Putting It Together; Turning Sow's Ear Drafts into Silk Purse Stories Part 7

Mike:Why would Nyerere do it? Well, of course, he wouldn't and didn't. So I fictionalized the state of his country's economy and its effect upon the war. It is true that Tanzania was virtually bankrupt in 1979; it isnot true that they couldn't pursue the war; in point of fact, they did pursue it and they won. But if Nyerere felt his army would be stranded without gas and without weapons in an enemy nation, I think he would have done anything to get them out, including agreeing to the fight. Given the fictional context of the story, he had a one-in-a-million chance of winning the fight, whereas he hadno chance of otherwise saving his army. And you don't come to terms with a madman like Amin; people had been trying for 8 years.

Of course you try to pull the reader in the direction you want him to go. Hence, Nyerere is a gentle, thoughtful man; his virtues are extolled, and his faults-and he had his share-are never mentioned. Amin is made to seem a mindless, primal force, both in the descriptions of him and in his actions in the ring. The symbolism is not quite as subtle or felicitous as a b.u.t.terfly's wing, but it's there.

"Are you saying anything other than that the man is befuddled?" No. "Do you ever use this type of portentous key phrase deliberately, and if so when?" Rarely. I prefer scalpels to sledgehammers.

"Vectors. Angles." Why the full stops? For emphasis, as if in his mind he is rattling off a list of what he felt was or was not important. They appear again, a few sentences later, separated by commas rather than periods, for in retrospect they are all the same, rather than differentiated approaches.

The general historical datais true. Certain specifics are not. Such as: his inability to withdraw his army; his conversation with Maria; his college track team; his fistfight with his brother 48 years ago. They all might have been true, given his character, but they were created by the author.

Another deliberate falsehood: Nyerere is actually only one year older than Amin-but having a 57-year-old fight a 56-year-old, even one as strong and brutal as Amin (he really was the former heavyweight champion of the Kenyan army), didn't imply the kind of one-sided contest the story required. So I took two decades off Amin's age.

"Words are far more powerful." Why not "Words have seemed..."? Because at this early point of the story, he truly believes words are more powerful. He is somewhat bemused that, despite a life devoted to the intellect, he has somehow been drawn into this prizefight. He knows that in general terms the result will be meaningless (though in specific terms it will decide the war's outcome.) Machal is the way it is spelled in every African book I have seen. Qaddafi has a plethora of spellings, but I have never seen more than one standard spelling used for every sub-Saharan leader.

Has use of African names proved a problem? Well, if it has, no one has ever told me so. I've done 6 books and perhaps 25 stories set in Africa or with African themes, and that is one complaint I've yet to receive, knock wood.

Nyerere's fleeting thought that he could have bailed out his army by betting on the fight issardonic . It is a fleeting, self-deprecatory reflection, not a meaningful regret.

Why did I split the sections "It is not the same" and "He is crazy"? Good question. Originally they were not split. When I read it over in galleys, I decided to put a s.p.a.ce between them. The reason is not as clear-cut as most of those I have given you, but I think it is valid. It is when Nyerere realizes that Amin is a crazed, illiterate, superst.i.tious barbarian that he thinks he sees a way to defeat him. That is the observation that leads to his (erroneous) conclusion, so I wanted to separate it from the prior paragraph.

I would do it again, but I'm not so tied to it that if the typesetter missed it I'd write him to complain about it.

"Shakespeare might have told him so." This is neither a criticism of Shakespeare by Nyerere (or the author), nor a taunt by Shakespeare. It is Nyerere's rueful realization, after a life devoted to the principle that the pen is mightier than the sword, that, at least in this situation, the principle was wrong. If I were inclined to use sledgehammers, I might have stated it a bit differently, something to the effect that it was one of the more convincing lies that Nyerere had subscribed to.

