Joseph and his two young friends from the neighbourhood stared at me, the latter having taken fright at my outburst. They had begun to play soccer, and I had obviously overreacted to the sounds of what turned out to have been the spoiled machinations of the youngest of them, the boy; I turned sheepishly to go back inside before being invited kindly to stay and be goalkeeper.
Joseph informed me today that he is ready to leave now, to go to Toronto, where he will spend the remaining four weeks of the summer with friends before joining the university. These are new acquaintances, politically kindred souls he has made contact with through the Internet. Perhaps finally he sees me now as an afflicted, weak man, not the cold, powerful, and corrupt monster I have been made out to be by the press back home and in various parts of Africa. Perhaps both he and Ms. Chatterjee—Seema—see me in that piteous manner: I’ve been stared at sufficiently and suggestively by the two of them the last few days. They have not been easy, these days, for I have recalled the end of that ultimately tragic year of my life.
I have prevaricated enough.
One morning, it was Wednesday, while our family was having breakfast, the telephone rang and Papa went to pick it up in the sitting room. After a few moments we heard a loud cry, Noooo!
Noooo
!
He came back and he was crying. Like a child. Two tears were running down his cheeks. His mouth twitched uncontrollably.
The most horrible thing, Sheila, the most horrible thing has happened—
What? asked Mother, Arré what, but? Is it Bauji? Is it Biji?
No. Send them away, children go to your rooms—please.
Deepa and I didn’t budge from our seats. What is it, Papa? What has happened?
He gave a loud moan: Oh my God. Then, to Mother: The Bruces, Sheila, the Bruces, all murdered. Butchered last night. Mister, Missis, children, all—
butchered
!
I cannot recall exactly how I felt in the days that immediately followed. I imagine a numbness of sorts, a dependence on parents for direction, for emotional shelter. I know that I did not shed a tear. We did not attend the funeral because my father had been informed that it would not be appropriate to do so, it was a family and a European affair. Mrs. Bruce’s father and brother were present, having flown from England, as was the Governor of the colony, Sir Evelyn Baring, and the Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces, General Sir George Erskine.
The particulars of the murders, which created an outrage throughout the country, were the following:
The two dogs had been poisoned early in the evening, around dinnertime, and were found the next day at the back of the house. At a few minutes past nine o’clock, two shots were fired outside at the front gate, one of which hit the watchman, who survived. Before Mr. Bruce could get to his gun, some members of the gang were inside, having been let in through the back. The couple were beaten and hacked to death downstairs. Then the gang went upstairs to the children’s bedrooms. Bill had been brave, the newspapers said, and put up resistance. Annie had tried to hide…
The details of the children’s deaths were too gruesome to describe, according to the papers. They printed a picture of Annie’s teddy bear, however. It had been cut to shreds.
All the servants except Kihika were accounted for. The police were told by the servants who had been found that they
had been locked up in a shed and guarded by two gang members. Kihika however had disappeared, and police were looking for him as a prime suspect. There was a picture of Kihika with Bill sitting on his shoulders at the age of three.
Mother had Mwangi cut the roses from the plant Mrs. Bruce had given her, and she put four of the orange blooms, which had been christened Beautiful Elizabeth by Papa, in a vase in memory of the Bruces.
I know, Joseph, these were only four of a handful of whites killed during the freedom struggle; what about the thousands of Africans who died, you will ask, what about the massacres at Lari, the killings by government forces at Hola? There were children there too, they were black, who remembers them?
All I can say is, these two were my friends. Even bossy Bill. And Annie was my comrade, my secret, innocent little romance. One day they were my playmates, the next they had been cut up in pieces in the name of freedom, of retaliation.
You say, Consider them as casualties of a war, then. To which I answer, reluctantly: Perhaps. The last time I saw them we were blowing soap bubbles and running around in the car park of that shopping centre. Alidina the greengrocer had treated us to New Zealand apples.
Two days after the murders the police came and spoke with my father. The interview, in our sitting room, was grave in tone and lasted a half hour. Lieutenant Soames informed my father that the gun used by the gang at the Bruces’ was the one which had been stolen from him. This had been determined by matching a bullet recovered from the Bruces’ gate with one my father had fired at the Nakuru shooting range for practice soon after he bought his gun. The police had on file used bullets from all registered guns in the Nakuru area.
