Out past her wide lawn, frangipani trees bloomed yellow-white and deep pink. There were palms and mimosa trees, stands of bamboo and thorn trees and banana groves. Six hundred acres of the lower slopes of the ridge had been groomed and tiered for bright green coffee plants. Another portion of her farm was native forest, more was rolling, fragrant grassland, and still more was home to Kikuyu shambas, native squatters who tended cattle and goats and grew their own maize and pumpkin and sweet potato crops. We walked along a trampled footpath through shoulder-high plants and tangled vines to Mbagathi, the house she would be offering Clara. It was only a small bungalow with a tiny veranda, but there were plenty of windows, and around the back stood an arbour and clustering mimosas to keep things cool. I tried to imagine my mother there, resting in the shade, but found I couldn’t conjure her at all without a shiver of anxiety. “Bror and I lived here first,” Karen explained, “just after we were married.
