Petals of Blood (32 page)

‘Those are words of a great writer – greater even than Maillu and Hadley Chase. The school’s traditions, which had stood the test of time, had to be maintained. He did not therefore want to hear any more nonsense about African teachers, African history, African literature, African this and that: whoever heard of African, Chinese, or Greek mathematics and science? What mattered were good teachers and sound content: history was history: literature was literature, and had nothing to do with the colour of one’s skin. The school had to strive for what a famous educator had described as the best that had been thought and written in the world. Racism had been the ruin of many a school, many a state, many a nation: Siriana believed in peace and the brotherhood of man. He would never have a school run by rebels and gangsters and the European Foreigners should have nothing to fear.

‘We listened in silence, unbelief struggling with belief: was this the Chui who had once led a strike in this same same school?

‘We debated his words for almost a term. The new prefects were even more pampered than those of yesterday. The new headmaster gave orders through a very tight and rigid chain of command from the school captain, the senior prefects, the junior prefects, down to the rest of us. Privileges were also graded according to the seniority of the classes, Form VI for instance being allowed to wear trousers and jackets and ties while the Form I was not allowed to wear shoes except on the day of worship. Chaucer, Shakespeare, Napoleon, Livingstone, Western conquerors, Western inventors and discoverers were drummed into our heads with even greater fury. Where, we asked, was the African dream?

‘He complained about the falling standards of spoken and written English. At one Assembly he turned to the European teachers and said:

‘“I don’t of course want to look a gift horse in the mouth. I don’t want to tell you how you should approach your jobs. I don’t want to be like the enthusiastic American salesman who went to sell refrigerators to the Eskimo. But I am the headmaster, and it is the piper who calls the tune.

‘“Teach them good idiomatic English.”

‘We went on strike and again refused the divide-and-rule control tactics. Down with Chui: up with African populism: down with expatriates and foreign advisers: up with black power.

‘Well, the rest is common knowledge. Chui called in the riot squad which came to our school, and would you believe it, led by a European officer. We were all dispersed, with a few broken bones and skulls. The school was closed and when it reopened I was among the ten or so not allowed to sign for re-admission.’

There was a slightly pathetic note in Karega’s narration, something between despair and dumb incomprehension. A certain gloom encircled the room and they each tried to struggle against it. Munira was the first to speak, echoing the words of the lawyer.

‘I do not understand – so different from our time – I mean the
demands. Was it because of independence? I mean what did you really want?’

‘I don’t really know . . . when the lawyer spoke, I seemed to get it . . . an inkling . . . but it eludes the mind . . . an idea . . . I mean, we were men . . . a communal struggle . . . after all, we were the school, weren’t we? We imagined new horizons . . . new beginnings . . . a school run on the basis of our sweat . . . our collective brains, our ambitions, our fears, our hopes . . . the right to define ourselves . . . a new image of self . . . all this and more . . . but it was not clear . . . only that the phrase African populism seemed to sum it all!’

5 ~ There was a time when Nderi wa Riera was truly a man of the people. He used to play darts and draughts in small and big places, punctuating his playing with witty lighthearted comments and threats to unnerve his opponents: you will know me today . . . You think I was in Manyani for nothing! It used to be said that he had chosen his offices in the Market Street to be near Camay which was then a renowned centre for darts and draughts and roasted goat meat and beer. Camay had in fact thrown up first-rate African darts players like Waiguru and Parsalli who, on reaching the thrilling finals staged at the Brilliant Night Club in what used to be an exclusively Asian and European pastime, had become household names in dart-playing circles all over Nairobi. He was in those days also one of the most vocal and outspoken advocates of reform in and outside Parliament. He would champion such populist causes as putting a ceiling on land ownership; nationalization of the major industries and commercial enterprises; abolition of illiteracy and unemployment and the East African Federation as a step to Pan-African Unity.

