by Carl Hancock
Abel did not try to hide his mounting anger. As he spoke, he prodded the air with his finger. For the second time within an hour an attempt was being made to belittle him.
‘That’s enough. Do not waste your money and your time. There will be no hospital built here. There is a perfectly good hospital here already.’
‘Mister Rubai, I know that your own wife is soon to have a child. Would you like him to be born in the maternity ward up there?’
Reuben saw his father’s head jerk backwards. For a few seconds Abel said nothing and when he spoke the tone was calm but tense.
‘I preferred it when you were the shy wash girl. Money has made you arrogant and foul-mouthed with it.’
‘No, sir. That is unfair. Mrs Rubai has always treated me with kindness and I love her dearly. Is it wrong to want the women of this town to have a place where they, too, can be properly looked after when a new child comes?’
‘You don’t understand, do you? Do you think that you are the first one to come along believing you can solve with your amateur ways problems that the government wrestle with every single day?’
‘So there is a problem?’
‘Of course, you fool! But Kenya is a poor country. Things take time to put right.’
‘Yes, but if in one small place we can solve one problem.’
‘And make other small places first jealous and then angry.’
‘No, give other small places hope, Mister Rubai, hope. And hope makes all the difference. You were a village boy once. Have you forgotten so quickly?’
As he listened to the words of this wash girl, this singer, Mister Abel Rubai, he who will not be opposed, found himself unexpectedly moved. The expression of deeply felt passion on the Kamau girl’s face added a kind of sublimity to her youthful, fresh beauty. ‘A village boy’. The notion struck hard, catapulting him back thirty years to the clean days when the scholarship boy worked tirelessly at his lessons and had hopes for himself and for those hundreds, thousands of his people. To have any chance of turning these hopes into reality, he would have to take the well-worn path to the capital. He would, but he would return.
Close by, Reuben watched the transformation in his father. The anger subsided. Even the outline of his body seemed diminished. Without warning, he turned away from Rebecca and Lydia. He seemed to have lost interest in beating down the arguments of the young woman who could so easily have become his daughter-in-law.
Obi had the engine running and the door open, ready for his boss’s arrival. The chauffeur had never seen Mister R look so downcast. The Mercedes was soon out onto the A104 and climbing the Escarpment at a steady speed. Reuben was relieved that his father had no interest in making conversation. Instead he spent most of the journey looking out at the commonest sight any traveller in the Great Rift of Kenya would have witnessed - hundreds of people, young and old, on the march on the red earth footpaths.
Measuring work at the hospital site was over for the morning. Rubai had been right about that. Rebecca and Lydia joined a solemn Bertie in his Pajero. While Rebecca slid up onto her seat wearily, Lydia’s entrance was sprightly. She was eager to talk about the meeting with the Rubais. Rebecca’s fearless confrontation of a man she had feared since first encountering him had given her confidence, but she knew that it was not her place to speak the first words.
Bertie’s retreat to his vehicle had been the right move. He was pleased with himself for that. At first, from his vantage point at the driving wheel, he had been ashamed to have left his two young friends to deal with the unpleasant confrontation, but shame soon turned to admiration and pride when he saw how Rebecca stood her ground and then went onto the attack. He had heard every word spoken and at one point feared that, in his temper, Rubai might become physically violent. Mister Big was wily enough not to risk doing harm to the most popular woman in the country. Bertie was surprised and pleased to watch Rubai’s limp departure, seemingly a beaten man.
‘Let’s go home. We can join the gardeners.’
Bertie drove slowly through the town. It turned out to be a royal progress. He saw for himself again how popular Rebecca was with the local people. It was waving and smiling all the way to the railway crossing. Lydia loved her for many reasons, but sitting behind her on that short journey back to Londiani, she felt awed. This beautiful woman so talented, so much loved was her friend.
‘Rebecca, you are amazing!’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I was watching. My heart was pounding away. I was afraid that they had come to take me with them. You had no fear. In the end, I think he just wanted to get away. You told him hard, true things. It was impossible, but I saw it. And, then, in the town, the people are so happy just to see you pass by. It’s like they … worship you or something.’
