by Mike Resnick
“In other words, you have no opinion,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.
“Everyone has opinions,” I replied. “I have no facts.”
“Well said!”
And somehow, despite my degrees and my accumulated honors, that seemed like the highest compliment I had ever received, if only because of who offered it.
I would have thanked him, but by then he was discussing the ersatz termite mounds and rocky outcrops, and trying to determine exactly how Maintenance had constructed them.
We reached the city at dusk, and the next morning I accompanied Joshua and Blumlein to the hearing. There was only one observer—Ledama, who sat like a statue, staring straight ahead with the hint of a frown on her face.
“Is she involved in this?” I whispered to Joshua just before he arose to address the Council.
“No,” he said. “She sits here every day and raises bloody hell whenever the Council makes a decision that she thinks is wrong, which is most of the time. I doubt that she even knows what appeals they’re listening to today.”
Then he began stating his case and making his arguments, but to absolutely no avail. It was a travesty that made me ashamed of my own people. Here was a man who was willing to do and pay whatever was required to become a citizen, who was certain to create a classic study of Kilimanjaro and the Maasai, who asked for no special treatment—and Robert ole Meeli and the others were unmoved by his sincerity or Joshua ole Saibull’s arguments.
I could see the decision slipping away, and so could Joshua, but there was nothing he could do about it. The Council was armored in its ignorance and its biases, and William Blumlein was going to spend the rest of his life bringing fame to some other culture.
A lunch break was called, and Joshua, Blumlein and I ate outside on a patio.
“They’re not going to budge,” complained Joshua. “They paid no attention to any of my arguments.”
“Then there’s no hope?” asked Blumlein.
“I’m afraid not,” replied Joshua. “Oh, we’ll go through the motions. I’ll speak for most of the afternoon and probably tomorrow morning. I’ll have David explain the historic reasons for allowing open immigration, and I’ve got holographic testimony from your peers explaining why your presence will be a boon to any society, but it’s not going to work.”
“Damn!” muttered Blumlein. “Is there nothing else we can try?”
“Yes,” said Joshua disgustedly. “Go out in traffic and get hit by a car. If we use enough Maasai blood in the transfusion, they can’t say you don’t belong. Otherwise…”
“Just a minute,” I said. “Say that again.”
“Say what again?” demanded Joshua.
“If he had a large enough transfusion…”
“He’d be a Maasai by their own ruling,” said Joshua. “But surely you aren’t suggesting that William walk out in traffic in order to…”
“No,” I said. “But you’ve given me an idea. First I need to ask a question.” I turned to Blumlein. “Are you married?”
“Widowed,” he replied.
“How badly do you want to be a citizen?”
“Very badly,” said Blumlein.
Joshua spent most of the afternoon finding new ways of presenting the same arguments, while I sat in the back of the chamber, toying with the notion that had occurred to me. Then we were through for the day, the Council chambers were cleared, and Joshua walked Blumlein to his car. I lagged behind, and when I saw Ledama come out of the building I walked over to her.
“Good afternoon,” I said pleasantly.
“Do you think so?” she snapped. “These fools are about to deny citizenship to a man any world would be proud to claim as its own!”
“Well, we have our traditions, and they have to maintain them. After all, he has no Maasai blood.”
“We have others here who have no Maasai blood,” she said angrily.
“But Zulus and Mtebele and other Africans have undergone the circumcision ritual.”
“Are you trying to tell me that a white man with a name like Blumlein has not been circumcised?” she demanded.
“No,” I said. “I just wish there was some way he could become a Maasai.”
“No one becomes a Maasai,” she said harshly. “You are born one or you are not. It’s as simple as that.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” I said. “After all, it’s not as if he’d been carried off in a raid and forced to wed a Maasai.”
She stopped and stared at me, and I could see that the notion had registered.
“It was a silly suggestion,” I said. “Such raids ended centuries ago, and besides, he’s not a woman to be made one of a warrior’s wives.”
She seemed lost in thought and again made no reply, and I walked over to where Joshua and Blumlein were waiting in the car.
“What was that all about?” asked Joshua.
“I momentarily became a farmer,” I responded.
“What are you talking about?”
“I planted a seed in the most fertile ground on Kilimanjaro,” I said. “Tomorrow morning we will see if it has sprouted roots and grown.”
“I understand laibonis, who deal only with the supernatural,” complained Joshua. “Why is it that historians and sociologists speak in riddles?”
Blumlein laughed heartily at that, offered a funny rejoinder, and the subject was forgotten.
The next morning, as the Council seated themselves, Joshua was about to rise and speak to them, but he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, holding him down. It belonged to Ledama, who approached Robert ole Meeli.
“What is it this time?” he said wearily, as if this was a common occurrence, and for all I knew it may have been.
“We have business to discuss,” she announced.
“It can wait,” replied Robert. “We are hearing the case of William Blumlein now.”
