Burn My Heart (4 page)

‘Eh, Duma,’ he said, offering up his first piece of ugali. ‘Good Duma. Good girl. It’s OK for you, eh? You don’t have to answer Baba’s questions.’

After dinner, Mathew wanted to escape to his room, but his mother put her arm lightly around his shoulder. Saturday evenings were meant to be ‘family time’ on his weekends home from boarding school. He was expected to join his parents in the lounge where Father drank his whisky and Mother a small cup of coffee while they listened to the radio or played gramophone records. It was usually from Saturday-evening chat that he found out what had been happening while he had been away. But tonight, after the telling-off he had received from Father, he had no desire to hang around.

‘Can I go to my room?’ He could hear himself whine. ‘I’m making a Spitfire, Mother.’

‘It can wait, Mathew.’

‘Can I do it in the lounge, then?’

‘No, dear!’ She was tuning the radio and raised her voice above the crackling. ‘You’ll get glue everywhere. Just come and sit with us for a while. We’ve hardly seen you all day.’

He stretched out on the floral carpet that was less scratchy than the zebra and lion-skin rugs, and tried to bury himself in old Superman comics. His father poured himself a drink, sank into his leather armchair and picked up his newspaper. Mathew could feel his bad mood and it put him off reading. His father’s interrogation of Mugo kept slipping into his mind. Good old Mugo! He hadn’t given away anything! He could have been one of those secret scouts in the war. They kept silent when caught by the Nazis, even when threatened with terrible tortures.

‘Can you believe this, Mary?’ his father suddenly exclaimed. ‘Those Mau Mau chaps down at Nyeri have just walked scot-free! Police couldn’t get a single Kikuyu to testify against them! Either too damn scared or Mau Mau themselves.’

Mathew looked up, waiting for his father to say more. When Father started talking about Mau Mau in Mathew’s presence, however, his mother often changed the subject. The momentary silence was interrupted by the warble of the telephone. His mother answered.

‘It’s for you, Jack.’ Covering the mouthpiece with her hand, she whispered, ‘Major Smithers… he’s agitated.’

Major Smithers was their elderly neighbour. He and Mathew’s grandfather had both acquired five thousand acres of grassland and bush below Mount
Kenya just before the First World War broke out in Europe. They had sailed out from England on the same boat, each with a young wife and small child. Exchanging stories of the British governor selling farms at give-away prices to white settlers, they had set out to make new lives in a new country. In Nairobi, they had bought their land from the same dealer, who assured them that it was both fertile and good for cattle and there would be plenty of labour. Grandfather Grayson always complained that the dealer had made a handsome profit on the governor’s give-away prices. But with rough hand-drawn maps, papers of sale, and a Swahili cook for each family, the new neighbours had set off from Nairobi into the highlands on ox carts.

With the help of the local Kikuyu people, they had made their first houses out of wattle and daub and cleared land for ploughing. When the war erupted in Europe, Smithers signed up immediately, leaving his wife and little boy, Frank, to be looked after by the cook. Grandfather Grayson would ride over on horseback at least a couple of times a week to check on them. Sometimes he took Father with him and the two little boys would play together. When Major Smithers returned from the war four years later, everyone knew his mind had been affected. He struggled to cope with the farm and continued to rely on Grandfather. He had a terrible temper and his son, Frank, left home as soon as
he could to work in Nairobi. When Father took over Grandfather’s farm, he inherited the difficult major as his nearest neighbour.

Father held the telephone away from his ear. The major was deaf and tended to shout. Mathew heard the voice rasp between harsh intakes of breath. The major’s boss-boy, Husani, had come to tell him that someone had cut their fence. Husani had seen this on his way home to his compound. He had come back to the house to tell the major. Both Husani and Mrs Smithers were worried. Mathew’s mother raised her eyebrows and sighed. It was a family joke that the major never admitted to being worried himself. Mathew waited for Father to say something about their own fence but he didn’t. Instead he told the major to make sure all the house doors and windows were properly locked and to have his gun at his bedside. Father would inform the district officer and drive over first thing in the morning.

‘Ring again if there are any problems,’ Father said, before putting down the receiver. He looked grim.

