Benjamin Kisoni - God, Where Are You?

I was flipping through the latest issue of Africa Today in my office, when the ringing of the telephone startled me. When I answered the secretary said, An urgent message for you at the Directors office, please.

An urgent message for me? Whom could it come from? Apart from Njoroge, my internship director, and his three teammates, no one else in that part of Kenya knew me. My wife and children were far away in my own country, the Democratic Republic of Congo (formerly Zaire). Had some misfortune happened to them that needed my immediate attention? Or was there a problem with my papers at the immigration services that welcomed me only a few weeks ago?

The international media had been talking vaguely about some rebellion that had broken out in the eastern part of the Democratic Republic of Congo in 1996. That couldnt be it, I thought. The fighting was taking place more than a thousand miles from my workplace and even farther south of my hometown, Butembo.

People sometimes resort to veiled messages in order not to shock someone with the news of the death of a loved one. But none of my relatives were sick, unless someone had succumbed to a brief illness or had been in an accident. But of what use would it be to hide the bad news from me when I would eventually get it? My heart began to beat fast as I became convinced that someone had died. But at the same time, I racked my brains for other possibilities because, I thought, one never knows! I chided myself for expecting the worst without reason, given that the message was not detailed.

Feeling apprehensive, I set off to Njoroges office. It was only a few minutes walk across the compound of Kesho Publications but the distance seemed longer than usual as I rushed to listen to the message.

Of all the phone calls I had received since my arrival at the training centre in Kijabe, none had disturbed me as much as this one; none had been described as urgent.

When I entered Njoroges office, he looked at me gloomily and said, Go and pack your suitcase quickly, I am taking you to Nairobi, to Wilson Airport. A plane is waiting to fly you back to Rethy.

I could not believe it. I had come for a five-month internship, but after only two months, I was being called back without being told the reason for the recall! Anxiously I rushed to my lodgings, quickly packed my things, and a few minutes later joined Njoroge and we set off. Njoroge looked slim and handsome in his sky-blue shirt with a matching dark blue and white striped tie. Dark glasses hid his eyes. During the trip, I tried to ask him what was going on, but he was concentrating on driving on the fast and crowded road. The pilot at Wilson Airport will let us know whats wrong, he said.

I found myself wondering whether Njoroge was trying to hide something more serious than I had imagined, or whether even he did not know the reason for my recall. Knowing him, I couldnt believe that he was hiding the truth from me unless he did so out of cowardice. And that was not his nature.

The drive from Kijabe to the airport took over an hour, despite Njoroge doing everything he could to avoid traffic jams. From time to time I watched him carefully, trying to read his thoughts, but his face gave nothing away. I thought that at some point he would drop a hint, but I waited in vain.

We made occasional comments about the cars that were whizzing past us as if they were on a racetrack. One couldnt miss the minibuses, commonly called matatus in Kenya, with touts hanging precariously out the doors, shouting aggressively to attract the attention of commuters.

Despite all these distractions, the apprehension about my hasty recall lurked near the surface of my brain turning rhythmically with the wheels of the cars on the road and making me feel dizzy from time to time.