“This has bearing on it,” said Ledama firmly. “The Council will hear me first.”
“But—” began Robert.
“Or do you want it known that you will no longer allow a woman to address the Council?” she continued.
He sighed deeply. “Speak, Ledama, daughter of Ntaiya.”
“I thought that Kilimanjaro was supposed to be a Utopia,” she began.
“We are doing our best to make it so,” replied Robert.
“You have made it so for half the population,” she responded. “The male half.”
“What now?” he asked in goaded tones.
“How many wives do you have, Robert ole Meeli?” asked Ledama.
“Three,” he said.
“Why?” she asked.
He seemed genuinely puzzled. “Why?” he repeated. “Because I wanted them, and could afford the bride price.”
“Because you wanted them,” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“How many husbands may a Maasai woman have?”
“One.”
“You see?” she said triumphantly. “Kilimanjaro cannot be a Utopia for women if you can have something we cannot have.”
“We can shave our faces, and you cannot. You can have babies, and we cannot. There are many things only one sex can do. Perhaps you should take your petition to En-kai, who created us with all these differences.”
“You are talking about differences we are born with, and cannot be changed. I am talking about rights that you have granted yourself, as a man, and refuse to grant me, as a woman.”
And suddenly Joshua was at her side.
“Her petition has merit,” he said, “and I wish to speak on her behalf.”
He leaned over and whispered something to her—I found out later that he was assuring her that there would be no charge—and she quickly nodded her assent.
It took two full days, but when it was over the Council had agreed that to truly be a Utopia, Kilimanjaro must either practice monogamy for everyone, and since that clearly was not acceptable to the polygamous Council members, then polyandry must exist side-by-side with po
lygamy.
The next morning Ledama, who was already married, took William Blumlein as her second husband. They agreed that she would remain a city-dweller while he would spend his time living with and studying the pastoralists, but the mere act of marriage made him as much a Maasai as those kidnapped Kikuyu and Nandi women of centuries past.
The next morning Robert ole Meeli retired as the chief of the Council of Elders and within a week had returned to his ancestral home on Kenya’s Loita Plains.
5
AFTERNOON ON
KILIMANJARO (2238 A.D.)
WE should have seen it coming.
When Robert ole Meeli departed for Kenya, that left the Council of Elders divided with six men and six women. It was only a matter of a few days before the Council met to name a successor—and only a matter of a few minutes thereafter that Ledama, daughter of Ntaiya, and Ashina, daughter of Kibibi, led a march of literally hundreds of women demanding that the new Council member be a woman.
Ordinarily this would have been dealt with by a seven-to-six vote—but with Robert gone, there were six men and six women on the Council, and of course they were deadlocked.
Every day for a week the women (and after the first day, the men as well) presented their arguments, and every day the vote remained tied, six-to-six.
I knew it was only a matter of time until I was called before the Council of Elders, and in fact it took exactly six days.
“David ole Saitoti,” said Martin ole Sironka, who was presiding over the meeting, “are you aware of why you have been summoned?”
“Since I have nothing else to offer,” I replied, “I assume you seek my expertise as an historian.”
“That is correct,” said Martin. “And surely you are aware of the problem that confronts us.”
“I am aware of it.”
“How was this problem resolved in times past?” he continued.
“This particular problem was never resolved,” I answered.
“What?” he demanded. “Surely in the long history of the Maasai…”
“It was never resolved, because it has never before occurred,” I explained. “No woman ever sat on the Council of Elders before we came to Kilimanjaro.”
“So there is nothing in our history to guide us?”
“There is nothing in Maasai history,” I answered. “But it is possible that we can be guided by the histories of other races.”
“How?” asked Martin.
“The Council of Elders rules Kilimanjaro, does it not?” I said.
“Of course it does,” he said impatiently.
“What you must remember is that not all tribes and not all races have always had a Council of Elders or its equivalent,” I continued. “In the earliest recorded history, most people were ruled by a king or chief, who achieved primacy either by inheriting it from his parents or through feats of physical strength, which frequently involved killing the previous ruler.”
“Surely you’re not suggesting that applicants to the Council of Elders must fight to prove their worthiness!” he snapped.
I shook my head. “No, Martin ole Sironka, I am not suggesting that. I’m merely telling you how leaders were chosen in ancient times.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with us,” he grumbled.
“I’ll try to show you,” I said. He glared at me with a look that said: Then get on with it or stop wasting my time. “One of the problems with a single ruler, be he a king or chief or warlord, is that he frequently cannot make an informed decision. After all, one man can’t know everything that is happening in his domain at any given moment.”
“And this is how the Council of Elders came about?” asked another member.
“This is how governments came about,” I said. “Kingdoms and countries became too complex for one man to rule, and so they were ruled by many men, though there was usually one man whose word was final. Sometimes these groups of men were called Councils of Elders, sometimes parliaments, sometimes congresses, sometimes other things.”
