comforted me and who, when the crying had at last stopped, reminded me of my responsibility. “What of the hospital?” he asked. “There are many sick there.”
    The nearest house with a telephone was the Pritchards’ house. It was the last place I wanted to go, but I had to let the authorities in Nairobi know we had no doctor here. The mission board must be informed so that another doctor could be sent out. In the meantime, perhaps adoctor in Nairobi would come out once or twice a week to supervise the nurses and father’s assistant so that the hospital could remain open.
    In the oxcart it was a half-hour journey to the Pritchards’. Kanoro remained in the cart while I walked up to the Pritchards’ large home. I knocked on the door, and a servant in a white jacket opened the door. When he saw me, he put his hand over his mouth to stifle a cry. After a moment he said, “I am sorry, miss. I thought our young mistress had returned to us. Please to come in.”
    The Pritchards’ house was made of stone with a wooden roof. The servant led me to the sitting room. The draperies were drawn. In the gloom I could make out a large fireplace, a piano, overstuffed chairs and sofas, and a massive table on which stood tall silver candlesticks. Our house had hard-packed dirt floors covered with grass mats. Here the floors were of wood and covered with animal skins. As my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I saw that Mrs. Pritchard was seated in one of the chairs staring at me.
    â€œI’m so sorry to bother you, but my father died in the night,” I said. “I wonder if you would be kind enough to inform the officials in Nairobi. It may be that they could send a doctor to our hospital.”
    â€œYes, of course,” she said. “And what of yourself? What will you do with no parents?” I was frightened, for her look was greedy and made me think of the hyenas thatfollow the pregnant zebras and antelope waiting until the moment their helpless calf is born and then devour it. I could not think what she wanted of me.
    â€œThe mission board will have to be notified,” I said. “I suppose they’ll arrange to have me return to England.”
    â€œAnd then? Have you family? You said your parents were orphans.”
    â€œNo. I have no family. The church has an orphanage.”
    â€œAnd do you wish to go there?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œMake yourself comfortable while Mr. Pritchard calls Nairobi. I’ll have Njora bring you tea.” She gave me one more greedy look and disappeared. A moment later the Kikuyu servant arrived with a silver tray. There was lemonade with bits of real ice floating in it and little sandwiches and chocolate biscuits all arranged neatly on a china plate as thin as eggshell. My face burned as I thought of the clumsy chipped cups in which I had served the Pritchards their tea. Though I had had nothing to eat that morning, I was too unhappy to do more than sip the lemonade and nibble at a sandwich. I was puzzled at Mrs. Pritchard’s sudden kindness. It did not fit with the way she had looked at me.
    I could hear the Pritchards’ conversation like the murmur of whydah birds and then, more loudly, Mr. Pritchard speaking into a telephone. A few minutes later he appeared. “We are very sorry for your loss,” he