The following morning he rose at dawn and, after a hurried breakfast of maize porridge, which he prepared for himself, drove along the new main road which by-passed Migwani several miles to the west, passing through the now fast growing trading centre of Thitani. Though he arrived there before seven o’clock, the small town was already bustling with activity. A stranger’s eyes would hardly have interpreted this occasional and lazy progress of several herds of cows across the main road toward the town’s dam as Thitani’s equivalent of a morning rush hour, but that indeed is what it was. This heavy traffic certainly frustrated James Mulonzya’s progress. Three times within the last mile of his journey he had to stop to allow groups of animals to meander apparently aimlessly across the road. The apparently similar aimlessness of the young boys who herded them prompted Mulonzya to use the car horn repeatedly and angrily.
This, however, had no effect on the third and last of the infant drovers. The confused boy stood at the roadside not knowing whether to run out in front of the growling car to beat his father’s cows with his stick or simply stand aside in fear and hope that they would move of their own accord.
Impatience prompted Mulonzya to get out of the car and threaten the boy with a beating. He began to shout, saying that if the boy could not move the cows immediately he would move them with his car, but the only result was to frighten the child even more and send him scurrying to hide behind one of the nearby shops. The cows, however, eventually did wander off in the right direction as if to prove that they hardly needed tending at all on this daily journey they knew so well.
James Mulonzya was undoubtedly a man in a hurry. He knew he had a deadline to meet and, although he believed he still had an hour to spare, he obviously begrudged every unproductive minute that passed. Having driven straight past the dozen or so concrete boxes that were Thitani town, he turned off the main road and into a euphorbia-hedged compound. With piles of sand, rows of new cement blocks left to dry in the sun and odd lengths of timber strewn haphazardly about, it looked more like a building site than a new primary school, but, having made frequent visits to the project during its short history, Mulonzya knew exactly where to find what he sought.
The only sign of life in the entire compound was a solitary donkey which took time off its grazing to raise its head and watch Mulonzya’s white Mercedes grind to a dusty halt beside a house some distance from the classrooms. The headmaster was already up and about and, on seeing the M.P. leave his car and set off toward his house, he rushed outside to offer a greeting.
Mulonzya apologised profusely for calling so early in the morning, offering the excuse that his time was short, due to the necessity of his presence at a meeting Nairobi at midday. It had been some time since he had inspected the new school’s progress so, since he was passing, he thought he ought to call in and look around.
As he expected, the headmaster showed some reluctance to grant his wish, offering the excuse that the school had not yet been swept out that morning since the boarding pupils had all gone home for the weekend. Mulonzya, however, would not be dissuaded and soon the two men had set off for the classroom block. Mulonzya still seemed to be in a hurry whilst the other, nervously jangling his school keys, still seemed reluctant. Mulonzya insisted on inspecting both classrooms before any other part of the school. As the head unlocked and then opened the door to the first, the M.P. rushed inside and looked about, his eyes darting from wall to wall in search of his prey. Here he found nothing.
Then, as the door of the second room opened, Mulonzya’s search was surely ended. Striding slowly but purposefully across the classroom toward a notice board on the far wall, his progress created a slight scraping sound as his soles ground down on the gravelly dust that had accumulated overnight in a film on the floor. There he looked long and hard at a collection of photographs, newspaper cuttings and pieces of students’ work, hand-written on lined paper, the whole having been neatly arranged with some care.
Though the display bore no title, the subject was clearly himself. The photographs were all of him. The cuttings from the Daily Nation and Taifa Leo all concerned him, as did every one of the hand-written passages. There was nothing here that could be construed as libellous, nothing that attracted him in the same way as the passage in the exercise book, but he had found what he sought and his suspicions had been confirmed. Clearly the teacher employed by Father Michael for the literacy scheme used this room for his classes in which, during the day, he also taught children. This display was clearly on show permanently. Obviously embarrassed, but doing his best to conceal it, the headmaster showed the now disinterested Mulonzya through the dormitories and kitchen and then finished the tour by pointing to a patch of bare earth and scattered thorn bushes to which he gave the proud title of ‘football pitch’. Mulonzya then curtly and laconically thanked the man and left immediately. No longer in a hurry, he drove steadily onto the main road and so on his way.
It was about half an hour later that the headmaster’s Saturday morning was again disturbed by the noise of an approaching vehicle. This time, however, it was the growling of a pikipiki, a motorbike. Again he went outside to welcome his visitor and was this time greeted by Father Michael and, sitting precariously on the pillion, one of his own staff, Boniface Mutisya.
“Have you had any visitors, Joel?” shouted Michael, without bothering either to dismount or switch off the engine.
The headmaster nodded. “Mulonzya. Earlier this morning,” he said.
Michael gave a short frustrated sigh and half-turned to cast a glance toward Boniface. “Okay. Thanks, Joel,” and with that he kicked the bike into gear and rode off.
***
Several weeks elapsed before Mulonzya’s manoeuvres neared completion. During that period he discovered much about John Mwangangi and this newly acquired knowledge helped a considerable amount in the formulation of his scheme. Though this plan of action was by now almost complete, he still needed the cooperation of one more person, whose link in the chain would be crucial. Without him the plan could still succeed, but with him it was almost bound to.
