The In-Between World of Vikram Lall

by M G Vassanji

  The room we were in was high-ceilinged and panelled; the leather-upholstered chairs were old and the centre carpet somewhat threadbare. There were framed paintings of Kenyan tribesmen and women all along one wall; on another wall was a large official picture of Mzee in beaded cap and suit, waving his fly whisk. Under it was a somewhat faded, blown-up picture of him taken outside his prison quarters, between two wardens, and beside it was one of him with the Duke of Edinburgh taken during the independence ceremonies at the midnight hour of 12 December 1963.

  There was an abrupt hush in the building and looks were exchanged in a quick, silent relay to pass the message, He has arrived. A policeman came and sat in our room.

  There was one man waiting ahead of us, Jonas Wabera the education minister, and he went in first. Ten minutes later he hurried out, eyes lowered, evidently after a verbal thrashing (the national School Certificate examination papers in two regions had apparently been leaked), and the look on Paul’s face could only have been called a smirk. We went in next. We had to pass a small room where sat a bald giant of a man at a table next to an inner door, which he indicated with a brisk nod, but not without an expertly searching look at both of us.

  Jambo Karimi, Paul greeted the giant, then opened the inner door and let me go in first.

  Hitherto I had been consumed by curiosity and wonder; I had been admitted into the abode of power from which the British governors had ruled the colony. Now, as beckoned, I stepped in through the open door—and turned to stone. Jomo, the President, was walking slowly toward me, with the help of a cane. Not ten feet away—the god and demon of my childhood, in flesh and blood. The cane thudded on the antique red carpet.

  He was not much taller than me, though a great deal heavier. He wore a grey striped suit with a handkerchief in the breast pocket, his head was bare and the hair grizzled somewhat; there was a twinkle in the eyes and his mouth opened in a large smile.

  Many have said that you could not look into those big yellow eyes; they mesmerized you. I did look into them, and I say this not to prove my bravery or arrogance—my knees were buckling, my voice trembling as I said, Good morning, Excellency, and shook hands. There remained that typical tiny smile upon his lips and he seemed to be looking through me into some distance beyond. Had I said something wrong already?

  Lall-jee, he said in his rich gravelly voice. I told this Nderi here I wanted to take a look at this young Asian who is doing an important service to the nation. You are doing good work, Lall-jee.

  Thank you, Excellency.

  He looked at me, growled derisively without raising his voice, What is this excellencee the British have taught you? I am a father to my people.

  Yes, my father, I said in the African manner, to which he replied, Yes, abstractly putting a hand on my shoulder and dismissing me with, But you must learn to keep your mouth shut too.

  Yes, my father.

  That was all. It was enough for that day.

  I left the room in a daze, Paul staying behind to finish his meeting with the Old Man. The two had sat down, Mzee behind his large desk, under the Kenyan coat of arms, saying, I heard the students booed you once again, Nderi…

  Paul, fancying himself the man of the future, liked to take on the university students, make the conciliatory paternal gesture in the face of their constant criticism and protests against the government, and more often than not they heckled him.

  I felt transformed by my experience; I was now a higher initiate, one of the chosen few among the nation’s multitudes. I had stood close to the abyss, been touched by its mystery and power. I recall, as I was driven home in an automobile from the President’s office, the trite thought, Njo must have shaken hands with Jomo, but I bet not in such intimate circumstances…the Old Man asked me to call him father; he put his hand on my shoulder, I can still feel its weight and the grip was hard, like a claw…

  But Njoroge of course had begun to turn away from the Old Man.

  Recently he had gone to see Deepa, in the pharmacy on Government Road that she ran with her mother-in-law, Meena Auntie. Dilip and his father were into manufacturing pharmaceuticals, and Dilip often visited Germany and England, from where he purchased his manufacturing licences. Njoroge came into the shop on a whim one morning. He asked for Valium for his insomnia, and Deepa advised him against depending on medication to put him to sleep. The shop had, typically, showcases running all around, and glass cupboards higher up on the walls. A watchful Meena Auntie sat at a small table behind the side counter at the front end, and Deepa stood halfway down the opposite side. The pharmacy employed two shop assistants. Njoroge seemed reserved in the presence of Meena Auntie, whom he remembered, but Deepa was her effusive self, and the two talked animatedly for half an hour. At the end, Njoroge held both of her hands in his as he said goodbye.

  The result was a furore in the Sharma household.

  A married woman! Meena Auntie raged. We don’t even shake hands with men, we do namasté, does she know what that means, and she allows him to hold both her hands! And people staring at us from the sidewalk! It is the husband’s job to control his wife. Is that all you are going to tell her, Dilip? She has come into this household, when we turned away queues of decent, traditional girls, she should maintain its sanctity. A husband is a god—

  But he is a friend! I’ve known Njoroge since we were children. He is like a brother!

  An African! What kind of brother? Do you take me for an ullu? A pagal?

  Then you tell me what kind of brother, you tell your son that!

