Murder In The Rain

Murder In The Rain

Copyright 2014 Gerald Kithinji

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Chapter One- A Haunted Shrine

It was a haunted shrine, heavily fortified by the spirits of its former occupants. The spirits ensured that nobody entered the plantation, either by day or by night. Those who tried, (and a few did), found themselves gripped by fear and dread and often by paralyzing fright, as they approached the edge of it. The malady would spread, as one made careful step after careful step, until the whole body would start seething with recoil- and the would-be intruder would retrace his or her footsteps and vanish.

The ghosts tamed the greed of the passer-by and the yams and bananas remained the harvest and property of the creatures of the wild.

But all would probably not have been that way had old Kathara Nchungo not met his death near that plantation. He lived alone across the Karumanthi stream, which divided Gancheke village into north and south ridges. He had secretly been harvesting the yams in the Ntaugu plantation for his own modest consumption, and all had gone well for several months. But on the fateful evening, it had rained heavily in the forest and a flooded Karumanthi was swelling fast, when old Kathara Nchungo attempted to cross it back to his hermit’s hut. The load of yams was balanced on his frail left shoulder while the right hand was guiding his walking stick in the water, as his unsteady legs tried to support his weak, stiff back on a slippery log foot-bridge. When he slipped, he knew deep down, that his time had come. He did not scream or shout for help, for he also knew that at that time of day at that place no one would have heard him. That was his secret meeting with his creator and the secret re-union with his ancestors. He had forgotten the adage: if you find the river flooded, wait. But then, as the old man was told to go slowly, was he also told not to reach his home?

When they found the body a few days later, on the banks of the deep Karumanthi stream, they also found some yams. And when he was buried at his compound, they found that none of his yam plants had been dug up recently. So, where were the yams from? They concluded that he had dug up the yams from Ntaugu’s plantation nearby. The spirits must have retaliated by waylaying Kathara Nchungo at the Karumanthi stream- for he was its only known recent victim.

It was a warning sign. Do not tamper with Ntaugu’s yam plantation! If you do, then do not blame anybody but yourself for the ensuing severe consequences. Who would want to follow Kathara Nchungo? For him, the sun had set together with all its rays.

At the centre of that veritable plantation, a fig tree blossomed and rose to its full youthful height. It had not been disturbed on its journey towards the sun, the moon and the stars. It had a long way to go, but such was the way of the world.

At the foot of the fig tree lived a colony of insects, sapping the strength and power of the tree and passing these on to their progeny. The tree stood seventeen metres from the site of a grass-thatch hut once occupied by Ntaugu Thuranira and his wife Ciokinene Ntaugu. If it had any secrets, only Ntaugu Thuranira would know. Could he be trusted with a secret, even his own secret?

The hut was in fact no hut at all. It was the remains of what had been a hut. The roof had caved in; the mud walls had been stripped and only ant-infested poles leaned on each other, themselves already undermined by the insects. Plants and climbers had taken over and were fast reducing the once beautiful rondavel to a derelict heap of earth. Only the muangua king post stood guard, defying the ants and the elements.

The path that led to the hut had already lost the war to the bushes. Even the small granary that Ciokinene had persuaded her husband to build for her had collapsed thanks mainly to the voracity of the white ants that loved the soft rafters and the banana barks that were used to construct its walls and cover the roof.

With yams always went bananas. There were many banana bushes in-between the yam plants. Their climber and creeper fronds spread in all directions and co-habited with any plant that could support them, even temporarily, out of pity or just to spite them. They were like orphans with no familiar faces to turn to for counsel.

Weaverbirds had built their nests here and there, feasting daily on ripe bananas and the bush fowls were competing for space with rats and mice. The mongoose and the squirrel and wild cats had also made a claim to this rich, abandoned farm. But perhaps, abandoned is not the right word. It had been surrendered to creatures of the wild and the said creatures thought they had chased away the erstwhile owners and exploiters.

It was an early settlement in Chure after the Emergency, but had now graduated into an early iganjo (abandoned homestead). Where had the settlers Ntaugu and Ciokinene gone?

Agemates

Ntaugu Thuranira had a friend, actually an age-mate from the same clan, who had decided to work for a white man in the neighbouring Northern Frontier District (NFD), a name that he thought meant Isiolo and Marsabit. His name was Gitobu Ruungu. He hailed from a sugarcane-growing family that had settled along the lower part of Kithino River.

