Thomas put out his hand, and the boy shook it, the delicate bones nearly lost in Thomas's grip.

-How do you do? the boy asked politely, eyes everywhere but on Thomas. the boy asked politely, eyes everywhere but on Thomas.

-Very well. And yourself? Thomas bent slightly to the boy, who shrugged. Manners could take him only so far. Thomas bent slightly to the boy, who shrugged. Manners could take him only so far.

-Richard said he's racing tomorrow in Karen. He's invited us to come and watch.

Thomas could scarcely imagine the boy controlling a horse, never mind racing. Though, as Elaine's son, he'd have grown up with horses. Once, Thomas and Regina had been invited to the Karen Hunt, an anachronism if ever Thomas had seen one: sherry on silver trays, scarlet coats, the immense underbellies of the beasts brushing the tops of the hedges. The hedges of Karen, he thought. They told a story all their own.

-I think we might just have to do that, Thomas said to the boy, thinking, again, even as he spoke: And where is Linda now? Right this very minute? Thomas said to the boy, thinking, again, even as he spoke: And where is Linda now? Right this very minute?

-You're kind of quiet tonight. This from Regina when the boy had left, summoned by his mother. This from Regina when the boy had left, summoned by his mother.

-Am I?

-You're being almost rude.

-To whom?

-To Roland and Elaine, to start.

-Considering the fact that Roland just expressed deep sympathy over the fact that I'm a failed poet who needs to be supported by his wife, I don't suppose I give a f.u.c.k.

-Thomas.

Beyond Regina, Elaine watched them intently.

-It's the migraine, he said, searching for an explanation his wife might find acceptable. he said, searching for an explanation his wife might find acceptable. It's made the day seem not normal. It's made the day seem not normal.

Regina slipped a finger between the b.u.t.tons of his shirt. All your days are abnormal. All your days are abnormal.

Thomas understood the finger for what it was. Regina would want to make love when they got home.

-I know you've had the migraine, Regina said, whispering. Regina said, whispering. But tonight's the night. But tonight's the night.

Thomas felt a sinking in his chest.

-I've done the charts, she said, perhaps defensively. she said, perhaps defensively.

He hesitated just a second too long, then tried to put his arm around her. But distance or mild panic had already conveyed itself to Regina, who moved inches to one side of him. Too often, it seemed to Thomas, he unintentionally hurt his wife.

-I a.s.sume you've heard the news. Her voice cool now, the barometer lowered, looking away from him and taking a sip of her drink, a rosy wine. Her voice cool now, the barometer lowered, looking away from him and taking a sip of her drink, a rosy wine.

-What news? Thomas, in cautious ignorance, asked. Thomas, in cautious ignorance, asked.

-They've arrested Ndegwa.

Thomas simply stared.

-This afternoon. Around five o'clock. Norman what's-his-name, the one from the London paper, just told me.

She gestured in Norman what's-his-name's direction. Noting Thomas's surprise. It would not be fair to say that Regina was enjoying Thomas's distress.

-Impossible, Thomas said. For the second time that day, daunted by the impossible. Thomas said. For the second time that day, daunted by the impossible. I just saw the man at lunch. I had a drink with him at the Thorn Tree. I just saw the man at lunch. I had a drink with him at the Thorn Tree.

Regina, who had not known he'd had a drink at the Thorn Tree, looked sharply up at him. They arrested him at the university, They arrested him at the university, she said. she said. There are demonstrations even now. There are demonstrations even now.

Thomas, saturated, couldn't absorb the news.

-He must have a tremendous following, Regina said, now as watchful as Elaine. Regina said, now as watchful as Elaine.

-Jesus, Thomas said, shaken by possibility become reality. He thought of the casual way Ndegwa had looked at African women. Of his joke about the worm. Thomas said, shaken by possibility become reality. He thought of the casual way Ndegwa had looked at African women. Of his joke about the worm.

-Big enough to be news in London anyway, Regina said. Regina said.

