by M G Vassanji
Yes, sir, Lieutenant Soames, Papa said, you can never be too careful. Of course I have taken shooting lessons, I do the Home Guard patrols in this area, and it’s a good thing you’re keeping an eye on the blacks…
The man was at the back window of the house, peeping inside with curiosity as Mother drew a sharp breath, and he spoke softly, How are you, little girl, missing out on all the excitement, are we? What’s your name?
She was asleep, explained Mother anxiously. My daughter—Deepa. She must have woken up just now.
Just then an uproar began outside the third house from ours, as Corporal Boniface and the second European officer staggered from the back door, pushing out someone who, though dark as an African, was known to most people in Nakuru as Saeed Molabux, nicknamed Madrassi and the son of a pre-eminent Nakuru family. He was thrown violently on the ground. He shouted something defiantly at the officer, the herded crowd of servants stirred into a collective murmur. Provoked, the officer, the corporal, and other askaris converged on Saeed, raining rifle butts and kicks on his back as his body curled up on the ground like a worm and he tried to shield his head with his raised elbows. Behind, at the doorway of the house, his mother Sakina-dadi, my dadi, and his sister Amina were all shouting incomprehensibly.
A furious Mahesh Uncle, Saeed’s friend, charged forward bull-like, shouting, He’s Juma Molabux’s son, don’t you know that? Stop or I’m calling his lawyer Mr. Kapila in Nairobi, right now!
Wisely, my uncle halted halfway, before reaching the policemen, and a glaring match ensued.
The beatings stopped, and a bloody-faced Saeed stood up, saying, Yes, I’ll call my lawyer—
The lieutenant at our doorstep, who had just finished greeting Deepa, said in his gentle manner, It’s the Emergency, they only mistook him for a bloody—pardon me, ma’am—Kyuke hiding away inside. You can’t be too careful, can you.
Touching his hand to his cap in a salute, he strolled away, reserving a sharp look for Mahesh Uncle as he passed him.
What will happen to my silly brother? Mother whispered helplessly. To her surprise, Papa told her, In this case, he stood up for his friend.
They took away four of the servants for questioning, including the two who had tried to escape. They confiscated a few goats and chickens, a radio, and some other items, including the banana leaf and the newspaper. Bastards, Mahesh Uncle was still muttering, bloody kaburu bastards, even as the police officers turned to cast a final eye upon the scene. Saeed had been supported to his house by a servant and his sister.
And from our house emerged Njoroge, hesitant, frightened.
Where did you hide, Njoroge? asked Mother.
Under my bed, said Deepa, gaily tripping out behind him.
That girl is going to be the death of me!
No, she has done you proud, Mahesh Uncle replied, picking up Deepa, and I felt proud and yet jealous. Yes, she had been brave, she would always be the brave one.
I watched Njoroge’s back, his tall bony shape, as he slowly made his way to his grandfather’s single room, entered its dark interior, leaving the door wide open. Mwangi was one of the men taken away for questioning.
When on the following Saturday Mrs. Bruce came to drop off Bill and Annie and to order the groceries she would take with her later, she asked Papa if he had a bottle of whisky she could borrow or buy from him. Papa said, Of course. I could hardly refuse, she looked so desperate, he explained to Mother. It’s not that they are lacking water, she retorted; let her drink water for a change. When Mrs. Bruce returned, Papa had a new bottle of Johnny Walker waiting for her. Our friends’ mother left in very high spirits, ruffling Deepa’s hair on her way out. That gesture pleased Mother.
Juma Molabux, the only wine merchant in town, in retaliation for his family’s humiliation by the police, had announced that his stock of whisky had been destroyed by accident. The District Commissioner sent the police to check, in case there was whisky around and Molabux was in breach of hoarding laws, but they found that the three cases of whisky which had been in stock had indeed crashed down from a height, breaking all the bottles. And so the Europeans had to send for their whisky from Nairobi or go without; since many of them had credit terms with Molabux & Sons, and were not doing so well in that year of drought, they went without. Except, that weekend, the Bruces.
Saeed Molabux was kept in hospital for two days of observation. He received an apology from the District Commissioner and from the Commissioner of Police, who assured him that the officers in charge of the raid had been duly reprimanded. The police had been irresponsible, an editorial of the Nairobi paper said, this was hardly the time for the Europeans to antagonize another community, when the world’s eyes were upon Kenya.
