The Book of Secrets Read online

  — The British have bombed Dar. Don’t they know there are British subjects there? Our families, our brothers …

  The mosque worked overtime, for prayers, for possible shelter and advice. And the young man Pipa and his bride were trapped in town, too afraid to leave.

  One night, between four and five in the morning, the Shamsi mosque was enveloped by a deep silence — deeper than the surrounding night, its inhabitants would say. It was the hour of meditation, and not even the sound of breathing could be heard, for the breathing was controlled, relaxed, in order for the spiritual force Kundalini to move up the spine to the head. Only an occasional dry cough exploded, to be absorbed into the silence like a pebble into the infinite ocean. This night, to the distracted mind, the first explosion in the distance could have been a cough. But then the ra-ta-tat of the machine-guns, the crack of the rifles — and even those most immersed in the Universal were drawn out. The silence was no more, and the night filled with sighs, coughs, calls outside, each mind then acutely conscious of life, possessions, progeny, agonized about what was going on, what would happen. Because the hour was sacred, the sitting had to continue, and the mukhi waited till the clock chimed five before turning on the lamps. Then, after a hurried prayer, he despatched his people to their homes to await word from the government representative.

  The distant shots became sporadic as the morning wore on. At midday a cyclist was already in town bearing news. The Germans — hundreds of them — had taken the border post at night, then attacked the border town Taveta early that morning. The ADC LeBlanc was on retreat towards Voi with his policemen, and the Germans were now at Salaita Hill, a strategic point outside Taveta. Then came news of people on the Voi road, carrying bundles, children, pushing carts; a few strayed into town, others moved on. The town sat tight. There was no sign, no news of the KAR all day. Only at night came rumours that they had arrived at Voi, were on their way to Bura twenty miles away. The night air hung heavy with uncertainty, the Shamsi mosque was filled once again, everyone there listening eagerly to a refugee from Taveta. The Mission ladies, who had so far refused to come down to Kikono for safety, now withdrew to Voi.

  The following night Alfred Corbin slept fitfully. Much was happening; too much threatened to happen. Rifle shots rang out in the distance; there came shouts, and the sounds of the crying of children, a woman pleading somewhere; and his mind echoed with the machine-gun ra-ta-tat. Scenes from the day’s commotion replayed themselves again and again. As if this were not enough distraction, he could not help speculating about the fighting in Europe, and thinking about his family.

  His father had by now retired and settled in Devon. It had been months since he’d last heard from his brothers — Kenneth in Nyasaland and Robert in India. He wondered how the war would affect their lives, and his. It seemed likely to end by Christmas, but that was only a guess. Anne had put off her visit to England and was a volunteer at a hospital in Nairobi …

  Suddenly there was heavy pounding on the door. He thought the end had come, at least in this frontier town of Kikono. He gave himself a moment to dress. How would he surrender, what would he say? When he opened the door, a tall figure strode past him carrying a lamp. A shorter, African man followed. The lamp was put on the table and Corbin faced the intruders. The door was open, he could feel the cool air, hear the sounds of more men beyond it.

  In front of him stood Maynard, in uniform, hands on hips, a smile on his face, eyes gleaming, perhaps from drink. He looked thin, emaciated. He had lost his moustache, but had a few days’ growth of beard.

  “Captain Maynard! Why —”

  “A drink, old chum. And some information.”

  Corbin produced whisky and glasses.

  “Surely you’re not with the retreating party?”

  “No. Came straight from Mombasa, via Voi. Intelligence. GSO, if you have to know.”

  The African who had come in with Maynard was in kanzu and cap, evidently a Swahili. The two men outside were invited in; one wore the dress of a Taita villager, the other, in khakis, was a Somali.

  “Place is crawling with agents,” Maynard said, with a sigh. “Voi to Mombasa. Surely you know of the sabotage on the railway line. Our train was fired at on the way from Mombasa. Lost one man, captured two.”