He waited in the bedroom of the villa, the room lit only by the moon, the bluish light outlining the odd feminine bits of furniture that had been lent to them after the robbery: the dressing table with its chintz skirt; the camelbacked settee that had some age; the heavy mahogany wardrobe with the door that didn't quite fit and in which both he and Regina kept ridiculously few clothes. He imagined the ornate wardrobe traveling from London by ship to Mombasa, brought up by horse and cart from the coast. A woman's treasure, a piece of furniture she'd said she wouldn't go to Africa without. And what had happened to the woman? Thomas wondered. Had she died in childbirth? Been afraid during the long nights when her husband had been on safari? Danced at the m.u.t.h.aiga Club while her husband made love to her best friend in the backseat of his Bentley? Been sick with chronic malaria in this very bed? Or had she become browned and hardened like Elaine, the boredom and dust sharpening her tongue? The house was a perk from Regina's research grant, its unexpected luxury surprising them both when they'd arrived in the country. Regina had at first balked at staying in Karen, but the bougainvillea and the Dutch door in the kitchen had seduced her before they'd even had their gin and tonics on the verandah. Now his wife adored the house, couldn't imagine returning to the States. Couldn't imagine living without the servants now, for that matter: the cook, the gardener, and the ayah they would hire if only Regina could bear a child.

Behind the bathroom door, he could hear the swishing of limbs in the water of the clawfooted bathtub. He knew that Regina would soon put on the black silk-and-lace nightgown he'd bought her on a homesick whim during a stopover in Paris on their way to Africa. A nightgown she'd worn every night she thought herself fertile; a nightgown that now gave off a whiff of failure, its intended allure long since worn away, like a woman's scent fading. He wished he could somehow signal to Regina not to wear the thing - - had even, oddly, thought of hiding it had even, oddly, thought of hiding it - - but she would almost certainly misinterpret the comment, would take it personally to mean that he thought her too fat. A word he'd never used, never even suggested, her own distaste for her body so pervasive she a.s.sumed everyone shared her own distorted image. It had, he knew now, ruined her life, in the way a cleft lip or a misshapen limb might twist a future. Nothing he could say or do could erase the picture she had of herself, and he thought the damage must have been done early in her life, though he thought it pointless to blame a parent. but she would almost certainly misinterpret the comment, would take it personally to mean that he thought her too fat. A word he'd never used, never even suggested, her own distaste for her body so pervasive she a.s.sumed everyone shared her own distorted image. It had, he knew now, ruined her life, in the way a cleft lip or a misshapen limb might twist a future. Nothing he could say or do could erase the picture she had of herself, and he thought the damage must have been done early in her life, though he thought it pointless to blame a parent.

He got out of the bed and stood naked at the window. He could just make out, in the eerie light, the jacarandas and the euphorbia trees, and on the air was the smell of jasmine. Returning from the party, slightly drunk, he'd been a.s.saulted by a rush of memories, a neap tide he hadn't been able to hold back, even when Regina had said, rusty note, Thomas, are you listening? Thomas, are you listening? He'd pleaded preoccupation with Ndegwa's detainment, true enough, though it had not been the source of the nostalgic flood. In the car, he'd seen a young girl He'd pleaded preoccupation with Ndegwa's detainment, true enough, though it had not been the source of the nostalgic flood. In the car, he'd seen a young girl - - and yes, she had been only a girl then and yes, she had been only a girl then - - walking late into a cla.s.sroom already filled with students and a teacher, her swagger an announcement, a surprise. Her charcoal skirt had come only to the middle of her thighs, a shocking length in school. Every boy and even the teacher had gawped at the long legs (legs as long as birches, he thought now) and at the white cotton shirt, fastened one b.u.t.ton too short, that opened to a deep walking late into a cla.s.sroom already filled with students and a teacher, her swagger an announcement, a surprise. Her charcoal skirt had come only to the middle of her thighs, a shocking length in school. Every boy and even the teacher had gawped at the long legs (legs as long as birches, he thought now) and at the white cotton shirt, fastened one b.u.t.ton too short, that opened to a deep V V above her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. (And even now a cotton blouse on a woman could arouse Thomas, a mildly disconcerting cue in a country where short skirts and white cotton blouses were above her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. (And even now a cotton blouse on a woman could arouse Thomas, a mildly disconcerting cue in a country where short skirts and white cotton blouses were de rigueur de rigueur on schoolgirls.) The girl had stood in the doorway, books in hand and chewing gum, and he was certain Mr. K. would bark at her to spit it out. But even Mr. K. had been rendered speechless, able to do little more than ask her name and check it against his roll, fingers trembling as he did so. And somehow Thomas had known, even then, that the skirt and the blouse and the gum were wrong for her, a costume she was trying on. And had wondered immediately how it was that he had not seen this girl before, for he knew that she was someone he'd have followed for days until he'd made her speak to him. Her expression had not been brash, but rather cautious, and he'd realized then that under the mask she might be afraid; that she was someone who might easily be taken advantage of. He'd willed her to choose the seat next to him, one of the six or seven empty seats in the room (actually on schoolgirls.) The girl had stood in the doorway, books in hand and chewing gum, and he was certain Mr. K. would bark at her to spit it out. But even Mr. K. had been rendered speechless, able to do little more than ask her name and check it against his roll, fingers trembling as he did so. And somehow Thomas had known, even then, that the skirt and the blouse and the gum were wrong for her, a costume she was trying on. And had wondered immediately how it was that he had not seen this girl before, for he knew that she was someone he'd have followed for days until he'd made her speak to him. Her expression had not been brash, but rather cautious, and he'd realized then that under the mask she might be afraid; that she was someone who might easily be taken advantage of. He'd willed her to choose the seat next to him, one of the six or seven empty seats in the room (actually prayed prayed for it: for it: Dear Jesus, please let her sit next to me) Dear Jesus, please let her sit next to me), and, miraculously, as if will or desire were enough, or G.o.d Himself had intervened, she had moved forward, hesitated, and then taken the seat behind Thomas. And the relief he'd felt had been so profound that he'd been, for the first time in his life, frightened of himself.

