A Fool's Knot

by Philip Spires

  After a short talk, they worked together to clear away the debris his arrival had scattered and by the time Father O’Shea appeared from Nzawa just before sunset, only the golf clubs and a few shirts, draped over a chair, remained in the living room. Father O’Shea who, during his visits to Migwani, had always ensured that everything was kept in its proper place, exactly as Michael had left it, as if that indicated permanence, was still a little taken aback. In his eyes the room was still in a state of total disarray and he was prompted to announce his arrival by offering, “What on earth is going on here?” well before any greeting came to mind. When Michael appeared in a doorway to answer his rhetorical question, all was immediately and comprehensively explained.

  Just a few minutes later, after Michael’s story had been retold for his benefit, Father O’Shea said that he would return to his own place in Mwingi since, now that Michael was back on station, his presence would be supernumerary. During Michael’s absence he had been visiting Migwani only at weekends to say Mass whilst continuing to teach full time during the week in Mwingi’s Junior Seminary. Explaining that he had left on Friday evening with work unfinished and apologizing for rushing away so soon after Michael’s arrival, he bid his goodbyes, picked up the haversack he had left by the door and rode off on his motorbike. Within a minute or so the sound of his two-stroke had faded to the north of the town.

  “He takes life very seriously,” said Michael, obviously regarding his colleague with a mixture of respect and awe. “He’ll not be back before dark.”

  Janet agreed, remembering her abortive attempts at conversation with Father O’Shea over recent months. “He’s a very generous man,” she said, “but I never really felt that I got through to him, never felt that he was willing to open up and express his own opinions.” In the past, in the days when she lived in London and prided herself in her choice of friends and acquaintances, when she had the luxury to choose, she would have probably dismissed him out of hand and decided on first impressions not to pursue further contact with him. She would have seen him as remote, perhaps intellectual, perhaps too obsessed with the accuracy of his few and carefully chosen words – a bore, perhaps. But here, where choice of friends was never an option, she had persevered and, though never entirely comfortable in his company, she had grown to accept him as he was. Over the months, she had developed a good deal of affection for him, for his profound gentleness and consideration for others alongside her respect for his obvious devotion. Unknown to her that evening, she would never see him again. Also unknown to her was the fact that, over the ensuing years, the simplicity of his faith would reconnect her to her own Catholic roots, would plant a seed that would allow her to rediscover what role religion might play in her life. But that was to be the future.

  As Michael and Janet talked, the sun set unnoticed and hours passed. They ate some of the food that Michael had brought from Nairobi, Mutua having prepared it and left it on a low oven, prompting them both to comment that a rare steak was an impossibility in this household. They then sat and talked again for several hours. Janet began to realize that there had been significant changes in Michael. Some of the differences were trivial, such as the decision to give up smoking and the equally surprising fact that he had decided not to buy a bottle of whiskey in the duty-free shop. Physically he had changed a little, though not much. As he had indicated earlier, he had put on some weight around the middle and his face was fuller as well. His hair was cut much shorter, making him look older, she thought. Unchanged was his habit of wearing a hat almost constantly, whether inside or outside. Today’s version was a peaked cap rather than his usual bush hat. It perched that night on the back of his head, with the peak stupidly vertical, at times making him look like he had a halo. It prompted Janet to smile, as she remembered their many trips to bars both in Migwani and Kitui, where the angle of Michael’s hat acted like an indicator, like an absurd barometer of the length of the evening. As he became drunk, the peak would move further to one side, or if it was the bush hat he wore, it would be pushed further and further back until it eventually fell off. She reminded him with a giggle of the night in Kitui when he had a few too many beers and had finished the evening dancing the bump with an imaginary partner, the cap, that night, having worked its way round half a circle so that the peak was down his neck. The moment she finished the recollection, however, she sensed a change in his manner, and this was clearly a profound change. He seemed now embarrassed, reluctant to accept the memory. In the past he would have played up the joke, now he avoided it, as if admonishing himself for a misdeed. Laconically, he changed the subject after muttering, “Well, let’s hope there’ll be no more of that.” She sensed a changed purpose about him, a new rationale behind a retained gloss of absurdity, which, in his own words at least, he now seemed determined to play down. Though still evident on the surface, his easy-going manner had been replaced, deeper down, by a new acceptance of responsibility. Janet sensed it immediately, but only interpreted it as evidence of the change that had percolated to the surface in small manifestation. Her reaction surprised her. It was disappointment that she felt and she was shocked at her own selfishness. Later, he tried to express his changed rationale towards his work and it led them into an argument, an intellectual one, but also a heated one, about his right, anyone’s right to come to Migwani or any place they didn’t belong to impose values from outside.