‘No point telling him that we’ve also had signs of interference. I’ll let the DO know tonight, but he won’t be able to move until the morning.’ He turned sternly on Mathew. ‘Now do you see?’

Mathew hung his head. His stomach was twisting.

‘Perhaps you had better go to your room and get on with that model of yours,’ his mother said quietly.

It was obvious Mother wanted him out of the way while Father spoke to the DO and they discussed what to do. Mathew picked up his comics and stacked them on top of the elephant-foot stool.

‘I’ll come to say goodnight to you later,’ Mother said. She tried to smile but couldn’t hide the anxiety in her eyes.

Mzee Josiah had insisted that Mugo complete all his tasks. His final chore for the evening had been to clean the shoes that should have been polished in the afternoon. He was tired and it had been an effort to make them shine. He was returning a pair of school shoes to the mzungu boy’s bedroom when Mathew appeared in the corridor, shutting the door of the bwana’s study quickly behind him. Mathew’s face reddened as he thrust up two thumbs while blocking Mugo’s way.

‘You were ace, Mugo!’ he whispered. ‘At dinner, I mean.’

Mugo lowered his gaze. Whatever ‘ace’ was, he didn’t feel it.

‘You’re bringing the shoes to my room, hey? I’ve got something for you.’

Mathew dashed ahead to the bedroom and was back at the door in a couple of seconds. He took his shoes from Mugo and held out a handful of sweets. Some were yellow, shaped like little lemons,
while others had black and white stripes. Each sweet was wrapped in shiny see-through paper. Mugo hesitated. Was Mathew offering him one or the lot?

‘Go on, Mugo, take them! They’re from the tuck shop at school. Yellows have got lemon sherbet inside. They’ll cheer you up!’ Mathew thrust his hand forward and tipped the sweets into Mugo’s palm. Mugo’s fingers closed around them. Mathew was trying so hard that he couldn’t help a brief smile.

Mugo sat close to the fire between their house and Mami’s kitchen hut. There was no moon. It felt as if the great cloak of night had swept down from the peaks of Kirinyaga, wrapping their compound close to the mountain’s wooded slopes and shadows. The fire crackled and thousands of insects twittered in the bush. They sounded even more frenzied than usual. The air felt thick and heavy. Perhaps tonight the rains would come. The earth was ready.

Mugo heard a hyena cry and hippos grunting in the river as he waited for Baba to finish eating. In one hand he held a small piece of wood that he had saved at the last minute from being thrust inside Mzee Josiah’s stove. In his other hand he twiddled a small knife. Although he had already imagined the shape of the elephant inside the wood, he could not bring himself to start. He had
wanted to go to sleep early with his younger brother and sister, so he might avoid his father’s questions. But Baba had said he wanted to talk with him. It had to be about the fence.

He could feel the displeasure in Baba’s tall, lean figure as he sat on the other side of the fire. His mother had served Baba quietly. Mami was usually good at soothing him, but Mugo knew that she would not be able to take away this anger tonight. He dreaded being in front of those probing eyes set deep between bristling eyebrows and sharp cheekbones. When Baba became angry, his eyes reminded Mugo of his dead grandfather. That frightened him more than anything. What he remembered most of Baba’s father in his dust-filled village were the eyes that never stopped smouldering. Mugo did not want that to happen to Baba.

Mugo knew the story of his grandfather’s adventuring spirit and how, when Baba was a little boy, his father had gone to Nairobi to see if the talk about the wazungu was true. His younger brothers, who had stayed behind, would take good care of his wives and children with their own. When the family heard that he was working for wazungu soldiers, they believed that he was following the words of the prophet Mugo wa Kibiru, who had seen a vision of red-skinned invaders coming with ‘fire-sticks’. Their great seer’s
advice had been clear: ‘
Learn the language of these wazungu! Learn the secrets of their power! Learn how to chase them away!
’

However, while Mugo’s grandfather was away, a family of wazungu had arrived in an ox cart. The mzungu man, the head of this family, had a piece of paper called ‘proof’. It said that he had paid money for this land and that it now belonged to him! The brothers of Mugo’s grandfather had protested that there must be a mistake. They showed the mzungu man the place where their ancestors were buried near the grove of sacred mugumo trees. This was
their
land,
their
sacred place. Their family had lived here under their mountain Kirinyaga for generation after generation. But the mzungu man insisted that the ‘proof’ of his ownership was on his piece of paper. He would let them stay on the land if they helped him build a house, clear away bush and work on what he called ‘his farm’. Mugo’s family had been stunned.

