A Fool's Knot (26 page)

“But you have only just arrived.”

His words made no difference. It was clear that she was not going to stay in the house while he was there and, without saying another word, she brushed past him and set off on her way. As this half-sister of John Mwangangi made her way purposefully along the path that led gently at first up the valley side towards her own home, Michael watched her progress unaware of the fact that he would never see her or indeed any other member of her family again.

Michael wandered around the house, buildings and the farm for a long time before he decided to leave. He became lost to time, sauntering apparently aimlessly from one area to another, visiting some places several times, but seemingly inspecting them anew on each visit. Eventually he drank some water from the bottle he had brought in his haversack, and set off in the direction of Museve and its beautiful hilltop chapel, today shrouded in August mist. It would take him several hours to climb the steep paths to the top, but once there he would approach the altar like a pilgrim begging for guidance in this time of crisis.

The climb sapped his strength. During his leave at home in Ireland he had spent too much time in an armchair putting on weight. Stopping smoking had not helped, since he nibbled more as compensation. But that aberration was now behind him. Nevertheless, as he made steady progress over the loose stones of the path, the ascent seemed easier that day than it had almost two years before under the October sun. Both he and John had sweated away every breath from their body to climb the hill in time to reach the top to keep their appointment with the priests from the district. Many had assembled there to celebrate the consecration of this small church by the Bishop of Kitui. For years he had promised Kitui Diocese a small chapel, both intimate and secluded, where true Christians might gather to share retreat. At last it had been built. A group of the more practically minded priests had spent three years designing and then building the small church with their own hands. The town's Village Polytechnic had helped with advice and, more than that, had surprised everyone at the last minute by providing a complete stained glass window, when all they had been asked for was a welded skeletal frame. Though crude, its colour was to become a relief to eyes all too accustomed to the drabness of grey concrete inside and outside to the monotony of the scrub.

That day the chapel was declared open and a sacred place by the words of a solemn mass spoken by Bishop John O'Hara. John Mwangangi, the only layman present, had been invited by the Bishop as a result of a donation he had made towards the cost of the building soon after he had returned to Kenya to become the Mwingi District Officer. John's motives, as ever, had been beyond reproach. He personally wanted to do something to repay the debt he believed he owed to the church for his education and, of course, the even greater personal debt he undoubtedly owed John O'Hara, himself.

The service was short and simple, an unadorned consummation of one man's dream. Afterwards they retired outside to the hilltop to reflect, as only priests can, on a passage from the Bible, a passage specified by O'Hara in his brief sermon. The quiet of the hilltop, the gently wafting cool air and the vastness of the earth below captured the collective imagination and held all in silent melancholy for some time. John, like the priests, found his own solitude while sitting on a rock just under the leeward lip of the summit.

Later, one by one, they all returned refreshed to the church, where a group of nuns had laid out food. Now it was time to talk, to eat and to congratulate one another on the success of the occasion. John, however, was incapable of adhering to such a rigid schedule, and still toiled with the issue he had contemplated during his seclusion. Now he could share it with the others. At his side, Michael spoke from utter innocence in the wide-eyed way that only Michael knew. Facing him, John O'Hara, inhibiting Michael a little by his mere presence, spoke from his intimate knowledge of John's life, the vital quality of which Michael would forever remain ignorant.

“Father John,” said John, still unused to referring to his mentor as ‘My Lord Bishop'. “I seem to be out of touch with the church's teaching nowadays. Don't misunderstand me,” he qualified quickly, “I have kept my belief and both my wife and daughter are believers. But what I want to ask is this. What is the church's current teaching on circumcision?”

A few of the priests laughed a little, while others grimaced at their snacks when John mentioned the word. A few comments passed back and forth, but for John O'Hara the only image that filled his mind was that of the young John Mwangangi, almost bleeding to death while his father almost dispassionately shaved a stick with his knife on the far side of the compound. “There is no written policy, John,” said O'Hara. “In my opinion – and opinion is all I can give – unless a boy is suffering medical problems, well ought to be left alone.”

“But here,” interrupted Michael, “an uncircumcised boy grows up believing he can never have children. What's more he is mocked by his peers – men and women alike. They call him a little boy, whatever his age.”

“I know,” O'Hara replied. “That's exactly the kind of idea that we in the church should be trying to challenge.”

“I think,” offered Michael, “that too many time-honoured truths might be dying out as it is, dying out before any viable alternative has emerged.”

“That is why the church sponsors the establishment of schools,” said Bishop O'Hara. “That, for instance, is one reason why we teach such things as biology in those schools, so that children will be exposed to some rational ideas that might dispel some of the myths.”

“With respect,” said Michael, “I feel that what children profess to learn in school and what they do in their lives outside the school are two different things. I sincerely doubt whether any amount of reassurance in biology classes would make a boy think even twice about seeking circumcision and initiation. We know so little about customs such as this. We are still never allowed to witness the ceremony. In my opinion we ought to bring practices such as these into the church…”

Before John O'Hara's temper could burst upon Michael, Mwangangi interrupted forcefully. “My friends, I am afraid I have not been clear. You have rather missed my point.” Having paused a short while until assured of the group's total attention he continued, “I was not referring to the practice of circumcising boys. What I meant – and I apologise for not making this clear – was the circumcision of girls.”

The entire group was silent for a while. Then Bishop O'Hara spoke. “It's a savage and barbaric custom. I have no reservations whatsoever in saying that, Mwangangi. I would not accept the custom as a young priest and, after all these years, I remain as firmly opposed to it as ever.” His voice was strong and, as was often the case with O'Hara, suggested anger. Too many times he had heard of young girls slipping off from school dormitories at night to be circumcised, because their headmistress had refused them the time off school. Some, having limped and stumbled a bloody way back to school, had developed infections and would possibly have died had they not come forward to seek treatment. And how many others bore scars stoically and without complaining, because that was what was expected of them? “What's more,” he continued, speaking almost through gritted teeth, “a woman has to live with the scars. I have known many women ruined psychologically, rendered eternally guilty in marriage by this, its precondition. Some are so ashamed they will only speak of it during a blind confession.”

