“Hi Del,” says Dominic as he squats by the side of my lounger, “Are you writing a diary of your holiday?”
I reach out and we shake hands. Dominic is one of the entertainment team at the hotel and despite the 50 or so years difference in our ages we have become friends.
“No, just a story I started at home but it’s not going very well.”
“You write stories Del? What do you write about?”
Dominic has this habit of using my name whenever he can.
“Anything and everything,” I tell him. “Happy stories, sad stories, whatever I feel like writing.”
“Will you write about me in your story Del?”
“Perhaps I will. What would you like me to write?”
“You know all about me already Del, you know that I like to talk to the guests to practice my languages and I’m looking for a wife.”
I laugh, he has told me this before, and I tell him that he will not have a problem because he is a good looking boy and a has nice personality.
“No Del, the girls here don’t like me because of my colour.”
“Colour?” I ask. “What’s that about? There’s no difference.”
“Ah yes there is Del, I come from the North, three days journey. I’m the only one here from that village.”
“Tell me about your village,” I ask him uncomfortable with the implied discrimination although Dominic doesn’t seem at all concerned.
“Ah Del,” he says, and his eyes glaze over as he pictures his home. “It’s a long way from here and big. We call it a village but it’s like a town. There are no roads Del, just tracks between the houses, and chickens and pigs. No electricity either.”
He laughs. “We wake up when it gets light and go to bed when it gets dark.”
I’m fascinated and tell him to carry on. He needs no encouragement. He tells me many things about his village, the houses, the streets, the rivers, the trees and the animals.
“At night it’s so quiet you can hear the fish jump in the river a mile away.” Then he frowns. “But that’s when the night runners start.”
“The what?” I ask, suddenly woken from my journey with him through his village.
“The night runners Del. You don’t know about night runners?”
“Never heard of them. What are they, animals, insects? Tell me more.”
He lowers his voice as he tells me and responds to my questions eagerly. I accuse him of teasing me but he looks at me seriously.
“There are many stories about the night runners Del, but what I tell you is the truth.”
“Why do they do it Dominic?”
He shrugs.
“Who knows Del? It’s just something they do. I don’t know why, but now it’s time for lunch. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He smiles as he shakes my hand.
After I have had lunch and with Dominic’s words still in my head, I start to write:

Otieno lay on his bed listening to the noises of the afternoon as they drifted through the small window. He heard the chatter of the women as they washed clothes in the river and the squeals of the children as they played. In the distance dogs barked and in the rushes that partially covered his window he could hear a lone cricket calling for a mate. Otieno felt that loneliness too. Not because he was alone, like the cricket, but because he was different. He was not like the other boys in the village. Otieno was a Jajuok, a night runner.

As the light faded Otieno knew that he would run again that night. There was something inside him that frightened him as well as thrilled him and he lay back on his bed waiting for the time to be right. He was waiting for that familiar thrill of excitement that would course through his veins and make him feel alive. Tonight however, there would be danger and he would have to be careful. Recently, night runners from other villages had been caught and beaten but Otieno had no choice, if he didn’t obey the spirit his body would swell and his heart would burst.

“I see you Otieno,” said his mother pulling back the curtain and interrupting his thoughts. “Are you well?”
“I see you Momma, I am very well,” replied Otieno. “Come Momma, sit with me for a while to keep me company, for tonight the spirit is strong.”
“I fear for you Otieno,” she said as she sat on the bed holding his hand tightly. “The moon is full and you will surely be seen. Must you go tonight?”
“Can the Acacia decide not to flower when its season comes Momma? Or the lioness not to hunt when her family are hungry? No Momma. Like the seasons that come and go this must be done.”
“But tonight Otieno?” said his mother pulling him towards her. “Let me sit with you until it passes. I have a bad feeling. I heard in the village a boy was killed.”
“Don’t worry Momma,” he said softly. “The boy was young and foolish. Tomorrow we will sow maize and plant rice and the rains will come and the harvest will be good because I do this thing.”
His mother shook her head.
“The rains come for everyone my son,” she said, knowing in her heart that nothing she could say would change anything.

