A Fool's Knot (18 page)

And so the knot tightened. His honeymoon was over. His official duties remained, but his interest in informal, community-based projects could only be furthered at arm's length. He could, of course, continue with his own projects, such as the farm, which were funded by his own capital, but that was a limited resource. But, and here is how the circle closed, it could be bolstered in the longer term by increased earnings from private practice. A carrot and a stick, offered in the right order. Too good to be true. There were forces at work here, but at all times he felt he could keep the upper hand. The reason why they acted was because he was succeeding. A tree by a busy road always bears scars. And in the future he could still succeed in exactly the same way, but from a different place. And so there were changes afoot in his life, changes that meant that his judgment in the Nzawa case could be made without fear of drawing extra attention to himself, for that was already accomplished.

And he had to admit that the bush was not a place where Lesley wanted to be. With their daughter now settled in a Nairobi boarding school, it made sense to move to the city, and so he was to leave government service and re-enter the private sector. He was by no means defeated and had ongoing projects in Migwani, which would continue to demonstrate how families could profit from the land. Details of the schemes, including his own farm in Kamandiu, would form the basis of his speech, on which he now worked.

The speech would, he hoped, be different from the others, different indeed from the norm. Whilst he expected the other speakers to express the usual, established position of the virtue of education, he wanted to encourage a different perspective. Whilst the mainstream would restate the platitude that schools and education were beneficial to students, communities and country alike, his own speech must introduce some practical realism. The received view, of course, was that through the amassing of knowledge a student could become qualified, could secure employment and salary, and thereby fund the education of siblings or their own children, thus closing the virtuous and expanding circle, strengthening the individual, society and nation.

John's view, however, was that this ideology was a trap that for most people in this poor place, ensnared them in worsening poverty. He would, as usual, grant the importance of education for the child and would recognise the potential contribution the school could make to the well-being of the town. But he would also stress the shortage of jobs, even for highly qualified school leavers. Parents could no longer think of education as being like a calf, an investment that would grow to a profitable maturity, if it was nurtured with care. To the old men he would offer the advice that they should never let their children forget their true heritage. They should see that traditions and values were maintained, even though the children might come to despise them as uneducated or primitive. They should encourage their children to stay connected to the land, to the farm, the resource that could offer food and nutrition, and thereby security and health. He would address the young and encourage them to turn back to their
shambas
after school, and become farmers like their forefathers. Did they know, for instance, that a crop of onions, destined for sale in the towns, could produce a profit of twenty thousand a year? All it took was water. If children used school properly, they could learn how to collect, store and use rainwater to grow such a crop of onions, or cabbage, or tomatoes. Education would always help, he would say, but he would temper his support with the warning that it could never be a guarantee of future prosperity.

The following day John's speech would be politely applauded and acknowledged, but not understood. After all, he, himself, was an educated man, an office-bound civil servant who owed all his achievements to his schooling. Surely this was proof that his words were mistaken? Why should they scratch a living from the land when Mwangangi, the one who advised them along this path, had himself branched onto the alternative way, that of education in the white man's school in the white man's country? And why should they heed these words if the one who spoke them did not live this life himself? If Mwangangi had farmed vegetables, would he ever have returned to govern them? No, they would not be fooled. A school, a fine rich school is what they wanted and Migwani needed. The future lay in employment, not agriculture.

So as the moth tried in vain to force a way through the glass of the oil lamp by whose light he wrote, he deliberated over the wording of a speech that was destined to pass over the heads of his audience. Outside there was only wind and dust and the silence of the town. Then he was aware of footsteps, short quick steps, stopping, walking, stopping again, walking again. And then there was a knock on his door.

It was Janet, alone, who entered the room. “I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Mwangangi,” she said very quietly, her nervous deference lowering her voice as well as her stature, “but I wanted to see you about this morning's hearing. I didn't get a chance to say anything to you after the court was adjourned.”

