Echoes From a Distant Land (32 page)

‘But soon I will be moving back to Nairobi,' Jelani added.

The older man nodded, unconvinced it was much of an improvement on the situation.

Neither of them was in a hurry and they spoke at length about home and, as people do when meeting a countryman, explored the possibility of mutual acquaintances. They identified a few distant cousins; and the conversations became more personal.

‘How is it for you here in Nakuru?' Jelani asked.

The other man shrugged. ‘In the Rift Valley there is not enough land. My family of seven and I … we have a small plot. But we are always fighting with the Maasai, who think they can graze their cattle wherever they please.'

‘So I have heard,' Jelani responded. ‘But what can be done?'

‘Land reform.' The farmer spoke the words reverently, as if in themselves they held the answer to the problem.

Jelani waited for further explanation. It didn't come.

‘But how?' he asked.

The man hesitated, perhaps assessing how much he could say to the relative of a distant cousin, who lived in faraway Mombasa.

‘The Movement,' he said at last.

‘You mean the Mau Mau,' Jelani said in equally lowered tones. ‘I have heard that they make their supporters take an oath.'

‘You make it sound unusual. Surely you know of the power of an oath.'

Oaths were in common use among the Kikuyu. Just as a white would swear on a Bible, a Kikuyu man would take an oath.

‘I have, but if the cause is good, why is there a need for an oath?'

‘Everywhere there are traitors. An oath-taker will not betray. Who knows what the whites can do to force someone to report on his friends?'

‘And what can we gain from these Mau Mau in return for our oaths?'

‘They are trying to help us win some land.'

‘How do they do that?'

‘They are making it difficult for the white farmers. They destroy their fences. They poison waterholes. They hamstring their cows.'

‘Hamstring their cows!' Jelani said, horrified at the thought of such cruelty. ‘How can that help their cause?'

The man shrugged. ‘Anything that makes life difficult for white farmers will make it easier for them to leave our land to us. Or so some of the big men say.'

A big man was anyone with power and influence.

‘But who?' Jelani pressed him.

‘I know of one man, Kenyatta by name.'

‘Is he one of the Mau Mau?'

The man nodded. ‘Yes. I think so. Like them, he speaks of land reform. He travels all around the Rift Province, telling the people to be ready.'

‘Ready for what?'

‘I don't know. He doesn't make it clear. But some say he will lead an army to throw out the whites.'

 

The union meeting was held in the open space at the centre of the produce market. The space was lit by paraffin torches that smoked and flickered, sending shadows dancing across the faces of the crowd. Some sat on the emptied produce benches surrounding the square; others stood behind them, four deep in places.

Muthuri opened the meeting and spoke about the need for solidarity now that the business leaders and the administration had formed a united block against them. And he appealed for new members to shoulder the financial burden of continuing the fight.

Jelani frantically scribbled his notes, not daring to lift his head. At the end of his speech, Muthuri received only lukewarm applause. Then he introduced Jomo Kenyatta.

Carrying his elephant-headed ebony walking stick as though it were a ceremonial sceptre, Kenyatta strode to the centre of the crowd
like a monarch about to conduct an audience among his subjects. He was a short, stocky individual with a pointed goatee beard. He wore flannel trousers and an opened leather jacket that revealed a beaded Maasai
kinyatta
belt around his sizeable girth. Perched on his massive head was a colourful embroidered Luo hat. But it was his eyes that commanded everyone's attention. Even in the dull light of the lanterns, they shone like burning coals in the heart of a brazier. They demanded attention and the crowd gave it willingly.

Within a few minutes, Jelani recognised him as the speaker at Nasar Visram's house in Mombasa; he abandoned his notebook to watch enthralled as Kenyatta roused his audience with compelling words and dramatic mannerisms. He spoke in Swahili, which was not fluent, but he used simple words to carry his meaning. Occasionally he would inject a few more sophisticated English words to perhaps indicate his higher education, but he never obscured his message: Kenyatta was a man of the people; he understood them and was a champion of their causes.

He reminded the gathering that they should not forget their origins, no matter to what tribe they belonged. He said that the whites knew that they had to first sever the connection between Africans and their ancestors before they could break them in as common labourers and servants. He warned them about trusting the missionaries who came with lofty talk of God and salvation, but with the implied threat of hellfire and retribution unless they followed their rules.

‘When the missionaries arrived,' he said, ‘the Africans had the land and the missionaries had the Bible. They taught us how to pray with our eyes closed. When we opened them, they had the land, and we had the Bible.'

