by Frank Coates
There was a large crowd inside the administration building. Jelani had never seen so many excited white people — businessmen from the look of their expensive suits. He guessed many were there to lobby the politicians to choose one of the solutions to the industrial situation suggested in the press. There was also a small number of black Africans. All were trying to gain access to the information desk where two quite harassed black public servants were attempting to answer questions and direct people to the appropriate person or department.
Jelani took his place in line behind a young woman wearing a white broad-brimmed hat, pleated brown skirt and white gloves.
After some time waiting in line he was getting no closer to the counter and realised that the woman in front of him was allowing others, particularly the businessmen, to push ahead. It annoyed him that they always considered their business more pressing than any others, but he thought it quite unusual that they ignored the usual protocol of allowing their women to go first.
When she finally reached the top of the queue, he understood why the men had ignored her. By her fluent use of Swahili, she was a black African. Her subdued European outfit had deceived him.
He could overhear her request for information about the two askaris promised to her village. She had a soft, lilting voice. Her Swahili was also quite proper and without any accent. It was the Swahili taught in good schools and used by quite educated Africans.
The clerk gave her some forms to complete and, as she turned away, she stepped on Jelani’s toes and dropped her papers.
‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ she said, stooping to retrieve the forms.
Jelani bent to help too, and when they stood they were face to face.
She had curving black lashes framing the most beautiful dark brown eyes, which now widened in surprise. Her lips parted, and her tongue lightly touched her top lip.
She was more beautiful than ever.
‘Beth!’ he whispered.
It wasn’t the most romantic venue Jelani might have chosen, but the tea shop at Nairobi station was at least a respectable one and, since Beth appeared to have grown into a very proper young lady, with pleated skirts and white gloves, he thought she would be more comfortable there.
He sat listening to her beautiful voice and simply couldn’t stop grinning.
She told him about her job working with Chief Luka in the district of Lari.
‘Lari? You mean up past Limuru?’
‘Yes.’
Jelani knew of it. It was a small farming community in the fertile high ground at the edge of the Rift Valley.
‘I work helping Deacon James in the villages around Lari.’
He asked her if she’d like tea and she said she would — with milk and sugar. But when he reached the counter he realised he’d forgotten her order, and three minutes later he was back to ask again.
He felt no desire to speak, preferring to watch her face as she talked. He loved the way she touched her cheek as she tried to recall a detail and how her eyes sparkled when she smiled. He asked about her life since she left their village five years before.
‘Reverend Farley sent me to the Anglican Inland Mission school in Voi. I studied there for four years. I learned about the work of the mission in Kenya, of course, and secretarial work, and I learned dressmaking and cooking.’
He listened patiently as she listed her academic subjects, but she was not telling him what he most wanted to know. ‘Are you married?’ he asked, impulsively.
Beth looked surprised, then shy. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Are you?’
‘No. Never. I mean … when you went away, I knew …’
Now he regretted choosing the railway station café. He reached across the table to take her hand in his.
‘I knew I only ever wanted you, Beth.’
Back at the administration building, still buzzing with love and delight, Jelani found Sam Wangira’s office at the far end of the corridor, with only the number on the door to indicate he’d found the right place. When he opened the door he was surprised to see Wangira himself sitting at a secretary’s desk; he looked up when he arrived at the doorway.
‘Oh,’ Jelani said. ‘I’m sorry to have barged in.’
‘Not at all,’ Wangira said. ‘Come in.’
Jelani did so, closing the door behind him.
Wangira smiled. ‘I suppose you expected a secretary to be sitting here.’
‘Um … yes.’
‘Well, there’s just me.’
He sat back in his chair, appraising Jelani.
‘I’ve seen you somewhere before. Ah! The light-skinned kid with the shoeshine box. A few years ago now.’
Jelani squirmed. He didn’t want those days to figure on his résumé. ‘I came about the scholarship,’ he said frostily. ‘I’m Jelani Karura.’
Wangira nodded. ‘A Kikuyu.’
He studied Jelani in a way that made him uncomfortable. Or maybe it was because he had referred to his skin colour.
‘A lot of people around here will question why I want to give a scholarship to a Kikuyu,’ Wangira continued. ‘They think we’re all members of the Mau Mau. Wrecking farms. Butchering livestock. Maniacs, the lot of them. I don’t suppose you’d admit it if you were one of them.’
He waited a moment, but Jelani again said nothing. The Mau Mau were a banned organisation. He’d be mad to admit to membership.
‘Let me tell you what this is about, because my guess is you have no idea,’ Wangira said, leaning back in his chair. ‘The government of Kenya is preparing for the day when this country becomes independent. We are looking for young people who are showing promise, and who might be trained to become future leaders.’
Wangira explained that there were only limited funds at present, but that after a trial period, when the success or otherwise of the program could be assessed, more funds might be allocated.
‘I only have a few places available, so I have to be choosy.’ He glared at Jelani from the other side of the desk. ‘I don’t want anyone who’ll mess up.’
Jelani held his silence, not daring to make the response he would have liked to give.
Wangira then went to the single filing cabinet standing against a wall.
