by Frank Coates
‘No, they are accurate enough, my friend,’ Kimathi said. ‘It is good, ah?’ The gleam of excitement shone in his eyes.
‘Um, but why do we do this?’ Jelani asked, keeping the surprise from his voice.
‘It shows the wazungu that the Mau Mau are pitiless and can reach out and strike the white farmers whenever and wherever we wish. It shows we are strong and our members will do anything we ask.’
It seemed to be working. Jelani had noticed an air of tension around the city. For once he was glad to have lighter skin. Most of the Kikuyu came under close scrutiny by the police, the Home Guard and even native askaris.
Kimathi also told him that Bildad Kaggia had recruited a number of trusted union leaders in Nairobi. John Mungai’s taxi drivers’ union provided logistical support and transport for the Mau Mau hierarchy. In a sign that the organisation was not about to wage a purely psychological war, metal workers covertly forged swords and lethal cutting weapons on the machines of unsuspecting factory owners. And four hundred of the city’s prostitutes took the oath and started charging ammunition — between one and ten bullets depending upon the client — in payment for their services.
Muthuri told Jelani that Jomo Kenyatta was quietly negotiating with members of the union movement to break with Kaggia and his Mau Mau.
‘He doesn’t have to worry about us. Our members won’t support the Mau Mau, but Kenyatta wants everyone’s allegiance,’ Muthuri said. ‘But he must be careful. If the Mau Mau leaders find out he’s trying to drive a wedge between them and the unions, they will be furious. He walks a fine line.’
It appeared to Jelani there were two conflicts arising: one between white and black, and the other between Kikuyu and Kikuyu. This wasn’t how he’d imagined it would be. Surely the aim was to unite all black Kenyans behind a common cause?
Then, just a few days before departing for the USA, Jelani received the strongest indication that he was being groomed for a higher position within the Mau Mau.
‘Kaggia wants you to attend an oathing ceremony,’ Kimathi told him.
‘An oathing ceremony … Yes, of course.’
He accepted the invitation with some trepidation. His union had publicly stated that it was implacably opposed to the Mau Mau. He had to rely on the oath of secrecy, because if Chege Muthuri discovered his involvement, it would cost him his job and, presumably, Wangira’s scholarship.
The ceremony was scheduled to take place in the Mathare slums — a place avoided by the Nairobi police force after dark.
They met at the bus stop on Outer Ring Road.
Kimathi said nothing, but Jelani followed him at a distance to a clearing among the hovels. It was alight with paraffin lanterns and had been decorated with palm fronds and stalks of sugar-cane and arrowroot. As usual, a goat had been slaughtered and skinned, and the hide cut into a single long strip that lay on the ground in a circle.
Jelani had not had time to eat before meeting Kimathi, and he eyed off the troughs of traditional food placed among the decorations and lanterns. On closer inspection, his stomach turned. The food had been fouled with blood, filth and goat faeces. He almost gagged.
Kimathi spoke for the first time. ‘It is good you are here. You will find tonight’s ceremony interesting.’
Somebody struck a gong, and a dozen nervous recruits walked into the circle of goat’s hide and, lifting it, faced outwards with the hide encircling them.
A figure dressed in a long white robe came from the darkness beyond the throw of the lanterns. His head was bowed, but when he looked up, Jelani took a sharp intake of breath. It was Chege Muthuri.
Jelani was at first alarmed, then realised that Muthuri must have known all along he had taken the oath.
He felt he had successfully passed another test.
After the oathing ceremony, as the other Mau Mau and their new recruits disbanded, Muthuri came to Jelani and slapped him on the shoulder.
‘Many people have no idea how strong the Mau Mau is,’ Muthuri said. ‘Now you know we are everywhere.’
Jelani could only nod, relieved that he’d overcome his urge to discuss the Mau Mau with Muthuri and thereby break his solemn oath.
‘Come,’ Muthuri continued. ‘We must talk about your visit to America.’