From the bathroom, he could hear the tub draining. Regina would be pink from the hot water. He imagined her naked and tried to work up a kind of desire, touching himself without enthusiasm as he did so. Once, l.u.s.t for Regina had been thoughtless and automatic, but now he had to forget the frown between her eyebrows, the whining tone in the market, the fact that she despised her body. In attempting to forget, however, he succeeded only in remembering - - one set of images replaced by another, a slide show he couldn't control. A girl jumping off a pier in the October night. A duffel bag flung high and wide into the sea. A dark warren of tiny rooms, smelling of onions and Johnson's baby oil. Sliding a blouse over the soft bony k.n.o.b of a shoulder, an image that had retained its erotic hold over him for years. A small girl carrying a tricycle. one set of images replaced by another, a slide show he couldn't control. A girl jumping off a pier in the October night. A duffel bag flung high and wide into the sea. A dark warren of tiny rooms, smelling of onions and Johnson's baby oil. Sliding a blouse over the soft bony k.n.o.b of a shoulder, an image that had retained its erotic hold over him for years. A small girl carrying a tricycle.

Regina opened the bathroom door, and the light flooded the bedroom. She wasn't wearing the nightgown, but instead had wrapped a kitenge cloth around her hips. He would never know whether the gesture was deliberate or merely unconscious, but his heart ratcheted within his chest. She switched off the bathroom light and stood provocatively in the doorway, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s white globes in the moonlight. He had only seconds, if that, before she would see his hesitation and cover herself. And then the rest of the night would be tears and apologies, words that both of them would regret. In the distance, as he sometimes did during the night, he heard the sound of drums, of people singing. Kikuyu Catholics, he knew, returning from a midnight service. An awakened ibis cawed in the night, and a donkey, disturbed, made its raw and awful cry. Thomas walked toward his wife and prepared to tell her she was beautiful.

-I don't understand. It's a Sunday.

-I promised Ndegwa.

-Promised him what?

-That I'd visit his wife.

-What good will that do?

-None, probably. It's just a promise, Regina.

-Why didn't you tell me you'd had a drink with the man?

He walked to the car, always surprised that it was still in the driveway. Inside the house, Regina was fuming and might be still when he returned later in the evening. He'd invited her to come along, but, either truly stubborn or simply needing to study, she had refused his half-hearted offer. Yet not before she'd told him (arms crossed, her mouth aggrieved) that she had planned a picnic in the Ngong Hills for later in the day, a picnic that would now obviously have to be sc.r.a.pped. He had winced for her lie, though he'd been relieved when she'd said finally that the trip would simply take too long. He had wanted desperately to be alone.

