Mutuli again translated. “He is saying that you will forget when you go home. He also says some very strange things. He speaks only in proverbs. I am not able to translate them.”
Janet looked at the man, who had shuffled even closer. He seemed to sense that she was growing nervous and thus had detected a weakness he could exploit. She had hoped that her gesture would have satisfied him and sent him back to his seat, but she now found that each comment or action from her merely ratcheted up his interest and provoked longer and stronger replies. She was still the centre of attention. People clearly expected her to respond.
Before she spoke, the man’s expression changed. The superior, if detached, smile vanished from his face and his lips set pursed around his open mouth. With eyes glazed, he stared at Janet like an animal ready to seize his prey. As he moved now uncomfortably close to her chair and bent over her still staring, she felt raw fear for the first time in her life. No one else seemed perturbed by his actions, so she still did not move. Everyone still watched, still smiled, apparently unaware of Janet’s growing fear.
The old man’s cloudy, bloodshot eyes stared down at her. Compulsively she returned his gaze. He raised his arms so that his hands rested directly over her head. Unnoticed until now was a length of string tied to his left thumb, but this now dangled uncomfortably close to Janet’s face. A great shout of laughter filled the room as she tried to avoid it by moving her head to the side. Mutuli now seemed not to know whether to smile or worry, but Kitheka still joined in with the audience and laughed hard.
Breathing a laugh and a grunt, the old man took the end of the string between finger and thumb of his right hand and then stretched it out to its full length, bending lower over Janet at the same time. Then again he threw his head back and shouted whilst his hands tensed, slackened and re-tensed the string, before finally letting it fall with a flick of the hand. It looped, brushing Janet’s face as it fell. As the man bent forward, he breathed deliberately directly into her face and she instinctively winced at the smell. Still everyone giggled, but now Janet was extremely frightened. Quickly she rose to her feet and, in the same movement, pushed the old man to one side. Everyone was suddenly silent as she sat down again.
“Mutuli, will you tell this man to go away? If he is asking for money then I will give him some,” she said, trying her best to sound in control.
Kitheka spoke before Mutuli could speak. “Mutuli cannot give this man orders! He is mwana wa mungu.”
Mutuli nodded in agreement. Janet did not have the time to ask what this meant before the man returned to stand over her again. Repeatedly he shouted at the sky and bent forward, each time pulling out the string attached to his thumb to its full length before letting it go. Janet again pushed him away, this time with some force. She now looked frightened and the man’s expression changed again. Still the glazed eyes stared, but now the malice disappeared and the smile returned. It was as if he now felt he was in total control. Again he advanced towards her with his string and his shouts. No one seemed to take him seriously, she thought, as she looked around for support and finding only what she saw as gentle amusement on people’s faces.
This time, the old man reached out and touched her. She tried not to flinch. Again everyone laughed. “Mwana wa mungu,” said Kitheka again. Janet tried to stay calm and ignore him as the ritual shouting and string pulling started again. She asked Kitheka, by far the bigger of the two students, to tell the man to go away and leave her alone.
“I cannot,” he said. “He will do whatever he wants.”
“You are afraid of him,” she said, her fear now turning to anger.
“No,” he replied. “Not afraid…”
Hearing this, the old man quickly turned to face Kitheka and leaned across the table towards him. Kitheka and Mutuli immediately sped from their chairs and out of the door, howling with laughter. Janet watched them go, trying to call them back, but no words came. Before she could think, the man took hold of her head and with some force rubbed her face into the folds of his raincoat. Janet screamed. She thought she felt the string around the back of her neck. He was trying to strangle her…
She hit him as hard as she could. He staggered across the floor, collided with a table and fell heavily onto the concrete. Though stunned, Janet turned and watched, but still she could not move. The old man tried to get up, but fell back groaning. Everyone else laughed, including Kitheka and Mutuli, who peered through the open doorway to watch the show. She was too confused to react. Instinctively, she wiped her hair and touched a wet patch. He had spat on her hair. On the point of tears, she snatched up her haversack and ran. As she dashed outside, she caught a glimpse of the old man on the floor, propped on an elbow, watching her and smiling as he cast another incantation to the roof.
She continued to run, but her progress was far from quick and far from straight as she slithered through the mud. Behind her, Mutuli tried to follow, shouting, “The man is very drunk, Miss Rowlandson. Do not be afraid.” Behind him was Kitheka, loping along, still laughing, but Janet did not look back and so neither saw nor heard her friends. She went on her way, her run soon slowing to a safer brisk walk. Kitheka and Mutuli returned to the restaurant to retrieve their boxes. The old man was still on the floor and was still laughing to himself. Everyone else still laughed as they recounted what they had just seen.
It must have been a nightmare, she thought, as she ran the last few yards to the mission. She entered without knocking and called for Father Michael. As she rushed blindly through the door, Michael appeared in front of her from around the kitchen corner and she fell into his arms and cried, her head against his chest.
“You smell like a sewer,” he said. “Did you get wet?”
