The Gunny Sack (9 page)

A few weeks after the
Konigsberg
was destroyed the stocky German came to the store with his retainer Kasoro Mbili. The retainer, as the German would explain, was born in 1903 and technically was still a slave. Slaves born after 1905 had been declared free under German rule; Kasoro Mbili’s loss of freedom by two years was reflected in his cumbersome name, which he bore stoically along with his status. To the villagers he was simply Kasoro, or Mtumwa: slave.

“Karibu, Bwana Wasi,” one of Ji Bai’s sons greeted him as he entered and shook the dust and mud from his boots. Bwana Wasi still carried a rifle when he came to town. “Thank you,” he replied, and taking off his sunhat sat on a three-legged stool, wiping his face and neck with a handkerchief. Kasoro Mbili had also come in and sat on the floor.

“Call Bwana Gulam,” commanded the German.

After much whispered discussion inside, and several peeks through the curtain, Gulam appeared in his best obsequious manner wiping his hands on his shirt: “Welcome, Bwana Wasi. Welcome. You do me an honour. Was the last order all right? Nothing missing? Nothing damaged?” Abdulla came scurrying from inside, bearing a rattling cup and saucer slopping over with tea.

“No,” said Bwana Wasi, holding up his hand as if to push the boy back. “No tea at this time. Bring me water, in a clean glass.” The boy turned back.

“Bwana Gulam,” said Bwana Wasi. “This is going to be a fierce war.”

“So we hear, Bwana.”

“The British surround us from the land and the sea.”

Gulam was all attention. Not only was Bwana Wasi a white man and a valued customer, he was also the Government representative in the area. His words had to be sifted for all possible meanings like those of a mystic.

“I am giving you advice, Bwana Gulam. Take your family a few kilometres inland, move to some town there until the war is over, or danger from the sea is past.”

“Will the British manuari attack Matamu?”

“They could attack Matamu from the sea, or they could land troops here and march to Dar es Salaam. Tell the other Indians what I have said. If the British attack, the Africans can run to the bushes, but where will you run?”

“Thank you, Bwana Wasi. I will talk to the others. But what about you?”

“I am going to fight for my King. Tomorrow Bibi Wasi goes to Dar es Salaam to live with her family. The day after I travel to Iringa to join the troops.”

“We are sorry to hear this, Bwana. And the boys will miss your teacher-wife.”

“Yes. My watchman has agreed to join me as an askari in the army, and my two servants will come as porters.
And this mtumwa, Kasoro Mbili—stand up!—I want you to have him.”

The boy obediently stood up. Gulam eyed him and waited for the German to continue.

“In return,” said Bwana Wasi, “I would like to have some supplies from you.”

And so, in one hour of bush diplomacy, one of the last slaves in the country changed hands, and the wishes of the Government were made known to an alien minority. As one of his last gestures of kindness to the Indians of Matamu, Bwana Wasi brought several sacks of paper money which he used to buy stock and even offered to exchange for coins. “Paper, Bwana Gulam, is lighter, and German money does not rot.”

They thanked Bwana Wasi profusely. They waved his wife-teacher goodbye, and the day following saw the man himself off accompanied by his retainers. Then they proceeded to do as he had instructed, and diverged to separate towns inland so as not to overcrowd any particular village.

The community in Matamu, fifty years old and more, vanished overnight. The traces they left behind were the boarded-up stores, with some possessions in them, the empty mosque where Ragavji Devraj and Dhanji Govindji had once presided, the cemetery where they buried their dead, the platform behind the mosque where they assembled for festivities. Retainers had been kept to watch over the homes; but there was a sense of finality in this parting, as there was in the events around them. The men had their wives and children with them, they had their money, one-rupee notes stuffed in gunnies, and their wives’ jewellery tied around their waists; and they took whatever else they could carry. If they did not return they could start again, elsewhere. Along caravan left in the morning and headed inland through the grassy bush trails, every member loaded with two packages. There were no animals, a few porters, and two guides. At every junction where two trails crossed, two families would leave the caravan
and take the cross-trail to the nearest village. They used a simple device to select the two families whose turn had come. A woman would sing a line from a song; the next one would sing one from another song, beginning with the last word sung. And so the game was played as the singing caravan proceeded deeper inland, until at a junction one of the guides called a halt, selecting the woman with a song on her lips, and her predecessor. The two families would then start their farewells to the rest of the caravan.

