Unbowed: Like mother, like daughter

As usual, Marie and I booked at our favourite Beach Resort and Spa in Mombasa north coast for last Christmas and New Year. Jenny and Jan flew there directly from the UK, keeping up the family tradition to have a joint holiday at our beautiful coast during the festive season.

This time the theme at the hotel was “Legends of the Ages” and portraits of the legends were beautifully arranged on the Christmas tree with fairy lights in front of the main entrance.

Amongst them were Africa’s greatest living son, Nelson Mandela, and our own Nobel Laureate, Wangari Maathai. India was represented by Mahatma Gandhi, the godly sage, who set the stage to free Asia and Africa from the colonial yoke.

For America there was Michael Jackson – the king of pop who died prematurely under very strange circumstances. Pele carried the flag for South America and football. Hovering above these great mortals was the divine Mother Teresa, who devoted her life to looking after the poorest of the poor.

To commemorate these legends, each night between Christmas and New Year, was dedicated to one of them and ethnic food of their country was served for dinner. So, in turn, we enjoyed Kenyan, South African, American, Mexican and Indian cuisines.

There were other new experiences too. For once the importance of domestic tourism to our economy became apparent and it was heartening to see indigenous Kenyans filling the dining room and swimming pools along with the usual foreign visitors.

Another was a large group of Ethiopians, who thronged the hotel for a couple of days. Being land locked, they love the sea and had planned a wedding at the hotel. All of us, especially the foreign visitors, were fascinated by these handsome men and beautiful women from the Land of Solomon and Sheba enjoying the amenities of our coast.

The wedding ceremony was conducted under a Bedouin type of tent on the beach and an appropriately dressed Ethiopian priest with his special cross conducted it. The most enchanting scene was the bride arriving on a camel, seated on a red heavily embroidered cushioned seat on the camel’s hump back.

To crown it all, the wedding dinner was arranged in a special dining room where, I presume, they enjoyed their famous Injiri bread and hot spicy sauce to go with it.

It all reminded me of the many visits I have made to Ethiopia which, incidentally, is the only country in Africa which has never been colonised. It was briefly occupied by the Italians in the mid thirties, when the defunct “League of Nations” turned a blind eye to its invasion by Mussolini’s army.

However, when Italy joined Germany in the Second World War, the Allies attacked Ethiopia and drove the Italians out. We in Kenya benefited from it because the Italian prisoners of war built our escarpment road and, as a memento of that feat, built a small chapel en-route.

I also recall an amusing incident in Addis. As usual, our Ethiopian friends took us to one of their famous restaurants which serves Injiri. There is usually a dancer at these places, who goes round the hall as admirers slip a currency note in her bra to show their appreciation.

On one of her rounds, a friend of mine briskly inserted a large dollar bill in the dancer’s bra.

As I looked at him puzzled at the size of the tip, he explained: “When she comes round again, I intend to look for my change!”

Our two grand children, 10 and eight, also had a novel experience. While they were swimming with an age-mate, one of them saw a wad of currency notes at the bottom of the pool.

He dived, picked it up and brought it to me on the balcony of our room where I sat writing. Marie, my son and I laid the wet money on the bed and counted 17, one thousand denomination Kenya currency notes and 43 dollars.

I called the manager’s secretary who sent the head of security to collect the money. Soon after he left, Marie noticed a man instructing the swimming pool attendant to dive in a particular corner of the swimming pool. “Further down there,” he went on shouting in desperation.

“Have you lost something?” Marie asked him.

“Yes, money.”

“How much?”

“17,000 Kenya shillings and 43 US dollars,” he said.

“Come with me,” said Marie and brought the man to me. He introduced himself as a Sudanese who was teaching at a school for expatriate children in Juba. He asked me who I was and I told him that I was a surgeon from Nairobi.

Having confirmed his bonafide, I again rang the manager’s secretary. She sent the security boss back with the money. The Sudanese gentleman was over the moon when he saw the wet money which he had no hope of recovering.

“If you were not a surgeon, I would have given half this money to you,” he said exuberantly. As he looked at my pitiful face, he explained: “Surgeons make a lot of money and don’t need any more!”

“In that case,” I had my wits around, “you could reward the little boys for their honesty.” “That I will readily do,” said the gentleman and gave the three youngsters a wet thousand shilling note each!

