A Fool's Knot (6 page)

After a while, however, John noticeably began to relax and talked more freely. He began to ask questions, some of which Helen found quite astoundingly naïve. She found his English difficult to understand and several times switched off her attention whilst he was speaking. Bill again sensed this and effectively repeated everything for her benefit, as if translating, but this only added to the young man's confusion. He asked, for instance, whether all houses in England had running water. Helen, who had heard that question, immediately gave him directions to the toilet, mouthed slowly in what were tantamount to vocal phonetics. “But I think you have not understood,” suggested John after a moment's thought, during which he turned his attention back to his food. “Is it really true, Mrs Goodman, that women here do no work? And is it true that few people bother to grow food to eat? In my village every family has a farm and tries to grow all of their own food. Women do a lot of the work. They do the weeding. The men do the ploughing and planting. Everyone helps in the harvest. All of these houses here have gardens, but nobody grows any food, and yet I understand that many women are mainly just staying at home.”

“I don't quite understand what you mean when you say ‘just staying at home',” said Helen, her voice tinged with both defensiveness and obvious impatience. The man was such a contradiction. Was he being utterly naïve in asking such questions, surely more naïve than any first year law student ought to be? Or was he being provocative, implying that people in suburban Britain ought to be more aware of their privileged status and how little they had to struggle for existence?

“You see, Mrs Goodman, besides bearing children, women in my area must carry wood and water for the household, sometimes from very great distances, sometimes more than five miles. I have lived in Nairobi and seen that for many people life is different from this. But in Kenya, nowhere else is like Nairobi. It is a special place. But here it seems that everyone lives that way. For a Kenyan man, it would seem strange that English men do not require their wives to do more work.” Perhaps John did not realise what he was saying. Perhaps.

Bill, who considered the proposition with some humour, interjected. “I suppose it is rather strange, isn't it, dear? Fancy turning over the front garden?”

“Yes, dear. How interesting. I'll bear that in mind.”

On one occasion John came close to offending and alienating Helen completely. From the start he had insisted on drinking only water. He seemed to regard the wine they drank with sufficient distaste to want to distance himself from it. He was clearly a thirsty man, however, and soon finished the whole jug of water that Helen had provided at table. He was speaking at the time, trying to describe some aspect or other of his home area to Bill, whom he faced. He reached for the jug and began to pour before registering that it was empty. Almost without breaking the flow of words directed at his tutor, he cast a glance aside to Helen and said, “More water.” His stress was placed on the start, with the intonation falling across the words, the flat ending making the phrase a command in Helen's ear. She was visibly and immediately startled, despite her beginning to fulfil the request before pausing to show her shock. But, not wanting to make a scene, she took the jug and refilled it from the kitchen tap. Meanwhile Bill stopped John and explained how he must follow certain rules of politeness in British society and learn to use them constantly. When Helen returned, John apologised, still not understanding what he had done.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I have much to learn and hope that you can help to educate me. ‘Please' is not a word that exists in my language.”

The explanation, though acceptable to Helen as an apology, reinforced her developing opinion that had formed as a result of other things that had transpired. When John spoke of a Kamba woman's life of hard labour and of what she interpreted as his people's lack of politeness, she found it hard to believe how anyone from that background could possibly be regarded as ‘educated'. In fact, John had said nothing to create these images. The meaning was entirely in her imagination and, perhaps, in the collective imagination of her own people, a code of assumptions that few were ever called upon to question.

Later, with the meal finished and the evening still quite young, Bill suggested that the three of them should adjourn to the lounge. John rose, picking up the napkin he had completely ignored until then and used it, after dipping it into his glass, to wipe his hands, as if it were a small towel. Like any other skill, this was another he would have to learn. Immediately, and to Bill's consternation, he expressed his desire to leave.

“Well actually,” said Bill, “I had wanted to talk to you about this piece you gave me today…” So saying he walked briskly into the other room and returned with his sheaf of papers.

But as he re-entered the dining room, a confused-looking John Mwangangi Musyoka confirmed that he must leave. “It is right,” he confirmed. And go he did.

“What did he mean when he said that? ‘It is right',” asked Helen.

“I have not the faintest idea,” admitted Bill. It was not until fifteen years later that Bill would understand. Then, seated in John's father's house and having eaten rice and soup, he watched as the host stood up to announce the end of the meal. “We must leave now,” John whispered to Bill. “It is an insult to the cook to stay when the food is finished. It is like saying the meal was poor and you expect more.”

 

 

 

January 1975

 

Oh Mwanza, John thought. If only life were a mirror! What image would you see of yourself?

Mwanza lived within a whirlwind of his own making. It accompanied him wherever he went and sucked in those unfortunate enough to come within range. To spend time with him was to contract activity like it was an infectious disease. No one was immune, but each person he knew had found an individual way of coping with the challenge. Janet, who saw a lot of him socially, found it best to head straight for an armchair after showing him out. There she would sit for ten minutes or more to convince herself that she was still capable of relaxing. She thought him rather like a dog chasing its own tail, living life by turning ever decreasing circles, always on the move and preferably in two places at once. Nevertheless, he was always warm and hospitable and had invited Janet to eat with his family at home on several occasions. She valued these experiences because it gave her the opportunity to sit and talk with Mwanza's wife, Rose, in her own home, where she felt relaxed. Rose was the opposite of her husband: quiet, restrained, thoughtful and considerate. She was also wise, and Janet had learned much from their conversation.

