LOVE IS FOR THE BRAVE

Japan, 1944

'Am I dead?'
'Not yet. Let me fix your injuries.' The Californian airman set down a basin of salty water and peered at Sam’s lacerated feet. 'They must have used a bamboo cane.'
'What do the Japanese mean by the word “furio”?'
'Take no notice.'
'They whispered it like a curse set on us black Africans.'
'It means you have six months to live, but implies you won’t get out of here.'
Sam flinched as the salt stung. He was thinking of home.
A whistle blew and the sound of quarrying ceased. Sam twisted around to look through a hole he’d scratched in the wall of the dormitory next to his bunk. Row upon row of wooden barrack huts stretched into the gloom, filling with exhausted men returning from work. A halyard clanked as the flag bearing a red blob was being lowered for the night. 'All clear. The commander must be short-staffed.'
'That’s why the guards are trying to intimidate you. They don’t have six months. The Allies plan to bomb every dockyard and munitions factory around Tokyo. It was to be my next mission: Operation Meetinghouse. The Japs have been protected by distance, but as our aircraft extend their range, Tokyo will become vulnerable. We must expect the US Air Force any day. It will make Pearl Harbor look like a kid’s game. This whole camp could be incinerated.'
Sam heard the door opening and caught the smell of cordite. 'Thank you for your help.'
The Californian kept bandaging his feet. 'This war isn’t your war. How come you East Africans got to be here?'

