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Videodiary Entry: March 23 2008.
Ten thousand metres over the Equator.
Now we’ll see if it’s true. The Coriolis effect thing. Dr Dan probably thinks I’m either insane or have amoebic dysentery, but if you’ve got a Personal Data Unit that can give you exact time and location anywhere on the planet, how could you resist testing the old Plughole and Hemisphere Experiment?
God, I hope no one really has amoebic dysentery and needs to get in. Muttering from the portside toilet. Probably think I’m scoring lines, or applying for the Mile High Club.
What we are now seeing is the wash hand-basin of a Kenya Airways Airbus A-330. The PDU says we are travelling at eight hundred and eighty kilometres per hour; our location is twelve kays north of the Equator. Which – just a moment while I press a few buttons – is fifty seconds or so.
T-ten. I pull the plug. Lo! The water spirals clockwise. Three, two, one: Equator. And the water is running straight down the sides of the plughole. Now I’m in the southern hemisphere and, ta-dah! The water spirals anti- clockwise. Gaby McAslan proves that the earth moves in space. You know, I wasn’t totally convinced it would do that.
Gaby McAslan switched off the visioncam. The cabin staff were getting restless out there. They had obviously all read
Back in executive, Dr Dan had ordered her another whisky on his government account.
‘Well, did it?’ he asked. His voice was gentle and very deep.
‘It did.’
He stirred his drink with a plastic swizzle stick shaped like an elongated giraffe.
‘I suppose it is a kind of cancer,’ he said. Executive class was being woken up with passion-fruit juice and microwaved croissants. The plane was well into its descent path. ‘The Chaga, I mean. As there are sicknesses that eat a person’s life away from inside, so there are diseases of nations. It invades the land, draws strength from it, kills what it finds and duplicates only itself. While we sit here contemplating our croissants, it is growing, it is spreading. It never sleeps. Even the name you have given it is not its own, but has been taken from the people who once lived there: what else can it be, Ms McAslan, than a cancer?’
He glanced out the window. Nothing to see in the pre-dawn dark but engine glow and the flicker of warning beacons.
‘So early in the task of nation-building, too. Why, we have scarcely fifty years of history behind us and suddenly, boom!’ He softly smacked heel of hand into palm. ‘Surely, God is not kind to Kenya: just as the information revolution was allowing us to take our true place in the world, we find we must go hand open to the United Nations. We shall certainly not have fifty more years. What is it they are estimating? Twenty more until the country is overrun? Seventy years is not time to be a nation. Why could it not have come down in France or England, where they have too much history; or China or India, where they have so much past they do not know what to do with it? Or America, where at least they could turn being made into another planet into a theme park.’
In the course of her professional travel, Gaby McAslan had come to dread airline booking computers and their malicious humour. They put you next to terrible people. The noisiest eater in the world. The man with the one long hair coming down his nose that you couldn’t take your eyes off until you wanted to reach over and tear it out by its follicle. The teenager whose Discman would hiss and whisper away in the high treble notes. The person who had memorized every word of Monty Python’s
Sometimes the computers relented. Then their favour shone upon you.
‘You will pardon me if I blaspheme,’ the big, heavy, black man in the next seat had said as the Airbus turned on to Heathrow’s main runway and throttled up. ‘I am not a very good flier, I am afraid.’ He had sunk his fingers into the armrest and stared at his feet. As the plane lifted off, he very reverently whispered, ‘Jesus.’
He was Dr Daniel Oloitip. You would not think to look at him, but he was Masai.
‘I have become a city creature, sleek and soft,’ he had apologized. ‘But mostly old.’
‘I like your ear,’ Gaby had said, looking at his right lobe, which had been pierced and stretched into a loop of flesh that hung to his jawline. Dr Daniel Oloitip had taken a Fujifilm can from the bag under his seat and slipped it through the loop.
‘This is the current fashion. They throw them out of safari buses by the thousand. It does not create quite the right image for the Overseas Development Agency.’
Dr Dan was a politician, the member of Parliament for Amboseli and Kajiado South constituency. He was returning for a daughter’s wedding from an aid-begging mission around the capitals of the European Union. A waste of time, he reckoned. The Europeans had been civil, but there would be no more money. They would not lend to a nation that might not be there by the time the first interest payment became due.
‘It is ironic that they send me with the alms bowl, whose constituency will be the first to go. Already half is lost, though I draw some small satisfaction from knowing that I will be the first Parliamentary representative for another planet. Next election I shall be canvassing aliens.’
Dr Dan set his yellow plastic swizzle giraffe at the end of a line along the edge of his folding table. Gaby sipped the whisky he had bought her and imagined Kenya slipping away beneath the belly of the Airbus. Dark Africa, down in the underdawn. Wonderful names: Eldoret and Kisumu, Longonot and Nandi Hills, Nyeri and Ngong. Lake Nakuru, Lake Naivasha, Lake Baringo. Mt Elgon and Mt Kenya; the Aberdares that were now the Nyandarua. The Rift Valley. These were among the first places to be named by human voices. Powerful, ancient names.
She could feel the descent in her inner ears. The captain bing-bonged. Should be down in about so long. Temperature about so warm, wind-speed so fast. Please set your watches to East African time, non-Kenyan nationals please have your landing cards ready for collection, and we advise you that under exchange regulations all foreign currency brought into the country must be declared on arrival and that it is illegal to import any Kenyan currency. Thank you.
They were going down and all the anticipation that had pretended it was only anxiety about the long journey became a fist of excitement in the base of her belly. The big Airbus was dipping down over all those strong, ancient names towards a new city, new friends, a new job, new life. Towards SkyNet, and Nairobi, and to the south, not so far on the map but on the very frontier of the imagination, the Chaga. Like the Chaga, none of it could be stopped. Not now. Her hands were shaking so badly she could hardly fill in the landing card. Dr Dan smiled as he saw her write
‘Westerners have always come to my country because of something,’ he said. ‘It used to be because of the animals, because of the coast. Now it is because of the Chaga. No one comes because it is Kenya. That does not seem to be enough, unfortunately. Be good to my country, Gaby McAslan: it is a good country. The world should know that, if it knows nothing else.
The plane rocked a little.
‘Oh dear me.’ Dr Dan closed his eyes and gripped the armrests. Sweat had broken out on his forehead. The captain came on again. If you look out the left, those lights are Nairobi. That’s where we’ll land. The plane rocked again. Down went the flaps. The Airbus banked steeply. Gaby looked down at the yellow lights, scattered like grain on the high, dark plain.
The plane slammed sharply to the right. Engines screamed. Gaby shrieked and seized the seat back in front of her. Dr Dan grabbed for the window frame, trying to brace himself but there is nothing you can hold on to when you are sliding towards the ground at three hundred kilometres per hour. All the plastic giraffes fell off the table. Hostesses went reeling. Landing cards scattered like frightened birds. Gaby saw a shape loom in the window, a ghostly pale winged thing far closer than any shape should have been. For an instant the other aircraft’s lights lit up the Airbus’s cabin, then it was gone.
Gaby and Dr Dan stared at each other. It was the stare of people who have felt the wind from beneath the
