Mission

by Philip Spires

  “Ah, George, wait a moment. You have not heard everything. Just listen to what I have to say and then you will understand. It is very clear to me that Mwangangi has ambitions. I am convinced that he regards his present job as a mere stepping stone, a means of establishing himself while he tries out the ground for his schemes. His head, you see, is full of these ideas, all learned from his days in England. But he is not yet fully convinced that they will work. For him this is the testing stage. Within a couple of years, I would guess that he will decide whether or not to continue in this vein. He will make his judgment on the basis of whether he still has popular support. If not, I would expect to see him pack his bags and pursue another career in law here in Nairobi.”

  “And what if he does have support?”

  “Ah, George, may I say that this is my real area of concern. I am convinced he wishes to enter politics.”

  Nzou smiled. “Ah yes,” he said, slowly, “Now I see where your real interests lie. You think he will stand against you in the next election.” Mulonzya nodded. “But James, you have been a Member of Parliament for the area for many years. You are a highly respected man and a well-known politician. Surely a young man who has spent most of his life out of the area cannot threaten such a strong position?”

  Mulonzya wore a serious expression as he spoke. “George, listen to my argument and my evidence and then make up your own mind. He lives in the area permanently. I have to spend most of my time here, for obvious reasons, but at the moment he is almost a free agent and I cannot even keep track of what he is doing! He is out amongst the people at every opportunity. I have heard it said that he spends barely half of his time in the office. He personally visits Harambee committees and local councils to offer advice. Unlike most other District Officers, he not only passes judgment on their requests, he actually puts ideas into their heads, tells them how they should organise themselves and most importantly uses his connections with the Church and the missionaries to get his hands on money, overseas money, to fund their projects.”

  “Surely that cannot be much...”

  Mulonzya interrupted, his voice hardening as he counted out each of the examples on his fingers. “Forty thousand for a water tank in Migwani - from Germany. Twenty thousand for a dam in Mwingi, also from Germany. Thirty thousand for a dam in Kyuso - from America. The list is a long one. There is one priest in Kitui, you see, who knows all these foreign agencies. He can get the money if there are worthwhile schemes to support. What Mwangangi is doing is trying to create the schemes and then, when he is successful, he brings in the priest from Kitui who can then secure the foreign money. At the end of the day, it is Mwangangi who gets all the credit.”

  “For instance,” continued Mulonzya, “take this adult literacy work. There are institutions in Europe that will aid almost any new project. They will pay for fifty per cent of the project for the first three years - but only if it uses a very specific method of teaching. Mwangangi knows this. The priest in Kitui knows this. But in the past there has never been the interest amongst the older people to learn how to read and write. They have always preferred to send the young people to school in the hope that they will be able to get a job and help the family out of poverty. No older people will learn enough to qualify for employment. But since Mwangangi came to the area, he has been promoting the idea of older people going to school. You see, he creates the interest at the local level, puts an idea into peoples’ heads and then presents them with the money to carry it out through his contacts in the Church.”

  “What about the teachers? How does he get them?”

  “This is the neatest thing of all. There are now so many of these schemes in the area that the missionaries have set up a training course for instructors. They do not employ officially qualified teachers at all.”

  “But what is the problem with all this? What is it that you find so worrying?”

  “It’s the method he is using, George. I suppose the idea is all right in itself, but the way they put it into practice is not good. The teaching, you see, is nearly all informal. It is designed to motivate people by talking about those things that are important in their own lives. To put it simply, George, they teach politics.” Mulonzya paused here to extract the Thitani exercise book from his pocket. “Read this. You will see what I mean.”

  Nzou read the passage that Mulonzya indicated. When he looked up he laughed at first, but was then immediately more serious than before. “This is nonsense. It is simplistic - like a child would write. You think, then, that this is what they spend their time discussing in these classes?”

  “No, George. I am sure of it. And what is more Mwangangi not only knows how the classes are run. He helped to design them.”

