Echoes From a Distant Land (4 page)

The months of war greatly suited him. He was skilled in combat and enjoyed the excitement of the battle. He and his brothers didn't win every encounter, and Wangira had his share of minor wounds, but there was never a time when he felt incapable of defending himself. His skills and his confidence grew.

He and his fellow warriors were always given a joyous welcome when they camped near a Kikuyu village on their way to the next skirmish. Under the disruptive settings of war, many of the tribal taboos were forgotten and the local women seemed particularly attracted to the exotic visitors. There was seldom a night when Wangira needed more than the warm body of an obliging young maiden to keep the chill mountain air at bay. On extended camps, when he and his warriors remained stationed at one camp for prolonged periods, Wangira sometimes permitted a particularly attentive girl to be his temporary wife. She would feed him and spoil him with pleasures, but importantly, he always remained in control.

Moving on to the next battlefield offered a convenient means of severing any emotional attachments the young woman might entertain.

1916

The intermittent bloodshed that had been the Maasai–Kikuyu wars of 1912 came to an abrupt end when the British sent soldiers to enforce the peace. Wangira and his fellow warriors resumed their lives helping their fathers increase the family's holdings in land and livestock.

Wangira's father set him to work clearing the bush for a new plot. He'd been gone since early morning when a group of children came running to him from the village. Breathlessly, they told him that a white man and six others had come to Igobu demanding to speak with the chief, who had sent them to find Wangira and the other men working outside the village.

By the time Wangira arrived, a great crowd had gathered. The women had even come from their food gardens to witness this unusual event. Many stood in tight groups at the edge of the clearing used for village meetings. Others, less confident, huddled behind the nearest huts, braving only occasional glances at the strangers. Small children peeped from behind their mothers' legs.

The leader was a white man wearing an enormous brimmed hat. He had a large, drooping, black moustache and steel-grey eyes that were never at rest. When Wangira arrived to stand by the chief the white man's eyes squinted at him in thought.

Five Wakamba men, judging by their looks, carried very heavy loads, which the last of them — a big Swahili man from the coast — told them to take down from their backs. The men were obviously relieved to do so, but the Swahili gave the order in such a threatening manner that none of them showed any sign of gratitude.

The last time such a group had visited Igobu, most of the young men had been marched away to Nairobi. Months later, word trickled
back that the men had been conscripted into the Carrier Corps and required to carry supplies and weapons into German East Africa where the British were waging a war. Others worked for the government administration or were sent off to build railway lines and fortifications for the British army. The only reason that younger men like eighteen-year-old Wangira were still at home was that he and a few others were away from the village at the time. They had lived in dread that the recruiters would return for them one day.

The white man addressed the chief in very poor Kiswahili. Wangira knew the chief did not speak Kiswahili — only a handful in the village could — and after the white man began to get annoyed at his silence, Wangira told him that the chief could not understand him.

‘What in blazes …?' he spluttered. ‘And how is it that a young colt like you can speak English?'

Wangira explained his education with the Consolata Sisters.

‘Well, it's about time these blasted missionaries did some good.'

He squinted at Wangira again. It was an expression meant to intimidate.

‘What's your name, boy?' he demanded.

Wangira hesitated for a moment. ‘Samson,' he replied.

‘Samson, is it?' The white man ran an appraising eye over Wangira. ‘Hmm … How many more are there like you in this village?'

Wangira's heart sank. It appeared likely that his worst fears would be realised. The white man was there to take what remained of the warrior age-set to fight in their war.

‘You. Samson. Tell your chief this. I am called Hungerford and I need porters for my safari. Tell him I will give him fine
mericani
cloth,' he clicked his fingers and the Swahili man showed him a sample that he had reefed from one of the packs, ‘and an axe and a knife for every fifth man I take.'

Wangira hesitated.

‘Tell him!' the man growled.

When Wangira passed on this message, the old chief's eyes grew wide with interest.

‘I need twenty-two, but tell him I'll take as many as he can spare for six months,' Hungerford added.

The chief was now in his element. He was a keen negotiator, having learned his skills by bargaining with the Arab ivory traders. With Wangira's assistance, the discussions were wide-ranging and robust. The chief agreed Hungerford could take nine men of the tribe and they finally agreed on a price. The chief ordered all the eligible young men to assemble in the village clearing; there were around thirty of them.

