From Eikenhoff to Langata
We drove in our Fiat 100 to Jan Smuts airport and waved goodbye to dad from the roof.
He left on a large BOAC jet with a dark stripe along its side. There was a strange period of hiatus. Dad had left us dependent on the bounty of John and Nola. Mom and the three of us now lived at the Lido breathing the miasma of their disapproval. Although I was very young, I could sense the curtness, the coldness in their treatment of my mother.
Mom's response was to be tense and uncomfortable. Her experience in jail had been traumatic for her, the denouement of her childhood fears of capture which she had, in her intelligence, anticipated. But now, after her release, and after the balm of reunion, mom was without dad and fragile. There was little respite. What there was, were rooms in a hotel and meals.
Mom travelled back and forth from Jo’burg saying goodbye to friends. We children stayed at the hotel. The twins were two and carefully supervised. But occasionally I was able to wander free on my own. I see corridors and flights of red carpeted stairs, a long breakfast gallery with raffia furniture. Outside, the huge freshwater pool where my and arms looked yellow in the water and my feet slipped on algae.
When we said goodbye we were dressed up smartly in new clothes and given a present each. My brothers clutched teddy bears. I was feeling grateful that we were leaving. Feeling emotions more than thinking. I felt love and solidarity with my mother and brothers; and I if I was thinking I thought "Good riddance." "Good riddance to this place". We were following dad, going on to be with dad. We were coming out of the coldness of the white South African regard into something else.
It wasn’t a valedictory farewell. The family saw us off, not our friends. Mom was tense, anticipating the journey and to me she had finally dismissed, it was obvious in the way she spoke, her parents in-laws as trustworthy, moral people.
I can’t remember the flight itself, but I remember the drive to Langata. Dad met us at Nairobi airport, a sweet little airport whose memory I hold like a treasure in my palm. He came in a white Volkswagen Beetle (KGB 164).
After a tearful greeting for him from mom and a long embrace, we received our own great bearded hugs from dad and the set off together for our new home. We came to Nairobi, drove past it. Now we were driving away from town, not towards it; out past Wilson airport. Small Pipers and Cessna's landed near the fence and took off further away from it.
Finally, Dad turned the Beetle to the left onto a dirt track and we clattered past a small quarry, down along a red earthed road - bright grass growing between tyre tracks brushing the undeside of the chassis with a hiss. We drove into a forest dominated by tall trunked blue gums. Running towards us was a large strong Alsatian dog. Dad accelerated down the track and the dog kept up with us with ease. Laughing we came into a clearing in the forest and came to the side of our house. The dog was ours. He was called Whizzy.
Our Langata house was built on stilts of bark covered logs. It had square white windows. Dad took us round to the front with the dog. Whizzy, licked us and barked and there, with a backdrop of trees, was a manicured lawn, trimmed bushes and flower beds.
Beyond this log cabin and its tidy garden, surrounded by blue-gums, we and our neighbours were close to the Kenyan bush.
We drove in our Fiat 100 to Jan Smuts airport and waved goodbye to dad from the roof.
He left on a large BOAC jet with a dark stripe along its side. There was a strange period of hiatus. Dad had left us dependent on the bounty of John and Nola. Mom and the three of us now lived at the Lido breathing the miasma of their disapproval. Although I was very young, I could sense the curtness, the coldness in their treatment of my mother.
Mom's response was to be tense and uncomfortable. Her experience in jail had been traumatic for her, the denouement of her childhood fears of capture which she had, in her intelligence, anticipated. But now, after her release, and after the balm of reunion, mom was without dad and fragile. There was little respite. What there was, were rooms in a hotel and meals.
Mom travelled back and forth from Jo’burg saying goodbye to friends. We children stayed at the hotel. The twins were two and carefully supervised. But occasionally I was able to wander free on my own. I see corridors and flights of red carpeted stairs, a long breakfast gallery with raffia furniture. Outside, the huge freshwater pool where my and arms looked yellow in the water and my feet slipped on algae.
When we said goodbye we were dressed up smartly in new clothes and given a present each. My brothers clutched teddy bears. I was feeling grateful that we were leaving. Feeling emotions more than thinking. I felt love and solidarity with my mother and brothers; and I if I was thinking I thought "Good riddance." "Good riddance to this place". We were following dad, going on to be with dad. We were coming out of the coldness of the white South African regard into something else.
It wasn’t a valedictory farewell. The family saw us off, not our friends. Mom was tense, anticipating the journey and to me she had finally dismissed, it was obvious in the way she spoke, her parents in-laws as trustworthy, moral people.
I can’t remember the flight itself, but I remember the drive to Langata. Dad met us at Nairobi airport, a sweet little airport whose memory I hold like a treasure in my palm. He came in a white Volkswagen Beetle (KGB 164).
After a tearful greeting for him from mom and a long embrace, we received our own great bearded hugs from dad and the set off together for our new home. We came to Nairobi, drove past it. Now we were driving away from town, not towards it; out past Wilson airport. Small Pipers and Cessna's landed near the fence and took off further away from it.
Finally, Dad turned the Beetle to the left onto a dirt track and we clattered past a small quarry, down along a red earthed road - bright grass growing between tyre tracks brushing the undeside of the chassis with a hiss. We drove into a forest dominated by tall trunked blue gums. Running towards us was a large strong Alsatian dog. Dad accelerated down the track and the dog kept up with us with ease. Laughing we came into a clearing in the forest and came to the side of our house. The dog was ours. He was called Whizzy.
Our Langata house was built on stilts of bark covered logs. It had square white windows. Dad took us round to the front with the dog. Whizzy, licked us and barked and there, with a backdrop of trees, was a manicured lawn, trimmed bushes and flower beds.
Beyond this log cabin and its tidy garden, surrounded by blue-gums, we and our neighbours were close to the Kenyan bush.
Write the whole book like this, Phil, and you'll have at least one reader who will put off all appointments, cancel all engagements, until after the last page ... Of the many absorbing, completely satisfying segments I've read so far, this is my favourite -- lyrical, yes, but also real and believable.
ReplyDeleteThank you Wordy. Good.
ReplyDelete