Dance of the Jakaranda

by Peter Kimani

  As he drifted off to sleep, Babu remarked to himself that the guinea fowl was probably the Indian for a reason he had not considered before. It was a bird of flight, in constant motion to forage where food was to be found; Indians were similarly on the move, exploring opportunities in different parts of the world without putting roots down. Babu smiled when he recalled the phrase he had invoked whenever he was called upon to narrate the past by his grandson Rajan: We came in dhows to build the rail, and left in planes . . . Perhaps it was true that Indians did not come to stay. They were mere wapita njia, passersby, their place of belonging being that transience—the in-between world connecting continents and cultures, heaven and earth, land and sea—the space that the guinea fowl in his dream could fly over and about, without being grounded like the rest of its ilk.

  Epilogue

  When the whistle of the train heading westward blasts every Tuesday at 6:15 a.m., and rents the air again on Thursday evening at 5:35 p.m. to announce that the iron beast is slithering through the land toward the ocean where it all started, it is always a source of merriment for the locals. They will narrate how their week went and how the train intersected with their lives.

  I was having my second cup of tea when the train to Mombasa passed, a girl will tell her lover to illustrate the length of time she was waiting at the coffee shop.

  I knew I was late for work because the horn of the train sounded while I was still in bed, a worker will confess to a colleague.

  Hotel check-in time is organized around the train arrival in the township, when tourists come by the thousands. They are met at the train station by tour guides ready to retell a well-worn yarn. They will point toward the imposing Jakaranda Hotel, whose replica was restored soon after independence, at an enormous cost to the independent government. Experts were flown in from London to ensure it was an authentic reproduction of the house that Ian Edward McDonald had built in 1901. Tour guides will point to the various aspects of the establishment and announce proudly: That’s the place that heralded the birth of this town.

  Then they will point in the direction of the school—now world famous for the top-class athletes it has produced—and remind everyone that it was also built by the founder of the township, Ian Edward McDonald, although he established it under strict anonymity. McDonald, who had created the school in honor of his lifelong friend Reverend Turnbull, had made only one condition to the school founders: that his contribution would only be made public fifty years after his death. The school is also consistently in the news for its high-performing students, many of whom get appointed to the government cabinet.

  The tour guides hail both McDonald and Reverend Turnbull as the founding fathers of the township and narrate their inadvertent trip there that permanently altered their destinies. There is a nature trail that simulates McDonald’s first trip through the Nakuru wilderness, known to this day as the Great Trek.

  But what has truly put Nakuru on the world map is the wildlife sanctuary around the Jakaranda, and the annual festival held every December to coincide with the migration of the flamingos, the alien birds that inhabit the lake that gave the township its name. The birds’ first recorded exodus out of town coincided with the expulsion of Indians, which many believe was the birds’ expression of solidarity with the community. It is not known where the birds hibernate for half the year, but they fly out every June and return every December. This migration is celebrated as one of the marvels of the natural world, reenacting the drama that Babu and other railway builders witnessed at the turn of the last century.

  The Flamingo Festival, as the fête is known across the world, celebrates diversity and a multiculturalism whose embodiment is the mystique known as the Indian Raj, a local musician who became the conscience of his nation at the young age of twenty-two when he was arrested and nearly deported under a racist legal instrument that has since been scrapped. Portraits of the artist as a young man, with his hair pulled into a ponytail, are emblazoned on T-shirts, hats, photo albums, and other memorabilia that sell steadily throughout the year. The Indian Raj is many things to many people. When guides are dealing with younger tourists, they paint him as a Casanova who did everyone and everything in celebration of human love, but his story is refined to emphasize his sociopolitical consciousness when guides are dealing with mature or elderly tourists. The highlight of that version is how the young man, after being taken into custody by police on account of his race, turned the tide against his jailers when the entire nation rallied to his cause and insisted that Kenya could not declare independence as long as he was behind bars. Overnight, he became a prisoner of conscience.

  The Flamingo Festival includes a procession that imitates the actual route taken by protesters in their demand for the release of the Indian Raj, a ritual that’s undertaken in solemn dignity and often includes speeches by leading politicians. The procession ends at an intersection where, four years after his arrest, and with the young nation facing a general election, the Indian Raj was cut down by an assassin’s bullet, triggering nationwide strife. The motivation for the killing was to prevent him from running for the highest office in the land, although he hadn’t reached the requisite age to participate in the election, or even expressed an interest in politics. Just imagine where this country would be had that young man lived, tour guides remind their guests, before conceding that dimming the brightest stars is the natural order of things. Lightning strikes the tallest tree.

  Music is a large part of these commemorations hosted at the Jakaranda Hotel, the all-time favorite being the mugithi dance that imitates the movement of the train that was inaugurated by the Indian Raj. An annual competition honors a breakout star who has interpreted the spirit of the Jakaranda Hotel of old in a compelling and refreshing manner. In the most recent edition of the fête, the star was a stand-up comedian parodying a butcher. He left everyone in stitches with his meat-stealing antics. His name: Karianjahe Gathenji—the grandson of the butcher who worked at the Jakaranda on the cusp of independence, and who displayed similar revelry.

