by M G Vassanji
He said to the Pharaoh
Let my people go, oh go
said Jomo
Let my people go!
Rendered with a flourish. There was a momentary pin-drop silence. And then I caught a movement in the periphery of my vision, and sudden as a bolt of lightning a resounding slap landed on my cheek. It was from my father, who had swivelled on his haunches beside me and was leaning over me in rage. My mother had screamed. Exchanging a brief fearful look with Papa, I stood up and ran to Mother, my head pounding and cheek burning, tears barely restrained: completely completely crushed.
Badmaash! Where did you learn that obscene song! Papa shouted, now up and glaring at me as I took shelter in my mother’s arms. And she pleaded with him with her eyes.
Someone in school taught him, no doubt, Mahesh Uncle said, with a meaningful look toward me, and I nodded in a hurry.
Who? Papa exploded. He must be reported, jeopardizing people this way—
You don’t want to get involved, Bhaiya, Mahesh Uncle said, you don’t want to be a target now.
Papa realized the wisdom of that comment and sat down, and I ran to my room to shed my tears freely.
I sat on my bed, staring at the door I had shut behind me. Why did I sing something so obviously offensive to my family? I had learned it and had sworn not to repeat it; in a part of my brain I realized that I had broken my promise so as not to be distanced from my family, not to have any secret separate me from them, because they were my precious everything. It had seemed so innocent, my singing; what did the song have to do with us?
My mother predictably came in after some time, brought tea and held my hand in silence. She looked beautiful that night in an orange and red sari that rustled and gold jewellery that chimed, her face made up, her eyebrows long and shaped, smelling like the sweetest sweetmeat. That is what Sita must have looked like in Ayodhya. My father was proud of her, of her beauty and of the fact that she was from India, a genuine article, even though he often despised that homeland as backward and barbaric.
Mahesh Uncle came in a little later, adjusting his black-framed glasses, and said, Do you want to get your family in trouble? You have no business learning such songs, the police will lock you up, or your father…or your friend, whoever he is.
He met my eye, asked: Who taught you that song, Vic? Someone must have taught you. Who was it?
I did not answer, though I knew that he knew it was Njoroge.
He waited awhile then said softly, All right, then. But you be careful, young man. No more saying silly things—is that a promise?
I nodded. We exchanged the three-part Masai handshake, which we sometimes did to seal a pact. I tickled his beard to let him know I was back to my old self.
By the way, Vic, do you mind if I take your old bicycle with me tomorrow, there are some fellows at the sawmill who could use it to run errands. Even I could use it.
I said he was welcome to it.
And the pump, can I take it too?
Sure, I said.
We came out together and Papa greeted me warmly, ruffled my forelocks affectionately, and stroked the back of my neck, as he liked to do. He was a loving father to whom I had given quite a scare. He still had not recovered from his nighttime encounter with the eyeless man and the theft of his gun.
Soon the men started drinking and playing three-card flush, even Mahesh Uncle, who said jovially that he had no intention of being turned into a porcupine, for that was the fate of a man who did not gamble on Diwali night. This was the night Goddess Lakshmi smiled upon you, and it was good to start off the new year with a winning streak. Of course not everybody won, but that seemed beside the point. Mahesh Uncle, for one, was losing, and his face soon wore that characteristic frown. The women played cards by themselves, quiet and more dignified, using pennies only. My mother seemed to be having all the luck.
It was eight in the evening and the back door was open, for a while at least, Mother said, so that good fortune Lakshmi had a chance to come flying into our home. I was playing carom against my cousins, with Deepa as my partner. With her little fingers she was no match for the older among us, and the two of us almost always lost.
Njoroge came and stood at the open door behind us, watching the proceedings in the house.
Psst, he said, beckoning with a hand. I’m playing, I said, I can’t come. Come, Njoroge said, beckoned again, and disappeared from view. The game was soon lost and I went outside, saw Njoroge waiting for me beside the back wall of our house.
So, what are you Indians celebrating tonight?
Diwali—
Heh?
When Rama comes victorious to his country, remember—after killing Ravana?
He nodded. He had played Ravana at the shopping centre, after all.
There is a lot of food—you Indians sure eat a lot.
Shall I go and bring some?
No.
Why? There is gulab jamun and—
It gives me diarrhea.
I stared at him. I had never heard that complaint from him before. Perhaps he was feeling bashful because he did not want to seem to beg.
At this moment Deepa walked out with a bowl of the very thing—deep-brown balls in a lake of enticing golden syrup. Give him a bite, I said to my sister. She cut a jamun piece with her spoon and let him taste it. He made a face at first, but then the syrup had its effect and he said, Sure is good. Is there more?
There was a sound at the back of the neighbour’s yard. A man was suddenly visible there, short and tubby, wearing a jacket and facing away; behind him came a large man in a greatcoat open at the front; someone else had gone on ahead of them and disappeared in the shadows. It became apparent that a file of Africans was proceeding stealthily toward the fence at the back and disappearing through it. Some of them carried baskets, others walking sticks, one a four-gallon can.
