A Fool's Knot (15 page)

“Why didn't Ngandi just report Mbuvu to the ministry in the first place?” asked Janet. “Had he told them that Mbuvu was selling beans illegally, surely they would have taken away his licence?”

John laughed. “This is what I mean about directness. Firstly, I am sure the idea never entered Ngandi's head. He would be questioning the old man's right to make his own decisions and therefore not showing respect to his elders. In any case, Mbuvu remains a rich and experienced man. Had Ngandi initiated an action, I am sure a sum of money would have changed hands, ensuring that the matter would be forgotten. This would have left Ngandi defenceless and Mbuvu would have bankrupted him. So it just simmers on.”

“But that has nothing to do with directness. That is purely corruption and can be overcome by law,” said Janet.

“But why do you say the man is corrupt?” said John. He knew he was being provocative. “It is not simply materialism. The man in the ministry is an educated young man who fears a person like Mbuvu for the same reason that Ngandi fears him. He is worthy of respect. He is rich. He is old. To act against his wishes is the same as disobeying his own father, which one cannot do. The situation arises because the official is part of a system that was imposed from outside in contradiction of existing cultural and social relationships. That is why the officials are corrupt and that is why the system doesn't work. It is serving merely to amplify existing differences and bestow power upon people who are unable to exercise it for anything other than their own benefit. In a country like this, it is not governments that govern, but people like these old men, whose psychological hold over their relatives and the young in general enables them to manipulate the system. In the past they were paper tigers, no more than leaders of an age set, who competed with leaders of other sets and whose authority died with them. Nowadays their families grow rich and the power, now expressed economically, is passed from generation to generation. We are creating an aristocracy and no one can do anything about it. In Britain, a crook like Mbuvu would be put in jail. There would be structures, associations and even business partners who would object to his manipulation and exploitation of his privilege. But here, though we all know he is a crook, we allow him to run our lives.”

The debate continued and Janet could almost feel the transformation in her outlook develop. What she had previously interpreted as a simple and perhaps natural life of subsistence was transformed by John's words into a mêlée of complicated relationships, a sophisticated web of political brinkmanship, whose operation actively hindered most people's ability to prosper or, to put it another way, to avoid famine. When people sold their goats and cows to provide money for the food their land could no longer grow, who bought them? Again, it was men like Mbuvu with their ministry-granted licence to transport animals to slaughter in Nairobi. There they would get ten shillings a kilo for the meat instead of six in Migwani. Having received their money, where did people buy their food? Mbuvu and the other traders simply reclaimed the money they had paid for the animals as people went to their shops to trade. So these people were buying cheap and selling dear with the animals, and then reclaiming their money on bought-cheap and sold-dear food. They probably doubled their money every time they transacted. And of course, when people had no more animals to sell, they still had to eat, so now families were parcelling off their land, selling it in pieces to fund their lives. And guess who was buying the land. Who, in this area, has the capital to buy land and the resources to manage it? It's Mbuvu and his kind again, of course. And what do you think these people then do with the land? Do you think they make it productive in an attempt to ease the famine? No. They lease it back to peasants for cash rental and the cycle is preserved. The poor peasant has to gamble on the land producing something. He has no other option. If he wants to buy land, he has to borrow money. And where can he do this? Only from the traders, and then only at an exorbitant rate of interest. “‘A clever man buys a fool's cows' is what some people say when I discuss these things. But this ‘traditional' attitude misses the point. No, it's not wisdom that has an advantage over stupidity, but capital that rules poverty. Welcome to capitalism,” had been John's intended closing remark, but he thought better of it. “Well, to be accurate, let's call it mercantilism. These people are still at the stage of petty accumulation.”

Janet mused for a moment on the word ‘petty'. She associated it with smallness, triviality, unimportance, but to her nothing in what John had included in his cycle of wealth appropriation seemed anything less than deadly serious.

“There is great feeling amongst people,” John continued, “that the government is ignoring the famine, that they should give more direct help to people so they might overcome the effects of the drought without having to sell off all their possessions and their land. But what can the government do? Mbuvu and his kind control this and every other place. He controls the right men in the ministry. If they were to act against his interests, he would have them removed. People in Britain might look at the problems we have in an area like this and respond by collecting money, buying food and shipping it in from outside. But that is utterly naïve, because it ignores the reality that trade in essential items is the largest determinant of local power, and you can't undermine those interests without creating instability.”

Janet could think of no answer for a while. John's argument was quite new to her. It was as if he had opened a door to a new world outside of her experience. “But what about the politicians? What about those who are elected to represent the people of the area?” she asked. “What about people like the man who spoke at the
Harambee Day
this afternoon? People really seemed to be behind what he was saying. Can't he do something to change things? I'm talking about the man who donated ten thousand shillings to the school fund.”

John laughed almost uncontrollably, attracting the previously wavering attention of Michael, who had been eyeing a pair of girls dancing together, though the music had now stopped. John was still laughing as Michael's raised eyebrows queried the source of the fun. John beckoned him to lean forward across the table and said, “Janet wanted to know if James Mulonzya, our beloved member of parliament, might provide some philanthropic assistance to a campaign to reduce the hegemony of local traders.”

When an almost violent fit of laughter nearly launched Michael off his chair, Janet began to feel just a little embarrassed. Was what she had said so ridiculous? She heard Michael splutter something about low flying pigs as he tried to regain control of himself. It was John who continued.