He left the jacaranda-shaded driveway and made his way along Windy Ridge Road toward the center of town, marveling, as he often did, at the hedges of Karen - - thick, impenetrable walls that hid estates from less-privileged eyes. Karen, named for its most famous citizen, Karen Blixen ( thick, impenetrable walls that hid estates from less-privileged eyes. Karen, named for its most famous citizen, Karen Blixen (I had a farm in Africa....), had once been an almost exclusively white enclave, a kind of mini-Cotswolds with rolling farms and white-fenced stables and an Anglo-expatriate fondness for racing horses and excessive drinking. Now, scattered amongst the signs at the ends of driveways were African names as well - - Mw.a.n.gi and Kariuki and Njonjo Mw.a.n.gi and Kariuki and Njonjo - - wealthy Luo or Kikuyu or Kalinjin, an African elite, the money often made mysteriously through politics. And always, at the ends of these driveways, the ubiquitous signs: wealthy Luo or Kikuyu or Kalinjin, an African elite, the money often made mysteriously through politics. And always, at the ends of these driveways, the ubiquitous signs: Mbwa Kali. Mbwa Kali. Fierce Dog. Fierce Dog.

The Escort lurched along the Ngong Road into Nairobi, its tattered m.u.f.fler announcing itself rudely to anyone at the racecourse or in the Ngong Forest. He negotiated the streets of the city, quiet now on a Sunday morning, and left Nairobi for Limuru, the scenery a kind of diary of time spent in the country: the Impala Club, where he played tennis with the Kenyan executive for Olivetti; the Arboretum, where he and Regina had once fallen asleep after making love; and the house of a UNICEF administrator, where he had gotten drunk nostalgically on scotch. He had been out to the Ndegwa shamba only the once, and he hoped he would remember the way to the outskirts of the central Highlands, once called "the Happy Valley" for the s.e.xual license and alcoholic excess of the Anglo-Kenyan expatriates who had owned the large wheat and pyrethrum plantations. The Mau Mau rebellion and Independence had put an end to the party, the vast farms broken into smaller plots, on which bananas, ca.s.savas, beans, potatoes, and tea now grew. The green of the tea plantations was a color that awed Thomas every time he saw it: a seemingly iridescent emerald that contained within it the essence of both light and water.

In Limuru, he bought a packet of Players at a duka and asked directions to the Ndegwa shamba, noting the practiced manner in which the shopkeeper gave them, as if repeating the well-traveled way to a tourist shrine. Thomas remembered the road when he saw it, little more than a twisting curb on a terraced hill. He parked amidst an array of vehicles: black bicycles with rusty fenders and wicker baskets, a Peugeot 504 with sheepskin seats, a white van that looked like a bakery truck. Beyond the vehicles was a circle of men, sitting casually on benches, like brothers or uncles sent out after a meal by the women in the kitchen. They moved aside for Thomas, his presence not remarkable, and continued their conversations without interruption, mostly in Kikuyu with bits of Swahili Thomas recognized and even phrases in English when only English would do. Methyl bromide. Irrigation systems. Sophia Loren. Methyl bromide. Irrigation systems. Sophia Loren. Most were mzees, old men, with dusty sports jackets plucked from Anglican jumble sales, though one tall African had on large gold-rimmed sungla.s.ses and a beautifully cut suit with a Nehru collar. He hardly moved a muscle, his poise impressive. The scene reminded Thomas of a wake. From time to time, women brought out matoke and irio and sukimu wiki from the kitchen. Thomas declined the food but accepted a gourd of pombe, a beer of bananas and sugar he'd had before. Cool drafts of air drifted over the terraces, and in the distance, on another precipice, a waterfall fell silently. He was awed by the strangeness and the beauty of the scene, the colors rich and saturated. A man, appearing in the doorway of Ndegwa's house, was escorted out by another of Ndegwa's sisters. The woman looked at Thomas, but then ignored him in favor of the African with the exceptional poise. Thomas understood then that the men, like himself, were waiting for an audience with Ndegwa's wife. Most were mzees, old men, with dusty sports jackets plucked from Anglican jumble sales, though one tall African had on large gold-rimmed sungla.s.ses and a beautifully cut suit with a Nehru collar. He hardly moved a muscle, his poise impressive. The scene reminded Thomas of a wake. From time to time, women brought out matoke and irio and sukimu wiki from the kitchen. Thomas declined the food but accepted a gourd of pombe, a beer of bananas and sugar he'd had before. Cool drafts of air drifted over the terraces, and in the distance, on another precipice, a waterfall fell silently. He was awed by the strangeness and the beauty of the scene, the colors rich and saturated. A man, appearing in the doorway of Ndegwa's house, was escorted out by another of Ndegwa's sisters. The woman looked at Thomas, but then ignored him in favor of the African with the exceptional poise. Thomas understood then that the men, like himself, were waiting for an audience with Ndegwa's wife.

