Echoes From a Distant Land (27 page)

Jelani let out a roar of anger. He grabbed Reverend Farley and, against all his instincts, slung him forcefully to the ground. Standing over him, with his fists clenched, he had tears of rage in his eyes, but the words he desperately needed to defend his honour in front of his brother warriors would not come.

In the next moment he was on the ground, felled by the blow of one of Farley's enforcers. He tried to regain control of his limbs, to gather himself and get to his feet, but the reverend raised his walking stick and struck him a blow to the side of his head that sent him falling into a black void.

When he recovered, Reverend Farley and his
askaris
had gone. He thought his head would burst with the pain, but worse than any physical pain was the agony of humiliation. Not only had his reputation been dealt a brutal blow, but that of his mother — a mother he'd never known. In Kikuyu society, a warrior was only worthy to defend his people and his village if he and his parents were pure of heart. In one foul blow, Reverend Farley had torn away his place in his tribe.

 

It wasn't only theology that convinced the Kikuyu to join the Christians. Many hoped to gain education and personal advantage by their association with the Europeans. Others saw it as a way to escape the influence of the chiefs, who sometimes took advantage of their positions by seizing more than their fair share of the food grown by their villagers. Some chiefs also collected young wives from among their people — even when the girls were already betrothed.

Chief Muraimu had been the chief of Kobogi and the surrounding district for as long as Jelani could remember. In fact, he'd been chief for thirty years. Some of the elders recalled the early days of his rule when, as a young man, he had been a firm but fair leader. As the years passed, he had assumed more and more power and, with it, a grand sense of self-importance. He strained the boundaries of
propriety by the manner in which he extracted his levies and fines. He once appropriated a goat from a man who dared to cough while he was making one of his many speeches. He was known to confiscate land, the most cherished asset in Kikuyu life, for nothing more than late payment of taxes. By these means and others, such as simple extortion, he accrued wealth at his subjects' expense.

There were many who would have liked to see the chief removed from his position of power, but he was favoured by the administration because of his zealous tax collecting, so no one dared to move against him.

 

‘
Jelani!
'

The urgent whisper came from outside the thatched wall of his bachelor's hut. He quickly rose from his bed and slipped out the opening.

‘Beth!'

Her voice was unmistakeable, but he couldn't dare to hope that she'd changed her mind about making love with him.

She took his hand and led him to a quiet place, some distance from the warriors' huts.

‘Beth, you're here —' he began, but she shushed him.

‘Jelani, we must get away from here.' She was tightly gripping his hand and she had a panicked look in her eyes. He started to worry.

‘What is it?'

‘The chief …' she said, before burying her face in her hands.

‘What is it about the chief?'

‘He …' She dared to look at him. ‘He … wants to take me as his wife,' she said, stifling a sob and covering her face again.

It took Jelani some moments to comprehend, then the hideous notion struck home. The chief was older than his father. There had to be an explanation, but in his heart he knew it was possible. The chief had become obsessed with finding young women for his bed. Over the last year or so he'd acquired three girls to add to his collection of wives.

‘But he can't … What does your father say?'

‘He told the chief's man to thank Chief Muraimu for the great honour he has paid his family and that he will await the formal offer.'

‘But what is he going to do?'

‘He said there is no need to worry. He will think about it.'

‘He will think about it? What does that mean?' Jelani asked.

‘Papa says he will speak to the Reverend Farley. He said the reverend can't allow it.'

‘Will he really speak to the priest?'

She appeared uncertain. Her tongue touched her top lip. ‘I think so …'

Jelani's mind raced.

‘We will leave here,' he said.

‘Yes, but go where?'

‘Anywhere. Away. I will find a place where we can stay together.' He tapped his head, willing his brain into action. ‘My father's brother! In Meru. It is far, but he will help us. I'm sure. The day after tomorrow. I will come for you before dawn.'

But Jelani wasn't confident about it. He was not of anyone's blood. Why would a distant and seldom-seen relative give refuge to the light-skinned child of a stranger?

 

Jelani crept through the bush to the outskirts of the gathered huts where Beth and her family lived. The shadows had already softened and the sky was turning from purple to green. Soon the old women would come from their beds to feed the lambs and kids.

He hid among a cluster of shrubs and waited.

He watched the women feed the livestock and when the sun was up, turn them over to the younger boys to care for them through the day. He waited as Beth's mother went to the millet store and watched as she returned to the hut to prepare her husband's breakfast.

The sun was up when Beth's father came from his hut and stretched. Jelani was now very anxious and could wait no more. He came from his hiding place and confronted him.

