Dance of the Jakaranda

by Peter Kimani

  From his lofty perch, McDonald had the benefit of being able to watch the raiders under the glare of the security lights from his watchtower. The gang had to shield their eyes against the light when they looked in his direction, so had difficulty seeing him. As McDonald descended the stairs with slow, deliberate calculation, gun at the ready, his eyes never left the drummer, who moved toward the landing of the stairwell. McDonald trained his gun on the man, but the drummer kept jerking, moving to the throb of his drum as though the weapon held a particular pull. Soon, the rest of the gang surrounded McDonald, and he found himself in the middle of what felt like a cultural jamboree. There he was, an old, slouched white man, gun trained on the moving target of a gaunt man holding a drum between his legs. The space had been turned into an arena where two fighters were about to lock horns, urged on by the dancers who seemed to relish every moment.

  The sight of the gun had not deterred any of the dancers, who shifted to a new song, flashing shiny swords that they retrieved from their sheaths.

  Kataa kata!

  Kata mwanangu kata!

  Kataa kata!

  Kata mwanangu kata!

  McDonald had heard the song before, and it transported him back to Mombasa, back to the day the railway construction was inaugurated. He could see Nyundo—yes, that was the name of the drummer he had hired for the day—pounding the drum with all his might, drawing workers out of their huts. That had been McDonald’s big day, and to grace the auspicious occasion, the telegram from London had confirmed that Charles Erickson, the colonial governor, would be coming to town.

  Locals appeared to sprint toward the music, for the sound of the drum was a code that the Giriama had used for generations to mobilize the community. They met under the mvinje tree, which had outlived everyone in the village. Because the British could not pronounce mvinje, they called it the whistling pine due to the music made by its leaves. The locals’ word was derived from nifiche, which meant shelter, because the tree had faithfully sheltered the community from the elements. If you met old Giriama men, and their throats were wet with palm wine, they would imitate the sounds of the mvinje then whisper what they had heard about the tree during their childhoods. If palm wine was still flowing, and the imbibing continued uninterrupted, they would indulge the magic associated with the mvinje and claim to have personally witnessed the mvinje descending a few meters to the ground—as a mother hen does to shield her chicks—and return to its normal height after the threat they were facing was over.

  But the mvinje did not just offer protection to the people, the old men would confide, their voices steadier with the drink because they drank to remember, not to forget. They would laugh and explain how the mvinje nourished the sick back to health. Those who had leprosy only had to touch the bark to be cured. Children who had hookworm only needed to chew its leaves and the last worm would be rinsed out of their bellies. The wazee would drop their voices further and say women who had strayed from their husbands went to the mvinje under the cover of darkness and waited for its fruit to fall. If they ate the bitter fruit, their own wild fruit would descend from their wombs. Dawa ya moto ni moto! the old men would say and clap their hands together. Fire begets fire.

  Beneath the tree were Nyundo and the other drummers, stripped to their waists, thundering the drums held between their legs. In the middle were a dozen female dancers gyrating their hips with such fluidity that one would think their bodies were boneless. They formed a ring around one dancer who balanced a gourd on her head while still thrashing her hips this way and that. The dancers were all topless—save for the ornaments dangling off their necks. The nipples of their round breasts stood erect. They wore tiny strips of cloth around the waist, which seemed to enhance the outline of their curves rather than covering them. The rhythm of the drum sped up and the dancers stomped the ground. Their generous bums tingled until the strips of clothing dropped off or disappeared in the crevices of their bodies. Then the throbbing beat came to an abrupt stop.

  McDonald took the stage and made a short speech. There was a tremor to his voice that had refused to go away since the firing of the cannon, and his mustache still twitched at its edges. He was nervous about the locals’ unpredictability and his inclusion of their dances was one of the ways he hoped to pacify them.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he started, “this is a special occasion when we witness the groundbreaking ceremony of the East African Railways. To commission this important project, the colonial governor, Sir Charles Erickson, has traveled all the way from Nairobi to lead us in the process. Without much further ado, join me in welcoming the governor.” There was sporadic clapping from the few people who understood the language. The uncoordinated sounds came like falling donkey droppings. The locals cheered after taking the cue.

