The Magic of Saida (21 page)

“Bwana Schmidt. He died of fever,” Omari said.

What does he know, Omari asked himself, how much does he suspect of my betrayal of Makunganya and Bwana Punja and the others to Bwana Schmidt? The German always paused to speak to me outside Punja’s shop; and that day he gave me a heller—Abdelkarim knew that. Could that be why he left, so he wouldn’t have to confront me?

Omari prepared to depart and took the fresh manuscript his brother gave him, along with the pages he himself had brought, wrapped in a newspaper. They walked outside. There, at the point of bidding farewell, he turned to Abdelkarim. Shame-faced, he made a request: “My brother, please sing a shairi in your voice, which I have not heard in a very long time. It is a voice I recall as beautiful as our father’s. By reciting for me you will be giving me two rewards.”

Abdelkarim said nothing for a long while, apparently recollecting. Then he cleared his throat and sang a few verses, beginning in a very low voice until it became full and steady, and the notes became clear, strong and vibrant, as tears ran down Omari’s cheeks. It was the last time Omari heard him recite. Zaynabu and the child—her name was Aisha—had come to listen.

Omari presented the child with two candies, which happened to come from England, each wrapped in shiny foil, and gave a five-rupee note to Zaynabu for the household. He kissed his brother’s hand, and then slowly rode home on the donkey.

A year passed, in which Omari did not see his brother, though he sent him provisions every few weeks, whenever Abdelkarim’s secret messenger arrived bearing good wishes and an empty basket. Abdelkarim was not in a position to earn a living, but he managed to grow vegetables. Omari sent him rice, oil, and maize flour; some European medicines; on rare occasions, meat. A few times Abdelkarim had sent him some pages of poetry, each of them written neatly in four columns of stretched Arabic script as was his style. To have his brother so close yet inaccessible, and in such pathetic straits, saddened him. The messenger was therefore a welcome arrival. Catching Omari’s eye on the street, he would follow him home and have the basket filled. He would accept Omari’s heartfelt greetings for his brother and leave. What made these furtive rendezvous risky was that Omari’s house was one of a row that the government provided for its prized employees and was close to where the Germans themselves lived.

It was as the next great festival of Eid al-Fitr approached, a time for families to get together, that Omari decided to pay his brother a visit. Early on the morning of the Eid, after attending the public prayer, he set off. When he arrived at the house in Pembeni, he discovered from Zaynabu that Abdelkarim had gone away to celebrate the festival with his master, Sheikh Aleta Baraka. Zaynabu gratefully accepted his presents of new clothes, and presented him on behalf of Abdelkarim a beautiful Quran from Turkey. Omari took the midday meal with Zaynabu and Aisha, then departed. My brother knew I’d come, he reflected on the way back; Sheikh Baraka is more important,
understandably; but Abdelkarim trusted me to come, and I came. What stronger bond can there be between brothers? And yet, anxious as I was to meet him, am I unhappy to have missed him? He is strong medicine, is my brother … and now I have stolen his art; I have passed off his work as mine. How do I explain myself to him? Will he understand my reasons?

When he reached home, Omari was reminded by his wife that he had missed the affair organized by Frau Schwering, a luncheon on the occasion of Eid at which Commissioner von Rode was to be present. Omari hurried up the road to apologize to Frau Schwering, at whose house however he met the commissioner, and gave them the typical servant’s excuse that an older aunt was sick and he had gone to see her. He had a kahawa with them; he could tell by the whiff of European spirits that was in the air that the Germans had been imbibing. The commissioner’s boisterous manner only confirmed this.

“We should organize another recital of poetry, Mwalimu Omari,” blustered the commissioner, his face completely red in the afternoon heat. “We’ve not had one in months. And have you composed any new verses for us, O Goethe of Ostafrika?”

“A few, bwana. We can have a recital whenever you say so.”

