Janet mused for a moment on the word ‘petty’. She associated it with smallness, triviality, unimportance, but to her nothing in what John had included in his cycle of wealth appropriation seemed anything less than deadly serious.
“There is great feeling amongst people,” John continued, “that the government is ignoring the famine, that they should give more direct help to people so they might overcome the effects of the drought without having to sell off all their possessions and their land. But what can the government do? Mbuvu and his kind control this and every other place. He controls the right men in the ministry. If they were to act against his interests, he would have them removed. People in Britain might look at the problems we have in an area like this and respond by collecting money, buying food and shipping it in from outside. But that is utterly naïve, because it ignores the reality that trade in essential items is the largest determinant of local power, and you can’t undermine those interests without creating instability.”
Janet could think of no answer for a while. John’s argument was quite new to her. It was as if he had opened a door to a new world outside of her experience. “But what about the politicians? What about those who are elected to represent the people of the area?” she asked. “What about people like the man who spoke at the Harambee Day this afternoon? People really seemed to be behind what he was saying. Can’t he do something to change things? I’m talking about the man who donated ten thousand shillings to the school fund.”
John laughed almost uncontrollably, attracting the previously wavering attention of Michael, who had been eyeing a pair of girls dancing together, though the music had now stopped. John was still laughing as Michael’s raised eyebrows queried the source of the fun. John beckoned him to lean forward across the table and said, “Janet wanted to know if James Mulonzya, our beloved member of parliament, might provide some philanthropic assistance to a campaign to reduce the hegemony of local traders.”
When an almost violent fit of laughter nearly launched Michael off his chair, Janet began to feel just a little embarrassed. Was what she had said so ridiculous? She heard Michael splutter something about low flying pigs as he tried to regain control of himself. It was John who continued.
“Please don’t be offended, Miss Rowlandson. We are not making fun of you. What you suggest might make perfect sense, but James Mulonzya and his kind are the next step up from Mbuvu in a single system. If locally it’s the traders who buy cheap and sell dear, then regionally it is they who have to enter a similar relationship with people like Mulonzya. Don’t be taken in by his Mercedes Benz, his status, or his sophisticated, university educated son...”
“I’ve never met his son,” she said, noticing for the first time that the otherwise silent Lesley Mwangangi was in fact listening to every word. “In fact, I have never seen James Mulonzya before today. I just thought…”
“Miss Rowlandson, don’t worry,” John said, touching her arm whilst casting another glance across the table at Michael, who was perhaps half way towards recovery from his near fit. “It’s just that you have touched upon a nerve. Father Michael and I have set up some projects to try and address just some of the simplest needs of our area. At the Harambee Day today James Mulonzya confronted us about one of them. He said it was harming his interests and demanded we close it down.”
“What?” she asked, genuinely surprised. “What on earth have you been doing that would prompt a member of parliament to want it closed down?”
“We’ve been teaching women to read in Thitani,” said Michael, suddenly in total control. It was now John’s turn to laugh. Janet had lived in Migwani for almost five months, long enough to become confused. John Mwangangi had impressed her, but she was not sure if she trusted him. He seemed to know all the problems and possibly a number of the solutions, as well. His opinions seemed to be those she wanted to express herself. At the Harambee Day that morning, he had made a speech of the kind that she wanted to make. He tried to suggest that education was no panacea, that people should invest in their farms before schools. But people had not trusted him. After all, he was himself an advertisement for that which he counselled against. He was educated, sophisticated, knew London, had a British wife, worked with Father Michael and the church. But this Mwangangi, this official who surely had the power to influence events, he stood back and analysed rather than acted. She sensed a superior air, an arrogance that claimed special treatment, at least in her judgment. So she was confused.
Mwanza still nodded a mechanical agreement. He had understood an outline of the argument and was determined to contribute. As ever he had missed the point, but nonetheless what he did say proved enlightening for both Janet and John.
“What I can say is this,” he said, leaning forward. Then, as if addressing his assembled school, he bellowed forth an experience from his own life that he considered to be relevant. As ever, his judgment was wide of the mark. Earlier, they had been discussing cultures and traditions, and mistakenly he thought their discussion still occupied that territory. He was just not sophisticated enough to inhabit John Mwangangi’s world.
He explained that his son, at the age of just one year, had contracted a serious illness, well known to the people of Migwani. The child had been very ill and his wife had taken the baby to the hospital in Kitui for treatment, where the doctor had diagnosed malaria and prescribed quinine. After another month the baby was no better and the rash, which had covered half his face, had started to spread down his neck. Mwanza then related how his wife’s father had gone to the hospital to see the boy and had scoffed at the treatment he was being given. Everyone knew, the grandfather had said, that the baby’s illness had been passed on from the mother, because some women possessed spirits, which affected small children. He begged Mwanza to take the boy away from the hospital and allow a traditional doctor to come to their home and say oaths for mother and baby. He claimed that he had seen this done many times and that recovery always followed quickly. Furthermore, the woman would also be cured, ensuring that the next baby would not suffer in the same way. If it was not done, the grandfather maintained, the baby and any other male children borne by his daughter would die before reaching the age of two years.