CHAPTER ONE
The British Protectorate of Tanganyika, 1941

A red moon hung in the sky, drums thundered and every mother in the region looked up as Sam arrived at the dance. He couldn't understand why, but it made the village celebration into a daunting event. Girls huddled together, keen to fill the African night with their singing. Turning to avoid their attention, he caught sight of a lady standing alone by the thatched meeting house, which struck him as strange. She looked directly at him before drawing a purple shawl about her shoulders and stepping back into deep shadow.
'Sam! Come, have some beer,' Asha called. It was his party. The summons could not be ignored. An elder of elders, Asha had been made Kiongozi, chief of the Northern Highlands, eligible to wear the regalia of his forefathers. This battledress included ostrich feather headgear and shuka cape lined in leopard skin. 'Here come the beauties,' he declared, raising his hands to greet the maidens who shuffled forward in single file wearing oiled leather garments embroidered with cowrie shells to symbolise destiny and prosperity. As they formed a circle and began to sing in the firelight, Sam caught the scent of wild lavender anointing their smartly shaven heads and moved back. A giggling girl he had once courted jostled last in line, shining with perspiration. They hadn't spoken in weeks, but her father nodded, blessing the prospect of a union each time he took a sip of beer. Although she was sweet-natured and not without allure, it was unlikely she would be able to help him to establish a farm-mechanic's workshop. It had been made clear that she wanted ten children.
He was about to walk towards the meeting house when Asha grabbed him by the arm. 'Your drink! Try this.' He handed Sam what looked like watery porridge. 'My daughter has become adept at brewing. You must go and talk to her. She is looking very elegant.'
It was the last thing Sam wanted to do. Asha's daughter was aged fifteen and intensely irritating. 'Is this made from millet?' The pombe beer tasted thick, warm and gritty.
'Sorghum. I added a dead skink and more.' Asha was joking. It was considered good luck for a chief to spit in the communal pot.
'Tony says we should add cordite.'
'That boy is obsessed with the war in Europe. I leave the secrets of inebriation to Mganga.'
'Is Mganga here?'
'I've paid him to spirit-bless my carvings in order to protect them from being stolen.' Asha took a swig and belched, pointing out the one authoritative figure Sam had never respected.
'Why are girls always drawn to medicine men?' He couldn't think how long fingernails or distended earlobes were deemed attractive and inched away, but the diviner caught hold of his scarred hand.
'Do you ever experience pain in your thumb?' Mganga's breath smelt of coarse tobacco.
'Not anymore. It was stitched up firmly.'
'I expect a little engine oil was included at the time.' Mganga tightened his squeeze, adept at overwhelming customers with compliments. 'When are they going to make you an elder? Let me know if you are keen to prove yourself worthy. I may be able to help.'
Dust rose as the maidens stamped in rhythm with the drums, strings of seeds tied around their ankles making rhythmic clicks to appease the ancestors. A line of young warriors followed them, adorned in body-paint, grasping any opportunity to display virility. They leapt high, defying tradition each time they brushed behind women they were forbidden to touch. Mganga had just paid them for ivory and giraffe hair to make into jewellery. Sam decided it best to avoid him and retreated to the meeting house where the stranger stood, wrapped in her purple shawl. As she moved towards him, the fabric fell back, revealing the face of a striking woman he had known long ago.
'Meru?' He was stunned. It was Asha's eldest daughter, born of his first wife.
'Sam!' She acknowledged him in a low voice, mumbling customary greetings.
'Forgive me. I didn't recognise you.'
'I have returned from the cattle lands.' She looked fragile, on the edge of collapse.
'For how long?'
'Forever, I hope.'
Memories came plunging forward, jolting his senses. He hadn't seen Meru since they were children. Her eyes had always been huge, but her high cheekbones and straight nose now granted her nobility and stature. She had gained unexpected beauty. A thousand tiny plaits were piled on the back of her head. 'You've grown your hair.'
'One of the other wives enjoyed braiding it.' She seemed breathless. 'It's so good to see you. Are you well?'
Sam looked around, realizing why the older people of the village had been staring at him. They must have remembered how upset he'd been when Meru had left at the age of fourteen. 'Your father suggested we might speak.' He wanted to be polite, but the noise of revelry made this difficult. 'Can we sit down?'
Meru turned and led him back towards her parents' thatched dwelling where a pot of cornmeal demanded attention. She gathered her garments with grace and knelt by the outdoor fire, inviting him to rest while she raked embers with a stick. 'How is your revered father?'
'Ageing, but eager for news of the war.' He knew Baba Hasani would be excited to see her.
'I often think of him.'
'Why did Asha need to grant me permission to talk to you?'
She took a deep breath. 'Everyone will know soon. My husband has passed away. It's the reason my father is to become a spokesman for the people.'
'I didn't realise you had been widowed.' She seemed too young for such a status. 'I am sorry. How did he die?'
'He was stung by a bee.' Flames illuminated Meru's profile as she explained what had happened. 'We summoned a European doctor, but he said the shock must have been too much for Imba's heart.'
'Why have you left his village?'
'His boma,' she reminded Sam, referring to her husband's status as chief and cattle baron. 'Imba's family are in uproar. They think I should not have made honey when I knew bees posed a threat to his health.'
The drums calling up spirits of the ancestors continued to interrupt them, but Sam ploughed on. 'How can a bee belong to anyone?'
'They were my hives.'
'Are you in trouble?'
Meru glanced at him twice, her face filling with tension. 'Imba was always quick to take offence and could not accept that his days were over. He resisted death, blaming me for his pain.'
'Please accept my condolences.' Sam swallowed, knowing his words came across as trite. 'I should have come to the funeral.'
'My father came,' she murmered, beginning to weep. 'I returned here with him.'
'You're back. You're home, safe and well.' He reached out to touch her, but Asha came striding towards them.
'Say nothing,' she whispered, pulling back. 'I don't know how long I can stay.'
***
On the journey back from Imba's boma, Meru had sworn never to marry again. Yet, as her father joined them at the fireside, the years fell away and her resolve melted. Sam sounded different, but the light in his spirit was just the same. He was ready to listen, concerned for her well-being. As a recent widow, she was forbidden to look a man in the eye, and yet she stared at him in wonder. He had the same steady gaze and quick smile. The connection they had known as teenagers had not changed, a dancing union of souls that spiralled back through time, rooting her 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 smell of woodsmoke filled the air, a little dog barked and a cup of spinach tea was lifted to her lips. She couldn't believe it was morning. All she wanted to know was whether Sam had married.
Her grandmother was dismissive. 'Attentive, but too poor. Always covered in grease.'
'Good.' Meru handed back the tin cup, drew a blanket over her head and slept again. Two days passed before she rose, wrapped a kanga around her body and walked down through the shambas to bathe in the river. Birdsong and the sheer relief of being beneath the tall trees of home granted her peace and serenity. She stood, naked in the clear mountain water, scrubbing the odour of cow dung from her hair, thankful to be in a place without dust or buzzing flies. She was free, liberated from countless obligations. It was as if the ancestors were smiling.
Sam remained distant that day, which puzzled her. She assumed that he was being kept busy fixing farm machinery, but as she shared mushed pawpaw and cornmeal with the old ladies, she began to fear that he might have heard about the murder of Imba's idiot son. It had been some time ago, but the violent tale would repulse anyone. She was concerned someone might equate the incident to her late husband's death and almost expected to be hauled up before the authorities in Arusha.
Asha became increasingly animated, talking of the exploits of the East Africa Force in Ethiopia with The Emperor Haile Selassie returning to Addis Ababa. He called menfolk of the village to listen to his wireless radio. Meru stepped outside his compound to collect firewood just as Mganga came to join them, power exuding from his being. She had not seen him since she was a girl. His facial scarring seemed more pronounced, but he looked impressive, dressed in a ceremonial monkey-skin cloak with discs of wood set into his earlobes. He acknowledged Meru with a nod before lifting his stave high to salute Asha. It was embellished with vulture claws, labelling him a diviner of distinction.
There was still no sign of Sam, but his old father arrived, dressed in the smart blue kanzu of a cook. Baba Hasani was full of fun, wearing the battered fez that Meru remembered as being a hat with no brim.
'We have missed you, ma!' he whistled through the gap in his front teeth, clasping her hands in his. 'You must come and see what Sam has been up to. We have taps in the kitchen.'
'Sam added taps?' She laughed for the first time since returning home.
'He can be shy. You'll find him down at the workshop, wanting to learn about the insides of a motor car. ''Forever looking around the next bend,'' as Hans would say.'
'Hans? Have you heard from him?'
'He remains in Europe. I guard his mother's piano, hoping the family will return someday.' Hasani rattled on, talking about paths at the farmhouse that needed endless sweeping.
'The time has come for Sam to prove himself as a warrior and acquire a wife,' Asha proclaimed, emerging from the meeting house to thump Hasani on the shoulder.
'Does he have the funds?' Mganga asked, winking at Asha.
'Ten head of cattle would be nice. What do you reckon, Meru?'
She had forgotten how aggravating her father could be, but any reply would not have been deemed honourable. Meru retreated to her grandmother's dark hut, to find the family matriarch rubbing oil into her joints.
'Have you been talking to Sam?'
'No, Bibi, but I would like to.'
'You need to get rid of those blotches under your eyes. Come, let me soften your skin.'

