LOVE IS FOR THE BRAVE

Japan, 1944

"Am I dead?"

"Not yet." A United States airman sets down his basin of salty water and peers at Makorongo's lacerated feet. "You Africans are tough. This would have killed me. They must have whacked you with fencing wire."

"Only bamboo. I ran barefoot as a boy." A whistle signals the end of the working day. The relentless sounds of quarrying cease, but stone dust hangs in the air, caught in a rare shaft of sunlight. "We must keep an eye on the guards." Makorongo twists around to look through a hole scratched in the wall next to his bunk. Row upon row of wooden barrack blocks fill with prisoners of war as they return from twelve-hour shifts in near-freezing conditions. A halyard clanks as a flag bearing the red blob of the rising sun is lowered. "What does the Japanese word furio signify? Is it a curse?" Makorongo flinches as the salt stings.

"It means you have six months to live." The airman taps wings sewn on his torn uniform. "The Japs are using intimidation because they don't have much time. Distance has protected these islands, but as U.S. aircraft extend their range, Tokyo becomes vulnerable. You get me? This entire camp could be wiped out."

"What can we do?"

"Laugh, pray, ask for a miracle." He concentrates on bandaging Makorongo's feet. "It's tough, but hey! This war isn't your war. How did you East Africans get here?"

CHAPTER ONE

British Protectorate of Tanganyika, 1941

A red moon hung in the sky, date palms quivered and drums began to beat as excited girls jiggled towards the village dance floor. Every mother in the district had her eyes on Makorongo. Turning to avoid their gaze, he caught sight of a solitary woman standing beyond the firelight. She glanced directly at him before drawing a shawl around her shoulders and stepping back into deep shadow.

“Makorongo! Have some beer.” A summons from Asha could not be ignored. Newly appointed as Chief of the Northern Highlands, he strode over, looking almost comic in an ostrich feather headpiece and a shuka cape lined in leopard skin. “Here come the beauties.”

A line of maidens approached, eager to fill the African night with their singing. Makorongo caught the scent of wild lavender anointing neatly shaven heads as the girls formed a circle and stamped the patch of hardened red earth in rhythm with the drums. They wore leather skirts embroidered with cowrie shells to symbolize prosperity and strings of dried seedpods around their ankles to call up ancestral spirits. Dust rose as one dancer surged forward, shining with perspiration and giggling unnecessarily. Makorongo hadn’t spoken to her in weeks, but there was nowhere to hide. Although not without allure, she had assured him she wanted ten children, which seemed excessive.

Asha thrust a cup of warm liquid into Makorongo’s hands. “Can you talk to my daughter? She is looking miserable tonight.”

Makorongo winced. The fifteen-year-old in question struck him as being intensely irritating, far worse than the giggling beauty. He suspected she had brewed the cloudy beer. “What’s in this?”

“Battery acid.” Asha laughed, raising his glass. “And a dead skink. Your father says we should send it to Hitler in glass bottles.”

“Is it likely to explode?”

“Everyone is getting obsessed with the war in Europe,” Asha said, wiping his mouth. “They say our men will be called to fight, but I leave fortune-telling to Mganga.”

“Mganga, the medicine man? Has he returned from the coast?” This news was more unsettling than that of raging conflict in the Far East.

“He’s surrounded by women keen to have their rheumatism cured. I’ve paid him to spirit-bless my carvings. It should prevent them from getting stolen.” Makorongo inched away, feeling unsure why Mganga’s magic could be trusted, when the traditional healer shoved an old lady aside and veered towards him.

“New shirt, I see.” Mganga’s smile revealed dazzling teeth, but his breath reeked of raw tobacco. “Why hasn’t Asha made you an elder? A good-looking man like you needs a robust wife.”

Makorongo hid his scarred hand. “I’ve given up the idea. Finding the bride price is near impossible.” He was not going to tell Mganga that the only girl he’d ever loved had left long ago.

“You could join the Army, but what would they think of that mangled thumb?”

Makorongo shrugged off the taunt. “My father claims a little engine oil was included when it got stitched back on.”

“Shillings speak louder than words.” Mganga smiled, adept at flattery. “Let me know when you need money. I pay well for rhino horn or ivory.”

