by Peter Kimani
Gathenji’s rumor did not reveal the full story though; he quickly forgot about the old man and spoke about the horrific fate that befell the Indians of Ruiru after the soldiers went around to inquire why there were more goats than humans to meet Big Man. They were asked to find out what could have kept the traders from a national event in which the black man’s government was being inaugurated and its leader was there to meet his people. Since Indian traders occupied all shops in the locality, they were the main casualties. Some sat sipping chai, balancing books, so that many of them were open-mouthed when the soldiers descended. One moment, a shopkeeper was preparing to greet an approaching customer, a smug smile ready to be dispensed; the next moment, the smile froze when the soldier announced his mission, his choice tool of communication being the drop of a truncheon to the shoulder. This type of blow was not strong enough to break the bone, but it left no doubt that some bones would be broken if cooperation was not fostered immediately.
One unspoken rule about warfare—some Indian traders instantly recognized this as warfare—is that neither the victim nor the villain is willing to tell what truly happened afterward; the motivation for the former being to minimize the degree of hurt and loss, which intensifies at every bout of recollection; the explanation for the latter being to disguise the full extent to which one’s humanity is diminished by brutalizing others. So the trail of blood left on shop floors was wiped away silently by the women who had lain there spread-eagle—the stream of tears sufficient to wash the drops of blood away—while traders who had lost entire life savings kept under the mattress denied losing more than the day’s collection. Either way, the books were balanced: in one strike, lifetime gains were wiped out, while the inflicted pain left scars that would last a lifetime.
The soldiers’ strike on the traders did not last more than fifteen minutes, but then soldiers are trained to eat in less than one minute. Yet the power of their punch in Ruiru reverberated across the land, whispered from ear to ear until it reached Gathenji’s butchery in Nakuru—some two hundred miles away—without losing any of its potency. What had been visited upon the Indians of Ruiru would serve as a strong warning to others that the incoming black man’s government meant business and could only be ignored at one’s peril.
Another story that Gathenji told repeatedly, and which many revelers dismissed as mere gossip, was the one of the white man who reportedly painted himself black to save his skin. The white man was said to have been surveying his farm on horseback when he encountered adherents of the dreaded underground sect Kiama kia Rukungu. Supposedly, that evening, as the sect members went around villages beating their drums, singing and dancing, the white pigment on their faces melted so they looked ashen. When they encountered the white man on horseback, they asked him to climb down.
“Come down, only birds should perch so high,” the sect leader was reported to have told the white man.
But the old man was hard of hearing, and when a rooster was hurled in his face and then fell to the ground and began doing an odd sort of dance, he mistook that to mean that he would be in a lot of trouble if he did not cooperate and do as the rooster was doing. So he dismounted and did the rooster dance. The Kiama kia Rukungu believed he was attempting to turn himself into a black man, much the same way they had turned their black faces white using the pigment.
“Gathenji, tell us another one!” a skeptical customer prodded when the butcher finished his story.
“Let me tell you undo kwo undo,” Gathenji insisted. “I’m telling you the truth of God . . .”
Gathenji’s ramblings came to an abrupt halt one evening. Many had already arrived for their regular dose of beer and roasted meat, as well as for the camaraderie—shortening the night, as they called it. The communion with fellow men was useful, many whispered. But since the music had stopped, people’s attention shifted from the raised stage to the corner where the black-and-white television stood in relative darkness, its flickering light picking the eyes and teeth of those assembled. “Sssshhhh . . .” somebody hissed when the image of Big Man filled the screen, his beard styled so that he looked like a billy goat, and sounding exactly like one when he spoke.
“Wale wanaoleta nyoko nyoko walikuwa wapi ile miaka tuliyokaliwa mabegani na beberu? Kumanyoko!” A translation was not availed on the TV set, though the crowd roared with laughter, possibly tickled by the rhyming words like nyoko nyoko, which meant trouble, or beberu, which meant billy goat, but in this usage was a derogatory term for colonialist. Or it could be the swear word that triggered the jovial reaction that threatened to lift the roof off the Jakaranda. Those assembled did not listen to the rest of the bulletin, even after many of the patrons ordered others to keep quiet. Big Man bleated for two full minutes before finishing off with his favorite swear word, kumanyoko. At the end of the broadcast, the Jakaranda erupted with chatter as everybody began speaking at once.
18
An elaborate account of the pronouncement by Big Man appeared in the following day’s issue of the Daily News:
The father of the nation, better known as Big Man, has directed that all foreign nationals residing in Kenya, and who were over the age of eighteen by June 1, 1963, to regularize their status for continued stay. It is understood that the decision does not affect British nationals domiciled in the country, many of whom arrived as colonial administrators at the turn of the century.
