by M G Vassanji
He was police chief, magistrate, doctor, tax collector and, when his superiors demanded, surveyor. It was a job that required infinite patience, a certain amount but not an excess of good humour, an ability to turn cold, a knack for improvisation, an ability to forget the day’s concerns. Only by the most abstract idealism could you try to convince tribes to send their sons to work with the Indians, or of the benefits of paying taxes. How to convince them to abandon their own laws, their universes, for a European view of being? How to explain that an ugly girl was not an evil omen, when if the people really believed in the portent they could will bad luck and prove their prophecy right?
Much of his work involved arbitration and administering British justice. The former took cajoling, reasoning, using threats or the lockup, always with native custom as guide. But imposing British justice was like constructing a marble edifice, irrelevant and alien to people governed by their own laws and ways of doing things. Even so, his waiting room was full when he began hearing shauris — the petitions from the people — in the morning. He believed he was often used as a curiosity, as a test, or for an opinion, while the real, the binding decisions on the cases were taken elsewhere by tribal councils.
17 April, 1913
The powers of an ADC are greater than I at first suspected. I can give imprisonments up to 6 months, but beyond 1 month the sentence has to be approved by High Court. My Court entirely independent of the DC’s …
Governor’s Memoranda for PCs and DCs (1910)
(Native Policy, cont’d, page 7)
By upholding the authority of the Chiefs and Elders, I do not wish to imply that officers are to sit down and enforce blindly — possibly at the point of the bayonet — all orders issued by these men who, after all, are only savages. The main object of administering the people through their Chiefs is to prevent disintegration amongst the tribe …
There was a Government Station in Voi and a temporary one in Taveta, between which his small dominion lay, and every quarter an ADC arrived from Voi to assist for a few days and to collect reports. The first one of these was a big, bluff man called Woodward. Corbin was lucky, Woodward told him over brandy, his area was so sparsely populated: “Mostly coastal people and foreigners.” But even so: “Won’t be long before a real test case comes along, old chap.”
“Such as?”
“When a real hard one comes along, you don’t know what to do — that is, you know what you have to do, but it doesn’t feel right. It’s a case you never forget. Welcome to the Colonial Service.”
He wouldn’t say what his own such case had been. But he had a word of advice: “Whenever you find things getting a bit too much for you, go on safari.” He emphasized the words. “And women … it’s easier on safari. But don’t bring them back. Concubinage is not tolerated any longer.”
There were regular football matches in town, in which all the races participated. The post office was active; mail was collected and taken to Voi once a week. The East African Herald arrived regularly from Nairobi, and it was in one of its issues that Corbin learned of Captain Maynard’s transfer out to Palestine. The settler community in Nairobi had picketed the Governor’s residence in protest, and the paper carried a strongly worded editorial. On King’s Birthday they had a march-past, the mukhi Jamali donated sodas, and that night the Indians held a function to which Corbin was invited.
As he surveyed the district he ruled over like a king — some of the tribesmen even confused him with his own monarch, King George — Frank Maynard would come to mind. A man who returned savagery for savagery, no longer needed in East Africa. Throughout the country, towns like Kikono were springing up, full of life, the whole land buzzing with a vitality it had not known for millennia, all due to European intervention. The likes of Maynard would be needed only if the imposed order broke down, a prospect that seemed remote.
11 May, 1913
Imagine waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of trees rustling, a hyena barking … and, of all things, a dissonant, whining hum. What could it be — some animal, a sick donkey braying, a lost calf — perhaps the stray dog Bwana Tim was wounded? Then gradually I realized what it was. What is it in human intonation that makes it identifiable? For that’s what I could swear it was. People singing! I could not believe my ears. A faint sound of human singing, a chorus not in full control. Was I in some ridiculous dream? I sat up, pinched myself. The singing ceased after a while, but voices persisted intermittently. Something was going on. I walked to the window but desisted from opening it, if only because it would create its own racket. By this time the sounds had ceased altogether. It was eerie. I have never believed in ghosts, although in Mombasa I was told not to be too sceptical. Fortunately it was almost dawn, and soon the town was stirring. Upon inquiring later in the morning, I was told that the Indian Shamsis wake up at 4 A.M. to pray!
The administrative centre of Kikono consists of the government buildings, situated on the top of a low hill. My own “jumba” is a crooked wooden house with iron roof and no ceiling. The furniture has to be moved during rains, and the creaky verandah gives ample warning of any arrival. There are two bedrooms on one wing, facing back and front. In the rear of the house are the kitchen and a servant’s hut. The office is an even more dilapidated affair. Beside it is the police station and post office. Out in front, in the compound, are a mbuyu tree and a large thorny bush, which overlook a sharp drop, itself covered by scrub. And beyond that is the rest of this little town, the brown mud-and-wattle huts that make up the business and residence section where the Indians and Swahilis live and run their dukas. The dispensary is in the rather lethal hands of the Indian Chagpar. A footpath runs down the hill on the west side, from my house, arrives in the town, and goes beyond to join the road to Voi.
