Listening for Lions Read Online Free PDF Page B

said.
    I threw my arms around him and wept. I felt Mrs. Pritchard pulling me away. In a harsh voice she said to Kanoro, “Tell those people to go away.”
    When I was the one she ordered about, I obeyed her, but I would not let her order Kanoro about. “The Kikuyuwho are here are patients of my father’s. They have come to honor him and must stay for his funeral.”
    I did not know how I had done it, but I had put into my voice something that kept Mrs. Pritchard from saying more. We walked to the churchyard, where the grave had been prepared. It was next to the grave of my mother, where my flowers were still fresh in their jar.
    Kanoro handed me Father’s Bible, and in a choked voice I read Father’s favorite words, for he loved Tumaini: “Yea, the sparrow hath found an house, and the swallow a nest for herself.” As I read the verse, I thought the sparrows and swallows were lucky with their nests, for even a bit of woven straw in a tree was better than the house of the Pritchards, where I would nest that night.
    Kanoro whispered to me, “Our chief, Mabui, wishes to make a last ngoma for your father.” A ngoma was a ceremonial dance, which Father had always enjoyed. My parents and I had often attended ngoma s. Once a visiting missionary had come and a ngoma was given in his honor. He was shocked. “How can you allow such a pagan celebration?” he asked. Father only smiled and said, “Surely such exultation comes from God?”
    I said to Kanoro, “My father would be honored.”
    A circle was formed and the drums and the dancing began. The women were splendid in their beads and wire bracelets and painted faces, the men imposing with ostrich plumes, leopard-skin capes, and necklaces of lions’teeth. Just outside the circle the small children imitated their elders. Around and around the dancers went, chanting, flinging their arms about to the rhythm of the drums, the stamping sending clouds of dust into the air. Sometimes the dance was formal and stately, sometimes fiery and boisterous.
    Mrs. Pritchard was horrified. “Tell them to stop at once,” she hissed. “This is a disgrace.”
    â€œNo,” I said. “We would hurt their feelings. Father would have been very pleased. He loved their ngoma s.”
    At last she could stand it no more and, reaching for my arm, began to pull me away toward the car. I only had time to break away and run to Kanoro and say my good-byes. “Please thank the Kikuyu for me,” I said. A moment later the car door closed on me and I was driven away, the chanting still in my ears.
    My last sight of Tumaini was of the hospital. All my life I had heard stories of how the hospital had been built with sun-dried bricks that Father had helped make. Supplies had been slow in coming from England, and Father had had to improvise or do without. The medicine men of the tribe had been jealous of him and spread rumors that kept away patients who desperately needed Father’s help. His first clinic had been held under the trees. Mother had had to deal with rats and cockroaches and scorpions that climbed into our shoes at night. Until the well had been dug, water had come from the river or from the rainwaterbarrel, and every ounce had to be boiled. Father and Mother had never given up.
    When we reached the Pritchards’ house, Mr. Pritchard asked his wife, “Did you manage the funeral all right? I suppose it was a sad affair.” He had a glass in his hand and his words were slurred.
    â€œIt was not quite what I would have chosen,” Mrs. Pritchard said. I could see that she was anxious to tell her husband of the scandalous ngoma , for she hurried me and my things into a bedroom. “You will have Valerie’s room,” she said. “You must be tired after your ordeal. Perhaps you should rest for a bit.” With that she left me.
    My first thought was of the girl whose room it had been. I felt that