"Wise" was used much earlier in regard to Kenyatta, because his t.i.tle was Mzee, which in Swahili means "wise old man". Nyerere's final thought, that it will take a wiser Mwalimu than he, simply implies that he had the wisdom to know that he must stand up to the evil Amin symbolizes, but he does not have the wisdom to defeat it, and that hopefully someone who follows himwill possess it.

CompuServe Member #4:I don't think you're addressing the meat of the problem, which is that you're trying to have it both ways: if "Mwalimu" is a morality play, then historical context is irrelevant, and the quotes at the beginning are unnecessary; if it's "alternative history," then the quotes don't do enough to establish the context.

CompuServe Member #2:Irrelevant? What makes you think that?

Mike:I'll tell you whodoesn't think that: the Hugo voters. Check out the finalists from the last few years: 1993: "The Winterberry" by Nick DiChario (an 83-year-old vegetative JFK); "In the Stone House" by Barry Malzberg (Joe Kennedy, Jr.); "Danny Goes to Mars" by Pam Sargent (Dan Quayle).

1992: "Dispatches from the Revolution" by Pat Cadigan (LBJ and other Democrats); "The Gallery of His Dreams" by Kris Rusch (Matthew Brady); "Winter Solstice" by Mike Resnick (Arthur and Lancelot).

1991: "Bully!" by Mike Resnick (Teddy Roosevelt and John Boyes); "The Hemingway Hoax" by Joe Haldeman (Ernest Hemingway).

1990: "Dori Bangs" by Bruce Sterling (Lester Bangs and Dori Seda); "The Return of William Proxmire"

by Larry Niven (Proxmire and Heinlein); "Enter a Soldier; Later, Enter Another" by Robert Silverberg (Pizzaro and Socrates).

Even back at the first Worldcon I ever attended in 1963, the winner for Best Novel was Phil d.i.c.k'sThe Man in the High Castle , about an America that had lost World War II and was divided between its j.a.panese and German conquerors.

I think it's clear that most of the readers have come to the conclusion-one that I obviously share-that you can say something relevant in an alternate history story.

THE LAND OF NOD-1st draft.

by Mike Resnick.

Once, many years ago, there was a Kikuyu warrior who left his village and wandered off in search of adventure. Armed only with a spear, he slew the mighty lion and the cunning leopard. Then one day he came upon an elephant. He realized that his spear was useless against such a beast, but before he could back away or find cover, the elephant charged.

His only hope was divine intervention, and he begged Ngai, who rules the universe from His throne atop Kirinyaga, the holy mountain that men now call Mount Kenya, to find him and pluck him from the path of the elephant.

But Ngai did not respond, and the elephant picked the warrior up with its trunk and hurled him high into the air, and he landed in a distant thorn tree. His skin was badly torn by the thorns, but at least he was safe, since he was on a branch some twenty feet above the ground.

After he was sure the elephant had left the area, the warrior climbed down. Then he returned home and ascended the holy mountain to confront Ngai.

"What is it that you want of me?" asked Ngai, when the warrior had reached the summit.

"I want to know why you did not come," said the warrior angrily. "All my life I have wors.h.i.+ped you and paid tribute to you. Did you not hear me beg you to help me?"

"I heard you," answered Ngai.

"Then why did you not come to my aid?" demanded the warrior. "Are you so lacking in G.o.dly powers that you could not find me?"

"After all these years you still do not understand," said Ngai sternly. "It isyou who must search forme ."

My son Edward picked me up at the police station on Biashara Street and drove me back to his house in the Ngong Hills.

"This is becoming tedious," he said, trying to hide his exasperation.

"You would think they would tire of it," I agreed.

"We must have a long, serious talk, my father," he said as the gate to his property identified our vehicle and vanished to allow us to pa.s.s through. "You have been back only nine days, and this is the fourth time I have had to bail you out of jail."

"I have broken no Kikuyu laws," I said calmly.

