Dance of the Jakaranda

by Peter Kimani

  No sooner had Abu Nuwasi touched the buffalo’s udder than the animal launched a massive kick with her hindquarters, sending the man—together with his empty bucket—flying through the air. The animal broke free and returned to the wilds while Abu Nuwasi lived with the ignominy of the foolish man who tried to milk a buffalo. Some claimed his nose had been disfigured further while others alleged his modest height had lost a few inches after his bones compacted from the heavy fall.

  Babu thought the best man to confide in was Karim, but Karim had been posted to another station. His next best option was his assistant, Ahmad. Babu’s primary concern was that Ahmad tended to be a loudmouth and considered everything to be a joke. Babu’s other concern was that Ahmad was not very discreet. In their weekend washing rituals in the stream, Ahmad had no qualms about stripping naked and cleaning all his garments, then basking in the sun while waiting for his clothes to dry. If anyone commented about his manhood, Ahmad remarked cheerfully: “Vot you see is vot you get, maybe much more . . .”

  Regardless, Babu reasoned, it was better to leave his last wish with a loudmouth than to take it to the grave.

  “I had a very disturbing dream,” Babu said lightly to Ahmad when they met for breakfast. “I dreamed I had turned into a guinea fowl and was flying over Fort Jesus.”

  Ahmad burst out laughing. “Yala, my bossman! Don’t make me laugh. You have become that super-ting?”

  “Superstitious?”

  “Yes, tat super-ting!”

  “Not quite,” Babu said seriously. “I’m curious what it could have meant.”

  “My bossman, not so serious. It’s just a dream. Dream, dream, dream . . .”

  “Yes, it was just a dream, but don’t dreams tell us something about our lives?”

  “Vat do you tink your dream tell you about you?”

  “I don’t know. I wish I knew.” After a moment, Babu continued: “It feels as though I was being made to decide where I belong; whether I am black or white. I am neither . . . Then there was the question of gender. I am a man, but that wasn’t clear in the dream.”

  “Relax, bossman, relax, it was only a dream! But tell me: you have a doubt if you are a man, no?”

  “Listen. I want to ask a favor. Should anything happen to me on this mission to the escarpment, I want you to travel to Mombasa and relay things as calmly as possible to my wife Fatima—”

  “Vait, vait, my bossman bhai,” Ahmad interjected. “Are you making some dead vish or vat?”

  “Just stating my wish—”

  “Your vish be my command, my bossman, but you don’t expect to drop dead . . .”

  “The Maasai warriors could decide to shoot us on sight.”

  “Why shoot you?”

  “Never mind,” he brushed off the question, realizing he had already given too many details about his impending trip to the escarpment. “I hear you, my friend, but I don’t understand what I was doing at Fort Jesus in the dream. Fatima lives very close by, and I haven’t seen her for ages. And . . .” Babu hesitated, “and you know the situation with her legs. She can’t walk.”

  “Okay, my bossman bhai. Your vish be my command. Should you be struck by lightning or shot wit a poison arrow, I vill make the trip to Mombasa, see your Fatima, and tell her of your dead vish . . .”

  “It’s not my death wish; just a wish.”

  “No worries, my bossman, your vish, dead or alive, be my command!”

  * * *

  Gutire utathekagwo. Even the gravest of matters can provoke mirth. And such was the case on that morning when the dozen workers assembled for their risky mission—for what some feared would be their last journey alive—and found themselves to be a rather comical, motley group. First, the sartorial. At McDonald’s insistence, the workers were instructed to wear clothing associated with their community’s religions. Since none of them were particularly religious, their request for sacred regalia was largely treated with suspicion. Understandably, the religious leaders who were asked to lend their garments were circumspect about giving their official wear to men who seldom patronized their temples; instead, most of them opted to donate clothes they had outgrown, or those that were so torn they no longer hid their nakedness. It did not help matters that none of the workers wore the same size as their benefactors—some squeezed tightly into the garments while others wore clothing that floated on them, so that they looked like puppets.

  To complete this picture of absurdity, and again on McDonald’s instruction, they all carried musical instruments that few could play.

  “You have to play something for the locals, that’s the only thing they understand,” McDonald had insisted. When the workers protested that few of them had any musical talent, McDonald swiftly responded: “You are playing for the natives, for heaven’s sake, not the Queen of England. They have no idea what to expect whatsoever.”

  So play they did, or they attempted to, which instantly drew other workers. Picture a dozen men in ill-fitting clothes, their faces ashen from the fear and uncertainty of venturing to a place some suspected they would never return from, their hands clumsily clasping musical instruments most had never seen or held in their lives, their eyes lit up in surprise at the philharmonic orchestra they had managed to concoct. Upon sighting the pilgrims, other workers laughed long and hard, before joining the ensemble, ignoring the ones who tried to wave them away. It took McDonald’s intervention to get the other men back to work and let the parade commence, which only aroused even more curiosity. Some workers thought this was a new type of punishment that McDonald was administering, and silently wondered why he had not considered it earlier.