Wangira stood beside the chief, pleased to have been excluded from the line-up. Fighting in a
wazungu
war carried none of the accolades that a battle with the Maasai did. Some men never returned from such duties and, in any case, it was demeaning for a warrior to be forced to do manual labour.

Hungerford and the Swahili, named Ali, prodded and poked each warrior in the line-up. It was obvious they knew the measure of a man: Wangira watched as, one by one, the strongest of his friends were chosen to leave the village.

When they'd selected eight, Hungerford said, ‘Done. Ali, pay him.'

‘But we have only eight,
sahib
.'

Hungerford turned and pointed squarely at Wangira.

‘Nine,' he said.

 

Wangira was mortified by his new role as a porter on a white man's safari. He'd tried to remain obedient to his chief's orders and stay with Hungerford until the end of the safari, but nine days into the journey to Nairobi, Wangira decided to run away.

In camp that night, he sat in the darkness, waiting for Ali, the ugly Swahili head man, to tire of his constant vigilance, so he could make a dash into darkness, and freedom.

Around midnight Wangira saw his chance and slowly pushed his bed roll aside, preparing for his leap.

He felt a hand grab him firmly by the ankle. It was Kitunga, a member of the Wakamba tribe, whom Wangira had met on the first day.

‘Think long before you act,' he told Wangira in a whisper. ‘You might escape Ali, but he has others posted beyond the light of the fires. He has told them to shoot anyone trying to flee.'

‘Let me go, Kitunga,' Wangira hissed. ‘It is shameful for a Kikuyu warrior to carry another's burden. It's woman's work.'

‘Better to work like a woman than die like a stupid man, my friend. But you misjudge the work. To be a good
pagazi
, what you call a porter, requires skill, strength and courage.'

‘Do you mean you choose to carry these loads?'

‘We Kamba are renowned
pagazis
. We began by carrying our own goods for trade, but our land is between the coast and the hinterland tribes, so we have been employed by many others, such as the Arabs, to carry ivory and trade goods to and from the coast. Now we are wanted by the British for all their carrier needs. Even the white hunters like Hungerford know we can be trusted to work hard and stay until the very end of the safari.'

Wangira had met Kitunga, a man about his own age, in the same way he'd met many others since joining Hungerford's safari. Wangira had an insatiable appetite for knowledge and an almost limitless capacity to absorb it. He filled the long boring hours on the trek by learning all he could from the porters recruited from other tribes. After conversation with Kitunga, he already knew much about the Wakamba. He'd learned they were excellent weavers, made beautiful baskets and pots, built houses quite unlike the Kikuyu, had many curious sexual practices, and when a group of them danced in the camp one night, he discovered they were excellent dancers.

‘You told me you were clearing the forest for a new food garden when Hungerford came to your village,' Kitunga continued. ‘What is the difference if a warrior cuts trees or carries a load? Is it what you were trained for? No. But when you are on safari you will see things you would never see in your village. There is much to learn.'

‘Like what?'

‘If you study the white men you will see many things. They have curious ways, but some of them are interesting. And useful. They do more than merely hunt with their powerful weapons. They build
great buildings of stone and wood. There is a train station in Nairobi and people arrive from all over the world. When you see Nairobi you will understand. You will be amazed.'

‘Tell me of this place, Nairobi.'

‘It was Maasai land before the whites came. Now it is a very big village where the government people live.'

‘I don't understand why we are going to a big village,' Wangira said. ‘If these Englishmen want to hunt, why do we go to Nairobi?'

‘That is where they get provisions for the safari, and we get our loads. Sixty pounds by the white man's measure. To you, a stone like so,' he said, making a circle with his arms.

But Wangira knew the weight of sixty pounds. It was a bag of maize cobs fresh off the stalk, before the sun had been able to dry them. He frequently carried such bags from the field to the wagon for delivery to the market. He would have no problem with sixty pounds.

‘How far is it to this village, Nairobi?' Wangira asked, becoming more interested.

‘Not far. I have heard we will reach there tomorrow.'

Wangira nodded and decided to wait until he'd seen Nairobi before thinking further about running away.