Then he turned his attention to the people in his audience who worked the land and had come to hear what the union and others might say on their behalf.

‘I know that many of you squatter-labourers have been put in a bad place. You have lost your land and been offered a pittance to work it on behalf of the new white owners. I know you work on that land every day of the month, with your women and children
beside you at times, for no more than twelve or fourteen shillings. I know that you must pay twenty of those shillings in poll tax every year. For what?' He glared into the faces staring at him from the gloom. ‘Do you get to vote for the men who impose these taxes and conditions upon you? No. Do you get the right to better yourself by planting cash crops? No. If you are lucky, the farmer will allow you to plant some maize on the acre he offers you — an acre you may have once owned. But can you sell it in this very market?' He waved his arms to indicate the empty stalls. ‘No. The government says you must sell it to the white farmer for fourteen or fifteen shillings a bag, and then another foreigner — perhaps a
Mahindi
in his Indian
duka
— sells it back to you for thirty-two!

‘And what does your half shilling per day buy you in the white man's store or the Indian's
duka
? Nothing. A cheap shirt costs you four shillings. An axe to cut your firewood, six or eight.

‘We Africans are paying taxes to the white man to keep his fine house and his fine life. Will we continue to tolerate this?' he asked, his voice rising in volume.

There was a rumble of discontented voices.

His voice dropped to a whisper, but one that could be heard to the back row of his audience. ‘Then I say to you, my friends: prepare. Prepare to fight for the return of your land; the return of your livelihood; and the return of your dignity.'

Jelani looked around him. Nobody spoke, but there wasn't a person in the audience not contemplating the vision that Jomo Kenyatta had dared to reveal to them.

The fifteen-year-old Model B Ford the union used to ferry officials around Nairobi's employment sites was not one of the very handsome black models Jelani had seen in American films, with high pointed bonnets and sleek mudguards and running boards. It was narrow and boxy and one of the windows wouldn't wind up. It was also hard to start and Jelani often had the demeaning task of cranking it. But driving it was about the most exciting experience he'd had since he was a boy taunting buffaloes for the sport of having them chase him up a tree.

He loved the subtle power he felt emanating from under the bonnet. The mysteries of the internal combustion engine enthralled him regardless of his ignorance of its workings. When there were no others in the car he would hang his head out the window to feel the air rush through his hair. He washed and polished the duco until it gleamed.

While returning to the Nairobi office after driving one of the organisers to a meeting, Jelani saw an African man sprinting down the centre of Government Road in the vicinity of Central Police Station. Two policemen were running after him. Three more followed half a block behind.

The fleeing man shot past Jelani, who had, like most other drivers on both sides of the road, stopped to watch the drama unfold.

The man was a Kikuyu and the fact that so many police were chasing him probably meant he would be in serious trouble if caught.

The escapee turned down Gulzaar Street and Jelani made a left at the next street to continue to watch the action.

He saw the man emerge from Gulzaar and make a short dash along Stewart before turning into Bazaar Street. A good manoeuvre, thought Jelani, who by now had developed some sympathy for this
lone person escaping from superior forces. His detour into Bazaar Street with its maze of Indian shops and alleys behind was exactly what Jelani would have done in the same circumstances. And Bazaar Street was only a block away from the produce market, which is where he would go and guessed the running man would too.

He could identify with the escapee. He and many of his family, friends and acquaintances had had similar run-ins with the police. From childhood they'd been the enemy; and since then he'd heard and seen many instances where the law had not acted fairly nor honourably.

By now he had become enthralled by the chase and he drove to the market and parked the car at the rear among the vendors' trucks and hand-trolleys. It was as if he was part of a Hollywood film and he was the hero's trusty sidekick with a getaway plan unknown to all but himself. So when the man appeared in the parking area, Jelani flashed his headlights at him without a second thought.

The man saw him, but hesitated.

Jelani opened the door and waved him over.

‘Brother!' he shouted in Kikuyu. ‘This way!'

The man dashed to the car and dived into the passenger seat.

When the adrenalin had subsided, and Jelani and his rescued escapee were driving down Ngong Road, Jelani suddenly realised what he'd done: he'd used the official vehicle of the Transport and Allied Workers' Union to assist a fugitive to escape custody. If the Trades Union Council heard of it, he would be finished with the union.

Jelani glanced sideways at his passenger — the man might be a murderer, or a madman. His breathing had returned to normal, but he still had the look of a wild animal, with tangled hair, tattered clothes and blazing eyes.