Gitobu Ruungu loved sugarcane, but his father loved the brew he made from it. The two loves were diametrically opposed to each other. The two men quarrelled incessantly over stolen or missing sugarcane, and the father threatened to knock off several of Gitobu’s teeth to tame his appetite for the sweet juices of the old man’s sugarcane.

Gitobu, on the other hand, knew that as long as the sugarcane was not finished his jaws would not rest.

Faced with a growing rift between himself and his father, Gitobu Ruungu had migrated to Kalimoni Ranch owned by a colonial settler. He had thousands of boran cattle and sheep; but he also grew sugarcane in the low-lying part of his ranch. Naturally, Gitobu opted to work in the sugarcane plantation.

I’m very good with sugarcane, he had told the interviewer through an interpreter.

You mean to say you love eating sugarcane? the interviewer had asked.

My father has a small sugarcane shamba, replied Gitobu, embarrassed. That’s where I learnt to look after the sugarcane.

You have to suppress your appetite, young man, if you want to keep your job here, he had been warned even before he was hired. The sugarcane here looks after itself!

Gitobu Ruungu got the message loud and clear. He worked hard and within a year he had been promoted to the important post of ‘gang leader,’ and assigned a room all by himself, at one of the camps. Five years later he was still a gang leader, albeit a senior one.

One hot Saturday afternoon, he came back to the camp from a punishing day at the plantation, to find Ntaugu Thuranira waiting for him outside his residence- the tin hut. On the surface it was a pleasant surprise. But deep down Gitobu sensed some disturbing news. He did not show it. He masked the sensations with a wide and generous smile.

Wachia ! Is that you? What a surprise!

The two hugged like brothers who had been separated by war and lived to meet again, each thinking the other was dead.

I can’t even remember how many years have passed! Gitobu continued, now shaking hands vigorously.

Ntaugu Thuranira could not organize words for this kind of occasion. He had never had occasion to get swept away by emotion. There was nobody that he missed that much. He knew nobody that really touched his heart in a special way. His late wife might have come close, but in the end he had learnt to hate her, to detest her. By the time he killed her, she was but a wild dog to him.

You have not changed, he said to Gitobu. I thought I would not recognize you.

Even you, Wachia, you have not changed much. You have only become tougher. What have you been doing- killing weeds?

Ntaugu Thuranira grimaced at the mention of the word ‘kill’.

He turned away to hide the pain. He would never forgive Gitobu for stabbing him with the deadly word.

I’m hungry, my friend, he said in an attempt to change the subject. But I have brought you something I’m sure you don’t find in the acacia trees.

The acacia tree was the dominant inhabitant of the region, ranging from the thorn bushes of the very dry areas, to the giant yellow-barked species that thrived along the streams and wetlands of the Kalimoni-Ngare Ndare ranches.

I know what it is, Gitobu said, as he took his friend’s bag and led him into his tin hut. Once inside, Ntaugu Thuranira opened his bag and brought out several yams of the baribate family and arranged them on the floor.

I knew you would make a great yam farmer, Gitobu remarked. You always had a good hand for yams. You remember the one you planted at my old man’s compound? It grew so fast the old crow claimed it was one of his. I couldn’t stand it. Can you imagine your old man claiming that your yam plant was his? Sometimes I think it was that yam and not his sugarcanes that killed our friendship, Gitobu said laughingly.

Once again Ntaugu shuddered at the mention of the word ‘kill’.

And you- are you planting sugarcane under the acacia trees? Ntaugu asked trying to sound equally jovial.

The boss would claim the sugarcane belonged to him. Everything belongs to him, you know? The cows, the sheep, the sugarcane, the wheat, all belong to him. Even the way he calls us ‘my shamba -men’- I’m sure he counts us as his property, too.

Gitobu was all along lighting fire and preparing the yams for cooking.

Sorry; we’ll have to eat yams tonight, he said to Ntaugu. I can’t skip the opportunity. But we’ll have venison for relish. Do you like antelope?

Don’t you know hunger made a monkey eat pepper?

The people around here say: if you are kind to the antelope you feed your family on roots.

Where they came from men were not supposed to eat antelope when they were in the company of boys. But if there were no witnesses, it could be tolerated. Or, in dire need!