‘Now that is really crazy talk, Lydia!’ There was no sharpness in the reprimand, just a kindly correction delivered with a smile. ‘You are forgetting. I am just a Naivasha girl. They have known me all my life. My friends are here. They would be in fits of laughter to hear you say such things.’
Bertie smiled to himself. There was a truth in Lydia’s words, but he was sure that Rebecca’s head would not be turned by any such talk. He had never met anyone with so keen a perception of the reality of a given situation. She was modesty personified. What a fool he had been all those months ago when he heard that Tom was planning to marry the wash girl, and disapproved, prophesied all sorts of problems. A lot of learning by a lot of people had taken place since then and this girl was responsible for a good deal of it.
‘Rebecca, it was impressive. I’ve never seen the old bugger - sorry, girls - the big man look so small. You had him on the run. Tell you something else. Watching that little lot made me believe that Maria could be right. Rubai could be toppled, beaten or whatever.’
‘To tell you the truth, I felt no fear standing there facing him. It’s only now that I am trembling. But Maria also warned of the danger of a rat when he is cornered. Thomas’s mother calls him a snake, the king cobra with the cold, hooded eyes. He is strong and the three of us know that he will strike and strike until he has his way.’
They were turning off South Lake Road when Lydia came out with her wistful observation. ‘There will be only one winner here. Is that right, Mister Briggs?’
‘Lydia, I think it’s the people’s turn this time.’
Chapter Twenty-one
tephen Kamau had taken his six workers over to the flower fields. They were his foremen. They had finished their heavy work in the garden and it was time to do some groundwork ready for the return of another hundred Londiani people eager to begin the much longer task of preparing the ground for new planting.
Rafaella, the organiser, was having a wonderful time. She was busy creating and leading a team of enthusiasts. The rich soil had been fed and the seedlings, the young shrubs and the saplings were ready to be put in position.
When she saw the Pajero of Bertie Briggs returning early from the morning out at the hospital site, Rafaella called a ten minute break. The coffee and biscuits were finished in that time, but the talk kept them from their work for much longer. The reaction to what they heard from the new arrivals was mixed. The McCalls were impressed when they listened to Bertie’s account of Rebecca’s face-off with Rubai Senior, but Tom, especially, was apprehensive about a backlash from the other side.
‘Sent off twice in one morning. Wow! He’ll love that.’
Maria broke in. ‘Tom, no. The Abel Rubai of a year ago would be on his way home right now spitting blood, planning revenge, red hot with anger. Today, whether he is willing to acknowledge it or not, there are cracks in the wall of that pink palace. Little dark clouds of doubt are floating about in that twisted mind.’
‘Maria, please God, you are right. It is not many weeks since Sonya and I were in a sitting room in that pink palace, pleading for the life of Simon. I’m shuddering at the memory of it. Ruthless, mean, arrogant and with those cold eyes and lying tongue, in one word
, evil, he treated us like grovelling fools. In my case he was right. I had persuaded Sonya. I feel the shame of it. Maria, he hates this family.’
‘Maura, please, forgive me for my talk of cracks and clouds of doubt. But soft words are dangerous. Believe me, however hard you find it to do so. We cannot wish him away. We cannot. Sometimes in our lives we become raw with fear and pain. At these times we have to cling on hard. There are other forces much stronger than our human powers … Maura, I must stop. All is going to be well.’
Rafaella saw that her much loved daughter-in-law was allowing her emotions to work her mind into a state of turmoil. She was losing her sense of proportion.
‘Darling, let us trust the good earth. It longs for us to create new beauty in this place.’
Alex and his three sons were feeling uncomfortable in this atmosphere of high-octane emotion. He did not want to be caught up in it. Tom found the words for him.
‘In five weeks Rebecca and I will be married right here. That is going to mean a lot of work. I just want to get stuck in.’
Eddie chimed in. ‘Got a great idea. We play music to get us into the swim of things.’
‘No power.’