  Babu led the pack. He was dressed like a sadhu bearing a special rosary with one hundred beads. He was immersed in his counting; every tenth bead was larger and represented a thousand paces, which meant his fingers walked in tandem with the swift movements of his sandaled feet, his long, loose-fitting clothing dancing in the wind. Babu’s task was to ensure he recorded the precise distance covered. Gadgets for recording altitude were disguised as watches and carried by other technicians.

  Babu stared stonily ahead, wrestling with the idea that had been fomenting in his mind since McDonald announced that he would head the spying mission. He ignored the complaints from other workers lamenting that their clothes were hampering their movement and urged them to keep going as this was the only way they stood a chance of making it across the escarpment and back before nightfall. Moments after their camp was out of view and the Laikipia Escarpment was within sight, Babu abruptly ordered his troop to stop. He slumped to the ground and lay spread-eagled, trying to catch his breath. Some of the workers crouched, while others lay down to stretch their limbs.

  After several minutes, Babu rose and surveyed the group. “Comrades, we have come to the end of the road . . .”

  A cornucopia of queries swept through, many of the workers unsure what he meant, but obviously relieved that they were not marching on to the escarpment.

  “We all know we have been conned,” Babu announced, which elicited instant nods and affirmative grunts. “Our madman, McDonald, wants us dead. He has chosen all the troublemakers and pushed them into this pit, where we risk instant death . . .” There were more enthused responses. “You all heard him—our madman, that is. He enticed us with a promotion. When we were hooked, he spoke about a pilgrimage to demonstrate our faith. Now the song has changed to spying. He thinks we’re children, and cannot see through his lies . . .” The workers were unanimous in their agreement.

  “Can you imagine?” Rasool exclaimed.

  “But we shall not give him the pleasure of succeeding,” Babu went on, to which jubilant workers responded with more shouts. Babu raised his hands to shush them. “Let’s keep quiet . . . lest we warn our enemy what we think of him. Here’s the plan: We are not going beyond this point. We are going to lie low and map out our return. Our madman thinks he is a military genius, but he is mistaken. We shall teach him a lesson from a book he never read in school.�
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  “Comrade power!” Rasool shouted. “Let’s make the bugger wet his pants!”

  “Teach him a lesson he will not soon forget,” said Wazir.

  * * *

  A cloud of dust. A shaft of light. A thump on the ground. Shuffle of feet on dust. The waning light brightening. Then . . . white apparitions. McDonald lifted his binoculars and wiped his eyes, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. He had spent the entire day peering through the binoculars in the direction of the escarpment and had not witnessed anything untoward. Now, the light from the setting sun and the dust had given way to apparitions, and he could not discern whether it was man or beast.

  As the forlorn figures drew nearer, he realized the white apparitions were fragments of clothing, though he still couldn’t tell if the forms in the distance had animal hooves or human feet. With every step made by the beasts or men, he gained more visual clarity. They were men all right, but why were they so gigantic? As they came closer, he noticed they were huddled in three groups, each carrying a load of something.

  By the time the workers arrived at the camp, it was dark; McDonald left his binoculars and raced to meet them, unable to contain his curiosity. The workers delivered their delicate cargo and some started wailing hysterically as others tore their loose garments and raced around in circles like mad dogs. It took awhile for McDonald to calm everyone down so they could tell their story—all starting to speak at once, as the three men who had suffered injuries sighed in pain. Rasool, who claimed to have broken a leg, wailed uncontrollably when anyone touched him. Assad had a sling on his right leg, and Wazir said he had been shot in the back.

  None of them offered any details of their mishap, beyond saying it was an ambush. Babu explained that they had barely managed to escape with their lives from the “forest of people” where everyone was “armed to the teeth.” But what scared McDonald the most was the weaponry the workers had witnessed. It sounded as though the Maasai community had mobilized and armed thousands of youth to defend their land.

  “What sort of weapons?” McDonald pursued.

  “Poisoned arrows and bows and clubs,” Assad said. “Like the one that was used to shoot Wazir in the back.”

  From where he lay, Wazir groaned in mock pain, clutching his back. He’s a great actor, Babu thought silently, while McDonald directed the injured to proceed to the clinic for treatment, a deep crease spreading across his face.

  As the wounded were led away, McDonald noticed none of the workers had lost their musical instruments. “What the hell is going on?” He shrugged. “This place is full of strange things . . .” It slowly dawned on him that it’d be futile to fight this battle. While Chief Lonana had been vanquished by his brother Sadaka, the outrage at the railway workers’ exploitation of local girls had obviously found traction with the people across Maasailand. And if the community was mobilizing to wage war against his caravans or even attack his camp, he stood virtually no chance, since, based on Babu’s intelligence, they were seriously outnumbered.

  * * *

  Some ancient sage counseled about the wisdom in trusting the tale, not the teller, but the invitation here is to neither trust the tale nor the teller. That’s a difficult proposition, especially when the Nyundos of this world are not there to counterbalance what’s witnessed and recorded as the history of mankind. And since the English bear the special gift of transforming even the most humiliating spectacle into a historical epoch, it is a safe bet that the truth resides somewhere else other than where it is presumed to be.