Gitobu fried the meat with ram fat, then put a few potatoes in the pot and let it boil for some time. Then he cut the yams into potato-size pieces and mixed the lot in the same pot. The resulting yam-potato-meat stew was absolutely delicious!

A few days on this kind of stuff and you would be as fat as a ram, he reported to his guest.

They ate in silence, as hungry men with wild appetites would. Only the ravenous masticating was not as silent as they would have wished.

Gitobu wanted to hear news from home, but he could not rush the matter. It might turn out to be worse than expected. It might also sound as if your respect for your age mate and friend were less than should have been accorded. In fact, it might very well be interpreted to mean that you wished him an early exit from your house. That Gitobu would not brook.

Ntaugu Thuranira, on the other hand, was wondering how best to introduce the burdens that hang around his neck like a heavy and itchy necklace, a treadmill! He was studying his host like a spoor that could have belonged to the leopard or the hyena with equal probability.

A man can carry a heavy load, said Gitobu, pensively, but not forever. Even a load of dry reeds can tire a man on a long journey. We can talk tomorrow, if you wish. After all, tomorrow is Sunday and the white man does not need me on Sundays.

That came as a huge relief to Ntaugu. If he had known where to sleep, he would have turned in without further ado.

Yes, tomorrow, said Ntaugu, softly.

He had one more night to think of what to say to his friend. He did not want to say anything, beyond asking whether he could get some menial job to occupy his time and to live on. But he knew that silence would breed too many questions and suspicion. It was okay with his friend, for he knew that Ntaugu was not given to talking about himself or anybody for that matter, unless provoked. How about the boss? Would he be satisfied with a few skimpy details?

Gitobu started setting up the camping bed.

This is all a senior gang leader gets from the boss for his nocturnal comforts, he told his friend. We will share this for tonight. Tomorrow, I have to report your presence here and seek permission to keep you for two nights. Then we can talk.

Ntaugu’s heartbeat rose to almost double the rate. He had not expected this turn of events. ‘So the white man will have to know about me?’ he mused. ‘How much would I have to disclose? Would he report to the other white man in Meru District?’

Gitobu sensed his friend’s discomfort.

It’s not the white man that I have to report to, he clarified. I know our people don’t want to have anything to do with the white man. What they don’t seem to know, is that the white man is not keen to deal with them either. All he wants is work, work, work. If you break your back working for him, he will compensate you with a few shillings. If you break it chasing an antelope for your food, that’s your own business! He paused for a while. Ntaugu did not know whether he could comment on that or what he was expected to say. Nobody need know that you are here, if you don’t want them to, continued Gitobu. I’m going to recruit you to work for my gang.

Ntaugu’s heartbeat began to slow down to near normal.

You sleep on the side facing the fire, Gitobu said. This place can get awfully cold.

Thank you, Wachia, said Ntaugu, as he climbed into bed. Good sleep.

Dreams

It must have been two or three o’clock in the night when Gitobu woke up. He was so wet on the side facing Ntaugu that he thought his friend had wet the bed.

Wachia, wake up! he called out.

But there was no need for that, for, the moment he turned, Ntaugu woke from a gripping dream with a start. An indescribable beast had been wielding an enormous axe above his head and was about to chop it off when Gitobu’s movement woke him up. He was sweating like a spear-less hunter cornered by a man-eating lion.

Where am I? he asked in a faltering voice.

You are here with me, Gitobu assured him. What’s the matter? Are you all right?

Ntaugu sat up in the dim light of the smouldering log fire, trying to reconstruct his whereabouts.

Did I say something? he asked Gitobu. He feared that he had uttered the unutterable in his dream.

How would I know? answered Gitobu. I was in deep slumber. I told you I had a tough day yesterday.

Then let’s go back to sleep, Ntaugu said and turned in again. But the blanket is wet, he said as he realized the problem.

I’ll stoke the fire, Gitobu said, so you don’t have to use the blanket. For an instant, I thought you had done something unmanly.

Ntaugu shrugged and drew the blanket to one side and lay on the bed, wondering whether he had not revealed the secret and Gitobu was merely trying to be civil. For a long time he lay there, fearing to fall asleep and dreading the thoughts that raced in his mind.

The morning came quickly, as if there had been no night, after all.

Are you awake? a sharp voice asked as the man knocked at the door.

