African Quilt : 24 Modern African Stories (9781101617441)

by Solomon, Barbara H. (EDT); Rampone, W. Reginald, Jr. (EDT)

  I felt her anger was mounting and she was asking me threateningly, “Why, then, rich woman, can’t I also enjoy the comforts of the freedom which the black man fought for, the fight which turned us into old women at a tender age? Eh? Tell me . . . I see your long pink nails, your powdered face and your prickly false hairpiece. You look much younger than you really are. You write books too, that is good. But now you leave me alone, you rich woman. Write your books till morning. I will sleep, I will not complain of the bright lights.”

  As I put my writing down and turned to admire the landscape, the woman’s pitying eyes were still fixed on me. The sun was setting and the entire landscape was bathed in its delicate rays. At a sharp bend, the full length of the passenger train slid along the winding hills like a snake among rocks. My tricks had failed and short of creating a scene, the woman had no intention of moving.

  At that point the gong went, very musically.

  “What is that gong for?” my companion asked innocently.

  “For food,” I said curtly.

  “I see,” she said. Then silence.

  The restaurant car was already full when I went for supper. Then I noticed the Ticket Examiner sitting at the snack bar on the left.

  “Excuse me, sir,” I said humbly.

  “Yes, madam.” He put down his knife and fork and got up.

  “Sorry, sir, may I sit by you a minute while I wait for a table?”

  “Sure, madam, and please sit down.”

  He pulled the chair out for me. I thanked him, then sat down.

  “Eh . . . I thoroughly enjoyed your last book about a man with four wives. My favourite chapter is where the man orders his wives to work together, cook together, as one family, and they swear before him that the first one to break the rule must go. It is a great book. It is . . . we men love it.”

  He swallowed a mouthful of egg sandwich, and then faced me, half whispering like a person who is uncertain of his statement.

  “Now your hand has been strengthened, my dear. The government has gone ahead and legalised polygamy. All women married to one man are to be equal in status. That combined with the sort of teamwork you advocate in your book—eh! For once, the men have a very fair deal! Just like it used to be during our grandmothers’ days when polygamy was accepted as part of life, our heritage. In those days polygamy was a sign of dignity and wealth and the elder wife brought a girl of her own choice for her husband to marry. Eh!” He laughed loudly.

  “In your next book, tell these educated, selfish and headstrong women who want to monopolise a man for themselves that a man is a dynamic being capable of caring for more than one wife.”

  “I am glad you enjoyed the book,” I lied. I had no courage to tell him that I believed neither in polygamy nor in the misguided government law which recognised polygamy and demanded that the co-wives be treated as equals. I was not the author of the terrible anthropological book which had caused so much controversy in the country.

  Anyway for the time being it did not pay to contradict the Ticket Examiner. His alleged interest in my books had broken the ice.

  “Are you writing anything at the moment?” He pushed aside his empty cup.

  “Oh yes,” I said with a smile, “I’m always scribbling. This one is about urban life. I will send you a copy when it comes out.”

  “I would be delighted,” he said after swallowing the last crust of bread.

  I cleared my throat and then faced him.

  “Sir, kindly do me a favour.” A wicked smile played on my lips, for I never call anybody “sir,” unless I am about to act devilishly.

  “Most obliged,” he said, wiping his mouth with a starched table napkin.

  “I know I am asking too much, sir, but then the Bible says, ‘Knock and it shall be opened unto you; ask and you shall receive.’ I do write books and that is why I prefer travelling by train. Unfortunately tonight when I have very urgent work to finish, I am supposed to share a compartment with a lady who has a very noisy cock. Besides she has a large bunch of bananas and a big kikapu made of papyrus, and these, as you can imagine, don’t leave me much room to work in. If it were possible, sir, I would greatly appreciate it if I could be moved to another compartment, so that I can concentrate.”

  “A lady with a cock and a bunch of bananas in a first class compartment? You can’t be serious.” He pulled out a small board from under his table on which he had the names of passengers. All compartments were fully booked. There were only three women in the first class coaches. That was me, a Mrs. Smith, and a Miss Larina Patel.

  “I did not see Mrs. Smith with a cock or bananas, nor did Miss Patel carry these items!” He looked at me in utter disbelief.

  “The lady is in my compartment right now as I speak to you. I don’t really mind her staying if she can find another place for the cock and at least remove either the kikapu or the banana bunch. It is true that in an independent country we are all equal, and should learn to share facilities and amenities.” I was trying to be sarcastic, but he was too shocked to notice it. His reaction to my report was quite violent.

  “There cannot be a cock crowing in a first class compartment, independence or not. The East African Community has spent a fortune to make those places comfortable since the fare was doubled last September. I can’t allow anybody to mess them up with chicken droppings simply because we are now independent.

  “Look here, madam.” He leaned forward. “In any country there are small people, middle people and big people. Community Ministers were not fools to create first class, second class and third class on these trains. This law is not peculiar to Kenya. It is practised in every country from the time of Jesus. Give honour to those who are in high positions. There must be a mistake somewhere. While you are having food, I will investigate this matter and deal with it accordingly.”