The one whose name is called last wins. Ji Bai had always been good at the game, and she often won. The trick, she would say, was to take the cue quickly, without a moment’s hesitation, and to pick a short line to sing—no matter how silly it sounded. This time it was important she should win, and perhaps they let her win because the mukhi’s wife should be the last, the mukhi should see everyone else settled before settling himself. Forty-five miles from Matamu and three days later, the sole remaining family of the caravan trudged into Rukanga behind Gulam. And found that they had walked into a crossfire.

Rukanga was more a market than a place for habitation. It was an artificial village, put there by Swahili, Arab and Indian foreigners from the coast for the mere purpose of trading. There were no streets; ten shops sat at the perimeter of a large clearing, which was the central square where people from the countryside came to sit with their wares; until recently Sheth Samji’s porters would come bearing ready-made and imported goods from the capital, and take away local produce. But not any more. A path led from the village to the top of a hill, where stood a German boma. Behind the hill a small German force had set up to defend itself against a British attack from the northeast. The day Sheth Samji’s porters did not arrive from the east, and no further word was forthcoming, the people of Rukanga braced themselves for the
impending battle. This was when Gulam walked in, followed by Ji Bai carrying Mongi in the heat of fever, and Fatima and the boys, Nasser and Abdulla and the other children, and Mtumwa. And they went to the Rukanga mukhi’s store and asked for water.

“I have lived through hell,” Ji Bai would say, “and this was hell. First the long walk in the hot sun, followed always by hungry hyenas who never left sight of us, looking out for snakes, fearing lions, afraid the guides and porters would murder and rob us. We told Mtumwa always to listen to what they were saying at night when they made the fire and ate, so we would have advance warning of their intentions. When we got to Rukanga we had blisters the size of boils just from mosquito bites, and feet covered with blood from killing the giant mosquitoes … and flies covered our bloody feet until they looked black. I cursed my husband for having decided on the journey, and I cursed my poor father for having sent me to Africa. In India we travelled by bullocks, we could talk to people in the villages, they were our own kind … and even the Europeans talked our language. But in this jungle the merest sound in the night would send our hearts aflutter … and the men would call out to the guides, seeking reassurance.”

In Rukanga, sugar and flour went for the price of gold, and this is what the visitors from the coast brought with them and what got them through the ensuing months. General trade had stopped. Only specific shortage items were bartered. The staple food was maizemeal; bird and deer meat were sometimes available; milk was scarce, but local beehives supplied honey.

A few miles away, two strange and foreign armies had met in an uncaring jungle to fight a minor round of a World War. The Germans used African askaris led by white settlers, and the British, so the reports went, had all kinds of strange askaris—Indians, coloureds, and Africans who spoke no local language. Reports were brought in by natives of the area, and
smuggling between the village and the two forces had begun. At night Rukanga lived in fear. Sometimes, lone rifle shots and what were believed to be human cries were heard in the distance. In the village there was total blackout. Sometimes running footsteps were heard: not ghosts but deserters. The presence of deserters was established when a house was robbed and a girl raped. During those nights, immediately before the first direct encounter between the two enemies, when silence and darkness were the first priority for fear of raiders, Ji Bai would gag little Mongi whose fever had recurred. Sitting on the floor beside the hammock, she would rock the child, give salt-water compresses and silently weep. Only when the child started breathing deeply did she herself breathe easy. One morning she woke with a start and went on her knees to undo the child’s gag. But the child was still, her eyes open. That afternoon Gulam and a few other men buried Mongi in the local grave half-way up to the boma.

