Tia: This Is Africa

By Desley Allen

An ordinary Australian mum caught in the drama of an African civil war.

Maggie, with her family, join SudanAID, an organisation working with refugees in southern Sudan. Maggie’s role is to manage their guesthouse in Nairobi, Kenya. As the civil war escalates, SudanAID’s projects are abandoned, and the Sudanese Government threatens to expel the organisation for collaborating with the rebels.

Against this backdrop Maggie relates the heartwarming, the horrific and the humorous stories of the everyday dramas in the lives of her family, co-workers, and guests, both expatriate and national. As her understanding of the African culture grows, she learns the values of tolerance and acceptance and finds the inner strength to come to grips with two critical events that bring SudanAID to its knees.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: May 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798369490921

Book preview

TIA:

THIS IS AFRICA

DESLEY ALLEN

Copyright © 2023 by Desley Allen.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction, inspired by the events and experiences of when the author lived in

Kenya in the late 1980s. No association with any real organisation, place or event is intended

or should be inferred. All characters are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or

dead, is purely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images

are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

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Rev. date: 04/17/2023

Xlibris

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DEDICATION

For my children, Elissa and Paul,

and grandchildren Emily and Maxwell.

Special thanks to my husband Nick, my sister Sylvia

and the friends who encouraged me

to make my dream a reality

Contents

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Epilogue

Sudan is the largest country in Africa. Since time immemorial, hostilities have raged between the Muslim Arabs of the north and the Animist and Christian Africans of the south.

A seventeen-year civil war ended in 1972. However, the north coveted complete control over the vast oil and water reserves of the south, resulting in increasing clashes that heralded the second civil war breaking out in the early 1980s. Over the next two decades, two million people lost their lives and a further four million people displaced.

This story is set in 1986. The conflict was escalating with the emergence and rapid growth of the rebel forces, the SFF, which already controlled roughly half of Southern Sudan. Thousands of people had fled their farms and villages, seeking shelter in refugee settlements.

An international relief and development organisation, SudanAID, had initiated vital programs for the war-ravaged communities in many townships and villages across Southern Sudan. Over one hundred expatriate relief workers, recruited from fifteen countries around the world, developed projects in health, education, building, agriculture, and administration.

Maggie Walker, with her husband, Dave, and children, Melody and Ben, arrived from Australia to work in the headquarters of SudanAID in Nairobi, Kenya.

CHAPTER 1

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K oech crossed one leg over the other, flicked an imaginary speck off his trouser leg, tasted his tea, grimaced, and stirred in another heaped spoon of sugar. He mopped pearly beads of perspiration off his dark brown forehead with his handkerchief. I wished he would tell us what was on his mind. I was yet to learn that Africans dislike confrontational issues. Rather, they tell a story to set the scene before dropping the unwelcome news.

‘In our African culture, especially when we need to discuss troublesome issues, we dodge around the issue until we reach common ground. I’ve worked alongside expats for many years now and understand you like to get straight to the point, call a spade a spade.’

He glanced at me, his dark eyes asking, ‘Yes?’ I nodded.

Sometimes a shovel, I said to myself, wondering where all this was leading.

Koech cleared his throat. ‘There appears to be some misunderstanding about your role here with SudanAID.’

‘Oh! What’s that?’ Dave asked.

‘Well … we were not aware that you were bringing your children.’

‘What do you mean you didn’t know we had kids?’ My voice just a smidgen on the shrill side.

A frown furrowed Dave’s forehead. ‘That can’t be right. Their details were on all our paperwork.’

‘There has only been a verbal agreement with HQ in Australia. We’ve been waiting for your formal application papers to arrive, and they only landed on my desk this morning. I’ve read them through thoroughly, and I question whether you are the most suitable candidates for this position.’

‘So what’s the problem? Someone had to retire, leaving an urgent gap to be filled. The board put us through several intensive interviews before giving us the go-ahead. Well, here we are. So why can’t we do the job we came to do? I don’t understand.’

Dave set down his cup. It clattered on its saucer.

‘Maybe you can explain a little clearer, Hans,’ Koech said to the slight, grey-headed fellow occupying the other chair.

Hans nodded, tapping the outstretched tips of his fingers together. ‘Yes. I’ll try.’ He spoke in a strong European accent. ‘We requested a mature couple – retirees would be ideal – and should have experience working in the Third World or a war zone. They should, at the very least, recognise what our team members face every day.

