by Frank Coates
Being the oldest of his father’s wives, Wangira’s mother presided over the religious practices within the family. She would know.
‘Mama, I have been thinking about the beginning of the world,’ he said.
‘Mmm,’ she said with a sigh. She might have been merely tired, but she made a similar sound whenever he had a difficult question for her.
He pressed on. ‘Sister Rosalba tells us the story about the beginning of the world, but it is different to ours. She said the first people on earth were called Adam and Eve.’
‘And what have we taught you about that?’
‘You have said that the first man was Gikuyu and the first woman was Moombi.’
‘Do you not know the whole story?’
He took a big breath. ‘Mogai was very pleased with Gikuyu, so he took him to the top of Kirinyaga, where the brightness lives, and showed him all the dark forests, the silver rivers, the yellow grasslands and the animals, and he told him he would give Gikuyu all he could see.’
His mother nodded. ‘That is correct, my son.’
‘But Sister Rosalba said the place was called Eden.’
‘Perhaps Kirinyaga is the place they call Eden.’
‘No, Kirinyaga they call Mt Kenya.’
‘Eden … Mt Kenya. These are names the whites use.’
He didn’t want to raise the fact that the nuns also believed that heaven was not on the mountain.
‘And she said the first man had only two children. And both were sons.’
‘Hmm …’
‘But that is not what you have told me.’
‘And what have I taught you?’
‘That Gikuyu and Moombi had nine daughters.’
‘And …?’
‘And when Mogai was pleased with Gikuyu, he sent him nine young men who married the daughters and formed all nine Kikuyu clans.’
She nodded contentedly. ‘There you have it,’ she said, obviously pleased with his answer. ‘Come, Wangira, the market is waiting.’
She struggled to her feet.
‘But Mama,’ he said. ‘What do I believe?’
She showed her surprise. ‘What to believe? Ai-ya, do I have a fool for a son? If this Adam had only two sons, how do we have our nine clans? Ah?’
She waited for him to explain, but his head was in a spin.
‘There!’ she said with some finality. ‘Now come.’
But Wangira was not satisfied. The inconsistencies were compounding.
Wangira wanted to be a Kikuyu, but he wanted to keep the best ideas of the Catholics too. He worried about the contradictions between what his mother and grandfather told him about Kikuyu beliefs and customs, and which Wangira felt obligated to believe, and what Sister Rosalba said, which was what Wangira often preferred to believe.
The Consolata Sisters had been trying to stamp out many Kikuyu customs, including the Kikuyu custom of inheritance. When Kamau wa Ngengi arrived in Igobu with his mother to live with his uncle after his father was killed in a dispute with Maasai warriors, his uncle had inherited his mother and all her possessions. But at the mission school, Wangira’s teacher said that what Kamau’s uncle had done was wicked.
‘Wicked?’ his guuka said. ‘What is wicked about his father’s brother taking the boy and his mother? Who else is going to feed and shelter them? Should they be left to die?’
‘I don’t know,’ Wangira said thoughtfully. ‘But I would not want to leave my mama’s village. This is where we live. This is the place where I play with my friends.’
‘That is so, my son, but it is not a matter that anyone can change. Even I, a member of the council of elders, cannot change these things. They are what they are. They are the Kikuyu ways and you and I and all of us must follow them.’
‘If I went to another village would I see you again, guuka?’
‘Of course you would, my boy. Are you not the son of my son?’
‘And when you came, would you teach me about hunting?’
‘Do you not already know the best method to throw a hunting spear? From whom did you learn?’
‘From you, guuka,’ Wangira conceded. ‘And would you teach me all I need to know so that I can grow up to be a warrior like you were?’
The old man chuckled. ‘I would, boy. But why are we talking about such matters? It is not your father who has died.’
Wangira couldn’t answer. His father had always appeared to be indestructible and, until Kamau’s arrival, he’d never considered the consequences of a death to any of his family. People generally avoided the topic. It was considered impolite to discuss the death of a family member, so although Wangira knew of the custom that had changed Kamau’s life, it had been like many others: mere pieces of esoteric folklore, to be learned, but which would ultimately have no effect on his own life.
‘Who should I believe, guuka?’ the boy asked.
‘You can only listen to one voice, my son. You know what we say: There should only be one wife in a man’s hut while the ugali is cooking.’
‘Then which one?’
‘Many in our village want to learn the wazungu ways,’ his grandfather said with a sigh. ‘Even me; there was a time when I thought we merely needed to heed the white man and everything would be good for us.’
‘Is that so?’
He shrugged. ‘There are many good things to come from them, but we have found that even the wazungu cannot save the crops in the drought. A goat will die when it is ready and sometimes the chickens don’t lay. These things happen.’
‘Should we keep to our ways and also the wazungu’s?’ Wangira asked, voicing the question he’d been afraid to mention earlier.
The old man smiled. ‘That is something only you can decide, my boy.’
CHAPTER 2
Wangira had been the undisputed leader of all the young boys in the village. Now Kamau was a rival on the playing fields, where he would test Wangira in serious mock battles, and also in the classroom, where he vied with Wangira for Sister Rosalba’s attention. The rivalry entered a new phase when Kamau took his new Christian name, Johnstone Kamau.
