by Peter Kimani
Every few hours, Babu applied the ointment, his gentle rub getting more aggressive until she sighed. “Does it hurt?” he would ask, more a statement than a question, but she would only venture that she was fine, and he would continue rubbing the herbs onto her legs. He knew where her purple veins converged, and where the skin receded like a dimple, where the ankle creaked when turned.
Babu watched Fatima sleeping calmly, her deformed, spindly legs lying uselessly, as if their owner had run off and forgotten them. A pang of guilt overcame him. He needed to take her to see the doctor but he had practically no money left. If she did not improve over the next two weeks, he would have to look for money for her treatment. He was getting sick with worry, and though he couldn’t verbalize his fears, he still suspected her ailment had something to do with Nahodha’s curse. He wondered what Fatima felt about him. She had barely spoken since they’d arrived.
“Do you feel like eating pilau? The vendor close to the mosque sells really good pilau. It’s made in coconut sauce,” Babu had ventured earlier that day.
Fatima only shook her head.
“How about some chai? Strong chai with cinnamon and cloves? They’re nice, warming spices.”
“No.”
Presently, Fatima turned and mumbled in her sleep, but she did not open her eyes. There was a wheeze in her chest. Babu listened keenly, as his mind raced to another place and time, when he was younger and had first encountered another crippled, bedridden girl who had a whimper in the chest. He was in Punjab, and he had gone to visit his mother’s sister, Dharma Aunty, on his way home from school. She was back from work when he arrived, and Babu was drawn to a low, mournful sound coming from the squat house. It was a low wail, the sort of lament dogs sing when afraid of their own shadows under a full moon.
Dharma Aunty arrived within no time and once they were inside the house, muted light filtered in through a tiny window, its feeble illumination revealing a bed in a corner. Lying there was Dharma Aunty’s youngest child, Reena. The light weakly illuminated her yellow face, fingers curled into her drooling mouth, her deformed legs lying lifelessly on the bed.
Dharma Aunty cracked firewood on her knee, her shin shining above her looped skirt, and blew into the cold hearth. A cascade of butterflies fluttered in the room, some ash settling on her scarfed head. A shower of kerosene doused from the tin lamp was followed by a strike of the match. Once the match was hurled into the pile, tongues of fire leaped like serpents from a hatched egg. A sooty pot was placed near the fire to warm, as Dharma Aunty scooped food—a mishmash of potatoes, vegetables, and meat—into it. She sat astride a low stool, her skirt folded inward, dishing food with meticulous calculation as the ladle tapped the pot rhythmically. Babu tasted the food; it was too hot. Dharma Aunty was known to enjoy heavy spices a little too much. Babu’s mother said Dharma Aunty made her food spicy to ensure children did not touch it. Babu coughed and asked for some water.
The shaft of light from the tiny window had shifted to the legs of the bed, silhouetting Reena’s sleeping form. The bed’s broken black rubber hung loose like entrails from a beast, Reena’s tender rump forming a slight bump beneath the bed. Her flat chest rose and fell, the hum of her sad song buzzing in Babu’s ears.
A glassy tear now blurred his vision momentarily as he realized Fatima was awake and watching him intently.
* * *
He is a coconut, Fatima thought, as she watched Babu; hard on the outside but soft inside. An idea came to her suddenly and she smiled brightly at the simplicity of it.
She continued to make incessant requests for food and medicine, ensuring that Babu returned to her every night after work. As rail construction advanced toward the hinterland and Babu’s trips back to see Fatima became few and far between, she decided to pursue her idea. She could tell Babu had already survived her worst fears. He had not been harmed by the men who were plotting against him. What she needed now was to save herself. She sought a good traditional doctor. If her problem stemmed from a curse, then she was wasting her time and money seeing the white doctor. She meant to see a fortune-teller, but the local woman took her to a Swahili herbalist who also did palm readings. The man, face dripping with ocher and draped in animal skin, took her foot and twisted it this way and that.
“Ouch!” Fatima cried.
“Ooh, if you can feel pain, then leg is not dead,” the man said. “You shall walk again,” he assured her, speaking through a translator. “But all that depends on a few things.”
Fatima sat with rapt attention. “What things?”
“How would you describe your relations with the other people in Mombasa?”
Fatima shrugged; she only knew her husband.
“Have you or any member of your family been at loggerheads with others?” the medicine man pursued.
Fatima shrugged again.
“Any arguments of late with men of authority?”
“What authority?”
“A government man or a man of God.”
“I’m not following.”
“The medicine used against you is quite strong. It could only come from a man in authority.”
“My husband quarreled with Nahodha,” Fatima confessed.
“Did he issue a curse against you or your family?”
Fatima’s voice dropped to a whisper: “Yes.”
“Were you present or did you learn about this from others?”
“I was present.”
“What did the man do after issuing the curse?”
“He blew a horn.”
“What color was it, can you remember?”
“Black, it was black in color.”
“Did you cry?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you cry?”
“Because I was afraid.”