John invited her to sit down on the room's vacant chair. When staying overnight in Migwani, as was sometimes necessary, he always rented this particular room, known to Father Michael as the King's Suite because of its relative opulence. The ten shilling charge included not only the unlimited use of an oil lamp, a table and the usual bed and foam mattress, but also two chairs, rather than the usual one and also, on cold nights, a charcoal burner with fuel. “Certainly,” he said. “What is it that you want to know, Miss Rowlandson? Were you not satisfied with the outcome?”

They both laughed before Janet answered. “Of course I was happy with it!” she said. “I was absolutely overjoyed with the verdict. Everyone was. And so was Joseph Munyolo. He told me afterwards that it was like being released from a prison that had got smaller and smaller over the months. Those teachers have dealt a real blow to his future, you know, but I am sure he will overcome it. He had wanted to go to the polytechnic in Kitui to learn motor mechanics, but at the interview he had to tell them about the case and the fact that he was waiting to be called to court. They told him that they could not consider his application until the outcome was known, so, by the time he can apply again, he will have wasted a full year. I think they will accept him, but he has suffered.”

“I am very pleased, Miss Rowlandson,” said John sympathetically, “that your student can at least pick up his life where it was left off. I accept he has suffered, but nothing further can be done by way of recompense unless the accused make a case against the teachers, and none of them want to do so.” There was a pause here, a pause that signalled an end to the matter. “Can I get you something?” he asked. “Would you like a beer?”

She accepted, though feigned reluctance on the grounds that she had marking to do for the following day. But it clearly was no impediment and John went to out the bar, returning with a bottle of Tusker for Janet and a soda for himself. Settling in his seat again and pouring his drink, he looked up and asked what he could do for her.

Retiringly, Janet looked away, saying, “I've come to apologise. On those occasions when I came to your office in Mwingi, I was extremely rude. I didn't accept it when you told me that you were just doing your job. I thought that… well…”

“…That I would back the people with the social status, like every other small town official would do? …That I would take the easy way out?” John let the silence provoke a reaction in his guest. It was one of surprise at his candour and directness.

“You remember the confusion over his name?” Janet asked, pausing herself to allow his acknowledgement. “His real name is Munyolo, but on all the statements – including his own! – it was recorded as Munovo. The policeman didn't even trust him to know how to spell his own name. Well, I thought that everything was going to work like that, with no one listening to what he and the other accused had to say and with every word of the ‘educated' teachers taken as gospel.”

John thought for a moment and laughed. “Oh yes, I remember. The policeman did think that way. The teachers had given the policeman a spelling of the name and he simply refused to listen to what the boy said. I also remember that you went to the police station and frogmarched the poor young man into my office, where he refused to admit that he had not checked it. He insisted, didn't he, that the boy had spelt it that way? He had to save face. I must say, Miss Rowlandson, that after watching you deal with that policeman, I am quite relieved that we meet tonight in pleasant circumstances. I think I would not like to be on the receiving end of your anger.”

His attempt at small talk embarrassed her a little. “Do you mean to say that you knew the name was wrong and yet didn't say anything?” There was a hint of aggression in the end.

“I could not offer opinion,” he replied seriously. “I was presented with a signed and witnessed statement. If the policeman says it is a fair and true record, then I must accept it as evidence. Later, when it comes to trial, when all the evidence is presented and considered, then it can be judged as true, false, relevant or not. I am a prisoner of my position. I must be seen to do only what is allowed and correct at each stage of the process. First I have to record, then consider, then conduct a hearing and finally judge. Incidentally, in Kikamba, there is no difference between Munyolo and Munovo. I had to give equal importance to every piece of evidence, since I was in no position to judge at that stage.” He spoke with great precision, a quality that impressed Janet greatly. She had never before met a Kenyan who seemed to think so deeply about every aspect of his responsibilities, who was conscious of his power without displaying the slightest intention of wielding it to his own advantage.

