by Peter Kimani
Finding concurrence that the mysterious woman was a fine catch, focus shifted to why she had fled the scene and who between Rajan and her was leading the other on. “Mubira niugarurukanagwo,” Gathenji said, meaning that even in a game of soccer, the underdogs occasionally win against great odds. Maybe it was the mysterious woman who had driven Rajan out of town. Most of the musicians nodded in agreement, silently acknowledging that since Rajan had chased after the same girl for nine months, it was likely she was returning the favor. The only problem with such analysis was that since the girl had returned to Rajan of her own volition, it made little sense for him to flee town.
Or maybe it did make sense to leave, some revelers argued, especially if Rajan had unmasked the mysterious woman and decided it was in their best interest to get out of town before everyone learned who she was. Some said she was probably McDonald’s illegitimate daughter, who had to suddenly take off after realizing the Jakaranda’s owner was a man she wasn’t supposed to meet.
“You know how it is these days,” one elderly reveler said. “The white man has brought many strange things to our homesteads. Daughters without fathers . . .”
Yet others claimed the strange girl had found she was somehow related to Rajan and had run away to avoid scandal. As to why Rajan found it fit to flee with her, no one had a satisfactory answer.
When those explorations hit a dead end, all the attention shifted to Era. He was the last person to see the couple, some of the members charged. “Are you telling us the whole truth?” they demanded.
Era explained, with as much sincerity as he could muster, that he had returned to an empty house the previous evening and had been as surprised as anyone else to find Rajan and his girl gone. None of them knew about Rajan and Mariam’s visit to Babu and Fatima and none of them expected the lovebirds to call on their grandparents. It was the last thing any of them would have imagined.
So no one checked with Babu and Fatima to see if Rajan and his guest had ended up at their house. Unable to produce any solid explanation for the missing duo, revelers probed Gathenji further but he provided no additional insights.
When darkness fell, the mood at the Jakaranda changed. A sudden restlessness settled when the band started in on its repertoire, playing instrumental versions of some of their popular songs. Without Rajan’s energized singing, the sounds rang hollow. Theirs was a ship drifting without a captain; the music floated aimlessly before fizzling out. The din from the crowd confirmed that very few, if any, were paying attention to the band. An occasional whistle or a shout for Raj cut through the noise, which sounded like the buzz of bees in a hive. But these were idle bees, and it took no time before they indulged their idleness. An empty beer bottle was hurled onstage, splintering softly. The act inspired copycats and several more bottles were thrown. One hit the main lightbulb and plunged the establishment into darkness. The last was an unopened beer bottle that produced a loud explosion upon hitting the floor.
HOUSE OF LIGHT
15
Allah is the Light of the heavens and the earth. The example of His light is like a niche within which is a lamp, the lamp is within glass, the glass as if it were a pearly star lit from a blessed olive tree, neither of the east nor of the west, whose oil would almost glow even if untouched by fire. Light upon light. Allah guides to His light whom He wills. And Allah presents examples for the people, and Allah is Knowing of all things.
—Koran 24:35
This inscription, encased in a gold frame, still stands on the mantelpiece in Babu’s house in Nakuru, and the words sprung to his lips as he lay in bed that night of Mariam’s visit, shutting his eyes against the harsh glare of the solitary lightbulb above his head, the act calling to mind the time he had shut his eyes—over sixty years earlier—against the scorching sun after his arrest over Seneiya’s impregnation. As he tossed and turned in bed, calmed by the hooting of Fatima’s horn, yet another piece of memory spooled lazily from the vault of his mind.
It was a bright day and he was back at his haunt at the chief’s camp, a shirt wound around his waist, a scythe in his hand as he nipped grass with every stroke. It was the second day of his incarceration for the transgression against Chief Lonana’s daughter. He had been ordered to remain in custody pending Seneiya’s safe delivery of her child.
“The womb is the heart of darkness,” Chief Lonana had said, speaking for the first time on the matter. “The day shall come when truth shall be revealed. We shall make no haste in passing a judgment until that truth is evident to all,” therefore saving Babu from the instant justice that McDonald and others had proposed. “Truth bends a strung bow,” Chief Lonana added, acknowledging the merit of verifying facts before unleashing punishment. The chief spent his day in his courtyard, still clad in the pith helmet, staring stonily ahead as he sipped a traditional brew.
Reverend Turnbull regularly appeared at the court, mumbling his newfound line: “What’s done in the dark always comes to light.”
“You are essentially a prisoner of war,” McDonald had told Babu in one of their rare encounters in the courtyard. “I’m glad about not fixing you earlier as I had planned, coolie. Now you are going to roast here and become a burnt offering.”
It was appropriate for McDonald to think of Babu as a prisoner of war. There were rumors of war in Europe and it wasn’t clear how things would play out in the British colonies abroad. The Germans, or Wajerumani as they were known, had finished connecting the railway from the land they christened Salisbury all the way to Tanganyika. Their spies had strayed into the British East Africa Protectorate several times, as had the Portuguese, or the Wareno, from nearby Msumbiji. But what really concerned McDonald the most was Seneiya’s much-anticipated delivery. It was as though the birth of the new colony depended upon the safe delivery of the baby.
