Mathew scrambled on to his feet and set off, leaving Lance to pick up the binoculars and follow. He was glad that he had stood up a bit to Lance. But he kept his head down. The last thing he wanted was to be ‘had’ by Inspector Smithers.
MARCH 1953
14
Accusations
Not a day passed without Mugo worrying about Gitau. Had his brother and Maina reached the forest? What were they doing? How were they surviving? At first Mami had been very quiet when Baba told her what had happened. Later, when Baba expressed his anger that Gitau had ‘thrown away his education’, Mugo was surprised how Mami reacted: ‘Do not judge him harshly! If you walked in your son’s skin, would you not feel like him?’ Their evenings, however, were now often filled with heavy silence. There was still no word of Mugo’s uncle but many stories reached them of new detention camps springing up across the country. They heard about droves of Kikuyus driven out of their homes on wazungu farms and forced into the reserves. Sometimes, when he had a free hour, Mugo went down to the gate by the road. He sat beside the Turkana guards from where he sometimes saw passing trucks crammed with men, women and children. Whenever he saw a truck transporting prisoners inside a wire cage, he strained his eyes to scour the faces. But the vehicles were usually too fast, reducing everyone to an angry blur in the dust.
He began to talk to the guards. He was curious about them but because they looked so fearsome, he had to dare himself. Once he had found the courage, he discovered that they were not much older than Gitau. They spoke a little Swahili and he asked them to teach him some of their Turkana words. In turn he taught them some Kikuyu ones. Occasionally he wondered what Gitau would say, if he saw Mugo being friendly with people paid to guard the wazungu who had stolen their grandfather’s land. It was all so confusing. He learned about where they lived near a great lake in the north surrounded by desert sand. For most of the year, there was no rain so their cattle were always thin. Their families were very poor and they had never been to school. They missed their homes but had come to work for the wazungu because they needed money. They had soon learned that many people hated what they did. It was lonely work.
Mugo had also begun to know loneliness. His days were spent in and around the kitchen. Mzee Josiah seemed to have become much older. He rarely spoke except to discuss the day’s menu with the memsahib and to tell Mugo what needed to be done. Even when Mama Mercy came to the kitchen and began a conversation with her husband, Mzee Josiah would cut her short. Mugo wondered if they even talked at home. When he glanced at Mzee Josiah’s eyes, they seemed tormented.
In the past during his ‘time off’, Mugo used to enjoy going to play in the labour lines or he would track his friends in the bush when they were herding cattle. But that too had changed in the last year. When he approached boys of his own age, they no longer seemed at ease with him. He suspected that they did not trust him. They must have known that he hadn’t taken the oath.
Every night Mugo lay awake, unable to sleep, wondering if Dreadlock would find his way through the security fences and come for him. He had heard about the inspector uncovering a Muhimu hideout not far from where the bwana’s car had broken down. As far as he knew, they hadn’t caught anyone. But what if Dreadlock and Longcoat had discovered that Mugo had lied to them? They wouldn’t forgive him for protecting the bwana’s family. His biggest fear was that they would decide to put Baba and everyone else to the test. It was well known how a servant or a trusted worker would be used to trick a mzungu into opening the door for the Muhimu. It was said that servants had even been made to use the knives themselves. It scared him. One thing he knew for sure. Whatever oath Baba had taken, he would tell the Muhimu to kill him first rather than make him harm the bwana and his family.
When nearly three months had passed and Dreadlock still hadn’t come for him, Mugo began to think that they knew the truth and that was why they weren’t bothering with him. In their eyes, he was probably already a traitor. They would certainly think that if they knew that he had felt a small surge of pleasure when the memsahib told him that the young bwana was coming home soon for his ‘Easter holiday’. Mugo’s smile had come by itself and took him by surprise. He had even shared the news playfully with Duma, who had barked as if she understood. After his visit to the location with Baba, he had withdrawn into himself, finding excuses to stay in the kitchen rather than go outside with Mathew. But as time passed, after Mathew had returned to school, the truth was that Mugo missed him. Even if the mzungu boy was sometimes bossy and annoying, he wasn’t, in himself, a bad boy. Whatever his turbulent thoughts at night, Mugo still didn’t carry ill feelings towards him. However, when he heard the memsahib tell Mzee Josiah to cook for an extra person over the weekend and that this was Mathew’s friend the inspector’s son, Mugo felt a sharp twinge of resentment. That mzungu boy had been present when his inspector father had questioned Mugo about the note and he had accompanied them to the gorge. His blue eyes were the colour of sky but cold as the ice cubes in the memsahib’s fridge. Except for their colour, they were like the eyes of a fish eagle waiting for its prey to make a mistake.