He was made to wait an hour and a half, but, curiously, he did not feel impatient. He thought of Linda, endless occupation, exhausting every detail of their short meeting in the market: the surprise on her face when she'd seen him, the manner in which she'd looked away when Regina had said the word migraine, migraine, the way her fingers had trembled. He drank several gourds of the pombe, and knew himself to be distinctly drunk, which felt inappropriate to the occasion. From time to time, one of the African mzees blew his nose onto the ground, a custom Thomas could not get used to, even after a year in the country. He tried to make a poem as he sat there, but could form only disembodied and alien images that he knew would never coalesce into a single ent.i.ty. He needed very badly to p.i.s.s, and asked, the way her fingers had trembled. He drank several gourds of the pombe, and knew himself to be distinctly drunk, which felt inappropriate to the occasion. From time to time, one of the African mzees blew his nose onto the ground, a custom Thomas could not get used to, even after a year in the country. He tried to make a poem as he sat there, but could form only disembodied and alien images that he knew would never coalesce into a single ent.i.ty. He needed very badly to p.i.s.s, and asked, Wapi choo, Wapi choo, of the mzee beside him. The man laughed at his Swahili and pointed to a small shack a hundred feet from the house. Thomas was not surprised to find a hole in a cement floor, the smell so foul he had to hold his breath. Glad for Regina's sake that she hadn't come with him. of the mzee beside him. The man laughed at his Swahili and pointed to a small shack a hundred feet from the house. Thomas was not surprised to find a hole in a cement floor, the smell so foul he had to hold his breath. Glad for Regina's sake that she hadn't come with him.

When he returned to the bench that had numbed his b.u.t.t, Ndegwa's sister was waiting for him. His walk was surprisingly steady as he followed her into the darkened hut, and he was all but blinded by the sudden darkness after the sunlight. Ndegwa's sister took the blinded man by the hand and led him to his seat. Thomas remembered the feel of the red vinyl before he could even see it.

He would not have recognized Ndegwa's wife. A tall headdress of purple-and-gold kitenge cloth hid the contours of her hair and head. Her body was sheathed in a caftan of similar colors. Thomas was, however, rea.s.sured to see the red platforms poking beneath the dress, the rhinestone ring on her finger. She sat - - he thought, he thought, regally regally - - with a gla.s.s of water on a table in front of her, and as she spoke, she took small sips. She did not seem the distraught wife of a political martyr or even a forensic scientist who'd had to excuse herself because her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were too big. Rather, she held herself as one who had inherited too soon a mantle of power, like the teenage son of a dead king. with a gla.s.s of water on a table in front of her, and as she spoke, she took small sips. She did not seem the distraught wife of a political martyr or even a forensic scientist who'd had to excuse herself because her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were too big. Rather, she held herself as one who had inherited too soon a mantle of power, like the teenage son of a dead king.

Thomas crossed his legs and folded his hands before him. He struggled to find appropriate words for the occasion. I'm sorry that your husband has been detained, I'm sorry that your husband has been detained, he said. he said. I'm hopeful that this will sort itself out quickly. If there's anything I can do. I'm hopeful that this will sort itself out quickly. If there's anything I can do.

-Yes.

The yes yes matter-of-fact, as if she had expected the offer. matter-of-fact, as if she had expected the offer.

-I saw your husband yesterday, Thomas continued. Thomas continued. At the Thorn Tree Cafe. He told me he might be arrested. I had no idea it would happen so soon. At the Thorn Tree Cafe. He told me he might be arrested. I had no idea it would happen so soon.

Mary Ndegwa was silent and very still. Thomas tried to imagine her life on her mother-in-law's shamba: would there be a hierarchy, a chain of command? Both women reduced to lesser status when Ndegwa came home on weekends?

-He told me that if he was arrested, I should visit you, Thomas said. Thomas said.

-I know this, she said. she said.

Thomas, disoriented, nodded slowly. You've been expecting me, then? You've been expecting me, then?

-Oh, yes.

And yet he himself hadn't known until this morning that he would come. A lizard slithered on the wall. Mary Ndegwa adjusted her bulk on the settee.

