Busara Road

By David Hallock Sanders

A tale of adventure and discovery in newly independent Kenya as an American Quaker boy comes of age in a troubled nation coming of age itself.

 

After the death of his mother, 11-year-old Mark Morgan starts a new life with his father at the Kwetu Quaker Mission high in the rain forest of western Kenya. It is 1966, just after Kenya's bloody struggle for independence. As Mark embraces his own independence in this new home, he develops a deep love for the Kenyan people while experiencing cultural and sexual awakenings beyond his years. Beneath the mission's calm surface, however, simmer animosities left over from the long fight against colonialism—and what Mark discovers here will change him forever.
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GOLD MEDAL WINNER, Nautilus Book Awards, for "Imaginative storytelling that reflects the power and resilience of the human spirit, often involving ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances who respond to challenges with the highest aspects of human nature."

FINALIST, General Fiction, Eric Hoffer Awards

FINALIST, Montaigne Medal, Eric Hoffer Awards

FINALIST, Best New Fiction, American Fiction Awards

FINALIST, General Fiction, American Fiction Awards

FINALIST, Screencraft Cinematic Book Competition

SEMIFINALIST, Cinequest Screenwriting Competition (screenplay version)​

"Reading BUSARA ROAD is like having your hair cut by a one-armed man who may be a murderer—you're afraid of what might happen next, but you're certainly not going anywhere, and you're excited to find yourself amid a mystery. That very haircut, and a flash of a white shirt against a green jungle, the calls and grunts of unseen animals in the dense foliage, a thick leaf wrapped around a wounded arm with a vine, birds and fish swimming and flying: reading this novel, I was caught in so many vivid images, so many sharp sensations as I was borne along through Kenya's history and quotidian features, traveling with eleven-year-old Mark Morgan as he shapes his own story. Mark's path ultimately illuminates what has been so tantalizing and unclear in the rich, hidden world around him; the perfect guide, he is guileless and yet awake, often left alone, always eager to pursue new experiences and sensations." —Peter Rock, author of MY ABANDONMENT

"Brimming with mystery, magic, emotional truth and wide-eyed adolescent wonder, BUSARA ROAD compels the reader on a vivid and engrossing adventure marked by discovery, duality and bursts of lyrical beauty." —Tracy DeBrincat, author of HOLLYWOOD BUCKAROO and TROGLODYTE

"Eleven-year-old Mark Morgan and his father move from Philadelphia to a Quaker mission in western Kenya shortly after the new nation's brutal struggle for independence. With his father mostly away, Mark lives among the deeply wounded survivors, struggling to forge connections in a place where not heeding one's elders can have grave consequences. A strong, vivid debut set in an unforgettable place and time." —Janet Benton, author of LILLI DE JONG

"BUSARA ROAD is a beautifully written, slow-burning drama that touches on devastation and collective memory, culminating in the piercing discovery that knowing the truth comes at a personal cost." —Karen Rigby, FOREWORD REVIEWS

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Door Books
• Release date: May 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9780999550199

David Hallock Sanders

David Hallock Sanders has seen his short fiction, essays, and plays published in a range of journals and anthologies. He was shortlisted as a finalist for the William Faulkner–William Wisdom Prize for a novel-in-progress. He is a winner of the Third Coast national fiction competition, the Benjamin Franklin Tercentenary Autobiography Project, the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts Creative Artists Stipend, and the Dwell/Glass House Haiku Competition. He has been a winner or finalist in numerous screenplay competitions, and his screenplay The New Moon in the Old Moon's Arms, based on a short story of the same name, began filming in 2024.

Book preview

Prologue

Kwetu Quaker Mission

Western Province, Kenya

July 1966

Brilliant sunshine poured from a blue-white sky. The blazing light had already begun to darken the boy’s pale skin. African voices laughed from somewhere down the red dirt road. Cowbells chimed in the distance. Verdant jungle towered behind him.

Eleven years old and newly arrived at Kwetu Mission, he pulsed with the thrill of discovery.

A cinderblock wall rose before him. Only a narrow metal door and a grease-encrusted window pierced its gray expanse. Muffled voices seeped through the filthy glass. He cupped his face against the window to block out the sunlight. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dark interior.