The man must have felt Jelani's gaze, and turned to him. Jelani returned his attention to the road, which was almost devoid of traffic through the Ngong Road Forest.

‘Keep driving towards the Ngong hills,' the escapee said.

Jelani nodded.

‘I am Dedan Kimathi,' he said. ‘Field Marshal Dedan Kimathi.'

Jelani nodded, unsure of what he meant by
field marshal
— Kimathi was only a little older than he was.

‘… of the Land and Freedom Army.'

Mau Mau, Jelani thought, confirming his worst fears. I have rescued a terrorist escaping from the government.

Kimathi read his mind. ‘You are a Kikuyu,' he said. ‘You know of the Mau Mau. You know our work.'

‘Um …' Jelani said.

‘Surely you know how many of us have been thrown from our land?'

‘I do,' Jelani answered, keen to find common ground. ‘Even my own family were put off our land and sent to a white man's farm.'

‘And what did your father do about it?'

‘Well … what could he do?'

‘
Correct!
Nothing!'

Jelani glanced in Kimathi's direction again. He had the crazed expression of a fanatic. He wished he hadn't agreed to drive him out of the city.

‘Correct,' Kimathi said, more moderately. ‘He could do nothing alone. That is why we have formed our movement. Kenyatta and Harry Thuku are talking to people. They talk about peaceful protest and negotiations, but what have they achieved, ah?'

He turned to Jelani, who made a great show of careful driving, keeping his eyes firmly on the road ahead and the steering wheel in the vice-like grip of his hands.

‘Nothing,' Kimathi said, answering his rhetorical question. ‘Nothing but talk. That is why the movement is there — for when Kenyatta and Thuku and all the rest fail, we will act.'

Jelani felt compelled to speak. ‘You will fight for our land?' he asked.

‘And die if necessary,' Kimathi answered. ‘As will many who follow the cause of the dispossessed Kikuyu landholders.'

Jelani felt a vague sense of guilt for not taking more of a stand against the chief and others when he and his family were unceremoniously marched off their land.

‘We need many loyal warriors. Will you join us?

Jelani shot a glance at him. The question wasn't coercive but a genuine invitation; he sensed no threat from his passenger. He thought about it. Why shouldn't he fight with his fellow Kikuyu for what was right? Isn't that why he had so strongly identified with the union cause?

A roadblock came suddenly into view as they rounded a corner.

‘Police,' Jelani said, easing off the accelerator. There was nowhere to turn.

‘Let me out, I will run.'

‘No, wait.'

The surrounding forest was dense and he had a good chance of getting away, but that didn't solve Jelani's problem. If the police spotted a man fleeing from his car, he would have some explaining to do.

It was just a routine control point, which the police often set up to check licences and other trivial details. Jelani had passed through many similar. The police were generally a sleepy lot, angling for small bribes from those without proper vehicle registration or who otherwise had something to hide.

Jelani made his decision. ‘I'll drive through it!' he said, barely believing he could even consider it, but he was already implicated in the escape of a leader of the dreaded Mau Mau. What else had he to lose?

Jelani pressed the accelerator and the V8 engine responded.

He swung the car onto the verge, avoiding the car already at the checkpoint, and powered past it. The police shouted.

In the rear-view mirror he watched as they waved their arms, and then ran towards their parked police car to give chase.

Jelani's mind tumbled through the consequences of what he'd done. His whole life was now on a knife's edge. Disgrace, the sack, and gaol loomed as the likely outcomes.

‘There is a small road on the left over this next hill,' Kimathi said.

The road was clear behind him and Jelani was now almost too despondent to care. He turned onto the track.

The car bumped and rocked for a few hundred yards before coming to an enormous fallen tree that blocked further progress.

Kimathi didn't seem concerned, and indicated to Jelani to cut the engine.

Jelani's heart pounded as they sat in silence. They heard the pursuing vehicle approaching then receding down the tarmac in the direction of Ngong town.

Jelani was able to breathe again; and Kimathi began to laugh quite loudly.

‘Ah, my friend, you have saved my life. Do you know that they would hang me if they could?'

Jelani thought he was joking, but when he looked at Kimathi, his eyes were blazing. He laughed again: this time it was high-pitched and forced.

‘Come,' Kimathi said after taking a moment to regain his self-control. ‘The house is not far. I will introduce you to my fellow warriors.'