The Masai and Kikuyu peoples have traditionally been rivals, if not enemies, though there has been a tendency to deny this in recent times, in the interest of national harmony or political correctness. The Masai were herders of cattle in the vast plains of the Rift Valley, and the Kikuyu farmed the highlands and kept cattle and goats and sheep under the benevolent gaze of Ngai, the God on Mount Kenya. Occasionally, the Masai and the Kikuyu came into conflict. Governments, the British in the past and the more recent ones now, have found it expedient to exploit this rivalry, as my young visitor Joseph is only too ready to attest.
And so there was some irony in Lieutenant Soames calling Saeed a Kyuke, the Europeans’ hate-filled term for the Kikuyu. For Sakina-dadi, Saeed’s mother and Dadi’s closest friend, was a full-blooded Masai. Such dark, exotic knowledge, portal to a forest of imaginings about the adult world, was obviously not deemed suitable for my sister and me, being brought up as Punjabi Hindus to the best of my mother’s abilities. But after that violent police visit, the secret couldn’t stay hidden for long.
Sakina-dadi, as I had known her, like any Punjabi woman wore a shalwar-kameez and dupatta, spoke Punjabi fluently and perfectly, at least to my young ears, and cooked formidable kheer, karhi, and dahi-wada. And when she cooked goat, Papa went off quietly to partake of it—Mother staring anxiously after him, having instructed him not to overdo it—for we did not cook meat in our home.
One day at breakfast Mother said, referring to Saeed’s beating by the police, Imagine mistaking a Masai for Kikuyu! Immediately realizing she shouldn’t have made that comment in front of the children, with a guilty look toward me she put an admonishing hand to her mouth and just as quickly removed it. Half Masai, Papa couldn’t help interjecting before he too realized his error.
Is he, is he really a Masai? I asked excitedly.
Then why doesn’t he have a spear, Papa? Deepa asked.
Next you will ask why doesn’t he go around wearing only a red shawl with his bum showing, Papa replied. Budhu! He only looks like a Masai—doesn’t he?
But the secret door had been opened. One day, Dadi exclaimed, to something Deepa said about Saeed’s Masai looks, But his mother was such a beautiful Masai girl! There was a stunned silence, and then Dadi said quietly, Yes, Sakina-dadi was a Masai girl when Juma-dada married her long ago.
It was so obvious afterwards: Sakina-dadi was distinct. She was taller than my dadi, skinnier and long-legged; her face was round and her eyes large. She was dark, though in a way some Indians were. I never saw her hair, it was always covered by the dupatta. And there was a reserve about her, for instance when I went to her house to call my dadi; I don’t recall her ever touching me. I have often wondered why.
Juma Molabux, at the end of his indentureship with the railway, chose to settle in Kijabe, where he opened a store to sell blankets, beads, and copper wire to the Masai. Kijabe was also on the railway line, a thriving town full of Indians at the top of the escarpment and directly overlooking the Rift Valley. Masai women and girls would come to Juma’s shop, looking vigorous and free and happy, decked out in their latest fashions for this trip to the market. In his loneliness he must have found the maidens unbearably exciting, dressed so scantily compared with Indian women. They laughed at him, but not unk
indly. One day a large Masai man, who called himself Jerom, came to Juma and said, You are staring at my women. You like them. You must marry one of them.
The Indian was flabbergasted. The Masai roared with laughter, called a companion over from the doorway, then turned to Juma.
What’s the matter, you don’t feel the urge to lie down beside a woman?
The companion said, more insultingly, with the appropriate gesture, You don’t have that thing to shove into a woman?
Arm in arm, the men swaggered out. Their red cloaks, pulled over the tops of their bodies, with nothing else underneath, showed off portions of their smooth buttocks as proudly as their supple limbs; their long hair was plaited and dyed red, their pierced earlobes dangled low to their cheeks. Were they serious, or laughing at him? And if they were serious? As if he would marry a primitive Masai who put sheep fat in her hair and red earth on her body and drank cow’s blood!