  The writing on the wall of the British Museum, dripping with bronze arrogance in that hallowed space where the supreme truth is supposed to reside, proclaims: IT IS NOT UNCOMMON FOR A COUNTRY TO CREATE A RAILWAY, BUT THIS LINE ACTUALLY CREATED A COUNTRY.

  This was probably true; what the statement concealed, however, were the obstacles that nearly derailed the rail, and the men who nearly brought the construction to a halt. Those are the stories that never made it into any museums, like the story of Nyundo, who initially harkened the call of the British, but changed sides after the destruction of the kaya.

  Then there is Babu, a man who remained in McDonald’s crosshairs. Babu had taken a liking to McDonald when they first met, but that’s as far as it went. Their lives remained separate like the rail tracks, one’s suspicions about the other fortified over years of silence, one scheming to bring the other down even when there was nothing to gain.

  Before the mission to the escarpment, McDonald had shifted his attention away from Babu, convinced that caring for a crippled wife would distract him. But Babu continued to bring trouble for him; what was remarkable was that Babu was hardly aware of this.

  One evening, for instance, when the workers, returning to their camp, found that a lion had stolen into the sick bay and carried off a man who was recuperating, Babu did not hesitate to address the issue. He immediately headed over to Patterson’s cabin.

  “We did not leave our country to provide meals for the wild animals,” he calmly stated. “We came here to work. You are our employer. You owe us duty of care. What are you doing to guarantee our safety?”

  When Babu turned around, he found that a dozen workers had joined him. “Yes, tell us!” they chorused. “What are you doing about it!”

  Trembling, Patterson radioed McDonald and said he needed urgent assistance. When McDonald arrived, Babu repeated his question. “It’s good you have come, we want this addressed at the highest office possible.”

  “Who has control over the lions?”

  “You do, absolutely,” Babu said in his gentle tone. “That’s why you don’t live under a tarpaulin tent like the rest of us. Or out in the open like the African workers. By choosing the most secure accommodation for white workers, you consciously shield them against such attacks while the rest of us are left to the elements. So you have control over who the lions can reach.”

  By now, several dozen workers had congregated, and they cheered Babu on. “Yes, tell them! Tell them, our man! No safety, no work . . .”

  “You have heard for yourself,” Babu said to McDonald. “The workers demand reassurance about their safety, or else they shall withhold their labor.”

  To keep the meeting from turning into a full-blown protest, McDonald conceded that his team would provide security to all workers, which he did by deploying armed soldiers to keep the wild animals at bay. Babu was carried shoulder high by the jubilant workers.

  But things came to a head over Babu’s mission to the escarpment, when McDonald’s gesture of entrusting him to lead the expedition was repaid with nothing but schemes of deception. Babu had connived with the rest of his team to hoodwink McDonald into believing that the locals were planning a major retaliation to derail the railway enterprise.

  So, it was in this frame of mind that an anxious McDonald had resolved to appease the locals and avoid fighting altogether by organizing a lineup in which Chief Lonana’s pregnant daughter would pick out the man responsible.

  This “sex parade,” as many amused workers called it, availed yet another opportunity for McDonald to get even with Babu. He was initially conflicted about including Babu in the lineup. The man did not fit the billing at all, being married and hardly ever involved in any of the sexual escapades that had been reported to McDonald’s office. And all the spies who he had instructed to monitor Babu said he was a model worker. He rarely socialized, and he devoted all his energies to his work. McDonald had not disclosed to Superintendent Patterson his motivations for undercutting Babu financially, and Patterson had expected Babu to confront him over his pay, but Babu never did. He appeared willing to endure it all.

  Patterson found this discomfiting. He knew in his heart he was stealing from an honest man. Unknown to McDonald, when he went away on trips, Patterson gave Babu fair payment or even topped it up by a few rupees to restore what had been stolen from him; but Patterson always relapsed to McDonald’s old rates when the man returned.

  Babu simply did not notice thes
e pay fluctuations. He was totally absorbed in his work. Sometimes those detailed to spy on him reported seeing him stop by a molehill and pick up a mound of its refined soil, letting it fall slowly through his fingers. At other times, he would be mesmerized by multicolored pebbles that he examined against the rays of the sun, like a goldsmith confirming the carats in a piece of gold. He pocketed the most striking pebbles and had them delivered to Fatima, who kept them in a glass jar he had bought her from an Arab trader.

  But all that changed with the mission to the escarpment. McDonald soon had a hunch that Babu wasn’t telling the whole truth. And as his military trainers had drilled into them at Sandhurst, it was better to be safe than sorry. Babu would have to be included in the lineup. McDonald pored through workers’ records to isolate those who were at the Nakuru camp around the time the Maasai girl could have conceived, although no one knew for sure the stage of her pregnancy. To be on the safe side, he worked within a three-month window, then checked through the names to weed out men who had accompanying spouses. Bachelors were most likely to be the ones chasing after local women. Then he dropped from the list a few elderly and pious men and those whose public notoriety did not involve women. In the end he had a list of fifty-two young men, all of whom were notified they would be required at the lineup in the late afternoon.