by Peter Kimani
“I see you are admiring God’s canvas,” Reverend Turnbull said, startling McDonald out of his reverie.
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”
“God’s wonder to perform.”
McDonald limped back to his seat. “Have you finished dispensing milking tips?” he grumbled. “Or is it donating sperm? Why don’t you teach these folks to milk the elephant and the rhino? There are plenty of those here.”
Reverend Turnbull sat next to him but remained quiet.
After a moment, he said: “This is my flock. I am their shepherd.”
“Now,” McDonald replied impatiently, “I have more urgent matters than discussing your flock and shepherding ways. I want to blast these savages into oblivion.” McDonald pointed toward the escarpment.
“You need prayers to do that?”
“More than that. I need to infiltrate the land. Assess their manpower, distance, topography, things like that.”
“I told you, I am not a military man. Why don’t you try appeasement? It worked at the coast, even though you put my Christian faith on the line.”
“That’s what you preach about Jesus. He laid his life for others.”
“You need prayers, seriously.”
The two men fell silent, each absorbed by his own thoughts. Then Reverend Turnbull rose. “I think I have an idea. It’s a wild idea, but it’s something you can work with.”
McDonald said nothing but fixed a skeptical eye on the reverend. When Turnbull finished outlining his suggestion, McDonald leaped to his feet, a big grin on his face, and rushed toward Reverend Turnbull, momentarily forgetting about his hurt foot. Although McDonald’s intention was to give him a hug, Reverend Turnbull lost his balance and they toppled over. They were both in stitches when they rose, dusting off their clothes as they did so.
“Not so fast,” Reverend Turnbull cautioned. “It’s only a suggestion.”
“My friend, that’s the stuff of genius,” McDonald returned. “Pure military genius. Did you read all that in the Good Book?”
“All that I am and will be is because of the grace of God. His word keepeth me—”
“I guess all soldiers should read the Good Book.”
Reverend Turnbull smiled. “You may say so. And if you haven’t considered it, you can start by drafting that Indian fellow who has given you so much trouble over the years. That’s a good place for him to be.”
* * *
McDonald spent the next day drawing up a list of technicians he would enlist in his mission, per Reverend Turnbull’s advice. It comprised all those who had entered his bad books over the past three years, with Babu topping the list.
Others included a man named Kiran, who led what became the karai movement—a group of workers who protested the small food rations by rioting every Monday, tossing their tin plates in the air, ostensibly to donate the tin to make large cooking pots that could produce enough food to satisfy them. Then there was Rasool, who led a band of technicians to protest working past official hours without compensation. After working the required hours, he would lead a peaceful sit-in during which workers folded their arms and legs and said they were withholding their labor.
And of course there was Wazir, who helped release some locals who’d been arrested for vandalizing telegraph wires. His motive was not fully established, even though he was busted weeks later with the sister of one of the suspects. So McDonald knew he had to handle the matter carefully, because he was dealing with very dangerous men.
He summoned these workers and addressed them collectively. He had considered dealing with each of them individually but realized that would cost him more time than he had. He needed to dispense with the matter at once.
“I want to state up front how pleased I am to announce that you have all been recommended for promotion by your supervisors,” McDonald started. The declaration elicited a wave of chuckles from the assembled workers. There was a quiver in McDonald’s voice when he spoke next as his mustache did its dangerous dance. “Listen, listen, gen-gentlemen . . . I said that’s what your supervisors think. I have been asked to consider that position and I have imposed one condition before I can proceed with my consideration of your promotion.”
The workers stood with rapt attention. Earning a little more money, after all, never hurt anyone.
“I hold the view that workers should demonstrate competence in all spheres of life, from sportsmanship to spirituality. Being a good technician is not enough, one has to excel in other things.” He now had the workers’ full attention. Even his dancing mustache stabilized somewhat. “My assignment for you is very simple: I want you to participate in a cultural parade. The specific emphasis is on traditional worship in your communities.”