  Charles Erickson was a small, thin man. He, too, spoke briefly, in an incredibly strong voice for such a small frame. He said the inauguration of railway construction was a landmark event that would transform the British East Africa Protectorate into a society where Christianity, commerce, and civilization could be cultivated.

  “I should, if you allow me,” Erickson said, “reorder the hierarchy of those goals so that commerce comes first, followed by civilization, and then Christianity. Triple C, if you like. We shall deliver on those objectives using the rail that shall set sail from the spot where we are assembled today.”

  A hesitant round of applause started, before picking up pace as it spread from the Union Jack camp to the gathering under the mvinje.

  “There are those in our midst who have christened this project the Lunatic Express. It is not the lucidity of its architects that’s in doubt; rather, the term is inspired by the bravery of its dreamers. I daresay we shall turn these wild lands into orchards abundant with fruit. And I want to applaud the courage of five hundred farmers who have left the comfort of England to be the harbingers of change in the African wilds. They shall be rewarded with fertile land that locals have little use for, most of which is unoccupied. We are here to support their enterprise. The railway shall deliver their produce beyond these shores.”

  Erickson was then handed a pitchfork and shovel. He struck the ground once and scooped the soil. His assistant brought water to wash his hands and provided a fresh glove. Erickson flashed the gloved hand to the crowd, smiling his painful smile. People roared in laughter and waved back.

  McDonald then stepped in. He was supposed to coordinate the cutting down of the mvinje tree to symbolize the clearing of virgin lands to pave way for the rail. He instructed African workmen hired for the day on what he needed done. But they all shook their heads and walked away. Fearing they had misunderstood his instructions, McDonald summoned an interpreter and relayed his message. This elicited a more hostile response. McDonald tensed. If his workmen disregarded his instructions in broad daylight, what would his boss think of him?

  McDonald called over a British officer and told him what he wanted done. The officer took a machete from one of the African workmen and struck a blow to the trunk. It was avenged instantly: one of the local men who had declined to cut the tree repossessed the machete and struck the British officer in one fell swoop. A red film flashed on the blade. The Briton fell down instantly, bleeding profusely. Pandemonium broke out. Gunshots rent the air. Machetes clanged and produced sparks and bones snapped as humans fled for dear life.

  * * *

  McDonald woke from his reverie as the drummer walked toward him. He stopped only a few steps away and yanked off his mask. McDonald shrieked and dropped his pistol in fright.

  “Nyundo!” he whispered, retreating as he did so. “I thought you were . . .”

  “Dead?” Nyundo returned in Swahili with a smile. “I lived to tell the story.”

  McDonald’s legs gave way and he dropped to his knees, holding his arms around his head before falling back into a crouched position. This could have been misconstrued as utter surrender—the crouching an act of supplication—but for McDonald it was a defensive posi
tion, as he readied himself to shield any blows delivered to his person.

  Nyundo circled McDonald, then lifted his arm and let it fall only inches away from where the gun lay. He was testing to see if the white man was conscious, just as a boxing referee might. A dancer waved at Nyundo frantically, urging him to keep the gun away from McDonald, but Nyundo ignored him and went on with his assessment. McDonald sat up and said nothing.

  The dance arena had now turned into a boxing ring, only that one fighter was down and the other was pacing, waiting for him to rise. Nyundo smiled: “Now you know what our people mean when they say only mountains don’t meet . . .”

  McDonald nodded, looking stonily ahead.

  “We come in peace,” Nyundo said, grinning. “Isn’t that what your people said when they first set foot here?”

  McDonald still said nothing, reeling from the shock that the man he had long presumed dead was alive and well. “Get off my land,” he finally growled, still downcast.

  “This is not your land,” Nyundo replied firmly. “Not an inch of our earth belongs to the white man.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you couldn’t put the land in your pocket and bring it back with you. You found it here.”