  The war was a godsend for him, a game designed somewhere and set before him to play. When had he arrived back in the country? The war was hardly two weeks old — the War Office must have rushed him back here, with his knowledge of the terrain.

  “How long are you staying?”

  “Not long. We need to talk to a man here. Coolie chap. Nurmohamed.”

  Corbin looked nonplussed.

  “Pipa,” the Swahili, named Shomari, said, a little impatiently.

  “Why, he’s from German East on his way —”

  “Exactly. Could be a spy.”

  “Surely not!”

  “Surely?” Maynard looked at him searchingly, and Corbin couldn’t reply.

  “Just point out the house, old chap.”

  “Over there — next to the mosque — your man probably knows it anyway,” Corbin said, and sat down at the table.

  He finished the bottle, waiting, he didn’t know what for, staring in front of him as he heard first a shout or two, then a door banging. Then came more shouts, a scream from the girl. Mariamu.

  Corbin got up to go, then stopped himself. He realized he could do nothing.

  Pipa’s howl bellowed through the town. It was probably exaggerated, but surely there was cause enough. The rest of the drama, it seemed, would proceed soundlessly, and Corbin waited for it to conclude, as did the rest of the town, which was unusually quiet.

  Finally there were sounds: voices, the dog, footsteps approaching. Maynard’s boots came thumping on the verandah, and he strode in triumphantly and headed for a chair. Corbin, on his feet again, watched him intently for signs of sweat, exertion. Which of them had applied the beating?

  “A drink, I say —”

  “Was the man a spy?”

  “Don’t think so. Now he is. For us.”

  “After the beating?”

  “Don’t be sentimental. The boy is tough. He knows it was necessary. There is a lot in it for him.” He smiled his rabbit smile. “I hear it gets pretty lonely here.… Orders from Voi.” He slapped a letter in Corbin’s hand.

  Voi Station

  15.8.14

  Dear Corbin,

  The bearer is Captain Maynard GSO(1) — whom I believe you know. He will apprise you of the situation. You are to shut down your station and proceed to Voi. Please give him the men he needs and bring the remaining police with you. Take possession of mules and deposit them with Cmdr. F. Coy 4/KAR at Bura.

  W. C. Hobson, D.C.

  “A Government station here would inevitably draw an attack,” said Maynard. “Propaganda victory — not good for us, we could have an uprising. LeBlanc is in Mbuyuni tonight. You could join him in the morning.”

  “Yes, I shall do that. I’ll start preparations right now.”

  “By the way, I met some of your scouts. You trained them well.”

  “Yes … a fine bunch. They knew their job.”

  “The Yao you captured could be the first enemy soldier captured in the E.A. operations — he told us a lot. Well done.”

  Maynard slept in the spare bedroom for what remained of the night. The next morning he met Fumfratti and his scouts, recruited them, and had Pipa brought to him.

  Corbin took with him only the most important papers. Others he burned or packed away in cases. Early in the morning he called a meeting of town elders, impressing upon them that they had nothing to fear, that the town was of no military value, and to be prepared to evacuate if fighting came close.

  He left with a feeling that he was absconding.

  11

  The house that Pipa lived in with his bride, with its small shop-front at the side of the living and bed room, belonged to his wife’s uncle, Jamali, the mukhi. That community s
talwart had effectively shut up the stepfather, Rashid’s, gossip about the wedding night upon threat of ostracism and had given respectability to the young couple. When news of the war came, Pipa had received the ADC’s permission to stay in town and run his pili-pili bizari business, selling kerosene and copra oil, spices and tobacco. Like all the town’s men, he gave up some of his nights to patrol the perimeter of the town.

  It did not take long to reconcile himself physically to his wife. As the number of days of married life increased, her lack of innocence disconcerted him less. Men married widows, divorcees — the best example was God’s own Prophet, as the mukhi reminded him. He had finally had a man-to-man chat with Jamali, who in a very worldly way had scorned his prejudice. The blood that they go around showing after the wedding night — do you think it is always the woman’s, ay? Why not a chicken’s, a goat’s?