An estimated 30,000 Indians arrived as indentured laborers during this period as well to build the 500-mile railway that started in the port city of Mombasa and terminated in Port Elizabeth, nestling the second-largest freshwater lake in the world, named for the Queen of England. Of the 30,000 Indians who arrived to work on the railway, an estimated 5,000 perished, devoured by the lions of Tsavo, or victims of tropical diseases like malaria and tsetse infections. Many of them lived to tell the story and some 6,000 workers stayed on after the project completion to build the new colony as administrators, clerks, and policemen. But a majority of them are in private business and the withdrawal of their private capital is expected to slow down the economy, if not derail it altogether.
This development is expected to pose a legal minefield on several counts. Many of the migrant workers were granted papers defining them as British subjects, not citizens, ostensibly because their country of origin was under Britain’s dominion until 1947, when India gained independence. Such families will have to decide whether to fortify their British ties by choosing to migrate to Britain, return to India, or take up Kenyan citizenship. The option of settling in Britain is a gray area since British subjecthood may not necessarily mean automatic citizenship. Already, the campaign to ban Indians of the British East Africa Protectorate from migrating to Britain has gained traction with the Conservative Party, with one senior member of Parliament warning there would be “rivers of blood” if thousands of Indians are allowed there.
Remaining in Kenya is equally problematic. India was a British colony until 1947 and Indians were seen as part of the colonizing agents by Kenyans. They also enjoyed significant leverage during the seventy years of British rule in East Africa, hired as administrators, managers, and technicians. In the social hierarchy that defined colonial rule, Indians ranked second after the whites, with Arabs third and Africans at the bottom. Now that order is about to be reorganized with the onset of black majoritarian rule, with Africans at the top of the social ladder, and it remains to be seen where Indians will be consigned in the new world order. But the real complexity lies with groups of families from countries that have since been dissolved, like Punjab, once an autonomous region but now amalgamated into the larger India and Pakistan. Punjabis were encouraged to migrate to the British East Africa Protectorate, as Kenya was then called, to work on the railway as technicians. This situation limits the options open to Punjabis, because they simply have no country to return to. They can either stay on in Kenya or migrate to Britain. Should Britain shut their doors on them, the Punjabis will have to make do with Kenya, where their future,
for now, appears somewhat difficult and uncertain.
A recent episode of unprovoked violence targeting Indian traders in Ruiru township after they failed to close shops to cheer Big Man’s entourage inspires little confidence that they are likely to enjoy the full protection of the law. This development comes hot on the heels of sporadic attacks on white farms across the country. The band, calling itself Kiama kia Rukungu, or Party of the Dust, is a pseudopolitical and religious group that has vowed to show “dust” to white settlers and overrun them to take their farms. The attacks have terrified many farmers who have since started relocating to southern African colonies like Rhodesia and South Africa.
Speaking in Swahili at a public rally in Elburgon, Big Man distanced himself from the Kiama kia Rukungu adherents and reaffirmed his commitment to protecting private property against what he called “enemies of development.”
Predictably, not many people read the Daily News, so they had to make do with third-, fourth-, or fifthhand information, which meant no one could quite tell the vetting criteria, or even where the vetting was conducted. By the end of the week, a number of social halls had been opened for the exercise, as well the Kenya Farmers’ Association field that ultimately became the Nakuru District Stadium.
Some interactions went better than others. One Indian man, a cobbler, arrived at a government office with his children and their children, along with all their mattresses and beddings. He wanted the authorities to see for themselves that he did not keep any money under the mattress as it was alleged of Asian businessmen. He told the screening officials he was too constrained feeding his family to spare anything for the mattress.
“I know some of our people like to keep one leg here and another leg there, like the hyena. But I have not sent any child to Britain. We are all here, we don’t have another country. We shall prosper or die in this very land,” the man said, and his testament appeared to move the three immigration officers, for they all nodded their agreement and stamped all the papers for him and his family without even opening a page.
Some were not so lucky, like the senior government clerk who sent his African junior to queue for him because he had too much work to do in the office.
“My friend, we shall not accept such insults anymore. Why do you think your work is more important than ours?” a short official asked.
“And to make matters worse, you send one of our own like a little boy to queue for you. Kwani, you don’t know things have changed?” another one, quite tall, pursued.
A third officer kept quiet, only stretching a hand to check the man’s papers.
The Indian clerk produced a file, explaining, “This is a recommendation from my boss, Mr. Anderson. This one is from—”
“Do you think this is a job application?” the short official interrupted. “Who told you we need to see recommendations from white men? Don’t you know an African who can also recommend you? Or do you think they don’t know how to write in English? Oooh, you think that’s beneath you, isn’t that it? I can tell from the look on your face.”
The clerk, now sweating profusely, loosened his tie and responded: “I think there is a misunderstanding . . .”