‘Okay, Rollo, we sing! Like our people in the fields. And, think of it, they’ll be back singing soon.’
‘But you’ve got a terrible voice. Probably kill the plants.’
‘The ladies can cover up my racket. Let’s give it a go.’
And singing there was, but not straight away. The tools were picked up and the soil worked, slowly and quietly by a garden crew who were looking inward and allowing their thoughts and emotions to work their way through.
At last, Rebecca began to hum the melody of one her most popular songs, ‘Mombasa Sunset’.
An hour later, the music of the voices, good and the ordinary, was rising out of the patch of garden where the work was concentrated, was disturbed. Two large trucks were bumping down the track towards them. Alex dug his fork into the earth and went to greet them.
‘It’s stuff for the build. Sawyer said he’d get most of it on site this week. Maura, a good omen?’
‘A good omen.’ She was smiling through tears.
In the late afternoon there was an unexpected visitor. Only the three McCall boys were still on the job. The car pulled up on the gravel area close to the veranda. The passenger door opened and a small, smartly dressed old man stepped out with his hand outstretched in greeting. Tom took the hand and smiled uncertainly.
‘You must be the McCall boys. I knew your grandfather, Don. Used to meet at the farmers’ meetings in the Rift Valley Club.’
Tom and his brothers were puzzled.
The old man chuckled. ‘You don’t know me, do you? Well, that’s no surprise. I’ve never visited before. I meant to and I should have, looking for you to vote for me. I’ve been the MP for Nakuru South since long before any of you were born.’
‘Simon Nyache. Blow me! I knew I’d seen you before. Last election. You were making a speech in town, from the steps of the bank. I remember you were standing on a little box.’
‘Old Charlie. I take him everywhere. My wife persuaded me long ago. She’s a big woman. She said it would make me look more important. It got to be a habit.’
The brothers hesitated before Rollo began the question.
‘Mr Nyache …’
‘Simon, please, and you want to know what I’m doing here.’
‘Yes, but you’re very welcome.’
Eddie went on. ‘As you can see, even in this light, we’ve got a problem with inviting guests inside.’
‘There’s no inside.’
‘Eddie’s right, but if you look out to the edge of the plain,’ Tom pointed, ‘you’ll see the stone and wood Jim Sawyer had delivered today. He’s building for us.’
‘My neighbour. Built our house. Best builder in this part of the Rift.’
The next brief hesitation was ended by Simon.
‘I understand, Tom, that you’re standing for Serena in the election, whenever that happens. I’ve come to tell you I’m going to be supporting you.’
‘But you’re a KANU man.’
‘Yes, all my life. I’ll serve out my time, try to be loyal, but after that …’
‘Have you got a few minutes? I think a few more people need to hear this.’
‘Sure. Like Mister Dracula, as long as I’m home by sunrise tomorrow.’
All told there were sixteen people in the sitting room of the guesthouse at Rusinga. By the time Maria, Inspector Caroline and Sergeant Ezra, the last arrivals, had taken their coffee cups and sat down, Tom had discovered that Simon was no stranger to anyone in the room except the youngest. But even to Caroline who had met him many times it was a surprise to see him out here in the territory of the flower farmers. Surprise turned to mild shock when Simon repeated the news he had given to the McCall boys just half an hour before.
‘I am sure you have all noticed that I do not come at the sensible, polite time of day for calling on comparative strangers. And I come unannounced. And why do I do this? Friends, and I hope I do not give offence by using that word, I confess that I have a strongly developed sense of self-preservation. Not fear, notice. I think I am too old for that but not an old fool either.’
‘KANU people would not be too pleased to see you sitting down talking to the enemy like this.’
‘Mister Briggs?’
Bertie nodded.
‘Forty-five of my young constituents murdered as they worked in the fields of this farm. This farmhouse itself blown up ten days later. Another of my constituents arrested and put in jail for attempted murder. There is a dark force at work in our party and a single individual wielding too much power, the power of life and death. A young doctor, a creative force working for our poorest people, murdered as he travelled to his home village in Western District and the culprits melt into the night.’