  Bishop O’Hara’s words to him before he left had affected him deeply. He had not believed him at the time, but, after thinking things through, Michael had realised that the man had been right. Drinking in bars and spending a lot of his time with Janet were, of course, trivial things in themselves, but Michael had become more aware that his public image affected the way people received him. He had known all along, of course, that drinking in bars like a primary school teacher or dancing with layabouts in Kitui made him no friends amongst the more pious, but he had always placed great store on mixing with the poor and disadvantaged, and this had been part of his mission. But he now wanted to temper these aspects of his life to see if he might break into wholly different areas of pastoral work. He cited John Mwangangi’s ideas as having been instrumental in his refocus, since the projects that John had established needed support, both formal and informal, and on several different levels, to have a chance of success. If he closed access to the more formal links by jeopardizing his credibility, he would spike the projects and that was not a risk he was any more willing to take. It would, put simply, undermine his mission.

  “And what is your mission?” asked Janet provocatively.

  “Number one is to administer the functions of the Roman Catholic Church to those who desire them,” he replied without hesitation. His voice was edged with a sternness that Janet did not recognise.

  “And what are the things that people here need most of all?” she continued. “What about those things that the Church cannot provide? What about the people who are not and do not want to be Catholics? Do you ignore them?”

  “I’ve thought about this a lot over the months,’ he said, his manner and tone offering reassurance, but with also a hint of bitterness growing stronger as he told his story. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about things. In fact, there have been times over the last few months when I have been so bored I could have screamed, just to try and wake people up. People in Ireland – and in England, as well, because I spent a few weeks there – they live like ants. They wander around in droves filled with illusions of their own wealth...”

  “You can’t have a drove of ants,” said Janet. Her comment rendered Michael silent, he was desperately trying to laugh, but humour was just not in him. “It’s a colony of ants, or an army … or even a nest… but not a drove.” Michael looked at her quizzically. “It’s a thing of mine, as you know,” she said.

  “Well, they are filled with illusions of their own wealth,” he continued, as if trying to regenerate the gravity that Janet’s interjection had lightened,
“their power and their knowledge. At the head of the column there’s some politician, or newsreader or celebrity or expert or some other idiot leading them on with stories so biased and self-congratulatory that they only add to the illusion. I didn’t meet anyone over the last few months who was capable of seeing past the end of their nose! They’re as parochial and simple-minded as anyone, but most people here in Migwani are far wiser than them, because people here at least are conscious of their limitations.

  “When I left here, I was ready to give up the priesthood. The whole thing was starting to stink of false values, even bigotry. Take the cathedral, for instance. As far as I saw it, it was sheer madness for professed Christians to build a thing like that amidst abject poverty. The money could have been used for so many more important things. But of course while I was at home in Ireland, it was only then that I truly admitted that it’s not the people of Ukambani, or the Bishop or the priests that demand we build places like that, it’s the people at home in Europe. And it’s especially true of people in the States. They see buildings like the cathedral as evidence of progress, proof that the money they think they are contributing to good causes in Africa is being used properly and is having the effect they wanted. They couldn’t give a shit, never mind money, about things that are less tangible, less obvious. Photos of a cathedral will do the trick. The money will come rolling in. Reports of an adult literacy scheme designed to help married women learn enough to read letters from their husbands, on the other hand, will generate all the right responses, will open hearts, but it doesn’t open wallets. It’s no good showing a field of maize to an old lady in Limerick who puts a pound a week into a collection box after Mass. It doesn’t mean a thing to her.

  “Some people will get very angry when you tell them that you work in Africa. They resent the fact that aid to places like this might have made some people rich. They argue that the process is corrupt and their governments should stop all payments. Show them a photograph of the cathedral and they’ll fill your pockets with money, pat you on the back and tell you what a good job you’re doing. I know it’s silly, and you know it’s silly, but unfortunately that’s how it is. And then, of course, there are the sceptics, who think that anyone involved with Christianity is just a Bible thumping bigot, but then we will never bring those people on board anyway. So what to do?” he asked, pausing as if to allow Janet a moment to digest his tirade.

  “I could never stay in Ireland and listen to the petty problems that people take to their priests. What’s more I don’t like life there any more. I’ve been away for too long now and feel much more at home here. On the other hand, if I was to come back here to continue my work, it was obvious that I was going to have to accept some things I disagree with. I was given an ultimatum, so I have to comply if I am to continue what I dearly want to do. After all, I am a priest. It’s what I chose to do with my life. I am devoted to the Church and its expansion to include those people who as yet have never known it. That’s why I am here, here and now, and that’s what has to become my priority.”

  Michael’s statement, a near confession, was definitive. He had stated his case with such uncharacteristic force that Janet felt quite unable to respond. He had certainly changed.

  “Anyway,” he continued with apparently renewed flippancy when she did not react, “you seem to have changed, yourself.” After again awaiting a reply and receiving only an embarrassed smile from Janet, he continued. “I didn’t call at your house on the way here because I thought you would probably have gone away for the weekend – off to a dance, perhaps, at the Umoja.”

