In acquitting them, the magistrate agreed with the lawyer’s description of the three men as the Good Samaritans and this thrilled and warmed their hearts.
Thrilling too, was the sight of themselves, their pictures and names in the newspapers. Three Good Samaritans acquitted, one daily had headlined it. There was also the feature editor who, sensing a news drama behind the headlines, had followed the group, taken several pictures and asked interminable questions. The day after, their story was splashed across the centre pages under three catching captions: DEATH IN DESERT: HUNGER IN ILMOROG: DONKEY ON A RESCUE MISSION. Dominating the story was a photograph of Abdulla’s donkey pulling behind it an empty cart and the group looking a little surprised by fear, a little lost in the city jungle of vehicles and buildings and people busy about the streets.
It was this, ironically, which in turn saved their mission. Donations poured in from every quarter. Within three hours of the newspaper’s story, the lawyer’s place was flooded with donations of food and soon the donkey-cart was filled to the top. One company offered to provide free transport for the group, their donkey and cart, and the gifts. Rev. Jerrod called on an alliance of churches to send a team to the area to see how the Church could help. A government spokesman promised to despatch experts to see how Ilmorog fitted into the government long-term rural development schemes; to see if plans could be speeded up so that in future Ilmorog and similar areas could be self-sufficient to meet threatening droughts.
For a whole month after the group’s triumphant return they came: church leaders who conducted prayers for rain and promised a church for the area; government officials who said the area clearly needed a District Officer of its own – it was too far from Ruwa-ini for effective administration – and who promised to write a report to recommend a high-powered commission of inquiry into the development needs of the area; charity organizations which promised to sell more raffle-tickets in the area – Jaribu Bahati – and a group of University students who later wrote a paper relating droughts and uneven development to neo-colonialism, called for the immediate abolition of capitalism and signed themselves as the committee for students against neo-colonialism.
The only person who was decidedly not happy at the way things had turned out was Nderi wa Riera. He retreated to his social clubs hiding his temporary defeat in beer and whisky. But his planning mind was busy. The more he thought about the whole thing the more he became convinced that his political enemies and indeed the enemies of the country’s prosperity and stability had engineered the whole thing. There was a pattern to the orchestration of events leading to the court appearance.
He again recalled the humiliation of his two emissaries; he still felt a personal hurt at having to suppress the story, for fear that he, one of the top brains behind the whole tea-drinking culture, was not in control of his constituency. But his enemies must have mistaken his silence for weakness. He would prove them wrong. Because of his business connections with many at the top, Nderi wa Riera pulled more weight than even a minister. He would now use all his connections to defeat his enemies. He had also worked out details to make KCO grow into the most feared instrument of selective but coercive terror in the land.
KCO had originally been a vague thing in his mind. It had grown out of his belief in cultural authenticity which he had used with positive results in his business partnership with foreigners and foreign companies. Why not use culture as a basis of ethnic unity? He had read somewhere that some prominent leaders in some West African countries were members of secret societies, that used witchcraft and other remnants of pre-colonial cults and parties to keep their followers in fear and obedience. Yes! Why not! He himself had recently been sent a secret invitation to join the Free Masons in Nairobi – a secret European business fraternity. Why not an African-based counterpart to control Central Province where peasants and workers seemed very restive and this was dangerous because these people had had a history of anti-colonial violent resistance, a spirit of struggle, which could be misused by the enemies of progress and Economic Prosperity. Later the idea could be sold to other leaders of the other communities.
He had discussed it with top directors of companies, big landlords, and other men of status. A few had opposed it saying such practices and revivals were too primitive; that there were always the Police, the Army and the Law Courts to put down any resistance from below.
But his arguments had been given substance by the unexpected effect of the assassination of the Indian and later of a top African politician. Suddenly even those top few who opposed it were for the idea.
The Mass Tea Party had almost been a hundred per cent successful but for the outcry from a few misguided voices in Parliament, the Church, and the students of the University. There was also the foreign press which in their naivety thought this Tea Party was another Mau Mau. Under the emotions of the period it would have been very difficult to explain to the Western press that this was a different thing altogether – that it was not against progressive cooperation and active economic partnership with imperialism. He, Nderi wa Riera, was convinced that Africa could only be respected when it had had its own Rockefellers, its Hughes, Fords, Krupps, Mitsubishis . . . KCO would serve the interests of the wealthy locals and their foreign partners to create similar economic giants!