Maria interrupted. ‘Mr Nyache, what you say is true, but it is your party that wields the power in this country. And yet I know that there are many good men and women in KANU. Where were the protests from them? Why the silence?’
Simon fixed his eyes on Maria, but it was several seconds before he could give her an answer.
‘Yes, self-preservation. It is the other man who is hurting. It is too costly to speak up. I am guilty. What does our reverend minister call these things? “Sins of omission”. Men of the church are clever with words. “Passing by on the other side”. That doesn’t sound too bad. Hiding violence and bloodshed under a civilised cover. I’m sick of it. So why have I come here? Have I gone too far, too fast? Perhaps you want to get rid of me, but you are too polite to tell me.’
Alex cut him off. ‘Simon, welcome! And I have a feeling that my wife will think that your coming is a good omen.’
Maura followed up. ‘Alex is right about that. It is wonderful to see you. Brave, but you are taking a big risk. You must know that. Unfriendly eyes everywhere.’
‘Madam, what risk? It is nothing. I want risk. I embrace risk. Eighteen months ago, there was a headline in The Nation: ‘New party on the scene’. Daniel Komar and Paul Miller - now they were taking a risk. Serena, our people called it the joke party, the new home for political misfits. That first day, I became a secret member. Tonight I become a free member. And I am proud to be sitting here next to my successor.’
‘Now just hang on a minute. That is too far and too fast!’
‘Perhaps. But, see. You trust me. You don’t believe that I am some spy sent by the big boss. Thomas, the wananchi are longing for someone they can trust. I speak to people on the streets every day. Many of them tell me that they want you. Reasons? So many. They see that you have suffered like they have. Reuben Rubai? They’ll take his daddy’s kidogo, but they won’t vote for a young puppet.
‘Soon you will be married to the most popular woman in the country. They will vote for you to keep her here!
‘And then there is the hospital. For fifteen years our bosses in Nairobi have
promised that there would be funds for a new hospital. Big mouth Nyache stands up in front of the people and I share the great news. I am tired of being a fool. But now, when the passengers on the Eldoret Express, the kids pedalling by on their bikes, they see a big piece of land and men in machines working. They ask questions and when the answers come, they are excited and they have real hope.
‘I too am excited. That is why the words are tumbling out of my mouth like water down the falls of Niagara!’
His small audience was spellbound. In her time in the police force Caroline had served in small towns and in the capital and had listened to and usually been bored by speeches from hundreds of politicians. What she had just heard was completely new for its openness, for a kind of innocent vulnerability in Simon’s manner. The old man was risking his life. He must know this and yet there was no hint of fear.
And there was something else. As she listened, her mind was unconsciously drawing together little signs she had gathered from a variety of sources, sometimes not much more than a sentence, a look, an attitude. Together they suggested there were green shoots of change poking their heads above the soil of the homeland. She felt a lift in her spirits and a change was coming after all, just as Maria kept telling them.
Maria Kabari, sister of Paul Miller, wife of Sergeant Ezra, was a woman of many gifts. One of these was what seemed to others to be a clear foresight of the way things would be, a gift born out of spiritual strength and ancient knowledge. She had come into the lives of the people in that room when to their amazement she had, with her husband, accompanied the body of the murdered Doctor Simon Mboya from Kericho to Cartref, the home of the Daniels family of the Nairobi suburb of Karen. Her work there had won over a sceptical group. Out of the eight members of that family five were doctors, one of them Simon’s wife, Sonya.
In the little private surgery close to the house, first Sonya and one by one the others in the family witnessed not a miracle but a demonstration of an extraordinary medical healing. With her oils and ointments she did not try to imitate the ways taught in the great modern schools of medicine. She followed a tradition of ancient skills. David Daniels had tried to restore Simon’s hands, sadistically mutilated by his killers, but failed miserably. Maria, with painstaking effort had seemingly brought those fingers, so skilful in life, to look as they had looked when Simon was at his working best. As she worked she sang melodies and words that might have been sung by those women who worked on the body of Jesus himself after he had been laid in his tomb.