The In-Between World of Vikram Lall (5 page)

The Asian development in which we lived consisted of four rectangular buildings on either side of a small street, each with two adjoining homes and servant quarters at the back. The large French windows in the fronts of these homes and facing the street must have seemed modern and fashionably suburban once, but in the current fearful climate were a nerve-wracking security risk; our windows were heavily draped at night, the casements always checked and securely fastened. In the daytime, however, our street, lined with tall fern trees with swaying branches that rustled noisily in the wind, looked beautifully innocuous, contentedly residential. It turned off from the larger road which began at the railway station and alongside which, not far from us, was the shopping centre where my family had its business and Deepa and Njoroge and I went to play on Saturdays. Ours was the fourth home from this intersection, on the right side. There was a champeli tree in our garden, and bougainvillea bushes climbing at the hedge; the roses under the windows were evidence of an enthusiasm caught from the flower displays at the annual Nakuru Show, where the European ladies showed off their gardening skills.

Dada and Dadi lived in an apartment downtown, in the main street of Nakuru; Omprakash Uncle, my father’s older brother, lived in the same building as my grandparents and ran a hardware store; my father’s younger brother Mohan was a bookkeeper at the Farmers’ Association and lived in one of the houses across our street. My father had two sisters, both of whom had been married out of town.

That Sunday during the family lunch my uncles and father, all the adult males except Dada, had begun another of those quarrels, episodes involving far too much talk and erupting in shouts and abuses, which always began by startling us children and ended up amusing us.

There they go again—Dadi cried out shrilly, turning to all the women present, especially Mother.
Politics
, why do they
discuss
politics,
what problems have they solved for the world with all their
politics
? Dada said nothing, looked both pained and peeved; he would suffer this one out, as he had done all the other ones. As usual, Mahesh Uncle, haughty, opinionated, and far more educated than the rest, wound up as the butt of his brother-in-laws’ jibes. He had spoken in support of African rule in Kenya, an idea extreme and idiotic to my father and his brothers. I remember him finally, big and burly as he was, pushing himself out of his chair, ready with raised fists to have it out with puny Om Uncle, and the slightly larger Mohan Uncle standing up ready to defend his brother, while my father looked up at the ceiling in mock helplessness and my mother screamed, Stop it, I tell you!

He dared call me a monkey, Mahesh Uncle spluttered, to which Mother replied, Why do you have to get into arguments with ignorant folk who know nothing? Om and Mohan Uncles stormed out of the house with their families.

They’ll come around, Dada said to my mother, and looked at her brother Mahesh with some distaste. Mahesh Uncle went to wash his hands and retired to my room, which he used as his base when he was around. Dadi said she was going to look in on Sakina-dadi. Dada retired to his armchair and, as on every Sunday, gave the children sweets, but this time there were only two of us, and so having given us double shares he leaned back and closed his eyes.

Not long afterwards the police raid on our area began.

There were two English officers in khaki drill, large tan holsters slapping at their belts. The African askaris were about twenty in number, in their khaki shorts and blue sweaters, some carrying rifles, and they proceeded to round up all the servants from their quarters. Out, out, out, toka nje! Any oaths given here, any Mau Mau hiding here? The Mau Mau recruited collaborators by ritually having them swear an oath in secret, and the police were perpetually on the search for those who had taken the oath and especially for those who had administered
it. In a frenzy of angry, impatient activity, the suspects—for all black men were suspect—were pushed and jostled, slapped for replying, kicked in the behind for tardiness. I watched the gardener, Njoroge’s grandfather Mwangi, pick himself up from the ground with a wince. He was a short, stout man with a strongly lined face and some grey in his hair, a dignified man who always moved and spoke with deliberation. How could these men and women we knew, who spoke softly and served us so gently, who held our hands and looked after us when we were left in their care, be the dreaded Mau Mau? How could Mzee Mwangi, with the worry lines on his forehead and holes in his ears and a front tooth missing, be one of those killers who stalked the nights? He had made the toy weapons Njoroge and I played with, the pistol in particular carved and grooved smoothly and applied with black bicycle paint. He would sometimes call Deepa over and silently put in her hair a white and pink champeli flower plucked from our tree. I wanted to call out to them and say, Polé sana, I am your friend, I trust you all.