I’m awake, Gitobu shouted. He knew the voice, but he was not expecting anybody that early on a Sunday morning.

I thought I would greet you before the sun greeted Ithangune hill. May I have a word with you?

Gitobu was already at the door getting out of the tin hut.

I need to help myself, he said to his new visitor. We can talk as I ‘stand’ at the back.

He walked quickly to the back of the hut. He did not want his boss to enter the hut.

No need to worry, interjected the boss, popularly known as Miteero. I’m going on safari and Mr. Griffins asked me to recommend somebody to act while I was away. I told him you could do the job. Tomorrow, you see him at dawn.

Gitobu finished whatever he was doing and was about to thank Miteero, when the latter again interrupted.

And by the way, don’t go there smelling that Sunday brew of yours. It might be good for you, but Mr. Griffins is not one of your gang members. Be careful.

Miteero lifted his small travelling bag, slang it over his left shoulder and, with his heavy walking stick, hit the path in long strides towards Kalimoni Barrier and beyond on his way to Meru.

Gitobu only managed a distant ‘thank you and good journey’ as he watched the muscular Miteero disappear into the dawn light.

Inside the tin hut he found a listless Ntaugu sitting on the bed.

Are we leaving? Ntaugu asked before Gitobu could explain the fortunate incident.

Leaving for where? he asked in response. Ntaugu did not answer, but it was clear he was expecting an explanation.

We are lucky, my friend, Gitobu continued after a bit. Now, I will be able to help you. I am the boss, do you hear? The boss, that’s me!

Although Ntaugu had tried to follow the conversation between Gitobu and Miteero, he had not quite got the gist of it. He thought it was Gitobu who was to travel. That had sent shivers up an already ruffled spine.

The boss has gone on holiday, Gitobu told him, and I’m to take his place for some time. It’s all the time we need.

Liquid Lunch

Breakfast consisted of the remainder of the previous night’s supper, supplemented with porridge.

We don’t always have this luxury, Wachia, Gitobu said, as they ate the porridge.

I understand, replied Ntaugu. Where one is a guest breakfast is not a right.

That’s not my point, Gitobu pointed out. We only have one meal a day; the rest is a rarity.

What about the sugarcane? Ntaugu was remembering their sugarcane-hunting forays back in Meru.

I do not know how many people can survive on liquid lunch all the time.

So, how do you spend your Sundays?

I’ll show you today.

Are there many workers from our area?

I think it’s only me. Most of them are from Katheri and Miriga Mieru, and a few from Igembe.

Are there any from Tigania?

They are difficult to manage.

You mean to order around?

Precisely; and bad tempered!

Are you against them?

Not me! It’s the order from the top. Miteero is from Tigania, but you see, he is a boss. If you employ one as boss you have no problem.

And our people…?

You mean the banana-and-yam maniacs? They can’t survive here.

Don’t be so sure.

Here we live like animals. We have tough skins, a sharp survival instinct and limited fear of the wild.

They washed their faces on a trough outside, locked the door and set off. But Ntaugu was not through with his probing. Gitobu knew from the queries that the man had come to stay. As the saying goes, he who asks has a need to know.

The path was narrow so Gitobu led the way and Ntaugu followed one step behind. Gitobu walked rapidly avoiding the protruding thorn bushes and the little dew the grass bore.

Ntaugu began to wish that he was following an elephant, for then, the stinging dew and the prickly thorns would be trampled ahead of his approach. Then he remembered what his friend had told him earlier and regretted the wish. Suppose the elephant turned to see who was taking advantage of his lead? Never mind, he said to himself. This was a wild bushland, not a thick forest. There would be no elephants here and if there were any he would see them from a long way off.

How does one develop a limited fear of the wild? he asked Gitobu, as they came to a clearing where their path met another and was absorbed into it. They turned right and headed for Kalimoni Barrier. Then suddenly Gitobu stopped, walking stick in the air. A cobra was basking in the early morning sun right on their path. It was apparently unaware of the travellers or maybe it did not care. By the time it turned to face them its head was flying through the air into the bush. Gitobu walked on, as if he had only killed a lizard. Ntaugu had learnt his first lesson about developing a limited fear of the wild.

Indeed there were snakes where he came from, but they were less poisonous, he reasoned.

