The In-Between World of Vikram Lall (39 page)

TWENTY-FIVE.

Mzee. The Old Man with the white goatee and deep-set magus eyes.

So much has been said of him, mostly negative nowadays…the greed and nepotism, the selling of the country, the purported deal with his British jailers, the betrayal of the freedom fighters…even the acquiescence to murder in his name; yet he was, remains, Mzee Jomo Kenyatta, the one and only; we delight to quote him to each other as we would an old father; we agree we would have been a lot poorer without him.

He was fatherly, this man the British claimed masterminded the Mau Mau uprising, whom they convicted in a kangaroo court. We know he didn’t mastermind the movement, his name merely lent prestige to it, and its reputation in return gave him the aura of menace and power.

Paul Nderi came rolling and puffing into the offices one
day, checked for messages with Rose at her desk, then turned around and said to me as I approached, Come, hurry, I’ll take you to meet the Man himself.

I looked up in confusion and he said, The President—Mzee Kenyatta—he wants to meet and thank you in person, Vikram Lall.

I could only gasp incomprehensibly and follow him out, with a helpless look at Rose. My heart palpitated all the way to the State House. I racked my brains for words I would say to Mzee. How would I address him? What would a man such as he think of someone like me? Beside me Paul smiled wryly. He had no explanation except that Mzee had said he wanted to meet me. In silence we both stared out the car windows. He seemed a little on edge himself, as he always did before his meetings with the President.

The Old Man started his days late and so we had gone at eleven. I had never been to the State House, a lovely-looking white colonial building glimpsed in parts from the road outside, over its trim deep green hedges and through thick canopies of cassia trees with their yellow flowers. It was the rainy season and the morning air everywhere in Nairobi smelt of damp earth, and more so at this arboreal address. The sun, though, was beginning to shine through at that hour, the day was warming. Past the gatehouse, at various points on the driveway and outside the building, stood languid-looking soldiers in camouflage outfits carrying automatic weapons; they would look bigger, more threatening, and greater in number as the years passed. A policeman waved Paul in at the entrance and searched me, then I followed my boss as he swung past two mammoth elephant tusks mounted on stands and into the VIP reception room. We drank Coca-Cola and waited, Paul bantering with the secretary, inquiring from her what mood to expect Mzee to be in. Cantankerous, was her answer; his stomach was bothering him and he had been receiving complaints about his ministers. And “that Nakuru man”—meaning the outspoken MP J.M. Kariuki—was causing him ulcers; he
should be taught a lesson. They joked about the Old Man’s rather frank public utterances; Mzee was not one for niceties and euphemisms in his speeches to the people. Once, he had pronounced to a crowd of thousands, There are those who say I am no longer man—eti I cannot get it up—but you just ask my wife here if that is true! His beautiful young wife stood giggling behind him. The crowd roared. Then there was the time when he asked the young women of the nation why they willingly opened their legs all the time and then complained about the men when they got pregnant.

The room we were in was high-ceilinged and panelled; the leather-upholstered chairs were old and the centre carpet somewhat threadbare. There were framed paintings of Kenyan tribesmen and women all along one wall; on another wall was a large official picture of Mzee in beaded cap and suit, waving his fly whisk. Under it was a somewhat faded, blown-up picture of him taken outside his prison quarters, between two wardens, and beside it was one of him with the Duke of Edinburgh taken during the independence ceremonies at the midnight hour of 12 December 1963.

There was an abrupt hush in the building and looks were exchanged in a quick, silent relay to pass the message, He has arrived. A policeman came and sat in our room.

There was one man waiting ahead of us, Jonas Wabera the education minister, and he went in first. Ten minutes later he hurried out, eyes lowered, evidently after a verbal thrashing (the national School Certificate examination papers in two regions had apparently been leaked), and the look on Paul’s face could only have been called a smirk. We went in next. We had to pass a small room where sat a bald giant of a man at a table next to an inner door, which he indicated with a brisk nod, but not without an expertly searching look at both of us.

Jambo Karimi, Paul greeted the giant, then opened the inner door and let me go in first.

Hitherto I had been consumed by curiosity and wonder; I had been admitted into the abode of power from which the
British governors had ruled the colony. Now, as beckoned, I stepped in through the open door—and turned to stone. Jomo, the President, was walking slowly toward me, with the help of a cane. Not ten feet away—the god and demon of my childhood, in flesh and blood. The cane thudded on the antique red carpet.

He was not much taller than me, though a great deal heavier. He wore a grey striped suit with a handkerchief in the breast pocket, his head was bare and the hair grizzled somewhat; there was a twinkle in the eyes and his mouth opened in a large smile.

Many have said that you could not look into those big yellow eyes; they mesmerized you. I did look into them, and I say this not to prove my bravery or arrogance—my knees were buckling, my voice trembling as I said, Good morning, Excellency, and shook hands. There remained that typical tiny smile upon his lips and he seemed to be looking through me into some distance beyond. Had I said something wrong already?

Lall-jee, he said in his rich gravelly voice. I told this Nderi here I wanted to take a look at this young Asian who is doing an important service to the nation. You are doing good work, Lall-jee.

Thank you, Excellency.

He looked at me, growled derisively without raising his voice, What is this
excellencee
the British have taught you? I am a father to my people.