Babu took everything in stride. He did not regret what he had done in the marshland that day the flamingos descended on Nakuru. He did not harbor, no matter how he tried, any ill feeling toward Seneiya, his inamorata whose future appeared inextricably linked to his. But what he did regret was the conversation he had with Ahmad.
The truth of the matter was that Seneiya could not have produced a child, any child, black, white, or brown, from him. Unless of course siring a child was the same as planting a crop of potato, when farmers rejoiced in finding waru wa maitika, the nominal harvest that sprouted from the accidental drop of seed during harvesting.
On that day at the chief’s camp, while Babu clipped grass using a scythe, he smiled at the small group of women who had arrived to steal glances at the village bull, as he had been nicknamed, and watched them giggle and compare notes.
“He doesn’t look that well hung,” one young woman said.
“You’ve got no idea,” another responded. “That man is hung like a donkey. That’s why he has draped his shirt to disguise his true value.”
Babu had not seen Seneiya since the lineup and he wondered where she was. He had considered the different sentences that awaited him. One possibility was that he would be asked to marry her. How would they communicate? The same way he had done in the marshland, using touch and gestures? And whom, between Seneiya and Fatima, would he settle for, if he had a choice? He had not chosen Fatima, he did not know her, yet they were expected to share their lives together, tolerate each other, love each other, and raise children together. Wasn’t betrothal at birth a little ambitious in its expectations? How could strangers hit it off within days of marriage and live happily ever after? There was comfort in the knowledge that he had chosen Seneiya, if filtered through the long lens of his telescope before Ahmad delivered her to him. Even after she had subjected him to public humiliation, he had no doubt in his heart that he could learn to love and care for her.
Regarding the child growing in her belly, the seed from another man, how would he deal with that? There was a sudden weight around his neck and he choked with hate. That was too much to ask of one individual.
He had reflected on Nahodh
a’s curse on him and his lineage. Would the offspring in dispute be spared that wrath? Babu suddenly stopped cutting the grass and paused to ponder the facts: Since the disputed baby was not his bloodline, then it should be spared the wrath that would befall his own brood. He whipped the grass with new vigor.
There was the possibility that the baby had been fathered by another Indian, in which case his features and the baby’s might be similar. But there was also the possibility that it had been fathered by a man from a different race. He considered, between strokes of the scythe, the different genetic possibilities and their likely outcomes. If Seneiya had lain with an African, the baby was likely to be black and hard to pass off as an Indian. But then, he had seen very dark individuals in Punjab and no one had ever questioned their roots. A child sired between a white and black could sometimes look yellow. Some Indians looked yellow as well. If an Arab was involved, the outcome would still come close to what a Punjabi and African could produce. Babu concluded that any child, as long as it drew features from the two parents, could easily pass for his. Perhaps some good could come out of the mess: no one would ever doubt his ability to sire.
But there was a bit of him that was still repulsed by the idea of accommodating a lie to fit his own lie. It was true no one would ever question his ability to transmit life to another, even though he doubted his own ability, and the whole development would be so public he was likely to secure more offers to make babies in the future. He shuddered at the prospect. Nothing good could come out of this charade, and the sooner he stopped it the better. Maybe he should have asked Chief Lonana to organize a physical examination to prove he could hardly sustain an erection. But who in their right mind would make such a proposition, let alone to another man? Babu had heard some Christian denominations conducted such tests to determine if men were fit to train as priests. This was to ensure they were not joining the church to escape societal judgment over personal dysfunction. The test entailed throwing a naked woman oozing sex into a room packed with men and monitoring their responses. Those who had no voice, as an arousal was called in religious jargon, would be rejected on that basis, even though their call of duty required they remain celibate all their lives. Babu did not know if that was true, but it didn’t sound right to him. After all, why deny a man for not possessing something he would never need to use to serve his religious vow?
These were the thoughts floating around in Babu’s head when Reverend Turnbull had arrived at his cell after his arrest. Babu did not trust Reverend Turnbull one bit. There was something about him that he couldn’t quite place, but the man of God seemed somewhat uneasy at times—shifty is the word he would have applied if he were dealing with a worldly man.
“I’m curious about one thing, coolie . . . I-I mean, what’s your name?” Reverend Turnbull started.
Babu told him his name, though Reverend Turnbull did not seem to hear it.
“Yes, uuh-uuum, coolie—I’m curious about one thing. Did you do it or are you being framed? I mean, as a churchman, truth is essential. Did you, as they it put in law, have carnal knowledge of the lass?”
“It wasn’t that ugly.”
“What wasn’t ugly?”
“Don’t put it in such ugly terms.”
“What’s ugly?”
“The term you used, carnal knowledge, is ugly.”
“It certainly is, and it is even uglier coming from an old cow like myself. Now, there are reasons for my inquiry, and I should declare my interests here and now: I wear two hats—a churchman and a man of letters. I don’t know how familiar you are with female circumcision, or what they simply call the cut. Was this girl cut?”
“You should find that out,” Babu responded. “You can ask the father. I thought you two were friends.”