Otieno was the only son who had stayed after her husband had died. The others had gone to live in the city. They sent money home each month and when they visited they complained that the water was bad, the oil lamps smelt and there were too many mosquitoes. They told Otieno stories of their lives and he listened in awe as they spoke of shops selling everything you could wish for, of streets full of cars, taxis, buses. They told him about their offices and homes which were kept cool by a machine so there were no mosquitoes and cupboards for food that were so cold inside that water turned to glass. Otieno was unable to believe such marvels and they urged him to come and see for himself. His mother shook her head and took him to one side. She told him that the city was not for him.
“Otieno, you are a boy of the bush and the open spaces,” she said. “Would you not miss the cicada’s song in the heat of the day and the croak of the chura in the cool of the night?”
“Yes Momma,” he said. “but I need to see these things. A short visit, I will be back before you notice I have gone.”
“You would miss the smell of wood smoke Otieno, the cool of the river when the sun is high, and the scent of the frangipani blossom on the night air.”
“Yes Momma, all these things I will miss, but I will return before the moon completes its cycle.”
“Then go my son,” she said looking at the floor. “But what if the spirit comes while you are there? Where will you run in the city that has no dark to conceal you and no shadows to hide in?”
“But it may not come Momma. It does not come so much now I am older. Perhaps I will leave the spirit in the village where it belongs.”
His mother raised her eyes and looked at him.
“You know that is not possible Otieno,” she said. “The spirit is part of you. You cannot leave it here; wherever you go the spirit goes also.”
“Yes Momma,” said Otieno.
He was silent for a while and then he said, “Don’t worry Momma, I will not visit the city.”

Otieno released his hand from his mother’s tight grip and lay back on the bed pulling his lesso around him.
“The sun has gone Momma and everyone is going to bed. I will sleep now for a while.”
“Sleep well my son,” she said stroking his forehead. “Sleep well and sleep in peace tonight.”
She closed the curtain behind her as she left his room and put out the lamp so that the light would not disturb him. When she had done she moved to her chair and waited.

Otieno woke slowly. He lay for a while listening to the night sounds. He heard the dogs barking, the crickets in the marshes and, far in the distance, an animal’s cry. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep. The moon had risen and shone through the gap in the rushes covering his window, casting its cold light on the mud wall. As the patch of moonlight crawled across the wall, he waited. He waited for the spirit inside him to show him that it was ready. He waited for the time to be right.

Suddenly it was there and he felt it. He got off his bed, wrapped his lesso around his waist and drew back the curtain. His mother, still in her chair, looked up.
“Go well my son,” she said softly but Otieno didn’t reply.
He walked to the door, pulled back the rush matting, dropped his lesso in the doorway and stepped out into the night.