A bare bulb hung from the ceiling. Its harsh light revealed two African men. One of them sat on a wooden chair with his back straight as a cane. He wore a shirt decorated with circles of color that exploded like fireworks.

The standing man wore a short-sleeved khaki shirt that revealed a stump of flesh hanging where his right arm should be. He gripped something in his left fist that caught the light—a straight razor. The one-armed man brandished it inches from the other man’s face.

A scream jolted the boy’s body. He spun toward the sound, and watched laughing children in the adjoining yard chase a bicycle wheel into the jungle.

He returned to the window and pressed his forehead against the glass. The tableau hadn’t changed.

But now the man in the fireworks shirt started to rise.

The one-armed man shook his head. With a single flourish, he swiped the razor across the other man’s throat.

Chapter One

But why Africa?

The Presiding Clerk, an elderly gentleman dressed in gray, shook his head with concern and leaned back on the couch. His shoulder-length hair glowed white against the red vinyl.

Mark understood that the Clerk’s question was meant for his father, but the old man’s eyes, aflame with the firelight reflecting in his glasses, focused on the boy.

Mark’s father had invited the Clearness Committee to their West Philadelphia home for a mix of potluck and discernment. International Quaker service was as much a spiritual mission as a practical one, his father had explained to Mark, and the committee was there to help them discern God’s will in making their decision.

But Mark was getting tired of the committee’s questions. Tired of behaving like the little man his father warned him to be. Resentful that his father wanted to rip him away from everything familiar only a year after his mother’s death.

He turned away to gaze out the window through the red bangs of his Beatles haircut. A web of ice crystals crept across a corner pane. A car passed by outside, fishtailing in the fresh snow that had turned West Philadelphia temporarily pristine.

He shuffled his sneakers as he waited for his father’s response. Tugged at his collar, careful not to dislodge his clip-on tie. Sweat dripped beneath his blue sports coat, and he fought the sleep-inducing pull of the over-heated living room with its lingering aromas of his father’s fried chicken and butch wax.

As I’ve said, his father finally answered, to be a light in the jungle. To…

One hand smoothed his short, waxed red hair.

…to spread Christian witness. To foster Quaker education in a new nation. It’s a fresh beginning. For Kenya. For us. Frankly, I want to build a new life for me and my boy at Kwetu Mission. And I thought you were here to help us.

Teacher Hedy, Mark’s First Day School instructor, uncrossed her arms. She was a large woman with a gentle voice that belied her size.

Of course we are, Reece.

Hedy was Mark’s favorite grown-up at Meeting for Worship. She was also one of the few people who could stand up to his father without angering him. His mother had been another. Since his mother’s death, Mark had found it didn’t take much to make his father angry. His mom had always had a way of calming his father. It was hard now to remember her before she got sick, before the disease had drained her fervor, stolen her waves of auburn hair. But in his distant recollections she always appeared to glow, like a lantern or firefly, with kindness, strength, and love. Like Teacher Hedy, but at half the size.

However, Hedy continued, this committee is not a rubber stamp. We’re convened to help thee discern the leadings of the Spirit. To help thee heed God’s calling.

Mark didn’t think his father was listening—to God or committee. He feared his father’s mind was already made up, no matter what concerns the committee, or Mark, might have about such a dramatic uprooting.

And you too, Mark. Teacher Hedy leaned forward with a warm smile. She clutched the embroidered collar of her peasant blouse, but Mark had a clear view into the valley between her breasts.

This is a big change for an eleven-year-old. Have you given careful consideration to the unknown challenges your father’s service might bring?

I think so, Mark answered, but he wondered how it was possible to know the unknown.

A bean pole of a man who had been silent all night roused his body upright.

What about Mark’s schooling, Reece?

There’s a mission school right there. He’ll go to that.

And his friends here in America? This is such a radical change. What do you say, Mark? Do you really want to make this move?

Mark glanced at his father.

I guess so.

The bean pole crossed his arms and sat back. I don’t think you guys have any idea the loneliness waiting for you out there.

Loneliness, Mark’s father said after a long silence, is the soil in which this idea took root.