Omari disliked the recitals, which the previous commissioner, Captain Schmidt, had initiated as a gesture of goodwill towards the town. They were held on the public square on occasional Sundays, in the late afternoons when it was shady and cool outside. At these meetings the commissioner would also make public announcements. The officials, and sometimes a family or two of German or Greek farmers from nearby, would sit on chairs; a few elders and the poets would sit to a side on benches. A small public sat on the ground to face this distinguished group, and one by one the poets would step forward and recite. Most were rank amateurs and beginners, their quick, formulaic compositions praising the government, the governor, the commissioner. Omari bin Tamim was the star and he too had praised Bwana Mkubwa, the governor, and the reliable virtues of the colonial government. His praises were evidently superior to the others’, and in appreciation the commissioner had awarded him a prize consisting of an illustrated book on Germany. Once, however,
Omari deviated from his subject by reading from an utenzi narrating the Prophet Muhammad’s exile from Mecca, telling how while escaping to Medina pursued by his enemies, he had sought refuge in a cave, where a spider had woven a large enough curtain in front of him to hide him. It was one of Abdelkarim’s compositions and told a well-known story, but with such clarity and emotion as to move his listeners to sighs and tears. Omari had read it perhaps with his brother’s own exile at the back of his mind, and that exile was perhaps also why Abdelkarim had composed it.

In his mind Omari was only giving the composition an airing, an audience. The poem was admired immensely, by those who knew about prosody and those who didn’t, and he was pleased for the praise on behalf of his brother. On another occasion he read another of Abdelkarim’s compositions, and thenceforth he was trapped. Omari bin Tamim became known as a formidable poet, to be matched by only a few on the entire East African coast. At every recital he had to match his previous achievements, and therefore was tempted to include more of Abdelkarim’s superior poems, which he sometimes amended. Perhaps a time would come when he could reveal the truth. Meanwhile, he was exposing his brother’s talent, bringing admiration to his compositions. He was only the messenger, the mouthpiece. But because he could not name the author as someone other than himself, he knew that the praise he received was stolen, and he was ultimately a thief.

One day Abdelkarim’s messenger, after receiving provisions from Omari, shoved upon him a piece of paper. “Your brother says you must copy this letter many times—in secret. It must spread like the wind and it will bring change to the country.”

Omari went inside and read the letter. It was addressed to the faithful and spoke about the coming end of the world. Those who followed the true path would be saved. Those who deviated and took on foreign ways would be punished. The infidels would be destroyed. There was no signature.

Who had composed it? Not Abdelkarim, Omari concluded from its brittle language, although the writing with the peculiarly
stretched characters was his. Surely any message circulated in secret would be considered criminal, especially after Maji Maji. And this one was openly subversive, even though it did not call for violence. Why would Abdelkarim involve him in this new business? Hadn’t he retired from his activities against the Germans? Didn’t he say it was time to submit and leave the rest to Allah? He had a wife and a child. And the Germans were here to stay, they were going nowhere. It must be that he believed strongly in this message, wherever it originated, and he needed a scribe and a postman to help distribute it. And in his isolation he was going mad. Omari hid the letter in his Quran and did nothing about it.

One morning as Omari was speaking to his class, Commissioner von Rode entered unannounced with two askaris and said, “Mwalimu, with all due respect, I must take you to the office for questioning.”

It is over, Omari thought. What I knew had to happen has happened. All my reputation, my status, in the dust. All because I have a brother, Abdelkarim. And perhaps because it was ordained to happen. A thief’s punishment.

“But it needn’t be that way, Mwalimu,” exhorted the commissioner back in his office. “I know you are a good man. A good subject of the Kaiser. He has heard your praises of him. That is why you must give up your brother. Tell us where Abdelkarim is hiding. He is no good for you, Omari. You have much to achieve in your life.”

That the commissioner even knew Abdelkarim was his brother gave Omari a jolt. But the serikali’s memory is long, the government never forgets. And it has eyes and ears everywhere.

“Bwana …” Omari did not know what to say, what lie to give. “The letter was thrust into my hands—”

“The man who gave it to you—he has been known to us. He’s escaped. But we know he came from your brother. This was not the first time, Mwalimu Omari.”

Omari wanted to weep, he felt so helpless. Ya Karim, Ya Rabbi … Allah, where to go? Abdelkarim, why did you drag me into this? Simply because I was your little brother? Allah’s miracle, two brothers so close to each other … yet so different. Like you said.