Wangira challenged Kamau’s choice. ‘Why do you choose such a strange name?’ he asked. ‘Johnstone Kamau … Who said you should call yourself Johnstone Kamau?’
‘I chose it,’ Kamau who was now Johnstone said. ‘I have already been Kamau wa Muigai when I was born, then Kamau wa Ngengi when my mother and I moved here. So why not Johnstone Kamau now? It is a modern name.’
But Wangira felt cheated by Sister Rosalba. It was her suggestion that he take the name Samson. Upon reflection, Samson Wangira paled into insignificance against the far more flamboyant Johnstone Kamau.
Also, Samson had obligingly accepted the diminutive Sam, but the young Johnstone refused to accept John. Somehow it added fuel to their feud.
Each time he heard the name it further injured Wangira’s pride. ‘The winner of the race to the millet field is Johnstone Kamau. Sam Wangira second. Johnstone Kamau takes this month’s prize for English spelling. Sam Wangira also did well.’
Although nobody knew their birth dates for sure, it was generally assumed that Johnstone was a year or two older than Wangira as he was the bigger of the two boys. This did nothing to reduce Wangira’s determination to be stronger, quicker and smarter than Johnstone Kamau.
Wangira and Johnstone agreed that the big race to celebrate the end of the harvest would decide who was the better athlete.
Wangira was feeling strong and fit in the lead up to the day. He’d spent all his spare time in the preceding weeks climbing trees, lifting rocks and running up and down the hills surrounding the village.
On one occasion, while on the ridge above Igobu, he saw Johnstone Kamau running beside the stream. Wangira watched from his hiding position, pleased to see him in training, knowing that Johnstone’s abilities did not come naturally — a secret fear that Wangira had held for some time — and were as difficult to achieve and maintain as his own. But at the same time, he was concerned
that his rival was equally determined to beat Wangira as in the past. Wangira resumed his training with even greater determination.
The mission school was closed for that part of the season to allow the children to assist the family with the harvesting and to visit family and friends afterwards, as was the custom. So Wangira didn’t expect to see Johnstone again until the day of the race.
On occasions such as this, with the school children, most of the village, and even a good number of the warriors present, Johnstone usually held centre stage. He would arrive with a noisy group of friends and supporters, find excuses to call to others in the crowd, and then enter into an elaborate display of limbering up and demonstrating his skills with short sprints through the assembled spectators. But today, until the field was called to the starting line, nobody had seen him. When he did arrive, almost at starting time, he looked and acted differently.
There was no time to ponder the significance of the new Johnstone Kamau, because the elder given the responsibility of setting the field and giving the signal to start had called the contestants to gather beside him.
When the starting signal sounded, Wangira and Johnstone vaulted to the front, leading all others up the rise and into the jungle.
Wangira ran like the dreaded irimu of his childhood was in pursuit, but Johnstone stayed doggedly on his heels. Wangira tried not to think of his pursuers, but focused instead on his image of himself when, in a few years, he became a warrior. He could see himself leading the charge into battle against the Maasai invaders. He would save the village almost single-handedly.
The track slanted down to an eroded culvert where it crossed a dry section of the stream. Wangira skipped over the boulders and dashed up the far side. He heard a loud cry from Johnstone, and looked behind. Johnstone was not in sight. It spurred Wangira onwards and upwards until he’d cleared the forested part of the course and was at last in sight of the village. He risked one more glance over his shoulder, and was elated that Johnstone Kamau had not yet emerged from the forest.
It was only after he’d splashed through the swampy patch within sight of the village that he dared to look again. There was still no sign of Johnstone.
The women’s high-pitched ululations greeted his arrival, and his classmates rushed to congratulate him. Wangira tried to be undemonstrative in victory, but he’d had barely a win in the previous three seasons, and it was hard to be humble.
He caught Sister Rosalba’s face in the crowd, beaming with joy. There were friends and family. His grandfather was there and, unimaginably, his father, more reserved than the others, but obviously pleased.
Moments after Wangira completed the course, some of the better runners began to arrive. Wangira was surprised and even more delighted at his dominance over Johnstone when he was not among the first few.
The remainder of the field arrived either singly or in panting, exhausted groups. All except for Johnstone.
Soon it became obvious that something was wrong, and the elder supervising the event sent two warriors to check the course for the missing runner.
Wangira was determined that Johnstone Kamau would not steal his glory by arriving at the village at the height of the mounting concern for his safety. He felt Johnstone was shamming an injury, or perhaps conjuring a death-defying feat that caused him to default from the race. While the crowd was distracted by concerns for his wellbeing, Wangira took a short-cut back to the part of the forest where he’d last seen him.
He joined the stream a short distance from the crossing and, making his way quietly along its rocky bed, he came to a bend that kept him concealed.
Johnstone Kamau was backed into the bank of the dry stream, surrounded by eight or ten hyenas, who snickered and yelped excitedly. He was throwing stones at the nearest of them, but his efforts were ineffective. It emboldened the scavengers to press their attack.