The Clerk pulled a hand through his cloud of hair.

But Reece, why so soon after your wife’s passing? Plus it’s so dangerous there right now. Kenya’s just barely independent, and the Mau Mau are such recent history. Is this really best for you and the boy? I don’t understand why you need to go so far away.

I confess to the same concern, Friend. Teacher Hedy again. International Quaker service is a profound responsibility. Especially in Africa. One must serve in obedience to the spirit of Christ while living in one of the most challenging environments on Earth. I am concerned about your responsibility as a parent, Reece. Is not your primary calling to attend to matters here at home?

Africa will be our new home.

"But what will you actually do there?"

Mark sat up. He had the same question.

That, I’m afraid, is still a bit vague. His father forced a grin. But that’s part of the appeal, isn’t it? I’m told I’ll be ‘a teacher who teaches the teachers to teach.’ Kenya’s ramping up its own school system now that the Brits are gone, and the Quakes are doing the teacher-training. So I’ll be involved with that. Plus there are village schools scattered about the country that need help, so I guess I’ll be traveling various places, doing some consulting, that kind of thing. But I guess I won’t really know until I get there.

The committee reached consensus that night. They advised against the move.

Perhaps wait a year or two, Friend, the Clerk told Mark’s father. I’m sure Way will open—just give it more time.

Mark was relieved by the committee’s decision. Losing his mom was awful. Losing his home would make it worse.

But when the formal job offer came in January, Mark’s father accepted by return post.

Chapter Two

Bonfires and a lonely flood lamp guided them to earth, their single-prop plane descending through the night as though in a dream.

Mark leaned across his father for a glimpse out the oval window. That vast darkness, his father told him, was Lake Victoria. To Mark, it looked like emptiness.

The plane bucked, dropped, and then recovered. An African man moaned across the aisle.

Mark turned.

It’s okay, said the boy. We’re almost there.

Surprised, the passenger returned Mark’s smile with a nod.

~

A square-faced and beaming man greeted them at the airstrip. Tall and imposing in a black suit and tie, he draped an arm around the boy’s shoulder.

"Jambo, jambo, Morgan family! Welcome to Kenya! You are here in good timing!"

Give or take. Mark’s father shifted his flight bag to his other shoulder and hefted his large suitcase with both hands. Mr. Mbote, I presume?

The same! But call me Peter and I will call you Reece. And this must be Mark, eh? Sleepy boy, let me take your bag.

Mr. Mbote led them through the modest terminal building—a small concrete box topped by a smaller box—and out to his waiting car. With his black skin, black suit, and black Peugeot, the man was nearly invisible in the night.

Their drive up the mountain was a punishment of rutted dirt roads that stuttered beneath their wheels. The car’s headlamps flung a tunnel of light before them that barely illuminated the jungle on each side. Mark strained to stay awake, struggled to follow from the back seat the soft adult conversation up front, but he was exhausted from the long series of flights from Philadelphia to London to Nairobi to Kisumu.

He stretched out, followed the blur of headlights from passing lorries playing across the car’s interior for a while, and slipped into sleep.

At one point his father called out, See the sign? We’re crossing the equator! But when Mark stirred himself to look out the window, he stared into darkness with no idea whether they were near or far from their destination.

A jolt woke him again. The car rumbled over what sounded like a wooden bridge.

Welcome to Kwetu Quaker Mission, sang out Mr. Mbote. Your new home!

The man’s enthusiasm filled the car.

Below on your right there, down that hill, that is the Mwezi. In Swahili, it means ‘moon.’ When the days are thirsty like these days, the Mwezi wanes. But when the long rains come, the Buibui and the Mwezi rise into fullness.

The man’s words were meaningless. Mark peered vainly into the blackness for some hint of what an em-wazy or boy-boy might be.

The car rumbled up the hill past invisible mission buildings that Mr. Mbote identified in the dark. The Dining Hall. The Chapel. The Industrial Center. They pulled up a steep dirt drive and parked beside a cinderblock house perched on a hill.

Mark followed his father up a tower of concrete steps, through a cloud of bugs hovering below the bare bulb by the door, and into the house. His father disappeared down a hallway. Mr. Mbote carried Mark’s suitcase to his new room.