But KCO had survived the recent denunciation of the Mass Tea Party and he was quite convinced that the organization could be made to grow using other means. Even the foreign press and the leaders of the other communities would not oppose it once they realized the kind of economic and social interests it really stood for.
At the thought of KCO he suddenly felt peaceful, calm inside. He knew how to go about paying back his enemies. For a start he admitted that he had neglected Ilmorog. He would now work to strengthen the Ilmorog Branch of KCO of which he was the Chairman, General Secretary and Treasurer. He would in time probably give two of the jobs to dependable fellows from the area. Then he would institute Ilmorog (KCO) Holding Ltd. Capital could always be raised from the people. Sell shares to all the sons of Ilmorog be they in or outside Ilmorog. He might even use his share of the millions collected during the Mass Tea Drinking. He could borrow additional funds from banks. Ilmorog (KCO) Holding Ltd through the control of other companies would tap and develop Ilmorog’s tourist potential . . . but the roads!
Then he remembered his enemies. Would they not expose his motives? Who were they? Could it be that boy Karega and that teacher and the crippled fellow? No, these were only front men: they were working for somebody else. Who could it be?
And suddenly he knew. The lawyer of course. Nderi bought drinks for everybody in the club. Why had he not seen it earlier? Why? The lawyer was the brain behind it all. The lawyer was the Enemy. He was the Enemy of KCO and Progress. Even if it took him ten years, Nderi would surely have the lawyer eliminated. He would ask his henchmen to open ‘file’ for the lawyer in their minds.
Long live Ilmorog. Long live KCO, his heart sang joyfully. And that night he went to the Casino to try his new luck.
The following day he issued a statement promising to explore the possibilities of opening up the area for tourism; and of securing loans for people in Ilmorog – but only for true Ilmorogians, not outsiders sent there by his political enemies to make capital out of natural disasters – to develop their shambas. He would soon launch a giant financial project – Ilmorog (KCO) Investment and Holdings Ltd – as a quick means of developing the area. Ilmorog would never be the same . . .
Part Three: To Be Born
The morning blush’d fiery red:
Mary was found in Adulterous bed;
Earth groan’d beneath, and Heaven above
Trembled at discovery of love.
William Blake
Your two breasts are like two fawns,
twins of a gazelle,
that feed among the lilies . . .
Song of Solomon
The voice of my beloved!
Behold he comes,
leaping upon the mountains,
bouncing over the hills.
Song of Solomon
Chapter Seven
1 ~ ‘Yes, Ilmorog was never quite the same after the journey . . .’ wrote Munira years later, echoing Nderi’s words. His was a mixture of an autobiographical confessional and some kind of prison notes.
At night, pacing about the cold cement floor, feeling the unfriendliness of the cell’s bare walls and the barren darkness creep through the flesh to the bones, he would mutter to himself . . . ‘things were never quite the same’. He sat in a corner and leaned against the walls and stretched his legs along the floor. He started scratching himself, his ribs, his waist, his behind, his everywhere, and for a second he almost enjoyed this cruel distraction from heavy thoughts and memories. From his hair he dug out a fat louse which he killed by pressing it between his thumbnails. The tiny sound of death so sharp in the cold darkness startled him. He cleaned the lousy mess against the sides of his trousers and muttered: ‘After the journey . . . after that journey . . . a devil came into our midst and things were never quite the same.’