Roughly half the Indians belong to the Shamsi sect of Islam and have a separate mosque. They are in touch with Voi, Mombasa, Nairobi, even Bombay and German East. Once or twice a year it seems they hold large feasts, and when they do not go to Voi for that purpose they collect in Kikono community members from the neighbouring towns and give themselves a regular jamboree. There are also Hindu, Punjabi, and Memon families, but quite often the distinction blurs.
Nowadays I mostly sleep through the pre-dawn Shamsi hum, but in the morning am awakened by the flapping wings of a flock of birds on the move and then the cockorickoo of a cock crowing somewhere.
The simple quiet of a town early in the morning — the gentle slap of the cool air, the sun just beginning to warm itself over the hilltops and trees. There is the very occasional clink of utensils — reticent, as if the woman frying vitumbua or tambi in some dark interior of a house is wary of shattering the peace — the yelp of the dog Bwana Tim, reputed to have been abandoned or lost by a European traveller, the angry protest or whine of a loose iron roof. Corbin would walk into his office next door and occupy himself for a while with the odd piece of correspondence or report, or even an unread newspaper. Then, with the sun a little higher up, he would go on a stroll through the town as it prepared to go about its business. “Jambo!” he would call out to someone. “Jambo, bwana!” would come the reply. Sometimes he stopped at the little canteen for a cup of sweet black tea with ginger, which he liked but would not admit to Thomas, who looked after his cooking. The stall was owned by a man called Baruti, meaning “gunpowder,” and the strong-flavoured tea was famed among travellers, who would gather there for refreshment and news.
He relished these early moments of the waking hours, without the bustle of activity, the irritating little petitions from the people that so often stumped government regulations and which would soon clutter up his day and take everything out of him.
3 July, 1913
… Indians came to petition for permanent status for the town. I told them the town plan would have to be approved by the Land Office, who were likely to recommend changes to the present plan. They were agreed in principle. Prepared memo. Man from Voi arriving 7th.
… Trying hard to g
et rupee balance right.… Thomas has dysentery. He has the annoying habit of singing “Once in Royal David’s City” unceasingly.
There were no European settlers in the area, but the occasional travelling party, if it cared to stop, was welcomed, and indeed escorted into the village by the children and met with an askari. Once a family of Boers with two servants passed through on horseback and ox wagon, returning from German East, disappointed at their reception there by people they had taken for their kin (they left some German newspapers, which the ADC read with much interest); and weeks later a similar Boer family stopped for refreshments on their way into the German colony. At another time two Irishmen came away from a foray across the border with two ox wagons full of sisal bulbils in sacks, stolen from the thriving German plantations.
Kikono was situated close to where the seasonal Kito stream dipped southwards before meandering back north and away. To the east, in an area heavily wooded with shrubs and thorns, was the station of the MCA on a ridge that marked the beginning of the Taita hills. Somewhere else, Corbin was aware, was a French mission. The town of Taveta, which had grown because the CMS (Church Missionary Society) had set up there after being told to leave Moshi by the Germans, lay to the west, and in the distance along the road could be seen Kilimanjaro, Queen Victoria’s present to the German Kaiser. In the south was shrubbery and the Taru desert, and the Pare Mountains were dimly visible directly in the southwest. It was a beautiful country. There were forests, lakes, and craters, and hills overhung with blue mist. And there were plenty of animals.
Some ten miles away from Kikono, beyond a gauntlet of thorn and bush that had to be hacked through, on a crag a thousand feet high, stood the MCA station overlooking a vast territory. Its buildings of wood and iron stood out strikingly in the distance as one approached from the town. At its lonely, high perch it seemed to have the appearance of having fought off the bush forest and kept it at bay. The only way in, as you approached from Kikono, was to round the hill and come from behind.
On Sundays a handbell announced service in the mission; its peal ringing merrily through the countryside greeted Corbin as he climbed up the low rise on the beaten path. He was in the company of a curious, wonderstruck crowd of people, the more ragged of whom he had picked up on the way, the better dressed having descended the hill to escort him in. Behind him, as always, followed Thomas. This was their first visit to the MCA station.
SEND US, O ENGLAND, YOUR MEN said a wooden plaque hanging from the gate and decorated with a painted floral border. England had sent two women instead.
Miss Elliott and Mrs. Bailey, who had been waiting for him, welcomed Corbin anxiously and served him a drink of water. The place was truly an oasis, he observed. The compound was swept and tidy, and large trees provided shade. There were several modest buildings to one side, but the main building, where the two ladies had rooms, stood prominently apart. Immediately after he had drunk the water he was taken to where the service was to be held, under one of the trees.
A hundred or so converts, many in European-style attire, sat attentively on the ground. An equal number, perhaps more, of curious onlookers stood some distance away in the sun. Deacon Kizito conducted, leading with a sermon in English: “So he bringeth them into their desired heaven.” He then spoke in Swahili with a peppering of Taita words. A boy in shorts and tucked-in shirt gave a five-minute discourse in Taita. A group of children sang, first in English and later in the local dialect. Finally Miss Elliott got up and announced the day’s schedule of activities.
After the service Corbin was shown around the station — the hospital, the school and workshop, the staff hostel, the chapel. There were fruit and vegetable gardens. The Sunday school had thirty students, whom he left in the hands of Miss Elliott, as she recited Longfellow, to take a tour of the surrounding area with the deacon.