Thank you, Mark managed, his eyes nearly closed with sleep.

Most welcome! Mr. Mbote’s voice rumbled warmly. Good night, young Morgan.

A single lamp revealed the room’s entire contents: a simple wood chair beside a small wood desk, and a narrow bed enclosed beneath a haze of mosquito netting draped from the ceiling.

Mark tugged off his shoes, socks, and pants in the cool air, the concrete floor smooth beneath his feet. He studied the white cocoon around his bed, searched for an opening. Unsuccessful, he lifted the veil and crawled into bed. Within moments he was asleep.

Chapter Three

First he felt it, then he heard it, but still he didn’t understand.

Mark sat curled in the open window of his father’s office at Kwetu Mission, his back pressed against the rough wood frame. He glanced around the small cinderblock room, empty save for a gray metal desk stranded like an island on the waxed concrete floor. An open doorway led to an empty hallway. Nothing in the drab surroundings gave a hint about the source of the vibrations that rumbled through the sill beneath him.

He clutched his knees to his chest and turned back to the view outside. Sunlight streamed down through thin mountain air. The window ledge beneath him shuddered again. Glass rattled. The rumbling returned, but now it appeared to come from somewhere down the dirt road that sliced a gash through the lush jungle landscape.

Mark leaned out the narrow window, pushed bangs of hair from his eyes, and marveled at the activity just below on Busara Road.

A slow procession of goats, cows, and Kenyans climbed the hill. Black bodies passed by, draped in colors that mirrored the road’s red dust, the sky’s morning blue, the deep, pulsing green of the jungle. African voices drifted on the breeze. An earthy scent of sweat and dung and smoke hung in the air, and somewhere, distant animals grunted and bantered. Mark floated on a sensation of weightlessness in his window perch.

A large, dark bird swooped out from the roof above him, luminescent colors glowing beneath its wings. Mark ached to follow it in flight. This new world vibrated more wildly than anything back in Philadelphia.

The rumbling returned, louder now. Mark followed the sound down to a wooden bridge that crossed a nearly dry riverbed. On the far side of the bridge, the road turned sharply and disappeared around a bend. The rumbling came from beyond.

A bony cow stopped below Mark’s window. A small boy, much younger than Mark, snapped a switch at the animal’s rear. He wore torn khaki shorts and nothing else. Boy and cow moved slowly to the side of the road. Others moved themselves and their animals to the road’s edge as well.

Mark tucked his knees tighter against his chest. He leaned further out the window and shaded his eyes for a better view beyond the bridge.

The rumbling sound stuttered, then suddenly roared. From around the bend, an open-bed truck appeared. Red and battered, it lurched up the road. Clusters of people clutched tightly to posts that sprouted from the truck bed. Some carried bags and baskets. One woman held a chicken under her arm. Mark marveled that they weren’t all tossed off as the truck wove sharply from side to side to avoid potholes.

The driver blew his horn. A passenger waved as they passed. A black dog chased behind the truck, barking at its tires in a thick swell of dust that nearly obscured Mark’s view.

With the truck’s passing, people slowly gathered themselves and their loads and resumed walking. Sunlight caught the hovering dust like gold flecks.

Down the grassy slope beyond the road, a crescent pond hugged the jungle’s edge. Two naked children splashed in shallow water, black bodies glistening against the forest wall.

A man knelt beside the pond and lifted water to his lips. When he finished he stood, looked up the hill, and stared directly in Mark’s direction. The hard glance struck like a blow. Mark pulled back out of the man’s view.

An African boy about Mark’s age approached up the road. He wore khaki shorts and a faded red tee-shirt. With efficient flicks of a stick, he propelled what appeared to be the metal rim of a bicycle wheel.

Mark wanted to try that wheel! He was tired of waiting for his father. They should have gone home already. His father had promised they’d stay at the office just a short while; had even told their cook when they left that morning to prepare lunch. But here it was already early afternoon, and Mark was tired and hungry.

The man by the pond had started up the hill, and was now nearly to the road. Mark’s stomach tightened. Something about the man disturbed him. His step was brisk and powerful. He was quite tall, and he wore a long shirt that draped over his pants and was decorated with exploding rings of color like fireworks.