Wangira selected two round, fist-sized rocks and scampered out of the river bed. He climbed the slope to get a vantage point. Once in his position, with Johnstone concealed under the bank, and the hyena pack in plain view, Wangira took aim and let fly. He missed the animals, but the crack the rock made on striking a boulder set half the pack back on its heels. He threw his second rock. It struck the hyena nearest to Johnstone on the back with a sound like a man striking a hollow log with his war club. The hyena screamed and scuttled away, dragging its hindquarters. The entire pack retreated, yelping.
Wangira slid down the embankment to Johnstone’s side, and gasped at what he saw: his foot was a mass of blood and torn flesh.
‘Did one bite you?’ Wangira asked.
‘No. Jiggers.’
Jigger fleas were a constant annoyance, burrowing under toenails to lay their eggs. Untreated, the maggots could erode the flesh of toes and feet and ultimately lead to an agonising death.
‘I have never seen jiggers so bad.’
‘Idiot. I kicked a rock and fell.’ Johnstone held up his right hand. His wrist was badly swollen. ‘I wouldn’t have needed you, or anyone, if I had two good hands.’
‘Can you walk?’
Johnstone struggled to his feet and tentatively touched his foot to the ground. He bit his lip and limped a few steps.
Wangira came up beside him, and Johnstone reluctantly rested his weight on his shoulder.
The warriors met them before they’d gone far and, taking Johnstone onto their shoulders, carried him in triumph back to the village.
A big crowd hailed his return and the medicine man set about preparing his unguents and herbs, his rattles and tokens. But the missionaries, seeing Johnstone’s bleeding feet, wasted no time in getting him to the clinic in Nyeri.
It was clear that Johnstone’s feet had been infected for some time, and his courage and endurance in making a start to the race had only been surpassed by his brave fight against the hyenas.
Everyone in the village was in awe of his grit, and said that he was surely destined to do great things one day.
Johnstone Kamau had won yet again.
When Wangira arrived at the clinic in Nyeri he found Johnstone sitting up in the last of the six beds with a tent erected over his legs and his right wrist covered in plaster.
Wangira dragged his feet to the bedside where the boys exchanged mumbled greetings.
Johnstone seemed uncomfortable with the unexpected visit. Wangira wasn’t sure why he’d come either, although his guuka had said that a good warrior always paid tribute to a brave and fallen enemy.
If he’d been honest, part of Wangira’s reasoning was to gloat about his victory, but upon seeing Johnstone in the clinic — where, to his knowledge, no one in his village had ever been — he felt contrite and a little sympathetic.
His gaze fell to the tent covering Johnstone’s legs. He wondered what magic the white medics could have performed to repair Johnstone’s ruined feet.
‘When will you come back to school?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. They haven’t told me what will happen now.’
‘You must stay in the bed.’
‘Yes.’
‘What about when you have to … to go?’ Wangira asked, looking at the bed sheets covering his legs.
Johnstone looked uncomfortable. ‘They bring something.’
‘What do they bring?’
‘… a pot.’
‘A pot?’
Now Johnstone appeared agitated.
Wangira was tempted to make a joke, then felt unworthy. He changed the subject.
‘Do they give you food?’
‘Yes.’
‘I meant to bring you a banana, but I forgot.’
Johnstone nodded.
Wangira couldn’t take his eyes off the tent.
‘There’s nothing to see,’ Johnstone said, following his gaze.
‘Nothing?’ Wangira said, looking from Johnstone’s face to the missing legs. ‘You mean they have …?’
‘No, idiot. I mean they have wrapped my feet and legs in mericani. There is nothing to see until
they remove the cloth.’
‘Oh.’
Wangira looked around the clinic. There were four others in the ward. A white woman in a crisp white uniform rolled a trolley through the door to the first bed. She filled the patient’s glass with fresh water.
‘These white people … did they punish you?’
‘For what?’
‘I don’t know. They look like askaris.’
‘They are the doctors. If it wasn’t for their help I would be as you thought — without toes, or even legs.’ He looked towards the nurse before speaking in a lowered voice. ‘I tell you, Samson, these people are clever. We can learn much from them. When I finish at the Consolata mission school I will find work with the whites where I can learn more. Much more.’
Wangira knew that Johnstone, like he, had been offered a place in the mission’s secondary school in Nyeri.
‘Are you not continuing at school?’ he asked.
‘There is no money for books and pencils. My uncle said I must either work in his shamba or work for one of the settlers. But I don’t want to work on a farm — not my uncle’s, and not the white’s.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I will go to Nairobi.’
It was such an implausible notion, Wangira smiled.
Johnstone became irate. ‘You don’t think I can?’ he demanded. ‘You stand there with that funny face and you think I can be nothing more than a shamba boy because I am taken to live with my father’s brother? Well, one day you’ll see — I will be a leader.’
Wangira felt awkward. At any other time he would have responded to the challenge posed by Johnstone’s words and manner, but to argue with a boy in bed with bad toes seemed shameful.
He thought it best to leave, and said goodbye.
He was at the door of the ward when Johnstone called to him. ‘Sam.’