They went to a small bar for a generous serving of nyama choma and a few Tusker beers. Jelani took his lead from Muthuri, who drank slowly. Even then, by the time they’d eaten, Jelani felt the effects of the alcohol.
They sat at a table in the open area at the back of the bar.
‘Now, Jelani, my friend,’ Muthuri began, glancing around the space, which was almost empty except for a group of loud drunks sitting under the sole light. ‘We must talk, ah?’ he said. ‘This Wangira fellow, he wants you to study things that will make you a better stooge of the government. He says it’s for you to learn how to be a leader. Well, the union movement needs leaders too. And so do the other friends we were with tonight, ah?’
Jelani nodded. Muthuri turned many of his statements into questions.
‘You will visit the Longshoremen. They are becoming very powerful. You will observe them carefully. You will study their methods of organising their membership. They have thousands of members.
‘The Longshoremen’s Union is pushing hard these days,’ he continued. ‘Now that the war is over they can fight the businessmen and the governments. They are going to push, push, for better pay and safer working places.’ Muthuri lowered his voice. ‘I want you to know all their tricks. How they think. I want you to find ways that we can organise thousands of people. Tens of thousands.’
Jelani drained his beer. It was warm and flat, and caught in his throat. He knew Muthuri was no longer talking about union members.
‘As our numbers grow,’ Muthuri continued, ‘it will become more difficult to conceal the extent of them. We must eventually prepare for open warfare, but until that time, we must remain hidden.’
The recent oathing ceremony was still etched in Jelani’s mind. The procedure had changed markedly in the short time since his own. He was still disturbed by memories of the new initiates dripping blood from the seven cuts on their arms into the fouled food bowls.
The alcohol prompted a question he’d otherwise not ask. ‘I understand it’s important to keep our membership secret, but why do we need all that blood and filth?’
‘Already I am thinking we must change our ceremony. The cuts leave scars. There are other ways to bind our brothers closer to us.’ Muthuri smiled thinly. ‘It is important to make the oathing ceremony vile and disgusting. That way no one will admit to being a member. It will separate them from everyone else, except us. The Mau Mau becomes their only family.’ His smile broadened.
‘Then how will we get new members?’ Jelani asked. ‘No one will want to join us if the ceremony is so disgusting.’
‘That will not be a problem,’ he said. ‘Soon we will be like an army in times of war.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean we will have compulsory membership.’
‘But not every Kikuyu will agree with us. They will want a choice.’
‘They will have a choice — they will either join the fight, or die.’
CHAPTER 43
As the day of his departure for America loomed closer, Jelani became overwhelmed by the countless tasks facing him — each one a hurdle and potential stumbling block to boarding his ship.
The only person able to advise him was Chege Muthuri, but he was seldom available. It was therefore only by chance that his boss was around to mention a very important matter — he needed travel papers before he could set foot in America, or anywhere else in the outside world.
‘You need to go to the admin office with your kipande pass,’ Muthuri said. ‘Find Joe Mbale. He will help you.’
‘Who is Joe Mbale?’
‘A Ugandan friend of mine. And don’t worry, he is easy to find. Look for a man with a moon face and a big belly.’
Muthuri was
right. Joe Mbale was a big man with, improbably for a government employee, a big smile — after Jelani introduced himself as a friend of Muthuri.
Mbale said, ‘And how is my good friend Chege? Why is he such a troubled soul and always fighting with everybody?’
‘He is very well, thank you. And I’m surprised you ask why he is fighting. I’m sure that even in Uganda you are facing the same struggles as we are here in Kenya.’
‘Ai, ai!’ Mbale said, his smile unaffected by Jelani’s outburst. ‘I see you are from the same kali tribe as your boss.’
‘There is much to be angry about,’ Jelani said, trying to remain calm.
‘Mmm, but not for you,’ Mbale said, turning his attention to Jelani’s papers. ‘I see you are going to America next week.’
‘I am. If I can get my travel papers. Can you help me?’
‘I’ll try. Give me your kipande and I’ll fill in the form for you.’