  McDonald was quiet again.

  “I was there, from the very beginning. From the day you fired the cannon, to the day you felled all the trees in the kaya, uprooted from their roots by that bomb. A heart of darkness thrown wide open, like a book. I have seen it all with these very eyes.” Nyundo paused for a moment, then went on: “The destruction of the kaya was a turning point for me. I kept asking myself: What would make a man leave his land of birth, go to another man’s land, and impose his way of life on them? And as if that’s not enough, destroy their culture? I lost my voice. People thought I was joking, but I had been too hurt to speak. So I let my drum speak for me . . .”

  “Are you done?” McDonald asked wearily.

  At this stage, the gang that surrounded him was mimicking how they would cut him down, and a slow, hesitant beat rang softly.

  “Do you mean if I’m done talking or if I’m done fighting against the white man?”

  “Whatever.” McDonald shrugged, glancing at his adversary. Nyundo, who had been a young lad when they first met, was now in his seventies, but the person McDonald had first encountered hadn’t changed much. The short, stocky frame did not seem to have added an inch in height or width.

  “I’m not done talking, and when I am, I will decide if I’m done fighting or not.”

  “So, what comes first? The fight or the talk?”

  “That’s not for you to decide,” Nyundo countered.

  “It just occurred to me, if I am already dead, then I can’t hear your story.”

  “It is not my story, you foolish man. It is your story. I want you to know I have walked in your footsteps since the kaya riots. I have witnessed the death and the destruction you have brought upon this land. A time will come when all shall answer for their crimes. There are things men shall answer to fellow men right here on earth.” Nyundo nodded to his group. The beat rose once more and the gang retrieved their swords and swung them this way and that.

  Nyundo appeared entranced as he went around the group, beating his drum while posing questions, to which the group responded in unison. When the beat softened once again, he returned and faced McDonald.

  “I went to Kikuyuland and heard of Waiyaki, the one who was buried headfirst by your men because he resisted the railway cutting through his land. I went to Nandiland where Koitalel wouldn’t let your men to build the railway through their land. Your men tricked Koitalel into what was meant to be a peaceful meeting, only to open fire when he appeared unarmed. To celebrate their cowardice, they cut off his head and took it to your queen. There are many other crimes, way too many to enumerate, committed by your men in your name.

  “Despite my swearing never to work for the white man, I was dragged to fight in the big war in the white man’s country. I took my drum with me, which I used to entertain the white soldiers. But I did not play the drums with my eyes closed. I saw the white men die. And I met black soldiers from beyond the seas. They said they had overcome slavery and encouraged us that we too would one day overcome white rule in our country. They said they used an underground railroad to defeat the white slave owners. I did the same when I returned. Our organized resistance went underground. Unlike yours, our railroad was not built using iron; it was laid in the hearts of people who were guided by a desire to do what’s right. Those men and women formed our network that spread from village to village, town to town. Some provided the food, others brought the water. Yet others bore arms—all pilfered from under the noses of your men. But many of our supporters remained above board. Some even worked for you. Like Babu . . .”

  McDonald sat open-mouthed. “Babu the surveyor?”

  “Don’t get too excited. That’s our man. His code name in the forest was Guka. Patriot of the highest order. And when the history of this country is written, a chapter will be devoted to him. He was committed to the end. Or I should say, right from the start. The earliest I can remember was that incident at Fort Jesus when he made you wet your pants. And when our elders sat to think about foreigners who could be drawn to our cause, his name was mentioned repeatedly. Actually, nobody remembered his name. All they remembered was his pronounced forehead. Sokwe mtu, as we used to call him. And he used that fine head of his to formulate ways in which he could contribute to the movement without arousing any suspicions. So he beat you once more. We owe this freedom to him, for it is his generous contributions, and from a few others, that has kept us going. He printed all the materials we used throughout the war. He helped us in all ways, as our people put it, kwa hali na mali. And for investing in our freedom, our nation will honor and remember him. Now we are going to be free. To use the words of Nkurumah of Ghana, our beloved country is free forever. So it’s your turn to leave. In peace.”

