Echoes From a Distant Land (25 page)

1945

Sam sat back in the impressive new cart he'd been allocated and let the horse find its own pace. It was hot. Around him the country was tinder-dry and suffering the worst drought in living memory. It made his task that day even more difficult.

He understood why the Governor had given it to him. He was the right man, perhaps the only man, who could do the job without causing widespread trouble.

He hadn't expected to be doing this kind of thing when he accepted the appointment to the Legislative Council. Governor Mitchell had made it clear he wanted him to be more than a figurehead. He gave Sam every reason to believe he could make changes in the country.

‘I want you to get out and about, Mr Wangira,' Mitchell had said at their meeting. ‘You have great support among the Kikuyu because of your small loans business. And I am told it extends to other tribes as well. I want you to use that goodwill to advance the government's programs.'

Sam said he would; and for some time did so enthusiastically. It took longer for him to comprehend the reality of British politics and how it trickled down to this far-flung section of the Empire.

There were people in Britain who were pressing their government to dismantle the remaining colonial systems throughout the Empire, and when the Labour party under Clement Attlee was elected in July of that year, the movement gathered further momentum.

In Kenya, the Governor allocated seats in the Legislative Council where the white settlers and Arab and Asian residents could vote for their candidate of choice. This was not the case for the African
seats. The British were keen to support democracy, but only to a degree. Trusting their African subjects to make their own choice was apparently a step too far. The two African representatives were directly appointed by the Governor.

While Sam was initially honoured by the appointment, he soon felt like a fraud. The appointment gave him no power in the Legislative Council and only earned him the disdain of his constituents as his promises repeatedly failed to materialise.

He had come a long way from banker, to horse smuggler, to politician, but he had a deal more to travel before he would be allowed an effective voice to speak for his people in the governing of their country. He remained in his position because he believed that the necessary changes would eventually come.

In the meantime, he often found himself in this role — the bearer of bad news. His message to the people of Kobogi in the hills above Embu was that the government wanted to move them from their traditional land.

The Governor told Sam that before any decision was made he wanted to hear his first-hand assessment of the mood of the people in this first village chosen for resettlement. But Sam knew it didn't matter what the villagers said, the resettlement would go ahead because the land was too valuable to leave in the hands of sustenance farmers.

It made him sick to the stomach to be part of the charade, but he had sworn to act as a faithful servant of His Majesty when he assumed his office.

However, he'd made no promise not to try to change those policies.

 

When Sam entered the village, nobody realised he was a representative of the government. He wasn't surprised. He had no staff — not even an
askari
— and nobody had been sent in advance to Kobogi to announce his imminent arrival. He just walked his horse into the village; and when the children flocked around him — they always became excited when a stranger arrived — he met them
with equanimity, holding the hand of the boldest among them as he made his way to the chief's hut. He knew that most white officials, even when they bothered to visit the villages, were reluctant to touch anything, let alone the children, whom they tended to avoid at all costs. And although not all representatives of the government wore a uniform, most did if they had the opportunity to do so. Sam wore a suit.

A group of young warriors watched him walk past, trying not to appear too interested. It was for children to make a fuss, but he knew they were curious, especially when he greeted them in Kikuyu.

Sam found the chief's hut and introduced himself formally and properly. The chief, like everyone else, was taken aback by the stranger's visit.

Sam explained that the Governor had sent him to Kobogi to discuss various matters.

The chief said they had never had a visit from someone in the government.

‘Before I give you the Governor's message, I would like to hear from you, your elders, and perhaps your warriors, if that is your wish.'

The chief arranged a chair for Sam and, with the elders sitting with him and the entire population of Kobogi in a circle around them, they began to talk.

‘We need food,' the chief said. ‘Our food gardens have failed for three seasons. Our storages are empty, and we are eating next season's seed stock. We have petitioned the DC, but he has done nothing for us.'

Sam had prepared for this situation. The whole country was in a similar position, but he still found it difficult to answer in a way they could accept. After all, the British had taken possession of the country promising to bring peace and prosperity.

He said he would speak to the District Commissioner and do what he could, but everywhere there was hunger. He told them that in the north, where the land was drier, matters were even worse. Many starving people had walked off their land, leaving their
cattle, sheep and goats to fend for themselves, and were begging in the streets of Nanyuki, Thompson's Falls and Nakuru.

The chief and elders nodded. They'd obviously heard similar stories from the administration in Embu. He didn't want to promise what he couldn't deliver, but he knew the Embu DC had a stockpile of grain for needy cases. He promised the chief he'd raise their situation as a special request. It was the least he could do.

One old man asked how it was that a Kikuyu was in the government.

‘I am an appointed member of the Legislative Council,' he said. ‘Appointed by the Governor to represent the Africans.'

‘Then if you are a friend of the Governor, surely he will listen to you when you ask him to send food. Look at us,' the chief said, indicating his gaunt colleagues. ‘We are all but finished.'

‘I can't tell the district commissioners what they must do. And I can't speak directly to the Governor; I can only make my thoughts known through the messages that pass between the Legislative Council and him. The Governor then decides what he should tell the district commissioners.'

‘Then why are you here?' someone else asked.

‘I'm here because the Governor has asked me to —'

He paused. What was the point in asking these people if they would move from their land? As a fellow Kikuyu, he knew the question was ridiculous; the answer totally predictable. Land wasn't simply a matter of assets or even of livelihood. Land, traditional land, was an integral part of the Kikuyu psyche, handed down, father to son, through the generations. It would be an insult to ask the question, especially during such trying times.

‘I'm here because the Governor has asked me to send you his best wishes. He asks that you remain strong during these troubling times.'