  “What you are saying then, is that Mwangangi is using these classes to put out propaganda against you.”

  “Exactly. And also against all local people who have done well for themselves, such as you yourself, George. And he is using his official position to create more and more opportunities to carry out this lobbying. In all of this, his ally - and perhaps even sponsor - is the Roman Catholic Church.”

  “So where do I come in?”

  Mulonzya spoke quietly and slowly now. “I am asking a favour of you, George. My problem, you see, is this. Although I am confident that I can easily beat him in a fair fight, he has the big advantage over me in that he is out there in the bush and I am in the city. He is campaigning for himself every day and I have no way of keeping my eyes on what he is doing. If I am seen too much in Kitui, he will just say that I am not doing my representative job in Nairobi properly, so I cannot win. Do you see?” George Nzou nodded. “If the circumstances were more evenly balanced, I am sure I could win. So what I would like you to do is this.”

  “Now you remember I said I was convinced he would come to Nairobi if his ideas did not seem to be producing the results he wants? Well I would like you to help me to bring him here. I know, you see, that your partner has just left you. You must have much more work than you can possibly do alone. What I want to suggest is that you could write him a letter of introduction saying that you have heard much about him et cetera, and that you might be willing to consider some agreement; perhaps some short-term arrangement whereby he could carry out some specific tasks for you... You need only offer him limited pieces of work relating to, let’s say, a particular case, just so that you could lighten the load on yourself. And, of course, initially it need be on no more than a consultancy basis. That will allow you some time to assess whether you might co-operate more, or indeed less, in the future. If things did not work out, there would still be no formal links, so you would simply cease to offer him any more work. If things did work out, of course, you might ask him to take on complete cases to ease your workload. After all you wouldn’t want to lose lucrative contracts simply because you could not cope with the workload, would you? In the longer term, if things worked out well, you might be able to come to some more solid agreement with him regarding his status. I know he has some considerable capital to his name, which he retained after selling property in London before moving here. And, after all, George, there is no business under the sun that could not do with an injection of capital, is there? Especially one which has been suffering recent partnership… er …shall we call them difficulties?”

  Nzou looked somewhat confused. “Wait a minute, James. Surely he has not yet finished his work in Kitui. What is going to persuade him to give up so easily?”

  Mulonzya smiled knowingly. “Several things, but three in particular. First, I have been doing some investigation of my own. It seems that Mr Mwangangi has a few personal problems to overcome. He and his father have apparently been sworn enemies for some time. They just do not get on together. This friction is having a very great effect on Mr Mwangangi’s wife and as a result she has fallen sick two or three times already. Secondly, his wife is not Kenyan. She was brought up in England and hates the bush. I am told
she is very lonely and is threatening to leave Mwangangi if things don’t change. You see she does not like living apart from their daughter who is at boarding school here in the city. Thirdly, I can tell you for certain that Mr Mwangangi has had his knuckles rapped. The husband of this woman...” Here Mulonzya pointed to the name on the front cover of the offending exercise book “…has written a letter of formal complaint to the Minister. He is one of my strongest allies in Thitani, you see. He has accused Mr Mwangangi of using government property to further his own political ends. I know for a fact that a letter has already gone out to Mr Mwangangi and that he is likely to suffer at least a severe reprimand, and maybe a compulsory re-deployment. He will conclude, of course, that he will be unlikely to get much further in the civil service, but there is still just a chance that he might decide to fight it. And then there is the matter of money, of course. He would clearly earn much more money in a Nairobi practice and even the idealists among us are still human, are we not?”

  George Nzou took a deep breath and then sighed. He said nothing for a while as he dissected Mulonzya’s words. “I can see that you have been very busy, James. I can see the logic behind your scheme. If Mwangangi’s personal difficulties are as great as you say, the right incentive might persuade him to come to the city. That is merely what you want, isn’t it; to get him out of the way?”

