When we moved to Nairobi, we expected to stay for two years. That was the length of my wife’s contract. Daria was one then, and Charlie wasn’t on the horizon. But my wife’s contract got renewed—first by twelve months, then indefinitely—I found a good job, and perhaps most surprising of all: we started to like it here.
The temperate climate, how great the location was for travelling, the beaches…
We made good friends, especially Paul and Mandy, and one day I asked my wife whether we wouldn’t enjoy making Kenya our home. “No more thoughts and shifting plans about returning,” I said.
She merely smiled and kissed me, and Charlie was conceived soon after.
Even Daria appeared happy. We had secured a place for her in the American School, and she seemed well adjusted to her surroundings. All the more so because we spoiled her silly.
When Charlie was born, there were complications. Although I didn’t know it at the time, my wife’s life was in danger. Thanks to the excellent medical care she received, however, she came through OK, and Charlie, although small and underweight, entered the world a healthy baby boy.
Nonetheless, the first few months were difficult, with many bloodshot nights and emergency trips to the hospital. Charlie’s life always seemed exceptionally fragile.
It wasn’t until he was six months old that my wife and I felt we could finally relax. We found a well-regarded babysitter and, because the occasion coincided with our anniversary, met Paul and Mandy at one of Nairobi’s finest restaurants—
“Have you had the talk with her yet?” Mandy asked.
“The talk?”
“The one about where babies come from. Where Charlie came from.”
“A few weeks ago,” I said.
“The trick is being consistent,” Paul said. “Whatever you tell one, you must tell the others.” He and Mandy had three beautiful children.
“What did you say?” Mandy asked. “The truth or—”
“No one tells the truth!” Paul interrupted. “You can’t tell them the truth. Not yet.”
Mandy took a sip of wine. “For me, it was the cabbage story.”
“We settled on storks,” my wife said.
Paul nodded. “See,” he told Mandy, chewing, “they agree with me. Cabbage patches are stupid.”
“We found the idea of a stork delivering Charlie somehow noble. A right proper kind of mythology,” I said.
“There’s a rich tradition,” said Paul.
“We hope it teaches respect for the environment,” my wife said.
Mandy drank her wine.
Upon returning home, we bid the babysitter goodnight. I peeked in on Daria, who was sleeping like an angel, and my wife checked on Charlie—
Scream!
I ran.
Charlie wasn’t in his crib.
My wife, repeating: “He’s— He’s— He’s—”
The babysitter!
I—
turned to see Daria standing in the doorway, holding her favourite toy. “I didn’t want a baby brother,” she said calmly. “So I returned him.”
The window:
Where,
Outside—
illuminated by the pale light of a full moon, a marabou stork pulled flesh greedily from the small carcass lying at its feet.