The Gunny Sack Page 5

  A table was set under the mango tree at the end of the village; behind it on chairs of local manufacture sat Bwana Wasi and Herr Lambrecht—or Rambureshi as he was locally called. To one side sat Bwana Khalfaan, guarded by Daudi Amin. On the same side, a little further away, sat the twenty-odd askaris. Facing the table were the villagers. Except for the Europeans everyone sat on the cool ground. The rainy season was at hand and before the hearing the ground had to be cleared of its carpet of caterpillars.

  Bwana Wasi began by summoning Daudi Amin before him. Amin was a huge, fair-skinned askari, a dumé of a man, as the crowd observed audibly, with the blood of many races in him.

  “Askari Amin,” said Bwana Wasi. “You have identified Bwana Khalfaan, a resident of Matamu, as one of those you saw inciting people to take the Maji Maji oath in Mafinga. Tell us the particulars.”

  “Yes, Bwana. On the night in question, I and my fellow askaris were on guard at the boma outside Mafinga under Herr Lambrecht. We had heard of the disturbances in other areas. Lately we had heard that a group of men was on its way bringing with them the medicine. So we were prepared. On this night we were woken up by heavy footsteps and dogs barking outside. A man cried out in pain and there was a scuffle outside. Then my men brought in this fellow Abdurehman, an Arab. He had been bitten by a dog as he was trying to enter the boma, and he was crying and swearing in Arabic. ‘Wé Abdurehman, what are you doing here at this time of night? Do you also steal, koni?’ we asked him in some anger because he had woken us up. He said that a group of men had arrived quietly that evening and were going around the houses ordering people to take the oath. His neighbour Shaban Mrisho had refused, saying Herr Lambrecht knew him and would surely find out and hang him. This Shaban Mrisho was a Swahili businessman who supplied our boma and was on good terms with us. ‘Well,’ said Abdurehman, ‘as soon as Shaban Mrisho refused, someone angrily thrust a spear in his stomach, and he fell, saying Aiiiiii … now why did you do that?’ It turned out that Abdurehman, as soon as he heard that the Maji Maji men had come, went to Shaban’s house to hide, because being an Arab he thought he would be molested. From behind a curtain, hiding in the women’s quarter, he saw and heard all this.

  “When he had heard this, Herr Lambrecht sent me and three other askaris to assess the situation. We started towards the village, but on our way we heard voices and we saw a lamp burning in a clearing to our right. We went and hid behind some bushes. From there we saw this man Khalfaan making a speech.”

  Daudi Amin, standing at ease with his hands behind his back, indicated the mchawi with a nod. The crowd, all this time silent as attendant pupils, sent forth a murmur. “This Bwana Khalfaan kumbe is more than we thought.”

  All this while Bwana Khalfaan had been looking intently at the askari.

  “Watch him carefully,” said a voice. “He’ll transform the yellow dumé into an ant.”

  “A swine.”

  “He’ll transform this whole baraza into an ant’s market.”

  “The whole town into an ant hill.”

  “Aah, quit joking.”

  “This Rambureshi, eti. He is a quiet one.”

  “Like a snake. He controls the whole thing. He’s instructing Bwana Wasi.”

  “Silence!” spoke Bwana Wasi.

  Two askaris made a threatening gesture and quiet returned.

  “What was Bwana Khalfaan saying?” asked Bwana Wasi.

  “He was saying, ‘First they ask us to pay taxes in mhogo; then they ask for goats; now they want rupees. Where can we get rupees? Who is going to buy goats and mhogo when everyone has goats and mhogo? And what is this rupee but a piece of metal to make us go and work on their cotton farms?’ And so on. The crowd was saying ‘Yes! Kweli!’ Then this man said, ‘This here medicine is given to us by a renowned mchawi called Hongo. Drink it and you will become invincible.’ So they drank the water one by one, and they were shouting ‘Maji maji! Homa homa! The Mdachis? Cut their stomachs open!’ and they were dancing up and down with their spears. Then they ate meat and were told not to touch their wives. And not to call things by their names but by certain other names that he gave them. We did not wait longer but returned to report to Herr Lambrecht. There at the boma we loaded our rifles and waited for them. Early in the morning they came, shouting ‘Maji maji! Homa homa!’ and waving their spears up and down. They were carrying twigs and branches and wearing mhogo leaves on their heads. We came out with our rifles but still they kept coming, screaming, ‘Homa homa!’ We were not frightened because we had seen some action in Kilosa and Mpwapwa. We fired in the air, but they kept coming. Then we fired at them, and some died. Others kept coming. We fired again, and many died. Then Herr Lambrecht shouted, ‘Leave this foolishness. It will only cause more death. Throw down your spears.’ And they threw down their spears and we hanged many of them. But this man Khalfaan was not to be seen. We heard from the village that he was not from those parts but was a stranger.”