"You have broken the laws of Kenya," he said. "And like it or not, that it where you live now." He paused, struggling with his temper. "Look at you! I have offered to buy you a new wardrobe. Why must you wear this ugly oldkikoi ? It smells even worse than it looks."

"Is there now a law against dressing like a Kikuyu?" I asked him.

"No. But thereis a law against creating a disturbance in a restaurant."

"I paid for my meal," I noted. "In Kenya s.h.i.+llings."

"That does not give you the right to hurl your food against the wall, simply because it is not cooked to your taste."

"It was impala," I said. "The Kikuyu do not eat game animals."

"It wasnot impala," he said. "The last impala died in a German zoo a year after you left for Kirinyaga. It was a modified soybean product, genetically enhanced totaste like impala." He paused, then sighed deeply. "If you thought it was impala, why did you order it?"

"The menu said steak. I a.s.sumed it meant the meat of a cow or an ox."

"And yesterday you showed my nephew how to apply thegithani test for truthfulness, and he practically burned his brother's tongue off."

"His brother was lying," I said calmly. "He who lies faces the red-hot blade with a dry mouth, whereas he who has nothing to fear has enough moisture on his tongue so that he cannot be burned."

"Try telling a seven-year-old boy who is being approached by a s.a.d.i.s.tic older brother brandis.h.i.+ng a red-hot knife that he has nothing to fear!" snapped my son. He got out of the vehicle and approached his rectangular brick house as I followed suit. He made a physical effort to restrain his anger. "This cannot go on, my father! I agreed to let you live with us, because you are an old man who was thrown off his world-"

"That is not true!" I said. "I left Kirinyaga of my own volition!"

"It makes no difference why or how you left," said my son wearily. "What matters is that you arehere now. You are a very old man. It has been many years since you have lived on Earth. All of your friends are dead. My mother is dead. If you did not live with me, you would have nowhere to stay, no one to care for you. I am your son, and I will accept my responsibilities, but you must meet me halfway."

"I am trying to," I said.

"I doubt it."

"I am," I repeated. "You own son understands that."

"My own son has had quite enough to cope with since my divorce. The last thing he needs is a grandfather filling his head with wild tales of some Kikuyu Utopia."

"It is a failed Utopia," I corrected him. "They would not listen to me, and so they are doomed to become another Kenya."

"What is so wrong with that?" demanded my son. "Kenya is my home, and I am proud of it." He paused. "And now it is your home again. You should speak of it with more respect."

"I lived here for many years," I said. "I can live here again. It is unchanged."

"That is not so," said my son. "We have built a transport system beneath Nairobi, and there is now a s.p.a.ceport at Watamu, just south of Malindi. We have closed down the nuclear plants; our power is now entirely thermal, drawn from beneath the floor of the Rift Valley."

"You misunderstood me, my son," I replied. "Kenya remains unchanged in that it continues to ape the Europeans rather than remain true to our traditions."

The security system identified us and opened his house to us, and we walked through the foyer to the living room, which looked out over his small walled yard. Even this domicile had been plundered from the Europeans, for it consisted of many rectangular rooms, and all Kikuyu knew-or should have known-that demons dwell in corners and the only proper shape for a home is circular.

Edward activated his computer and read his messages, then turned to me.

"There is another message from the government," he said with a sigh. "They want you to meet with them next Tuesday at noon."

"I have already told them I will not accept their money," I said. "I have performed them no service."

"I know. But we are no longer a poor country. We pride ourselves that none of our infirm or elderly goes hungry."

"I will not go hungry, if the restaurants will stop trying to feed me unclean animals."

"The government is just making sure that you do not become a financial burden to me," said Edward, refusing to let me change the subject.

"You are my son," I said. "I raised you and fed you and protected you when you were young. Now I am old and you will do the same for me. That is our tradition."

"Well, it isour tradition to provide a financial safety net to families who are supporting elderly members,"

he said, and I could tell that the last trace of Kikuyu within him had vanished, that he was entirely a Kenyan.