Corbin returned for lunch and tea with the missionary women. Thomas had been found useful in the kitchen and had even helped in the teaching that day. The deacon disappeared for some work.
Over tea they sat in the Mission house, on the verandah. Immediately below them was a drop of rock, bush, and trees. The countryside presented to their view was dull, languorous, and hazy in the afternoon heat. There were large stretches of thorny bush; mountains covered the horizon towards the west; a forest in the east looked black and impenetrable. Somewhere in the distance there was a play of lightning, a few quick strikes, and then came the muffled roll of thunder. For some moments they were preoccupied by the sight of a dusty trail — Masai youths herding cattle.
At length Miss Elliott stirred. “If there ever was an Eden …” she said.
“What do you mean?” demanded her older companion severely.
“Surely Adam must have walked here in these very plains and hills, in this region of the earth …”
“Before he was expelled to Europe?”
They had a curious relationship — the plain Miss Elliott, frail in mind and body, it seemed, though obviously not in faith, and the stern, protective Mrs. Bailey, who might have bounced bar brawlers in another life. She had served with her husband in West Africa, then, after his death there, she joined the floundering Mission of Christ in India, where she met Miss Elliott. The two decided Christianity could be served better in Africa.
They discussed the fact that the Mission had no following in Kikono. The women felt bitter about it, this town impregnable to their attentions, which nevertheless their Mission had had an unwitting hand in founding.
“The Indians are half-savages,” Mrs. Bailey observed, beginning an explanation she had obviously thought out conclusively and in detail.
“And therefore worse,” said her companion. “You can do nothing with them.”
“Gone too far the other way, she means. At least the African you can mould. But the Indian and the Mussulman are incorrigible in their worst habits and superstitions. They will always remain so.”
“As Bishop Taylor said, ‘The African yearns for our top hat and elastic-side boots, but the Indian will never let go his dhoti and will forever remain half-naked.’ ”
At this juncture his own Indian cook with the very Christian name Thomas arrived, in his parson’s black, and Corbin got up to go.
14 August, 1913
Fortnum & Mason hamper arrived, all intact. (Thank you, Mother.) … socks and darning needles — where do mine disappear? — cards from: Ken, Robbie …
Ken: Do I want a post in Nyasaland? No — but, Oh for a day by the sea with a g&t! (Mombasa Club.)
I suppose it’s all right for Thomas to take Sundays off for services at MCA.
Governor’s Memoranda for PCs and DCs (1910)
(Promotion of Officers, page 20)
Junior Officers are required to pass an examination in Swahili and law, and only those that have passed will be eligible for promotion. But whilst proficiency in native languages, a sound knowledge of law and of the local ordinances and regulations, and skill in topography, will form important qualifications for promotion, the main tests will be the success of officers in their dealings with the general public.
3
“It has been a festival,” wrote Alfred Corbin when it was over, “at the end of which a young man with the preposterous name of Pipa (meaning barrel) is in the lockup for creating a disturbance — and could very well be charged with spying, if I had a mind to do it. The Indians are sulking at this outcome — and my cook, for entirely different reasons, seems determined to poison me.”
It had begun innocently enough.
“The King’s representative is invited to our festival,” the mukhi Jamali said. He had come with the invitation the week before, wearing a new blue-and-white embroidered cap, the kofia, perhaps in anticipation of the event. “Everywhere, they are invited and come,” the mukhi added.
“Why, mukhi, I would be offended if you did not invite me,” Corbin told him. “I would be delighted to attend.”
And so he had gone.
Eight men dancing round a
tent pole, each with an eighteen-inch stick in his right hand, the left holding onto a long red or green ribbon which descended from the top of the pole. To the steady, seductive beat from the tabla and dhol, the intermittent screechy wail of the harmonium, and a rich Kathiawadi voice from the old country revelling in the happy occasion, the eight men weaved in and out past each other around the pole, over and over, in a movement as regular and intricate as the mechanism of a timepiece. And as they went swinging past each other they brought the middle of their sticks together in a sprightly click. The men wore loose white pyjamas and long shirts, coloured sashes round their waists, bands round their heads. Their shirttails went flying as they danced.
As the men danced past each other in ever smaller circles, their red and green ribbons wove a checkered sheath around the pole, until finally the eight limbs of the dance, the loose ends of the ribbons, were so shortened the men stood shoulder to shoulder, beating time with the sticks. Then the process reversed as the men spiralled outwards and the ribbons unwound.
At the back of the festival tent, called the mandap, Alfred Corbin stood beside the mukhi, in casual shirt and trousers and somewhat dazzled by the celebrations. The air was laden, a heady mix of strong perfumes and sweat, incense and condensed milk, and dust stamped through the mats after a long day. Boys raced about, babies wailed, old folk sat quietly in their corners, sherbet servers beseeched people to drink. And in all this chaos, the uninterrupted drumbeat in the background, the sharp, regular clicking of the dancers’ sticks, which made him flinch, the dancers’ dizzying motion, the weaving and unweaving of the checkered sheaths.