The more you travel, dear friend, the more poisonous snakes you will encounter, Gitobu advised him. But when you encounter one, you must kill it outright. You will not worry about it on your return journey.

Very wise, said Ntaugu. He surveyed the path ahead of him. They were now walking side by side since the path had widened. Very wise words, he repeated.

It was my grandfather, continued Gitobu. He once told me that when a snake was in the house, the matter could not be discussed at length. The immediate task was to kill it.

Ntaugu was dying to put a stop to this line of conversation. He was getting stabbed deep down every time Gitobu used the word ‘kill.’

He began to wonder whether there was anything that they could discuss without reminding him of the recent past. He decided to try a change of topic.

Didn’t he teach you how to trap honey? he asked.

He did, replied Gitobu, not without some grief in his tone. And that’s what killed him, remember? He fell from a tree together with the hive full of honey. He broke his back and he never recovered, poor soul.

I’m sorry, I had forgotten.

They walked on in silence as if in remembrance of old Rinkanya Kuura. But Ntaugu was remembering somebody else closer to his world.

They say an elephant hunter usually meets his death through an elephant, Gitobu broke the silence at last, following his earlier train of thought. You see that hill over there, to our left? You see the valley running between that hill and the other one, which seems to be closer to us? You see that?

Ntaugu looked in the direction pointed out by Gitobu. He could see two beautiful conical hills. One was nearer and seemed to have a sister or twin and the other ahead to their left. They appeared like the teats of a young woman, with a valley in between that swept down towards them and passed on the left side of their path.

Yes, I see, he said eagerly, glad to change the topic.

That is the perennial path of the jumbos, Gitobu explained. They follow that valley down to Shaba during the rainy season, when the Mt. Kenya forest is too wet and cold and then again up the valley to Mt. Kenya forest when the Shaba is dry and the food is depleted. You will see them one of these days, depending … By the way, I had forgotten. The owner of that ranch over on the other side of the valley was himself killed by a lone elephant. Then it buried him in a heap of rubbish and foliage. It was a very vengeful elephant, very nasty. That was just after I got here. He had shot and wounded it but it got to him all the same and viciously avenged itself. The rangers had to finish it off for him, poor soul. They say he was a very good man, Mr. Headlongue.

Ntaugu had expected a good day in the wild plains of Kalimoni. But it was starting on a dumpsite, and seemed headed for a bog. ‘Killed’ and ‘buried’ were burning a hole in his heart and Gitobu was proceeding determinedly to ruin his day. Had he actually heard something during his dreams of the previous night? Was that the reason for the depressing monologue?

Ntaugu knew that at Kalimoni Barrier there were government people. Was that where he was taking him? Was he going to betray him? Were they the people Gitobu spent his Sundays with?

A numbing kind of fear began to move his bowels. He needed to relieve himself and was about to tell Gitobu so, when the cobra incident and the elephant story revived other ominous possibilities. The bushes might be hiding lions and hyenas and cheetahs and leopards and other cobras! The bowels recoiled and his need was dwarfed by the sharper survival instinct.

They came to another fork on the path. Gitobu took the left one. Ntaugu sighed inwardly. They were not going to the barrier, after all!"

They walked on in silence until a cluster of low domed shelters built of rafters, and smeared with cow dung or hides and skin, appeared in the distance. That was a manyatta, a homestead.

That’s where we are going, said Gitobu, pointing with his cane walking stick.

Whose is it?

Boran. I have some friends here.

Is it within the ranch?

Ntaugu was marvelling at the sheer size of the ranch, all belonging to one family and not a clan! It was something that baffled many of his people. They lived in half plots, but the settler was behaving as if he was a whole tribe by himself! What did he plan to do with all that grass, all that wealth?

They say the only big thing that’s bad is a wound, answered Gitobu. He had read his friend’s mind. You see that hill over there… the blue one? That marks the boundary to the north. And the conical hills you see over there arranged in a wide semi-circle are the eastern boundary marks. It’s not possible to see the western boundary; it’s behind the hills in front of us.

That is more than several locations back home. Bigger than South Imenti Division by far, I think. Do you think one day we might get a piece of it?

Gitobu threw him a glance that unsettled Ntaugu.

I came here to work, he said, curtly. Not to dabble in politics.

They were getting close to the manyatta now but still there was no one in sight.