Two of the brothers had set off for Nairobi to find Mugo’s grandfather. But they found that his army unit had left, taking him with it. Later, news came that a big war had started between different wazungu tribes. The British and German wazungu were fighting each other! Eventually a message had arrived from Mugo’s grandfather that he was helping to carry wounded British soldiers. The wazungu officers had said that this war would not
last long and he would be able to return afterwards with the money he had earned. So the family had no choice but to continue with their lives and begin to work for the new wazungu. This was how Baba first began to herd cattle for the Grayson family when he was not much higher than his mother’s hip.

It turned out to be a long war for Mugo’s grandfather, and when he returned home, four years later, his happiness was short. He was so upset and furious at finding that his family had been cheated of their land by the wazungu, that he immediately borrowed a cart to take them away. There was nowhere to go except to the place the wazungu called the Native Reserve. Here the earth was harder and drier. It was already teeming with people whom other wazungu settlers had chased away.

However, that was not the whole story. Mugo’s grandfather decided that one of his sons should stay behind as a herd boy for the wazungu. Ngai, the Creator, had made the first man and woman high up on Kirinyaga. He had instructed them and their descendants to take care of the lovely land below. Ngai would see that the soil was returned to its rightful owners. In the meantime, this young son must take care of the ancestors’ graves and keep an eye on their land. The son whom he chose for this task was Baba. His name, Kamau, meant
‘quiet warrior’. The wazungu had a boy about the same age called Jack and, when the mzungu boy wasn’t in school, he spent most of his time out in the bush with Baba.

That was all a long time ago. When the old mzungu died, the boy who had liked to play with Baba became the big Bwana Grayson. He put Baba in charge of the stables. He called Baba his ‘chief syce’ and told him to look after his best white stallion. He knew Baba’s special way with animals. Whenever any animal was sick, he would ask Baba to examine it. Although the bwana relied on his Swahili foreman to manage his Kikuyu labourers, it was widely known how much Bwana Grayson trusted Baba.

After Baba finished eating, he held out his plate. Mugo took it, hoping to slip away with it.

‘Mugo!’ Baba’s voice stopped him. His mother silently took the plate.

‘Ndio, Baba!’ He sighed beneath his breath as he returned to his father.

‘Why did you not inform me that the fence was broken?’

‘I wanted to tell you, Baba, but it was difficult.’

‘What? Did you not have the tongue you are using now?’

‘Ndio, Baba.’

‘What, then?’

Mugo hesitated. Where should he begin?

‘Must I beat the words from you?’

‘It was difficult because I was with the young bwana, Baba.’

‘Mmmhh! Don’t tell me about the mzungu boy. He is only a child and you will soon be a young man! If you blame the child, you are not fit to be a man.’

Shame flushed through Mugo. Even if he told Baba everything that had happened, his father would still think badly of him.

‘Mugo, tell your father,’ his mother said softly. ‘Even if you did wrong, it is better to tell the truth.’

Mugo took a deep breath.

‘The mzungu boy went under the fence to the bush. I couldn’t stop him. He wanted to use his new gun, Baba.’

Mugo heard his mother murmur, ‘Eh, eh!’ It encouraged him to continue. At least she might understand.

When he stopped speaking, there was an uneasy silence. The fire had dwindled but the insects sounded as wild as ever. Mugo felt his blood pounding. Retelling the tale made it seem even crazier than it had been at the time. It was his mother who spoke first.

‘Father of Mugo, do you remember when you and the bwana were boys? Did he not want you
to help him get the horns of a big buffalo?’ She paused, but Baba said nothing. ‘That buffalo nearly killed the two of you. This story from Mugo, it reminds me of that.’

Mugo bit his lip. It sounded as if his mother was trying to rescue him. He had even heard Baba tell the story so that other people laughed at how foolish boys could be. But Baba was not laughing now.

‘That was a long time ago,’ he said curtly. ‘Tell me, Mugo, do you want to look after the bwana’s cattle again? Do you want him to send you to the fields?’