“Such impertinence won’t help you, coolie. The Bible says pride comes before a fall . . . Look, if one puts a girl in the family way in this part of the world, one is compelled to marry her. I hear coolies leave a trail of children wherever they pass. But here, we are dealing with the chief’s daughter, so you can’t marry her. That would be considered a mark of honor, but not after your disgraceful act—do you understand that?”
“So, how do you intend to help me?”
“The Bible says only the truth shall set you free. Tell me what you know, and I will determine how to share the information that will serve you best. As it is, only God can help you out. You will need enormous favors to extricate yourself from the mess you are in. But you should count yourself lucky because I am on your side. I want to help you. As I was saying . . . where were we . . . ? The cut . . . let me explain. The Church of England that I work for has asked me to compile data on the social impact of female circumcision. I am to assess whether it is an adequate deterrence against premarital sex, unwanted pregnancies, and so on. Let me put it this way: you know, I have a medical background, and my understanding is that the cut is such a traumatic procedure—a punishment inflicted on women—and so it should be stopped. It takes away the pleasures of procreation, and complicates deliveries. So, what do you know about it?”
“About what?”
“Was she cut?”
Babu kept quiet, heaved, then: “I don’t know. I didn’t look.”
“It is not something for you to see; it is something for you to experience. Maybe I should explain. From what we know—that is, I and others involved in African anthropology—a cut is supposed to suppress sexual urges in girls and young women by removing some parts that trigger desire. So if it didn’t quite succeed in this specific instance, then it offers a window for us to look again at the whole ritual. The impression that we get is that once cut, it suppresses sexual desire, and I don’t think the organ can grow back. In any case, some preventive garb is also sewn around the area that would make . . . what’s the word . . . penetration impossible. Was that the case?”
“You fucking bastard!” Babu thundered, and stalked off to the fields to cut grass.
Reverend Turnbull kept visiting the courtyard but it wasn’t until the fourth week that he built up the courage to talk to Babu again.
“My dear coolie,” he started, “I am making what we call a last-ditch effort to help you. Listen carefully to what I have to say. You don’t have to respond. As Jesus said to the stones in the wilderness, even if they didn’t respond, at least they heard His message. This is what I have to say: Your case appears to be growing more difficult than anticipated. Opinion is divided over what should happen to you after the baby is born. On the one hand, there are those who feel that being a foreigner, you should be subjected to British law and not customary Maasai law.
“The idea of commuting your punishment until the baby is born is already testing the patience of the Maasai. That’s never been done. Young men think Chief Lonana is getting senile and are conspiring to overturn his edict. They insist culprits must get instant punishment. But this stay of execution is creating tensions and there are those who want to bring this drama to a close. Young, randy men who impregnate girls among the Maasai are put in hives full of bees and hurled down a cliff. At times the hive is set on fire to allow it to burn brightly as it flies down. You will appreciate there is an escarpment nearby, so pushing you downhill should provide no challenge whatsoever. From my understanding, this could happen as soon as tomorrow. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Babu was petrified. He had been determined to wait to prove his innocence, or even sit through his sentence before ultimately walking to freedom. That was the best way to clear his name. But if they opted to get rid of him now to save face, he had an obligation to preserve his own life. He did not know why Reverend Turnbull had volunteered the information about what was afoot, nor did he seek to verify if it was true. But as he knew all too well, dead men tell no tales, and sometimes it’s better to flee and live to fight another day.
Through the years of hardship on the railway, Babu had never considered leaving his work. He had seen men drop off and wave away to start a new life, their only
possessions being the clothes on their backs. Some became farmers who supplied vegetables from the strips of land they had cultivated while working on the rail. One zealous farmer had tried to domesticate a rhino for milk, and as locals put it, the rhino taught him a book that the man had not read in school. Then there were those who became timber and transport merchants, contracted whenever such supplies were needed. And of course there were the dukawallahs who supplied general merchandise.
Babu had envisioned a different future. He had wanted to build the rail to the end, to stand beside the last coach with a grin on his face, shoulder to shoulder with other technicians in solidarity and triumph. In particular, he had wanted to see the last station, which Colonial Governor Charles Erickson had decided ahead of time would be named Port Elizabeth for the princess of England. The construction would go on for another six months, just about the time remaining on Babu’s contract. The completion of his contract would come with two paid tickets back to Punjab and, he kept hoping, the possibility of an extension of his contract as part of the railway maintenance staff. All that was now in jeopardy because of what he was plotting. He was going to run away, walk away with his life.
Babu considered his various escape options. He could try to bribe the sentry, yet he had no money on him, and there was no way of telling if the man would blow his cover and provoke McDonald to enhance his surveillance. Maybe what he needed was to befriend the sentry so that once he dropped his guard, Babu would make a dash for freedom. But that would take time, and if Turnbull was right, he had to run now.
His handcuffs had been removed for the night, and the sentry had already taken his position by the fireside, which he lit to keep wild animals at bay. Babu thought he saw him nod to the nudges of sleep, and grew worried for his safety. He moved toward the sentry so as to warn him about the fire, then quickly realized this was his chance. He should let the sleeping dog lie.