"You are a successful businessman," I pointed out. "You do not need their money."

"I pay my taxes," he said, suddenly defensive. "It would be foolish not to accept the benefits that accrue to us. You may live a very long time. We have every right to that money."

"It is dishonorable to accept what you do not need," I replied. "Tell them to leave you alone."

"Even if Iwere to tell them, they would not do so, my father."

"They must be Wakamba or Maasai," I said, making no effort to hide my contempt.

"They are Kenyans," he answered. "Just as you and I are."

"Yes," I said wearily. "Yes, I must work very hard at remembering that."

"You will save us both a lot of trouble if you can," said my son.

I nodded and went off to my room. He had supplied me with a bed and mattress, but after so many years of living in my hut on Kirinyaga, I found the bed uncomfortable, so every night I removed the blanket and placed it on the floor, then lay down and slept on it.

But tonight sleep would not come, for I kept reliving the past nine days in my mind. Everything I saw, everything I heard, made me remember why I had left Kenya in the first place, why I had fought so long and so hard to obtain Kirinyaga's charter.

I rolled onto my side, propped my head on my hand, and looked out the window. Hundreds of stars were twinkling brightly in the clear, cloudless sky. I tried to imagine which of them was Kirinyaga, and then attempted, for the thousandth time, to understand what had gone wrong.

We had emigrated there, we who still were Kikuyu rather than Kenyan, and had tried to established a Kikuyu Utopia on that lovely, verdant world. I was themundumugu -the witch doctor-and it is the mundumugu who is entrusted with keeping the customs and traditions of his people.

Things had gone well at first. Not that there hadn't been problems, but they had all been capable of solution. But as time went by, it was almost as if some inexorable force was at work, as if Charles Darwin had only scratched at the surface of things, and that Kirinyaga existed to demonstrate that not only do animals and people evolve, but that societies evolve as well.

"I served you more selflessly than any other," I whispered, staring at a flickering, verdant star. "I gave you everything I owned, everything I was-and you betrayed me. Worse, you have betrayed Ngai.

Neither He nor I shall ever try to find you again."

I lay my head back down, turned away from the window, and closed my eyes, determined to look into the skies no more.

In the morning I went to Kirinyaga-not the terraformed world, but thereal Kirinyaga, which is now called Mount Kenya. It was here that Ngai gave the digging-stick to Gikuyu, the first man, and told him to work the earth. It was here that Gikuyu's nine daughters became the mothers of the nine tribes of the Kikuyu, here that the sacred fig tree blossomed. It was here, millennia later, that Jomo Kenyatta, the great Burning Spear of the Kikuyu, would invoke Ngai's power and send the Mau Mau out to drive the white man back to Europe.

And it was here that a steel-and-gla.s.s city of five million inhabitants sprawled up the side of the holy mountain. Vehicles spewed pollution into the atmosphere, and the noise of the city at work was deafening. I walked to the spot where the fig tree had once stood; it was now covered by a lead foundry.

The slopes where the bongo and the rhinoceros once lived were hidden beneath the housing projects.

The winding mountain streams had all been diverted and redirected. The tree beneath which Deedan Kimathi had been killed by the British was only a memory, its place taken by a school for handicapped children.

I walked further up the holy mountain. Not a single tree remained, not a flowering shrub, not an animal larger than a mole rat. The summit was usually hidden beneath a layer of clouds, but today the clouds were elsewhere, and I could see that the city reached all the way to the top of the mountain, covering the eternal snow on its peak from view.

And now I realized why Kenya had become intolerable. Ngai no longer ruled the world from His throne atop the mountain, for there was no longer any room for Him there. Like the leopard and the golden sunbird, like I myself many years ago, He too had fled before this onslaught of black Europeans.

"Good morning, Grandfather," said my grandson, as he sat down at the breakfast table.

"Jambo, Joshua," I replied.