***
Sam wanted to be bold and straight-forward but was daunted by Meru's grace and beauty. He told himself that any interaction needed be dignified and respectful. What he did not expect was for her to wave a can-opener under his nose.
'Are you able to operate such a device?' A small tin of fish in tomato sauce was thrust in front of his face. 'My father has been presented with this gift. I must prepare it this evening.' She was smiling.
He took his time opening the pilchards. 'We could walk down to the shambas to find onions or wild spinach to add to your dish.'
'I cannot leave the cooking.' She wrapped her shawl around her. 'Darkness is falling.'
'It won't take long.' He so wanted to take her hand.
'You think like a bee.'
'You're the hard-worker.'
'But my brain is that of a she-elephant.'
Sam wanted to laugh. Hans used to liken Meru to a baby elephant when they were children but she was now so regal and composed. 'I'd better tell Asha neither the bee nor the elephant wants to cause offence.'
'Don't worry. He will never abandon a guest.' Meru shifted her pot from the heat. 'Certainly not a man wearing uniform.'
They could hear his laughter. Asha was introducing a diminutive army officer to a group of youths who had descended from Momella carrying ceremonial shields. They had been strutting about like crowned cranes, each one eager to possess a rifle.
Sam led Meru 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 are not going to find onions or spinach here.'
This was true. 'But it is quiet.' Nothing could be heard but the calls of bush-babies and gloop, gloop songs of tree frogs.
She caught Sam smiling. 'Why are you not amongst the warriors?'
'Those boys can find nothing better to do than plaster down their hair with grease.'
'Do you not like to see them in ceremonial dress?'
Sam's cotton shirt and European trousers had seen better days, but were fashionable. 'We need to move forward. Head-bands and knobkerries have become little more than artefacts.'
Meru raised an eyebrow. 'Should we not utilize symbols of our heritage?'
'I fear being bound by tradition. It is like being dictated to by the dead.'
'Young men need to prove their worth. We must endure a time of suffering or risk being defeated by insignificant trials.'
Sam stepped back, adjusting to her insight. 'You're right. I learned to befriend heart-ache as a child.'
Meru nodded. Blackwater fever had taken his mother and so many in the Usambara Mountains that his father had brought him west to escape the sorrow. She looked downwards, in respect for the dead, but Sam was not one for mourning.
'I'm told that if you survive sickness, as I did, you will live forever.'
'Mere survival is not enough.' Meru's shawl slipped from around her shoulders leaving her neck to catch the moonlight. She looked up, her eyes brimming with tears.
'What's wrong?' His chest tightened. 'What ails you?'
'I thought returning here would bring me joy, but everyone has sped forward without me.'
'You have me,' he said in a rush, reaching for her hand. 'Nothing has changed.'
She breathed in sharply, shaking her head and moved out of reach. 'I'm far too old for you.'
'We're almost the same age.'
'It is not as if we can even be seen together. The whole community would express their disapproval. You need an eighteen year-old with child-bearing hips.'
'Do I?' Sam was stunned.
'I would not make a suitable wife.'
He turned, defeated by her rejection. 'Why not?'
'Imba had many children, but I could not bear my own. I wanted them with all my heart, but they never came.'
'Forgive me. I didn't know.'
Years of pain dwelling within her rose to the surface. 'No one knows. I've been so far away.' She lifted her head, tears falling on the dry red earth at their feet. He wanted to take her in his arms, but she stepped back, raising her hands. 'Away too long, with years and years of nothingness.'
'Twenty years.' Two decades had passed since he had last seen her.
'You need a wife who can give you children,' she said firmly.
'I can't imagine having any.'
'You will one day.'