Mwanza laughed at this but, to his surprise, the others did not seem to share his amusement. As his smile changed to confusion, his gaze darted from person to person, wondering why they had not understood. “I think you have not heard what I have said,” he suggested. “The point is that the old man cannot accept that the new way is better.” Mwanza almost implored the others to see his point.
“We are waiting for you to tell us what you did,” said Michael impatiently.
“Surely there is no more to say?” His expression changed, suddenly realising what they were suggesting. “You are not saying that I should have done what my father-in-law was suggesting?”
“It is the way he would have chosen,” said John. “Your own father would have completely trusted the traditional ways and, unlike you, he had never heard of quinine.”
“What’s more,” interrupted Michael, his voice now an inebriated drawl, “most people still ensure that an illness is treated by a traditional doctor, even though they might use the hospital as well.”
Mwanza, who was privately offended at Michael’s drunkenness, became suddenly very serious. “These people,” he scoffed, “are still uncivilised. They are still too afraid of witchcraft to reject it and put their trust in modern European medicine.”
“What does it matter,” said Michael, much too loudly, “whose medicine it is? The only thing that matters is whether or not it cures. The only reason why you reject traditional medicine is because you are told to do so by the Protestant Church. It has nothing to do with being civilised. As far as you are concerned, it is just a matter of religious bigotry.”
Mwanza was too furious to react. The same principles that demanded he reject traditional medicine also required that he
did not drink alcohol. His only reply was, “The religion, Mr Michael, which allows its ministers to drink beer and smoke cigarettes is the one which is bigoted.”
Michael smiled. Mwanza’s constant refusal to refer to him as ‘Father’ had become an icon for their long-running argument. The Africa Inland Church, through its literal interpretation of the bible, implored its flock to call no man a father. The mid-Western American missionaries, who lived like settler families in replicas of the wooden houses of old America, added example to their teaching. Consequently, Mwanza’s son would grow up to learn to call his father only ‘Pa’ or ‘Dad’.
Michael was silent for a while, still smiling. The others watched him, knowing that he would have something more to say. With drunkenness apparently forgotten, he leaned forward to confront Mwanza. His eyes shone with enjoyment. He had tried many times to confront Mwanza on this issue, but had never succeeded in prompting an answer. “Mwanza,” he asked, “how will you circumcise your children?”
Innocently Mwanza replied without hesitation. “They will go to the hospital to be treated by the doctor.”
Janet did not react. John laughed a little. Michael laughed hard, knocking the table and causing several bottles, some full, to go crashing to the floor, frothing and foaming their contents. “Oh Jaysus!” shouted Michael. Instinctively they all jumped to their feet. Janet gave a little scream as beer flooded over her shoes. Mwanza’s arms and legs seemed to travel in every direction at once, as he rushed to stoop and pick up what was within reach.
“What on earth has got into you?” asked Janet, infected by Michael’s continued laughter.
Michael struggled to speak, but managed a few words. “I don’t believe it!” he said. Turning towards Mwanza, who was now grovelling under the table trying to locate his rolling bottle of soda. “Do you not realise that circumcision itself is regarded by these same Europeans as a mere pagan practice? Why do you not reject that as well?”
Mwanza, crouched on one knee, glared at Michael and thumped the table as he replied. “Jesus Christ was circumcised! How dare you call it pagan when it is a Christian act?”
“Jesus Christ wasn’t a Christian. He was Jewish. I suggest you go and see your American friends in Kyome!” Michael was deadly serious now. “Go and sleep with their women and tell me if they are circumcised – and don’t give me any of your shit about fornication. Remember that you got rid of your first wife because she gave you no children! The fact is, Mwanza…” Mwanza began to shout excitedly in Kikamba to the others in the bar, but Michael shouted louder. “The fact is, Mwanza, that you respect your ‘pagan’ origins when it suits your own purpose. When you want to show off just how modern and civilised you are, you would insult your own father with the name ‘pagan’ and despise him for respecting his own culture.”
Mwanza could take no more. He stormed away from the table, shouting across to Mbuvu, who was still propping up the bar, having been an amused spectator of events. He was, of course, usually a participant in heated discussion and was clearly enjoying merely watching for once. “Councillor Mbuvu, I will come and talk to you, away from these insulting Europeans.” He then made a sweeping gesture towards the group, prompting John to turn and face Michael, his eyebrows raised in surprise. It was only then they all noticed that Lesley had disappeared. Like everyone else, she had stood up when Michael upset the table, but now her seat was empty. They looked around, but she was no longer in the bar.
“Did you see where Lesley went?” John asked Michael, and then Janet.
“I’ve no idea,” said Michael. “Maybe I knocked some beer onto her and she went outside to clean it off.”
“She went just a moment ago. She seemed upset,” said Janet.
