by M G Vassanji
Mwangi?—a friend and well-wisher of that fiendish gang, those murderers of Annie and Bill? I still ask myself this, after all these years. Over and over I’ve answered to myself, No, it could not be. They are evil, those who kill children, he had said bitterly, looking into my eyes. By then, most likely he had already taken the oath, like thousands of others. Perhaps this time he had been called upon to abide by it, aid the forest fighters by hiding evidence, and he had no choice? Or perhaps there was an entirely different and innocent explanation for those clothes in his room. The old and wizened man, the wise man who spoke in proverbs, Njoroge’s grandfather. The gardener who had tended that orange rose of Mrs. Bruce’s creation, who put champeli flowers in Deepa’s hair, and once in Annie’s. How could he have been party to her death? Though Kihika, who was now wanted for the murders, had also shown devotion to the children…and they told you over and over, the police, that every Kikuyu was a potential murderer of children; they gave you examples of treachery, showed you albums of photos of innocent-looking servants who had turned out to be Mau Mau, until you could no longer be sure of your trust.
Our family was stunned by the news. Mother emitted a short, hysterical-sounding, almost involuntary peal of laughter. It was his clothes only—she told Papa, in disbelief—and…and you know how he is asked sometimes to slaughter chickens for some of the families here! That’s where the blood came from! You know how some of these policemen are, especially that European, Soames—he’s been after our Mwangi for months. Now they will say it was Mwangi who stole the gun from our house—
Then who else? Papa almost screamed at her in frustration.
She shrunk back, as if in terror, and he looked away, scowling and ashamed.
When I think of that scene in our sitting room, the two of them quietly apart on the long sofa, the dolorous, hot, resting hour after lunch having been ruptured by the police visit and now this shocking news, I imagine them both close to tears.
I could have answered Papa’s question. If anyone else we knew was involved with the killers for sure, it was my uncle.
It was Friday, and later that afternoon Mahesh Uncle came down from the sawmill. He gave Mother, Deepa, and me a hug of condolence, saying how terrible the news was, and Mother cried, If only we hadn’t known them, it would be easier…
I quickly squirmed out of his embrace, much to his surprise. It pains me even now to record this, to recall his deeply hurt expression, but something inside me, a core of feeling and love, had withered and died. From that day onward, I refused closeness with my uncle. I squirmed in his embraces, I looked away when he made friendly or tender overtures. I think he knew that I knew something of his involvement with the Mau Mau, something I had discovered that early morning during our visit to him. Once, that weekend, he contrived to be at the table with me alone, and began, If only one could have done something…He broke off, looking embarrassed. I was not sure what he meant, but I knew it was said in an attempt to assuage my feelings and win me over.
Njoroge disappeared for a day, following Mwangi’s arrest, but then was back hovering about in our yard. For one thing, he needed food. My mother’s defence of Mwangi and our own feelings for him were enough to make him innocent in my sister’s and my eyes. The plaguing doubts, and the insistent, instinctive denial of them, would come much later.
Now with your grandfather gone, what will you do, William, Mother asked him, having given him puris and kheer to take away.
Jomo will free my grandfather, he said.
I hope so, she replied, with a doubtful look.
He told me years later that he had obtained most of his Jomo stuff from that servant who had sported a Jomo beard and had been detained, never to return. There had existed a cabal of Jomo Kenyatta sympathizers in our housing estate, to which Mwangi however had been indifferent.
People of the estate were wary about Njoroge’s fate and their role in it; they knew that this time Mwangi would not return soon, if ever. A new gardener would be sought. What would happen to the boy? Where were his parents? Would he be reliable if employed as a servant?