“Then you haven’t solved our problem at all,” snapped Martin. “You have merely shown that every society has the same problem.”
“I haven’t finished,” I said.
“You are very long-winded,” he complained.
“That’s because I have a lot of history to cover,” I replied. “Now, as I was saying, there comes a time in the life of every society where one man can no longer rule it, and at that point there is created a ruling body of men, whether a Council of Elders or something else. But,” I continued, “not every ruling body is responsible to the people it was created to rule. For example, let us assume that the next member of the Council is a city-dweller, as Robert ole Meeli was. Let us then assume that the pastoralists feel they are not being paid enough for their cattle, and petition the Council for a higher rate. And let us finally assume that, being human, the members of the Council vote for what is in their self-interest. There will be at least ten votes against the pastoralists, won’t there?”
“Of course,” said Martin. “What is your point, David ole Saitoti?”
“Simply this: that over the centuries the definition of the Councils and the parliaments and other bodies changed.”
“In what way?”
“It was finally understood that their true purpose was not to rule, but to serve.”
“Semantics!” he snorted contemptuously. “We do serve.”
“But if you’ll consider the example I offered, you are not serving the interests of the pastoralists who come to you for help. You are serving only your own interests—so why should they come to you at all?”
“Because we are the Council of Elders,” he replied. “They have no other recourse.”
“They have one,” I said calmly. “And throughout history, whenever they feel they have been abused or ignored by the people that rule them, they have used it.”
“And what is that?”
“Revolution,” I said.
“We will hear no more of this!” yelled Martin, getting to his feet and leaving the chamber. Two men and a woman left with him—but eight members of the Council did not leave.
“Have there been many revolutions?” asked Isaac ole Olkejuado.
“There used to be.”
“But no longer?”
I shook my head. “They’ve become increasingly rare.”
“How were they prevented?” he asked.
“By making governments responsible for their actions,” I said.
He seemed puzzled. “How?”
“Primarily by holding elections and letting the people decide who rules them,” I answered. “And by doing it on a regular basis, so if one of the leaders—most people do not like the word rulers—isn’t responsive to the needs of the people he’s been elected to serve, he can be removed from office without violence and without revolution. If a leader constantly votes in his own self-interest, he’ll be voted out of office by the people he’s supposed to serve, and that is definitely not in his self-interest. He will always keep that in mind.”
“There were elections in Kenya,” said Isaac. “This never concerned us, because the Kikuyu and Luo always won. They ignored us and we ignored them.”
“The Kikuyu and Luo will not win an election on Kilimanjaro,” I pointed out.
“We’ll assemble the full Council here tomorrow morning, and you will make your case to us,” said Isaac. “But don’t be too hopeful, for what you are doing is asking us to put our futures in someone else’s hands.”
“As supplicants do every time they appear before the Council of Elders,” I said.
“Save your arguments for tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll listen to them then.”
And, surprisingly, they did listen. They asked a lot of questions and voiced a lot of objections, but they listened. I think it was the thought of revolution that finally encouraged them to agree to elections.
“That is the easy part,” I announced when they were through congratulating each other.
“Now you must write a constitution.”
“Why?” asked Martin ole Sironka, who had been the one Council member to vote against allowing anyone else to vote.
“You must have a document that will define the duties—and especially the limitations—of those who are elected. It must state how much time will elapse between elections, and it must describe how the business of the Council is to be carried out. Do you remember the arguments you had about immigration a year ago? You’ve got to try to foresee every future problem, and if you can’t solve them in the constitution, you must at least give the elected officials some guidelines for solving them.”
“Is that all?” said Isaac sardonically.
“More will occur to you,” I replied.
And more did.
Finally, after a month, the Council announced that they had completed work on their constitution, and would soon put it before the people for their approval.
“Don’t you want to examine it and explain what they might have done wrong?” I asked that evening, as Joshua ole Saibull and I had dinner at a small restaurant.
“Why bother?” he said. “It’s legal.”
“What if it borrows from the old tradition that one mother cannot produce two souls? That if she produces twins one of them must be a demon—and not knowing which, the family is justified in killing them both.”
“Let’s hope they know better,” said Joshua.
“What if there’s something equally foolish in there, and they don’t know better?” I persisted.
“You don’t seem to understand, David,” he said, pouring himself a beer. “This isn’t a law or a tradition we’re talking about. It’s a constitution, the highest legal document on Kilimanjaro. If it says the buffalo in the game parks can vote and grown men can’t, then that’s the law.”
“But—” I began.
“You’re the historian, David,” he interrupted. “Give me an honest answer. Did Adolph Hitler or any member of the Third Reich ever break German law?”
“They were illegal laws,” I protested.
“You didn’t answer my question,” said Joshua.
I was silent for a long moment. “This could be a disaster,” I said at last.
He shrugged. “People get the governments they deserve.”