  Daudi Amin had commanded complete attention. When he finished, the crowd released a sigh or two but remained otherwise silent, their heads raised expectantly at the spectacle before them. Bwana Wasi consulted with Rambureshi and then spoke.

  “Bwana Khalfaan!”

  “Naam?” came the reply.

  Immediately three askaris were on their feet and had pulled the mchawi on his feet. “Stand up, you!”

  “You have heard the askari. Are there any lies in what he said?”

  “Yes.”

  “And any truth?”

  “Yes, some.”

  “Were you in the village of Mafinga at the time he speaks of?”

  “I don’t know what time he speaks of.”

  “Heh. Just look at him!” spoke a voice in the crowd. Two askaris pounced on the speaker and removed him to one side.

  “Khamsa ishrin,” nodded one sage to another.

  “Ai, khamsa ishrin,” came the reply.

  Meanwhile the questioning went on. “Were you ever in that village, then?”.

  “That, I was.”

  “And did you make people take the Maji Maji oath?”

  Silence. A murmur in the crowd. “He should start something now. Watch his eyes. The Mdachi has met his match!”

  “Speak!” said Bwana Wasi.

  Bwana Khalfaan shifted his weight to his left leg and made as if to move. Then he spoke. “I asked them to take the medicine that a great mchawi had discovered.”

  “And so took them to their deaths with bullets that did not melt.”

  “And so took them to their deaths at the hands of mnyamas like this one who shot them and hanged them and cut open their women and burnt their farms.”

  Bwana Khalfaan’s eyes were fixed on Daudi Amin. The crowd stirred, a murmur of “Salaaaalé!” went up, and the askaris stood up.

  “Enough!” said Bwana Wasi and consulted with Rambureshi again. Then he thrust his chest out and spoke.

  “Bwana Khalfaan, you have done a great wrong. I am going to hang you.”

  “Get on with it, then.”

  The crowd stood up and moved back. What will he do now? they wondered. What magic will he invoke? His tricks are many, but his enemy is powerful too. A thick sisal rope was produced, a noose formed at one end and passed around a thick branch of the tree. Another, thinner, rope was brought and Bwana Khalfaan’s hands tied behind his back. The askaris looked at the two Germans. Bwana Wasi looked at Rambureshi, and the crowd said that the latter nodded with his eyes. Bwana Wasi nodded more visibly at the askaris. A tall askari picked up Bwana Khalfaan with great ease, another one slipped the noose past the small head and around the neck. The tall askari with a signal let go of the mchawi and at that instant the hefty Daudi Amin pulled the rope around the branch, and Bwana Khalfaan was left hanging and strangled. “Allah!” went a cry.

  They watched the mchawi hanging from the old scarred mango tree, opposite the house where Bibi Taratibu used to live, under which Huseni and his gang used to loiter. “Truly,” they said, “these Mdachis are
powerful, to vanquish a mchawi like that one. But perhaps some day they will meet one to match their strength. Then we shall see.”

  THE SPIRITS OF TIMES PAST.

  How I came to see Matamu.

  The green lorry races southwards along the coast. On the left, the early morning sun bearing down, already hot, the ocean pounding heavily on the shore in an early tide. Coconut trees, mango, mbuyu flash by on the right, a sparse population of giants, each with its own peculiarity of shape and location, lending an occasional shade to the green and brown landscape; man-sized plots of banana, cassava, cashew; a man chewing on a mswaki, a woman wrapped in colourful khanga, a child running around in circles, nowhere. The road, a thin grey ribbon hugging the coastline at this point, is devoid of life save for the occasional cyclist pedalling away patiently in droll sysiphian rhythm, and this noisy lorry filling the air with its rattling, backfiring and excited voices.

  “When she comes, when she comes …”

  At the back of the lorry—whose sides are marked boldly in white by the proprietors’ name: DEVRAJ BROTHERS LTD—stand the thirty-odd members of Form III B of the Shamsi Boys’ Secondary School, BOSS for short, with some teachers, bound for a Sunday picnic at the plot owned by the Devraj brothers outside the village of Matamu. Voices hoarse with prior singing and excited shouting improvise on an imported tune.