Listen, Wachia, continued Gitobu. I came out here because I believed that there was a better world out there. I still believe it. But it’s not for me to deliver our people to that world. I am a worker and I’m enjoying what I’m doing. If I’m to help you, you have to forget the Mau Mau and just work for your master. And if the master changes, you have to work for the next one. Otherwise, you better start planning your journey back home. You don’t have to tell me anything; just think about it. Okay?

Ntaugu remained silent. He felt that any response would trigger another sermon from Gitobu and in the end their relationship would be strained in one day and the job promised earlier on would evaporate. When they were initiated into manhood, they were taught that silence was itself a good response, if speaking would invite further rebuke.

It is not that Ntaugu was by any stretch of imagination a politician. But, like many of his countrymen, land was very close to his heart. He could not, looking at those vast plains and hills and valleys, deny his lips what was throbbing in his heart. If for some inexplicable reason, he was to own one of those hills, barren though they appeared to be, would he not be able to see further than most people standing on their own land? After all, even dirty water quenches the fire, he mused.

I’m sorry, Gitobu said. You are my guest but I know you. You are not a politician. Let’s forget what I just said.

Gitobu extended his right hand to Ntaugu and the latter took it in his.

Thank you, Wachia, Ntaugu said. The world is for the living.

He might have added ‘not for the dead,’ but the thought had to be banished. He wanted to hear about the future, not about the past. He wanted to talk about the living, about now and tomorrow, not about the past. Let it burn, the past, let it vanish from his mind and he will be a happy man! But that was precisely what could not happen in a hurry.

Gitobu had engaged several young men, from the neighbouring Boran community, to work the sugarcane plantation in his gangs. In the process he had made very good friends with their parents, as well. Occasionally, they invited him to drink with them and to feast on game meat. Occasionally, too, they slaughtered a goat or even a cow for the family and included his share, if word could get to him in time. Ntaugu was lucky to have arrived on the eve of one such occasion.

Gitobu and his friend were welcomed warmly, with local brew and ‘rare’ roast ribs of a mature goat.

Olė Kishon was an early riser and he had ensured that all was ready by mid-morning. Here they called Gitobu ‘Baité’, a fond name for the Ameru among the Boran, Somali and Samburu neighbours to the north and northeast.

Olė Kishon had gone further than usual, reason being that he wanted Gitobu to recommend him for ‘a bit of a promotion’, as he called it. He had worked hard, harder than most of ‘his people’ and he wanted that contribution to be recognised. He had reasoned, not without some merit, that if he were promoted at Kalimoni, he would also be promoted in his community and, maybe, even secure the post of headman.

So, in addition to using the popular Kalimoni sugarcane juice, he had added some honey to the brew and the result was quite cheeky. Gitobu and Ntaugu were delighted, if not quite excitedly so.

In those days, cups belonged to the very rich. The owner of a small off-licence traditional liquor ‘bar’ belonged to that category. He maintained a sufficient supply of Number 7, 8 and 9 mugs for the poor, ordinary and rich customers respectively. If one could part with three cents, then he got the No.9 size mug of the liquor. For two cents one got No. 8 and for one cent one was served in the No. 7 mug.

Gitobu and his friend were being served in the No. 9 mugs free of charge. That Sunday he was treated as a VIP by people who, if they had known the truth, would have violently turned him from their midst and into the arm of the law, or into the waiting jaws of a wild animal!

You would never have become a chief at home, Ntaugu confided as they walked back to Kalimoni, after a generous escort from Olė Kishon.

Am I a chief here?

You have your job, your fun and authority, Ntaugu said. What else does a chief mean?

That is why you have to work with me, said Gitobu. A shrub with only one root is not difficult to uproot. If I were alone, do you think I would have stayed this late?

You would have slept with one of those women wearing thick layers of sheep oil, Ntaugu quipped.

Don’t berate them, Gitobu cut in. She who loves, loves her man with all his dirt. Don’t your women do the same? When did sheep oil start to smell? Wachia, come on! Get off my back!

They walked on joking here and there, as they used to do back home. Ntaugu was very happy, if not elated.

Tell me, Gitobu asked, When you enter someone’s house and you find the occupants squatting, do you ask for a stool?

No.

