by M G Vassanji
The murderers were not found. The crime was attributed to three men who, it was said, had camped outside the village, or at a neighbouring village, committed their deed at dawn and gone back to Dar.
A few years before, the Shamsi community in India had been torn apart by strife. Various parties had sprung up, with diverging fundamentalist positions, each taking some thread of the complex and sometimes contradictory set of traditional beliefs, hitherto untainted by theologian hands, to some extreme conclusion and claiming to represent the entire community. The bone of contention among these Shia, Sunni, Sufi and Vedantic factions became the funds collected in the small centres and mosques. Faced with this situation, Dhanji Govindji had simply stopped sending the money on to any of the big centres and kept it in trust for the Matamu community. The strife had resulted in murders in Bombay and Zanzibar. And now, it seemed, in Matamu. But why unimportant Matamu, why Dhanji Govindji, no one could say. This was one year after his return from Mozambique in the Mariamu.
Mukhi Dhanji Govindji, Sharriffu to the Swahilis, was buried with full honours by the village of Matamu, carried in a procession of males headed by Shamsi, Bhatia and Swahili elders to the grave, grieved for by women ululating along the way.
A few days later, the widow’s daughter started disposing of her husband’s belongings. Ji Bai was entrusted with burning the bloodstained clothes. Which she did, except for the muslin shirt she would keep the rest of her life. And before the widow’s daughter or anyone else could discover them, she took Dhanji Govindji’s three padlocked books from behind a shelf in the store and hid them with the possessions she had brought from her parents’ home.
Kala. Thank you so much for the copy of Book I (as I have designated it). God make you live a full hundred and one years! Unfortunately, it is rather a disappointment. It looks like a ledger, with entries for debits and credits. A typical entry: 20 rupees to Bhai Rehemtulla Sharif for potatoes! This one, my dear chronicler-brother, is the most atypical entry and should interest you: 30 rupees to Ragavji Devraj bai na maté, for the woman! A cut-rate price, I should think. But then of course the slave trade was over. Considering that both you and I are the result of that one purchase, not a bad deal, don’t you think? There are also two pages with only numbers on them, which he was using presumably for rough calculations. It’s a mystery, this need for the padlock. A theory I am working on is that in those days people liked to keep their business dealings secret. Perhaps the old man was afraid some djinn would read them—not as far-fetched as it sounds, why do you think children’s given names were not used? Sona.
Dear Sona, you and your djinn theory! If you had looked carefully at the two pages with “only numbers” on them, you would have seen that they are not calculations, but entries—anonymous. I am willing to wager anything that they are secret records of community funds, which Dhanji Govindji held in trust, unwilling to send on to Zanzibar. Remember that community accounts have always been kept secret, sometimes with the aid of codes. What you call rough calculations are actually columns of entries—each column for a family, perhaps, each entry for a donation. I wonder where the money went. Your brother Kala.
Kala. Touché. Sona.
TH SIN OF ONE MAN.
One bullet, they say, lime liliya, throughout Ulaya. The wits of Matamu. Every afternoon they emerge having said their prayer at the public mosque, a pair playing bao outside a house, a line of elders sitting on the stone bench outside the mosque, a group playing cards under a tree, in their immaculate kanzus and caps, sipping coffee or ginger tea, chewing tobacco or counting the tasbih; and discussing siasa: politics. Now it’s the war in Europe that’s on their minds. Close by, in an open room, an elementary Quran-reading class is under way, and the chorus of boys begins, “an-fata-ha-tin in-kisiratin un-zamu-tin …”
One bullet, they repeat, has reverberated throughout the length and breadth of the land where the Mdachi and the British are neighbours. It has killed a prince and Ulaya is burning. It has exploded like a keg of powder to which a mischievous hand has applied a match. No, it’s burning like dry leaves in a forest. And even we can feel the heat. Yes, times are a-changing. Did you hear what this one here said?—Eti, the times are achanging: the times have changed, my brother. Did your grandfather ever trade in paper money? Ah, I have no use for paper money … since when has paper any value? But this one is guaranteed by the Government. It has the signature of the Governor himself, Herr Bwana Von Soden. The Indians like it, they are raking it in, they can fill their pillowcases with it. You can rake it in too if you go to M’logoro or Dar—Eti, is it true there is work—So it is. You can make bullets or sew boots—You can carry for the askaris—travel to Korogwe or Moshi or Tanga—Ah, I’m too old for that … but the young are going. They are fools; they go looking for excitement, but soon they’ll cry for their mothers.