John continued to look around. Janet noticed the sudden concern on his face and asked him what was wrong, but he offered no answer. She told him that she was on her way to the toilet and would check if Lesley was there. With that, she made her way to the yard behind the bar and crossed the small courtyard to where three doors were let into a concrete box by the compound’s back wall. The three doors were all closed, so she waited for a moment. People did not spend long inside those places, which were just shrouds for holes in the ground that stank to high heaven. The night was drenched in moonlight and the air was cool and refreshing after the kerosene stuffiness of the bar. Every visit to the bar’s toilets provoked a laugh, since the three doors before her were marked in English, ‘Men’, ‘Women’ and ‘Special’. Behind the first two doors were the usual facilities of a large concrete slab with a one-foot square hole knocked through the middle, thereby allowing access to the twenty-foot deep earth pit beneath. Behind ‘Special’ was a gleaming white European-style porcelain water closet, Armitage Shanks vintage. The catch, however, was that in Migwani there was no running water to flush it, nor plumbing to purge it. After the last customer left the bar, Mwinzi habitually carried his bowl of murky washing-up water from behind the bar to cast it from distance into the pot. This washed whatever contents had amassed during the evening around the bend and straight onto the ground over the other side of the back wall where cockroaches and flies would be waiting to consume. In the local jargon, the standard conveniences were known as ‘long drops’, while the ‘special’ glorified in the local title of ‘short one’. By this time of night, the drop was usually considerably shorter, so that particular privacy was something to be avoided.
The door marked ‘Men’ opened first and the occupant strode proudly out into the night, apparently oblivious of Janet’s presence. From behind the door marked ‘Women’ came a low murmur of voices. Inside, John’s young clerk, Syengo, was making the most of this day of celebration. Janet recognised the other voice as that of one of the town’s choosier prostitutes, a girl who restricted the granting of her services to those who could pay cash up front: government servants, teachers or businessmen. The ten shillings she had probably already negotiated and collected would buy her cigarettes and beer, and also provide food for her children, who lived with the grandmother.
After emerging through the ‘Men’ door, Janet returned to the bar and told John that Lesley was not at the toilets. John had already looked immediately outside and had not seen her there. He said he would leave, saying that she may have wandered back to the mission where he had left the car.
“I’ll come with you,” said Michael. “I’ll have to go and feed the cockroaches anyway and I’d rather do it in the moonlight under a tree than in those shit boxes at the back.”
Outside there was again no immediate sign of Lesley, so they separated, John going to the left and Michael to the right, towards Ngandi’s ever stationary tractor, which stood like a town landmark in front of its owner’s shop. Michael had not fully registered John’s concern and ambled towards the tractor with his own needs uppermost in his priorities. He went nonchalantly about his well-practised routine of urinating over the tractor’s bald tyres, but in mid-flow was distracted by the appearance of a figure some distance away, silhouetted by the soft moonlight against the dull red earth.
“Lesley?” he called, trying to speed his task to its completion.
Surprised, the figure looked up and turned to face the sound.
“Lesley?” he repeated, as he emerged from behind the dampened machine. “Is that you?”
This time the figure approached with a quickening step. “Where is John?” she asked. She was in tears.
John, who had already had time to walk down to the end of the town and back, heard the words and spoke before Michael could offer his answer. Lesley went straight to him and buried her face in his chest. For some minutes she clung to him, unable to speak.
Michael stood alone and apart, suddenly sobered by Lesley’s obvious pain. Though he was urged to offer consolation, he was at a loss as to what to do. Blank inaction was the only result.
Gradually, as her tears began to subside, Lesley tried to speak. The words were confu
sed. They meant nothing to Michael, but much more to John.
“Father Michael,” said Lesley, “please forgive me… When he spoke… Your father came today… with Anna…” And then she was quiet again. For a moment she could neither speak nor cry. The moonlight provided more than enough light for Michael to see the fear on her face. Then she began to cry again, saying, “We should never have sent her. We should never have allowed her to go there again…”
John’s words were edged with suppressed impatience. “Lesley, he is Anna’s grandfather. He wants to see her.”
John and Lesley returned to the mission with Michael, collected the car and left immediately. A minute later, Janet and Michael heard the blast on the horn that announced to Syengo that it was time to go home. Janet wondered if the young man had finished his consultation in the toilet, but she could not be amused, since Lesley Mwangangi’s sudden change of mood still dominated her thoughts. They had encouraged Lesley to talk, but she would say nothing. John also would offer nothing by way of explanation.
An hour later the bar was closed and Migwani town’s other oil lamp was out for the night. The District Officer’s Land Rover had left the mission compound and would probably be just arriving in Mwingi, its passengers, except for John and Lesley, feeling the effects of the day’s celebration. John was driving, having decided that both his driver and Syengo were too drunk to do the job. Lesley was quiet, having said no more since they left Migwani. In Migwani, Janet and Michael were still awake, still together, still sharing one another’s company. They sat and talked by candlelight, the words now fewer, the silences longer.
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