For Father Michael, who had known him longer, Mwanza's novelty had worn off long ago. The two men met very often, too often for Michael, since, besides being headmaster of a primary school sponsored by the Catholic Church, Mwanza was also a tireless worker for the project, involved in committees for fund-raising and sports events, as well as the compulsory school governors. Invariably, ten minutes of Mwanza left Michael either exhausted or angry. In search of any respite, Michael would make excuses or tell lies about having an engagement with someone else, just to get away from the man. Michael would bid goodbye, usually three or four times out of sheer necessity, and then, without risking a single backward glance, would make a dash for his motorcycle, muttering, “Stupid whore,” under his breath. On a number of occasions, a mile down the road with his throttle full open, Michael had realised that he had left Mwanza alone in the mission, having offered the excuse that he, Father Michael, was in a rush to get home. One could rest assured, however, that Mwanza would simply move on to his next appointment without ever registering the contradiction. Mwanza's fame was universal and everyone would express the same opinion when his name was mentioned. “That man talks very much.”

John, on the other hand, had only recently met him and had grown quickly impatient. He had tried repeatedly to impress upon him that the District Officer was a very busy man, that he had business to attend – a rank untruth that day – and that he had expected him to have prepared a written statement that could be read verbatim to the court. But no, Mwanza had monopolised the morning and left it, along with John Mwangangi, tired, limp and unproductive. John had been informed about the productivity of each family's farm and the headcount of goats and cows owned by each of the farmers. He had been told about a brother of one of the accused, who led the singing in church every Sunday by beating time on a five-string guitar, which he had traded some years before for a copy of the Concise Oxford Dictionary made redundant by his leaving school. John had heard more, and more and yet more.

Eventually John had raised his arms and demanded he stop, following this with a sharp slap of the palms on his desk. “Mr Mwanza!” John had pleaded. He found the silence that followed such unexpected bliss that he refused to break it for some time, but when he continued, his words were almost shouted. “I invited you to this office today in your capacity as head of Nzawa Primary School. I stated clearly in my letter that I wanted you to provide character references for the students from your school who are now in custody, and also for the two teachers who have brought the action against them. Since it is merely an administrative matter, please return to Nzawa, write the references and send them by mail to me at this Office, DO Mwingi. If you can manage to complete them by tomorrow, then you can send them to me via my Land Rover, which will pass through Nzawa in the afternoon on the way back from Kathiko. I will instruct the driver to call at the school and ask for you. Thank you, Mr Mwanza.”

And with that John rose to his feet and offered his hand across the desk. Mwanza shook hands and left, giving the door an unintentional but almighty slam. He mounted his bicycle and set off along the road, ringing his bell almost constantly and greeting all passers-by, like some be-wheeled town crier. Before he had cycled a quarter of a mile, he met Janet, dismounted, and set off back along the road with her to return to John Mwangangi's office.

John heaved a massive sigh of relief when Mwanza left. He sat quietly for a minute or more to collect the thoughts that Mwanza had scattered and then, half-turning in his chair, he leaned back to push open the sliding door in the wall. “Syengo,” he called, “you can take lunch now.”

Syengo replied quickly, causing John to turn just a little more so that he could see through the hatch and scan part of Syengo's front office. “Sir, there is a teacher here to see you.” John's heart sank as he caught sight of Mwanza hovering in front of Syengo's desk. “Shall I send her in?” There was no answer. “She has come all the way from Migwani to see you, sir. It's about the disturbance at Nzawa School.”

John looked at his watch for a moment, relieved that at least it wasn't Mwanza who again wanted another audience. “Send her in.”

Janet entered the office to find John reopening the file on the case. It was already thick with papers. On seeing her, he stopped abruptly, his impatience instantly changing to a warm smile of recognition. “You are... Miss Rowlandson from the secondary school in Migwani?”

“That's right. I am very pleased to meet you again, Bwana Mwangangi.”

There followed some minutes of light conversation. “We met about a month ago, I think. Yes, it was after your school's
Harambee Day
,” he said. His voice had a lightness of tone that almost communicated relief. “Father Michael introduced us.” He enquired about her impressions of Kenya, of how she had come to teach in Migwani and how she found teaching Kenyan children compared to English. They even shared a few words about London, a place both of them knew intimately, it seemed. It was Janet who feigned impatience this time.

“Bwana Mwangangi,” she said, “do you think we could get down to business? A friend of mine is waiting for me outside and we are going to have lunch together.”

Remembering his own impatience with Mwanza, John apologised and invited her to state her business.

Janet explained that she had been told a student of hers had been arrested following the disturbance at Nzawa. She had come to ask whether the student might be released so that he could attend an important interview for a place in the Village Polytechnic in a few days' time. She, herself, would provide any bail that might be necessary. She had brought the money with her.

“Let me first check if we have in fact arrested your student. A lot of those originally detained were sent home after the identification parade. What is the boy's name, Miss Rowlandson?”

“Joseph Munyolo,” she replied, straining in her chair in an attempt to read the names on the paper John held.

“Let's see,” he said as he prepared to read the list. “Kiloo Mbiti, Mbusya Mwanga, Kimanzi Munovo…”

“That's him,” said Janet.

John said nothing, He looked at her across the desk in some confusion. “I thought you said his name was Munyolo?” He stressed the second name and then spelled it out.

“His Kamba name is Kimanzi,” said Janet. “Joseph Kimanzi Munyolo. That's him, all right. The police officer who wrote down his name must have spelt it wrongly.”

John scanned every paper in the file, seeking out every reference to the boy. It took time. Janet suspected that he was deliberately stalling. She started to fidget, running her thumb along the edge of the desk. “There is some mistake,” he said. “The name is Munovo throughout, not Munyolo. I cannot make an order for release on bail if there is any confusion over the prisoner's identity.” He began to flick back through the papers.