  Nyundo, too, has not been forgotten. There is an annual drumming contest in the schools. Beyond the school circuit, Nyundo is revered as a folk hero, and whenever there are tensions in the Rift Valley, as happens every election year, when rivals seek to drive others out under the pretext that they are the original owners of the land—the real intention being to prevent them from voting—old men whisper about Nyundo’s warning. Have the bullets begun to flower? they ask silently.

  In that sense, the dead have been resurrected powerfully, although it is the Indian Raj who encapsulates what brochures promote as the spirit of Nakuru. The stone that the builder refused has become the cornerstone, is the mantra used to market tourism in Nakuru. Yet this a historical misnomer: the man who Nakuru forgot is Babu, the first inhabitant of the township who died of a broken heart when he learned of his grandson’s arrest in 1963, which further accelerated the push for Rajan’s release. Babu’s memorable assertion upon watching the construction of the original Jakaranda in 1901—that not being seen is not the same as not being there—retains a succinct truth. For it was Babu, guided by the alien birds, who felt the special pull toward Nakuru as a place that could provide nurture and nature to man and beasts.

  Babu’s vision was well ahead of his time. Although his assessment was based on what he could see on the land, over time archaeologists have confirmed that Nakuru is the cradle of mankind, the point of dispersal for all humanity, irrespective of race, color, or creed. Recently, geologists have made yet another find: vast deposits of minerals in the bowels of the Rift Valley, from precious metals to oil and natural gas. The most unusual discovery is a massive aquifer that could provide safe drinking water for the entire nation for a lifetime. And provide a permanent home for the flamingos.

  That was probably what Reverend Turnbull meant when he said this was God’s country, although his words were prompted by the land’s natural beauty, or, as it later came to pass, the women who lived on
it. Without a doubt, Nakuru is a stunningly beautiful place and many still covet it. The richest men in the world have made their holiday homes there, smack in the middle of the wildlife sanctuary that McDonald established, and where his remains lie. He died of natural causes at the age of 101. He received a state funeral and his grave is another popular tourist attraction.

  Interestingly, no one remembers the women behind the pioneers, or their children. Just as no one remembers that the train, gliding along twice every week, rocking slowly, gently, smoothly, penetrating the beautiful countryside before squeaking its horn in joyful ejaculation, made a forcible entry into their land, raping and tearing it viciously, once upon a time.

  END

  Acknowledgments

  They say it takes a village to raise a child, but I think it takes villages to create a story. This one has its footprints scattered around the world—starting in Iowa where the seed of this story germinated, nourished by conversations with fellow writers and ardent supporters, specifically Peter and Mary Nazareth and Chris Merrill of the University of Iowa.

  In Nairobi, I thank my wife Anne for her faith and love, and for keeping the family going during my long seasons of absence; my other mother, Wangari Mwangi, helped steer the affairs of the family with love and devotion.

  In Houston, I’m eternally grateful to j.Kastely, chair of the University of Houston’s English Department, who navigated bureaucratic hoops to ensure my study was a pleasurable and fulfilling experience. My professors in the Creative Writing Program, Chitra Divakaruni, Alex Parsons, Mat Johnson, and Hosam Aboul-Ela, dedicated time and energy to offer valuable feedback and advice. The arts organization Inprint ensured I remained fully immersed in writing by providing steady checks, especially on rainy days, to keep my bills paid.

  In California, I appreciate my friend, teacher, and mentor, Professor Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, for his solid support through the years, particularly for committing the time to serve on my doctoral committee. I’m equally indebted to Henry Chakava, my Kenyan publisher and friend, for his useful feedback on the early drafts of this book.

  I also thank Mike Owuor, a patient and perceptive reader whose feedback helped enrich this book; and Professor D.H. Kiiru, for his steady support; my sisters Faith and Mary, for always being there for me.

  Many thanks to my literary agent, Malaika Adero, for guiding me to a great publisher with ease.

  During my sojourns at home and abroad, I made many great friends: Kim Euell, Dawlat Yassin, Charles Kasinga, Wanjikũ wa Ngũgĩ, Sibusiso Mabuza, P.C. Wang, and Ivanka, to mention but a few. Thank you all for your friendship and support.

  PETER KIMANI is a leading African writer of his generation. Born in 1971 in Kenya, he started his career as a journalist and has published several works of fiction and poetry. He was one of only three international poets commissioned by National Public Radio to compose and present a poem to mark Barack Obama’s inauguration in January 2009. Kimani earned his doctorate in creative writing and literature from the University of Houston’s Creative Writing Program in 2014, and is a faculty member at Aga Khan University’s Graduate School of Media and Communications in Nairobi. Dance of the Jakaranda is his third novel.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher.

  Published by Akashic Books

  ©2017 by Peter Kimani

  Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-61775-496-8

  eISBN-13: 978-1-61775-503-3

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016935080

  Front cover painting: William H. Johnson, Jitterbugs II, 1941, Smithsonian American Art Museum

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