  Poor Dilip, like a betel nut, as they say, between the contrary edges of a nutcracker. He had to trust his wife, or else he had no marriage; his mother wanted him to punish Deepa, in the old-fashioned way, to beat her. At least one slap, like a man, she screamed at him, bring her to heel!

  Mother was understandably distraught. She went to speak with Deepa in the shop when Meena Auntie by prior arrangement had slipped away to the bank.

  Why throw away everything, Deepa? There are ways of behaviour for a woman. This is not it, talking to a man intimately—where is our lajj, our dignity in that?

  Mother, I only spoke with him. He is my friend, you know Njoroge! Didn’t he do what you told him to? (Mother reddened.) Should I turn him away if he comes to the shop? The rest of the world doesn’t behave in this manner.

  Explain to Dilip, Mother pleaded, and behave in a proper and reserved manner if Njoroge comes to the shop.

  The tables slowly got tipped against Meena Auntie for not trusting Deepa and behaving like an old-fashioned suspicious mother-in-law. It was Meena Auntie who eventually had to ask for Deepa’s pardon. She had not liked Njoroge the first time she saw him, in a restaurant with Deepa while Dilip was wooing her, and his presence again had raised her ire. His eyes tell me everything, she said in her defence.

  How right she was.

  Those eyes looked unhappily at me as he said, Six years married and we cannot pop out a child.

  What do the doctors say?

  Believe me, we’ve tried everything, including some things you don’t want to know about. We’ve been to mundumugos and maalims, and those Asian quacks in Pangani. It’s not destined…You know, I went to Deepa’s shop the other day.

  I heard.

  She looks happy, eh? Two kids, boy and girl. And you—also a boy and girl. You Indians certainly do it right. You could go on reproducing this way forever—boy, girl, boy, girl—

  Yes, and in twenty years we could be a majority in Kenya and there could be an Indian President, as one MP has already warned parliament…

  He laughed out loud.

  We were sitting at the Ismailia on River Road; from a distance not too far away came the occasional thudding of tear-gas explosions. The customary clamour of River Road was eerily absent or subdued; the single truck grinding its gears up nearby Government Road could only be a military one; perhaps there was a zing or two of rifle bullets. The university students were once again protesting, but this time more vehemently
, and the GSU were out in full force to contain them. Apparently, the previous night the police had raided and closed down the performance of a play, purportedly seditious, and detained the playwright, who was also a professor. The students lost no time coming out of their dorms; the GSU were waiting for them. Where we were now, people had moved from the street and sidewalk to stand closer to the doors of the establishments, in case the riot came our way.

  I told Njoroge I had met the President, before I realized that he did not know the nature of my recent activities.

  So what did you see Mzee Kenyatta for?

  My boss Nderi took me to meet him. He told me I was serving the nation well, I couldn’t help boasting.

  Keep in mind, as they say, you need a long spoon if you sup with the devil.

  The devil? You used to worship him once.

  Jomo is Moses, Njoroge would say, and he will bring all the cattle home and…

  We exchanged a long look, the same scene perhaps going through his head as mine: the two of us leaning against the back wall of our house in Nakuru, or sitting on the pavement, Deepa flying on the swing, singing. Happy, innocent Deepa.

  He said: I don’t know what to believe any longer, Vic. The world’s too much beyond our control; we thought we could make a difference to it, we could make Kenya great, make Africa great—and it’s all slipped away, the ideals and the hope…Look what’s happening outside—GSU clubbing down students, one of our best writers detained like a criminal.

  He was on his way to Scandinavia for a few months for a training program in land management, and he told me to inquire after his wife, Mary. She has people, but just in case, you know, give her a ring. She will appreciate that.

  I said I would call her, touched by the request. I knew that Mary had her own group of friends associated with the Catholic church, which she attended. The two of them lived in a modest government flat in Hurlingham, though they also had a farmhouse near Nyeri. Outside, the city’s business seemed to be proceeding but at a slower pace, ears cocked and eyes watchful for possible trouble from the riots. The danger always was that they could spread to include the jobless and poor. We walked up to Government Road, where we stood and observed the scene, our eyes smarting from the tear gas in the air. Diagonally across the street, next to Jeevanjee Gardens and alarmingly close to where my father’s office was, police trucks and cars were parked and a barrier had been put up, cutting off the university area further ahead. Two senior GSU officials were hurrying up the road beside the police cars. Njoroge and I exchanged a glance; we both knew the big one. His face was in the papers occasionally, whenever there was a disturbance in the city and the GSU were called; he was former corporal, now Major Boniface, the Grimm Giant as I’ve come to think of him—once the terror of Nakuru Africans, now the bane of university students. We had both noticed how people from our past had a strange way of popping up in the present; CI Soames had retired from the police a couple of years before and had departed for England with a well-publicized and rousing ceremonial farewell at the airport. Kihika, once wanted for the Bruce murders, was a district commissioner in Naivasha.

