Cocktail Hour Under the Tree of Forgetfulness by Alexandra Fuller

(“Oh dear,” Mum said, “they’ll have sticky drinks and so-called traditional dancers to greet us, all ululating and carrying on”). There was to be an evening excursion on the Indian Ocean in a dhow (“There go half the Old Girls’ wallets,” Mum predicted), an opportunity to wander the streets of Old Arab Town (“There go the other half”). Finally, there was to be a plane ride up to Nairobi for a night at the Muthaiga Country Club (“All those pretentious ex-pats playing pukka sahib on the lawn”), followed by a day in a snake park and a safari in the Masai Mara. (Mum shut her eyes. “No,” she said. “I have elephants in the bananas, crocodiles in the ponds and hippos in the garden anytime I want. I don’t think so.”)
     
     
    NEVERTHELESS, the following February, we all arrived at the Nyali Beach Hotel—a dozen Old Girls from the Eldoret Highlands School, Mum, Dad, Uncle Sandy, Auntie Glug (whose mania had worn itself out on a walk across the Brazilian rain forest and had now resolved itself into a gentle depression) and me. Our taxi stopped outside a sturdy cement barrier while a guard crawled around with a mirror to check its undercarriage for ordnance.
    Eighteen months earlier, a red sports utility vehicle had crashed through the gardens and barrier outside the Paradise Hotel, the only Israeli-owned hotel in Mombasa. Sixty Israeli tourists had just checked in and were enjoying their welcome sticky drink. When the vehicle hit the lobby, it had exploded, killing two Israeli children, one Israeli adult and nine Kenyan traditional dancers. Almost simultaneously, two shoulder-launched Strela-2 surface-to-air missiles were fired at an Israeli-based Arkia Airlines Boeing 757 as it took off from Moi International Airport in Mombasa, barely missing the aircraft. Kenya’s security was still in the process of being thoroughly assessed.
    And Kenya’s security was increasingly suspicious of Mum. “Hujambo, askari!” she told the security guard. “Pole sana. Those horrible, vicious terrorists. ” She smiled magnificently and stuck her head out of the window and addressed the guard loudly. “The tourists will be back. You mustn’t give up hope.” The guard frowned nervously at Mum and asked the taxi driver to open the boot. “That’s right,” Mum said, encouragingly, “you must carry on. You must have courage.” And then she broke into a long string of Swahili that she spoke deliberately and in incantations, as if wrapping a spell around Swahili speakers from which the rest of us were to be excluded.
    Released from the uneasy security guard, we swept up to the hotel. The taxi driver jumped out and opened Mum’s door. She paused a moment—as if her foot touching the earth might break the spell—before stepping out onto the gravel. She breathed in the salty, humid air and her arms went out in front of her. For one astonishing moment I thought she was going to embrace the taxi driver. Instead, she offered him her hands and he took them, helping her to her feet. They bantered back and forth in Swahili, a tongue in which Mum must be a standup comedienne because they had to prop each other up through gales of laughter.
    At the reception, Mum sniffed and wiped her eyes when the traditional dancers came out to greet us. “Oh bravo,” she said. “Well done!” When the dance was over she clapped enthusiastically and shouted, “Mzuri sana! Encore! Encore!” Her mood was infectious. The traditional dancers, surprised by such unbridled enthusiasm, began their dance again. “I’ll take another one of those delicious sticky drinks,” Mum said, swooping down on the woman holding the tray.
    Dad filled in the guest registration card without his usual griping (“Good God, what are you trying to do, kill every last tree with all this bloody paperwork?”). Instead, in the space requesting “Please list all allergies,” he caused hilarity by writing “WOMEN AND ALCOHOL.” Then when he greeted the Old