Ten days after the Bruce murders, two Englishwomen came to speak with Njoroge in the company of Mrs. Van Roost, who was the principal of his school in Nakuru. They told him they had come to take him to a boarding school, where he could wait for his grandfather, and they would assist him in finding his other relations. It was Sunday morning, the scene took place in our backyard. The women were dressed in frocks and hats, as if they had been to church. Njoroge nodded quickly at their instructions and went off to his room and returned with his wooden schoolbag and some clothes wrapped in a newspaper. In the interim, my mother was informed by the waiting ladies that Njoroge’s father had been arrested in a riot in Nairobi a few years earlier; his current whereabouts, as that of the boy’s mother, were not known. Njoroge came to shake hands with us, and Mother—extremely pleased that he had found a home—told him, Now don’t forget to write to us.
Yes, said one of the two visitors, do write to your friends in Nakuru who have been so kind to you.
Deepa ran to her room and brought a paper and pencil, which I quickly snatched from her. I wrote down our address on the paper and gave it to Njoroge, saying, This is our P.O. Box number.
Write to us, Njoroge, Deepa said. You can keep the pencil, if you want.
He kept it.
We accompanied him and the three women to the front and watched them get into a car and drive away.
Where did they take him? Deepa asked, suddenly tearful.
Arré we forgot even to ask them, Mother said, pensive. But I’m sure Njoroge will write to us. If not, we will ask that Mrs. Van Roost woman.
But she looked deeply distracted as we slowly made our way back into the house. Poor child, she said. Poor children.
Kihika would never be captured. According to the police he had gone into the forest to join a Mau Mau gang.
One Sunday at our family gathering Mohan Uncle said to Papa, Did you hear, eh Ashok? Your gardener, that old Mwangi, killed himself in prison.
Eh—what? Papa said.
Bechara, Mother whispered, poor soul, then gave a look at Mahesh Uncle, who exploded.
What, killed himself—tortured to death, more likely. Do you see the dignified, proud Mwangi killing himself? For what?
Mahesh Uncle flashed a look at me, as if seeking my approval. Mohan Uncle gave him a sneering reply, with a dismissive hand: There he goes defending the terrorists as usual. Proud and dignified, arré my left foot, your kalu Gandhi was nothing but Dracula-Frankenstein, one to drink the blood of children—
Mahesh Uncle stood up with a roar and another fight almost erupted. My father’s brothers departed in haste with their families, and Dadaji and Juma Molabux agreed to go on a short walk, up and down the street.
Our world had changed. We were in the aftermath of a tragedy which had struck suddenly in a furious moment, destroyed the composure of our lives, and departed. Saturdays, Deepa and I stayed at home with Mother and sometimes we would go to the neighbouring estate to play with the other Indian children. There were many presents for us, including a much-anticipated train set for me, which I most enjoyed playing with Papa and Dadaji, who came up with adventurous scenarios for railway journeys. We had constructed all the main stations from Kisumu to Mombasa using matchboxes and pins, and fashioned our landscape and wildlife, including the inevitable man-eating lions, with potter’s clay. I recall a family visit to the Nakuru station, where a crowd of townspeople had gathered in excitement to take a look at the new rail car which had recently been brought over (it was said) from the Alps in Switzerland; it had seating capacity only and large windows all around for the passengers to view the scenery. It was full of tourists that day, who looked out curiously and waved at us, and we waved back. I began my stamp collecting in earnest.
Deepa would sometimes wake up at night in terror, imagining intruders outside trying to break into our house. Once, in a delirious fever, she even called me Mau
Mau, much to my astonishment. I believe she wet her bed a few times, which my mother tried to keep from me lest I tease her.
Papa gave up his Tuesday night Home Guard duties partly due to Deepa’s fears, which were heightened when he went away and Mother had only her gods to whisper to in their corner and her tremulous voice in which to tell us to go to sleep.
For my part, however, I recall a tranquil period. Mother would chide me that I was becoming too quiet. I am not sure if she quite meant it, because I had developed a slight stutter, which quite visibly disconcerted Papa when he was not watchful, and Mother would then have a pained look in her eyes. I was taken to several doctors, including a European specialist in Nairobi; I saw a pandit and a Muslim wahid recommended by Juma Molabux. The only remedy that worked was to remain calm and not get excited or emotional when speaking. That remedy still works.