In time we met the parents of the third boy – Michael – who was playing in the pool with our grandsons when they found the money. “Pickford,” the father said when we were introduced.

“Harry Pickford,” he repeated, “and this is my wife Sally and our daughter Hillary.” We gave our names and added: “We are locals. Where are you from?”

“Port Elizabeth, South Africa,” Sally replied.

“Michael tells us that your wife is a nurse and you are a surgeon,” Harry Pickford remarked. “He heard it from your grand sons.”

“Guilty as charged,” I laughed. Being reminded that I was a surgeon perhaps invigorated my surgical propensity and I could not help noticing a large surgical scar on Hillary’s left loin, visible between her two-piece bikini.

Neither did my roving surgical eyes miss the fact that Sally’s one-piece costume looked a little lopsided at the top. With these two clues my Sherlock Holmes detective faculty was aroused and I was determined to decode the mystery.

It was not long before it was demystified. One day, we were sitting by the pool watching our grand sons, Michael and Hillary, playing water polo with other hotel guests.

Somehow it reminded me that I had never seen Sally in the pool. “I have never seen you swimming,” I said casually. “Don’t you like it?”

“I do but it is out of bounds for me,” she said. “And your professional colleagues are responsible for depriving me of that pleasure.” “Now that you have laid such grave charges, you better explain,” I said. “I will and I am sure that since you both are medical, it will interest you and Marie.”

Sally followed it up with a story which is as sad as it is heartening. It is the tale of two courageous women – mother and daughter. It was told with many pauses, occasional tears and smiles and, though I will relate it in Sally’s words, I will paraphrase it to make it coherent and avoid the feeling of being on a roller coaster.

“A few years ago I discovered a lump in my breast and went to see a specialist who diagnosed cancer,” Sally started.

“As the word cancer rang in my ears, all I could see was Hillary, six then, sitting on Harry’s lap.

As tears filled my eyes, the surgeon continued: ‘To give us some prospects of a cure, you must undergo a mastectomy’.”

“Do what you have to do,” I said, “because, I want to be around for Hillary’s 21st birthday party.”

“My breast was soon removed and it was followed by radiotherapy and chemotherapy. I was pronounced cured and for three years, we four lived a life of bliss.

“Then one Sunday, we went to church and Hillary said she wanted to go to the toilet. Big brother Michael said: ‘I will take her’. When they came back, I could see fear written all over Michael’s face. ‘What’s the matter, Michael,’ I asked.

‘I just happened to look in the pan and it was all blood’.

“So next day we took Hillary to the doctor and, as he put a hand on her tummy, she wriggled with pain and the doctor’s face turned grave.

"Let’s get some scans done urgently," he said avoiding my eyes. I was too scared to ask him what he suspected. The bombshell came when the scans arrived.

Hillary had Wilm’s tumour. We were told it was cancer of the kidney – a bad type. A mad rush to the specialist who said, ‘Hillary has to have the kidney removed and this to be followed by radiotherapy and chemotherapy’. History was repeating itself. ‘It sounds a sick joke,’ Harry remarked.

“This couldn’t be happening to us.” It was Hillary who pulled us out of the dark deep hole.

‘Mum, you had an operation, radiotherapy and chemotherapy,’ she said chirpily. ‘It’s my turn now. Like mother - like daughter.’

‘You are very brave,’ her father said to her. ‘When it’s all over – we will all go for a nice holiday somewhere out of South Africa.’ And so, at the end of a gruelling year when she was asked, ‘where would you like to go’, without blinking an eyelid, she said, “Kenya”. So here we are.”

“And are you enjoying it?” Marie asked feeling relieved that the sad narration was over and she could now change the subject.

“Tremendously,” Sally said. “We took a day trip to Tsavo yesterday and saw all the animals. We even saw lions on the kill. We might come here again next year.”

“You haven’t still told me why you don’t swim?” I reminded her of my earlier question. “Oh yes,” Sally said.

“I forgot. I have a plastic foam breast under my swimming costume,” she said pointing to the part that looked askew. “It is a bit difficult to go into water with it.”

As I looked at the intrepid expression on her face, she added: “Next year, you will see me swimming because I am booked for a reconstruction of my breast soon after I return home.”

“Does that mean that you are definitely coming here next year?” Marie asked.

“Of course,” Sally replied enthusiastically. “We have enjoyed every minute of it. Besides, Kenya is so much more African and yet a truly rainbow nation.”