Mission

by Philip Spires

  “Now we have a number of people who have never themselves lived off the land telling us to turn our backs on progress, to return to our farms and gamble on their always-fickle fertility. In effect these people are telling you to go back to your homes and to spend your time dancing to make rain.” Everyone laughs here as Mulonzya jigs about the platform to ridicule a traditional rainmaker. His deliberately ungainly dance is punctuated by exaggerated glances at the sky and shakes of the head to indicate that despite his efforts there is still no rain.

  When he prepares to speak again, however, his expression sets to deadly seriousness and his voice sounds bitter and aggressive. “And when these people who give this advice to you are so obviously not speaking the truth because, when you examine why it is that you respect them and therefore listen to them in the first place, you see that it is because they have education, what do you think then? People who have everything to owe to their education trying to deny you the chance of that same thing... What I would think is maybe that these people have other reasons for saying what they do, that they do not want to see people develop because, in order to further their own political interests, they want to keep people poor. Don’t look confused, everyone. Don’t ask why these people want this. But you do know, if you take a moment to think. If people are poor, hungry and sick, they will be angry! If they are angry they will seek to make rash changes. In their anger they will change those things which they think are bad, but which in fact are good. The problem then is that in the turmoil many good things are difficult to keep going until the battle is won. Don’t let the rumours fool you. Don’t let the cheap wisdom trick you into destroying what is obviously good.”

  “So build up your school and let’s all see it succeed.” Great applause follows which Mulonzya immediately quells. “And I will begin your fund...” It is here that Mulonzya performs at his best. As the last speaker, it always was going to be his prerogative to start the collection, and it always had been his intention to set both a personal and public tenor with a memorable public statement. The political opportunity that had come his way via the soft-backed exercise book was not much more than a peripheral bonus by now. He dips into his pocket and produces a wad of notes. “…With a donation of ten thousand shillings. Thank you, my friends.” As his thanks are lost in the ecstatic and tumultuous adulation of the crowd, Mulonzya steps down from the rostrum and strides up to the headmaster of Migwani Secondary School to present him with a sum of money greater than most people gathered there would hardly aspire to earn in five years. The applause continues as the teacher gratefully shakes the MP’s hand for a minute or more.

  Mulonzya then returned to his seat to allow the headmaster to take the rostrum again and declare the collection commenced, but the crowd shouted him down, demanding a curtain call from their hero. Not until Mulonzya had stood, bowed and waved his arms in victory did the chanting, clapping and cheering begin to subside. Then, one by one, each of the invited guests was summoned by the headmaster in his newfound role as master of ceremonies. As each donation was made, its value was announced to the crowd before being passed aside to a clerk for counting. Each sight of bank notes or cheque brought forth prolonged bursts of applause and cheering. No one, of course, matched Mulonzya’s ten thousand. No one would have dared. As the occasion worked through its pecking order, the amounts announced gradually decreased. Soon the headmaster had discarded hundreds for tens, tens for fives and finally fives for single shillings. The process would take between two and three hours to complete but not one of the assembled thousands would begin to disperse until every last cent had been counted. Then, after the dignitaries had strode in turn up to the rostrum to hand over their donations, they would not return to their seats, preferring to mingle with the crowd to seek out their friends and relations.

  With his official responsibilities completed, Mulonzya too left his seat and walked through the crowds to the very edge of the school compound where people were more thinly scattered and congregated in small chattering groups. Father Michael and John Mwangangi stood together but apart, so engrossed in their conversation that they did not even see Mulonzya approaching until he was almost upon them. When John saw him out of the corner of his eye, he immediately began to move away, gently but deliberately touching Michael on his arm as a goodbye.

  “I’ll see you later.” John turned and began to walk away.

  “A minute, please, Mr District Officer,” shouted Mulonzya as he panted his way across the bare earth of the school’s playing field. “I would like you to hear something.” By now he was close enough and stopped his advance. After waiting for a moment to regain some of his breath, he looked accusingly from John to Michael and back again to indicate that what he had to say concerned them both. He betrayed ignorance, however, of just which one should bear the brunt of the attack. Eventually, he chose the safer option and addressed Michael. “Mister Michael, a friend of mine has brought something to my attention. I understand that it is your doing and I would like to know more about it. I understand that you have a school in Thitani, a school for adult students?”

  Michael nodded dispassionately, a gesture that both offered confirmation and yet immediately distanced himself from what might follow.

  “You are teaching people to read and write?”

  “Indeed we are, Mr Mulonzya,” said Michael confidently. “We are trying to provide a little of the education in which you have so much faith.”

  “But why for adults? Surely education and schools are for children? What can an adult hope to benefit from it? There are no jobs for the old. We have too many young people to cater for as it is.”

