Echoes From A Distant Land Part 31

Jelani remembered Gikuri as a prankster at the government school. He was always receiving a thras.h.i.+ng from one or other of the teachers because of his practical jokes.

After finding out that Gikuri had only just arrived, Jelani asked about his family back home.

Gikuri became solemn. 'Your father, Karura,' he said. 'They took him to gaol.'

'Gaol?'

He couldn't believe it. His father was a loyal supporter of the white's rule of law. Even after the government took away his farm, he maintained that the years following the whites' arrival were the most peaceful that he, or any of the elders, could recall.

'Who took him to gaol?

'The administration police,' Gikuri answered. 'He did not pay his poll tax.'

'But he always pays his taxes.'

'There was much sickness in the village at that time. Even your mother and her sister-wives had been poorly. Your father had no crop to sell and could do no work for many weeks, so when the collector arrived, he could not pay.'

'What of Mr Cook? Surely he could help until my father was well?'

Gikuri shook his head. 'He said there was already too much indolence.'

'What is indolence?'

'I don't know. I think it means not paying tax when you should.'

'Then what of our friends? Our neighbours? Could they not help my parents?'

Gikuri shrugged. 'Nowadays people only seem to look after themselves. Not like when we were all in the village together.'

Jelani was disgusted with his former neighbours and felt bad about himself. In the three years since leaving Cook's farm he'd not returned home to give them the money he'd promised. When he was cleaning shoes in Nairobi he had no money for anything; and when he was with the railways there, he had no leave. Now, in Mombasa, he had excused himself by saying it was too far to travel. But he had managed to save a little. He would find the time to take some money home.

'It is shameful that we Kikuyu can't help each other as we did in the old days,' he said. 'Is my father at home again?'

'I don't know. My family sent me here soon after the askaris took him. They are also worried about paying their taxes. They hope I can find a job to send money to them.'

'Have you found anything?' he asked.

'No. Nothing.'

'How do you live?'

Gikuri nervously s.h.i.+fted his stance. 'I have nothing, and I was hoping that you might ... might help me until I find something.'

Now that he'd roundly condemned others for selfishness, Jelani could scarcely refuse, but it meant his mother and father would have to wait a little longer for their money.

Jelani discussed Gikuri's situation with his dormitory mates at the East African Harbours and Railways school. They agreed to have Gikuri sleep under Jelani's bed so long as they were not implicated in the scam, but as soon as Gikuri took up residence he was an immediate favourite. He had amazing mimicry skills and, within a couple of days of moving in, he could impersonate everyone in the dormitory.

His favourite subject, and that of his dormitory audience, was Nasar Visram - the Indian gang leader on the railways' wharf at Kilindini. He was a huge man and one with a very short temper. Gikuri would mimic Visram's ambling gait and out-thrusting belly as he strutted up and down the wharf. It took Visram some time to discover why the young trainees were laughing at him. When he spotted Gikuri in action he flew into a rage and chased him all over the wharf. Gikuri would let him almost reach him before he eluded him, to his friends' even greater amus.e.m.e.nt.

Jelani warned Gikuri to take care. 'If he ever catches you, you will be in trouble.'

'Catch me? That fat fart. He couldn't outrun a turtle.'

Jelani liked Peter Gikuri. It was impossible to offend him, and he could always find the bright side of any situation.

When he wasn't taunting the likes of Visram, Gikuri carved wooden images and strung together coloured beads with the intention of selling them at the market.

When he'd stockpiled what he deemed to be a suitable collection, he showed Jelani and asked him his opinion.

'Of your carvings, or your bead work?' Jelani asked.

'Both.'

'Hmm ... Well, your carvings are interesting. I like that one of an elephant.'

'It's a rhino.'

'Really? Doesn't a rhino have only one horn?'

'That's his ears.'

'Oh, well.'

'Maybe I need to do a little more carving to make the ears smaller.'

'That would help.'

'What about my beads?'

'I think you had better concentrate on your carvings.'

'You don't like my beads?'