“Fear not!” the man pronounced. “Evil triumphs when we are afraid. I will give you a horn, black like Nahodha’s. Dawa ya moto ni moto. You shall blow to ward off the evil spirits he cast on you. And you shall keep the horn in a place of pride in your house. Blow it only when you detect evil spirits. They mainly come in the form of women.”
Fatima paused. “I am a woman. Am I an evil spirit?”
“The man whose spell you want to break will consider you an evil spirit. But that will not make you one.”
On that very day Fatima received the horn. She smoked the herbs given by the traditional healer from the horn, while boiling the rest of the herbs in water that she then used as an ointment. Within a few weeks, Fatima had regained complete use of her legs. She waited to surprise Babu, but he repeatedly postponed his next trip back to Mombasa; instead, he kept dispatching money for her treatment, unaware that she did not need it anymore.
Fatima used the money to start her own business, growing her duka step by step.
7
When the railway enterprise began in earnest, McDonald was troubled by the increasing attacks on his caravans by local youth—two engineers had even been reported missing after they chased some attackers. Sections of track that had been laid were stripped off, the iron used by local tinsmiths to forge hoes and machetes. Communication cables were also cut to make decorative ornaments. He decided he needed to demonstrate the enormous power of the colonial administration, so McDonald visited a Giriama village accompanied by twenty-five policemen.
Villagers said the elders were at the kaya, but warned against venturing there without an invitation. Not one to heed heathen customs, McDonald decided to visit the kaya regardless. While his presence and that of his team was considered sacrilegious, the kaya being the hallowed abode of the coastal community of the Mijikenda, he was welcomed with a gourd of mnazi. The kaya elder poured some of the mnazi into a horn, and then he poured some of the libation on the ground, took a sip, and spat on his own chest.
“That’s for the spirits of those who have gone before us,” he explained to no one in particular, then handed the horn to McDonald.
“I thank you very much for the offer, but I cannot affor
d a drink before work. It is supposed to be after work,” he said through an interpreter.
The elder retracted his outstretched hand uncertainly. “I hope you are not saying that making mnazi is not work.” The kaya elder chuckled, making light of the rebuff.
“Not from some of the stories I have heard,” McDonald said easily, remembering the notes he had read from his predecessor about locals’ laziness. “I hear some of you wait for fruit to fall from trees.”
“That’s certainly true of people my age. I doubt if you can climb the mnazi tree yourself,” the kaya elder challenged, sipping his drink as he did so.
“I doubt it,” McDonald said, tilting the brim of his hat and running a forefinger across his mustache. It was doing its dance to show his growing irritation. “Thankfully, I’m not here to climb trees, or to have a drink. As a matter of fact, that drink is one of the things my government will consider banning.”
The kaya elder fell silent. McDonald realized his mistake and kept quiet as well. He had said too much.
“This drink is our way of life. We found it here because our forefathers had it,” the elder finally said in a shaky voice. He was not afraid, only angry. “Is this why you have brought these men with you, to arrest an old man for having a drink?”
“No, I’m not here about the drink. That time will come. I’m here because young men from this village have been attacking my men doing work on the railway and stealing supplies they are assigned to carry.”
The elder’s face darkened. “That’s a grave charge,” he said.
“I am demanding compensation from your people,” McDonald went on.
“That’s a difficult task you demand of me. How can the aggrieved become the aggressor? Your people have trespassed upon our land. And you have come to the kaya, the abode of our gods, uninvited. You must pay a fine in goats to cleanse this abomination.”
“That’s why I have come to you,” McDonald responded slyly. From his reading, he had discovered the kaya elder was the highest-ranked man in the community’s political and religious system.
“Why?” the elder posed.
“Your people need to know things have changed. You are going to be my chief.”
“Chief?”
“Yes. Chief. I am appointing you as of today.”
The elder hesitated. “What chief?”
“The paramount chief,” McDonald said swiftly. “You shall be in service to the Queen of England.”
The elder smiled broadly. “I shall marry the Queen of England?”
“Who said that? The Queen is the leader of my country.”
“Men in your country are ruled by a woman?”
“Yes,” McDonald conceded grimly.
“I hear some tribes in bara are ruled by women,” the elder said. “I hear in one tribe, the woman leader sits on a man’s back instead of a seat.”
“Yes, women rule in the hinterland, I hear as well.”
“What’s this world coming to?” the elder said thoughtfully.
“That’s why I feel you will make a good chief . . .” McDonald persisted.
“Every village here has an elder,” the man said, his brow creasing in thought. “I am only one of nine elders in our community.”
“I shall make those elders chiefs as well, but they shall all report to you. You shall be the chief of chiefs.”
“I’m not following you.”
“I shall work with you. You shall be in service to the Queen of England. And you shall get paid for it.”
The elder paused. The question of money was interesting, but he did not understand this chief business properly. He was silent for a while before speaking again.
“You told me a moment ago that you were here because of the mnazi. Then you said that time will come. You then told me, and I heard with these ears, that you were here to extract a fine because our men have been stealing from your caravans. Now you say you have offered to pay me to work for you. Those are many things to ask of a man all at once!” he laughed.