‘Here,’ he said, handing a page to Jelani. ‘Fill that in.’
He waited as Jelani completed the form and slid it back across the desk.
‘Cook’s farm. Up in the Embu region,’ Wangira said, reading from the form.
He studied Jelani yet again. ‘I was up there a few years ago, delivering a pick-up load of maize. Yes … I remember you from then too. It’s your colour. Very distinctive.’
Jelani had had almost enough of him. He asked through tight lips if Wangira had all he needed from him.
‘You can go. I’ll let your boss know if you’re successful.’
Jelani stood to leave, but at the door Wangira had more to add.
‘I wasn’t just joking about the Mau Mau,’ he said. ‘I know they’re out there recruiting everyone they can. Using threats and promises. They call themselves freedom fighters, fighting for land reform and independence. Heroes, if you’d believe them. But they’re not. They’re becoming increasingly desperate, and they’re not doing the cause, our cause, any good. If they approach you, don’t get involved.’
Jelani closed the door behind him.
Sam watched Jelani Karura close the door to his office. He had handled himself very well during the interview. Even goading him about his skin colour, an issue Sam suspected was a sensitive one for him, had failed to provoke an angry response.
He’d been impressed by the young man since encouraging him to defend his shoeshining turf against the big Kamba and, although Sam was no great supporter of the trades union movement, he’d followed Jelani’s ideas as editor of Uhuru.
He reached for a sheet of letterhead paper and used it for a note to Chege Muthuri, confirming the scholarship for Jelani Karura to attend the offices of the International Longshoremen’s Association in New York
. He paused there, again wondering if he’d acted wisely in allowing Muthuri to have his way on the choice of the ILA. Sam wanted the scholarship to be with the New York Times, but he felt he needed to be conciliatory on this, the first occasion his trust would be used. In future he would exert more pressure to get his way.
He reached into his desk drawer for an envelope and also took out the letter he’d received from General Motors. It was hedged in complicated legal terms, and obviously written by their highly paid lawyers, but it was clear to Sam that the company wanted to discuss a business deal.
General Motors had long ago purchased Cadillac — the car manufacturer to first use Ira’s electric starter motors — and now wanted to buy the patents of which Sam was the nominal owner.
The money from the settlement was likely to help Sam continue and expand his training scholarship program a few more years. It would mean going to New York to discuss the details.
New York. The thought of the city drew mixed emotions.
Although it wasn’t convenient or pleasing to be returning to New York — he dreaded the sea journey — in some ways he welcomed it. He could arrange his trip to coincide with young Karura’s scholarship so he could keep an eye on him.
It would also draw to an end his involvement with Ira’s legacy. It was time to put that painful part of his life finally to rest.
CHAPTER 42
The general strike that was called to protest the arrest of Chege Muthuri and others lasted eighteen days, during which time the member unions of the Trades Union Council demonstrated and marched in all the major towns, particularly in Mombasa and Nairobi — the two largest. As Chege Muthuri predicted, the administration didn’t proceed with the planned expansion of the city boundaries and the union men were released without charges being laid.
A few weeks after the strike, Muthuri became the leader of the Trades Union Council while retaining his role as Secretary-General of the Transport and Allied Workers’ Union. It made him one of the most powerful men in Kenya — and put him in direct competition with Jomo Kenyatta and his political party, the Kenya African Union.
Jelani was filing papers in the archives room adjacent to Muthuri’s office when he heard the unmistakeable voice of Jomo Kenyatta through the open door to the Secretary-General’s office. Their heated conversation had obviously commenced before they entered Muthuri’s office and neither of them were aware of Jelani’s presence.
He was about to close the door when he heard Kenyatta mention the Mau Mau.
‘It’s no wonder these young men get swept up by Kaggia’s thugs,’ Jelani heard Kenyatta say. ‘The mission schools have enticed them away from the traditional Kikuyu culture to make them good Christian boys. Then, having broken traditional ties, they join the Mau Mau.’
‘They join up because they are gullible young bucks, not because they believe everything they are told at mission school,’ Muthuri said.
‘Of course they don’t, but they are happy to go along with it because the missions have convinced them that if they give up the circumcision and warrior ceremonies and become Christians, they’ll get a good office job. They let them believe that if they dress and speak like an Englishman they’ll get a job like an Englishman. Then they find there are no jobs for them; they are stuck, neither Kikuyu nor Christian. That’s when the Mau Mau find it easy to pick them up.’
‘You worry too much. The Kikuyu have always used oaths.’
‘No. The Mau Mau coerce people into this oath. That is not our way. They corrupt our Kikuyu culture with their oathing ceremonies. They are taken secretly and at night, not, as our culture demands, in front of witnesses and agreed to by all the family.’
‘They might attract a few ignorant villagers, but do you seriously believe that a young educated Kikuyu fellow would join such an organisation, with its mumbo jumbo and black magic nonsense?’
‘I know they’re finding recruits among returned servicemen. Men who have learned how to use modern weapons. I tell you, Chege, if the Mau Mau can find a source of arms they will be very dangerous. They’re an abomination.’
‘Rubbish, Kenyatta. You’re overly imaginative.’