  It was late in the night. Pipa and his wife had woken early that day, before dawn, to the distant sounds of guns, and like the rest of the town, had waited in anticipation of whatever else was to happen. At about ten in the morning, news arrived of Taveta’s capture by the Germans. And shortly after that the refugees started coming, those who had fled Taveta and its environs. There had been moments of anxiety in Kikono, but it had quickly become apparent that the fighting was not going to approach them yet. Business had been good. In mosque that evening there had been much discussion about possible evacuation of the town’s population, but it had amounted to nothing. Now having returned from that meeting, and after counting the day’s takings, Mariamu and her husband lay down to sleep.

  He was awakened by a loud banging on the front door, on the shop side of the establishment. He swore at whoever it was, then remembered the war and its uncertainties and became worried. Partly dressed, he opened a panel in the door, and held up a lamp. A man-giant strode in, in boots; then another man, and another. A European and two Africans. They entered without a word but with grim, purposeful faces, and stood around him, their legs firm and spread apart with authority, their accusing eyes upon him. He looked from one to the other, his heart beating in fright, vaguely guessing his crime. In the other room behind the rag curtain his wife stirred. He took a step in that direction, but the African in kanzu, who was evidently a Swahili, pushed him back. The other African, a Somali, took a step towards him and brought his face close to his, meeting his eyes. Pipa barely had time to respond, was recoiling, when the tall, bony Somali gave him a tremendous slap in the face. He fell back, reeling. The presence of the white man emptied him of all courage.

  “Mama! What did you do that for?” He was hurting. He held his cheek.

  They said nothing, but stood watching as before.

  He choked back a sob and lunged half-heartedly at them, more in an attempt to get it over with, whatever it was. He was from German East, that must be his crime. He had carried letters once. But these men could be from either side. Had the Germans already arrived?

  As he came at them, the Swahili hit him with something hard in the stomach — a club — and he heard Mariamu scream. Doubled up, yet strengthened by her presence, he rushed towards the nearest pair of legs, but was felled by another blow. As he lay on his side on the floor, the European took a step closer to him, touching him with a boot, toying with his stomach. He breathed in deep, looked away, waited for the blow that would surely crush his insides and kill him. Mariamu screamed again, ran up to the grinning white man, pounding him with her fists. He shoved her away and she fell down. The two Africans escorted her to the backyard and returned.

  The European was in uniform. He had a huge head, which looked so powerful it could break a wall. He was dusty, his face was flushed, his eyes were red as a drunk’s. His hair was yellow, he grinned like a devil, exuding menace and terror. The Africans stood and watched.

  “Tell me —” began the white man.

  “What have I done? By God, hakia mungu, I have done nothing!”

  “You work for the Germans, our enemies.”

  “Hata! No!”

  “You are lying!” The boot pushed into his stomach, then pulled back, ready to kick in his insides — a thick black boot caked with dry red mud. Pipa’s eyes remained fixed on this instrument of power, of terror, and he groaned, expecting the worst. Suddenly there was a pain so excruciating he thought his world had come to an end, and he screamed uncontrollably, passing out. When he came to, he thought he had been kicked in the groin, then realized the man had stepped on one of his hands, grinding the fingers into the floor.

  “Do you deny having worked for the Germans?”

  “No.”

  “What work did you do?”

  “I brought some letters to post.”

  “Who gave you the letters?”

  “Bwana Rudolfu.”

  “How many times?”

  “Once! Only once!”

  “You are lying!”

  “No!”

  “What did you do with the letters?”

  “I brought them here to the post office … except the one for Bwana Lenz in Mbuyuni.… I was carrying it in my pocket — Bwana Corbin took it.”

  “Tell us about Bwana Rudolfu.”

  “A German. What do I know of him?”

  Did he wear a uniform? … did he have a dog? … how many servants? … did he work at home? … what time did he get up? … was he married? … did he visit women? Which women?

