A Fool's Knot (3 page)

 

John took up the papers and began to read. “I, Boniface Njeru Muchira, am a teacher at Nzawa Primary School in Migwani Location, Kitui District. I have taught in the said school for three years. On the evening of January 25 1975 I was in my house talking with my colleague, one James Gitonga Kivara.”

The policeman, whose first language was also Kikuyu, could not suppress an intended quiet chuckle to himself becoming quite audible at this point. The name, Kivara, means ‘baldy'.

“At approximately 9pm I heard the sound of shouting outside the house, which is within the school compound, so I went to the window and looked out to see what was happening. At this point a large stone hit the window, breaking the glass. I saw a group of about ten school students. There was a full moon and I could see some of them clearly. I shouted at them, telling them to go away or I would tell the police. Their reply was to shower the house with stones and shout obscene remarks about myself and my colleague. They continued to throw stones for about ten minutes. Mr Kivara –”

There was only a muted smile from the policeman this time.

“- and myself then decided to try to chase the boys away. Together we rushed from the house towards the group. We carried sticks to protect ourselves. Some of the boys ran away but others continued to throw stones. Five stones hit me before the rest of the children turned and ran. Fortunately I managed to catch hold of one boy and overpower him. I asked him to tell me the names of the others present. His only reply was to curse me. Two of the others turned round, came back and began to beat me with sticks until Mr Kivara chased them away. But to protect myself, I had to let go of the boy and he ran away. I then asked Mr Kivara to ride on his motorcycle to the police station in Mwingi to report the incident. He returned with a police officer at about 11pm and I made a full report to the officer. He asked me to come to the police station the following morning, January 26 1975, which I did. I found that he had assembled a large number of school students as a result of his investigations. He asked me to inspect each one and say which of them had taken part in the attack on my home. This I did. I feel I have done my job at Nzawa well and can think of no reason why such an attack should have taken place.” John looked up. “Is that accurate? Does it reflect what you want to be recorded?” he asked looking from one to another.

“It is fine,” said the policeman. The others nodded.

“Will you then sign the paper at the bottom, Mr Muchira? And you, Mr Kivara, can you sign your copy? I see no point in reading that one to the officer as well. It is substantively the same.”

The two men signed the papers, despite the fact that in Kivara's case he had no idea what the word substantively might mean. They handed the sheets back over the substantial desk to John. Beneath each statement he printed John Mwangangi Musyoka, and then rubber-stamped the words, District Officer, Mwingi, at the bottom of each page. He then countersigned across his printed name and the stamp.

“That seems to be all,” said John with an air of finality borne of relief. “I will write to you, Mr Muchira, as soon as a date for the hearing is fixed.” Turning to the policeman, he continued, “Those boys you have in the police station can now go in the Land Rover to Kitui. They are to be held in custody until all the witnesses have been traced and have made their statements.”

The policeman got up and stood to an overstated attention, the Prussian-style heel click of his boots following some seconds after the achievement of his fully stretched height. Then, stamping his foot with a great slap on the concrete floor as he turned, he marched out of the room as if performing a military tattoo. A brace of consciously dignified, but clearly hurt and rather belittled teachers followed. John Mwangangi watched all three leave his office, carefully filing their mannerisms and behaviour in his memory for future reference.

There was more to the case than met the eye, of that he was sure. But, as John collected the papers and filed them away in the neatly labelled grey cabinets along the wall behind his desk, his mind was initially filled with condemnation of the indiscipline of the children and their lack of respect for their elders. He had been taught to respect a teacher like he respected his own father. He wondered how many of the boys now handcuffed, and being ushered into the back of a police Land Rover with weld mesh over the windows, would have dared even to disagree with their own fathers, let alone stone them or beat them.

After a glance at his watch, he slid back the hatchway door in the wall behind his desk and told Syengo that he could finish work for the day. Syengo waited until the hatch door closed again – a full minute after John had spoken – before grabbing his brightly coloured cap and setting off home. He liked to make doubly sure that Bwana Mwangangi had no more work for him before he left. The District Officer was a very important man and he would hate to offend him.

 

 

 

April 1951

 

Good things are seen during the rains, but this season the rains were poor, a bad omen for the people of Migwani, the pessimists had claimed. The good things, however, were all planned. Sugar cane had been cut and stored for some weeks and children had been sent to climb trees to collect the hanging seedpods. Then, two weeks before the first day of the celebrations, the town's old men had pulped and boiled the sugar cane with water, and set aside the liquor in large earthenware pots, which they kept for this one function each year. They ground seeds from the pods to a fine powder and stirred it into the liquor. During these two weeks the liquid fermented and matured to a fine, light sugar cane beer that would keep the gods awake. In every home, thoughts of celebration, dancing and music were paramount. Goats had been fattened for the feast and cows had been milked dry. All the beehives were empty, their honey brewed to beer, the special
uki wa nzuki
, and stored with care in fresh gourds. At one home in Migwani a high arch of banana leaves had been built by the parents of children who were to participate this year. The leaves were cut from the plants and carried by the youngsters. The adults sang as they built the arch, sang loudly, so the young children could hear the words which told them why, when and how, one day, they too would pass through this arch.