A year after the Bruce incident our parents told us that for the sake of our schooling, and to forget the terrible events we had experienced, they had decided that we would move to Nairobi.
Joseph has gone. Seema came and picked him up this morning and drove him to Toronto. I can take comfort in the fact that if I could not get close to Njoroge’s son, as Deepa desired and I came to wish, at least I found for him someone else whom he trusts, who hopefully will keep him on track, away from the hazards of fruitless and deadly politics.
PART 2.
The Year of Her Passion.
TWELVE.
One day a rather tall and lean-looking young African man stepped somewhat hesitantly into the reception room of Mayfair Estate Agents in Nairobi’s Indian Bazaar and asked to see Mr. Lall. The secretary, unimpressed by his deportment, told him curtly to wait, Mr. Lall was busy. The young man sat down, picked up a magazine, and waited what must have seemed an unreasonable time without being announced, and so when the door to the inner sanctum opened one more time in his presence, and the office boy emerged languorously from it bearing another meagre bit of correspondence, the visitor stood up, walked past him, and barged inside. Papa looked up impatiently from his desk.
The year was 1965 and Kenya had finally achieved independence. Great changes had taken place since the stroke of midnight announced freedom eighteen months earlier. Jomo Kenyatta, former political prisoner, was President and father of our nation and his portrait beamed kindly from the walls of every shop and office. The sun shone more brightly than before, and even the sounds of the streets rang different. My father’s line of business put him in the midst of the shakeups of Nairobi’s many segregated neighbourhoods and allowed him to profit from them. The country’s freedom had come as a personal boon to him as it had done to many others. European settlers and civil servants were departing, leaving for easy pickings their homes in the posher areas of the city. Indian civil servants were abandoning to the unfriendly market their properties in modest Eastleigh, which African cooperatives were quickly buying up. International visitors arrived in droves, sporting sun wear and cheerful optimism, and if they were not tourists, they needed rental housing. Papa worked hard at his job. He managed for the new landlords as he had done for the old; he worked hard for sellers even if they were already resettled in Sialkot, Punjab, or Southall, England. This is the time, Sheila, he would say to Mother, if I play it smart, I can make my fortune.
But today was Friday, his short workday, and he was planning to leave for a late lunch at home, then a short siesta, followed by a night of cards at the club. And so the presence of the brash intruder in his office was annoying in the only way it could be in newly independent Africa—you couldn’t say a cross word. Sensitivities ran high in the country, the humiliations of colonial rule still smarted; you could be denounced and deported as a racist almost overnight. So my father waited patiently, watching the young man, who was grinning at him insanely with wide eyes.
Good morning Mr. Lall, the visitor said finally.
Hardly morning, Papa thought, it’s lunchtime and not the time to walk into people’s offices. He sized up the fellow—modestly dressed, wearing a grey jacket that could have been bought second-hand from Abdulla Fazal, a street away. Not only property but also clothes were changing hands—or bodies.
Young man, he said, having gotten up and come around his desk, there is no vacancy here, the position that was advertised three months ago in the Standard was filled long ago, a notice was sent and was printed to that effect. But you seem to be educated, you should have no problem finding something—
Papa had his arm extended to lead the visitor to the door when, prompted by a long exchange of looks with the man, the revelation finally hit him. Like a brick, he would later say.
Njoroge? he exclaimed, in his utter astonishment. Njoroge of Nakuru, grandson of Mwangi? After all these years…I can’t believe it.
Yes, it’s me, Mr. Lall, Njoroge said with a touch of tenderness. He thought my father would faint from the shock. They shook hands and Njoroge held on to Papa’s hands.
How are you, my dear young man, it’s been a long time…your letters stopped coming…
You had moved, sir. And how is your wife, and how are Vic and little Deepa?
That last inquiry, as I imagine it, earnest, pointed. How were we, what had we become?