It was approaching midday when James Mulonzya nosed his car into a space on Kenyatta Avenue. After switching off the engine, he leaned back into the driving seat for a moment and gave out a deep sigh to hide a yawn. Despite being hermetically sealed from the heat and fumes in the comfortable opulence of his car, he was clearly hot and flustered. He was panting quite hard as if he had suffered some exertion. Sweat streamed down the side of his face and stood out like glistening beads of dew caught in his hair. For over half an hour he had crawled along the city streets in his car to seek a parking space and found nothing. Kenyatta Avenue, up Government Road, Kimathi Street, Mama Ngina Avenue, Government Road, Kenyatta Avenue, Muindi Mbingu Street; he had covered every inch of the triangle twice without success. As time passed, he had begun to fear that he would be late for his meeting. He had allowed his frustration to take over and had taken to driving along with his head out of the side window to allow him to shout and gesture at anyone who got in his way. This, of course, completely undid the effect of his car’s air conditioning and now he was paying for his actions with sweat.
He had, however, succeeded in finding a space at last and, after handing over a five-shilling note and a stern finger-wagged warning to the parking boys, he walked off quickly towards Government Road. Nairobi was certainly becoming a nightmare. It was overcrowded, noisy and dirty. On every corner there was a group of crawling, limping beggars, accosting every likely passer-by with their jangling tins, sycophantic greetings and offers of bony handshakes. If he, a local man, was embarrassed by their advances, what must the many tourists who walked the city streets be feeling? If he had his way, he would have all the beggars rounded up and sent back to their home areas. After all, why were the families of these people not looking after them as they should do? Undoubtedly they were responsible for the majority of crime, which so deterred honest people from walkin
g the city streets. As a Kenyan, he was angered to know that Europeans commonly referred to his capital city as Nai-robbery.
He felt embarrassed to know that no one could safely park a car without paying for the attentions of the parking boys, the ragged urchins who roamed the streets in packs. If not paid for protecting a vehicle in its owner’s absence, they would probably steal it themselves or merely dismantle it on the spot. If James Mulonzya had his way, he would suggest that a special school be built for these boys, way out in the bush so that they might learn how to survive without begging. He would do all these things if only he had the time, but other, more pressing concerns forever seemed to fill his every minute.
On reaching Kimathi Street he turned the corner and looked to his right to survey the crowded terrace of the New Stanley Hotel. Smartly by-passing the lengthening queue of people awaiting a vacant table, he approached a man he knew to be the senior waiter and introduced himself. The waiter shook his head in response to a question from Mulonzya and then obsequiously led him away along a tortuous meandering path across the terrace to the unoccupied table that had remained vacant because it bore a ‘reserved’ notice. The waiter removed this and left as Mulonzya sat down.
For several minutes Mulonzya remained alone, though obviously expecting company. Craning his neck to peer across to the roadside pavement, he stretched and rocked his whole frame as if trying to break free of the chair’s bondage. He sought the face of every likely passer-by and, in a glance, rejected every one and moved his eyes to the next. His worry was that he had been late and might have missed his rendezvous. Despite the widespread belief that in African time, mid-day could mean anything between eleven and four, Mulonzya knew that when George Nzou arranged a meeting at twelve o’clock, he usually meant twelve o’clock on the dot.
He did not have long to wait, however, before a small middle-aged man came into view. As he rounded the corner from Kenyatta Avenue, his eyes had surveyed the hotel terrace, their gaze darting from one table to another, their movement punctuated by occasional concerned glances at his watch. Mulonzya stood bolt upright to face him and raised his arm high. Nzou saw him immediately and offered a wave of acknowledgement. By the time he had threaded his way to the shaded rear of the terrace where Mulonzya sat, a waiter had already been summoned and their coffee ordered.
“Good morning, Mr Nzou,” said Mulonzya, standing to greet the other and offering an over-hearty handshake.
The other nodded and replied to the greeting, but in a manner that was more curt and less enthusiastic.
The two men then sat and exchanged pleasantries until their coffee arrived. Nzou had suffered the same parking problems as Mulonzya and apologised profusely but perfunctorily for being so late. Clearly of quite different generations, they spoke only guardedly of themselves, with neither trusting their estimation of the other’s views. Their ideas mirrored their different minds. Mulonzya, much older than Nzou, wore a green cotton suit, a ‘colonial’ type, in which, to the British eye, the jacket is a mere shirt. Designed to keep its wearer cool, the collar was loose and open. The fact that it did not cover the rolls of flabby redundant flesh, which encircled Mulonzya’s thick squat neck, was an imperfection which would have troubled George, but which the older and less self-conscious Mulonzya had never even considered.
George, himself, small and in his early thirties, was clearly a city man, closer in ideals to Mulonzya’s son Charles, rather than those of his elders. He overtly displayed western standards of dress, a formal business suit, a white shirt and tie, and even, on this hot still day, he would not consider either loosening his collar or removing his jacket. As they sat at the table talking, their manners accentuated the differences between them. George, full of nervous energy, sat on the edge of his chair and leaned forward to rest his forearms neatly on the table, his eyes politely and self-consciously angled down to focus upon the neurotic fiddling of his fingers. Mulonzya, on the other hand, leaned back, almost slouching in his chair, whilst he held his head straight and fixed his gaze on the other.