It’s the same here. If you find them squatting you must squat, too. That is civilisation for you. You should look into the heart that is giving you; not at the hands. And, let me tell you another thing. These people know etiquette. Did they ask how we are related? No. For them, if a toad brings along a chameleon, they are brothers. But you, you want a grasshopper with one leg to hop about with another that has one leg. I say no to that kind of demand.

Which of those two is your wife-to-be?

The one you are interested in, replied Gitobu. If you can keep the yams flowing for a month, she’s yours!

Are you serious?

I’m joking. They are all married. Mine is the youngest sister. She could not join us in the drinking. She is too young. She has to grow into a woman knowing who her man is. That is why I come here. She has to know me that way.

How long will that take?

Three to five years. She’s still young.

You can’t greet her?

Not the way you mean.

She’s yours?

Not yet. In three, five years, yes.

And for me?

The one after that! Maybe six years’ wait. But I know you. You’d rather elope with a married one! Hey, Wachia! I heard you got married! What happened?

Who told you?

The last time I went home, almost four years ago. I didn’t want to stay and I did not stay. But I heard it all right. What’s the story?

Ntaugu’s head cleared instantly. He had avoided the subject all night and all day. Now, on the eve of his second day at Kalimoni, his only friend in the world wanted to hear it from him. If he told him the truth, it would haunt him. If he told a lie it would haunt him. He was in a quandary and he was the architect of it. Why the devil did he bring up the issue of women and wives? He cursed himself for the indiscretion, for the quandary, for the stupidity of his behaviour. He could not deny that four years back he had a wife. He could not dispute that a few days before he had a wife. But his friend only knew about four years back. What could he say about it? What lie would suffice? Whatever he had done, he had done secretly. Might others have secretly seen what he had done secretly? What could he say in this wilderness without the wilderness hearing?

She left me three years ago, he lied.

That bad, eh? You couldn’t keep a woman for two years and now you want my in-laws’ daughter? Come on, Wachia, leave women to those who know how to handle them!

Olė Kishon had given them two bottles of the brew to take home. Ntaugu opened his and took a sip. Gitobu did likewise. Ntaugu wanted to calm his nerves but Gitobu wanted to keep up the spirits. By the time they stepped into the Kalimoni sugar section workers’ camp, they were singing Kimeru circumcision songs!

Work like Men

The next morning Gitobu reported to Griffins at dawn, as directed by Miteero. Griffins sported his trademark khaki shorts and short-sleeved shirt, and his heavy boots. He was a roughshod, tall, lean man with small deep-set eyes on the otherwise long face. He shook hands firmly with Gitobu, as if he had just been introduced to an Aborigine Chief. For Gitobu it was a punishment.

You speak English?

Little bit, sir.

Kiswahili?

"Kidogo, afande." (A little bit.)

Kimeru?

He nodded vigorously.

"Wewe nakuwa nyapara yangu mwezi moja. Nasikia?" (You’ll be my supervisor for a month. You hear?)

"Ndio, afande." (Yes, sir.)

"Naelewa wewe nyapara?" (You know what ‘nyapara’ means?)

"Ndio, Bwana." (Yes, sir.)

"Miteero nasema wewe jua kazi sana. Kweli?" Miteero says you know the job well. True?)

"Ndio, Bwana."

"Kama kazi nasimama wewe nakwenda nyumbani. Sikia?" (If work slows down you go home. Understand?)

"Ndio, Bwana."

Having been warned of dire consequences should the work not go well, Gitobu was given instructions for the day-to-day appearances at Griffins’ office- an annex to his house, and asked to wait near the Land Rover.

Half an hour later, Griffins came out and entered the Land Rover. Gitobu waited outside.

"Hapana simama inje! Ingia ndani twende kazi." (Don’t stand outside! Get in we go to work.)

"Sijui kufungua." (I don’t know how to open.)

"Tumia mukono na vidole hapo. Wewe jinga, nini? Bado tembea na gari?" (Use your hand and fingers there. You a fool, or what? Haven’t you travelled in a vehicle before?)

"Bado tembea, Bwana." (Not yet, sir.)

Griffins laughed and opened for him.

"Mimi fungulia wewe mara moja tu. Sikia?" (I open for you only this once. You hear?)

"Ndio, afande."