Fireworks! Another reason to resent his father. It was the Fourth of July today, but there wouldn’t be any fireworks here in the jungle. No fireworks. No picnic. No parade. Worst of all, no mother to celebrate with. None of the things he loved about the Fourth.

Mark rested his forehead on his knees. His head and stomach ached. His father had warned him about this: the altitude, the malaria medicine, the jet lag. But just because he was warned didn’t mean he felt any better.

The man in the fireworks shirt arrived at Mark’s window at the same moment as the boy with the bicycle wheel.

Hey! the man called up to Mark. You! His face was thin, coal black, and marred with a worm-like scar that stretched across his forehead and down one cheek. His shirt opened in a deep v that revealed a heavy gold necklace draping across the black of his chest.

Who said to sleep in an open window, eh? Do you want to fall and crack your skull?

Mark was taken aback.

I wasn’t sleeping.

Is that so? The man stepped closer and held Mark’s eye. What were you doing then, eh?

I was thinking.

You must be a very deep thinker.

Was the man making fun of him? Mark wanted him to go away.

Deep enough.

Something in the man’s demeanor shifted. Mark shrank back. The man moved closer still.

Are you fooling with me, boy?

Mark glanced behind him. He wished his father would return.

No, he turned back.

Then what does that mean, deep enough?

Nothing. I was just being friendly.

"Friendly? Why does a Mzungu boy want to be my friend, eh? Eh?! Answer! Or has the cat cut off your tongue?"

The man now stood close enough to reach up and grab Mark. His scar glowed. His eyes narrowed, cold and fierce, as though he were ready to pounce.

The boy with the wheel followed the exchange in silence, then shrugged at Mark. He said something to the man in an African language. The man growled a response and raised an arm as though to hit him. The boy backed away, eyes wide, and called to Mark.

Hey! Don’t talk to this one! He is dangerous! Then the boy spun his wheel ahead of him in the dirt and chased it up the hill.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway, and Mark slid down from the window.

I have to go, he said to the man in the road.

Don’t move.

Mark froze. The man leaned his head back and stared directly at the sun for a moment. Then he turned to Mark. His eyes were empty, his face frozen with a strange, dead smile.

Of course, child, I see it now. You want to be friendly because you are a Friend. A Quaker, eh? But I know for a fact that you do not like me at all.

I don’t even know you.

I am Walter Lumwangi. You will come to know me, boy. Now go away, and find a place more safe to sleep.

~

Mark stepped back from the window, shaken by his encounter with the mysterious man.

Who were you talking to?

Mark whipped around. His father stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb with arms crossed.

Mark pointed at the window.

His father planted both fists on the sill and searched the road. He was a thin, muscular man with short red hair and black-framed glasses—a combination that made him look both bookish and athletic at once.

I don’t see anyone.

He was there just a second ago.

His father turned to Mark and narrowed his eyes.

Has it started already?

What? Mark’s voice rose with panic. What did his father know about that man?

His father shook his head. Bongi Bongi Fever. It begins with hallucinations, you know.

I’m not… Then Mark caught on. There was no such thing. Can we go now?

Mr. Morgan ran his fingers through the bristles of his hair. I’m sorry this is taking so long. Much longer than I thought. I’m still stuck here for a bit—can I bring you some food?

No! I’m bored. I want to go.

Well, I can’t leave yet.

You promised we’d go home for lunch! Mark kicked at his chair. It’s not fair.

The boy has a point.

A figure appeared in the doorway. It was Mr. Mbote, the man from last night and his father’s new boss. Mr. Mbote’s shirt glowed a brilliant white against his skin. He winked at Mark.

Peter, come in! Mark’s father ushered him into the office.

"Promises are promises. Mr. Mbote turned his attention to Mark. It is good to see you in the daylight, young man. I am sorry that your first day is so boring. But the excitement should increase tonight, eh?"

Why? What’s tonight?

Mr. Mbote shot Mark’s father a puzzled look. You have not told him about this evening?

Don’t know about it myself.

Well, that is not good! It is being done for your benefit.