‘This position is very demanding. Not only the physical aspect. There’s counselling for our young folk, who need the wisdom of an older couple to walk them through the difficulties they face in Sudan. Something you know nothing about, let alone experienced. You don’t fit the requirements for the job and should return to your homeland.’

He doesn’t pull any punches, I thought and wondered why he had such an adverse impression of us in such a short space of time.

Koech mopped pearly beads of perspiration off his wide forehead with his handkerchief.

‘The house only has seven guest rooms, apart from the manager’s bedroom and ensuite, and because it’s fully booked throughout the year, setting aside a room for your children is not a viable option.’

Hans, elbows on his knees, leaned forward and looked Dave in the eye. ‘The Staffhouse isn’t a suitable environment for kids to live in. Our workers often arrive seriously ill or at the end of their tether. They deserve a peaceful and hassle-free place to recover and, I stress, your undivided attention. It will be difficult to find the time and energy for your children’s needs. We accommodate up to twenty individuals and families here at any one time. These heavy demands will tax you to your limits.’

Hans paused and drained his mug of coffee. We did not bother to break the silence. I, for once, could not have uttered a word to save myself. I peeked at Dave. He was stroking his moustache, a gesture he often assumed when troubled or deep in thought. His hazel eyes focused on Hans again as he cleared his throat to continue the conversation.

‘As the field director, responsible for the well-being of our staff, I agree with Koech. In fact, had I seen your papers earlier, I would not have accepted your application either.’

‘What do you suggest we do now?’ Dave said, always the calm one in a crisis. Do you want us to return to Australia immediately? We’ve given up everything to be here, our house, jobs, family …’

My rebellious thoughts found their voice. ‘How can we catch the next plane home before we’ve even unpacked our suitcases?’

‘I’m sorry, this is a terrible shock and disappointment to you.’ Koech rose to his feet. ‘I’ll put a call through to your director, Don Whittaker, in Sydney to consider the matter this evening and give you our decision tomorrow.’

Hans followed him out to his car. They had a brief discussion before Koech slammed the door. Omondi saluted as he sped through the gate.

My knees buckled. I sank back into the sofa. ‘I can’t believe it. Anyway, the kids will be at boarding school and only here on their holidays. We can work around that surely. What are you thinking, Dave?’

He flopped beside me. ‘I’m flabbergasted too. Can’t make any sense out of it.’

‘The last month was so hectic, packing up our house, shopping for clothes and essentials, and tying up the loose ends,’ I said. ‘I’ve lost count of the farewell dinners we ate over the past few weeks …’

‘And the innumerable sessions with HQ in Sydney. And let’s not forget the people who promised to sponsor us.’

For several years, we had managed the local branch administration in our home office as well as promoting SudanAID: newsletters, speaking at various meetings, and organising conferences.

Dave and I had expressed our willingness to work overseas but knew our skills fell far short of the criteria for suitable candidates, so we expected nothing to become of it.

A phone call from Don surprised us a few months later. ‘An opportunity has arisen in Kenya. A couple were recalled home at short notice. Their roles are vital to SudanAID’s activities, so the need to replace them was urgent. Would we consider going?’

Don passed on the information as he had received. Sketchy at best. He said the job did not require formal qualifications or experience, and he felt confident we could do the role as competently as anyone else. ‘Sleep on it and ring me back tomorrow if you’re interested.’

We talked to the children about the possibility of living in Africa. To our surprise, the idea excited Melody – at thirteen, the concept of living away from home and attending boarding school was awesome!

However, Ben was a shade apprehensive. ‘I don’t want to go. I’ll miss all my friends who came to my tenth birthday party.’ His passion was playing goalie for his soccer club, and his coach was confident the team stood a good chance of winning the trophy that year. Ben didn’t want to miss out.

After much soul-searching, we took up the challenge. We had no idea what to expect since nobody from SudanAID had worked in Kenya. Our limited research included searching for Kenya in Ben’s atlas and speaking to a few people we knew who had passed through Nairobi. Watching the movie Out of Africa scared the living daylights out of me, with not a cannibal or cooking pot in sight.

As our pipe dream tumbled into jagged pieces around us, we faced the prospect of returning home before we even started. Being Aussies, we just wanted a fair go.

CHAPTER 2

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T he clipped voice of the first officer crackled around the aircraft. ‘We will be landing at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in approximately ten minutes. The weather forecast for Nairobi on our arrival is for showers and a temperature of twenty-two degrees. The captain and crew thank you for flying Air India and trust you have had a pleasant flight. Cabin crew, please prepare for landing.’