Are you sure? Papa said desperately to the departing lieutenant.
Lieutenant Soames nodded, without a word. He adjusted his peaked cap and left. It seemed as if my poor father was somehow implicated in the tragedy. He had not looked after his weapon, now it was in the hands of the very terrorists who had carried out that hellish attack on the Bruces. It was the carelessness of people like him that gave indirect support to those murderers.
What a people, Papa muttered glumly at the lieutenant’s back. Every policeman a Sherlock Holmes.
From what I had overheard, I was certain that the murderers of Annie and Bill and their parents were men known to my uncle. He was their friend. I had already seen him taking supplies, including a gun that I was sure had been my father’s, out into the jungle. But I said nothing about what I knew.
Meanwhile, during my father’s interview, the police had descended upon the servant quarters. Now as the lieutenant left with his men, the trucks grinding away out of our street, a great hubbub began among the servants in the back. We were informed by our help Pedro that the police had taken away two men, one of them Mwangi. It had turned out—and this accounted for all the noisy excitement outside—that this time around Corporal Boniface had emerged triumphantly from a search of Mwangi’s room waving telltale evidence: two muddy and torn pairs of khaki trousers and an army-style green jacket copiously stained with blood on the sleeve, all of which had been hidden under the bed.
Mwangi?—a friend and well-wisher of that fiendish gang, those murderers of Annie and Bill? I still ask myself this, after all these years. Over and over I’ve answered to myself, No, it could not be. They are evil, those who kill children, he had said bitterly, looking into my eyes. By then, most likely he had already taken the oath, like thousands of others. Perhaps this time he had been called upon to abide by it, aid the forest fighters by hiding evidence, and he had no choice? Or perhaps there was an entirely different and innocent explanation for those clothes in his room. The old and wizened man, the wise man
who spoke in proverbs, Njoroge’s grandfather. The gardener who had tended that orange rose of Mrs. Bruce’s creation, who put champeli flowers in Deepa’s hair, and once in Annie’s. How could he have been party to her death? Though Kihika, who was now wanted for the murders, had also shown devotion to the children…and they told you over and over, the police, that every Kikuyu was a potential murderer of children; they gave you examples of treachery, showed you albums of photos of innocent-looking servants who had turned out to be Mau Mau, until you could no longer be sure of your trust.
Our family was stunned by the news. Mother emitted a short, hysterical-sounding, almost involuntary peal of laughter. It was
his
clothes only—she told Papa, in disbelief—and…and you know how he is asked sometimes to slaughter chickens for some of the families here! That’s where the blood came from! You know how some of these policemen are, especially that European, Soames—he’s been after our Mwangi for months. Now they will say it was Mwangi who stole the gun from our house—
Then
who
else? Papa almost screamed at her in frustration.
She shrunk back, as if in terror, and he looked away, scowling and ashamed.
When I think of that scene in our sitting room, the two of them quietly apart on the long sofa, the dolorous, hot, resting hour after lunch having been ruptured by the police visit and now this shocking news, I imagine them both close to tears.
I could have answered Papa’s question. If anyone else we knew was involved with the killers for sure, it was my uncle.
It was Friday, and later that afternoon Mahesh Uncle came down from the sawmill. He gave Mother, Deepa, and me a hug of condolence, saying how terrible the news was, and Mother cried, If only we hadn’t known them, it would be easier…
I quickly squirmed out of his embrace, much to his surprise. It pains me even now to record this, to recall his deeply
hurt expression, but something inside me, a core of feeling and love, had withered and died. From that day onward, I refused closeness with my uncle. I squirmed in his embraces, I looked away when he made friendly or tender overtures. I think he knew that I knew something of his involvement with the Mau Mau, something I had discovered that early morning during our visit to him. Once, that weekend, he contrived to be at the table with me alone, and began, If only one could have done something…He broke off, looking embarrassed. I was not sure what he meant, but I knew it was said in an attempt to assuage my feelings and win me over.
Njoroge disappeared for a day, following Mwangi’s arrest, but then was back hovering about in our yard. For one thing, he needed food. My mother’s defence of Mwangi and our own feelings for him were enough to make him innocent in my sister’s and my eyes. The plaguing doubts, and the insistent, instinctive denial of them, would come much later.