Munira had now been held at the New Ilmorog Police Station for eight days. He had expected that Inspector Godfrey would call on him daily for questions and discussions. Every evening one of the policemen on guard – either the short or the tall one – would collect the day’s instalment and take it away. And Munira would hold himself ready; he felt an incandescence of the spirit, a glow of the intellect, the pride of an inventor or a discoverer, and he was eager to communicate this to any listener. He felt even more than before that he now held the key which opened up, once and for all time, the true universal connection between things, events, persons, places, time. What caused things to happen? The New Ilmorog of one or two flickering neon-lights; of bars, lodgings, groceries, permanent sales, and bottled Theng’eta; of robberies, strikes, lockouts, murders and attempted murders; of prowling prostitutes in cheap night clubs; of police stations, police raids, police cells: what brought about this Ilmorog from the old one of sleepy children with mucus-infested noses, climbing up and down miariki trees? And why did things happen the way they did at the time they did and no other? How was it that the puny acts of men, arising from a thousand promptings and numerous motives, could change history and for ever condemn and damn souls to eternal torment and loss, guilt and cruelty, but also to love – yes – love that passeth all understanding? No there was a design, a law, and it was this that he would have liked to impress on Inspector Godfrey.
But when by the ninth day the Inspector had not yet called him, Munira felt a little alarmed. He was beginning to get slightly weary of the daily routine: porridge in the morning; the writing-desk; lunch of ugali and boiled sukuma wiki; the writing-desk; supper of maize and mbuca-infested beans: and finally the cement floor. An uncontrollable anxiety gnawed at his sleep at night and in the morning it made him restless. For relief he tried walking about the exercise yard. It was during the night of the fifth day that he suddenly felt the effects of his isolation. Time was a vast blankness without a beginning, middle and end, no tick-tock-tick-tock divisions, no constant lengthening and shortening of shadows, no human altercations or laughter and the to-and-fro activity which ordinarily made him aware of time’s measure and passage. Suppose . . . suppose . . . well . . . suppose it was not . . . ! And alone in the dark without a human voice to argue with he felt his assurance desert him, he panicked – and tried to reach out for the law, only to find that it was not as palpable as when he was arguing with or trying to persuade an avowed adversary. Inspector Godfrey was playing with him. He was laughing at him. He was probably amusing himself the way a cat lets a rat run a little with illusions of freedom and near-escape before joyously pouncing on him. In the morning Munira walked to the tall policeman on guard and found himself pleading and demanding at the same time:
‘I want to talk to the officer in charge. I demand to see the highest authority at the New Ilmorog Police Station. Why, Mr Policeman, even you can see that this is becoming ridiculous. I, a grown-up, a teacher, guarded and scribbling fiction on paper. For what are recollections but fiction, products of a heated imagination? I mean, how can one truly vouch for the truth of a past sequence of events? I have my rights too. I know their sly ways: the officer protesting his readiness to accede to my wishes: Mr Munira, all we want is a simple statement . . . Why then has he kept me here for eight days? Today is the ninth day. Mr Munira, we shall give you pen and paper . . . I don’t want their paper: I don’t want their pen. Listen to me, Mr Policeman . . . It is not a statement they want . . . They want a confession, an accusation. Tell them that I am not accusing anybody. No, Mr Policeman. That is not true. Please go and tell him, them, anybody, even the first officer, the youth I mean, that I am ready to answer any questions. Only they must take me away from this, er, this prison . . .’
The tall policeman looked at him, unable to follow the logic of his argument. But he was still afraid of Munira, as indeed he was of anybody who claimed to hear voices from God. He would in fact have preferred to guard another: he tried to be reasonable and very polite.
‘But you are not in prison, Mr Munira!’ he said. Munira was startled by the mention of his name.
‘What’s this, then? Open that gate and let me out.’
The policeman was really alarmed. He feared something might happen. Ever since childhood, he had always been afraid of Christ’s second coming and he kept himself on guard ready to jump to the right side. With these things one could never really be sure. He now spoke quickly, almost nervously.
‘Be reasonable, now, Mr Munira. Here you have a cell, well, a room to yourself. You have an open courtyard. You can walk about or sleep or write. Nobody interferes with you. Look at the other side of this partition. All those newly arrested, all those remanded are put there. They share cells, sometimes four or five or ten in one cell. Not even as big as yours. Last night two young fellows, totos I would say, well, thugs. They were brought in. Would you have liked that kind of company? I am not suggesting that you are in prison, arrested, or remanded. Only . . . well . . . Chui, Kimeria and Mzigo were such important people. VIPs. It will take us years before we can get their likes. So wealthy. Millionaires. Imagine. African Delameres. Did you ever visit the scene of the arson? Of course you couldn’t have. It was terrible . . . terrible . . . Mr Munira, between you and me it was not a case of robbery or attempted robbery. There’s more to it than meets the eye. The police must leave no stone unturned. And this Inspector Godfrey . . . so famous . . . a bit odd . . . I mean his methods . . . like now . . . He never leaves the office . . . reads . . . reads. . . .’
