Free Walking Home by Eric Walters Page A

village. It is in Mbooni district, by Machakos Town.”
    “Machakos I know of, but it is not close. Would somebody come to get your family?”
    “There is nobody who even knows we are here. We have to travel to them.”
    “Then you would need funds to pay for a
matatu
ride.”
    “We have nothing,” I said. “You told me before that the government will provide some assistance for those who are able to move out of the camp.”
    “It is not much, but some resources are there for families who receive a recommendation for assistance.”
    “Who makes the recommendation?” I asked.
    “Any of the camp administrators, or a ranking soldier, such as myself.”
    “Would you make that recommendation for us?”
    “Most certainly. You know that. You are good people. Is your mother able to travel?”
    “I think she will be ready soon.”
    “Excellent. I will put forth the recommendation for a travel allowance so it will be ready when you are ready. I will miss my visits with you, but I wish you well as you rejoin members of your family.” He paused and his expression became serious. “I have never asked—and you have no need to tell if you do not wish—but your father … was he a casualty of the uprising?”

    It was one of the things we had never discussed. I nodded. “My father, and his father and mother, and my uncle and cousins.”
    “All of them?”
    “All of them. It was just after dark when it began. We were already in bed. We were pulled out and told to run. My parents had been told the rioters were coming for us. It was my mother, my father, my sister and my grandparents, as well as my uncle, his wife and their three children.”
    “You must have been very afraid,” the sergeant said.
    “Even my father was afraid. I had never seen him afraid before. We fled with all the other Kikuyu we knew, trying to stay ahead of the mob. We were many, but they were so many more. They had clubs and machetes, knives, picks and shovels. And they were everywhere. We tried to get away along different routes, butthey were blocked. Rocks and tires strewn across the road, fires set, men chanting and yelling. They were pulling people out of vehicles and killing them. Unable to run away, all of the routes blocked, we took refuge in the village church.
    “There were so many of us. It was crowded and dark and confused. But I was there with the men who had always taken care of me—my father, my grandfather and my uncle—and I knew they would keep me safe.
    “Then they came. First it was the voices. Then we could see torches bouncing up and down in the darkness, like they were living things moving toward us on their own. They came from three directions. Then as they closed in I could see the people who were holding the torches, burning bright and lighting their way. My father and the other men went outside. I went too.
    “My father took me aside and commanded me to get my mother and sister and flee through the back. I begged him to flee with us, but he refused. He said he could not stop them, but he could slow them down enough to allow us to escape through the fields. I asked if I should take my cousins and my aunt, but he said that was for his brother to decide, not him, and then the mob arrived and I ran back into the church.
    “I looked through the windows as others turned away, afraid to see. I was too afraid
not
to see. I saw moreand more torches coming toward us, and more and more people gathering out there. In the light from the torches I could see some of their faces, and even though I knew some of the people, I could hardly recognize them. There was something so different about them.”
    “And there were no police to stop them?” the sergeant asked.
    “There was nobody,” I answered. “At first the mob stopped just outside the fence marking the church property. It was sacred land and they didn’t want to enter. It was difficult then, telling my mother what my father’s wishes were. She did not want to leave, did