This was met with a chorus of disapproval from the technicians, but McDonald continued, undeterred. “Trust me, it’s not that complicated.” This was the make-or-break moment, McDonald told himself, and being a seasoned soldier, he knew how to camouflage the most important aspect and pass it off as the least of his concerns. “Listen, my good men, listen carefully. My assignment for you is very simple. But allow me to first explain my motivations. As some you might be aware, there has been quite a bit of misunderstanding between us and the locals.” He nearly clipped his tongue when he uttered us to imply the workers were a single collective, while in actual fact, he was actively balkanizing them along racial lines. “We want them to know we are not all work and play. As a matter of fact, the locals think we are all play, judging from the accounts of those messing with their girls. We also pray where we come from. And we have culture.”
“I’m lost,” Babu spoke up. “What exactly do you want from us?”
“I’m equally lost,” Rasool chimed in.
“And so am I,” said another technician.
“I want you to organize a pilgrimage to the Laikipia Escarpment,” McDonald revealed, as though he was in a hurry to get the words off his chest.
There was a momentary silence before the men spoke, all at the same time.
“Listen, my good men,” McDonald pleaded. “Listen . . .” When the protestations died down, he explained further: “Don’t get me wrong. This is not missionary work. It is a cultural parade. To raise awareness about your cultural and religious heritages. None of you require spiritual or artistic acumen to do that. You only need to dress the part and go to the Laikipia Escarpment.”
“Who would you take us for? Fools?” Babu posed, before he continued in an even voice: “We all know that the construction of the railway has been suspended due to hostilities from the Maasai. What’s all this nonsense about?”
McDonald smiled painfully, one red blotch on his face appearing to enlarge. He shifted uncomfortably from the pain in his foot and faced Babu. “I like you for—for . . .” he searched for the word, “for thinking ahead. You are right to ask why we are doing this. The first thing, as I said, is to foster better understanding with the community. They will look at us differently. By demonstrating our own faith, they will know we respect their faith and way of life . . .”
“But do you, or is this just for show?”
“Then vot?” a technician named Imran persisted.
“I am not a magician!” McDonald shot back. “So this then what business has to stop. I have no way of predicting what will happen to each of you. What’s important is achieving our goal, which is to penetrate the Maasailand as pilgrims.”
“Are we supposed to get new converts?” a technician named Assad asked. He was a short, bearded man with a turban.
“No need for converts.” McDonald managed a short laugh. “What we need is information.”
“Information?” the technicians chorused.
“Yes, we need information. I forgot to tell you that you are to observe as much as you can. Count the number of people you encounter, the distances covered from village to village, that sort of thing . . . You shall use special surveying equipment disguised as items of worship.”
This revelation elicite
d another round of protests. A technician named Warah said that sounded like intelligence gathering, which was not part of their work. Babu argued that although the dozen technicians were all Indian, they had different faiths, and such schemes of deception could be construed as idolatry. Rasool demanded insurance—payable to their families in the event of death—before proceeding. Another technician named Kamani wondered why Reverend Turnbull, who was more experienced in missionary work, was not part of the expedition.
McDonald was starting to panic once more. He breathed hard and fought to stay calm. He drew in a deep breath and explained that the information gathered was only to help in future expeditions. “Watch for anything else that strikes you as odd,” he said. “Like groups of people huddled together and doing nothing.”
The workers continued to voice concerns about coming into harm’s way during the expedition. A number of caravans had recently been attacked while coursing through the escarpment.
To McDonald’s surprise, it was Babu who now came to his rescue, appealing to his fellow technicians to take up the challenge without further delay. “We have faced wild animals of all kinds for the last several years. Why should we be so scared of our fellow men?”
His argument was met with silence. None of the technicians wanted to be thought of as cowardly. And when Rasool argued that the problem was not their perceived cowardice but the workers’ exploitation by the employer, McDonald stepped in and assured them that they would be well compensated when they returned.
“Vat vill happen to tose dat don return?” Rasool pursued.
This produced more grumbling, reminding McDonald about the mutiny at Fort Jesus, years earlier. A sudden chill ran down his spine. He needed to act fast and nip this in the bud. He cleared his throat and conceded that he had considered providing some form of insurance, but was waiting to secure a budgetary allocation from London.