When Janet answered only with sobs, Michael’s voice grew more serious. After trying to console her, he pulled up a chair and sat her on it. A minute later, Michael gently helped her hands from her eyes and offered her a glass.
“Drink this, my love,” he said quietly. “It’ll warm you up a bit.”
Janet drank, coughed, drank again and coughed again. The whiskey warmed her and quietened her as Michael crouched before her. His eyes silently asked what was wrong.
Feeling better, Janet explained what had happened in the restaurant. Michael did not try to interrupt as the story flooded from Janet’s lips. Not until she had obviously finished did he speak. “This fellah, did he wear an army hat with a peak on it? And did he spit a lot?”
“Yes, that’s him,” she answered.
“Oh, don’t take any notice of him. That’s only old Munyasya. He’s a nutter, a real nutter. What he did to you was what he does to every European who visits Migwani. He probably got closer to you than to others though, by the sound of it. He cursed you to change into a snake, that’s all. That’s why he keeps pulling on that string,” said Michael, sounding flippant.
Janet was suddenly very serious and looked pensive. Then, as Michael’s words grew clearer, she began to laugh. “I thought he was trying to strangle me.”
“The old fool was probably so drunk he could hardly even see you. Don’t worry. He won’t even recognize you. If he sees you again he’ll go through the routine again as if it was the first time. He didn’t try to touch you up?” asked Michael. “He has been known to try that one with a few of the girls.”
“No,” she answered. “But I don’t understand. Why do people just stand around and laugh at him? If everyone dislikes him so much, why don’t they just chuck him out of the bar or at least tell him to shut up?”
“They wouldn’t do that,” said Michael. “He’s a mad man. People will just try to ignore him. They don’t put people like him away, you know. They just stay around the home and their families look after them. It’s quite humane, really. It means that no one is ever left destitute or homeless, no matter how old or mad they become. No, people here will just let the old fool do as he wishes. If he asked for food
in that restaurant, the owner would give him some. He doesn’t need to buy anything. But his case is a bit strange, stranger than most, because he has no family. Quite soon after I arrived in Migwani, when he was still compos mentis and quite a figure in the community, he had an accident. I was out early one morning, contemplating my vocation, as we priests do, and found him in the marketplace under the tree where he now sleeps. He was drunk and had either fallen or had a stroke. If I hadn’t taken him to the hospital in Muthale, he would probably have died. It might have been better for everyone if he had. Anyway, because he has no family, all the town supports him. Wherever he goes, he gets what he wants. All he ever asks for is beer and a bit of food, but he is never refused.”
“But our boys, Mutuli and Kitheka, they ran away…” said Janet, sounding confused. “I asked them to tell him to go away and they just ran.”
“Oh,” interrupted Michel, “they would not want to order him around. They wouldn’t do that at all. They will just want to leave him alone to do whatever he wants. They would not want to get in his way.”
Janet thought for a second, trying to remember the name the boys had used to describe the old man. “They gave him a special name, but it wasn’t Munyasya. It was more like Mw… Mw…”
“Mwana wa mungu?” asked Michael.
“Yes. That was it. Mwana wa mungu,” she repeated.
“That’s not a name,” said Michael. “That just means a madman. Well…” Michael paused here to consider how he might explain. “It doesn’t actually mean madman. Literally it means ‘child of God’. People believe, you see, that these madmen become mad because they can see things that men should not see. They are really living in another world.”
Janet felt very much better and her immediate anxiety had gone. The thought of being cursed to change into a snake ought to worry her, she thought, but Michael’s flippant dismissal of the entire incident made it impossible to be afraid. “I wonder,” she said, “if I had been a Kamba and Munyasya had done the same thing to me and delivered a curse, would I be worried.”
Michael thought again. “It’s a strange question, because in his case he only seems to go for white people.” He was silent again for a few moments. “I suppose you would be worried.”
Chapter Ten
March 1976
John O’Hara was a man with problems on his mind. As he sat alone to eat his lunch, his thoughts drifted behind piercing blue eyes, whose fixed stare was trained through the window he faced, but whose focus was far beyond the mango tree that the opening framed. The material side of his diocese was taking care of itself. The problem of raising funds for the parishes was ongoing, but then it always was. The cathedral, which just two years before had been but a dream, was almost complete, the money coming from visits and lecture tours by himself and his priests to North America. They had realised a number of verbal commitments from churches and charities, and these had since matured into funding for the special projects that his priests planned and executed. He had seen the cathedral grow from an architect’s model to become, already, the most prestigious building in Kitui town. Although unfinished, it was breathtakingly beautiful, astride its hilltop site almost completely shrouded by giant eucalyptus trees. Only the shining metal cross at the top of the tower showed above the branches, but because of its elevated position, this could be seen from almost anywhere in the town. The cathedral itself remained largely invisible until quite close, but already the lines were laid out and the eventual beauty of the building no longer needed to be imagined. When Father John – as he was still known throughout the district – had announced that he was going ahead with the cathedral, he had been concerned by the apparent lack of interest among the priests. Some doubted whether one could build a structure worthy of the name out of corrugated iron and cement blocks. More significantly, some questioned whether the Church should spend so much on a building when the Diocese was in the grip of famine. Nevertheless John had initiated the project and grew ever more committed to it. Gradually, as the building had taken shape and its final appearance became progressively clearer, resistance to it amongst the priests dwindled and eventually became transformed into positive congratulation. So it was clear that the mechanics of the diocese were running smoothly. This was not the area that caused O’Hara’s deep concern.