Michael, who had remained silent as if listening intently, broke in to speak without interrupting. “I believe,” he said softly, “that, like male circumcision, female circumcision is a valuable, useful and perhaps essential part of the life of these people. To ignore that would be stupid. To condemn it might cause as many problems as it might solve. To condone it, therefore, is all we can do. It is part of people's lives. It is important to them and we are not here to strip people of their culture, but to incorporate them as they are into our church. When we receive them, we receive their culture as well. It's a single package. The enrichment of the association will work both ways.”

Mwangangi, deep in thought, offered nothing. His question had been answered, but inconclusively.

“Why do you ask, Mwangangi?” asked John O'Hara, who still spoke to the District Officer as if he were a child.

“No reason,” he said. “I was just interested.”

 

***

 

That day, almost two years ago, the chapel and its surroundings had buzzed with celebration and conversation. Today, Michael was alone in that place. The only sound was the howl of the wind across the summit ridges. The small church was deserted save for himself who had approached alone, like a private pilgrim revisiting a place whose associated memories he now wanted to forget. Kneeling before the altar, he recalled his exchange with Bishop O'Hara and John, and begged God to tell him what his future purpose might be. He had been a priest in this area for over six years and throughout he had done what he believed to be right, what he judged to be in the common interest of both the church and the people whom it tried to serve.

Suddenly, the events of that week had brought everything into question. All he had done, all he had thought and all he had tried to accomplish, once so clear and thus passionately pursued, all of this was now in question. Looking back, all the clues to the tragedy were there. Why did he never see them? Why could he never interpret them? He had begun to see himself as a mere fool trying to untie another fool's knot. He needed guidance, and the only place he could possibly search was within.

 

 

 

April 1976

 

It was good that Bill could see the place like this. During the previous two weeks, when Bill had travelled with his hosts to the coast, the miraculous seasonal transformation of Migwani had again taken place. Rain had watered the earth and begun the cycle of life that for a month would rush ahead with great momentum until over the span of a few days it would come to an equally abrupt halt. Everything was suddenly green. Hard brown earth still showed through the carpet of short blades of grass, but the general impression obtained from a glance was now unquestionably green. Everything had suddenly begun to grow at great speed, as if knowing that time was precious and that life's full cycle had to be compressed into a few short weeks.

They arrived in Migwani at lunchtime, having opted to take a circuitous route from the coast so that Bill could see more of the country. Their timetable had been exhausting, spending no more than a few nights in each place and having visited game parks, beaches, coral reefs and all the other things that the investigative tourist could uncover. All four of the travellers were, in fact, tourists. The places John had chosen so carefully to form his perfectly planned itinerary had been as new to him as the others. John confessed to Bill that he had travelled through more of Europe than his own country. Before departing on their tour, Bill had received this with total disbelief, accrediting the statement to John's eternal modesty and understatement. As the excursion progressed, however, it became obvious to all that John felt as much a foreigner with the Swahili or Somali people of the coast as Bill did. Even with the advantage of sharing a common language, John displayed a manifest apprehension at dealing with these people who, in Bill's eyes at least, seemed a model of friendship and politeness. Most surprising of all for Bill was John's absolute refusal to consider staying in local lodging houses, which seemed to fill the towns they visited. From Mombasa through Malindi and on to the island gem of Lamu, John had insisted on staying in the kind of hotel that catered for foreign tourists – primarily a multitude of loud Germans – at fifty times the price of the small, Swahili-owned counterparts.

At first Bill wondered whether John might be so insistent on his behalf, as if to protect his European visitor from the discomfort of a crouching Arab toilet or the indignity of paying only seven shillings for a night's lodging. But it did not take him long to realise that it was Lesley Mwangangi who was making the rules. She seemed uncomfortable with anything other than Western-style hotels, food or facilities, so much so that he was prompted to ask her directly how she had ever coped with life in Mwingi. A self-conscious smile and change of subject was her clear answer.

The oasis town of Garissa had provided the only problem since, isolated in the desert as the last outpost on the road to an unfriendly Somalia, it was well off the tourist run and possessed no accommodation John was willing to try. Here, however, he had taken the trouble to plan ahead having, some weeks beforehand, written to the District Officer in the area to request his assistance. John had frequent professional dealings with the man, a Mr Makau, a fellow Mukamba, whilst he had lived in Mwingi. Though separated by over a hundred miles, the two towns of Mwingi and Garissa were, by some stretch of the imagination, regarded as neighbours, and this necessitated much communication between civil servants based there. Bill found Makau, a man much older than John and a retired Chief of a town in Kitui District, quite distasteful. Bill was totally captivated by what he regarded as the unspoilt culture and tradition of the coast, especially in Lamu, where the monsoon winds had brought the timeless wooden dhows of Arab traders from Saudi Arabia and the Persian Gulf. Around Garissa, he had photographed anonymous men, their heads and bodies covered in long white shrouds, as they rode camels to market. Makau, however, tried to douse this enthusiasm with his words of experience. Having lived in that place, he explained, for five years, he had come to regard the locals with extreme distrust, almost as enemies. Besides being ‘backward' and unwilling to accept the changes which development necessitates, he criticized the Somali pastoralists for trying to assert their own identity on policies for the area, policies that had been handed down from the authority of central government. If these people had their way, Makau had explained in his forceful voice which implored agreement, they would separate their land from Kenya.