'Your carvings are bad, but your beads are worse.'

Gikuri spent the next week improving his work and took it to town the next market day.

Later that day he came back with the same items he'd carried in that morning, but as usual, he was not discouraged. He soon had his friends in the dormitory laughing as he recalled in detail the many insults he received about his carvings and beadwork.

Nasar Visram grabbed Jelani by the arm as he was on his way to cla.s.s.

'You,' the big man hissed. 'Listen to me. Your little Kikuyu friend is very funny. But you tell him that if I catch him he will not be laughing for long. He will be very, very sorry.'

Jelani looked up into his eyes and had no doubt Visram meant it.

Later, he told Gikuri what had happened.

'Laugh? Who does he think he is to tell me not to laugh? I will always laugh. I will laugh in his face if he comes near me. Does he think he can make me afraid of him? The big fart. No.'

Jelani's language skills won him a part-time clerical position in the administration's head office on his days off training. He sorted and filed management correspondence circulating to and from the many outposts of the railways' network.

The job also gave him access to the railway administration's reports on current events affecting railway operations. As such, it was a good source of economic and political commentary - topics of increasing interest to Jelani, who still worried about his parents' life on Cook's farm.

Kenya was undergoing many changes in both the rural areas and urban centres. In the cities and towns it was a period of industrial unrest. During the previous years, Indian and African leaders emerged to voice their discontent - and that of their fellow workers - about the harsh employment conditions forced upon them in city-based industries. Many of the African workers were struggling to earn enough to pay their way in the cities and at the same time support family members back home in the villages.

The city workers had a lot in common with young men - like Jelani - from upcountry, who had seen their families forced from their traditional homes to become landless squatters on farms largely owned by poor white soldier-settlers. These mainly British newcomers needed cheap labour to wheedle a living out of their small, inefficient plots; and many imposed unreasonable working and pay conditions upon their squatters.

Jelani started to take notice of the union men who occasionally came to the training inst.i.tute at lunchtimes to drum up support for their cause, but it took an issue unrelated to wages and conditions for Jelani to become more involved in their activities.

Peter Gikuri had found some casual work on the wharf and left one afternoon to do two hours' cleaning at the warehouse supervisor's office. When he hadn't returned by ten o'clock, Jelani became worried and walked the short distance to the wharf under the light of the half-moon.

He easily eluded the askaris guarding the gate, and headed to the warehouse. The lights were still on in the cavernous building, and Jelani softly called Gikuri's name. There was no reply. Jelani imagined he had waited for the last of the warehouse employees to leave, then found a comfortable hiding place to take a nap. He called louder.

Nothing.

He searched the aisles piled high with bagged produce, boxes and crates until he found Gikuri lying on the stone floor, his broom beside him, in a pool of blood.

Jelani could barely recognise him. His face was bloodied and broken and he moaned when Jelani lifted him to his feet.

'Who did this?' he asked.

One eye oozed blood and was swollen shut. Gikuri smiled, revealing broken and missing teeth.

'You wouldn't believe it, but that fat fart can move like a cat.'

Gikuri tried to laugh and then winced, holding his ribs. They staggered together for a hundred yards before Gikuri could go no further. Jelani hoisted his arm over his shoulder and half walked, half carried him to the gate. The askaris refused to help him find a doctor.

'But he works here,' Jelani insisted.

They turned their backs.

By the time Jelani and his three friends from the dormitory got Gikuri to the hospital, he was unconscious.

Jelani sat in the semi-darkness of the emergency ward and tried to put together what might have happened. Visram obviously arranged or found out about Gikuri's cleaning job, and ambushed him. Jelani could imagine Gikuri taunting him as the big man beat him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of victory. From the appearance of his injuries, the attack had been prolonged and vicious.

Jelani sent the others home and sat through the night, waiting for a report of his friend's condition. n.o.body came to him so around seven the following morning, he found a doctor, who looked up the medical report from the previous night.