  “I rarely go to the dances now, “ she replied. “In fact recently I have been meeting up with John Mwangangi at weekends. We have seen quite a lot of each other. We have talked a lot. I think what he is trying to do is just amazing. It’s real hope…” She was frowning. She was finding it difficult to speak to him about her relationship with John. His expression gave little away, except a suggestion that what she said was not news to him. She wondered how much the priests and everyone else, for that matter, knew of her and John. And memories were hazy at best. She was finding it hard to remember anything fixed in the indistinct timelessness that was life in Migwani. “And I have done a lot of work in the school. I am trying to get things sorted out before I leave.”

  “So no more dances in Kitui?” he asked.

  “No. I have taken my pleasures in other ways.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  August 1976

  Janet went back feeling supremely happy. Though until recently the thought of leaving Migwani had filled her with sadness, she now looked forward to going home, to renewing the relationships which for two years had lain dormant, continued only in letters. Initially, those letters had seemed full of news and the communication had been genuinely two-way, but as time passed the letters Janet wrote told more of her own life in Migwani and she became less able to respond to things her friends in London communicated as news or priorities. She was out of touch with things English and felt out of sympathy with the issues that filled her former friends’ lives. At one point she had begun to doubt whether she would ever want to return. But now the time had come, the sadness at leaving Migwani was overridden by new expectations and a determination to go home and work to educate public opinion, by whatever means she could find, about the reality of life in the Third World, in a place like this. If that ignorance could be overcome, she now believed, then it might be possible for people in the richer parts of the world to realise that these places were not ‘backward’, ‘under-developed’ or ‘primitive’; they were just poor. They were populated with people like people anywhere, not the pathetic recipients of aid, portrayed, therefore, as something less than human. By chance, these people happened to be born in a place that was not as healthy or rich as others. It was not their fault. A rich man does not worry about a poor man, as her Akamba friends had commented many times, and now she was determined that he would, and that she was going to teach him.

  Filled with conflicting emotions of contentedness and sadness, the excitement of the journey in prospect kept her awake all night. After some hours of trying to sleep, she lit the candle by her bed and, sitting up to smoke a cigarette, she thought through her time in Migwani and tried to imagine what England – she found it hard to call it home – would look like tomorrow. Would her mother think she looked well or ill? How would she react to her smoking? Would she say that she was thinner? Above all, what would she, herself, do? How would she translate this vague idea of a future into a life, a job and an income? She felt satisfied in the knowledge that she would never forget Migwani. Perhaps she would come back for a holiday as soon as she had some cash and then take up some of the many invitations that she had never honoured. She seemed to have left so much unfinished, so many friendships unexplored and yet by lunchtime tomorrow she would be gone, perhaps never to return. She was glad, though, that she had kept her word and had made at least a gesture towards John in view of all he had done for her. His presence at her farewell party was seen as a mutual compliment by everyone. He enjoyed the gathering very much, it seemed, and, when the guests left, he and Janet had enjoyed their last shared hours doing what they had learned to do steadily better in their weekly encounters. My God, she would miss him, but perhaps now was a good time to call a halt. He was married. He had a daughter to whom he was utterly devoted. Janet had enjoyed him and he had surely enjoyed her, but it could go nowhere from here without much avoidable pain. But could there be just one more chance to share an hour, to place farewells in their appropriate places and thrust one last shudder of pleasure through her conscience?

  The party, given that day by the school’s governors in her honour, had been a happy and enjoyable occasion. The guests, all of whom Janet had come to regard as friends during her stay, contributed toward the cost of the food and the bottles of soda they all shared. Daniel, for once the head cook in the dark smoky room which served as the school’s kitchen
, prepared a gigantic feast including the goat and four chickens they had slaughtered that morning. After eating, Janet’s headmaster made a speech in which he pointed to the array of people from all walks of life who had gathered there to bid her farewell. Surely this, he claimed, was proof of how deeply the people of Migwani had taken to her and how much they respected the fine work she had done in their school. Suddenly, all Janet’s frustrations with her work, all its apparent absurdity and meaninglessness disappeared in the face of the rapturous applause and cheers that greeted her invitation to speak. These people really did want the school to succeed, though they were realistic enough to know that very few of their children would ever be educated in it and even fewer would ever obtain a job as a result. They were, however, sincerely grateful to her for the hard work she had done and for the friendship she had shown.

  In a short speech which she wrote, rehearsed and delivered in Swahili, much to the delight of her audience, she thanked everyone for coming to the party, thanked them again for making her stay in Migwani so very enjoyable and begged them respectfully to remember that she was only a teacher and that their true thanks should go to the school’s headmaster and governors who were the real driving force behind its success. These few short sentences in stumbling Swahili received great applause and no one went home without shaking her hand, wishing her a good journey and asking her to convey greetings to the rest of her family. Then, by mid-afternoon, the guests dispersed, still voicing Janet’s praise, to set off on their various routes home. They would all reach their destinations in the four hours or so of daylight that remained. The party was over and Janet felt not a little relieved that it all went so well. Praise is greater than the praised, she thought as she watched a large group of people walk towards the town. She was glad it was all over. Now she could look forward to a more informal gathering.