‘Where is Beth?' he rudely demanded.

Her father baulked and was at first incensed by his ill-mannered approach, but then his shoulders slumped, and he took a deep breath.

‘She is gone,' he said.

‘You let the chief take her?'

‘No. I sent her to Reverend Farley.'

‘The priest? How could you do that?'

‘To save her from the chief, of course,' he said, his anger returning. ‘Am I not her father?'

‘But if the chief wants her, even the Anglican mission can't save her.'

‘Reverend Farley said he will send her away. Somewhere safe.'

Jelani had only had half a plan to save Beth, and in some ways it was a relief to be free of the immediate danger. When she returned he would assume responsibility and take her away forever. In the meantime, he had to know where she was.

‘When will she return?' he asked.

‘I don't know. Not for a long time. Maybe never. Even me, I cannot see my own daughter.' He turned his head away, unable to continue.

Jelani clenched and unclenched his fists. Swallowing a lump in his throat, he said, ‘I must see her. I promised.'

‘Did you not hear me?' her father said, his voice rising. ‘Nobody must know where she is. Reverend Farley said it must remain a secret, and he is right. The chief would find her.'

Jelani could sense Beth's family members gathering at the edge of his vision, watching in silence, knowing they had never trusted him — the light-skinned
aregi
.

Regardless of how Beth's family felt about him, he had always respected her father, who could not now meet his eyes. He wanted to tell him that he loved his daughter and that they had planned to marry.

‘How … how could you let him take her with no idea when she would return?' Jelani whispered, his voice coarse with suppressed anger.

Silence.

Jelani now despised him for his weakness. ‘What about your religion?' he demanded. ‘What does your Bible say about giving away your child?'

Beth's father now lifted his head. ‘What can I do?' He shrugged. ‘It was either the chief or the church.'

Jelani wanted to strike him. ‘What kind of Christian are you?' he demanded.

The older man had no answer. He simply stood there, shaking his head. ‘What can I do,' he repeated, and walked back to his hut.

Jelani grabbed handfuls of his hair and tugged until it hurt. He tore at his face, drawing thin white stripes on it that soon dripped blood onto his chest. It was the Kikuyu custom when dealing with extreme grief; and Jelani knew he must grieve, for he had lost the love of his life.

After the rain came and the crops were planted, but before the harvest, and the traditional celebratory feast, the chief called all the people of the village together.

Whenever more than a handful of Kikuyu came together it was normally an excuse for much joking and storytelling, but on that occasion there was none of the chatter that usually accompanied such a congregation. Somehow the people of Kobogi had determined there was bad news coming. Those who dared to break the silence made only brief and circumspect remarks.

Jelani stood with the warriors, trying to read the mood. On the other side of the gathering that encircled the chief, his father stood with the other men. They eyed the chief, standing among his
askaris
. Perhaps it was the presence of so many grim-faced armed men that made the atmosphere tingle with tension.

The chief made a few opening remarks about his duty and his position of authority. He made much of his connection with the District Commissioner and the honour that such a friendship conveyed on the village and all the surrounding villages.

As he droned on, Jelani watched the tight, closed faces around him. Nobody stirred. There was no shuffling of feet and no scratching of ears or sucking of teeth.

Suddenly the point of the chief's speech emerged. There was disbelief, shock and anger on the faces around him. The older men were alarmed. His fellow warriors were mumbling audibly. The elders left fingernail tracks down their cheeks.

He found his mother in the crowd of women wringing their hands at the edge of the gathering. Even from that distance he could see her tears roll down her cheeks.

 

It had taken months for the village to empty. For a long time nobody could believe they had to go, so everybody waited for someone else to move. Nobody did.

Even the chief was unable to convince them to go. He came with his
askaris
and ranted at them, but that was the extent of it, thereby confirming to the villagers that if the chief took no stronger action, then even he couldn't believe they had to abandon their ancestral homeland. The people were relieved and life went back to normal.

When the District Commissioner came, he had twelve
askaris
with bayonets fixed to their rifles and a white officer in charge.

Again he told the people of Kobogi that they must leave their land, because the government was alienating it for private sale.

Alienate. It was a word Jelani had never heard before, but he and everyone in the village had no doubt what the District Commissioner meant when he gave them two options: they could go to the Kikuyu Reserve where they would have enough land allocated to them for their needs, or they could become resident workers on a European farm. They had run out of time. They must be gone within the week or his
askaris
would move them on by force.

The elders sent out scouts to the reserve to assess the quality of the land there. Others went to the nearest white farms to see for themselves what conditions would exist for them.