Mr. Mbote turned back to Mark. "This is your American Independence Day, is it not? Mr. Sullivan—he is the father of your future classmate—he is hosting a party. An American Independence Day party. I am certain that you are invited. It has become quite a tradition, and it should be an excellent way for you to become acquainted. I am surprised no one has told you! But then again, you have only just arrived. You must attend. I understand that there shall be hamburgers and hot dogs. Do I say that correctly? And firecrackers and rockets. Lots of big bangs, eh? All of the Americans will be there, and other Wazungu as well."

Mark’s father furrowed his brow. "Wazungu?"

Whites. Mr. Mbote checked his wristwatch. But now, young Morgan, I think you have been waiting here in your father’s office for too long, and you must go home. If your father is agreeable, I have a proposal that might interest you.

Mark narrowed his eyes. What kind of proposal?

Can you do an important job for me along your way home?

Like what?

Like posting a piece of mail at the Industrial.

You mean now?

Is there a better time?

Mark’s father interrupted. I’m not sure that…

Come now, Reece. The boy’s bored to tears and it is a perfectly safe walk straight up the hill. Mark knows where the Industrial is, and Chege’s waiting at home, is he not?

Ahh…Chege! Mark’s father exhaled. That man scared me half to death this morning. He just walked in and started cooking.

Yes, he comes with the house! You will get used to it. So why not let the boy go? A hundred eyes will protect him on Busara Road. It’s Africa, man! He’ll be fine.

Mark asserted his most pleading expression. Please?

Mr. Mbote pulled an envelope from his coat pocket and tapped it in the palm of his hand. What do you say, Reece? Let’s put the boy to work.

Well, you’re the boss. But do you let your own kids run wild?

Run wild? Of course not. Run an errand? Certainly. And when they were much younger than your son. As long as the boy sticks to the road, there is no fear for his safety.

His father pinned Mark with his eyes. "You hear that? You must—must—stick to the road. Understand? Straight to the Industrial Center, post the letter, then straight home to Chege. Got it?"

Mark’s feet shuffled with excitement. Can I go now?

"May I," his father corrected.

But Mark had already plucked the envelope from Mr. Mbote’s hand and was on his way out the door.

Chapter Four

Two men in khaki shorts pushed bicycles up the hill. One was barefoot wearing a blue suit coat, and the other wore red tennis shoes and a yellow tee-shirt pulled down over one shoulder. Mark followed a few feet behind them, matching their pace.

Two women approached. One balanced a gas can atop her head while gesturing to the woman beside her. The other woman carried a baby in her arms, yet still balanced a basket on her head. Both wore coils of beads around their necks. The men with bicycles greeted the women, and once they’d passed, the women shared some comment that made them both laugh.

Mark kept pace with the bicycle men past a large open field and beneath a dense canopy of trees, but as he neared the Industrial Center, he had to stop to catch his breath in the mountain air.

Like the other mission buildings, the Industrial Center sat back from the road, a squat box of concrete blocks hunched beneath a corrugated tin roof. An old woman stood beside the gas pump out front, wrapped in an orange and tan cloth and bent nearly double over a carved walking stick. Her grin revealed two rows of toothless gums.

Beside the old woman, a naked toddler squatted and relieved herself in the dirt. Mark became aware of his own need to pee, and wished he’d gone before leaving his father’s office. Maybe the Industrial Center had a bathroom like American gas stations? He went to investigate, but found the office door locked.

I believe he is not there.

Mark turned. The boy with the metal wheel stood behind a rough wooden fence next door. Two girls about Mark’s age stood beside him. One was African, with a halo of frizzy hair and a gray blouse and skirt. The other was a white girl in a faded red dress.

Mark tried the door again, then turned back.

Where is he?

The other boy spun his wheel in the grass.

How can I know that? Do you want to play with us?

The wheel escaped the boy’s control. The African girl rescued it.

Yes, please come! she said. I am named Beryl and that is Robin. And this is Radio’s house, where we are playing.

The girl’s voice was like music.

Mark longed to join them. To try that wheel. But his father’s instructions were clear.

I can’t.

He turned to the locked door and knocked. He really needed to