  “This programme is not designed to create employable civil servants with a string of exam passes, Mr Mulonzya.” Surely Mulonzya knew what the scheme was designed to do, thought Michael, but nonetheless he began to offer an explanation. “It is an adult literacy scheme. The intention is to teach adults to read and write - especially women - so that they can both write letters to their husbands in the city and also read the ones they receive without having to get one of their children to do it for them. It can be a great strain on a marriage, you know, when personal letters between a woman and her husband have to be read out loud by a child. Sometimes they contain things which a child ought not to hear...”

  Mulonzya interrupted with a gesture of the hand. While Michael and John looked on in silence, he dipped his hand into his inside pocket and took out the exercise book that Nzuli had given him earlier. “Then why,” he asked, flicking through the book and perfunctorily showing pages to the others, “do you teach this... this cheap politics?” Mulonzya angrily spat the words. “Just listen to this.” He turned to a particular page in the exercise book and pointed to a passage in Kikamba neatly written in blue and corrected by a teacher in red. It had obviously been copied from the blackboard since it contained very few mistakes and the writer, who was Mr Nzuli’s wife, he knew to be illiterate. As Mulonzya began to read from the book, both John and Michael began to look acutely embarrassed, but more out of impatience than guilt. “When a man has a lot of money he is said to be rich. When a man has little money he is said to be poor. When a man is rich he has plenty to eat. When a man is poor he starves. When a man is rich he has plenty of money. When a man is poor he has nothing. When a man is rich he can help the poor. When he does help the poor he is a good man. When he does not help the poor he is a very bad man. When I see James Mulonzya in his fine car, I know he is a bad man.” Mulonzya looks up at Michael and then at John. Slapping the closed book against his leg in anger, he says, “Well? Is that literacy? Or is it something else? What do you think it is?”

  “It’s just an exercise in the use of the word ‘when’,” said Michael dismissively.

  “Don’t play with me, Mister Michael!” shouted Mulonzya, his voice beginning to break with suppressed anger. Presenting the open book to Michael and inviting him to take it, he continued. “Here. Look for yourself. I h
ave not chosen just one isolated case. My name, traders’ names - even our President’s name - there is something on every page. Look. See for yourself.”

  Michael thumbed through the exercise book, apparently with little interest, but both he and Mulonzya knew that he did not actually need to look at all, for he already knew what was there. “Hmm,” said Michael, “she seems to be making very good progress. See here, she can hardly write her own name on the first page, but later on she’s coping even with quite complicated words and phrases.” When Mulonzya realised that Michael was reading the woman’s name from a page inside the book he snatched the book from the priest’s hands. Earlier, he had carefully obliterated the name of the book’s owner from the front cover with a ballpoint pen. Michael, however, continued his sentence without hesitation.

  Mulonzya again scrutinised the book as he flicked through the pages. He looked as if he might explode with anger when Michael next interjected. “What worries you, Mr Mulonzya, is no more than the method of teaching. Let me explain.” Michael began to speak quickly, thus silencing Mulonzya and pre-empting the pending attack. “I have been running these sessions for some years without success. Some people have learned to read and write as a result, of course, but in the past most have dropped out of the classes after only a few sessions. It was obvious that we were using the wrong methods, but no one had any new ideas about new approaches we might try. And then we came across a method which has been used with great success in South America called ‘conscientisation’.” Michael’s voice proudly dwelt upon the word while a hint of a cynical smile played on his lips. He pronounced the word with the emphasis of a teacher who wants his class to repeat it. In the event, he was sure he saw Mulonzya’s lips move as suggested. “Myself and several of the other priests in the district, all of whom have similar classes running in their parishes, got together and wrote a course based on this method. You see the idea is to motivate people to come to the classes because they feel that they get something out of them by allowing them to talk about the things that most deeply affect their lives. The classes use peoples’ obvious interest in what matters in their lives to stimulate an interest in expressing what they have learned in writing.”

  Throughout Michael’s short speech, Mulonzya had seemed to be fumbling with the words of intended interruptions. Though ready to burst forth, his impatience was so violent that he could find no suitable expression. “But this is rubbish!” He was by now shaking the exercise book in front of Michael’s face. “And what is more, it is libel!” he shouted. “You have no right to teach people lies.”

  Michael smiled condescendingly. “Lies, Mr Mulonzya? The passage you read, for instance, is nothing more than the teaching of Jesus Christ in plain language.”

  “Nonsense! The man who brought this book for me to see is himself a man of the Church and he thinks it is every bit as obscene as I do. You have no right to spread such rumours, such obvious lies. If people must be told why they are poor, then tell them. Tell them there is a drought. Tell them about the riches of Europe and America and how white people demand that everyone else lives in slavery. Tell them then what is evil, Mister Michael. Tell them about the colonialists who raped their country and robbed it of its riches.”