McDonald struggled to keep his composure. “Let me state my case,” he started, looking at the young translator. “It is true caravans on the railway works have been targeted and their wares stolen. It is also true two of my men are in your people’s custody. I am demanding my men’s release immediately. Some natives working as porters have also taken off to hide in their villages, bringing their supplies with them. I am seeking compensation for that. And I shall accept payment in kind only, by having young men come and work for me. Is that clear?”
“It is not clear,” the kaya elder replied. “It is dark, like the night.”
“What’s not clear?” McDonald asked, slightly uncomfortable because he did not know where this exchange was going.
“Everything!”
“What?”
“Our people say one does not hurl words like a club. You have hurled so many words, some of which are hurtful. And you have stated your case and passed a judgment without hearing the other parties. That does not sound just. We have another saying: Justice bends a strung bow. But I don’t think your bow can be bent by anything.”
“I wish I understood all your nice proverbs,” McDonald said impatiently through the interpreter. “But I think you get the message. I need five hundred men this time next week to work on the rail. That’s the punishment I have decreed for their attacks on my caravans and abduction of my men. I will be back.”
8
Drumbeats sounded that night, hesitant and mournful, across the nine villages. It was the code used to summon the community to a meeting in the kaya the following day. It had been four seasons since the last such drumbeats were heard, when the community met to sacrifice and commune with the ancestors after the rains failed, triggering the famine that had devastated huge swaths of the population. Although the rainy season had not yet started this year, those on the banks of the Sabaki River grew enough crops to feed those who had remained in the villages.
People wondered what the new threat was to the community’s survival that merited a summon to all to come to the kaya. So they streamed in the next morning—tots strapped to their mothers’ backs, slouched elders supporting themselves with walking sticks, youths playing games along the way while waiting for others to catch up with them.
The kaya elder, Wanje, who represented the Giriama village, had been joined by eight other elders representing the villages of Chonyi, Duruma, Kauma, Digo, Bajuni, Kambe, Rabai, and Jibana. Together, they had offered their sacrifice to the gods at sunrise, and now awaited the community to settle so they could address the gathering. Drumbeats filled the air with greater intensity, conveying the urgency of the meeting.
By noon, several thousand were assembled. Wanje, resplendent in his bark dress and colobus monkey hat, addressed them.
“Habari zenu!” he shouted his greetings, then added wryly: “We always say we are well, even when we are not. We always say we are well because it is in our tradition to smile at adversity . . .”
A bubble of agreement vibrated through the crowd.
“We have gathered here because we know there is strength in unity, and two heads are better than one. A hundred heads are better than ten. We are here because our collective future is under threat. I alone was presented with a challenge, and I said I would share it with my people, and share it with our ancestors who went before us. We stand in this space where we draw inspiration and guidance from our forefathers, and so that they may bear witness to what we do, for they are the bridge between our past and our future.
“That future appears to be threatened. The events I shall narrate happened last evening. I am not talking about the day before yesterday or even days past—but yesterday, so my mind is very clear. I received a visitor. He is from Uingereza, which is ruled by a woman, I think the Queen is what they call her. The visitor first arrived here without an invitation. I ordered him to return here with animals to sacrifice and cleanse the abomination he and his ilk may have left upon our land.
“When he visited yesterday, he refused to sit down, or even take the drink that I offered him. In our culture, we know who doesn’t accept food or drink from others!”
“Mchawi! Mchawi!” shouted the crowd, meaning witch.
“We are not afraid of white medicine!” Wanje went on, seeming energized. “We know who has the more potent medicine . . .”
“Toboa!” roared the crowd. Imploring, Tell us!
“I will not tell you,” teased Wanje. “But when you see Bwana Mkubwa, let him know his medicine is cooking! One more boil and it shall be ready for serving . . .”
The whistles and shouts from men and ululations from women were deafening.
“But that’s not why we called you here. Bwana Mkubwa has committed a heinous crime against our people . . . He has laid a serious charge against our people. He has called us thieves.”
Murmurs of disapproval rose and fell sharply.
“Yes, he said it and I heard it with these very ears. He says we are stealing from his caravans, and that the few youths who have taken work with him are also in the habit of stealing. And that we are holding his two men illegally.”
People shook their heads in disapproval.
“That’s not all. He has imposed a fine on our community. He wants to be paid—not in terms of money, not in terms of grains, not in terms of animals, but in terms of humans. He has asked for five hundred strong young men to work for him. This thing that the white man is building on our land is the snake that Me Katilili warned about. And for an appetizer, he is asking for five hundred men to push into the belly of the beast . . .”
The speech elicited more violent eruptions. Women issued a curse against the white man, done by displaying their genitals, and tore off their loincloths, dancing around naked. Young men retrieved their swords from their sheaths and demonstrated how they would demolish the white man. Elderly men wept openly at what they saw as an unjust intrusion into their way of life.