As our family descended the steps of the 747, a bubble rose from deep in my nether regions, and I tingled all over. In a few moments, I’d metamorphose from a mediocre mother-cum-housewife in Australia to the manager of a guesthouse for expatriate workers in Kenya. I had no idea of what the future held for my family, embarking on the most exciting adventure of our lives.

Back then, Nairobi International Airport did not have any elongated elephant trunks that suck up weary passengers and disgorge them into the terminal, so we followed our fellow travellers snaking their way towards the two-storey building.

‘Look at those people up on the roof,’ Ben said, pointing to the enormous crowd of dark-skinned and fuzzy-haired onlookers who were waving and shouting greetings to their family and friends, burdened with twice their allotted luggage allowance.

‘At last, our feet are touching African soil, Dave. Do you think I should kiss the tarmac like the pope?’

‘Only if you want a muddy moustache, Maggie … Ben, stay out of those puddles!’

Halfway through the building, I discovered a sign: This Way to the Waving Deck. 2/-. I promised myself that I’d be exploring those steps to the roof next time I was there.

We entered the arrivals hall after clearing customs and immigration to find ourselves launched on a heaving ocean swell of black humanity. A tsunami of taxi drivers broke over us, intent on taking possession of our bags and taking us into town in their dilapidated vehicles.

However, a well-upholstered African man wearing a coloured tie-dyed shirt with embroidery around the neckline, a dazzling smile, and a distinct aura of authority came to our rescue.

‘You must be David Walker,’ he said, grasping Dave’s hand and pumping his arm at least a dozen times. ‘Karibu! Welcome, welcome.’

His beaming face split into two, displaying a set of perfect pearly whites, broken by a small gap between his two front teeth. ‘My name is Koech, director of SudanAID.’

‘Thanks for meeting us,’ responded Dave, freeing his hand with some difficulty. ‘It’s great to be here. This is my wife, Maggie,’ he said, pointing at me. My insides squirmed when Dave presented me to strangers this way.

‘Welcome to Kenya, Maggie.’ Koech smiled his particular brand of sunshine on me, and I experienced my first hand-crunching African greeting.

‘And these are our children, Melody and Ben,’ Dave said, placing his hands on top of their heads.

Did I detect a look of surprise cross Koech’s face when Dave introduced the kids? I couldn’t be certain because another smile quickly masked it. Koech shook their hands. ‘Karibu. Karibu.’ Melody smiled shyly at him, but Ben’s cheeky grin suggested Koech had already won his approval.

Koech noted the few pieces of hand luggage we were clutching to our chests, fearful of losing them to the taxi drivers who hovered around us like vultures at a lion’s dinner. ‘Is this all you have? I thought you expats deemed it necessary to bring enough baggage to fill a shipping container.’

Dave explained mechanical problems had held our plane up in Sydney for several hours. ‘We expected to miss our connecting flight in Bombay altogether …’

Ben interrupted his father. ‘But when we got there, a little Indian man with a red turban on his head was waiting for us …’

‘He asked Dad if we were the Walker family,’ Melody said. ‘He grabbed Mum’s handbag and rushed us to security at the other end of the terminal …’

Ben interrupted. ‘And they even frisked us before we could go on the plane. Mum and Melody had to go behind a curtain with a lady wearing a sari and …’

Dave retrieved the conversation. ‘So our suitcases are on their way to Italy. The airline has assured me it should arrive here tomorrow.’

Koech chuckled, throwing us a look that said what more could one expect. ‘We have a Swahili saying here, hakuna matata, which means no problem. I’ll organise the logistics boys to pick up your luggage tomorrow. Let me get you to the Staffhouse. I’m sure you need to rest after your long journey from Australia. Follow me to the carpark.’ He forced his way through the crowd like a surfboat shooting the breakers at Bondi Beach.

On the main highway leading towards the city, he drove as if all of hell’s angels had him in their sights. Dave sat in the front passenger seat and fired question after question at his new boss, not aware of the speed, frequent near misses, and complete lack of consideration Koech had for any other vehicle on the road. The kids and I huddled speechless in the back seat as traffic lights turned from green to amber. The car shot through the intersection as amber turned red, but Koech did not reduce his speed.

‘Red lights mean proceed with caution,’ he threw over his shoulder at me. I hoped the grin on his face meant he was only joking. I’d soon learn that he was not.