Jerom returned the next day. Well? Have you decided? With him was a maiden who had caught Juma’s fancy several times—tall, smooth, and round-faced; she was beautiful, wearing discs of coloured beads round her neck, circlets of steel wire round her calves, and apparently nothing under her robe. She looked shy. Meeting her eye, Juma Molabux made his decision, based upon his soul-searching of the previous, sleepless night. He was lonely, he had no family in the country and not much status, and he badly wanted a woman. Cohabiting with, or even marrying, an African woman was not entirely unheard of among Indians. And nothing in his upbringing forbade marrying someone from another community, or race, provided—
I will marry her, but I must make her a Muslim.
This would grant him even a place in heaven, he had concluded the previous night.
You must pay me a cow, the prospective father-in-law said, already with more authority.
I don’t have a cow, Juma countered, looking at the girl, his blood now surging with desire. I don’t have that much money, I am a worker. But when I have earned enough I will pay you.
Done, Jerom said, and crushed Juma’s hand inside his.
Was she truly beautiful? Mother asked Dada, who had opened up finally about his friend’s story one cozy family evening.
Dadaji gave a thin smile but said not a word.
Papa spoke up, oblivious to his mother’s presence: Bauji, tusi vi kadii tempt hoye hoge, na…all those tall, lithesome Masai girls—
Dada’s ears turned red. Deepa looked at me, my eyes searched Mother’s for some reason that I did not understand.
Biji was not any less beautiful, Mother put in, referring to Dadi.
True, true, said Papa, I was only pulling the old man’s leg!
The marriage terms agreed on, Juma Molabux went to Nakuru and fetched his friend and fellow Peshawaree, my grandfather, to act as his escort, and the two of them drove a bullock cart from Kijabe to the Masai manyatta down on the plains beside Mount Longonot for the marriage ceremony. They stayed with the Masai for two days and took away the new bride. Her groom had brought her a shalwar-kameez and dupatta, which she wore shyly but proudly. She wore leather chappals. And she did not have several discs of many-coloured beads round her neck, but rather a plain gold chain and pendant, a gift from my dada and dadi. There was no sheep’s fat on her hair. Her people had laughed when they saw her thus, bedecked as a stranger, sitting on the cart, but they had also cheered. And they told the groom and his escort to sing, as they took her away, and the two men sang happy verses from the Punjabi story of Heer and Ranjha. Juma Molabux took his wife to live in Nakuru, where they could rely on the support of their friends, my dada and dadi.
What was the marriage ceremony like? Papa asked.
Dada said, The medicine man sprinkled the couple with water, they had to wear leaves and walk around, and then they went to spend the night in a hut.
Wah, said Papa with a sigh.
You sound regretful you didn’t marry a Masai, Mother reprimanded.
He put his arm around her, gave her a squeeze. You are my Masai woman, na.
One of those heartwarming moments between them, when Mahesh Uncle was not around.
But she speaks Punjabi! Deepa said.
Better than me, said Papa.
Ha sahi achi to bolti hai, Dadi said.
Dadi explained how, in Nakuru, she had taught Punjabi ways to the Masai girl.
My young visitor stays up late sometimes, turned on to the Internet, through which he keeps abreast of developments in Kenya. He has become a member, I learn, of a chat group called MuKenya, styling themselves Sons of Mau Mau. Some of the rhetoric of the group is bitter and inciteful, but perhaps that’s all it is: rhetoric. And perhaps Joseph’s distance from the turmoil back home, in these calmer surroundings, will help him to think of more constructive responses. His current passion certainly puts a barrier between us.
The town closest to where we are is Korrenburg, an hour’s walk away, ten minutes by car. We sometimes walk there. The library has the usual thrillers and a surprisingly good collection of historical volumes on the African colonies of the Empire. There is an Agatha Christie society and a reading club. It is the kind of small, quiet town where Dame Agatha might well have sent Miss Marple to spend a few days with a married niece and solve a mystery. In fact, the local Christie Club organizes regular events, including mystery getaways and fashion shows in which members appear dressed as Christie characters. The librarian here, to my surprise, turned out to be an Indian, a Ms. Chatterjee. The three of us had a lunch of fish and chips together.