‘The Mau Mau are not right for us. They deliberately lie when they say we can win by force of arms. How can a few thousand ignorant tribal people with pangas and spears attack the British army?’
‘Thankfully, that won’t happen and, even if it did, they wouldn’t have to fight the British army,’ Muthuri said. ‘Just the Kenya police and a few reservists.’
‘I’m not at all sure of that. If the Mau Mau continue to grow, and goes the way I suspect it will, the Kenyan government will have no choice but to call for assistance from the defence forces. Then there will be real trouble for all of us. And we’ll not see independence for decades.’
‘It won’t go that far,’ Muthuri insisted.
‘No? Already they’re in a panic. They’ve closed down all the Kikuyu schools in the reserves. There’s talk about concentration camps like they had for the Boers.’
‘Nonsense,’ Muthuri said dismissively. ‘They wouldn’t have the nerve.’
‘I’m telling you, if the Mau Mau don’t get what they want by poisoning watering holes and mutilating farm animals, they’ll turn to murder. Then we’ll have a hell of a battle to keep our people out of a full-scale war.’
Jelani quietly closed the adjoining door.
Kenyatta’s argument surprised him. He’d not considered the Mau Mau to be anything more than a militant protest group, and he’d certainly never considered taking up arms with them.
Jelani’s view was more in line with Chege’s — that the Mau Mau would be a pressure group, harassing the administration in hit-and-run operations. He went back to his filing work, but Kenyatta’s words niggled at the back of his mind.
Muthuri casually mentioned to Jelani that he’d received confirmation of his trip to America. Jelani could hardly contain himself and, when he met Beth at the bus station a few days later, he started jabbering the news the moment she stepped out of the vehicle.
He bought two roasted maize cobs from a street vendor and they took them to Jeevanjee Gardens, where they sat on a stone away from the traffic noise on nearby Government Road.
Jelani told her the full story.
‘Oh, Jelani,’ she said. ‘That’s wonderful. You must be doing very well in your position.’
He tried to be modest, but he mentioned Muthuri’s opinion that he could be a future leader of the union, or even in a higher position.
‘But I’m not sure I want to go to America now … now that I’ve found you again.’
She took his hand; hers was warm from the maize cob.
‘Five years ago, we had no say in our separation,’ she said. ‘Now we have our lives in our own hands.’
‘Beth, I missed you every day of those five years.’
‘My love, we have the rest of our lives together. We’ll make up for the days lost. No one will force us apart again.’
‘That’s why I don’t want to leave you. Not even to go to America.’
‘But you must. It’s your future. Mr Muthuri’s right. We need people like you in the important positions. And people like Chief Luka. He’s a wonderful old man, and very loyal.’
‘Loyal? Loyal to who?’
‘Why, loyal to the government, of course. There’s a lot of talk about this Mau Mau thing — how they are making people take an oath, and causing a lot of trouble everywhere. Chief Luka is fighting very hard to keep the young men away from them. And Deacon James and I are helping him.’
‘What do you know of the Mau Mau?’ he asked.
‘They’re terrorists. And murderers.’
‘I haven’t heard about murders.’
‘Chief Luka says they’re murdering our brother Kikuyu in villages out in the bush; we just don’t hear about it.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Deacon James says it’s true.’
‘A priest. What does he know
about the Kikuyu?’
‘I think he knows a lot about us. And the Mau Mau. At Lari we’re in the middle of everything.’
Jelani took a breath and held it as he tried to remain calm. When he was thirteen, he and Beth had disagreements about what was the right way of life for them: was it the Kikuyu’s traditional customs as he had been taught by his parents and grandparents, or those introduced by the missionaries? Back then he had been prepared to forgo his beliefs if that was what was required to marry Beth. Now, at eighteen, he felt strongly that the Mau Mau were the Kikuyu’s best hope of regaining the rights to their land, and eventually a say in their own government. He put the worrying similarities between Beth’s stories and Kenyatta’s anxieties out of his mind and wondered how far he could now bend his principles to hers.
He loved her, but this time he felt she should be guided by his better knowledge of the situation. He would explain what the Mau Mau were attempting to achieve for all their people — Kikuyu and other tribes — religious or not.
But not yet. Their recently reinstated love must be given time to strengthen before he tackled the inventions of her Christian upbringing.
Dedan Kimathi told Jelani he was more useful to the movement by writing and printing information sheets to be distributed among the villages than getting directly involved in their activities.
‘In good time, my friend,’ Kimathi told him. ‘We have many hands in the bush, but few who can do what you are doing for us.’
So in the weeks before he packed his bag for the USA, Jelani spent his spare time with Kimathi at the house in Ngong Forest.
During this period, stories of the Mau Mau’s senseless acts of cruelty appeared almost daily in the Nairobi newspapers. Cattle were mutilated, usually by hamstringing them, leaving the poor animals kneeling on their useless rear legs. Others were disembowelled and left to die in agony. Barnyard animals were maimed or slaughtered in increasingly bizarre rituals.
It unnerved Jelani to see the organisation so savagely attacked in the media. He suspected their methods had been exaggerated by the authorities to discredit the organisation. He put his theory to Kimathi.