The report on the Kikuyu Reserve was not good. The land was uncleared and the quality of the nearest food gardens was not as good as that around Kobogi.

Those who had gone to the white farms had no luck. The owners said they had as many squatter-workers as they needed for their crops and stock. Further afield, they found Mr Cook, who was a new settler with a need for labour.

He said that each man could use a piece of land for a food garden, and would be paid enough shillings for the poll tax, but in return must work Cook's land for half of the year.

The old people were the last to leave Kobogi. Many laid down and died there, rather than live their last days in a strange place.

 

Mr Cook's property was a dusty place far from water. Even Jelani understood the difficulty of growing enough food in such soil on top of having to work in Mr Cook's fields, planting his wheat, reaping his sorghum, and clearing the bush for new crops.

What was once the village of Kobogi was taken for white soldiers returning from war; they mostly had little or no experience of farming, let alone in the highlands of Kenya, but they were desperate enough to try anything to avoid the grim future they faced in war-torn England.

The Kikuyu were permitted to return to Kobogi to harvest their crop, but it would be their last. Thereafter, they would grow whatever they could on Cook's farm in the small plots adjoining their huts. The drought had taken a heavy toll on the crop. Although a harvest was always a cause for celebration among the Kikuyu no matter the yield, the last harvest in Kobogi was a grim affair. People went about their work with an air of sadness. Many of the women could not contain their tears, which fell silently to the good red earth they were leaving.

After the last baskets of maize were loaded onto the handcart, Jelani went to see his village for the last time. There was nothing there, just a patchwork of ash where the huts once stood.

 

Jelani found life difficult at Cook's farm. He hadn't been happy following the incident at the
ngoma
, when the Reverend Farley called him the spawn of the devil. He'd lost face among his fellow warriors. He might have stayed if Beth was there, but now that she was gone, there was nothing to keep him.

He told his parents he would leave Cook's farm to find work in Nairobi.

His mother immediately began to cry.

‘You are a man and a warrior now,' his father said. ‘It is for you to decide these things, but what is it that makes you want to leave us?'

Jelani found it difficult to explain his reasons. ‘It makes me angry every time I think of the way we were chased away from Kobogi. It was our place, our home. Our land. What is here for us on Cook's farm? It is not our place. There is nothing here for me, so I must go.'

His father nodded his understanding. ‘If I were a young man I would also find it difficult, but your mother and I, well …'

His mother had her face in her hands and was softly weeping.

‘I will bring money home to buy food,' Jelani said, but she didn't stop crying.

 

He walked all day and all night, following the murrum road by the light of the moon. A pack of hunting dogs stalked him for a mile, but he threw stones at them to keep them at bay, scoring a direct hit that sent the pack scampering off into the night.

Seventy miles away from Cook's farm at Fort Hall, he climbed aboard a freight car and hid in a consignment of timber bound for Nairobi.

He awoke next morning feeling there was something wrong. He lay in his half-awake state within the timber stacks and realised the train had stopped rocking.

He peeped out of his hiding hole and gawped at the town beyond the railway siding. It bustled like a beehive.

He scampered across the tracks and joined the throng. There were people of many tribes and nationalities. He saw an Indian man driving a donkey loaded with bundles of silks with his many black-veiled wives trotting behind. There was a pair of spear-carrying Maasai warriors who gave him a curious glance as they passed. And two small boys were pushing and pulling a large white woman in a wheeled carriage. There were stores large and small. Some sold fragrant spices. Others had fresh meat hidden in swarms of flies, and still others sold tools and shiny cooking implements. He passed a bakery and the aroma of fresh bread made his stomach churn. He'd not eaten for thirty hours.

He wandered the streets until he found the market, where he tried to find work in exchange for food. No one was prepared to offer him a chance.

In desperation, he collected some spoiled fruit and vegetable leaves from the sweepings; and he spent his first night in Nairobi with a pain in his stomach, sleeping under a couple of burlap sacks among a pile of fruit crates.

He had never been so alone.

 

After a month of near-starvation, when Jelani had to beg to survive, he finally had some luck.

While scavenging among the refuse in the foul-smelling town dump, he found a discarded boot-cleaning kit. He'd seen the boys earning tips by cleaning shoes outside the hotels and business houses. He saw it as a sign of a change of luck, and searched nearby and found a wooden stool. He took the kit away with him. Now all he needed was shoe polish to get started in what he hoped would be his lifeline.