“Please don't be offended, Miss Rowlandson. We are not making fun of you. What you suggest might make perfect sense, but James Mulonzya and his kind are the next step up from Mbuvu in a single system. If locally it's the traders who buy cheap and sell dear, then regionally it is they who have to enter a similar relationship with people like Mulonzya. Don't be taken in by his Mercedes Benz, his status, or his sophisticated, university educated son...”

“I've never met his son,” she said, noticing for the first time that the otherwise silent Lesley Mwangangi was in fact listening to every word. “In fact, I have never seen James Mulonzya before today. I just thought…”

“Miss Rowlandson, don't worry,” John said, touching her arm whilst casting another glance across the table at Michael, who was perhaps half way towards recovery from his near fit. “It's just that you have touched upon a nerve. Father Michael and I have set up some projects to try and address just some of the simplest needs of our area. At the
Harambee Day
today James Mulonzya confronted us about one of them. He said it was harming his interests and demanded we close it down.”

“What?” she asked, genuinely surprised. “What on earth have you been doing that would prompt a member of parliament to want it closed down?”

“We've been teaching women to read in Thitani,” said Michael, suddenly in total control. It was now John's turn to laugh. Janet had lived in Migwani for almost five months, long enough to become confused. John Mwangangi had impressed her, but she was not sure if she trusted him. He seemed to know all the problems and possibly a number of the solutions, as well. His opinions seemed to be those she wanted to express herself. At the
Harambee Day
that morning, he had made a speech of the kind that she wanted to make. He tried to suggest that education was no panacea, that people should invest in their farms before schools. But people had not trusted him. After all, he was himself an advertisement for that which he counselled against. He was educated, sophisticated, knew London, had a British wife, worked with Father Michael and the church. But this Mwangangi, this official who surely had the power to influence events, he stood back and analysed rather than acted. She sensed a superior air, an arrogance that claimed special treatment, at least in her judgment. So she was confused.

Mwanza still nodded a mechanical agreement. He had understood an outline of the argument and was determined to contribute. As ever he had missed the point, but nonetheless what he did say proved enlightening for both Janet and John.

“What I can say is this,” he said, leaning forward. Then, as if addressing his assembled school, he bellowed forth an experience from his own life that he considered to be relevant. As ever, his judgment was wide of the mark. Earlier, they had been discussing cultures and traditions, and mistakenly he thought their discussion still occupied that territory. He was just not sophisticated enough to inhabit John Mwangangi's world.

He explained that his son, at the age of just one year, had contracted a serious illness, well known to the people of Migwani. The child had been very ill and his wife had taken the baby to the hospital in Kitui for treatment, where the doctor had diagnosed malaria and prescribed quinine. After another month the baby was no better and the rash, which had covered half his face, had started to spread down his neck. Mwanza then related how his wife's father had gone to the hospital to see the boy and had scoffed at the treatment he was being given. Everyone knew, the grandfather had said, that the baby's illness had been passed on from the mother, because some women possessed spirits, which affected small children. He begged Mwanza to take the boy away from the hospital and allow a traditional doctor to come to their home and say oaths for mother and baby. He claimed that he had seen this done many times and that recovery always followed quickly. Furthermore, the woman would also be cured, ensuring that the next baby would not suffer in the same way. If it was not done, the grandfather maintained, the baby and any other male children borne by his daughter would die before reaching the age of two years.

Mwanza laughed at this but, to his surprise, the others did not seem to share his amusement. As his smile changed to confusion, his gaze darted from person to person, wondering why they had not understood. “I think you have not heard what I have said,” he suggested. “The point is that the old man cannot accept that the new way is better.” Mwanza almost implored the others to see his point.

“We are waiting for you to tell us what you did,” said Michael impatiently.

“Surely there is no more to say?” His expression changed, suddenly realising what they were suggesting. “You are not saying that I should have done what my father-in-law was suggesting?”

“It is the way he would have chosen,” said John. “Your own father would have completely trusted the traditional ways and, unlike you, he had never heard of quinine.”

“What's more,” interrupted Michael, his voice now an inebriated drawl, “most people still ensure that an illness is treated by a traditional doctor, even though they might use the hospital as well.”

Mwanza, who was privately offended at Michael's drunkenness, became suddenly very serious. “These people,” he scoffed, “are still uncivilised. They are still too afraid of witchcraft to reject it and put their trust in modern European medicine.”

“What does it matter,” said Michael, much too loudly, “whose medicine it is? The only thing that matters is whether or not it cures. The only reason why you reject traditional medicine is because you are told to do so by the Protestant Church. It has nothing to do with being civilised. As far as you are concerned, it is just a matter of religious bigotry.”

Mwanza was too furious to react. The same principles that demanded he reject traditional medicine also required that he did not drink alcohol. His only reply was, “The religion, Mr Michael, which allows its ministers to drink beer and smoke cigarettes is the one which is bigoted.”

Michael smiled. Mwanza's constant refusal to refer to him as ‘Father' had become an icon for their long-running argument. The Africa Inland Church, through its literal interpretation of the bible, implored its flock to call no man a father. The mid-Western American missionaries, who lived like settler families in replicas of the wooden houses of old America, added example to their teaching. Consequently, Mwanza's son would grow up to learn to call his father only ‘Pa' or ‘Dad'.

Michael was silent for a while, still smiling. The others watched him, knowing that he would have something more to say. With drunkenness apparently forgotten, he leaned forward to confront Mwanza. His eyes shone with enjoyment. He had tried many times to confront Mwanza on this issue, but had never succeeded in prompting an answer. “Mwanza,” he asked, “how will you circumcise your children?”