  “She will be dancing with Mr. Gregory when she comes, when she comes …”

  The subject of the song—other than the unnamed but forthcoming lady—sits on a dusty tire with a look of mild boredom on his face, his unlit pipe hanging from his mouth, his Somerset Maugham and Graham Greene pressed down under one knee, protected from the ravages of the wind. Our sanyasi from the West, purveyor of Shakespeare, Macaulay, Dickens to this outpost of the Empire, bringer of light. And an eccentric, even amongst his own kind. His is the eccentricity not of a type, born from a differentness, a mere quaintness, or the nonchalance that comes of a superior station in life. It is the genuine stuff, a rarity anywhere: it is what he is. And the result is his supreme indifference to one and all, to everything around him.

  His appearance, each time encountered, sends an immediate ripple to the brain, a minor shockwave: it does not fit into the order of things. His speech is a low drawl, almost a growl; and he walks slowly, lazily, shuffling along corridors as though under pressure. His khaki shorts come up to his ample middle, and the sleeves of his oversized shirt—white or light blue, old and certainly not recently washed—come down to his elbows, from where two thick, hairy arms dangle at his sides. Sometimes a button missing from his shirt reveals a red patch of skin he is not loathe to scratch, and when he does so, with an intensity that startles by its sudden appearance, he sends a positive tickle down the spines of the Gregory watchers at BOSS. There are those who will swear, as a result, that he never washes. And when, very rarely, he wears an ill-fitting suit, they wonder to what or whom the honour is due. Did you see Gregory?—this visitor must be something, eh? The occasion is the visit of some lord or lady, some highness. So he is not completely free after all, our Gregory, he too feels the occasional pull of invisible chains.

  “She will be wearing pink pyjamas when she comes, when she comes, she will be wearing pink pyjamas when she comes …”

  The lorry swerves to the left, away from the tarmac and on to a grassy trail leading towards the ocean; the occupants at the back are thrown to the right in one motion; after a short distance it stops at the gate. The caretaker is shown a note from the proprietors, the lorry goes in through the gate and stops under a shady tree. The driver gets out and disappears into the bushes, presumably headed for the village and its pleasures; the boys race to the water and let it lap their feet; Mr. Gregory shuffles out, books in hand, beating his clothes to shake off the sand.

  Matamu. Sweet; but what? Opinions vary; it is now part of the character of this town, this question asked only half seriously. Sweet, but what? It’s the water, some will say, from the nearby Mnene, the fat stream; others will point to one of the numerous fruits you can find here. Ma-tamu. The name always had a tart sound to it, an aftertaste to the sweetness, a far off echo that spoke of a distant, primeval time, the year zero. An epoch that cast a dim but sombre shadow on the present. It is the town where my forebear unloaded his donkey one day and made his home. Where Africa opened its womb to India and produced a being who forever stalks the forest in search of himself. It is where Bibi Taratibu, given as a gift for cold nights, was so used and discarded, and then disappeared. Only traces of that past are visible here. It is almost a ghost town, barely hanging together, where one stops for a drink of cold water on a hot day, but not for too long, and buys some fruit if it’s not too softened from lying all day in the sun.

  As you approach it along the beach, the first sight that strikes your eye is that of some ngalawas bobbing on the water or pulled on to the beach; one or two nets stretched out, and perhaps a couple of fishermen mending them. The beach gives way to a swamp, at the head of which lies the village. You can reach the village by skirting the swamp and walking a few hundred yards through the bushes. On the way comes an old house, or rather a broken-down wall, some mounds of red mud, and broken sticks that once were poles. A large house once, an ugly sight now, with old yellow newspaper scraps blowing about, Coke bottles, milk cans, banana peels, coconut husks. Beyond it is the inhabited village. An unpaved street two hundred yards long, lined on both sides with houses and stores, at most three deep. The street ends in a small ground bordered on one side by the paved road—the local football ground. Small alleys lead into the houses behind. There could be nothing sleepier than this village on this hot Sunday afternoon. Perhaps the home team is away. Perhaps there is no home team. The only sign of life is the barber practising his trade on an old customer on the far side under a mbuyu tree.