‘I don’t want your theories. I just want to speak to Inspector Godfrey. You are only a jailer. Both you and I are in prison. Well, everybody is in prison . . .’
‘Mr Munira. But you chose to be confined here! You wanted to write down truth. You are a big man yourself. A teacher. A man of God. You ought to be sympathetic. Imagine. It might have been you. Well, it might be you next time. Mr Munira, prevention is better than cure.’
Munira laughed. Uneasily.
‘You are too talkative. But look. I don’t even have clothes into which I can change. You came for me in the morning. You said: It’s nothing much, Mr Munira, just routine questioning: we have nothing against you. Now you don’t even give me a newspaper . . .’
‘A newspaper, Mr Munira? But you have not asked for it. I am under instruction from Inspector Godfrey himself to supply you with whatever you need. Ask and it shall be given, that kind of thing. I will go just now and get you one, Mr Munira. Only I must lock this gate. But don’t take it ill. I am not your jailer. I am only waiting on you.’
Munira watched him lock the heavy iron gate. He had felt better talking with him. But now the panic of the night returned. He almost called him back. For it was as if, now, his last human contact had deserted him, and he was alone with the unresolved question . . . suppose . . . suppose this law is not there . . . He walked aw
ay from the gate and sat by the barbed wire that divided his yard from the others. He felt sleep steal on him. He readied himself to submit, hopefully. Suddenly he heard voices coming from the other side and his heart leapt a bit with pleasure. At first the voices were a little distant and a little vague, but after a while he could follow the conversation. He looked in that direction. Their backs were turned to him. So he just listened.
They were telling their story, maybe to a third person, probably their warder, or they were simply reliving their experience, uncaring, daring the warder or the listener to reveal it outside those walls. In court they would certainly deny it. They laughed at one another, laughed at their earlier declaration of innocence before the resident magistrate at Ilmorog. The two had been arrested trying to rob the Ilmorog branch of the African Economic Bank. They seemed proud of this as of their other exploits and their hide and hope-not-to-be-found games with the law.
The voices were vaguely familiar to Munira. But he could not place them. He wished they would turn their faces toward him. They went on talking and laughing as if they had not a care in the world, as if the whole thing was a game with certain rules, and except for the ‘traitor’ they were not bitter with anybody or anything else.
The policeman came back and brought him a copy of the Sunday Mouthpiece. Munira simply looked at him: he was not any longer interested in reading. What did it matter whether one read or not? But he took the paper all the same and idly flipped through the pages. He sat up and stared at banner headlines on the fourth page. Murder in Ilmorog. Foul play suspected. Political motivation? The headline, as it turned out, was more dramatic than the story which followed. The news aspects of the incident would of course have been exhausted by the national dailies, especially the more sensational Daily Mouthpiece, Munira reflected, and hence the speculation without evidence. So that was the source of the policeman’s theories. He quickly glanced up at the policeman who was eyeing him from the gate, and resumed his reading. The feature column was more interesting. The writer, after giving brief life histories of Chui, Mzigo and Kimeria, described them as three well-known nationalist fighters for political, educational, and above all, economic freedom for Africans. Their ownership and management of Theng’eta Breweries & Enterprises Ltd, which had brought happiness and prosperity to every home in the area as well as international fame for the country, was cited as an example of their joint entrepreneurial genius, unmatched even by the famed founders of the industrial revolution in Europe. Our Krupps, our Rockefellers, our Fords! And now their lives were brutally ended when they were engaged in a bitter struggle for the total African ownership and control of the same Theng’eta factories and their subsidiaries in other parts of the country. Negotiations for them to buy out the remaining shares held by foreigners were soon to start. Whom then did their untimely deaths benefit? All true nationalists should pause and think!
Petals of Blood Page 27