Fine, fine—we moved to Nairobi, as you see, in early 1955 after that—that terrible tragedy. What a time that was, I am glad it is over and now it’s uhuru.
He stared at a silent Njoroge, who towered over him.
And thus Njoroge came back into our lives—not obtrusively, that was typical of him. He did not want to presume upon us, he told my father, a lot of time had passed since he knew us. Papa stared at the tall young Kikuyu and couldn’t have agreed more. An age had passed since Nakuru. But he said, Arré what are you saying? Come home with me right now, I’m going home myself, and Deepa and Vic and my wife will be delighted to see you!
Njoroge declined, saying, Not today, Mr. Lall, I have to be away this afternoon—but do you think Vic and Deepa could meet me in the city tomorrow? I would love to see them.
That afternoon, and again in the evening when Papa had returned home from his club, Deepa and I (but she more so) plied him with questions: What did he sound like? How tall is he? Does he have a high forehead? What does he look like, Papa?
Don’t forget, Mother said to Deepa, you knew him as a child; he’s a grown man now. Don’t go and make a fool of yourself tomorrow.
He’s a very serious young man now, Papa affirmed.
Nobody can change all that much, Deepa replied, irrepressible and, I thought then, childish as always.
I was somewhat apprehensive about the meeting, as it appeared Njoroge too was. In the past too we both had tended to be more circumspect than my sister. How would the three of us respond to what we had become, as young adults in a vastly changed world? Our meeting was arranged at the Café Rendezvous on the recently renamed Kimathi Street; and as we hastened toward it the next morning, having driven downtown with our father, I had to do all I could to keep up with Deepa weaving in and out between the Saturday throngs. The café had once been a hangout for European teenagers; now tourists and locals of all races overflowed out of its wide doors. Inside was packed and steamy, the latest pop music from England came blaring out. The Beatles had recently become popular. We had stood hardly a few moments at the entrance when Deepa shrieked at the handsome tall youth coming smiling toward us.
Oh my God…Njo! It’s really you! It’s been such a long time, and you stopped writing!
It was as if all these many years she had been waiting for him, to chide him about just that matter.
She rushed forward to embrace him, and held on to his hands and gaped at him, smiling, laughing, and tugged at his arms, back and forth and sideways, as if to make sure he was real. Everyone at the chic Rendezvous had looked up at this wild, unorthodox Asian girl, at the joyous embrace and its aftermath. Independence was here, yes, and Kenyatta our leader had forgiven the sins of the past and we were all citizens of a new multiracial, democ
ratic nation, but still, this was taking integration too fast, too far even for Nairobi!
Did she really recognize him instantly that morning as we stood at the café entrance and he walked over to us, beaming? Did she see in the tall, lanky African with hair parted on the left, wearing an oversized grey jacket and red tie, the boy we had known so many years before? Had she missed him so badly, in private, quietly, all this time?
She was a lovely dark beauty, petite, with sparkling eyes, a long face, and straight hair down to her shoulders; she wore that day not her usual Punjabi shalwar-kameez but a full-length green kikoi dress with a matching dupatta round her neck.
At the table he took both her hands into his, searched her eyes with his, and in that deep voice that was so new and charming to us said, But I wrote to you, Deepa!
Sio! No you didn’t. How could you have? I never received anything.
Even her voice seemed changed in this new presence, before this returned avatar of our former friend. The odd bit of Swahili from her—sio—was charming and Njoroge and I both laughed. He took out an old address book from his pocket, pages yellow and curling at the corners, and read aloud: P.O. Box 3312, Nakuru, wasn’t that the box number?
Yes it was, I answered.
And I even wrote once—to you both—in Nairobi, someone from Nakuru gave me the address. So?—you didn’t reply, Deepa!
They were in love.
They had picked up that spontaneity, the familiarity, in an instant despite all those intervening years of adolescence, in which we had grown up into Nairobi’s typical suburban Asian youth. Their closeness simply left me by the wayside, open-eyed with wonder, heavy-hearted with envy. I wonder now that I did not already fear for her.