  “Yes,” said Mulonzya. “As I said before, I don’t want to discredit him or take out a legal action against him. All I want to do is make sure that we will campaign on equal terms.”

  “You would never succeed with a libel action in this case,” said George curtly. “Internal discipline within the Ministry on the grounds of professional mal-practice, maybe, but not a court action... not, of course, unless there was more incriminating evidence than you have shown me. But suppose I were to help you, James. What is in it for me?”

  “George, all I am asking is that you should offer him an invitation to talk to you. You have more work than you can do. I know that. When you talk to him, you can judge for yourself what he is like. He is very highly qualified, would give you more access to high prestige work and, importantly for you, could deal very easily with foreign company representatives and the like. But those decisions would be for you to make later. All I am asking at the moment is that you write to him saying that there is a vacancy and that you are currently seeking a new like-minded partner. One the other hand,” he continued, after a short pause, “if there is anything else I can do...”

  “Suppose he turns out to be no good? What then...?”

  “Then tell him that things would not work out and don’t offer him the position.”

  “But that would not solve your problem. He would still be in Kitui...”

  “Ah, but the idea of moving to the town would have been raised to the forefront of his mind and a mechanism to accomplish it would have been identified. With the other things I have arranged, the pressure would begin to tell. If there is anything else I could do, George...”

  George Nzou looked down, as if studying his clasped hands. Now nervously, he clicked his fingernails together one after the other while he considered his proposition. “At the moment,” he said, “you stand to gain much more from this than me.”

  Mulonzya interrupted here, speaking louder and quicker. “George, I will gain nothing financially from this and you know it. This is more like an insurance policy than an investment. At the moment, what I am suggesting will be of no cost to yourself. On the contrary, your firm would once again be able to fulfil contracts that it otherwise might lose. All I am suggesting to you is that you should write to Mwangangi to discuss the possibility of a future association. If anyone has anything to gain from this, it is you. I happen to know, you see, that you have already tried once to persuade Mwangangi to join you.”

  Nzou’s reaction was instinctive. “Who told you that?” His voice was tinged with anger.

  Mulonzya offered only a gesture in reply. Displaying wide-eyed ignorance, he simply shrugged his shoulders as if to signify that the fact was common knowledge.

  “It seems to me, James, that your insurance policy is likely to mature before your investment pays its dividends.” He paused here and looked up. Mulonzya, however, offered no reaction. He merely waited. “There is something else, however,” continued Nzou, “which might restore the balance a little.” Mulonzya still stared back blankly. “I have some item of value which I would like to sell. My problem is that here the market is not too good. There are much better prices overseas.”

  Mulonzya raised his eyebrows. “Well?” he asked when the other remained silent.

  “Oh yes, of course,” said Nzou. “They are mavia.” He used the Kamba word deliberately to avoid running the risk of being overheard by the wrong people. The simple word ‘stones’ was fast becoming a dangerous one to use too openly.

  “You would like me to find a way of exporting your mavia?” Nzou nodded. “What are they?”

  Nzou leaned across the table before speaking. “There are not many as yet, James. I have bought most of them from people in the bush who have found them on their land. Of course, I can’t get rid of them, except to tourists, most of which will not buy because they are afraid to do illegal deals. If I can find a way of exporting them, though, I am sure that my contacts will be able to carry on supplying.”

  “What sort are they?”

  Nzou whispered. “All kinds. Opal, tiger eye, red garnets, green garnets, emeralds, rubies...”

  Mulonzya was suddenly interested. He knew that there was no problem whatsoever in either exporting these stones or covering up the deal to avoid it being traced. “Hmm,” he mused, “there are many difficulties...”

  It was now Nzou’s turn to smile. “Come along, James. Don’t play with me.”

  Mulonzya scoffed at this bush talk. “There would be tough penalties for both of us if we were caught, and I would lose my licence.”

  “I doubt it. There’s a lot of money involved.” George Nzou smiled and looked Mulonzya straight in the eye. He rubbed his thumb across his fingers to signify that a bribe could be paid.