  “But please don’t give the lady the impression that I am discriminating against her because of her class. This is not India where you have a class of untouchables. I would hate to feel that I am using my position to deny her the comfort she is entitled to.”

  “Don’t waste your energy.” The Ticket Examiner waved his hand in the air. “Leave it to me. You paid for a first class compartment. You must get your comfort.” Then he left.

  When I came back from supper, I could not believe my eyes. The woman, the cock, the banana bunch and the kikapu were no longer there. The compartment had been tidied and my bed made. Only traces of fine flour dotted the floor where the kikapu containing maize flour had rested. This is one thing my husband would not have accepted. A film of sadness blotted my eyes, making them moist. It was a pity to live with and love a man whose attitude to life was so different from one’s own. Muga strongly believed in suffering with or without bitterness, while I avoided suffering of any sort.

  I was working on chapter eleven of my next novel, Thorns Among Flesh, when I heard a squeaking noise. I quickly looked at the door—the bolt was in its place. My eyes moved slowly—and as they did, I saw the middle door which separated me from the next compartment starting to bulge inwards. For a moment I went stiff with fear. I had already changed into a thin transparent cotton nightdress because the evening was hot and oppressive. The bulge got bigger towards me, knocking down the suitcase which rested against the door. Instinctively, I jumped up from the lower seat where I was going to sleep, pushed the door with all my might, and then twiddled the bolt in its place. Was somebody trying to open the door from the other side? Now I stood with my back against the door, barefooted. My eyes darted around my compartment. The first thing that caught my eye was the notice—“ALARM SIGNAL: To stop the train pull the chain downwards.” The chain glared at me, but my eyes moved away from it quickly. Then my eyes rested on the £200 fine or six months imprisonment or both, should you touch that chain without a grave reason. The other sign below the alarm signal was “It is danger
ous to lean out of the window.” That had nothing to do with me at night. The third sign was “IMPORTANT,” written in red capital letters, followed with “BOLT FIRMLY the door of your compartment before you retire for the night.” That was important. I had done that as soon as I came from supper. Still I checked on the main door again and made doubly sure that it was bolted—the middle door, too, was locked and then I made sure the window had been pulled to the very top.

  Was somebody really trying to open the door from the other side? It could not be. There were two policemen next door. I had seen them there when I entered the train, heard them talking, saw them walking up and down the corridors. Then later on when I came from supper, they were sitting there with their door wide open. In fact I had felt quite happy and safe to have the police next door. I had not travelled by train for six years and had many hidden fears until I saw these policemen and my fears vanished. Now no drunk would wander along our corridor. Next to me on the other side was a couple with one son but there was no door between us.

  I decided that I was imagining things. I had heard stories of cowards who, at night, would mistake trees for night-runners! Surely policemen would not open my door? My conclusion was that the apparent bulging of the door had been caused by the rocking of the train. But how could I be sure? I decided to go and inform the Ticket Examiner of my suspicion. But when I looked at my watch, it was past midnight. I had no idea where he slept, and, having thrown one passenger out of my compartment, I was scared of possible repercussions if my accusation of the policemen proved false. At best I would be dismissed as a persecution maniac or a person suffering from hysteria or hallucinations. At worst I could be charged with imputing improper motives in public servants engaged in their duty. I therefore decided to remove my bedding to the upper bed which was near the chain. That took me quite some time. After climbing onto the upper bed, I pushed the ladder away from it, and rested it instead against the door where it stood precariously. But it was better there.

  Now I could not concentrate on anything. I decided to stay awake and watch that door. For a long time I watched while the train stopped at, and started from, several stations, but nothing happened beside the normal squeaking noises and rocking movement of a fast-moving train. It must have been my imagination, I concluded. I looked at my watch and it was 2:00 a.m. and my eyes could not stay open any more. I switched all the lights off and immediately fell asleep.

  It was not a dream—in my sleep I could hear a squeaking noise coming from the same direction as before. I shook myself up and put on the lights above my head. But there was nothing unusual. The suspected door stood still with the bolt in its place and my suitcase against it. I must be crazy or sick, I blamed myself. A crazy woman. Everyone in the first class berth must have slept long ago while only one hysterical woman was still awake imagining things. I was being stupid.

  I switched off the lights and slept, cursing myself for acting like a child. My mind was tired and the sleep was sweet. I heard squeaking noises for a long time—but because I was perhaps too tired, I did not bother any more, until the suitcase fell down with a big bang and the small wooden ladder standing against the door followed suit with a loud crash on the floor. I sat up instinctively and blasted on the main switch at the door. And there, wedged in the doorway in full uniform, all buttons down, were the two policemen, to whom I had entrusted my life. I felt sick, and numb. But the confusion left me quickly. These policemen no longer looked like friends. My eyes fixed on them, I moved upwards as I asked them in a trembling voice: “What do you two want, eh? . . . What do you want?” My thin nightdress left all the upper part of my chest bare. I had no sleeves except for a narrow strap that held the nightdress onto my body. The two men did not see me move towards the chain as their eyes were glued on the soft skin just above my breasts where the sun never reaches.