“Mwalimu,” exhorted the German again, jolting him back from
his thoughts. “You are a man of the people. An admired man. A respected man. Do you want to be known as a traitor—to your students, to your children? Do you want to be known as someone who received notes from a known agitator—who assisted Makunganya and his gang—we know that too—and one of those who spread the Maji Maji water? Do you, Omari bin Tamim, wish to be known as someone who received poems from his brother Abdelkarim and passed them off as his own? It is known, Mwalimu. We Germans are not just fools and drunkards.”

Shame and destitution, that was the threat. Where would he go? There was nowhere he could hide. No one would want him, German or African.

He looked at the whiskered, red face of von Rode and slowly nodded.

Abdelkarim was captured by the troops at his home in Pembeni at dawn. He had no time to flee. At his trial in Kilwa, Omari testified that he had received the Mecca Letter—as that infamous pamphlet came to be known, having been discovered in many parts of the country—from a messenger sent by his brother Abdelkarim; he had been instructed to make copies and spread the message; he confirmed that his brother had worked as a scribe for the Indian Punja Devraj, who had been convicted of collaborating with Hassani Makunganya in his plot against the government in 1895. Another witness testified that during the Maji Maji disturbances, this Abdelkarim had sprinkled the magic water to a group in Samanga, of which he had been one. They had all stood under a tree and received the water. He asked forgiveness for his own crimes.

The trial took place in the boma, inside a room that was the court. The judge had come all the way from Dar es Salaam; he was Werner Faessler, a plump man with a thin moustache and neatly parted hair. Abdelkarim stood diagonally across from the judge, tall and implacable in kanzu—he had to remove his cap—arrogant and silent.

Abdelkarim was found guilty of conspiracy against the government and, further, of recent sedition for having copied and distributed the Mecca Letter. He was sentenced first to be whipped twenty-five
times and then to be hanged. Early the next morning he was taken to the site of mwembe kinyonga, the hangman’s mango tree, where, with his hands tied in front of him, his kanzu removed and wearing only a msuri round his waist, he bent against a barrel and received twenty-five strokes from a cane. And then he was hanged from that infamous tree, which had seen the demise previously of Hassani Makunganya, Punja Devraj, and so many others who had resisted the Germans. After the hanging, his body was cut down and given to the care of his brother Omari, who washed it and draped it in a white sheet for burial, and recited the Fatiha over it at the cemetery, where most of the townsmen, from fisherman to sheikh, came to pay their respects, including Commissioner von Rode.

Born from the same womb, he’ll die with you
. Words of that proverb came to mock Omari bin Tamim. But I chose their side, not yours, my brother. I chose to survive. If I had not cooperated, wouldn’t they have found you anyway? Why do I reason with myself? I must bear the burden. Each of the twenty-five wounds is lashed upon my heart. And I will carry them the rest of my life.

That evening the Sufis of the town held a special ziara at their centre for Abdelkarim. His brother Omari bin Tamim was turned away.

“Karim Abdelkarim was destroyed. It is a pity that evil can come to reside in the heart of the handsomest of men. Corporal punishment prior to the execution was a necessity … Examples have to be made. Insurrection must be crushed in such a way that not even an atom of defiance should remain in the African mind.”

So wrote Captain Faessler from Dar es Salaam in his journal,
My Colonial Days in Africa
.

When the Great War of the Europeans closed its East African chapter, the Germans having been ejected from all the territories they had colonized, Omari bin Tamim, teacher of Swahili and German, had but scant knowledge of English, the language of the new rulers. Omari found himself without employment for a few months, until he was hired in the post office, situated in a ground-floor corner of the old boma. One morning, having sorted out the day’s incoming mail, while he stood behind the counter attending the odd customer, still confused by the new postage stamps, a note arrived requesting his presence in the district commissioner’s office.

“Mwalimu Omari,” the DC said, having offered him a chair, preferring himself to come forward and stand, looming awkwardly over the poet, “I was not told until yesterday that a poet of your eminence lived in our town—and was working just two doors away from me at the posta!”

Omari bin Tamim smiled ironically. “Who would tell you?” he murmured.