In the class the chanting stops, and the old men raise their heads expectantly. The teacher is heard telling off a boy; a cane whistles thinly in the air, the sound of weeping starts and the boy emerges pathetically from the doorway clutching his kanzu, his nose running, as the class resumes, “Kan-fata-ha-tin …”
“What happened, my son?” asks an elder. “The mwalimu cane you?”
The boy, clutching his kanzu even tighter, nods forcefully and sobs like a grief-stricken woman.
“You wet your pants?”
Before he has quite nodded assent, he narrowly misses a cuff on the head (“Mpumbavu weh, shame on you!”) and escapes, wailing even more loudly than before.
He has to learn, the wise men nod to themselves. Times are a-changing, says the man who said it before. Times are achanging, mimics his companion.
Old Man, did you go to see the Koniki on the Rufiji? Ah, I have no time to walk forty miles just to view a ship and rub my face against an insolent askari. You have no strength, you mean. That, too. They say the Koniki lies mouth open like a dead fish. A crowd goes there every day to watch; from Kitmangau, and Kisiju, even Kilwa. They say that the British manuari chased the Koniki on the ocean like a cat chases a mouse. The Koniki entered the mouth of the Rufiji, pye! and raced in. But then it went kwama: khon! and it got stuck! There it lies in the river, for all to see. The shame of the Mdachis. If you ask the askaris what happened, they threaten to shoot you. What worries me is that now there is no manuari to defend us … how long before the British cannonballs go flying through our roofs? The Mdachis have had it, you think? The Mdachis are trembling. To the north are the British, to the west the Belgians, and to the south are also the British. And in Zanzibar, and on the ocean … Yes, the Mdachis have cause for trembling. But what about us, Old Man? Ah, when two elephants fight, it is the grass that is injured … But the grass is persistent … when the elephants are gone the grass keeps on growing and proliferating …
It was August 1915. Gulam at twenty-four was mukhi of Matamu in place of his father, now dead more than two years. He and Ji Bai had a crop of five children, the youngest, Mongi, just over a year old. With them lived his younger unmarried siblings and the squint-eyed matron Fatima. News of the war reached them through word of mouth and gossip in the village, and dispatches from Sheth Samji in Dar es Salaam. Exports to India and Britain had stopped, there were shortages of food and stockpiles were being depleted, and the government had introduced the one-rupee note to conserve metal. Villagers had heard of the Konigsberg—or Koniki—how it was destroyed in the Rufiji, and they watched fearfully the grey silhouettes that were the British man o’ wars, manuari, patrolling the ocean like wild animals on the prowl. The prevailing mood among the Indian dukawallahs of Tanganyika was that of uncertainty; of being alien subjects in a time of war. India, Zanzibar and Mombasa had become out of bounds, and families were not heard from. Cash and jewellery were at hand and ready to be moved; the rest was hidden away.
The closest German farm was that of Bwana Wasi. This gentleman had now lived in the area for twenty-seven years. One day he had gone north to the Usambara region, to the German town called Wilh
elmstahl, and brought back with him a wife. Bibi Wasi was a schoolteacher, a laughing redhead in long skirts, with two pigtails and brown eyes. As soon as she arrived her husband set aside a banda and they opened a German school. Early every morning a file of boys in kanzus, ranging in age from eight to fifteen, snaked its way in and among the bushes outside Matamu to the school of Bibi Wasi. Bringing up the rear were Gulam’s brothers Nasser and Abdulla. For several years Bwana Wasi had done business at the store of Dhanji Govindji. An order was left punctually on the first and fifteenth of every month, which was then forwarded to Sheth Samji. When the goods arrived they were carried by porters to the farm; and Bwana Wasi who had previously paid only in produce now paid in cash.