For two hours, Griffins drove from one end of the ranch to the other introducing Gitobu as a supervisor to the various gangs working there, and to the other gang leaders, and also inspecting the progress his people were making. When they got to his former gang, Gitobu suggested to Griffins that Olė Kishon should act as Gang leader for the time being. Olė Kishon in turn suggested that Ntaugu should be recruited to take his place. Griffins endorsed the matter.

"Chukua jina yake yote na kipande," said Griffins. (Take down full names and identity card particulars.)

"Hakuna kipande." (He has no identity card.)

"Basi majina yote." (Then take down all his names.)

"Mimi naona shambamen na heshima mingi kwa wewe (I see workers have great respect for you)," Griffins said as they drove off.

"Ndio, Bwana."

"Fanya kazi mzuri, mimi nangalia kwa makini. Sikia?" (Work very well. I’m keen on that. Hear?)

"Ndio, Bwana."

"Mimi napenda watu na fanya kazi kama wanaume. Sikia?" (I like people who work like men. Hear?)

"Ndio afande."

"Kama hakuna kazi, shamba nakuwa msitu, si ndio?" (Without work, farm becomes a forest, not so?)

"Ndio afande."

"Misitu iko inatosha. Kweli?" (There are enough forests. Correct?)

"Ndio, Bwana."

They drove back to the office and Griffins took Gitobu’s particulars and gave him a small brass medal of office as Supervisor.

"Chunga hiyo, sana. Sikia?" (Take great care of that. Hear?)

"Ndio, Bwana."

Griffins had several supervisors scattered all over the ranch. He gave them the medal so that wherever they went workers would be kept on their toes. It was like a signpost. His authority was everywhere. That is why he took Gitobu round to all the work groups and introduced him as a supervisor (Mnyapara).

His style had instilled and sustained strict discipline at Kalimoni. Mr. Griffins was very proud of his invention. He called it, alfandeism; for the natives loved to compete for superiority. And that was good for production.

The Novice

Ntaugu had tremendously enjoyed the company of Gitobu for the past two days. But now, things were going to change. Gitobu had added responsibility and that meant diminished accessibility. He had agreed to house Ntaugu for sometime but was bound to change sooner than later. However, Gitobu himself needed company and an ear closer to the ground. He decided that Ntaugu could share his place so long as Gitobu could have access to a camp bed for himself and for as long as Ntaugu was comfortable with that arrangement.

I will try to get the camp bed, he told his friend, but you know I cannot hurry too much. The boss might get the wrong impression.

Anything you say, Wachia. You have already been so kind to me. I cannot ask you to lend me your door.

How are you faring in the plantation?

Just look at my hands, said Ntaugu. He stretched them out. It’s all written there.

Everybody starts a novice and within three months, those who will stay on can be determined by the state of their hands. If you can’t look after them, you’ll be carrying wounds and scars all your life. It’s a tough job, but not too demanding. Not if you are a natural farmer, used to the cutting edge of every knife, axe and hoe!

And the feet? How many wounds am I to expect?

You cut the cane on your path first, advised Gitobu. Then, you clear non-offending cane. Otherwise you will falter on your feet and your hands as well missing your target in the process. Safety first, then speed, is my motto.

You should give us a lecture on safety some day! suggested Ntaugu.

Gitobu laughed heartily, proverbially saying: When you are late to a dance, you should not suggest the next song- it may already have been sang.

Playing with Fire

Gitobu started picking up English and Swahili vocabulary from Griffins during the regular drives around the ranch. He proved to be quite sharp with the two languages. By the end of the month since his promotion, he was receiving instructions in mixed Swahili and English.

Miteero, not come yet? Griffins asked him on their way to the sugarcane plantation.

Not come, sir, replied Gitobu.

"Kwa nini? (Why not?)"

Don know, sir.

"Very serious! Kazi kwanza, mchezo nyuma!" (Work first, jokes later.)

"Yes, sir. Ndio."

"Kama yeye haiko hapa siku mbili, mimi futa yeye. Sikia?" (If he is not here in two days, I fire him. Hear?

"Ndio, sir.)

"Cheza na kazi, cheza na moto! Fire, you know fire?"

"Moto, afande."

Don’t play with fire!

Yes, sir.

Mr. Griffins was very upset. He was driving on the bumpy farm tracks as if he were on a highway. Gitobu was finding it difficult to keep his bottom on the seat. Griffins must have been making a cabinet reshuffle in his mind as he drove. Gitobu wondered whether the man had served in