A line of would-be warriors exuding the buttery smell of cattle joined the maidens they were forbidden to touch. After a few beats, they leapt high, grasping every opportunity to display their virility. They flung back their heads in cheerful abandon, jumping up and down until their skin shone with sweat. Makorongo retreated to the cool of the village meeting house, where the stranger stood in her purple shawl. She scooped the fabric to one side and moved towards him.

“Makorongo?”

He looked into the eyes of his childhood friend. “Meru? I didn’t know you were here.” She was not the fifteen-year-old. “Forgive me. I didn’t recognize you earlier.” Named after the holy mountain, Meru was Asha’s eldest daughter, born of his first wife. He hadn’t seen her for twenty years. Once so gawky, Meru’s upright posture now granted her poise. She had become an unexpected beauty.

“It’s good to see you,” she murmured.

“Asha suggested we should speak.” Makorongo realized why the mothers of the village had been staring at him. They would have remembered how frantic he’d been as a youth when Meru had left for far distant cattle lands, married to a wealthy leader at the age of fourteen.

She acknowledged him in a low voice, mumbling customary greetings. “Are you well?”

Memories came plunging forward, jolting his senses. “You’ve grown your hair.”

“One of Imba’s other wives insisted I braid it.” She led him through her grandmother’s outdoor kitchen, gathered her garments with grace, and knelt by the fire. “How is your father, Baba Hasani?” she asked, inviting him to sit while she raked the embers.

“Ageing but cheerful. He’ll be excited to see you. Have you come down for Asha’s inauguration?” Another feast was to be held after his investiture in Arusha.

She took a deep breath. “My husband has passed away.”

Makorongo’s mouth went dry. “You’ve been widowed?” She seemed too young, too beautiful to be left alone. “I’m so sorry. How did he die?”

“He got stung by a bee.” Sudden flames illuminated Meru’s profile. “We summoned a European doctor, but he arrived too late. Imba’s heart had stopped.”

“Killed by a bee? How did the people of his village react?”

“Boma,” she reminded Makorongo, referring to her husband’s status as chief and cattle baron. “The family is in uproar, seeking restitution.” The drums summoning ancestral spirits drowned her words. Makorongo had to lean forward to listen. “Imba’s number one wife heard him cursing me. He was elderly, yet could not accept his days were over and resisted death, twisting this way and that.”

“Are you in trouble?”

Meru’s face filled with tension. “My father came to the funeral,” she said. “I was able to travel back with him, but don’t know how long I can stay.”

***

Meru stared at Makorongo in wonder. He sounded different from the boy she’d once known, but the light in his spirit still shone. She had always loved his steady gaze and quick smile. He was still able to laugh at adversity, concerned for her well-being and ready to listen. As a recent widow, she was forbidden to look a man in the eye, and yet their connection was as strong as ever, a dancing union of souls that spiraled back through time, rooting them in the very earth of Tanganyika.

Meru didn’t think she would ever sleep that night, but her grandmother put her to bed like a child. Lulled by the clicking of cicadas, she slept until the comforting scent of wood smoke filled the air, a little dog barked, and a cup of spinach tea was lifted to her lips. She could hardly believe it was morning. All she wanted to know was whether Makorongo had married.

Her grandmother was dismissive. “Not that one. Kind but indecisive. Always under the belly of a motor car but never at the wheel. Gets covered in fat.”

“It’s called grease.”

“It smells. He’ll be at the farm workshop or swanning around looking for eagles.”

Meru rose, wrapped a towel around her body and wandered down to the river to bathe. Birdsong and the relief of walking under the tall trees of home granted her peace and serenity. She stood naked in the clear mountain water, scrubbing the odor of cow dung from her hair, grateful to be in a place without dust or buzzing flies. Liberated from countless obligations, she felt as if the ancestors were smiling on her, granting her freedom at last.

Makorongo remained distant that evening. As she shared mashed pawpaw with the old folk, Meru feared that he’d heard she had witnessed the murder of one of Imba’s idiot sons. Knowledge of the violence would repel anyone. The risk that someone might equate the incident with Imba’s death and haul her before a magistrate made Meru shudder, but instead of discussing local news as she expected, Asha began ranting about the exploits of the East Africa Force in Ethiopia and Haile Selassie’s triumphant return to Addis Ababa. He jabbed a thick finger at a group of young warriors, summoning them to listen to his wireless radio as he raised the volume.