A patronizing attitude—how could I have helped it, risen above that? An Indian boy in shorts and a bush shirt, in socks and shoes, hair oiled and combed, secure in the bosom of a doting family, with a magnanimous thought for the pathetic servants—“boys,” as they were called, however old they were—rounded up and demeaned in front of him. I would like to defend myself against that charge, give a finer shade of meaning, a context, to my relationship with the Africans around me. I wish I could explain to Joseph, a descendant of those people, that that world was not of my devising. But I fear I already sound too earnest.

That was a sad day in my life.

Out with your karatasi, your tax receipts! Show your work permits, or you have explaining to do before you go back to Kikuyuland. Hiti! Fisi! Hyenas! Chop-chop!

Two men who had foolishly made a dash for it when the police arrived had been chased and captured and now, thoroughly dishevelled, were shoved brutally by Corporal
Boniface into the ragged line of Africans awaiting inspection.

The entire population of our four blocks of flats was now outside, it seemed, at the back stoops or in the yards, eyes fixed on the policemen; only Njoroge was nowhere in sight, as if the earth had swallowed him up. Where had he gone and hidden himself? He was always afraid of being caught and sent away. Suppose he was discovered now? Askaris were searching the interiors of the servant quarters, emerging now and again with whatever they found suggestive of possible Mau Mau ritual to show to their superiors. An ebony walking stick, a banana leaf, a newspaper with a picture of Jomo Kenyatta on the front, a sheepskin-covered Bible, a bicycle pump, a half-eaten joint of beef in a porcelain bowl. A drunk was dragged out and pushed into the line, given a couple of slaps. No Njoroge, yet. Beside me, Mahesh Uncle was muttering a stream of invectives in Punjabi—badmash salé…kaminé…neech…kambakht log…bastards—and my mother told him a few times to control himself.

One of the two English officers was coming by the houses with an askari, chatting up the Asian residents, peeping discreetly inside their homes. He was a man of compact build, with fine features under his peaked cap, and held a swagger stick behind his back. He looked friendly yet menacing, and beamed a smile as he approached us.

How are you, kem-ché, namaskar, salaam—you can never be too careful with the terrorists, this is for the safety of you and yours. Remember, even the most trusted boy can turn against you with a panga (makes a chopping gesture with a hand) if he has taken the Mau Mau oath, so you must report anything suspicious. Don’t hire Kikuyu. Safeguard your guns, get proper training in shooting, even the women, yes, you too, madam, and you, sir, have you installed your alarm…

Yes, sir, Lieutenant Soames, Papa said, you can never be too careful. Of course I have taken shooting lessons, I do the Home Guard patrols in this area, and it’s a good thing you’re keeping an eye on the blacks…

The man was at the back window of the house, peeping inside with curiosity as Mother drew a sharp breath, and he spoke softly, How are you, little girl, missing out on all the excitement, are we? What’s your name?

She was asleep, explained Mother anxiously. My daughter—Deepa. She must have woken up just now.

Just then an uproar began outside the third house from ours, as Corporal Boniface and the second European officer staggered from the back door, pushing out someone who, though dark as an African, was known to most people in Nakuru as Saeed Molabux, nicknamed Madrassi and the son of a pre-eminent Nakuru family. He was thrown violently on the ground. He shouted something defiantly at the officer, the herded crowd of servants stirred into a collective murmur. Provoked, the officer, the corporal, and other askaris converged on Saeed, raining rifle butts and kicks on his back as his body curled up on the ground like a worm and he tried to shield his head with his raised elbows. Behind, at the doorway of the house, his mother Sakina-dadi, my dadi, and his sister Amina were all shouting incomprehensibly.

A furious Mahesh Uncle, Saeed’s friend, charged forward bull-like, shouting, He’s Juma Molabux’s son, don’t you know that? Stop or I’m calling his lawyer Mr. Kapila in Nairobi,
right now
!

Wisely, my uncle halted halfway, before reaching the policemen, and a glaring match ensued.

The beatings stopped, and a bloody-faced Saeed stood up, saying, Yes, I’ll call my lawyer—

The lieutenant at our doorstep, who had just finished greeting Deepa, said in his gentle manner, It’s the Emergency, they only mistook him for a bloody—pardon me, ma’am—Kyuke hiding away inside. You can’t be too careful, can you.