Musyoka, son of Mwangangi, had taken part in every ceremony since his own father died. How long ago that was he could not remember, but he did recall the first arch to be built before his own homestead. He had felt such pride that day, because it had not been until then that he fully realised what it meant to be the doctor in Migwani. Every year since then, the arch had been built during the month of the long rains, but on every occasion Musyoka remembered that same pride which, if anything, grew as time passed. This year, though, was to be a special time for him. This year his own first-born son was to pass through the arch into manhood and thereby become his rightful heir. Once a man, Mwangangi son of Musyoka could then succeed him as doctor, when finally his own work was finished and he was called to join his ancestors. The son was growing old: it was time. New days start when old ones end.

The dancing and singing stopped for a while and even the drunken reeling old men stood quietly to watch. Drums and horns, which had pulsed their rhythms during the dance, were silenced. The initiates began to assemble beneath the arch. As they stood motionless, young men moved along the crooked rows and hung garlands of flowers around their necks. Others threw chains of flowers over the arch. Their feet were caked with earth wet by libations poured in the honour of ancestors from every cup of beer. They took great care, though, not to pass under the arch themselves. That is not allowed, for that road is a way you take just once in your life.

On a far ridge, just discernible across the low, shallow valley, the entire scene around Musyoka's home was being mirrored. Over there were the girls, soon to be women, and these were the boys, soon to be men. Thus words were spoken and the process began. Girls and boys passed through their respective arches and there was no turning back. The girls walked as a group, followed closely by the women, all striding in time with the rhythmic chants they all sang. The boys ran. It was a race. The first to arrive would be leader of the age-set and, once upon a time, the head warrior and hunt leader of the group, the one who would lead the way to counter a threat to their people. But these days were long ago. Screaming, shouting and laughing, the boys ran up the steep hillside to Migwani with the mature and old panting on behind.

The small wooden church in Migwani stood only a few yards away from the cluster of mud-walled shops that constituted the town. The newly built mission house to the side of the church was a fine place indeed, built of cement blocks and corrugated iron. Just beyond the compound, just beyond the euphorbia hedge which defined its boundaries, there grew a large straight tree of such an age that even the old men remembered it the same. It was to this tree that the boys and girls would come.

Father John O'Hara knew when he bought the land that it bordered the holiest place in Migwani. Indeed that was one of the reasons why he decided to build his new church here, so that it might be a constant reminder of his teaching to those who walked near the tree. He disapproved of traditional ways, but did not criticise those who believed in them. His goal was to incorporate the fervour and devotion of those traditions into a new allegiance with his own church. This is why he had built on this site as an expression of coexistence, not domination.

As the sun sank low in the west, the giant silhouette of Mount Kenya thrust through the heat haze into rain-cleansed air. Earlier that day he had heard the sound of horns and drums from the valley. By then he had grown quite used to what they meant and in fact looked forward to the day each year when the boys and girls of the area came running to the giant tree near the mission.

First came the boys in a long, noisy winding snake, those forming the head deadly serious and competing, whilst in contrast the body ambled a little, accompanied by shouting and laughter. On hearing them, Father John left his chair and walked to the entrance to the mission compound, where he would greet them as they passed. He would keep his distance, but not because his presence was in any way resented. It was his own respect that intervened.

By the time the men arrived, most of the boys had recovered from their run. And it was half an hour before the girls and women arrived together, as a group. Men and women then formed a large circle around the tree and began to sing. The men sang of the skill of hunters, the valour of warriors and the need for all men to have a son who could carry their name. The women sang of marriage, of faithful and true husbands and the joys of bearing children. With friends and relatives in full voice around them, the boys climbed the tree to pluck off and throw down small twigs, which would be used at first light the next morning to indicate that the time for washing had arrived. The girls waited below to collect and bundle the wood. Eager to collect as much as they could, a minor scuffle broke out as each piece of wood fell to the ground as each girl tried to grab it for her own bundle. At some point during the long rains the ceremony would be mirrored in every centre, large or small, throughout the lands of the Akamba.

With enough wood collected and all songs sung, the procession set off as one. Boys, girls, women and men walked slowly together for the final initiation feast at the house of Musyoka son of Mwangangi. Only Musyoka's own son, Mwangangi, lagged behind. Troubled by something on his leg, he seemed to be trying to keep pace with the rest, pause to rub his leg and deliberately lag behind all in one. Then he stopped and sat, so that he could inspect the back of his calf. He then rose again to hobble towards the group, only to begin the process again with another pause. After a couple more minutes, he gave up his pursuit and hobbled back to the mission.

“Father John?” he said timidly, knocking lightly on the door.

O'Hara peered out from the dim interior, but he had already recognised the voice. “Come in! Come in, Mwangangi,” he said warmly. “What is it that you want? Shouldn't you be with the others? I thought you would be well on your way by now.”

“Father, I have cut my leg on a thorn up in the tree and it is bleeding. Can you look at it?”

O'Hara inspected the wound which looked bad, but when he cleaned it he could see clearly that it was just a long scratch. It had bled quite freely, however, so first he cleaned everything with cotton wool and some iodine, and then took a bandage from his first-aid box to dress it.

Suddenly Mwangangi drew away, as if he had just been reminded he was doing wrong. “What about the bandage?” asked the priest, slightly puzzled.

“I think it will be all right now,” said Mwangangi. “I must go.”

With that he turned and set off towards the door. Before he had taken a single step, however, he stopped again and turned. “Father, is it still good for my baptism on Sunday? Now that I am a man and not a boy…”

“You are welcome in God's house at any time, Mwangangi.”

“That is good,” said the boy, a relieved wide smile spreading over his face. “Thank you, Father,” he said and then left.

Father John's gaze followed him through the fast fading light as he walked towards the valley. Shaking his head he turned back into the room saying, “What a shameful and barbaric custom it is.”