'Your friend has internal injuries. Ruptured spleen, three broken ribs, a punctured lung. Multiple contusions.' He flicked the page and looked grim. 'Was he involved in a car accident?'

Jelani shook his head. 'No. Will he be all right?'

The doctor shook his head. 'It's hard to know. He has a haematoma, bleeding in the brain. We need to see him awake to determine the extent of any brain damage. All we can do at the moment is wait.'

A week later, with Jelani at his bedside, Peter Gikuri died. He had never regained consciousness.

CHAPTER 36.

The small item on page five of the Mombasa Post caught Jelani's eye.

The Coroner's Court on Thursday 21st September ruled that the death of Mr Peter Gikuri, lately of Embu District, was caused by misadventure. A spokesman for the East African Harbours and Railways Authority advised that Mr Gikuri had made an unauthorised entry into the Kilindini warehouse with the intention of committing theft of goods. He had fallen while trying to elude the security personnel.

That night Jelani couldn't get the words unauthorised entry out of his head. Now he could see that Nasar Visram had planned the whole thing. He knew Gikuri would be in the warehouse and, when he'd cornered him and beat him almost to death, he reported the incident as an attempted robbery. It was the reason why the askaris on the gate would have nothing to do with Jelani when he asked for help.

The next day he skipped his cla.s.ses and, with a friend's help and two hours in the headquarters' print room, they produced fifty posters promoting a rally and memorial service for Peter Gikuri.

Jelani spent the rest of the day distributing his posters, nailing them to posts and walls all over the wharf area and the East African Harbours and Railways compound.

Late that night he planned his speech and grew cold at the thought of standing in front of so many people. He'd always been self-conscious about his colour and never craved attention. For a brief moment he regretted his rash decision to hold a rally, then remembered Gikuri's battered face and terrible injuries: he resolved to carry it through for his friend.

Jelani climbed onto a table placed in the centre of the dormitory compound for him. Surrounding him was the entire student population, a group of stevedores, and a few whites, who stayed well away from the centre of the gathering.

'You have all seen the newspaper report,' Jelani said in a loud voice, brandis.h.i.+ng a page of the Mombasa Post. 'Death by misadventure, it says. And, Gikuri made an unauthorised entry to steal goods. Did you hear that? Unauthorised entry. Isn't it enough that they allow Gikuri to be beaten to death, without making him into a thief?'

A torrent of angry voices arose from the crowd.

Jelani returned to the article. 'He had fallen while trying to elude the security personnel. I was there that night, my friends. We all know the askaris stay sitting at their gate. But someone came up to Peter Gikuri, who was legitimately working that night, and murdered him.'

He'd strayed from his prepared speech, which was more of a eulogy, but his fury and resentment swept him onwards.

'We all know Peter, and we all know he had one enemy. Before he died he told me the name of the person who beat him to the point of death. Will we stand for this?'

A roar went up.

'Are we going to allow them to do this to our friend Peter Gikuri?'

'No!'

Now he had no idea how to bring the rally to any other conclusion than to bring Visram to justice.

'Will you march with me to the house of the murderer?'

'Yes!'

Jelani waved them to follow him and, before leaping down from his platform, noticed that the white men at the back of the crowd had gone.

When Jelani's crowd of students and sympathetic workers arrived at Nasar Visram's house in Owen Road, they found another group of protesters already there. According to their banners and handmade placards bearing scrawled slogans, they were members of two groups: the Labour Trade Union of East Africa and the Kenya African Union.

A short but strongly built man with a rimless beaded hat was addressing the crowd in Swahili through a loud-hailer. Jelani could sense the tension in the gathering. The line of administration police forming a cordon around the house appeared to be very nervous.

'It is not enough that the government denies our just calls for a fair day's pay for a fair day's work,' the man in the beaded cap cried. 'But now they deny justice to our fallen brother - a young man not long from his home and now murdered by one of his supervisors.'

He gave a surprisingly accurate summary of Gikuri's life in the village - he'd obviously prepared well for his address - and described how difficult it was for Africans in rural areas to survive under the heel of the colonial government.