Mugo heard the car approaching but waited until he heard the bwana tooting. Duma was already jumping and wagging her tail around Mathew and the inspector’s son in the driveway, when he reached the front of the house.
‘Hello, Mugo!’ Mathew’s eyes and teeth sparkled. His ‘coming home for a holiday’ face was very different from his ‘going away’ face. Mugo responded with a little smile. There was going to be life in the house for a while. He tried not to look directly at Mathew’s friend as he hurried to lift Mathew’s suitcase from the car boot on to his shoulder.
‘Put the other suitcase into the spare room, Mugo!’
The memsahib turned to the inspector’s son and beamed. ‘I hope you’ll enjoy your weekend with us, Lance.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Grayson. Mathew and I have great plans, haven’t we, Mat?’
Mugo understood immediately who would take charge.
*
Usually on Mathew’s first morning home, Mugo expected to see him after breakfast in the kitchen. Apart from coming to make ‘Don’t tell Josiah!’ raids on the biscuit jar, he would come to nag Mzee Josiah to release Mugo early from his duties. But on Saturday morning, the kitchen remained quiet. While moving dishes back and forth from the dining room, Mugo had caught snatches of a conversation about riding and target practice. After breakfast, he was washing up outside and caught sight of Mathew and the inspector’s boy running to the stables ahead of the bwana. A little later, the bwana appeared on his white stallion with the two boys following him on the grey and chestnut mares. The inspector’s son was on the chestnut, Mugo’s favourite.
Baba stood at the stable entrance, watching them go. His eyes appeared to be trained on the inspector’s son. Suddenly he called out to the riders to stop. Mugo wished he were closer to hear what Baba was saying. He was pointing to the bit in the chestnut’s mouth. The mzungu boy was pulling the bit too tightly. There had been a problem with the chestnut’s mouth. But the inspector’s son seemed to ignore Baba until the bwana turned around and spoke to him as well. Mugo resolved to ask Baba about the incident. His father was very protective of all the horses.
The riders came back in time for the memsahib’s morning tea. The sun was hot, and Mathew and the other boy brought his model aeroplanes and tin soldiers on to the veranda. By the time Mugo came to clear away the tea things, Mathew was so deep in a game with his friend that he didn’t even seem to know that Mugo was there. Usually he liked to explain in great detail to Mugo what he was doing with his soldiers. Mugo stalled with the tray in his hand, curious to see what kind of battle had been set up with the two armies. When he realized that the inspector’s son was staring at him, he jolted so abruptly that the cups and saucers rattled. As Mugo hurried away, he heard him comment to Mathew.
‘You’ve got a cheeky one, haven’t you?’
Mugo was washing vegetables for Saturday’
s lunch when the memsahib came to tell Mzee Josiah that he was to prepare for a large picnic on Sunday. The inspector and his wife were coming and the two families were going to drive out into the bush on the farm for the day. It was to be a shooting expedition and she hoped to bring Mzee Josiah back plenty of meat. At lunch, Mugo heard Mathew and his friend chatter about animals and guns. Even the bwana seemed cheerful. It was like there was going to be a party.
‘We can’t let the Emergency stop all our pleasures!’ the memsahib announced as Mugo stacked up a pile of dirty plates.
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Grayson. We’ll have my dad!’ The voice of the inspector’s son quavered with excitement.
The wazungu boys’ target practice began later in the afternoon. Mathew had asked Mzee Josiah if Mugo could help them in setting up the targets.