Jelani slipped the cord over his head and opened the small tin box containing his kipande.
Mbale took it and commenced to fill in the details. ‘This is your full name?’
‘Jelani Karura. Yes.’
‘No other names?’
‘No.’
‘These British.’ He shook his head. ‘They like to see many names.’
‘Why?’
Mbale shrugged. ‘Who knows? It is their way.’
‘I see … Maybe you can add Zesiro. It was a name I had as a child.’
‘That is very good. See, it fills the space nicely.’
With Jelani’s help, Mbale worked his way through the form. ‘There, it is done,’ he said, running his finger over the entries, but stopping at the name box. ‘This name, Zesiro: it is a Ugandan name.’
Jelani’s childhood discomfort surrounding his appearance and his name fleetingly returned, but now he could put it aside. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘My mother’s friend was Ugandan. She suggested the name.’
Mbale nodded, and continued checking the form.
‘It is all done,’ he said. ‘Come back in three days for your papers.’
Jelani thanked him.
‘By the way,’ the big man added as he clipped a cover note to Jelani’s form, ‘does your twin also have a Ugandan name?’
‘My twin?’ Jelani asked, puzzled. ‘I don’t have a twin.’
Mbale smiled. ‘Surely you have … otherwise that Ugandan lady has been having a big joke on you, my friend.’
Jelani made no attempt to hide his annoyance. ‘What do you mean?’ he demanded.
‘Your name … Zesiro.’ Mbale’s belly wobbled with his suppressed chuckle. ‘It is a popular Ugandan name. It means first born of twins.’
Jelani felt the blood rush to his face. He snatched his kipande from the desk and stormed from the building.
Once outside, the full significance of his name hit him. First born of twins. Could it be possible that he had a sibling, a twin, somewhere? Surely his mother would have told him if she knew. She’d said that they dropped the name Zesiro because they didn’t know what it meant. They also said the Ugandan who had brought him to Kobogi wouldn’t give any details of his birth mother. What could it mean?
It seemed to him that the mystery of his birth had just doubled in size.
With all the uncertainty of his identity returning, his thoughts and dreams for his life with Beth came into sharp focus. How could he hope to hold onto her — a beautiful young educated Kikuyu woman of a good family — when he was a half-caste; a nobody?
Jelani met Beth at the River Road bus station on Sunday afternoon; they again walked together to Jeevanjee Gardens. The sun shone from a clear, pale blue sky and the park was crowded, but they found a bench seat under a tree where Jelani took Beth’s hand in his.
‘I thought about inviting you back to my house, but …’
She smiled and gave his hand a squeeze. ‘It’s nice here,’ she said.
Jelani looked about them. There were family groups picnicking and young people like them with their heads together, talking and giggling. A small boy collected empty drink bottles and put them into a woven fruit sack held by a friend.
‘Beth, I’m leaving in three days.’
‘I know,’ she said softly.
‘Will you miss me?’
She looked at him and her beautiful eyes made him melt.
‘You know I will.’
‘Do you also know how much I loved you when we were kids?’ he said, now taking both her hands in his.
‘Were we kids? It was only five years ago,’ she said, dropping her eyes to his hands resting in her lap. ‘But yes, I know how much we both felt.’
‘And now?’ he dared to ask.
She took her gaze from his hands and looked into his eyes. ‘I haven’t changed my mind over these five years. Have you?’
‘No. Never once.’
He swallowed. The time was perfect. His intention was to tell her of his love and then to raise the subject of his involvement in the freedom movement. It was important that he tell Beth of his passionate wish to help to change their world to one that was better for their future together, but he didn’t want to risk losing her over an argument about politics. Beth had already indicated that she agreed with the missionaries’ view, and he’d heard that they were using the pulpit to turn their congregations against the Mau Mau.
He weakened, and simply said, ‘We have a lot to talk about when I get back.’
‘I’ll be waiting,’ she said.
The engine roar grew louder. Vibrations, which began at his feet, continued up Jelani’s legs until he felt them in his chest, pounding and juddering among his ribs. The whole cabin of the Solent flying boat shook and rattled. Whatever fear he felt was subjugated by a great rush of excitement as the plane moved forwards.