A few weeks after the Konigsberg was destroyed the stocky German came to the store with his retainer Kasoro Mbili. The retainer, as the German would explain, was born in 1903 and technically was still a slave. Slaves born after 1905 had been declared free under German rule; Kasoro Mbili’s loss of freedom by two years was reflected in his cumbersome name, which he bore stoically along with his status. To the villagers he was simply Kasoro, or Mtumwa: slave.
“Karibu, Bwana Wasi,” one of Ji Bai’s sons greeted him as he entered and shook the dust and mud from his boots. Bwana Wasi still carried a rifle when he came to town. “Thank you,” he replied, and taking off his sunhat sat on a three-legged stool, wiping his face and neck with a handkerchief. Kasoro Mbili had also come in and sat on the floor.
“Call Bwana Gulam,” commanded the German.
After much whispered discussion inside, and several peeks through the curtain, Gulam appeared in his best obsequious manner wiping his hands on his shirt: “Welcome, Bwana Wasi. Welcome. You do me an honour. Was the last order all right? Nothing missing? Nothing damaged?” Abdulla came scurrying from inside, bearing a rattling cup and saucer slopping over with tea.
“No,” said Bwana Wasi, holding up his hand as if to push the boy back. “No tea at this time. Bring me water, in a clean glass.” The boy turned back.
“Bwana Gulam,” said Bwana Wasi. “This is going to be a fierce war.”
“So we hear, Bwana.”
“The British surround us from the land and the sea.”
Gulam was all attention. Not only was Bwana Wasi a white man and a valued customer, he was also the Government representative in the area. His words had to be sifted for all possible meanings like those of a mystic.
“I am giving you advice, Bwana Gulam. Take your family a few kilometres inland, move to some town there until the war is over, or danger from the sea is past.”
“Will the British manuari attack Matamu?”
“They could attack Matamu from the sea, or they could land troops here and march to Dar es Salaam. Tell the other Indians what I have said. If the British attack, the Africans can run to the bushes, but where will you run?”
“Thank you, Bwana Wasi. I will talk to the others. But what about you?”
“I am going to fight for my King. Tomorrow Bibi Wasi goes to Dar es Salaam to live with her family. The day after I travel to Iringa to join the troops.”
“We are sorry to hear this, Bwana. And the boys will miss your teacher-wife.”
“Yes. My watchman has agreed to join me as an askari in the army, and my two servants will come as porters. And this mtumwa, Kasoro Mbili—stand up!—I want you to have him.”
The boy obediently stood up. Gulam eyed him and waited for the German to continue.
“In return,” said Bwana Wasi, “I would like to have some supplies from you.”
And so, in one hour of bush diplomacy, one of the last slaves in the country changed hands, and the wishes of the Government were made known to an alien minority. As one of his last gestures of kindness to the Indians of Matamu, Bwana Wasi brought several sacks of paper money which he used to buy stock and even offered to exchange for coins. “Paper, Bwana Gulam, is lighter, and German money does not rot.”
They thanked Bwana Wasi profusely. They waved his wife-teacher goodbye, and the day following saw the man himself off accompanied by his retainers. Then they proceeded to do as he had instructed, and diverged to separate towns inland so as not to overcrowd any particular village.
The community in Matamu, fifty years old and more, vanished overnight. The traces they left behind were the boarded-up stores, with some possessions in them, the empty mosque where Ragavji Devraj and Dhanji Govindji had once presided, the cemetery where they buried their dead, the platform behind the mosque where they assembled for festivities. Retainers had been kept to watch over the homes; but there was a sense of finality in this parting, as there was in the events around them. The men had their wives and children with them, they had their money, one-rupee notes stuffed in gunnies, and their wives’ jewellery tied around their waists; and they took whatever else they could carry. If they did not return they could start again, elsewhere. Along caravan left in the morning and headed inland through the grassy bush trails, every member loaded with two packages. There were no animals, a few porters, and two guides. At every junction where two trails crossed, two families would leave the caravan and take the cross-trail to the nearest village. They used a simple device to select the two families whose turn had come. A woman would sing a line from a song; the next one would sing one from another song, beginning with the last word sung. And so the game was played as the singing caravan proceeded deeper inland, until at a junction one of the guides called a halt, selecting the woman with a song on her lips, and her predecessor. The two families would then start their farewells to the rest of the caravan.
