Chapter 4: The Band

At five-thirty in the morning, a band with drums and a trumpet stood outside my window and began to play.

I sat up in bed and looked at the clock.

The tune was "At Last."

The trumpet was a little flat.

Clayton's voice rose above it, cheerful and loud. "Romy! Come to the window! I wrote you a song!"

I put on my robe and opened the shutter.

He was standing on an overturned bucket in the yard, in a clean shirt, holding a printed lyric sheet.

The musicians were in a half circle behind him.

All around the compound, doors were opening and heads were coming out.

"I wrote it on the plane," Clayton called. "It's called 'Come Home, Romy.'"

"I can hear that," I said.

"Verse one!"

The drums came in.

He sang.

He rhymed "Kenya" with "senior," and "Ohio" with "I know."

He held the last note longer than the trumpet could.

When he finished, he put his hand on his heart and looked up at the window and waited for applause.

Forty-one people had gathered in the yard.

Nobody applauded.

Wanjiru walked out of the maternity ward in her uniform, with her clipboard under her arm.

"Mr. MacGregor," she said. "Who are these gentlemen?"

"The Kisumu Strings," Clayton said proudly. "I hired them for the whole morning. Four hundred dollars."

The band leader, a thin man in a green suit, nodded and held up four fingers.

Then he saw Wanjiru's face and put one finger down.

"Three hundred dollars," Wanjiru said. "For all morning."

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