I looked at Njoroge and he stared back, meaningfully, defiantly, as if to tell me he knew things, as if to dare me to tell my elders.
Mother’s figure stood framed inside our door and she said, There you are. You’re not supposed to be outside at night, the police will take you away. And you, Njoroge-William, what are you doing here—you should be home.
Her eyes, though, lingered thoughtfully in the direction where the file of African men had gone. She had seen something.
Come and light the sparklers, she said to Deepa and me; and then to Njoroge: You too, come in and play.
We all went in and she carefully locked the door. Here, Papa said, you kids—Njoroge, it’s late—
Everyone was staring at Njoroge. I will never forget the sight of Nirmala Auntie’s horrified expression as she took in my friend’s black-black Kikuyu face. It was as if her eyes had lighted on a monster. Is it safe? she whispered to my mother, who replied, He is only Mwangi’s grandson.
Sparklers were placed in our hands, and in those of my cousins, and were lighted by the adults, and for a few minutes we forgot everything, all our faces beaming and blinking as we waved our sparkling phuljadis in spiralling circles, round and round, and ran about, until finally we held only the cindery, glowing wires in our hands.
The next morning Mahesh Uncle left for the sawmill, taking with him two young Africans who were brought to him by Mwangi and who needed a ride to Njoro.
I don’t know what Mahesh is up to, Papa said irritably, he could get himself and all of us into trouble.
You know he sympathizes with the Africans, Mother said, but that doesn’t mean he is doing anything illegal.
But she must have told my father about what she had seen in the backyard the previous night. For that afternoon at around one, just after lunch, police trucks suddenly arrived, and in their usual loud and rough fashion the askaris began rounding up the servants and searching their quarters. Mwangi was again taken away with other servants. Njoroge had run away to hide in the bushes.
Many years later I reminded Njoroge of my aunt Nirmala’s reaction when she saw him that Diwali night.
/> He laughed. She was terrified, he said, but so was I. She was white like a ghost, her eyes big and round and her mouth wide open. I used to be frightened of Asians, if you have to know.
I protested: How could we have seemed frightening?
You were in with the whites, so you had power over us. And you are so alien, more so than the whites. We never know what you think. You are so inscrutable, you Indians.
I thought it was the British who were so inscrutable. And Mahesh Uncle?
The exception. As transparent as…as…
Cellophane?
We laughed together. Yes, Mahesh Uncle had been special, his emotions ablaze and on full display when we knew him in Nakuru. There was never any doubt what he felt about anything or anybody. But he also had his private moments, some of which he shared with Mother and some of which he didn’t; he had his dark secrets.
I had turned thoughtful and distracted, recalling my uncle. Njoroge peered into my face in a mock-curious way and brought me back to earth. Nobody’s totally transparent, I know, he said, not me, not you. It depends on what side you look at a person from. But one thing is for certain: You Indians eat all the time. And we laughed again.
That last comment is almost exactly what his son Joseph has repeated on at least two occasions when Seema (Ms. Chatterjee) has been around. She stops by sometimes, when she’s finished at the Korrenburg Library, during evenings when she’s not at a meeting of the armchair sleuths of the Christie Club or volunteering for the local amateur symphony. Then food always becomes a major issue and suddenly there seems to be an abundance of it. She has taken it upon herself to bring or make food for us single men at every opportunity.
One hot evening, outside on the veranda, after a dinner of pilau, pakodas, and grilled fish, while we sip the last drops of our Kingfisher lagers, and the cats nuzzle against our legs, Seema asks, Who owns this house?
It was custom-made not very long ago for an academic couple who divorced soon afterwards. It is shaped like a hut—circular and with a high, vaulted ceiling—but is perhaps twenty times the size of a typical African hut. There are no interior walls on the lower floor, and the wood stove in the centre of the sunken living area should be a wonderful place to sit around when the cold weather arrives. This house has every modern amenity, with three bathrooms and four bedrooms, and Ms. Chatterjee is welcome to stay over when she wants to.
She notices, with a curious look at me, how I do not answer her question while skirting close to it, but she says nothing. We fall quiet. I wonder what Mother would have made of her.
I am aware that my evasiveness regarding her question is due to Joseph’s presence; those large, watchful eyes. He is my judge, I cannot help but feel, and quick and harsh too, in the manner of youth. I am, after all, one of those who made uncountable millions while our country slipped further into poverty.
Seema breaks the long silence, serving out the remaining beer.
A lonely and odd threesome we form, with our tortuous histories and migratory roots, in this little small-town haven, when burgeoning Toronto is just two hours away with its India-and Chinatowns and people among whom we would seem only too commonplace. There’s a savage war on in the Balkans, and from that perspective my memories are of a time ages and ages away. A humbling thought: the First World War was closer to that time of my childhood during the Emergency than the present time is to it.
EIGHT.
Psst!
There was Njoroge at the open back door.
What is it? I asked, from the dining table where I had been confined with strict orders from Mother not to move until I had finished my sums. My glass of sweetened milk and plate of biscuits and almonds were beside me.
