Tracking down the past

by Kathleen Sandner (Germany)

I didn't expect to find Kenya

While sitting on the lodge terrace, watching the sun set behind a group of red elephants and scattered, single rhinos surrounding a water hole, the temperatures had dropped after an unbearably hot day, driving through the mere endless Savannah landscape, spacious and monotonously covered with dry bushes and trees, I cool down and reflect on the past few days, the past, mine and this country’s’. It has been more than a decade, twenty years, I feel older, far away, but deeply rooted in a country still threatened by poaching, poverty, and political instability. I reflect on experiences, traumas and a life filled with blissful, irreplaceable moments. Memories awaken of rainy monsoon afternoons and the loss of a slipper in the mud, frosty nights under a crystal-clear starry sky while trying to find the pit latrine in the cold, dark and sprawling highlands. No wealth, no electricity, no prospects, but rich in fertile land, persistent widows and long-term closeness. It always gets muddy in the rainy season above sea level. The monsoon rain and chilly nights make you tremble as soon as you leave the warmer beach sides of the Indian Ocean during the winter season. Reminiscent of long walks on the beach, low and high tide, calm waves, and sunrises reflecting and sparkling on the water, as if it was as thick and heavy as oil. The scent of frangipani flowers by the roadside, fish markets near Fort Jesus, and the food market in the middle of town and amid chaos and commotion, flow through my thoughts. The smell of different fruits, vegetables, spices, and soil mixed up and separated again, depending on which curve you take. My gaze wanders over the calm scenery while my mind brings back pictures of zebras crossing the highway and memories bring back the day when I crossed the equator for the first time. I was grown up when I saw my grandfather for the first time. It was a video of a security guard who shot down the man who was destined to lead this country to freedom, justice, and independence. The rebel leader who camouflaged himself with leopard skin, lived in the impenetrable forest in the highlands and on roots, only to free this country from foreigners and invaders who killed our animals, took our land as if it were theirs, shot down freedom seekers who had begun to fight back. My grandfather was not a hero, nor was he a traitor. He just didn't know what he was doing that night and who he had shot at, until the next day when pictures and videos were shot of the famous and notorious rebel leader, wrapped in leopard skin, injured by a gun and unable to fight back. The guilt was seen on my grandfathers’ face, and it should haunt him for years to come. I was grown up when my father passed away. When you lose someone, what does it even mean to be an adult? When you lose someone you love, you feel as helpless and vulnerable as a small child. I remember taking walks on the beach with my father, barely talking, silently strolling. Watching the sun set behind the coconuts and trees, listening to the noises of the approaching night and discerning the only star constellation I will always recognize: The Southern Cross. Now, I recall the small wooden cross, where my father rests under a coconut tree. The man, a foreigner, who lost his heart to this country and its’ people, forever wrapped in its’ tradition, finding his final resting peace. I always found that walking back a path was easier than overcoming obstacles on the unknown way ahead. Now, when looking back, one thing will always remain easy: finding the way back to my home country, the place where my parents met, where my ancestors rest and where the present becomes tangible by tracking down the past. While sitting on this terrace, perceiving a herd of elephants surrounding a waterhole, admiring the sun set, tinted in all shades of red, I didn’t expect to find a deeper connectedness to this country, where blood had been shed by guns and memories re-triggered by scenes and scents.