  “We want you,” one of the policemen answered, and his voice was cold, confident with an air of “there is nothing you can do about it, we get what we want.”

  “I don’t understand you,” I said.

  “Alright, Kisura (Beautiful Face), maybe our English is not as good as yours. We don’t write books as you do—we are saying, we both want you. You know, the way a man wants a woman. If you are not difficult, we are both experienced men just as you are. We will be quick, just the two of us.”

  I think it was their smile that sent me wild. “You are out of your mind,” I shouted. “Completely out of your mind to think that I came here to be wanted by the police!” I spat on the clean floor just to emphasise the degree of contempt I had for them which I could not put into words. The spittle narrowly missed the black boots of the policeman on the right.

  “Now, baby,” the younger one said coldly. “There is no need to be rude, eh? I don’t think you know us. You are new in your game, we are experienced in ours. Just give us what we want and you will come to no harm.”

  “You get out of here, or I will shout!”

  “You can’t shout,” he said—and I saw his hand moving towards the unwieldy gun standing just by the doorway.

  “You can’t shout,” he said. “You give it to other men—who give you money. We must have it too, with or without money. Look at your painted nails. Look at your hair and polished face. You are not married to one man, we know it. The type married to one man are the ones like the woman you chased away from your compartment. The simple housewife. Not you.”

  Now my heartbeat accelerated. Whichever way I looked, death stared me in the face.

  “If you touch that gun,” I swore, “I will pull the chain and stop the train.” My eyes had turned red and my breathing was fast. All along then these men had assumed that I simply came to this train to look for men. What did they mean by saying that I didn’t look like a simple housewife?

  “You are acting stupid,” the older policeman told me. “It would be all over by now if you behaved like a good girl. Nobody need ever know.”

  “Don’t waste your time,” I thundered. “I love my husband. He is the father of my three children.”

  They looked at one another and laughed. It was a kind of mocking laughter that was meant to remind me that as far as they were concerned, a woman was a woman.

  “Alright,” the younger policeman said, dropping his pants on the floor. “I am going to have it when you are dead. You don’t think a policeman is as important as the men you lure to take you in their arms.”

  He grabbed the gun and sure enough dug his hands into the jacket pocket to pull out the bullets.

  “If you take your hand out of your pocket I will shoot.” In a split second I had pulled out a pistol from under the pillow and was pointing at the policeman with the gun.

  “No jokes now, Mr. Policeman.” My voice was coarse and sure. “I will kill both of you in cold blood. The gun is fully loaded.”

  My body was nothing but sweat. The strap on my right shoulder had fallen below my elbow revealing the rounded part of my right breast. But I did not care any more. Soon I would be dead and completely naked before these bastards.

  “Take your hand off that chain,” the older policeman ordered me.

  “I will not,” I answered rudely. “And unless that man lets go that gun, I am shooting both of you.”

  “So you harlots walk with pistols, eh? And automatic ones too?”

  “I am not your wife,” I said. “Only my husband tells me what to do.”

  Before I knew where I was, I saw a big white spittle flying towards me from the old policeman’s mouth. The thick coughed-up sputum landed on my chest just above my breast. I felt the slimy stuff roll under my nightdress, over my breast and then on to my belly, but I did not move.

  “You stupid whore,” he said. “You will soon know who is stronger.”

  Then they retreated and slammed the door shut.

  I mopped the sputum from my stomach with a towel. My hand rema
ined on the gun till morning.

  I dressed clumsily just before we got to Kisumu Station and flung my door open. My head was light and the near tragedy of the previous night still haunted me. Those men could have done anything to me!

  Kisumu Station came into view and I got my luggage ready. As we entered the station, I saw my brother Jemka and his wife waiting for me. It was then that my tears ran freely. Jemka was four years older than I. He would know how to help me put my case to the stationmaster, and if possible to the police.

  I jumped out immediately the train came to a halt.

  But I had no chance to greet my people. Four policemen stood before me. One with several medals on his chest took his identity card out and showed it to me.

  “Do you mind coming with us to the police station? We have a few things to ask you.”

  “What things?” I asked in surprise.

  “You just come with us.” I broke through their grip and fell into the arms of my brother. But they followed me there and said forcefully, “We have no time to waste.”

  As the police led me away, my brother Jemka and his wife, both speechless, followed me. I insisted that my brother must come with me in the Black Maria. At first the police refused but then, when I would not enter into the car, they allowed him to come. His wife followed us in their own car.

  Unbelievingly, I found the two men who had terrorised me during the night already standing behind the counter at the police station. Their eyes were hostile when I was pushed into a corner away from my brother. It was clear that they were saying—“You know now who is stronger.”

  Without any formality, the fat senior superintendent looked at me critically and said: “I am told you are Mrs. Muga—wife of a Doctor practising in Nairobi?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Mrs. Muga, could you please hand me the pistol you were seen with in the train?”

  “Who saw me with a gun in the train?” I asked sulkily. And all of a sudden, I saw my sister-in-law leaning against the wall. She felt faint at the thought that I had a gun! “Let me put it this way, Mrs. Muga, and remember you are talking to the police, not a lawyer: have you got a gun in your possession?”