Now with your grandfather gone, what will you do, William, Mother asked him, having given him puris and kheer to take away.
Jomo will free my grandfather, he said.
I hope so, she replied, with a doubtful look.
He told me years later that he had obtained most of his Jomo stuff from that servant who had sported a Jomo beard and had been detained, never to return. There had existed a cabal of Jomo Kenyatta sympathizers in our housing estate, to which Mwangi however had been indifferent.
People of the estate were wary about Njoroge’s fate and their role in it; they knew that this time Mwangi would not return soon, if ever. A new gardener would be sought. What would happen to the boy? Where were his parents? Would he be reliable if employed as a servant?
Ten days after the Bruce murders, two Englishwomen came to speak with Njoroge in the company of Mrs. Van Roost, who was the principal of his school in Nakuru. They told him they had come to take him to a boarding school,
where he could wait for his grandfather, and they would assist him in finding his other relations. It was Sunday morning, the scene took place in our backyard. The women were dressed in frocks and hats, as if they had been to church. Njoroge nodded quickly at their instructions and went off to his room and returned with his wooden schoolbag and some clothes wrapped in a newspaper. In the interim, my mother was informed by the waiting ladies that Njoroge’s father had been arrested in a riot in Nairobi a few years earlier; his current whereabouts, as that of the boy’s mother, were not known. Njoroge came to shake hands with us, and Mother—extremely pleased that he had found a home—told him, Now don’t forget to write to us.
Yes, said one of the two visitors, do write to your friends in Nakuru who have been so kind to you.
Deepa ran to her room and brought a paper and pencil, which I quickly snatched from her. I wrote down our address on the paper and gave it to Njoroge, saying, This is our P.O. Box number.
Write to us, Njoroge, Deepa said. You can keep the pencil, if you want.
He kept it.
We accompanied him and the three women to the front and watched them get into a car and drive away.
Where did they take him? Deepa asked, suddenly tearful.
Arré we forgot even to ask them, Mother said, pensive. But I’m sure Njoroge will write to us. If not, we will ask that Mrs. Van Roost woman.
But she looked deeply distracted as we slowly made our way back into the house. Poor child, she said. Poor children.
Kihika would never be captured. According to the police he had gone into the forest to join a Mau Mau gang.
One Sunday at our family gathering Mohan Uncle said to Papa, Did you hear, eh Ashok? Your gardener, that old Mwangi, killed himself in prison.
Eh—what? Papa said.
Bechara, Mother whispered, poor soul, then gave a look at Mahesh Uncle, who exploded.
What, killed himself—tortured to death, more likely. Do you see the dignified, proud Mwangi killing himself? For what?
Mahesh Uncle flashed a look at me, as if seeking my approval. Mohan Uncle gave him a sneering reply, with a dismissive hand: There he goes defending the terrorists as usual. Proud and dignified, arré my left foot, your kalu Gandhi was nothing but Dracula-Frankenstein, one to drink the blood of children—
Mahesh Uncle stood up with a roar and another fight almost erupted. My father’s brothers departed in haste with their families, and Dadaji and Juma Molabux agreed to go on a short walk, up and down the street.
Our world had changed. We were in the aftermath of a tragedy which had struck suddenly in a furious moment, destroyed the composure of our lives, and departed. Saturdays, Deepa and I stayed at home with Mother and sometimes we would go to the neighbouring estate to play with the other Indian children. There were many presents for us, including a much-anticipated train set for me, which I most enjoyed playing with Papa and Dadaji, who came up with adventurous scenarios for railway journeys. We had constructed all the main stations from Kisumu to Mombasa using matchboxes and pins, and fashioned our landscape and wildlife, including the inevitable man-eating lions, with potter’s clay. I recall a family visit to the Nakuru station, where a crowd of townspeople had gathered in excitement to take a look at the new rail car which had recently been brought over (it was said) from the Alps in Switzerland; it had seating capacity only and large windows all around for the passengers to view the scenery. It was full of tourists that day, who looked out curiously and waved at us, and we waved back. I began my stamp collecting in earnest.