Above his window he could see two of the four engines, their propellers a blur. They turned the water below them on Lake Naivasha into a flurry of flying droplets that hit his window and trickled down it in rivulets rainbowed by the morning sun.
Gathering speed, the vibrations merged with staccato bumps coming from below as the keel pounded the wavelets.
The plane struggled to overcome the lake’s persistent drag; Jelani hoped the engines would win the battle. They slowly did so as the plane’s momentum gathered, and the surface of the lake melted into a blur of blue and white. The bumping stopped, the spray disappeared and the roar of engines increased as the sea plane defiantly hauled itself skyward against the drag of water and gravity. Below them the papyrus and fever trees flashed by, then farm houses and villages. They climbed to the level of the Rift Valley escarpment and Jelani could see the grasslands rolling up to the distant and densely wooded Aberdare Ranges.
He turned his attention to the thirty or so white passengers inside the aircraft, all of whom had regarded him with suspicion as he boarded the plane. They seemed uninterested in the miracle that was evolving around them; most now had their heads buried in newspapers.
Below him was another lake, this one fringed with a filament of pale pink flowers. While he watched, a strong wind seemed to lift a cloud of pink petals from the flowers and send them whirling over the lake surface, but then they wheeled and spread and he realised they were flamingos — millions of flamingos. The vision flashed in and out of view as the Solent bumped through the clouds, until the plane was totally engulfed in white fluff.
He sat back and closed his eyes, reflecting again on the night at the bar in Mathare discussing the purpose of his visit to New York. He was to absorb all he could of the protest movements in the union organisation and elsewhere. The impression Jelani gained from Chege Muthuri was that when he returned, he would be given an important position within Mau Mau. One that would bring him into close contact with the enemies of the organisation — the police and the government members who opposed true freedom.
And from what he’d already witnessed of Mau Mau tactics, he knew the leaders expected him to fight their enemies, not by words as he’d don
e in the union, but with violence.
He knew it was not the life that Beth had in mind for them. But was Beth’s vision of their future realistic? Even if the two of them were somehow exempt from the injustice visited on black Africans by the Europeans, how could they find contentment and happiness while the white government continued to force the Kikuyu and others into native reserves, or to condemn them — the rightful owners — to become squatters on their own land?
PART 4
EMERALD
CHAPTER 44
1951
Emerald Kazkusi Northcote-Middlebridge strolled down Piccadilly swinging her hips, aware that the cab drivers outside the Park Lane Hotel were watching her. She had her mother’s olive complexion and startling green eyes, which she accentuated with a little eyeliner uplifting the corners so that she had a touch of the feline about her. But her curves were more rounded than Dana’s, which made her look older than her nineteen years.
The outfit she’d chosen that day suited the May afternoon with its hint of spring in the air and low western sun struggling to break through London’s nondescript sky. Her suit was navy blue — a popular colour that season. The skirt hugged her hips and the short flared jacket emphasised them. The cuffs and collars were turned back to reveal a leopard-skin print. A loosely tied scarf of identical material and a three-row choker of pearls circled her elegant neck. Her hat, perched perkily towards the back of her head, matched her ivory-coloured gloves.
One of the hotel’s boys gave a low whistle. She ignored it, of course.
She could have been going to a tea party in Mayfair, but instead she was taking a bus to Chelsea for her friend’s twentieth birthday do. It was in a marquee in the grounds of Chelsea Hospital, adjacent to the flower show.
Emerald’s mother had almost insisted on driving her, but she would have none of it. At nineteen, Emerald told her, and in that day and age, she was quite capable of going to a late-afternoon party on her own. What she didn’t tell her mother was that she had arranged to meet a very nice young man at said party. She and her girlfriend Fiona had met Peter and his friend Michael at a boat race in April. They were in the Oxford Blue’s reserve boat, and the girls had enjoyed two rendezvous with them since.