Rasool said that the technicians would have to wait until the funds were availed for their insurance.
“I’m pleading for your understanding,” McDonald replied in clear exasperation.
“And how come you only picked Indians for this mission?” a technician named Raheem asked.
Once again, McDonald calmly explained that the locals were already familiar with Reverend Turnbull. What they needed to know more about were the Indians.
“No money, no vork,” Rasool insisted.
McDonald promised to draw up contracts providing twenty rupees—the equivalent to nearly one month’s wages—to each technician’s next of kin.
“Make it two hundred!” Rasool shouted. “No money, no vork.”
McDonald waved everyone down. “Not so loud. I will make it fifty, but only if you deliver helpful feedback.” Imbued by the positive spirit that Babu had demonstrated, McDonald nominated him to head the mission. “One last thing,” he called out. “Treat this with the utmost confidentiality.”
* * *
On the night before their mission, Babu dreamed he had turned into a guinea fowl. His skin was covered with thick black feathers, but his neck was bare because Maasai warriors had used it as a whetstone. His head had been replaced by a crown. Babu the guinea fowl was foraging when a sudden thought hit him: was he male or female? He peered between his legs but couldn’t see any genitals. He elongated his neck to look from the rear but still couldn’t see anything.
He crowed in horror, fearing his fowl genitals had been mutilated by the Maasai warriors. His anguished cry mobilized other guinea fowls in the forest. They arrived by the dozen, but Babu found their cries guttural and different from his. It soon dawned on him that guinea fowls from different parts of the forest spoke in different tongues. He could see the other fowls squeaking excitedly, as though there was something weird about him. They were whispering in each other’s ears, then elongating their necks to point toward him. Babu the guinea fowl decided to gesture his own query to the others. He pointed with his beak toward his tail, then lay in the sand and lifted his rear and swished it.
The act elicited a trill of squeaks from other fowls. Some spat in obvious disgust. Babu realized they must have thought that he wanted to relieve himself, so he assured them in the fowl language he had acquired—Ti kumea ngumiaga, ni itina ngumemagia!—that he wasn’t shitting, only flexing his rear muscle.
The explanation appeared to excite even more fury from the other fowls. Some danced around him as others clawed at those who stood in the way. He did not understand what the fuss was about until an elderly fowl walked over to him and whispered in a language close to the one he had acquired: “They are upset because of your indecent exposure. Some want to snatch your head for your golden crown. Better flee and save your life.”
Babu thought to declare his innocence and explain it was all a misunderstanding. He simply wanted to know if he was male or female, and his crows were not intended to offend. But instead, he turned to the elderly fowl and thanked him. He sprinted and dived in the air, then came crashing down. A few feathers were broken. He tried again but stalled. One aggressive fowl caught up with him and snatched more feathers from around his neck.
Pain shot through his frame and the sight of fowl blood horrified him. It was like human blood and its smell attracted even more fowls to his spoor. He sprinted for dear life as a new idea surged. He clawed the earth and hurled as much soil as he could behind him. He heard shrieks from the fowls whose eyes had been soiled. He repeated this stunt after every sprint and the number of fowls that chased after him dwindled.
He knew it was only a matter of time before he collapsed from exhaustion, so he decided to climb up and hide in a nearby muiri tree whose thick foliage would conceal him adequately. He clenched a branch with his beak and used his short legs to hoist himself up. Midway, he took a break to catch his breath and look for some water to drink. He found some gathered on a large leaf where several earthworms and flies had been trapped. How could he drain the water but get rid of the contaminants? He was about to tilt the leaf and drink at an angle when he saw his own reflection. He was a guinea fowl now and the worms and flies would make for a very good fowl meal!
The flies were easy to suffocate. He pecked one at a time and held his breath for a moment or two before they went limp and he was able to swallow them. The worms were a little problematic. They did their dance and tangled themselves up, so that he couldn’t tell their heads from their tails. He found the answer in holding them down and pulling out each worm individually, then placing it under his claws. Away from the cool habitat, the worms withered fast and he swallowed leisurely. He washed down his meal with the cool water. “Not too bad for a maiden fowl meal!” he mused aloud. “I can live with this!”