Just as Meru stepped outside the chief’s compound to collect firewood, Mganga swaggered through a gap in the reed fence. His facial scarring seemed more pronounced than she remembered, but he looked impressive, dressed in a ceremonial monkey-skin cloak with discs of wood set into his earlobes. She was acknowledged with a smile before he lifted his staff to salute Asha and squatted down to listen to the broadcast.

“A man of high standing,” her grandmother muttered. “You could do worse.”

Meru gasped. The idea was heinous, but a negative reply would have been deemed ignoble. Diviners were beyond reproach. She was hoping to see her old friend, but there remained no sign of Makorongo. Instead, his father Baba Hasani arrived full of fun, dressed in the blue kanzu of a household cook. Meru remembered his battered fez as a hat with no brim.

“How we have missed you, ma!” he whistled through the gap in his front teeth, clasping her hands in his. “Eeeh, but you are thin like a gazelle. Come to my kitchen for stew and dumplings. You must see what Makorongo has been up to. We now have taps.”

“He added water pipes to the house?”

“Hot and cold with red and blue letters. Soon we will all turn on and off.”

She laughed for the first time since reaching home. “Tell him I love the idea of running water.”

“You’ll find him fixing farm machinery, not that he charges for it. The boy can be shy but is always “looking around the next bend,” as Hans-Werner would say.”

“Hans? Have you heard from him?”

“That stubborn fellow? He remains in Europe. I guard his mother’s piano, hoping the family will return someday.” Baba Hasani rattled on, talking about paths at the farmhouse that needed endless sweeping until Asha emerged from his compound to thump him on the shoulder.

“The time has come for Makorongo to prove himself a warrior and acquire a wife,” he proclaimed.

“Does he have the funds?” Mganga asked, slinking up behind him.

“Ten head of cattle would be nice.” Asha clapped his hands. “What do you reckon, Meru?”

She had forgotten how aggravating her father could be.

“Oh, Bibi,” she wailed later, after diving into her grandmother’s hut. “How can I be sold twice?”

“You have retained grace and beauty.” The old lady gazed up at her smoke-stained rafters. “Have you spoken to that boy, Makorongo?”

“No, Bibi, but I may need his help.”

“Then you need to get rid of those blotches under your eyes. Come, let me soften your skin.”

***

Makorongo determined to be bold and straightforward but was daunted by Meru’s regal standing. He gathered his courage and walked through the village to her grandmother’s hut, telling himself that any interaction needed to be dignified and respectful. What he did not expect was for a steel can opener to be thrust under his nose.

“Are you able to operate such a device?” A small tin of fish in tomato sauce was held in front of his face. “My father has been presented with this gift. I must prepare a meal for visitors.”

He looked past Meru to the family matriarch, who further amazed him. She was rubbing floor polish into her joints. “He wants to know why you are not among the warriors,” the old lady hissed.

They heard sudden laughter as Asha introduced a visiting army officer to a group of lanky youths from Momella. Each one carried a ceremonial shield.

“It is different for me,” Makorongo explained. “I’m an outsider from Usambara with no tribal affiliation or social aspirations. I would play my part, but it’s not as if disagreements in Europe will touch us here. Those boys can find nothing better to do than plaster their hair with ochre.”

“Do you not appreciate our heritage?” Bibi wanted to know, staring at his European clothes. “They wear the battledress of their forefathers. You have to admit it is more attractive than a boiler suit.”

Meru smiled at last.

“We cannot ignore progress,” he said, setting the opened can of pilchards before Meru with care. “Headbands and knobkerries have become little more than symbolic artefacts. Everyone favors mechanization.”

Meru raised an eyebrow. “Do not all young men relish the idea of warfare?”

He couldn’t let her comment pass uncontested. “Those boys strut about like crowned cranes, each one eager to possess a rifle. They think the concept of being paid to fight is hilarious.” Sounds of revelry made conversation difficult. Makorongo looked deep into Meru’s eyes. “Let me walk you down to the shambas to find herbs to add to your dish.”