“I hope you won't be offended,” she said tentatively, “but I thought it was your way of asking for a bribe…”

John burst into laughter, provoking Janet to follow suit. “You flatter me,” he said. “I don't think I am capable of turning a situation like that so quickly to my advantage. Believe me, Miss Rowlandson, I just don't think like that. I was just trying to do my job.”

Three hours elapsed before Janet left the room. She had smoked a few cigarettes and had drunk a couple of beers, which John had bought, with his visits to the bar being carefully noted by the clientele. The conversation they had shared ceased to focus on the day's court hearing and had eventually meandered into many aspects of their lives. At last Janet had met someone with whom she could not only converse as an equal, but also respect as an intellectual superior. Though she might live through phases when one despised one's intellect and shunned its every call, as Janet had consciously done for months, its reawakening is quite involuntary and can be an enlightening surprise. John had been adamant. Janet had asked questions, offered alternative suggestions, but he would not be swayed from his assertion. By the end, Janet had totally succumbed to agreement. No matter how long she might live in Migwani, she could never be accepted as a member of the community, never be accepted as an equal by the people of the area. In their eyes, she must always remain special – white, privileged - and, as a consequence, rich. She was educated, a teacher and, that rarest of things, an attractive unmarried woman.

Janet had turned the conclusion on its head. What about himself? Forgetting the fact that he was not white, many of the same arguments also applied to him. He had lived abroad for years. He had grown up in a European education tradition, had learned to live a way of life different from his family heritage. He was also considerably richer than Janet could ever imagine herself becoming, and had recently become the owner of a large tract of land, which Father Michael had pointed out to her on a recent trip to Mutito. John, however, flippantly avoided answering her point. Donning an Etonian accent and sharpening the edges of his voice, he spoke with pure English phlegm. “Mind you,” he said, as Janet began to smile, “I do speak their lingo absolutely fluently.” Thus the evening ended on a high note with a laugh and, as Janet walked home in her torchlight, she was glad she made the decision to offer her apology and she felt faintly energised, renewed by an entertaining conversation that had meandered across several areas of common ground.

She had learned, for instance, that they shared an enduring love of London and that they had effectively attended neighbouring colleges. Janet had been at King's College on the Strand, while John, a decade earlier, had been just across the road and round the back in Lincoln's Inn. They discussed the 68 bus route, and how dour-faced Londoners would take their seat and would say the single word ‘Elephant' to the conductor as they handed over their fare. They both remembered the experience as absurd, perhaps surreal. She told him of her year in Kenya and how she liked to visit the dances at the Umoja in Kitui at weekends. And so the man she had met with Michael in a bar, on a night when some personal or family matter had brought the evening to an abrupt halt, had now become a friend.

Left alone, John first set about completing his speech, but soon he felt tired and decided he was no longer capable of concentrating. He decided to go to bed, but first returned the empty bottles to the bar. Back in the room and after undressing, he reached across the table to put out the lamp but, for some unconscious reason, he opted to lever the glass up and blow out the flame rather than simply turn down the wick. The moth, which had clung to the roof motionless for some time, again took to flight as the new breeze wafted the flame to a smoky flicker.

John's eyes were drawn by the movement and he waited, almost statuesque for a while to watch, the lamp's glass still raised. Suddenly all was a flurry. The moth's wings beat the flame to blue and then, rising quickly, it hit the ceiling with a crack, and then the wall and floor. He turned, but lost sight of it as it flapped to the edge of the room. Then in a moment it was flying again and he turned to watch as it stuttered across a wall. Back to the flame it came. This time a wisp of smoke near the wing was white, not black like kerosene soot. Then it hovered, working frantically to maintain its motionlessness. It rose again before dropping again like a stone to plunge under the lamp glass and into the flame. An orgasm? For a moment the insect seemed to be alive yet totally helpless, lying prostrate on the table with wings outstretched feigning death. Then complete agitation followed as it ran along the table, over papers, books, John's arm in an apparently randomly repeated path. Then it stopped again, holding the shaking wings out as if to cool its large soft body. The seemingly over-fat abdomen was cream with a brown spot above.