It was on that happy note that Babu the guinea fowl fell into a deep sleep. He couldn’t tell how long he had been out when he slipped and started his descent to the earth. He was shouting at full volume before realizing his cries would only attract the same fowls that had expelled him from their midst for indecent exposure. He remembered in the nick of time to spread his wings to prevent his fall to the earth. Magically, the wings halted his descent and reversed his movement. He was now suspended in the air, flying higher and higher.
Before long, he was heading over Fort Jesus. It was nearly unrecognizable from above. The only thing he could make out was the unmistakable red and blue of the Union Jack. There was a large assembly of men. Several shot at him, but he managed to fly higher. African porters threw stones excitedly at him. Some shot arrows at him shouting, Kanga wewe! Ndege mweupe tutakukaanga! meaning they would make a good stew out of the white bird.
White technicians also hurled their arsenal at him with equal intensity. “Black bird of omen!” they chanted. Some rounds were fired and Babu the guinea fowl reeled from the impact. African porters started laughing; they did not think kanga was worthy of this volley of gunfire.
The exchange allowed Babu the guinea fowl enough time to fly away, as the line of argument among the workers changed suddenly: Was the kanga a black or white
bird? Who had the right to kill and eat it anyway?
Babu jerked from his nightmare with a start. He was sweaty and thirsty. His thoughts instantly went to his skin. He examined his arms carefully, searching for the wings he had worn in his dream. He touched his mouth, looking for his beak. He touched his genitals. Everything was in place; he had not evolved into some hermaphrodite. He was awash with relief. He was about to relapse back to sleep when he remembered their pilgrimage was slotted for the following day. He was perturbed by the dream, whose vividness surprised even him. He hardly remembered any recent dream that had come with such clarity.
Soon his thoughts turned to his wife Fatima, long forgotten in Mombasa. Babu reprimanded himself for abandoning her for so long. What would happen in the event of his sudden death in the mission to the escarpment? Although it was dubbed a pilgrimage, Babu knew it was a spying mission. And the reason McDonald had assembled the men he picked—all well-known troublemakers—was because it would be good riddance if they perished. Would McDonald keep his word and deliver Fatima the modest insurance money? Would a fellow worker deliver his bloodied clothes as evidence of his demise? He had known families that had suffered this kind of fate. Such was the case with Manchura, a draftsman who was devoured by a lion. His fellow workers collected the fragments of his kitenge shirt which they dispatched to Manchura’s family through another colleague visiting India—two years after the man’s death.
Babu shuddered at the thought of his remains—or whatever would signify his life—being delivered to Fatima to convey his departure from the world. He would prefer a more personalized approach. After all, death and grieving were very private affairs even when one suffered a public death, serving a suspect assignment from his employer. An Indian, in service to the empire, in the heart of Africa.
Babu knew he needed to do something, but what exactly he did not know. He wanted to convey his uncertainties without appearing cowardly. Moreover, there was the question of keeping their spying mission confidential. Perhaps he would confide in a friend and make his final wish. He flipped through the names of fellow workers he considered his friends. Very few, he realized with horror, passed muster. Most were colleagues, not friends—there were quite a few friendships that did not survive the railway construction, sometimes strained by a transfer to a new station, or a misunderstanding attributable to cultural differences. For although the different races ate and slept separately, workers mingled socially during weekends. Some organized games drawing teams from different races, one of the most popular being cricket. Other workers tried more dangerous sports, the most legendary of them being Abu Nuwasi. A short man of slight build and a shoe-shaped nose, Abu Nuwasi single-handedly caught a buffalo and tethered her to his camp. How he managed to subdue the animal, nobody knew, but the animal appeared to regain her strength when Abu Nuwasi returned with a bucket and milking oil. He was convinced that the animal belonged to the cow family and could be coaxed to produce some milk.