We arrived at the Staffhouse, surprised to find us still in one piece. An elderly Kenyan man dressed in a faded blue safari suit covered by an equally faded blue apron met us at the front door.

‘This is Babu,’ Koech said. ‘Babu is the Staffhouse cook and houseman. I’m sure he has a pot of chai, as we say here in Kenya, brewing on the stove for you. Get some rest. I’ll see you again after lunch.’

Babu smiled, a grin that dazzled against skin so black it had a bluish sheen. ‘Karibu. Karibu,’ he welcomed us, shaking our hands. He took my handbag and Melody’s backpack and led us down the hall, his rubber thongs flip-flopping on the glossy floor, to a large bedroom furnished with a double bed and double bunks. The open windows overlooked the drenched garden; it smelt moist and pungent. I glimpsed a shower and loo. Heaven.

‘I bags the top bunk.’ Melody threw her bag up to seize possession before Ben claimed it.

‘Mum! ’S’not fair. She always gets it just ’cause she’s the biggest.’

Babu laughed. He knew kids even though he understood little English. ‘Wanja is housemaid. She bring pot of chai. Welcome for one o’clock lunch. I ring bell.’

CHAPTER 3

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I vividly remember entering the dining room for lunch: the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, the dust mites dancing in the sunrays streaming through the open window, and the birds outside chitter-chattering in the palm trees.

Two men sat at the dining table. The middle-aged man, his sparse salt-and-pepper hair brushed back from a lined forehead, rose from his chair at the head of the table. ‘Ah, you are the Walkers, yes?’ He spoke in a heavy Dutch accent. ‘Sorry, I was not around when you arrived this morning to welcome you. Did you have a pleasant flight? I imagine flying from Australia to Kenya is a long and tiring journey.’

‘Yes, we did, thanks, but feel more human since we’ve had a sleep,’ Dave said.

‘I’m Hans Van Holten, the field director,’ he said, shaking hands, ‘second in charge to Koech, and I’m based at our field headquarters at Kareri in Southern Sudan. And you must be Maggie?’

‘That’s me,’ I said, returning his firm handshake. ‘And these two are Melody and Ben.’

I detected that strange expression again, but this time in Hans’s eyes. ‘And welcome to you both.’

‘Thank you,’ they chorused.

‘Let me introduce you to Charles Faulkner, ex-fighter pilot, did a stint doing stunts for Hollywood before clocking up thousands of hours flying missions for the Red Cross in Somalia and Rwanda and presently flying for SudanAID.’

‘Everyone calls me Chuck,’ the young American pilot drawled, rising to his feet. He was quite a hunk with his craggy looks and windswept hair half hidden under his back-to-front baseball cap. I never saw Chuck minus his cap. The way he put it on reflected how he was feeling.

‘You will no doubt hear about Chuck’s famous exploits. Legend has it he sits on a bulletproof vest when he flies over the hotspots in Sudan,’ Hans said and laughed.

‘Don’t believe everything you hear, folks, but I guess most of it is pretty close to the truth. Maggie, I am your number 1 star boarder. I’m based in Nairobi these days and live in a cottage out the back, but I’m a lousy cook, so I eat my meals over here.’

Hans showed us our places at the timber table. Had someone bumped me into the bygone days of the colonial era? Silver cutlery, linen serviettes rolled through carved wooden holders, and delicate curls of butter arranged on a white china saucer ringed with roses.

Babu, in his quiet way, moved around the table, serving everyone slices of cold meat. He did not utter many words, but his twinkling black eyes and huge smile made us very welcome. ‘We help ourselves to the salad,’ Chuck said, shovelling more than his fair share onto his plate.

After a few minutes, Hans rested his knife and fork on his plate. ‘I’ll give you a brief update on what’s been happening with the civil war and SudanAID in particular.’

‘That will be great, Hans.’

‘Until the last few months, we have been able to continue our activities countrywide, but as the rebel army, the SFF, gains more territory, running the projects in the rural areas became very difficult. The fighting became so intense around Wadi that we had to close our operations there and evacuate our workers for their own safety. We got everyone out safely, but stressed to the max. Most have returned to their home countries.’

Chuck took up the story. ‘Then in the middle of all this chaos, the couple managing the office and Staffhouse dropped everything for urgent medical treatment in England.’

‘How have you been managing, Hans?’ I asked.

‘We were fortunate a young couple, Greg and Sue Lawrie, made themselves available to manage the Staffhouse and office until we could find replacements. They have accepted redeployment to Visinga. Greg is the new operations manager, and Sue