  Michael interrupted here. His patience had obviously begun to run out and consequently his voice had hardened. He spoke slowly, as if consciously spelling out his meaning. Though the other constantly tried to interrupt, the priest subtly diverted every attempt to do so with only the slightest raising of his voice. “Mr Mulonzya, the whole point of teaching in this way is to get people to read and write as quickly and as well as possible. To motivate people to do the necessary work, we have to use the material of their own lives. If they cannot understand the subjects we use, how can they ever read about them or write about them? Now we do discuss the drought, have no fears about that, but how can we talk about Europe? People here don’t see rich white people. Neither did they ever see colonialists here. And what’s more all of that finished over ten years ago. If we talk about poverty - and believe me, that above all else produces the best discussion, we have to contrast it with what riches people see - and that is clearly rich Kenyans, like yourself, Mr Mulonzya, with your shops and your buses and your Mercedes-Benz. I agree,” continued Michael, “that maybe our teacher has gone too far by making his students write these things down as exercises. But don’t you see that if we discuss such things we can do nothing to prevent our students regarding you as wealthy? Knowing you like I do, I would have thought you would have been flattered.”

  “But there is nothing wrong with wealth which has been made for the betterment of the country,” said Mulonzya, defiantly shaking his fist. “I have worked for that wealth and through that work, I helped to develop my location. You can see for yourself,” he continued, gesturing to the crowd at his back who were still avidly watching the confrontation, “how grateful people are for what I have done for them.”

  Michael laughed again. He spoke quietly and cynically. “They are grateful for your promises, Mulonzya. How many times in the last ten years is it? How many times have you promised that the road from Nairobi is about to be tarred? And in the meantime we gradually watch it wash away with each new rainy season. And meanwhile the potholes get deeper and the gullies get wider and we don’t even get it graded. It’s been like this for more than a year now. What are you doing about that?”

  At this point Mulonzya turned away. He had had enough. Now facing John Mwangangi, he said, “I shall hold you responsible, Mr District Officer, if this slander is not stopped immediately. This… this priest’s school is in your area and so it is your responsibility to supervise what goes on there.”

  Mwangangi, who until then had maintained a polite silence, now spoke. Straightening his back to stretch himself to his full height and thus accentuating the difference in stature between himself and the rather small and rounded Mulonzya, he spoke quietly but firmly, stating his case so clearly that, for a moment at least, Mulonzya was left speechless, allowing Michael to develop the point. “On the contrary, Mr Mulonzya. My job is to oversee the administration of such establishments, to judge whether or not a project aids the overall development of the District. Father Michael’s scheme, like this very school here, is designed to provide education where it is obviously needed. As such I would have expected you to encourage it. Surely if it achieves what it sets out to do and teaches many previously illiterate people how to read and write, then we should not worry too much about how they do it, as long as what they do is within the law, of course. And what is more, I would remind you, Mr Mulonzya, that this scheme is run by the Church and not by government, so even through the education officer, I have no direct power over the teachers or the methods it employs. There are, as far as I know, no rules for such private schemes. If you have criticisms, don’t come to me, but go to the next meeting of Father Michael’s parish council and take it up directly with them. The fact that I granted permission for the project in the first place does not mean that I am still responsible for it. It was merely recognition on my part that there was no legal barrier in their way. In the same way, though I granted permission for this fund-raising day, I have no control over what is said in the speeches.”

  “Even if they are clearly political,” said Michael, “and directly criticise someone who is obviously doing a good and useful job and who has been denied a public right to reply.”

  Mulonzya gave out an aggressive laugh before speaking. “If someone tells lies, he deserves all he gets. You know as well as I do that an education in a school like this one is the only way of escaping starvation and poverty.”

  “And how many families will starve as a result of spending every penny they can get on school fees they cannot afford in the entirely false belief that their children will pass exams and get jobs?” Michael’s unanswered comment was effectively allowed to close the matter.

  Mulonzya’s parting words were then delivere
d with the vehemence of a curse. “I can see no point in arguing with you. You will both be hearing from me in due course.” And with that he turned and stalked off defiantly towards the crowd. He had passed no more than four people when a stranger stopped him, greeted him with a smile and warmly shook his hand. The joy of Mulonzya’s broadcast greeting could be heard by hundreds and many turned to watch.

  “He just doesn’t see, does he?” said John. “Surely he must know that we are not against education? That all we are concerned with is whether or not the money could be better spent at the moment on other things. He seems to think that we want to prevent people from going to school.” John was almost pleading with Michael.

  The priest, however, was still staring at the now laughing and joking Mulonzya as he began again to play to his audience. “He doesn’t think, I am convinced of that. But he has an unerring ability to judge which side his bread is buttered.” Then, turning towards John, he continued, “I’d better have a word with Boniface. He might just be taking his instructions a bit too literally.”

  ***

  Not satisfied with Nzuli’s book full of evidence, Mulonzya changed his plans. He had intended to drive directly back to Nairobi immediately the Harambee day was over, but instead drove the twenty miles north to Mwingi to spend the night in his late wife’s house just outside the town, which he kept maintained and cleaned daily by a houseboy as a base for his still frequent visits to his home town.