If the chief was perplexed by the banality of the message he didn't show it, and asked Sam to thank the Governor for his good wishes.

As Sam was returning to his cart, a group of young men stood in his path. The one who stood at their head was tall and broad of
chest. At first Sam thought he and the others were warriors — they were about that age — but then he noticed they wore none of the traditional insignia of the warrior class.

The young man said his name was Jelani Karura. He was quite fair-skinned, and Sam thought he might have been of mixed blood.

Jelani told Sam he and his friends needed help.

‘We are not permitted to speak at village meetings,' he said, ‘because we are uncircumcised. But as you can plainly see, we are of an age when we should already be warriors. Instead we are treated as children.'

‘Why is this so?' Sam asked. ‘Isn't it a matter for the chief and elders to set the date for your ceremony?'

‘It is,' he said. ‘But the AIM have forbidden it.'

The African Inland Mission had been in Kenya for more than fifty years with the stated objective
to bring the Glory of God to the peoples of Africa
. They'd done particularly well in Kikuyuland. Three-quarters of the Kikuyu people had been
saved
from paganism. They were called
kirores
— reformed Kikuyu. They believed in the word of Christ as taught by the African Inland Mission.

The remainder followed the customs and traditions of their ancestors, which they considered to be moral and proper. This was completely at odds with the missionaries' view, for they refused to forgo their belief in Mogai, the creator, and to otherwise change their ways to those of the Europeans. This group, about a quarter of the village, were called the
aregi.
They were a tribe within the tribe.

‘Those with me,' Jelani said, indicating his group of friends, ‘are
aregi
. And we want to be initiated.'

Sam looked around the group. Here at last was an issue where he may be able to help.

‘I'll speak to the chief,' he said, but he knew that convincing the old man was only part of the problem. The real issue was overcoming the influence of the African Inland Mission — a powerful group with strong connections to the colony's administration.

 

Sam climbed into the cart and trotted the horse out of the village. The track to the Embu road was deeply rutted and signs of the drought were everywhere. He could see the desolation in the food gardens and, although he was hopeful of getting some assistance from the DC, he left the village feeling inadequate and frustrated. He had some of the titles of office, but none of the power.

If the DC was a polite person, he would listen and nod and say he would do what he could. If he were not, Sam would be shown the door soon after entering his office. Most of the old-timers had no sympathy for the recent trend towards localisation.

After riding for three hours, Sam made a decision. He didn't want to arrive at the DC's office appearing dusty and hot. Instead he looked for somewhere to stay in Kutus, just sixteen miles short of Embu, and found a small hotel — the Settler's Retreat. It carried a sign endorsing it as a government rest house, which meant he merely had to show his Legco credentials and sign an accommodation warrant to be given a room.

He entered the hotel brushing the dust from his coat sleeves.

The white woman who was standing behind the desk looked up. ‘No Africans,' she said.

Sam smiled in spite of his annoyance. It was a common reaction.

‘I'm a member of the Legislative Council,' he said, producing his papers with the Governor's signature and seal.

She examined his letter at some length. ‘So you are,' she said, giving him an appraising look. ‘I imagine you'll be wanting a room, then.'

‘Thank you. With a bath if possible.'

‘This is the Settler's Retreat,' she said with a wry smile, ‘not the Norfolk. But you're in room number six.' She handed him the key. ‘There's a bathroom down the hall and a wash basin in your room.'

He thanked her and carried his bag to his room.

After bathing, he took a fresh white shirt from his bag, and retied his tie. He was tempted to remain in shirt sleeves, but decorum, and the slightly crumpled appearance of his shirt, swayed him. He donned his double-breasted jacket, and headed towards the dining room.

The manageress was standing behind the small bar in the corner of the dining room.

‘Would you care for a pre-dinner drink?' she asked.

Sam raised his eyebrows. Africans were forbidden to buy alcohol, although there wasn't an Indian
dukawallah
that didn't flaunt the law, and illegal distilleries existed in almost every village.

‘I recognise you,' she said. ‘Remembered your name too when I saw it on your papers.'

She was smiling at him, amused by his baffled expression.

‘I'm Georgina. Dana's friend.'

She had appeared vaguely familiar when they'd met earlier, but he'd often had trouble remembering white peoples' faces — they all looked the same.

‘Oh, of course. Georgina.' He extended his hand this time. ‘Nice to see you again.'

She nodded, still smiling.

‘Gin and tonic?'

‘Thank you.'

She poured him his gin, and herself a double. They spent a few minutes trying to recall when and where they'd met.

‘I know,' she said at last. ‘It was at the races. You were with Dana.'

He could recall her now. She was seldom with her husband, and usually had a drink in her hand. The years had not been kind to her. He remembered her as a pert and attractive young woman. She was now carrying at least an extra forty pounds. Under heavy make-up, her furrowed face showed the ravages of the years, and her eyes were already bleary with drink.

They chatted about Dana's horses and the day Dancer won the Nairobi St Leger. He couldn't ask the questions that had been on his mind throughout their conversation, but Georgina volunteered the answers and the information stunned him.

‘I haven't seen nor heard anything about her for so long. Of course, I heard she'd divorced Edward and remarried a few years after she left us.'

Remarried
. Dana had given him the impression she would never leave Edward, not for anything or anyone.

She took a mouthful of drink and studied him over the rim of her glass.

‘But you probably knew all about that,' she said.

Sam knew she was testing his reaction and tried to keep a neutral expression. ‘Can't say that I did,' he said, and waited for her to continue.

‘Yes. She kept it quiet, but her sister, Averil, went back a few years ago, and we got all the news.'