Then he was flooded with offers of directorships in foreign-owned companies. ‘Mr Riera, you need not do anything: we do not want to take too much of your busy and valuable time. It is only that we believe in white and black partnership for real progress.’ The money he had collected from his constituents for a water project was not enough for piped water. But it was adequate as a security for further loans until he bought shares in companies and invested in land, in housing and in small business. He suddenly dropped out of circulation
in small places. Now he could only be found in special clubs for members only, or in newspapers – photographed while attending this or that cocktail party. As if to reinforce his new social standing, he took a huge farm in the Rift Valley. But his most lucrative connection was with the tourist industry. He owned a number of plots and premises in Mombasa, Malindi and Watamu and had been given shares in several tourist resorts all along the coast. Soon he began talking of ‘the need for people to grow up and face reality. Africa needed capital and investment for real growth – not socialist slogans.’ But he remained a strong advocate of African culture, African personality, Black authenticity: ‘If you must wear wigs, why not natural African or Black wigs?’ He insisted on most of the companies of which he was chairman or director dropping their European names and taking names like Uhuru, Wananchi, Taifa, Harambee, Afro, Pan-African, which would give the enterprises a touch of the soil.

Nderi wa Riera was the envy of most of his parliamentary peers. His area was so remote from the city that he was hardly ever troubled by endless complaints from his constituents. A happy contented lot your people are, they would tell him, and he would receive the compliment with a beaming smile. An MP’s political freedom! And it was true that the chairs and the carpets in his office would have gathered dust had their cleanliness depended on visits from Ilmorog. The arrival of the delegation from his area became instant news among his parliamentary friends. They eagerly waited for him in his night haunts to find out the outcome of this unexpected confrontation.

As it was they all had to wait for Tuesday: Riera had gone to Mombasa for a business inspection and on-the-spot investigation of two tourist resorts which had been mentioned in a foreign newspaper as ‘special places where even an ageing European could buy an authentic African virgin girl of fourteen to fifteen for the price of a ticket to a cheap cinema show’. This had raised one or two awkward questions in the newspapers.

He came back on Monday night and after a quick visit to his home and family in Lavington Green went to places to find out the latest gossip. He went to Tumbo’s in Adam’s Arcade, saw nobody he knew,
and after swallowing a cold Tusker drove further down Ngong Road to the Gaylord Inn.

It was there, at the Farewell Bar, that he was quickly surrounded by friends who all wanted to know about the delegation. For a second he thought they were asking him about the affair of the authentic virgins. He laughed it off: there was nothing to it . . . Europeans cannot tell the ages of Africans, and to them any woman with breasts that have not fallen – even if they are cotton-wool – is a virgin. It was only when they had mentioned Ilmorog that he looked at them rather sharply as if somebody was playing him an unpleasant practical joke. It was his friend Kimeria who confirmed the truth of it and mentioned something about a drought. Riera shrugged off the importance of the delegation and continued drinking. But inwardly he was slightly apprehensive: could they really have come all that way because of a drought about which there had not been even a column-inch in the newspapers? How anyway could they have managed to organize themselves? It was more likely, he thought, that somebody wanted to unseat him.

He was in the office by eight o’clock. His secretary showed him the appointments for the day. He was visibly impatient for two o’clock to come: he was ready and expectant for a fight: he was old and experienced at political manoeuvring: he would show those who were plotting against him that he was the same Nderi son of Riera and he never ate nyeni cia terere sukuma wiki at anybody’s mother’s house!

The delegation was a little late because they had all overslept and it took them time to cook and eat porridge. How lucky they all had been to find the lawyer! It was a sign of good luck, Karega thought, as they approached the Jeevanjee Gardens. The talk with the lawyer had gone on to the small hours of the night. It had opened so many avenues of thought for Karega that he wished Ilmorog was next to Nairobi so that they could continue the discussion daily. The lawyer had been careful not to discourage them in their quest for an audience with their MP. ‘We must stretch the resources and processes of democracy to their utmost limits,’ he had said. ‘But should anything adverse happen, you are always welcome to the floor space. I would anyway like to know the outcome of your call.’

As they did yesterday, the main delegation sat in the Gardens. But this time, Wanja, Abdulla and Njuguna accompanied Karega and Munira to Iqbal Iqlood Buildings. Their creased, greasy, dirty clothes made them the strangest group of scarecrows ever to face an MP in offices that previously had only known men and women in impeccable business suits.