Within a few minutes, long before other orders taken at the same time would be met, the waiter returned to serve their coffee. While he hovered near the table to off-load the collection of pots from his tray, the two men sat in silence, their eyes independently following every movement of the waiter’s arm. His last act, the placing of the bill facedown in front of Mulonzya, prompted both to offer reticent thanks. Then, as Mulonzya milked and sugared his coffee, he leaned forward in his chair and the mood suddenly changed. All subsequent conversation was subdued and quiet, but always utterly to the point, contrasting sharply with the pleasantries which they had shared before, when, leaning back in his chair, Mulonzya had almost shouted his words, apparently so that everyone else on the terrace might hear.
“So, James, what’s our business today? Is it another donation you want?”
“No…”
“By the way,” interrupted George, “how did your Harambee go? Did you raise your target?”
“Well, not quite, but almost.” Mulonzya changed the subject quickly. Though he wanted to get down to business anyway, he most certainly did not want to be drawn into a discussion about Migwani School’s fundraising. After all he might let slip the fact that he had donated the entirety of the ten thousand shillings in his own name instead of admitting that the sum had been collected from several Nairobi-based people. Thus after pausing to adjust his tack, he began, “George, I have a slight problem to discuss with you. I think you can... I think you will want to help.” The other raised his hands a little and shrugged his shoulders. Submissive open palms invited further explanation but offered no promises. “Do you remember that some months ago a Migwani man came back to Kenya after several years in England?”
George’s blank expression began to solidify to one of interest. “Yes. That was... John Mwangangi?”
Mulonzya nodded.
“Yes,” said George, “I remember him. I ought to. He’s in my field, after all.”
A hint of a private smile crossed Mulonzya’s face.
“He went to Kitui School, didn’t he?” asked Nzou, clearly trying hard to remember. “Yes. He took a job in the civil service... But surely you, of all people, should know that. He was posted to your area.”
“Oh yes, I know,” said Mulonzya. His smile was now openly displayed.
“Well? What has he done?”
Mulonzya paused a little here to collect his thoughts and add emphasis before starting to state his position. With his elbow resting on the table and his head half-hidden behind its supporting hand, he spoke in a near whisper. “I have met Mr Mwangangi several times and have come to know him quite well. The problem is George, he is going to get himself into a lot of trouble if he is not careful.”
As Mulonzya paused, George Nzou looked up, his eyes widening a little and silently asking for more.
“You see, George, like you he is still a young man and he is very much an idealist. It seems to me that the most obvious thing for him to have done when he returned from England would have been to establish his own law practice here in Nairobi. It would have been a lucrative business. But he is not a poor man, you see, and he seems to spurn talk of profit and comfort. He practised in England for some years and earned quite a sum for himself.
Nzou seemed a little surprised at this. “You mean that Mwangangi gave up a working practice in England to live in Mwingi?”
“Well it was never just his own practice, so I have been told, but he is obviously a very capable man and it is said he was a partner in his company. He has a reputation for working extremely hard and for learning very quickly. He has a doctorate, by the way...”
George raised his eyebrows again, obviously impressed. “Why then did he take a job in the civil service? That will never pay very well.”
“As I said, he is something of an idealist. He is determined to work in bush areas and is adamant that he s
hould stay in his home area. His head is full of ideas and schemes that he believes no one else has ever thought of. It seems to me that this job of his is nothing more than a way of earning money whilst he devotes most of his time and energy putting these ideas into practice. What he is really doing, of course, is building up his political alliances.”
“What are these ideas and schemes? Give me some examples.”
Mulonzya pauses to think for a moment. “There are very many, it seems. Even I only know a fraction of what must be going on. He works very closely with the Roman Catholic Church, though never officially, of course. He offers backing - both through finance and influence - for such things as adult literacy schemes, irrigation projects and so on. In fact, he not only sanctions these schemes officially through his professional work in the District Office, but also offers informal advice and assistance, helps them with planning and makes the required connections to other government departments to ensure they get all the help to which they are entitled.”
“In one way this all sounds very good. What Mwangangi is ensuring is that no initiative gets under way in his area without proper support. Where he is wrong, and perhaps this is where you object, Mr Mulonzya, is that he is using official systems to assist private projects. Public servants should not be getting directly involved in such schemes.”
“That is the point. This is why he is going to get into trouble. What is more, either he does not understand the political dimension in many of the things he is sponsoring, in which case he is naive and stupid; or he does understand the politics, in which case this must surely be his prime interest.”
After a pause, Nzou raised his eyes and looked pensively at Mulonzya. “I don’t altogether see what this has to do with me.” Then, as Mulonzya described his suggestion, Nzou began to smile and nod. With some resignation, he suppressed the impatience that was his first reaction, and throughout he remained aloof, offering neither agreement nor rejection.
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