The one whose name is called last wins. Ji Bai had always been good at the game, and she often won. The trick, she would say, was to take the cue quickly, without a moment’s hesitation, and to pick a short line to sing—no matter how silly it sounded. This time it was important she should win, and perhaps they let her win because the mukhi’s wife should be the last, the mukhi should see everyone else settled before settling himself. Forty-five miles from Matamu and three days later, the sole remaining family of the caravan trudged into Rukanga behind Gulam. And found that they had walked into a crossfire.
Rukanga was more a market than a place for habitation. It was an artificial village, put there by Swahili, Arab and Indian foreigners from the coast for the mere purpose of trading. There were no streets; ten shops sat at the perimeter of a large clearing, which was the central square where people from the countryside came to sit with their wares; until recently Sheth Samji’s porters would come bearing ready-made and imported goods from the capital, and take away local produce. But not any more. A path led from the village to the top of a hill, where stood a German boma. Behind the hill a small German force had set up to defend itself against a British attack from the northeast. The day Sheth Samji’s porters did not arrive from the east, and no further word was forthcoming, the people of Rukanga braced themselves for the impending battle. This was when Gulam walked in, followed by Ji Bai carrying Mongi in the heat of fever, and Fatima and the boys, Nasser and Abdulla and the other children, and Mtumwa. And they went to the Rukanga mukhi’s store and asked for water.
“I have lived through hell,” Ji Bai would say, “and this was hell. First the long walk in the hot sun, followed always by hungry hyenas who never left sight of us, looking out for snakes, fearing lions, afraid the guides and porters would murder and rob us. We told Mtumwa always to listen to what they were saying at night when they made the fire and ate, so we would have advance warning of their intentions. When we got to Rukanga we had blisters the size of boils just from mosquito bites, and feet covered with blood from killing the giant mosquitoes … and flies covered our bloody feet until they looked black. I cursed my husband for having decided on the journey, and I cursed my poor father for having sent me to Africa. In India we travelled by bullocks, we could talk to people in the villages, they were our own kind … and even the Europeans talked our language. But in this jungle the merest sound in the night would send our hearts af
lutter … and the men would call out to the guides, seeking reassurance.”
In Rukanga, sugar and flour went for the price of gold, and this is what the visitors from the coast brought with them and what got them through the ensuing months. General trade had stopped. Only specific shortage items were bartered. The staple food was maizemeal; bird and deer meat were sometimes available; milk was scarce, but local beehives supplied honey.
A few miles away, two strange and foreign armies had met in an uncaring jungle to fight a minor round of a World War. The Germans used African askaris led by white settlers, and the British, so the reports went, had all kinds of strange askaris—Indians, coloureds, and Africans who spoke no local language. Reports were brought in by natives of the area, and smuggling between the village and the two forces had begun. At night Rukanga lived in fear. Sometimes, lone rifle shots and what were believed to be human cries were heard in the distance. In the village there was total blackout. Sometimes running footsteps were heard: not ghosts but deserters. The presence of deserters was established when a house was robbed and a girl raped. During those nights, immediately before the first direct encounter between the two enemies, when silence and darkness were the first priority for fear of raiders, Ji Bai would gag little Mongi whose fever had recurred. Sitting on the floor beside the hammock, she would rock the child, give salt-water compresses and silently weep. Only when the child started breathing deeply did she herself breathe easy. One morning she woke with a start and went on her knees to undo the child’s gag. But the child was still, her eyes open. That afternoon Gulam and a few other men buried Mongi in the local grave half-way up to the boma.