  Give my regards to Deepa, Njoroge said with a sigh as we parted company.

  At home my prestige had increased, my wife showing no inhibition in broadcasting that her husband was intimate with the President. Jyare president ne maila, to enu khambu pakaidu. The President put a hand on his shoulder. Like a traditional wife, she never called me by name. My in-laws took to seeking my advice on coming political trends, and on such matters as the loyalty of the army and the health of the President. They had acquired interests in mining semi-precious minerals in both Kenya and Tanzania; there were rumours of gold finds in Tanzania.

  The power latent in my new status was brought home to me in the most amazing fashion.

  One day a young man, straight from university, it seemed, walked into my father’s office bearing a letter from a city official. The letter stated, You are required to hand over your business to the bearer, Mr. Peter Ogwell.

  Papa phoned me.

  Just like that—he wants to take over the business, Papa said, utterly distraught. Can you believe it? He thinks it’s easy to do this business? I will have to train him or what?

  It was not unheard of for petty politicians—and some not so petty ones—to force out Asians from their businesses through sheer intimidation. Now my father had become such a target.

  Papa had stuck doggedly to his trade; property values, especially in Eastleigh, were finally picking up. It was time to recoup his losses due to the Asian Exodus. Many of his clients were the new African landlords in the area, whose properties he managed. He was well respected.

  That same afternoon, from Papa’s office, I telephoned Ogwell’s patron. We are citizens of this country, I told him, the business is legal, it cannot be simply taken over. By what authority, may I ask?

  I could not keep the nervous edge from my voice; you do not normally take on a politician in our country.

  The man actually screamed at me: You cannot talk to me like this, you Indian! I will have you deported tomorrow!

  Simple blackmail. But I played through my gambit. I replied calmly, I have recourse to the courts of law and the constitution, to defend my father’s business and his rights.

  Brashly, the man replied, You try it, my friend, you will not even reach hundred feet near the court—

  I said, In that case I will speak to Mzee himself.

  There was no answer; I could hear the earpiece humming its high note, but no human sound emerged. Just as suddenly there was utter silence all around me in the office, among the two secretaries, my dad, and Peter Ogwell, the man who had come with the letter. I could hear the hum of traffic on Government Road half a block away. A bus groaned, and in that interim it seemed so close I wondered why a bus was running in the street below. After less than a minute, I think, the party at the other end put the phone down with a click. Peter Ogwell walked away, never to be seen again.

  Arré Vic, Papa said, Budhe sé tum aise-hi baat karsakte ho, just like that you can talk to the President?

  I don’t know, Papa, I replied.

  I was left profoundly affected. Can such power reside in one man? Was this the only way to get justice for a minority? Then only the well-positioned among them could gain access to it. And the others? The Africans? If you were connected, through family or communal allegiances, even penniless you were protected and favoured. Otherwise, suspicion and intimidation could make a victim of anyone. Try as a coastal man to open a pub in Nakuru or as a Luo to look for a job in Nyeri. But we Asians were special: we were brown, we were few and frightened and caricatured, and we could be threatened with deportation as aliens even if we had been in the country since the time of Vasco da Gama and before some of the African people had even arrived in the land.

  This abhorring of a people, holding them in utter contempt, blaming them for your misfortunes—trying to get rid of them en masse—could and did have other manifestations on our continent. Idi Amin cleansed Uganda of its entire Asian population by deporting them, and many African leaders applauded him. Little did they know what a slippery slope it was from that move toward genocide in Rwanda, and then elsewhere. Now in Nakuru, the place of my childhood, it is the Kikuyu who have become the unwanted exploiter-demons, and on the Internet the MuKenya Patriots vow, if not revenge, then self-defence.

  The JQS Tower on Kimathi Street was completed and opened with much fanfare by the President, who called it a credit to our country, an example of the harambee work spirit of its citizens. This skyscraper, said Paul Nderi in his grandiloquent fashion, in his speech following the President’s, was proof that Africa was on the march. Few were wise to the fact that the Minister of Transport was part owner of the tower. It was an impressive monument, one more addition to the handsome phalanx of concrete giants that now dwarfed what remained of the squat grey stone structures of the colony that had housed its banks and showpiece library, its one Woolworths and its mo
dest shops, and given the city its elegant tropical character. Among the first occupants of JQS Tower was Mermaid Chemicals of Dilip and his father, and in a photo opportunity they stood with the President and his ministers.

  As I walked back in a thin drizzle from the opening ceremony, on Kenyatta Avenue, outside the Bata Shoe store, to my utter surprise I ran into Sophia.

  Vittorio, how nice to see you, she said softly.

  Cheating is cheating, says Seema, my confessor. Her visits have become more frequent as the days lengthen, and I have even begun to look forward to them.

  Is it? I ask her.

  Yes—she catches herself, as if a doubt just intruded upon her mind, then says again, Yes. And she adds, Your sister and Njoroge, and you and Sophia—do you think by any chance you used her as a substitute for little Annie?