Like a shadow he ran, on his toes, his bare feet silent on the hardened mud path. The full moon lit the village with a harsh light but Otieno kept away from the open spaces and ran quietly between the mud houses in the shadows formed by the rushes and palm leaves. As he ran he listened to the spirit inside him and followed its directions.
“Turn here Otieno,” it said. “To the river, then follow the path the women use.”
Otieno did as he was bidden. The leaves of the banana trees, growing in the damp places, slapped at his face but still he ran as silent as an owl. This was a part of the village that was not familiar to him but he did not falter, safe in the knowledge that he was not alone on his special night.
“Now right Otieno,” the voice whispered and Otieno obeyed, his heart pounding. “Away from the river. Left between the thorn bushes, we are near now.”
“There,” said the spirit, “the huts with iron roofs. That is where we run tonight.”
Otieno saw the houses ahead. They were larger than in his part of the village with flowers and designs painted on the mud walls. He ran faster, the excitement growing within him. As he reached the first house he changed. Instead of running silently on his toes he now slapped his feet loudly on the hard path. Slap, slap, slap he ran noisily round the house.
“Ayee,” cried a child’s voice from inside the house. “The Jajuok. It’s coming to get me.”
Otieno slapped his feet harder and ran round the houses. Then he scooped up some stones and threw them onto the roofs to clatter over the ridges of tin.
Another voice, louder this time.
“It’s the Jajuok. Momma, Papa he’s coming.”
Still he ran; slapping his feet on the ground. A woman’s voice called out, raised and fearful.
“Jajuok, leave us in peace. Go back to the earth where you belong.”
Otieno listened but did not pause.
Crying came from the hut and something crashed to the floor. A man shouted, angry, and swearing. But still Otieno ran making as much noise as he could. As he turned to run past the front of the house he heard the rush door swish back. Otieno saw the man in the moonlight. His lesso tied high and a machete in his hand. He bellowed like a bull elephant.
“I’ll kill you, you motherless Jajuok and send you back to hell.”
Otieno jumped, gripped the edge of the tin roof and pulled himself up. He ran across the roof slapping his feet with each stride as the man below him cursed and ran round the side of the house looking for him.
There were screams from the house.
“Papa, the Jajuok is on the roof. He’s coming for us.”
Otieno heard the cries of children from the neighbouring houses, calling for their parents. Doors swished open and men rushed out brandishing sticks, knives, machetes. Otieno ran to the other side of the roof and dropped silently to the ground. On his toes again, he slipped away into the shadow of the thorn bushes and listened as the men behind him swore loudly, thrashing the bushes with their sticks while mothers and children cowered in corners crying and calling for the spirits to spare them.

Three times on that moonlit night, the spirit led Otieno to a different house. Three times he ran noisily round and over the huts and three times the residents called for salvation. Then, as the moon moved lower in the sky and soft starlight took over from its harsh glare, Otieno knew it was finished. His steps were light now and he felt a happiness that only those who have obeyed something they did not understand, could feel.
With a light heart he turned and headed for his home. After only a few yards Otieno realised he was not alone. Someone was running close beside him as silent as a summer breeze.
“I see you Otieno,” said a deep, warm voice
“Is that you my father?” he asked afraid to turn his head in case he was mistaken.
“Yes my son, it is I. I come with you often but this is the first time I have been allowed to speak.”
Otieno turned his head in the direction of the voice.
“I see you my Papa,” he said as his eyes brimmed with tears.
“You ran well tonight my son. You have pleased the spirits. All will be well with you.”
“Thank you Papa,” replied Otieno. “Papa, can I ask?”
But the question hung in the air and no answer came. Like the mist on the river when the sun rises through the trees, his Papa had gone.
When Otieno arrived home, he picked up his lesso and wrapped it round his waist. His mother was still in her chair. She had lit the lamp for him.
“Are you well Otieno?” she asked.
“Very well Momma.”
“You are hurt my son,” she said seeing the blood on his lesso. “Let me help you.
She fetched fresh water and bathed his hands as he sat at her feet.
“Momma,” he said as she applied leaves and ointments to his hands. “My father, he was a Jajuok, a night runner?”
She paused and laid her hand on his shoulder.
“Yes my son, but he was not strong like you and the spirits took him to run in the stars.”
She pulled him gently towards her and put her face against his cheek. Otieno felt the wetness of her tears
“Don’t worry Momma,” he said softly. “I know that all will be well now”

When I’ve finished writing I order coffee from Margaret, one of the waitresses.
“I saw you writing Papa,” she says. “What did you write?”
Margaret lives near the hotel in the town. I know her well and she has always called me Papa. I tell her I have been talking to Dominic and he made me think of something to write about.
“The dark one,” she says. “Did he tell you about his village? It is far from here.”
“Yes, he did and he told me about the night runners. I’d not heard of them before. Do you know about night runners Margaret or is he joking with me?”
Her smile fades.
“Of course, papa,” she says. “He is not telling you stories. Many villages have night runners.”
“But I don’t understand why, Margaret? Why do they do it?”
She shrugs.
“Who knows? It’s in their blood. They have to.”
“But why?” I insist
“Because this is Africa Papa,” she says. “This is Africa.”