He was returned to the reality of routine by an involuntary wince that shot through his entire body, a reflex reaction he neither initiated nor controlled. The cook had again omitted to soak the oranges in sugar syrup before serving them, and so the first spoonful of his fruit salad dessert was especially sour. John pushed the dish aside and left the table. Early afternoon was usually a time to sleep, to take an hour of rest before returning to his office at two to continue the day’s work. Today, however, there would be no time to sleep, so he retired to an easy chair and opened a newspaper to pass the time before the arrival of his expected visitor.
Father Michael made a regular trip to the district centre each week. Kitui town offered facilities that Migwani could not. There was a post office which actually had stamps to sell, a grocer that stocked bacon and sausages, and then there was the Bishop, who held the purse strings. If these facilities were not essential to him, he would stay in Migwani, happy to spend the day visiting projects, talking to people and busying himself about his mission house where he had started a small but productive farm based on the house’s waste water, whose flow he had directed away from the septic tank. But in Kitui he could meet with other priests from elsewhere in the Diocese. They could share ideas over a beer, or simply report how their own areas were coping with the famine.
Today, however, he had come to Kitui on another mission. In his pocket he had a letter, a personal invitation for a meeting with the Bishop. He had no idea what the subject of the ‘chat’ might be, but had a suspicion that he would be asked to leave Migwani to set up a new mission in a remote area to the south. There had been a lot of talk recently about the idea and Michael had been told unofficially several times that he had been earmarked for the job. So it was with a mixture of excitement and sadness that he drove to town that morning. The chance of opening a completely new mission was something that he relished, but still the thought of leaving the people of Migwani gave him little joy. Janet, who had been told about the scheme over dinner the previous week, had strongly encouraged him to take the job, if it was offered. The romanticism of the remoteness of the place appealed to her strongly, prompting her to use the phrase ‘real Africa’ to describe it. She had also immediately suggested to Michael that he establish a school there so that she could come and teach in it. They visited the place after Mass the previous Sunday. Though no more than thirty miles from Migwani, Yatta could not be reached at all by car and even a motorcycle would not get across the riverbeds after even the lightest of rain. Janet had been captivated by the place, completely carried away in her excitement at how Michael might make his impression in such a posting. He had brought her back to earth by reminding her that he had not even been offered the job yet, but the picture was already painted in her mind.
A noise from the kitchen woke John O’Hara, who had dozed off with his newspaper open on his knees. Startled, he jumped straight to his feet, but his concern was immediately eased by the appearance of Michael in the doorway.
“Oh, Michael, how are you, my boy?” said John, taking Michael’s hand in his fierce grip and giving it a firm shake. John made every attempt to be sociable rather than managerial towards his younger priests, but invariably his manner grew more overtly paternalistic as a result.
“Nothing too wrong, my Lord Bishop,” replied a good-humoured Michael. “Nothing, that is, that a glass of beer wouldn’t put right.”
Unexpectedly John’s expression changed, hardened, and Michael realised that he had not been summoned for a friendly chat about a new job. “You don’t change, Michael,” he said. “Shall we sit down and talk first?”
Michael sat as in
vited, feeling somewhat confused. Behind Bishop O’Hara’s friendly exterior there was clearly a matter of some concern and probably importance. In his own home he was usually so keen to be sociable that any request was answered without fuss or question, until, that is, the request was transferred to the office and money became the subject under discussion. Michael looked at John intently, trying to interpret the other’s prolonged silence. Was the controlled expression a way of tempering Michael’s disappointment? He is not going to offer me the job, Michael thought.
But what followed was a series of platitudes. O’Hara asked about Migwani and the severity of the famine. He wanted a report on Michael’s work and then his general state of health. It was obvious that this was but a prelude to the real subject for discussion and thus Michael grew steadily more defensive as its appearance was further deferred. The overture had never lasted this long before.
“There’s something I want to clear up,” said O’Hara, after yet another short pause. Michael braced himself. This was it. “I’ve been hearing a lot of gossip recently. Now you know my attitude. If it reaches me, then it’s already common knowledge everywhere else. I am always the last to hear.”
Michael’s eyes set in a fixed, cynical stare. He had heard the next part before.
“You are spending too much time in the bars around town, my lad. It’s not good, you know, for people who are poor and have not enough to eat to see you drinking, dancing and enjoying yourself till all hours of the morning, especially when we tell people through our ministry that they should seek humility and discipline in God’s Church.” John paused to await a comment, but none came. “You must see the point, Michael?” said O’Hara.
Michael’s voice was low, rather malicious in tone. “I see the point all right, my Lord, but I would find it a lot harder to justify a million shillings spent on a cathedral.”
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