Touching his hand to his cap in a salute, he strolled away, reserving a sharp look for Mahesh Uncle as he passed him.

What will happen to my silly brother? Mother whispered helplessly. To her surprise, Papa told her, In this case, he stood up for his friend.

They took away four of the servants for questioning, including the two who had tried to escape. They confiscated a few goats and chickens, a radio, and some other items, including the banana leaf and the newspaper. Bastards, Mahesh Uncle was still muttering, bloody kaburu bastards, even as the police officers turned to cast a final eye upon the scene. Saeed had been supported to his house by a servant and his sister.

And from our house emerged Njoroge, hesitant, frightened.

Where did you hide, Njoroge? asked Mother.

Under my bed, said Deepa, gaily tripping out behind him.

That girl is going to be the death of me!

No, she has done you proud, Mahesh Uncle replied, picking up Deepa, and I felt proud and yet jealous. Yes, she had been brave, she would always be the brave one.

I watched Njoroge’s back, his tall bony shape, as he slowly made his way to his grandfather’s single room, entered its dark interior, leaving the door wide open. Mwangi was one of the men taken away for questioning.

When on the following Saturday Mrs. Bruce came to drop off Bill and Annie and to order the groceries she would take with her later, she asked Papa if he had a bottle of whisky she could borrow or buy from him. Papa said, Of course. I could hardly refuse, she looked so desperate, he explained to Mother. It’s not that they are lacking water, she retorted; let her drink water for a change. When Mrs. Bruce returned, Papa had a new bottle of Johnny Walker waiting for her. Our friends’ mother left in very high spirits, ruffling Deepa’s hair on her way out. That gesture pleased Mother.

Juma Molabux, the only wine merchant in town, in retaliation for his family’s humiliation by the police, had announced that his stock of whisky had been destroyed by accident. The District Commissioner sent the police to check, in case there was whisky around and Molabux was in breach of hoarding laws, but they found that the three cases of whisky
which had been in stock had indeed crashed down from a height, breaking all the bottles. And so the Europeans had to send for their whisky from Nairobi or go without; since many of them had credit terms with Molabux & Sons, and were not doing so well in that year of drought, they went without. Except, that weekend, the Bruces.

Saeed Molabux was kept in hospital for two days of observation. He received an apology from the District Commissioner and from the Commissioner of Police, who assured him that the officers in charge of the raid had been duly reprimanded. The police had been irresponsible, an editorial of the Nairobi paper said, this was hardly the time for the Europeans to antagonize another community, when the world’s eyes were upon Kenya.

The Masai and Kikuyu peoples have traditionally been rivals, if not enemies, though there has been a tendency to deny this in recent times, in the interest of national harmony or political correctness. The Masai were herders of cattle in the vast plains of the Rift Valley, and the Kikuyu farmed the highlands and kept cattle and goats and sheep under the benevolent gaze of Ngai, the God on Mount Kenya. Occasionally, the Masai and the Kikuyu came into conflict. Governments, the British in the past and the more recent ones now, have found it expedient to exploit this rivalry, as my young visitor Joseph is only too ready to attest.

And so there was some irony in Lieutenant Soames calling Saeed a Kyuke, the Europeans’ hate-filled term for the Kikuyu. For Sakina-dadi, Saeed’s mother and Dadi’s closest friend, was a full-blooded Masai. Such dark, exotic knowledge, portal to a forest of imaginings about the adult world, was obviously not deemed suitable for my sister and me, being brought up as Punjabi Hindus to the best of my mother’s abilities. But after that violent police visit, the secret couldn’t stay hidden for long.

Sakina-dadi, as I had known her, like any Punjabi woman wore a shalwar-kameez and dupatta, spoke Punjabi fluently
and perfectly, at least to my young ears, and cooked formidable kheer, karhi, and dahi-wada. And when she cooked goat, Papa went off quietly to partake of it—Mother staring anxiously after him, having instructed him not to overdo it—for we did not cook meat in our home.

One day at breakfast Mother said, referring to Saeed’s beating by the police, Imagine mistaking a Masai for Kikuyu! Immediately realizing she shouldn’t have made that comment in front of the children, with a guilty look toward me she put an admonishing hand to her mouth and just as quickly removed it. Half Masai, Papa couldn’t help interjecting before he too realized his error.