But Nderi wa Riera, in a three-piece grey suit, did not show any surprise as he stood to welcome them and even personally pushed chairs toward them. This was a good beginning, Karega thought, easing into the chair with a sigh of inward relief. And Riera was thinking – people can be malicious – only five, and his friends had talked of a multitude – but at the same time he was disappointed, for a politician lives by crowds.

‘Is it well with you?’ he asked them politely, and shook hands with each of them.

‘It is well,’ they chorused.

The MP sat back on his chair, his eyes all the time trying to assess and place them.

‘Have you come a long way?’ he asked, not letting it out that he knew about them.

‘Ilmorog,’ said Munira. ‘We were here yesterday. Didn’t your secretary tell you?’

‘Of course she did,’ and he laughed. ‘It is part of our language, remember. You find somebody digging or felling a tree, and you ask them: what are you doing?’

‘True, true,’ Munira said, and they all laughed.

‘But you must be tired, coming all that way. Did you take a bus?’ he asked and pressed a button.

‘No,’ said Wanja. ‘We walked.’

‘Really?’

The secretary’s head peeped through the door.

‘Please, can you make coffee – five coffees, for these gentlemen and lady . . . Really?’ he asked again, looking at them. ‘But I am asking too many questions. We have not even introduced ourselves. My name is Nderi wa Riera.’

‘We know you,’ they all said.

‘I used to be called David Samuel. But I asked myself: why should we abandon our names for these foreign ones? Ha! ha! ha! I know a friend, black as the soot on a cooking pot, who calls himself Winter-bottom. Ha! ha! ha!’

‘These Europeans made us give up many beautiful customs. And I am not talking only of circumcision,’ said Njuguna. This was indeed a sensible man in Parliament, he thought, ‘I am Njuguna and I am a farmer in Ilmorog.’

‘I am sorry Parliament work has been so heavy, I have not had a minute to myself, but I was planning to come for a whole week or so and tour the constituency and get to know the people. I have wanted to acquaint myself with the farming problems in the area. Kenya is an agricultural country and our survival depends on farmers like you.’

The secretary came in with a tray. They each took a cup and a biscuit and started drinking.

‘And you?’ he asked, pointing at Wanja.

‘I am Wanja . . . a sort of a visitor to Ilmorog.’

‘Good. And you joined them in this journey? Mgeni siku mbili, ya tatu umpatie njembe! Not so?’ he asked and turned to Munira. ‘You are also a farmer?’

‘No. I am the Headmaster of Ilmorog Full Primary School, and my name is Munira, Godfrey Munira. I am afraid I have not yet shed the foreign name. After all, if we can wear their shirts and live in their houses . . . but we have been over this before,’ he said turning toward Karega and Wanja.

‘You should have been in Parliament,’ said the MP. ‘I am glad to meet you, Mr Munira. What’s in a name? What’s more crucial is the quality of what one is doing for the country. Take teachers for instance. Without good teachers there is no nation. Teachers are the true men of the people. We here are only messengers. Do you come from Ilmorog?’

‘Not quite. I hail from Limuru.’

‘The Minister is your representative. I know him very well. Do you also come from Limuru?’ he asked Karega.

‘Yes. But I teach in the same school as Mr Munira here.’

‘You look too young to be a teacher,’ he said laughingly, but
thinking, I must be careful now, why is it there is only one true Ilmorogian? ‘It is good to see a young man with sense these days. Most of the others want to be clerks – white-collar jobs – and they don’t even know how to type.’

‘I don’t agree with you there, sir,’ Karega replied, recalling his own experience in these same offices. ‘I am sure that many of the school leavers would be glad to accept a job which gave them a decent salary.’

I knew I had to be careful, thought the MP, noting the passion behind Karega’s words. As a politician, Nderi had learnt that no enemy was too small, and no incident was too insignificant to be careless about and ignored, unless with calculated deliberation.

‘I quite agree with you. Unemployment is an acute problem in this country. But it is the same all over the world. Even in England and America you read of millions laid off and begging for bread. It is the population explosion. Family planning and population control is the only cure.’