The following morning was shrouded in fog and, as the safari wended its way through the forested hills, an air of excitement rippled down the line of
pagazis
. They were on the uplands near the Kikuyu village of Limuru, and word spread that those at the head of the line could see Nairobi through the mist.

When Wangira reached the ridge he caught sight of the township below. It was truly amazing as Kitunga had promised. The huts and buildings sprawled along the river, stretched across the flat grassy plain, and dotted the surrounding hills. Surely it could house ten times the people of Igobu. Maybe twenty. Even a hundred times!

He stepped from the line of trudging porters to study the sight and received a shove from behind. Ali, the head porter, growled, ‘Get along!' and uttered a swear word in Kiswahili before moving on.

Not for the first time, Wangira felt his anger rise with the urge to strike back at the big man. He was aggressive and rude. More than
once he'd seen Ali raise his hand to one of the porters who he'd claimed was lagging behind on the road or not doing his fair share of work in camp.

‘Never mind him,' whispered Kitunga. ‘He is too big and too stupid to learn manners.'

‘I will teach him that size is no excuse to behave badly,' Wangira said.

‘Be careful. I have heard that he killed a man in Kibwezi. He has a very large knife in his belt. Big like a sword. Have you seen it?'

‘I have.'

‘Then remember it, my friend. A push and a shove is no reason to die. Come, let us keep up and there will be no more said.'

Wangira made no comment, but did as Kitunga suggested. He knew it was good advice not to make trouble with the Swahili. But there was a limit to how much a Kikuyu warrior could tolerate from one so ignorant.

 

Ira Ketterman sat stiffly in the saddle as the safari —
his
safari — lined up in front of the Norfolk Hotel where its guests on the veranda were being served tea by smartly dressed waiters in white
dhotis
, black jackets and natty red
cabooshes.
All were there to see the biggest safari since Teddy Roosevelt's in '09 leave town.

In fact it was a Newland & Tarlton safari, but Ketterman was the client and paying a princely sum to ensure all his precious equipment travelled as safely and securely as himself. He'd not spent the last ten years planning for his retirement, and this safari, to have it end in disaster.

He smiled, recalling the safari leader's puzzled expression as he inspected his inventory when it arrived from New York the previous week.

‘I've never in my life seen such cooking equipment,' Hungerford, the safari leader, had said, adding that champagne and caviar were not unusual supplies on a Newland & Tarlton safari, but Ketterman's special tents, made to his strict specifications, his
velvet-lined boxes and the curling pipes and odd bulbs on his pots and pans, were very unusual. He had delicately asked Ketterman if the cooking equipment was in observance of some religious beliefs, but Ketterman said he wasn't a practising Jew and left it at that, much to Hungerford's mounting confusion.

Ketterman walked his horse along the line of porters towards the head of the column. He noted that N&T made a good show of their porters, decking them out in khaki shorts, blue serge jackets, laced puttees and bright red fezzes. The porters carried their own roll of two blankets and a felt-covered water bottle and enough
posho
, maize flour meal, hanging from their belt to last a week.

Two of the four armed
askaris
were attending the ox wagons carrying Ketterman's heavy gear. The others were at the end of the line, guarding the ammunitions and weapons wagon.

Ketterman joined Hungerford, who stood in his stirrups at the head of the column surveying the army of porters, wagons and pack animals. He lifted his arm aloft, and when he dropped it, the strident note of a conch-horn sounded. Drummers thumped their instruments and kudu horns sounded a cacophony. The flag bearer beside them raised the Stars and Stripes, and furiously waved it. Lifting his knees high, he proudly stepped forwards. The entire column wriggled and swayed, like a giant snake roused from its sleep in the sun, as if testing the dust for a better purchase. Then the safari inched forwards.

Hungerford and Ketterman stepped their horses aside to allow the
pagazis
to troop past. Balanced on the heads of porters or strapped to their backs was everything the safari would require for the next three months, except for fresh foods. There were chop-boxes, mosquito nets, a folding bath for the client's evening ablutions, medicine chests, tents, salt for curing meat, water containers, barter goods. Hungerford, and hopefully Ketterman should he feel so inclined, would shoot all the meat they needed. The excess game meat would be dried as insurance against a lean period when they couldn't trade for whatever they needed with the upcountry villagers.

‘Good morning again, Mr Ketterman,' Hungerford said as he drew his horse alongside.