Early one morning the whole village was woken by a tremendous racket: there were the sounds of rifle-shots and the continuous rat-tat-tat of machine guns; there were shouts and screams in the vicinity, the thumps of booted feet outside, desperate knocks on doors that went unanswered. The two forces had finally met; or so the villagers thought. Some time later there was complete silence. Then the natives started coming in and familiar, reassuring sounds returned. Front doors were opened and enquiries rang out. The people of Rukanga heard about the ignominious defeat of the British force. The smaller German force, it was said, had used the aid of bees; and there are no fighters more ferocious than bees. The British troops with their inexperienced foreigners had simply walked into a forest of beehives, was the other interpretation. Whatever the case, the bees had routed the British, who had fled in terror in all four directions firing guns and screaming and banging on doors. By sunrise most of the British force had disappeared into the bushes or been captured. Foreigners always learn the hard
way, people would later say. With such weapons are battles won in Africa. The Germans have learnt well.

But German triumph was short-lived. The routed British force was only a tip of a protracted British advance on eastern Tanganyika. One month later, as the family finished supper, a knock came on the door. As usual, nobody in the house stirred. Then a tired voice came: “Gulam Bhai, it’s me. My father has called a meeting of all heads of households. Come now.” It was the Rukanga mukhi’s son.

Gulam was let in through the side door into the mukhi’s courtyard. A lamp was burning in a corner. A group of men were sitting on the floor in a loose circle; in the middle was an Indian soldier in khaki drill, drinking tea from a saucer.

“This man brings a message from the British commander,” said the mukhi. “His name is Hari. He says Dar es Salaam is taken by the British. We must proceed and report there.”

“But it’s not safe to travel,” argued one of the men.

“Aré, yar,” said Hari, “if you don’t hasten, there will be no place to go. Listen, you are my brothers. Please. I beg you. You must go. Besides, it’s the commander’s order. You are British subjects, you must obey. There is going to be fierce fighting here.”

“Like last time,” grinned the mukhi.

“Yes, yes, what fierce fighting!”

With one of their own, the men felt braver than usual.

“No jokes,” said Hari sharply. “This is the commander’s order. If you don’t go, we are not responsible for your safety. Tomorrow we attack. This town has supplies and shelter, which the Germans might go for. And don’t take your shops with you; if you are seen not carrying anything, you might not be attacked.”

He stood up, gave a fierce look around, and left.

Among the trading immigrant peoples, loyalty to a land or a government, always loudly professed, is a trait one can normally
look for in vain. Governments may come and go, but the immigrants’ only concern is the security of their families, their trade and savings. Deviants from this code come to be regarded and dismissed as not altogether sound of mind. Of the ten store-owning families in Rukanga, seven were Indian; six packed up and were ready to leave by dawn. Again, the gunnies stuffed with one-rupee notes, the jewellery tied around their waists; once more the promises of returning, the hiring of men to watch over what was left behind. But in the mukhi, the Germans had a friend; he had supplied the boma while it was in use and it turned out that he still supplied its former inhabitant, the German captain, in the bush. The mukhi stayed; and so did Gulam’s brother Abdulla, who had learnt German in Bibi Wasi’s classroom in Matamu and become Germany’s lifelong friend.

The road to Dar es Salaam was uneventful. They stayed close to the railway line and after some time saw a train. They also saw motor vehicles and troops moving west and hailed, “Biritish, zindabad! Rani Victoria, zindabad!” At the end of the second day, the sun behind them, they finally came upon the famous Bagamoyo Strasse. It was just as Dhanji Govindji had described to Ji Bai in Matamu. They passed several miles of African huts, before finally reaching the first Indian shops at Sultan Strasse and Sheth Samji’s busy depot at Ring Strasse. They stayed at Sheth Samji’s for the night. The next day they toured the entire Indian quarter and met friends and acquaintances, they gaped at the houses with parts of roofs blown away by British guns. The town was crowded and noisy, like a big market. The streets were packed with lorries and troops, horses and mules, and the air was filled with exhaust fumes and dust and rank odours. Tents filled the open spaces between buildings. They went to the seashore and admired the church and the white government buildings. They held their breath as they watched from a distance the governor’s palace, now fallen, being bombed by a British ship, and they gaped at the imposing statue of von Wissman who had long ago quelled one of the
first revolts against the Germans. And when they returned in the afternoon and sat down with the sheth to discuss their future, they found themselves to have become penniless.