‘Kitchen toto must finish his work, bwana kidogo!’ Mzee Josiah said, much to Mugo’s relief. He didn’t want to be anywhere near the inspector’s boy. He felt much safer sitting on a large stone next to the shed outside the kitchen, polishing the memsahib’s silver. The sound of firing and the crack of pellet against tin resounded through the air over the orchard. He remembered Gitau saying, ‘Wazungu only respect those who are more powerful!’ Had his brother already been thinking then that he would fight the wazungu with their own weapons? Guns against guns?
Mugo was rubbing a knife until the silver blade glinted when he heard the noisy chattering of some go-away birds. He took no particular notice until they broke into wild, fearful screeching above the sound of a shot. Surely the wazungu boys weren’t shooting at them? Every herd boy knew how go-away birds helped him by warning of predators! If you killed one it brought bad luck. Mathew should know that from Baba’s stories and teaching! Mugo dropped his polishing cloth and the knife and ran. Veering around the corner of the storeroom, he saw in a glance that the inspector’s son was holding the gun.
‘Bwana kidogo! You mustn’t kill those birds!’
The inspector’s son swivelled on his heel, swinging the gun. Mugo stopped dead still. The gun pointed at him.
‘Who the hell are you, telling me what to do, boy?’ The icy eyes blazed.
Mugo’s pulse raced. ‘Please, bwana kidogo,’ he turned to Mathew, ‘please… tell your friend… about the bad luck… he must put down the gun.’
‘Don’t be mad, Lance! Mugo just wanted –’
But the inspector’s son didn’t let Mathew finish.
‘Why do you let your labour get so cheeky, Mat?’ He stepped forward with the gun, still pointing it at Mugo.
‘Seriously, Lance, it’s bad luck! Give me my gun!’ Mathew pleaded.
‘Don’t you ever dare tell me what to do, boy!’ the inspector’s son rasped at Mugo. ‘Do you hear that?’
‘I hear you, bwana kidogo,’ Mugo whispered, avoiding the mad mzungu’s eyes.
‘What? Speak up, boy!’
‘I – hear – you – bwana – kidogo,’ Mugo forced himself to speak louder. He clenched his fists to stop his trembling.
The inspector’s son lowered the gun and thrust it towards Mathew.
‘That’s the language they understand. Do you see, Mat?’
Mugo struggled to calm his breath. He never heard Mathew’s reply because at that moment Duma came haring towards the mzungu boys. Something long and feathery trailed from her mouth. She dropped it on the red earth at Mathew’s feet beneath the barrel of the gun. The mouse-like body with a neat grey crest and long grey tail fell on its side. Blood spurted from its white breast while one black eye gazed directly at Mugo.
‘Eh, eh!’ cried Mugo. His eyes darted accusingly from the dead go-away bird to the inspector’s son. He turned and ran.
15
‘Only a Little Fire’
‘We’ll cook it!’ Lance speared the dead bird with his pocket knife and lifted it. ‘Each one has to eat a mouthful.’
Mathew wrinkled his nose in dismay.
‘We eat bush meat. Why not bush bird, Mat? If we like it, we can eat it all.’
‘You still don’t understand, Lance! You’re not meant to kill go-away birds!’
‘Who says?’
‘In Kamau’s stories if somebody kills one, something bad always happens!’
‘You believe such mumbo-jumbo, Mat! Anyway, a secret society needs dares.’
It was impossible to win with Lance. In one breath he insulted and maddened, in the next he excited and cajoled. Since pledging their oaths, Lance seemed to have become even more infuriating. More than once, Mathew was tempted to rebel, recalling his small act of defiance in the bush above the inspector’s screening camp. Yet in school he still enjoyed other children treating him as Lance’s best friend.
‘We have to make a fire, Mat. Somewhere no one can see us.’ Lance pulled out a box of matches from his pocket and rattled it. He had come prepared.
Mathew hesitated to suggest the narrow strip of land between the back wall of the stables and the security fence. It was his most private place, with a small den made of canes and sticks and covered with thatch, like a Kikuyu hut for storing grain. Of course Mugo had helped him. Mugo had also given him a few Kikuyu things to keep inside the hut… a broken bell for a bull’s nose, a sisal snare, a digging stick and a ball made of banana leaves. He could imagine Lance scoffing.
‘Wait here,’ he told Lance. ‘I’ll scout ahead.’