He beckoned briskly with one hand, the other in his shorts pocket. Come.
What is it? I gulped down my milk and, a little reluctantly, stepped outside. Homework was serious business with Mother. Only with education will you go anywhere in this world, she would say, advice that Deepa now visits anxiously upon Joseph.
Njoroge was leaning against the back wall of our house.
Hey Njo, you got no homework?
He did not reply but said instead, very seriously, How do I know you are my friend?
It was my turn for silence. I was too confounded to speak. His grandfather Mwangi was still with the police, and Njoroge ate what others gave him.
Can I have a biscuit? he said.
Grateful at this show of trust, I ran inside and brought out the two remaining biscuits.
I think you will betray me, he said casually, nibbling at the two biscuits twinned together.
No, I will not, I replied. But my heart sank with guilt even as I made that glib assertion. Hadn’t I belted out the Jomo song two days ago in front of my entire family, and didn’t Mahesh Uncle know whom I had learnt it from?
All those secrets I have told you, you will not tell them to anybody? Not to Bill—
I will not tell him.
Not to Annie?
I will not tell Annie. And Deepa?
He paused to ponder, then said, She is too young. Later, maybe. And not to your parents or your uncle.
I will not tell anybody.
You must swear.
I swear.
You must take an oath.
I will take an oath.
You must come with me and take an oath. It will be a serious oath, a Number Three oath.
Okay. I met him eye to eye, he nodded, and I too gave a nod in solemn confirmation.
He ran off to his house and brought back a polished brown wooden bowl. With it we started off toward the back of the yard, at the very end of which was a wire fence covered with a rough thorny hedge. The bottom part of the hedge in our neighbour’s area had been cut away in one place, and the ground there excavated discreetly to make a shallow and narrow tunnel passageway, which was much in use by the servants to take a short cut without being seen. You bent almost double to go through this passageway, then immediately slid or clambered down into a dry ditch running alongside the houses, then climbed up again to arrive at an empty but wildly growing patch of land. Njoroge took me some distance through the bushes to a place where there was a large tree, some twenty-five feet away from the ditch.
He stopped and we stared at each other for a few moments and caught our breaths. We were both red with dust—our knees and elbows, our shirts. Mugumo tree, he nodded to it; it is the tree of God. I nodded without understanding but was intensely excited. Then suddenly he undid his belt and dropped his shorts. His underwear was a pair of grey cotton shorts, which he also dropped, revealing a curving black penis at which I couldn’t help staring in wonder. He gave it a proud pluck, making it jiggle, and then I too dropped my shorts and repeated his motions. We stood staring at our nakedness.
In the shade of the tree stood an arch, which had been constructed of branches and, away from it, closer to the ditch, lay sprawled the grisly remains of a dead animal. Beside the carcass was a stone, red with drained blood. A sickening stench suddenly became noticeable in that chilling air; perhaps the wind had changed. It was drawing toward evening, the sun abating. We saw two men emerge from the spot where we ourselves had come out, glance briefly in our direction, and walk away.
Come, Vic, Njoroge said.
We passed through that arch seven times in turn, going around and returning. Then I followed him toward the stone and the slaughtered animal, a goat or a sheep, its guts spilled out of its side, its head cut off and missing. The smell hit me like a blow, yet I persisted, and we knelt at the red stone, on which strands of brown animal hair were stuck. Njoroge placed his wooden bowl on the stone, then produced a penknife from his pocket, flicked it open. Pressing the sharp point into his skin, hard enough that he gasped, he cut himself in the upper forearm, and blood spurted out from the small gash and dripped slowly into the bowl. The blood still pouring down his elbow, he motioned for my arm, and I felt the sharp pain of the cut, and my blood poured out to mix with his in a shallow pool in the
bowl. Using a twig we mixed our blood, taking turns, and he said to me, Now take the oath.
I repeated after him:
I swear allegiance to our leader Jomo Kenyatta, the saviour, and if I disobey him, let me die.
If I worship any other leader than Jomo, who is the prime minister and knight commander of Africa, let me die.
If I am called upon to fight for the freedom of the country and I refuse, let me die.
If I fail to report any enemy of my leader and saviour, let me die.
If I tell the secret of this oath to my parents let me die.
If I tell the secret of this oath to the police let me die.
If I tell the secret of this oath to the teachers let me die.
Seven grave oaths I repeated after him, after each one rubbing my finger into the blood and licking it.
With two fingers we each took a pinch of meat from the rotting carcass in front of us and put it in our mouths.
Finally we daubed our penises red with the blood. We touched it to our eyes. Then, wiping our wounds with leaves, we tied them up with our handkerchiefs, put on our clothes, and went home.
My mother let out a shriek when she saw me dusty and bloody and almost fainting.
I was climbing a tree, I said to her, and there was a nail stuck in it. I refused vehemently to see a doctor, so she washed the cut with antiseptic, then applied a traditional dressing of turmeric preparation and bandaged it. The next morning, miraculously, the wound was on its way to healing.