Yes, my father, I said in the African manner, to which he replied, Yes, abstractly putting a hand on my shoulder and dismissing me with, But you must learn to keep your mouth shut too.

Yes, my father.

That was all. It was enough for that day.

I left the room in a daze, Paul staying behind to finish his meeting with the Old Man. The two had sat down, Mzee behind his large desk, under the Kenyan coat of arms, saying, I heard the students booed you once again, Nderi…

Paul, fancying himself the man of the future, liked to take on the university students, make the conciliatory paternal
gesture in the face of their constant criticism and protests against the government, and more often than not they heckled him.

I felt transformed by my experience; I was now a higher initiate, one of the chosen few among the nation’s multitudes. I had stood close to the abyss, been touched by its mystery and power. I recall, as I was driven home in an automobile from the President’s office, the trite thought, Njo must have shaken hands with Jomo, but I bet not in such intimate circumstances…the Old Man asked me to call him
father
; he put his hand on my shoulder, I can still feel its weight and the grip was hard, like a claw…

But Njoroge of course had begun to turn away from the Old Man.

Recently he had gone to see Deepa, in the pharmacy on Government Road that she ran with her mother-in-law, Meena Auntie. Dilip and his father were into manufacturing pharmaceuticals, and Dilip often visited Germany and England, from where he purchased his manufacturing licences. Njoroge came into the shop on a whim one morning. He asked for Valium for his insomnia, and Deepa advised him against depending on medication to put him to sleep. The shop had, typically, showcases running all around, and glass cupboards higher up on the walls. A watchful Meena Auntie sat at a small table behind the side counter at the front end, and Deepa stood halfway down the opposite side. The pharmacy employed two shop assistants. Njoroge seemed reserved in the presence of Meena Auntie, whom he remembered, but Deepa was her effusive self, and the two talked animatedly for half an hour. At the end, Njoroge held both of her hands in his as he said goodbye.

The result was a furore in the Sharma household.

A married woman! Meena Auntie raged. We don’t even shake hands with men, we do namasté, does she know what that means, and she allows him to hold both her hands! And people staring at us from the sidewalk! It is the husband’s job
to control his wife. Is that all you are going to tell her, Dilip? She has come into this household, when we turned away queues of decent, traditional girls, she should maintain its sanctity. A husband is a god—

But he is a friend! I’ve known Njoroge since we were children. He is like a brother!

An African! What kind of brother? Do you take me for an ullu? A pagal?

Then
you
tell me what kind of brother, you tell your son that!

Poor Dilip, like a betel nut, as they say, between the contrary edges of a nutcracker. He had to trust his wife, or else he had no marriage; his mother wanted him to punish Deepa, in the old-fashioned way, to beat her. At least one slap, like a man, she screamed at him, bring her to heel!

Mother was understandably distraught. She went to speak with Deepa in the shop when Meena Auntie by prior arrangement had slipped away to the bank.

Why throw away everything, Deepa? There are ways of behaviour for a woman. This is not it, talking to a man intimately—where is our lajj, our dignity in that?

Mother, I only spoke with him. He is my friend, you know Njoroge! Didn’t he do what you told him to? (Mother reddened.) Should I turn him away if he comes to the shop? The rest of the world doesn’t behave in this manner.

Explain to Dilip, Mother pleaded, and behave in a proper and reserved manner if Njoroge comes to the shop.

The tables slowly got tipped against Meena Auntie for not trusting Deepa and behaving like an old-fashioned suspicious mother-in-law. It was Meena Auntie who eventually had to ask for Deepa’s pardon. She had not liked Njoroge the first time she saw him, in a restaurant with Deepa while Dilip was wooing her, and his presence again had raised her ire. His eyes tell me everything, she said in her defence.

How right she was.

Those eyes looked unhappily at me as he said, Six years married and we cannot pop out a child.

What do the doctors say?

Believe me, we’ve tried everything, including some things you don’t want to know about. We’ve been to mundumugos and maalims, and those Asian quacks in Pangani. It’s not destined…You know, I went to Deepa’s shop the other day.

I heard.

She looks happy, eh? Two kids, boy and girl. And you—also a boy and girl. You Indians certainly do it right. You could go on reproducing this way forever—boy, girl, boy, girl—

Yes, and in twenty years we could be a majority in Kenya and there could be an Indian President, as one MP has already warned parliament…

He laughed out loud.

We were sitting at the Ismailia on River Road; from a distance not too far away came the occasional thudding of tear-gas explosions. The customary clamour of River Road was eerily absent or subdued; the single truck grinding its gears up nearby Government Road could only be a military one; perhaps there was a zing or two of rifle bullets. The university students were once again protesting, but this time more vehemently, and the GSU were out in full force to contain them. Apparently, the previous night the police had raided and closed down the performance of a play, purportedly seditious, and detained the playwright, who was also a professor. The students lost no time coming out of their dorms; the GSU were waiting for them. Where we were now, people had moved from the street and sidewalk to stand closer to the doors of the establishments, in case the riot came our way.

I told Njoroge I had met the President, before I realized that he did not know the nature of my recent activities.

So what did you see Mzee Kenyatta for?

My boss Nderi took me to meet him. He told me I was serving the nation well, I couldn’t help boasting.