Mathew set off with his Red Ryder on one shoulder and Duma padding loyally beside him.
‘Lance is crazy, isn’t he?’ Mathew said in a confidential tone to Duma when they were out of Lance’s hearing. ‘Would you eat a go-away bird?’
The setter cocked her head up to Mathew, offering him a brief soulful glance.
‘You’re such a clever dog!’ Mathew patted her. ‘I bet you wouldn’t.’
At the stables, Mathew spied Kamau and a junior syce. They appeared to be busy with the chestnut mare. He waved the all-clear. Lance sprinted across the garden and then coolly marched past the stables with the bird held up on his knife like a flag. Mathew cursed under his breath. Lance joined him at the far end of the building. Around the corner, purple bougainvillea grew along the side wall, before extending out as a hedge towards the security fence. It obscured the strip of land at the back of the stables. The entrance to Mathew’s hideout was a slim gap between the bougainvillea and the fence. Duma slunk through it while Mathew stationed himself a metre in front of the gap to look around. Apart from a couple of women on their knees, with their heads down weeding the flower beds on the far side, the garden was deserted. The chairs on the veranda were empty. There was no sign of Mother or Father. Once again, he gave the all-clear. Lance slipped through the gap. As Mathew sneaked after him, he heard a whistle. Lance had spotted the den. Duma had already settled down inside its shade.
‘You’re a sly one, not showing me –’
‘I’ll get wood for the fire.’ Mathew interrupted. He retreated through the bougainvillea before Lance had time to go on.
When he returned, Lance was engrossed in dissecting the bird with his knife. He had already taken off its head and tail. Mathew didn’t ask if Lance had taken a peek into his den. He looked for somewhere to build the fire. The only place with dry earth and not much grass was around the den itself. He put down his armful of sticks, branches and a couple of small logs in front of it. There was barely two metres to the fence. On the other side was Father’s field of dried maize.
‘It’s not safe, Lance! We’re too near to the field,’ he said nervously.
‘Rubbish! You just don’t want to eat this, do you?’ Lance flicked the tail feathers across Mathew’s nose.
‘Get off !’ yelled Mathew.
‘Shhh! They’ll hear us!’ Lance chuckled. ‘It’s only a little fire, Mat. We’ll watch over it.’
Mathew yielded. The bird was so small that it wouldn’t take long to cook and they would put out the fire before they left. He wanted to show Lance how neatly he could make a fire even if he could never be as deft as Mug
o. He began with a little ball of kindling twigs, then built up a tepee of sticks and a cabin of branches around the tepee. When the last pieces of wood were in place, he half expected Lance to insist on starting the fire himself. Instead Lance threw him the box of matches. Mathew lit one and slipped it through the tepee. The spark caught first time and he blew gently at the base to help the kindling. As smoke rose, he wondered about the smell. He hoped it wouldn’t carry into the stables. If Kamau came to investigate, he would tell them to put it out. Lance would be difficult and Kamau would report them to Father… then Mathew would get the telling-off of a lifetime. Lance, however, seemed quite unworried. He produced a small ball of wire from his pocket that he unravelled and pierced through the go-away’s breast. Stringing the ends of the wire around two sticks, he gave one of them to Mathew. Both had to hold the bird above the fire with its blood dripping into the flames.
The heat burned Mathew’s face. If only he could think of the bird like a piece of chicken, then he would be able to fulfil the dare. After all, the herd boys caught all kinds of creatures from the bush to cook and eat. Lance was probably right. Kamau’s stories and Mugo’s warnings were just based on superstition. He should be more sensible.
Nevertheless, Mathew waited for Lance to take the first bite. The bird was still strung on the wire. By now its heart was surely burnt.
‘It’s good!’ Lance licked his lips. He passed the wire to Mathew with a wide smile. Duma had come out of the den to watch and drool.
Mathew would have been all right eating his first mouthful if, at that same moment, Lance hadn’t thrown the go-away’s crested head into the fire. Its black eye fixed Mathew with the stare of the dead as its crested feathers sparked into flames. A wild queasiness rose up from his stomach. He spun around and spat out the thing in his mouth. The sickness rising inside him left him dizzy.
Burn My Heart Page 9