  Nyundo rushed forward and grabbed the pistol that still lay at McDonald’s feet. McDonald froze, waiting to be shot. Even the singing from the gang stopped. It was dead silent. Nyundo swiftly dismantled the gun and removed the rounds of ammunition. He threw each bullet in a different direction.

  “When bullets begin to flower,” Nyundo said, “Africans shall reap the bitter fruit that the white man has sowed in our midst . . .”

  McDonald attempted to rise but without success. He was trying to remember the note tucked in Turnbull’s trousers after he was killed. It spoke of him holding the gun and the Bible, and reaping what he had sowed. McDonald decided he wasn’t going to be killed on his knees; he would be on his feet. He tried to rise again and fell. Nyundo stretched a hand and helped him up.

  There was loud grumbling from the young men in the gang. That’s not how they had plotted the events. They had planned to harass McDonald and scare him out of the farm. Instead, Nyundo had decided to recall their past together and throw away the bullets that should have been used to silence him. The young men started ransacking the farm, kicking and slashing anything they found in their way. When they reached the Jakaranda, the torchbearer hurled his flame at the establishment. It landed on one of the tarpaulins near Gathenji’s butchery and lit one side. In an instant, the blaze danced across the canvas, issuing a hissing sound before exploding in a ball of fire. Gathenji’s butchery released two dozen black-brown mice who’d been hibernating under sacks of potatoes, and even more roaches, all fat and lazy. None of the roaches moved for some time, blinking in the flood of light, clearly disoriented. The few revelers present scrambled to safety, as did some bushbuck and antelope that had been at the watering hole. It took six hours to gut the building, and gone with it, the decades of history that harbored Nakuru’s lore.

  * * *

  The Jakaranda ruins appeared to gain a new lease of life the following day as a six-vehicle convoy made its way into Nakuru, sirens squealing. Some thought the firemen had finally arrived. But they were wrong. It
was Big Man and his entourage. He stopped by the ruins and shook his head as he observed the damage. He returned to his car and stood through the open roof, swishing his fly whisk around in greeting. The assembled villagers mobbed his car. Big Man said hooliganism and vandalism would not be tolerated by serikali ya Mwafrika, the black man’s government. He would deal firmly and resolutely with it. He then turned to the police commissioner, who stood beside his car in dark blue attire with epaulets on his shoulders.

  “Bwana Commissioner, I want those behind this arson brought to me in the next twenty-four hours, dead or alive,” Big Man thundered. He scoffed at the roosters that had been left by the invaders at McDonald’s house as a cheap gimmick to link serikali ya Mwafrika to the politics of death and destruction.

  Big Man’s convoy then drove to McDonald’s lodge. Many white settlers had arrived to console the man. Addressing them collectively, Big Man explained, “I want you to stay and farm this country. There is room for each and every one of us, big or small, white or black, rich or poor. The people I want out, as I said the other day, know themselves. Those who cannot be categorized as either meat or skin. Those who hide in between, eating from two sides like thambara. Those who keep all their money under their mattresses because they have no faith in serikali ya Mwafrika . . . But tell them to make no mistake: I shall not stand and watch them ruin the future of this great country. In that regard, my government shall set funds aside to restore the Jakaranda, a building that gave Nakuru not just its life but its history as well. I thank you all. I thank Mr. McDonald particularly for being a founding father of the nation. A people without the knowledge of their past is like a tree without roots. Before the Jakaranda, Nakuru was nothing but empty plains.”

  20

  Founding Father is a grand term one would hardly equate with a little man like Ahmad, the unlikely patriarch who extended Babu’s lineage and also served as the founding director of Ahmad, Babu & Cordage (ABC), the firm that won him a state commendation on Independence Day in December 1963, alongside McDonald. Officially, Ahmad was recognized for his entrepreneurial spirit, for steering a large private company to profitability, for providing employment to hundreds of workers.