According to Ms. Chatterjee, Korrenburg was founded more than two hundred years ago by seven Loyalist families from the United States. It was called Georgetown and later renamed to commemorate the marriage of one of the daughters of King George IV to a Bavarian prince. Korrenburg boasts many cultural activities, some impressive architecture, its own town crier, and a marina. You will like it, says the librarian.
FOUR.
Vikram?
Yes.
What was that?
What?
That sound—did you hear it? (She whispers.)
There’s nothing.
Do you think they could come for us?
No, of course not. Go to sleep.
It was the nights that curdled the blood, that made palpable the terror that permeated our world like a mysterious ether. The faint yet persistent chir-chir-chir of crickets or the rhythmic croak-croak of frogs when it rained, the whine of the solitary vehicle on the road, seemed only to deepen the hour, enhance the menacing ominousness lurking in the dark outside. The Mau Mau owned this darkness, which cloaked them into invisibility; then suddenly they materialized, a gang of twenty or forty seeking entry into a marked house, throwing poisoned meat to the guard dogs, hacking a watchman to death…or a single murderer looking down upon you as you lay in bed.
Such were the stories we had heard about them. The Mau Mau are your enemies, they will kill and maim your family and children, they perform bestial rites and orgies under the cover of night in the homes of their sworn supporters, one of whom could well be your Kikuyu servant in his room. A pamphlet was distributed by the government. It was in Swahili and illustrated with pictures of purported Mau Mau doings. Two of them seared my young mind then, have become forever unforgettable. In one, a naked African child of about four lay curled on the ground, in a posture of sleep; the neck abruptly drooped down, and at its back, the only disfiguration on the smooth body, a black inky smudge with thick bristly protrusions like crawling worms. It took a few days of brooding over and compulsive staring at the picture in secret, eventually through a stamp-collector’s magnifying glass, for the realization to catch hold that those were not worms on the back of the child’s head but broken ends of skin, bone, and muscle, all the exposed tissues of a neck hacked by a panga. In the other picture, a girl of about six, also naked, lay bent over a log; there were short panga slash marks on her calves; there was no head on the body, it lay about a foot away. The panga had cut away part of an ear, this I remember too.
Report Mau Mau activity in your area, the pamphlet exhorted. If you suspect that someone has taken the Mau Mau oath, or if you yourself are approached to take it, talk to the police. Call 999.
After Mahesh Uncle took up his job in the Resham Singh Sawmill near Njoro, Deepa was given his room to sleep in. Still afraid of the dark, she often slipped into my bed, her warm body close to mine, and she would start her fretful querying: Vikram?
Once a week, on Tuesdays, our father would go out on a patrol of our area of Nakuru in the night. He had volunteered for this Home Guard duty rather brashly, as Mother always made it a point to remind him, telling him there were enough younger men who were willing to do the job. He would go with one other person and the duty lasted from ten p.m. till one a.m. Before he left, as he stood at the door, Mother made sure he wore his thick sweater under the windbreaker and had his police whistle in his pocket. She put a flask of coffee and a box of savouries in his hands, and she would hear out his long string of reminders—to keep an occasional eye on the lighted backyard, to keep within rapid access of the alarm switch and the gun by their bedside, when to use the telephone and always to be brief whether calling out or answering, to pay heed if neighbourhood dogs started barking, how to listen for the reassuring sounds of the two Dorobo watchmen who did the rounds of our development every night armed with bows and arrows…and what to do just in case…no point in hiding the kids, they should all stay together. If he didn’t stop, she would interrupt him and put in her plea: Now listen, don’t be foolish and step out of the car, did you hear? Yes, yes, don’t worry, he would say, which hardly convinced her. One night, while going around some house to inspect the servant quarters, as he was required to do occasionally, he had been brought to the ground by two Alsatian guard dogs. The consequences, if the residents had been tardy in their response or too quick with their guns, could have been dire for him. Finally it would be time to leave. If it was his partner’s turn to drive, the car would arrive outside and toot its horn briefly. Adjusting his khaki cloth hat, of which he was rather conscious, with a reassuring glance at his official white armband that said “H.G.,” and saying, “Accha, mein jaunga,” Papa would take leave, and Mother would secure all the bolts and locks on the door and turn around to face us, white as a sheet. She would hurry to the table which held the statues of all the important gods and whisper brief prayers. It was her puja day and she would already have been to the temple earlier.
