Burn My Heart by Beverley Naidoo Page B

his pockets, there would have been a very different story. By the time he dared to turn around, Dreadlock and Longcoat had disappeared. He prayed that they hadn’t gone along the road towards the gorge. If they discovered the truth, he would be in deep trouble. He had to tell Baba about his lies as soon as possible. He hoped Baba would understand. But what would Gitau think, if he knew? Would he say that Mugo should have told the Muhimu about the bwana’s car? The questions left him uneasy. He wanted to push them away but they lingered unhappily in a muddle of doubts and fears.
    By the time Bwana Grayson’s gates were in sight, sweat was trickling from his skin and his stomach ached with hunger. He hadn’t eaten since he had been sick yesterday. It was still another couple of miles to the inspector bwana’s gates but he had to keep going.
    He had almost exhausted himself when the shrill cries of an eagle made him alert again. It arced through the sky above him, disappeared and returned. It was circling. Was it expecting something? Waiting for him to drop? The inspector bwana’smetal gates glimmered in the distance. Mugo heard his own panting. He was as loud as Duma when the red setter had run herself out. The soles of his feet smacked the ground, making the dust rise as he pushed himself on in a final burst.
    Two frighteningly tall figures stood rooted behind the bars of the gate ahead. Each Turkana guard, wrapped in sun-bleached cotton against night-black skin, raised his rifle. Mugo heard the shout to halt and he tried to call out that he had a message. But he had no breath left and his words came out mangled like groans. He was falling, struggling to keep upright. One hand managed to grasp the gate. With the other, he dug into his pocket and pulled out the paper. He thrust it through the bars. Strong narrow fingers brushed his palm as the note was lifted away. Mugo closed his eyes and sank to his knees.

JANUARY–FEBRUARY 1953
12

Lance Has Plans
    On their first evening back in school after the Christmas holidays, it was Lance who spread the story of Mathew’s night stranded in a gorge. Mathew would have preferred to forget it, but Lance had already collected a cluster of boys in pyjamas around Mathew’s bed in the dormitory to hear the full tale.
    ‘My dad wanted us to travel home in convoy, didn’t he, Mat?’
    Mathew nodded, a little sheepish.
    ‘Did he have a premonition?’ asked one of the younger boys.
    ‘He’s not superstitious, idiot! It’s army training – all that stuff he did in Abyssinia – he knows about ambushes!’ Lance answered sharply. ‘That’s why he thought it was crazy when Mat’s dad said he was off to the location – giving a lift to his labour! You tell the next bit, Mat.’
    There was no stopping Lance now. Mathew felthimself blushing and tried to keep his account as short as possible, making the most of how his father had stationed himself outside the car to protect them. But the other boys had picked up on Lance’s tone.
    ‘Is your labour Kikuyu?’
    ‘Yes, but they weren’t just anyone from the labour lines. Kamau is Father’s syce and his son Mugo is our kitchen toto.’
    ‘Weren’t you scared they could be part of an ambush plot?’
    ‘Not every Kikuyu supports the Mau Mau, you know!’
    ‘If an attack started, they could have strangled you and your mother inside the car!’
    ‘How could they know where our car was going to break down?’ Mathew said irritably. ‘Anyway, we’ve known them for years.’
    ‘I think Lance’s dad is right. You can’t trust anyone these days,’ an older boy asserted. His comment stirred up a chorus.
    ‘How do these gangs get right into people’s lounges, if someone isn’t letting them in?’
    ‘A house servant let in the gang who killed the Meiklejohns!’
    ‘He’s charged with murder like the rest of them.’
    ‘What if the gang forced him to open up?’
    ‘Doesn’t matter because he still helped them.’
    ‘My dad