“There is no misunderstanding,” the official exclaimed. “You just need to open your eyes and start seeing clearly. This is the new Kenya, my friend. We are the people in charge. So go get recommendations from black Kenyans. And if you can’t find one, come and ask me quietly. I might be in the mood to help.”
The second officer was less generous; he told the Indian clerk, “Go bring your entire clan here, even the cat that meows and the cow that moos. Come to think of it, you people worship cows, don’t you? In that case, don’t bring us your god, just a little milk from your god cow. And since the milk must be boiled, don’t forget to bring something to cool it with.”
This roundabout way of communication left many Indians confused, and it would take them awhile to understand that the officials were soliciting bribes.
As days progressed, and word spread that one could secure the right papers without breaking a sweat—as long as the bribe was correct—many Indian businessmen stashed envelopes with wads of cash between their papers and presented them; these were swiftly stamped without verification.
But not everyone could offer a bribe, so the queues remained long and families grew more desperate as the deadline for registration drew closer. Some families opted to divide their children and send them to relatives in Britain or Canada or the United States. Many returned to India. It was better to be somewhere other than waiting to be wheeled out the door.
It was in this troubled season that Karim’s family arrived at Babu’s household one Saturday afternoon. Karim was accompanied by his wife Abdia and their daughter Leila, who appeared to have bloomed into womanhood overnight. Her slight frame had gained weight in all the right places, while her shoulder-length dark hair accentuated her pretty face.
Fatima received them cautiously. She was afraid that the family had heard about Rajan’s philandering in Nakuru, and had come to call off Rajan’s betrothal to Leila. Rajan and Leila never actually knew they were betrothed because Babu had hoped to have a proper ceremony, but this now seemed unlikely with both Rajan and the country spinning out of control. Fatima had never forgiven Babu for keeping this a secret from Rajan, and her anger was bubbling as she waited in the kitchen for the kettle to boil, adjusting her sari that kept unfurling from her strained, uneven breathing. And in that moment of anger, pacing around the kitchen, thinking of the humiliating conversation she was about to have, she contemplated hurling the steaming water at Babu’s bare belly in his sanctuary upstairs. He should be the one to do all the explaining, she thought bitterly, and she was so consumed by the thought that she didn’t sense Abdia approaching.
“These are difficult times,” Abdia said softly, noting the gloomy expression on Fatima’s face.
Fatima nodded gravely.
“But it’s not the end of the world,” Abdia added.
Fatima sighed. “It’s the end of a wonderful relationship.”
“Wonderful people,” Abdia said.
“So, you are not angry?” Fatima asked, puzzled.
“Angry with what? What will anger help?”
“You are right . . . You were always right about these things.”
“As the holy book says, everything that has a beginning must have an end.”
“But I never thought the end would come this soon.”
“As Christians like to say, we must get ready, for no one knows either the day or the hour.”
“Were you . . . ready?”
“I can’t say I was ready. Nothing in life would prepare you for such a thing. I just wasn’t surprised.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Just like that.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I mean, I didn’t have any expectations at all,” Abdia said.
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, I prepared for the worst and wished for the best.”
“You mean it was that bad?”
“I mean, it’s different for you guys . . .”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, Babu is different.”
“Babu is . . . is . . . he is no longer in charge!”
“Still, he is different. He’s not like other wahindi.”
“Excuse me?”
“He will be spared.”
“Why? What are you talking about?”
“Actually, that’s why my husband thought we should come see him. He might be able to help.”
“Are you listening? Babu has lost it. He can’t speak. This thing has crushed him.”
“At this stage, we are desperate for anything. You mean he can’t even recognize his old friend?”
“Abdia, you are as difficult as Hindi script. Why can’t you understand such a simple explanation?”
“Because one can’t just rise and walk away like t
hat.”
“I understand. And I’m sorry.”
“How can you understand? You have nothing to worry about. At least you and Babu will survive it.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I know so.”
“Why?”
At this juncture, Karim’s frame filled the kitchen door.
“Sorry, ladies. I couldn’t find the old man on the porch. Is he napping somewhere else?”
“He has been—for two weeks now. Can’t tell between night and day. I think it’s what doctors call a vegetative state.”
Karim was alarmed: “What are you talking about?”
Fatima tensed. How could she let them in on the family scandal? “It happened faster than any of us could comprehend,” she sighed. “One moment, Babu was alive and well, the next he was fighting for his life.”
“Was he alone?” Abdia asked.
“Yes—no—I mean, he was alone when he fell. But we were in the house.”
“You should have alerted us. We should have come and said pole. Our hopes are dashed,” Karim said, his voice breaking. “I never knew it would come to this. Babu was our last hope . . .”
“What’s done is done,” Fatima snapped. “And stop weeping in my kitchen. Don’t you know it’s a bad omen for grown men to weep?”