  “Tell us about this Hamisi the Arab.”

  Hamisi was an exiled Arab from Sudan who had escaped a warrant for his arrest for seditious, or anti-British, activities. He had left behind a wife and two children. He was now a teacher and head of a Sufi mystical order in Moshi, where he had another wife and three children and received protection from the Germans.

  “A teacher of Quran. A wife and three children. A kind man.”

  “And?”

  The men were seated now.

  Yes, Hamisi knew Bwana Rudolfu. They were friendly, had long talks late in the night. Sometimes they argued, especially when the Germans tried to force people to eat pig. Bwana Rudolfu went to Hamisi’s for coffee at night … they were friendly, weren’t the Arabs closer to the Europeans?

  How old were the children? they wanted to know. How old were his pupils? … did he write letters? … did Pipa deliver them? … did he teach him? … what else did he teach besides the Quran?

  And Pipa told them what he knew of Hamisi, the Arab who had befriended him.

  The white man leaned forward and looked Pipa in the eye.

  “Listen carefully, you. My name is Maynard. Call me Fisi — what?”

  “Fisi,” said Pipa nervously. Like a fisi, a hyena, he told himself, this giant stalks his prey at night …

  “All right. From now on, you run your shop here. And you be my post office. My own post office. You. In the dead of night, in the shop — anytime — you will get letters for me. Parcels. The man who brings these will say to you, ‘Bones for the Fisi.’ And from time to time a man will come to you and say …”

  He stood up and looked at his companions: “What — what will he say to this our post office?”

  The Somali scratched his head.

  “The Fisi needs bones to chew,” said the Swahili.

  “Right. He will say to you,” the white man eyed Pipa once more, “ ‘The Fisi needs bones to chew.’ And you will give him all you have for me. Ume elewa? Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “You will be paid.”

  “Yes.”

  “If you tell anyone about the Fisi …” Maynard took out a pistol. “Risasi. In the head. Ask these two how many of your tribe I have hanged in Mombasa.”

  Pipa was silent.

  “Ask!”

  “Eti, how many did this one hang?”

  “Two. And shot many in Tanga. And killed one with his own hands, one who refused to obey,” the Swahili man said. “This game is dangerous. It is war. Life has no value. We serve now King George.”

  “You heard,” said Fisi. “Not
one word to anyone. Not even to yourself. Or …” He turned to the Swahili man once more.

  “The owl will hear you and carry your words away.”

  “A mshairi,” said Fisi with a sardonic grin. “Poet.”

  12

  His given name was Nurmohamed — Pipa was the nickname given to the family by the neighbourhood, and it had stuck. It made him feel a lack: of respectability, of a place that was truly home.

  He was simply an Indian, a Mhindi, from Moshi, a town in the vicinity of Kilimanjaro whose masters were the Germans.

  He did not know where he himself had been born or when, in any calendar, German, Arabic, or Indian. Of his father he remembered only a tall thin man with a scraggly beard, a kindly grin on his face as he pulled the boy’s cheeks, saying “Dhaboo.” His father had not died — Nurmohamed could not recall grief, a graveyard. His father had gone away, and the boy carried this knowledge within him like a hidden deformity. He remembered him as Dhaboo, and for years lived in the expectation that his father would return, that one day when he came home from play Dhaboo would be there waiting.

  Of his mother he remembered the long rains in the wet season falling through the cracks in the thatch roof, himself standing with her, shivering in a pool of water, his sister holding his hand. Another scene: squatting in the latrine with his mother, watching a fast and furious stream hit the ground under her and joining with his own wavering little spurt. He had looked in vain at her darkness for a member corresponding to his own, had had his arm smacked for pointing his finger at that mysterious shadow.

  She was beautiful, his mother. An oval face with smooth cheeks and pointed chin, eyes as big as plums. She had a smile in those days. Big haunches and warm breasts and a smell that was all things to him. She had strong legs, and a little swell in the belly, and she was the most mysterious and lovely thing in his life.