He had no idea where he could buy shoe polish and wandered the streets in search of a store that sold it. He found a pile of shoe polish tins — black, tan and brown — in an Indian
duka
off River Road. The proprietor was a large Sikh — a people respected by all for their aggression, and who for that reason were often employed as guards. He already had his eye on Jelani when he entered the store, but Jelani had by that time calculated the head start he'd need to outpace the heavily built Indian.

He strolled around the store looking with interest at a number of items, avoiding the shoe polish and touching nothing. The Sikh hovered.

A prospective customer entered and the Sikh's attention was momentarily diverted. Jelani leaped into action. Grabbing three tins, he bolted for the door, but the Sikh was more nimble than Jelani had imagined. In an instant he planted his considerable bulk across the doorway, legs asunder.

Jelani made a dive through his open legs and, before the big man could turn, had regained his feet and dashed away with the Sikh's enraged insults following him down River Road.

 

With his stool, shoeshine box, new tins of polish and some cotton cloths salvaged from a tailor's shop, Jelani set up outside the New Stanley Hotel and waited for customers.

Around lunch time a well-dressed man in a wide felt hat came around the corner from Standard Street and stopped beside his box.

‘How much for the shine, boy?' It was English, but he had a strange accent.

Jelani hadn't considered the question of price. Now he was so excited to get a customer, he couldn't speak. The only word that came to mind was brown — the colour of the shoes.

‘Well, speak up kid. What's your price for this here pair?'

Jelani continued to stare at the shoes. Even he could see they were of good quality leather. Finally he spluttered, ‘A-a-as you wish, sir.'

‘Hmm …' the man said. ‘Can't argue with that.'

The customer took a seat and pulled his trouser leg up to reveal not shoes, but boots that reached his knees.

The man laughed at Jelani's expression.

‘Lucky you didn't fix a price on these babies,' he said. ‘I figure you'd have come out at a loss.'

Jelani tried to smile, but he was awed by the boots. Even in his ignorance of shoes, boots and leather, he could appreciate their beauty. In their unbuffed state they had a depth of colour, almost a translucency.

With an intake of breath, Jelani set to work. He peeled the top off the brown can of polish. It was wrong. It couldn't do justice to the colour of the boots. They had a lighter tone. He was afraid to start in case his polish changed the highlights in the leather. He levered the top off the tan polish. It was too light.

He'd never considered the possibility that his three different colours wouldn't be sufficient for all leathers. Perhaps if his first customer hadn't been the boot-wearing white man with the strange accent, he might have gained confidence in his new craft.

Why couldn't his first customer be a dusty settler-farmer, with scratched and bruised black work shoes such that anything done to them would be an improvement?

Maybe any brown polish would suffice for any brown shoe, but he didn't know if that were true. And now this man, wearing this pair of beautiful boots, would be his means of discovery. Jelani sighed. Why couldn't they at least be black?

Aware that he was taking far too long to start, he scooped up a dab of brown polish on his finger, and smeared it on the leather. He was right, it was too dark.

Without hesitation, he then dipped his finger into the tan and added it beside the other.

He could feel the owner's eyes on him. Without considering the consequences, he mixed the two colours and smeared them all over the first boot. The result was a ghastly mess, but he continued to spread and mix the colours, here and there adding a touch more of one then the other.

He massaged the polish into the leather, and then rubbed the boots with a cotton pad as if his life depended on it. The first cloth became clogged with polish, and he took another. After five minutes the high part of the first boot was cleaned of its excess coating and he buffed it until it was a deep, burnished brown. He worked downwards to the ankle, the toe caps, then repeated the performance on the other boot. Finally, he scrubbed the soles and heels.

When he sat back on his haunches, the sweat trickling down his cheeks, he studied the result of his efforts. The boots had a rich lustre and depth of colour beyond imagining.

The customer shook his head in wonder. ‘Wow,' he said. ‘Ain't that the goddamnedest shine you ever did see?'

Jelani smiled; he became aware of a small group of passers-by who had stopped to watch the boots' transformation.

The man stood and took something from his pocket.

‘Here you go, son,' he said. ‘That's about the best shoeshine I ever did see, anywhere.' He dropped a coin into Jelani's hand.

It was a shilling! A fortune! A brand-new shilling shining as brightly as the boots.

 

Jelani won more customers from the group who saw him work on the American's boots and his clientele grew steadily over the following days and weeks.

One morning, a Kamba man arrived with his own shoeshining tools and said the New Stanley was his territory and that Jelani must move on.

‘Where have you been all this time?' Jelani demanded, not prepared to start again somewhere else. ‘There was no one working here when I started.'

‘Never mind that,' he said. ‘I'm here now,
white face
, and you better go before I smash you and your shoe box.'