  James Mulonzya bit his lip. He eyed the other pensively for some time before finally saying, “All right. It’s agreed then! My company will charge its usual fee, of course.” Nzou nodded and smiled as Mulonzya offered his hand across the table to clinch the deal. “Good. I will expect to hear from you within the next month then. I would be grateful if you would let me read your letter to Mwangangi before you send it. I might be able to offer some useful advice.”

  “Of course, James. I will bring it round to your house personally. I will bring my merchandise as well.”

  After shaking hands again, the two men rose from their seats. Both reached for their wallets simultaneously, but Mulonzya insisted on exercising his seniority and placed a twenty-shilling note onto the table, carefully ensuring that it was trapped firmly beneath the sugar bowl. Then, after a parting word, they left the terrace of the New Stanley Hotel to make their separate ways through the city, Nzou with his new market secure and a possibly valuable piece of inside information firmly in his mind, and Mulonzya with the increased pressure on his rival now guaranteed, plus commission of twenty per cent gross of any future deal.

  Within a few seconds, a party of four European tourists almost dived into the vacant seats. They had been waiting for over half an hour by then. The guidebook, which one of their number so avidly read, invited them to Kenya, where they could leave civilisation behind, find natural beauty and people who still lived the simple life. The waiter, who came to serve them, took the twenty-shilling note with his heart racing. Ten shillings of it were pure tip.

  ***

  Lesley stood and watched the car drive out onto the road. As it turned the corner, she saw the faces of both Janet Rowlandson and Father Michael momentarily turn her way. Their concern for her well-being was clear, though she had tried her utmost to convi
nce them that she would be all right. She wondered whether they had been surprised at how unemotionally she had received the news. It was surely possible, she thought, that she had already got over the worst of the shock because she had already been told by a personal messenger from Migwani, who stood at her side. But perhaps the real shock was still to come. Surely that was it. She would continue to feel nothing until she had become aware of the full reality of the event.

  As the car disappeared into the distance, she turned to her right and spoke to the boy who stood beside her. “I am grateful that you came to tell me. Please don’t think I am being nasty to you, but I think it would be best if you could stay the night in the hotel down the road. I would rather be alone tonight.” Before the boy could say that he had no money, that he had rushed all the way from Migwani at lunchtime with only his bus fare in his pocket, Lesley had spoken again. Laying her hands gently, but without either thanks or affection on his shoulders, she said, “I’ll give you a hundred shillings for your room. You don’t mind, do you?”

  The boy shook his head. The mere thought of a hundred shilling note in his pocket rendered him quite speechless. It took only a minute for Lesley to go inside the house and get the money from her purse. Another minute later and he was gone, already walking down the road. She knew he would find some room behind a shop or bar for twenty shillings or so, and then pocket the rest of the money, but by then she was past caring. She watched him disappear behind the euphorbia hedges of the next house as if to see him off the premises and then turned and left the veranda.

  Once inside, her first thought was to pour a glass of whisky, but after taking just a small sip, her face contorted in a grimace and she left the rest untouched on the sideboard. After lighting a cigarette, she sat and lifted her feet onto the low coffee table in a vain attempt to relax. She closed her eyes and took repeated short nervous puffs of her cigarette. Within a minute it had burned down almost to the filter and she again sat upright to lean across the table so she could stub it out. Throughout she wore an expression of self-admonitory disgust. Clearly she felt that she should do something, but what? What could she do? She looked about the room. It still seemed strange. How hard she had tried to feel at home here, and how little she had succeeded. Everything here was John’s. It had never been and would never be hers. No matter how hard she had tried, no matter how hard John had tried, ostensibly on her behalf, she had always felt an alien here. She had done her best to understand her husband’s point of view, to help him realise his ambitions, to strengthen his sometimes flagging determination with her support, but she had never truly understood why. She had backed him because he was her husband, not because she agreed with his intentions, which she hardly even understood, let alone shared.