Jelani was tempted to follow, but he felt he'd narrowly avoided a catastrophe and was not ready to take any further risks.

‘No, I'd better be getting back.'

Kimathi stared at him. It was impossible to read what thoughts lay behind those wild eyes. After a long moment he laughed again.

‘Of course, my friend. You have work to do.'

He made a move to open the door, but turned back to Jelani.

‘Let me tell you this before I go. I have seen inside your heart. I know you, my friend. I know there will come a time when you realise too much injustice has been done to you. You will become angry and you will shake with shame because you have let too much happen. It is then that you will want to strike out. You will remember all the wrongs committed against you and your family. You will want to fight. And you will be defeated, because one man cannot defeat the British invaders. That is when you will come and join us. The Land and Freedom Army. That is when you will come to us.' He nodded down the track. ‘And be welcomed here — up this road — with our other recruits.' He smiled and nodded. ‘I know this about you.'

Jelani said goodbye and drove back to the city.

In the car park at the rear of the union's rented office, he turned
off the motor and explored the thoughts that had played in his mind on the drive back.

His rescue of Kimathi in the market and their escape from the police had been very exhilarating. But it was more than the excitement of the moment that had lifted his spirits. For the first time in his life he felt he was doing something to strike back at the authorities that had been responsible for so much of the injustice he had seen and experienced. His act of defiance that day had gone some way to even the score, and it made him feel good.

However, he knew it wasn't enough because Kimathi's parting words had left him feeling unsettled: ‘You will shake with shame because you have let too much happen.'

 

When the Kenyan government applied to the Colonial Office to grant a Royal Charter to the city of Nairobi, rumours spread that it was an attempt to expand the boundaries of the city to include the surrounding districts. One of those districts was the White Highlands, so named because only whites could own land there. The fear among those agitating for a return of their land was that Nairobi would become a whites-only city — even further entrenching the colonial grip on native land.

Chege Muthuri sent messages to all the Transport and Allied Workers' Union representatives all over the country to call on the membership to attend a mass rally in Nairobi to protest against the granting of a Royal Charter. He stressed the need for numbers so that the administration would not have the nerve to arrest the rally leaders.

Two days before the rally, Muthuri gave Jelani a copy of his speech to include in the edition of the
Uhuru
newspaper that would be made available on the day of the rally.

Jelani went to Muthuri's office before he'd completed the transcript.

‘Chege,' he said. ‘You can't say these words.'

Muthuri looked up at him from his desk, which was covered in papers.

‘They need to be said,' he replied, then returned to his papers.

‘Asking for land reform will anger the government. They will be prepared for that. But calling for independence will have you thrown in gaol.'

‘They won't dare to touch me in front of a mass rally.'

‘Do you really think that our members out there in Nanyuki and Eldoret and Voi will come to Nairobi because of something like a Royal Charter?'

‘They will come. It is important.'

‘Chege, they won't come and you cannot say these words.'

Muthuri sat back in his chair and placed his pen on the desk. He sighed. ‘Karura, have I taught you nothing? Ah? Have you heard nothing I've been telling you these last few months?'

‘It's been more than a year, Chege, and yes, I have heard everything you've told me. But this is madness. You know they will arrest you. They will have no choice.'

‘The whites have been asking for independence for some time,' he said, returning to his papers.

‘That is different. The white Kenyans think they own this country. And they are quarrelling with their own back in Britain when they demand this and demand that. But if you say something similar, they will be afraid of our millions against their thousands. Their fear will force their hand.'

Muthuri nodded; a smile slowly spread across his grizzled, unshaven face. ‘Ah, Karura … you have been listening after all.'

‘So why are you doing this?'

Muthuri stood and came from behind his desk to sit on the edge of it, facing Jelani. He folded his arms.

‘When you have done everything that you think is right to make the other side understand — when even your own people turn against what they know is right so as to please their masters —
then
it is time to force the issue. Then it is time to act.'

‘But how will going to gaol help?'

‘There has never been a good cause won without a fight. Soon there will be many like me in the gaols. Then the British, and the world, will take notice.'

 

Chege Muthuri stood on the platform erected on the flat bed of a borrowed truck, and addressed the crowd scattered around the City Council forecourt. There were perhaps no more than three hundred people present, but if Muthuri was disheartened by the numbers, he didn't show it.

He had none of the eloquence of Jomo Kenyatta, but there was no doubting his passion as he railed against the administration's heavy-handedness and the dangers if the city were allowed to declare a charter covering the surrounding districts.