  The village gets roused. A coconut seller appears magically, then a peanut seller suggestively hissing. A game of bao gets under way on the stone bench outside a large stone house, a coffee seller appears, clinking his vessels. The villagers have decided they might as well do something now that the visitors are here.

  There are three Indian stores and one Arab. The largest is two stores in one, selling cloth on one side, general produce on the other. The cloth store appears dark from the brilliant, sunny outside. Inside—rolls and rolls of cloth standing upright or lying on shelves; khangas of all colours hang neatly, partly folded, from wooden beams and pipes hanging horizontally from the ceiling; khaki and black shorts clipped to a board in two rows for display; frocks hanging from a rack; a clump of baby knickers and bras hand-sewn and brought in from the city. P.T. Somji, says the Coca Cola board outside. P.T. Somji brings water in Coke bottles, from a refrigerator inside, which he normally sells at five cents apiece, and distributes it around. A thin, middle-aged figure in a fishnet singlet and a red and black khanga wrapped round his waist. Two hairy jungles under his arms. What news from the city, hein? Has there been a funeral recently? No—only that of—Hein?—Who? Oh yes, a sad event, that. Silence. Thus he measures the passage of time, keeping tabs on his generation. He is all hospitality. As the Swahilis say, mgeni siku ya kwanza … on the first day treat your guest like a king; to rice and meat. Of course, on the tenth day, when he’s overstayed his welcome, with kicks and blows chuck him out. It is our first day, and he’d love to feed us. We’ve had lunch. The invitation is politely refused, with a profusion of thanks.

  At one time, there used to live and trade here nine Shamsi and seven Bhatia families, the two rival communities on either side of the swamp. Diwali and Idd were celebrated jointly and with great pomp, with processions, dances and feasts; surely a sign, as any, of prosperity and stability. The trade in gum and hides was brisk. To the south, about fifteen miles away at Kitmangau, was another similarly prosperous settlement of Asians. The caravans from Kilwa stopped for rest at either of these two stations, transforming the already busy scene into a bustling one …

  Perhaps the only visible signs of
that period are the ruins of a building, away from the main village. The roof is gone, as are most of the walls. Close by is a huge mbuyu tree, and behind, an old grass-grown cemetery with a few rounded remains of headstones. It is the part of the village no one ever goes to; there is at least one ghost resident there. An eerie feeling descends upon the whole town as grey twilight, grim maghrab, approaches. Then the sun is behind the trees and the sea is dark—but not silent. It is a time that invokes fear in the young and inspires prayer from the old. Mbuyu trees abound in that area. And who doesn’t know the mbuyu, the huge mbuyu with its shade like a cool room under the burning sun, but alas picked by solitary djinns, especially of the variety who like to pray, for their special abode? You would not dare to pass under it at maghrab, lest you step on the sensitive shadow of the ethereal one and are turned into an albino, if nothing worse. And only the most ignorant or the most obtuse would stop to urinate in its inviting shade and risk letting loose a stream on that stern soul as it kneels in pious obeisance. The wrath of such a defiled djinn is terrible. Sometimes at night, at exactly midnight, it was said that you could hear the footsteps of someone walking on the road in that village. No mortal is around at that ungodly hour. My young grandmother Moti, sleepless in her lonely bed, would quietly lower one hand from the sheets, pick up a chappal and smack the floor once, twice with it. The footsteps would recede, hurrying away. I have often wondered: did she ever stop to enquire, before giving up hope, if the approaching footsteps were those of her husband’s ghost returning?

  The building used to be the Shamsi mosque. In 1912, one December morning at five-thirty, Mukhi Dhanji Govindji left the mosque and set out for his house. He took a diversion to walk by the beach, as was his custom, lingered at the water for a while, looking out into the ocean: waves beat on the shore, the sun was rising on the horizon, the fishermen were preparing to set out. Having cast his customary glance at the elemental vastness, as though his earlier meditations at the mosque were not quite enough, he turned inland, walking along the street. It was still dark in the village. As he approached the house, men leapt out from an alley, carrying curved Arab daggers and, going behind him and in front of him, stabbed him in the stomach, in the arms, the chest, the back. He did not have time to call out. A little later he was found by a vendor of breakfast delicacies who was preparing to set out from house to house, calling out her first “Eeeeeeeeeh vitumbuaaaaaaa!” Seeing the man crumpled up at the side of the road, blood and all, she ran up and down the street in panic, crying, “Aaiiiii! Sharriffu has been killed!”