-How is your son? Thomas asked, the b.r.e.a.s.t.s reminding him of the child. Thomas asked, the b.r.e.a.s.t.s reminding him of the child.

-Baby Ndegwa is just all right.

The pombe was already giving him a kind of hangover. Incredibly, he needed to p.i.s.s again.

-My husband said that you tell the truth in your verses, Mary Ndegwa said. Mary Ndegwa said.

Thomas was momentarily buoyed by the compliment, rare enough these days. Your husband is very generous in his criticism, but I can invent the truth when it suits me. Your husband is very generous in his criticism, but I can invent the truth when it suits me.

-The truth may be seen from many doorways, Mr. Thomas.

The p.r.o.nouncement had the ring of having been rehea.r.s.ed. He imagined a hillside of huts, all with open doorways, mzees standing at the thresholds and looking at a single light on a distant hill.

His eyes adjusting, he could now make out dark circles around Mary Ndegwa's eyes that spoke of fatigue. He half expected the record player to begin at any minute with another country-and-western tune.

-Have they told you where Ndegwa is? Thomas asked. Thomas asked.

-They are keeping him at Thika.

-Will you be allowed to visit him?

She made a face as if to say, Of course not. Our government will not release my husband. They will not tell us the charges or set a date for trial. Our government will not release my husband. They will not tell us the charges or set a date for trial.

Thomas nodded slowly.

-This is a fact that should be spoken of in many places, is it not?

A tiny hitch inside his chest, a moment of enlightenment. Understanding now, as he had not before, why he had been granted an audience, why Ndegwa had sat with him yesterday at the Thorn Tree. Had the man been trolling for journalists? For Americans? Had Ndegwa ch.o.r.eographed his own detention?

-This is a violation of human rights, Mary Ndegwa said. Mary Ndegwa said.

Thomas was hot beneath his blue sports coat, misshapen now from having been washed by mistake in the bathtub. He, the least political of men, even when there had been marches against the Vietnam War. He had gone simply to be there, to watch the people around him. That the marches might be a means to an end, he hadn't much credited.

-My government can detain my husband for years. This is not right.

-No, of course not, Thomas said. Thomas said. I am happy to help in any way I can. I am happy to help in any way I can.

-You and my husband spoke of these things?

-Yesterday we talked briefly about the fact that he might be detained. Normally, we spoke of literature. And poetry. Words.

Mary Ndegwa sat forward on the sofa. They have arrested demonstrators at the university. There are now fifty being detained along with my husband. Why have they been arrested? I will tell you, Mr. Thomas. To silence them. To keep them from uttering words. They have arrested demonstrators at the university. There are now fifty being detained along with my husband. Why have they been arrested? I will tell you, Mr. Thomas. To silence them. To keep them from uttering words.

Thomas ran his fingers back and forth over his forehead.

-Dissidence is only words, she added. she added.

It was a kind of catechism, he thought. I must confess I'm not much of a political man, I must confess I'm not much of a political man, he said. he said.

-What is a political man? she asked sharply, a sudden spark, noticeably absent before, in her voice. she asked sharply, a sudden spark, noticeably absent before, in her voice. Do you recognize suffering? Do you recognize suffering?

-I hope I do.

-Injustice?

-Again, I hope I would.

-Then you are a political man.

There seemed no point in saying otherwise. For her purposes, then, he would be political and would do whatever it was she wished: dispatch himself to emba.s.sy officials? Write eloquent letters? Call the press?

Mary Ndegwa struggled to her feet. Come with me, Come with me, she said. she said.

Thomas, having no wish to disobey, followed her. They left the house through a back entrance. Ndegwa's mother, whom he had not seen that day, sat on a bench under a baobab tree. She held her head in her hands and shook it back and forth, crooning, or possibly keening, as she did so, and did not speak to them, or even appear to notice them. Old woman's b.r.e.a.s.t.s and missing teeth. Fear for her firstborn son.

They walked along a steep terrace through a mango orchard and bushes laden with red coffee beans. Mary Ndegwa held the skirts of her caftan, planting her red platform shoes firmly along the murram path. He noticed that they had been freshly polished. She stopped on a knoll.

-Mr. Thomas, you have heard of the Mau Mau rebellion?

-Yes, of course.

-This is the place where Ndegwa's father was executed, she said. she said. He was shot in the back of the head by British soldiers. He was shot in the back of the head by British soldiers.