“I should not leave the cooking.”

“It won’t take long. I’m sure your father will want to present a variety of dishes to any guest wearing a uniform.”

“Darkness is falling,” she pointed out, but shifted her pot from the heat, took up her shawl and nodded to her grandmother. “No one will see we’ve gone.”

Makorongo so wanted to take her hand. “I can show you where to pick wild sage.”

“You think like a bird,” Meru said as they set off. “I remember how much you loved eagles as a boy. My brain is that of a she-elephant.”

Makorongo wanted to smile. It was how they’d spoken as children, when Hans likened Meru to a baby elephant rushing around, banging into people. “You are now so composed.”

“Having drawn on wisdom.”

Makorongo led her through the maize field beyond the village, as he had as a boy. They were soon immersed in a hushed green world, the wholesome smell of leafy plants enfolding them in calm. It was like walking back to the days of their youth, except that Meru now moved with her chin lifted slightly, her hands parting the leaves with grace. They ventured less than fifty paces when she turned, bending a stem between them. “We will not find herbs growing here.”

This was true. “But it’s peaceful and ministers to my soul.” Makorongo stroked the silky fibers extending from a cob of maize.

“What burdens you?”

“I’m not convinced that marching to war is right. Your whole family wants me to prove myself a warrior, but the idea of fighting repels me. Being expected to hurt others is appalling.”

“They want to uphold tradition.” Meru looked at the moon. “Young men need to endure hardship and prove their worth, or else insignificant trials will defeat them.”

He stepped back. “I learned to befriend suffering as a child.”

Meru nodded. Blackwater fever had taken so many in the Usambara Mountains that Hasani had brought him west to escape the sorrow. She cast her eyes downward in reverence for the dead. “I’m told that if you survive that sickness, you will live forever.”

“Heartache comes in many forms.”

Meru’s shawl slipped from around her shoulders, leaving her neck to catch the moonlight as her eyes brimmed with tears.

Makorongo’s chest tightened. “Have I offended you?”

“It’s not you.” She took a deep breath. “I thought returning home would bring me joy, but everyone has sped forward, striving for modernity.”

“I haven’t changed,” he said, reaching for her hand. “You still have me.”

She moved away.

“What’s wrong?” He wanted her so badly.

“I’m too old. You need an eighteen-year-old with childbearing hips. I would not make a suitable wife.”

He was stunned by her rejection. “Why not?” She was thirty-four. They were the same age.

She swayed, suddenly fragile. “Imba had many children by his other wives, but I could not bear my own. I wanted them with all my heart, but they never came.”

“Forgive me. I didn’t know.”

“No one here knows. I’ve been so far away.” She lifted her head, tears falling on the dry red earth at their feet.

Makorongo’s whole being filled with sympathy. The agony, the indignity for Meru, the daughter of a chief, could only be imagined. Without offspring, her existence was invalidated. She could have been sent home to her parents long ago.

He moved towards her, longing to take her in his arms, but she pushed against him and raised her hands. “Look for a wife who can provide you with children.”

“I can’t imagine having any. There are already enough people in Africa.”

Meru swung around, but he caught her fingertips. She gave in and turned back, smiling sadly. “What do you envisage, Makorongo? Would a life with you mean going far away?”

He had to lean forward to hear. “No, we can stay here.”

“Then you first have to ask Asha.”

“Of course.” He felt suddenly lighter, that there was some hope. “I wanted to know how you felt before approaching him.”

“There are complications. Tradition requires that I wait a year from the day my husband died.” She touched his arm. “I fear the price of the future you speak of will be very high.”

***

Bibi fussed endlessly about the security of her chickens. “We had a predator here last night. Look at the feathers this hen has lost.” She encouraged Meru to be vigilant. “Asha has more visitors. I need you to pluck this fowl and boil the giblets.”

It was Sunday, a day off for farm workers, and yet Makorongo was nowhere to be seen. Meru wafted around the outdoor kitchen, hoping he would visit her. However, when he turned up, offering to fix the latch on the poultry coop, she made it clear that she did not want him to feel obliged to provide for her.