The Book of Secrets (15 page)

“It has boots. And a gun, too.”

Na-ni? What is it? They’ve all gathered around now, this sounds like no ordinary riddle. Call Fumfratti, says the old Swahili.

He does so and the colourfully dressed albino approaches.

“Lebeka!” Fumfratti replies.

“Listen to this riddle.”

“You piss under a tree and it pisses back — from the branches,” says the old farmer, fortified by Baruti’s gunpowder tea and grinning.

Fumfratti listens, then speaks: “Idiots.” He takes the farmer by the hand and walks him up the hill to the
ADC
’s office.

This, then, was the first real contact the town had with the war. The farmer, having gone behind some bushes to take a piss, happened to be looking upwards at a tree close by when he saw drops of liquid trickling down. He gave a start; there was not a cloud in the sky. It could have been an animal. Then he saw the vision —
the branch leaping down, a figure with gun and boots making a dash for it.

Every able-bodied man went with the
ADC
’s party to find this apparition — in uniform, as the witness now said — but the camouflaged soldier had of course disappeared. On the platform he had built using cross-planks laid over branches, they found a tin with remains of ugali and orange. In a bush nearby, the place where the farmer had relieved himself. It was probably trickling orange juice that he saw, although opinions varied.

The
ADC
dispatched a runner to Voi with a report.

This was a time to exercise the rhetorical flourish, allow the flight of imagination. And what better people to do it than the wazees — the elders — outside the Swahili mosque, or at Baruti’s tea shack, or over cards in the evening in the light of a coalfire, while cassava or maize or cashew was roasted and black coffee was passed around in the little cups. Whenever a group of people gathered under a tree, the chances were it was not only a game of bao or three-card monte they were watching but war commentary they were giving ear to.

One favourite subject was (and remained for many years) the quality of the Germans’ African askaris: hard, tough as nails, disciplined. They were taught well by their masters. And these European masters of the terrible feldkompanies … not for nothing was the German called hand of blood, will of iron, fierce as a devil. Those who remember will tell, of the Rebellion of Bushiri bin Salim long ago and how it was crushed. And then the Maji Maji uprising of ten years ago. That too was crushed. There were more men hanging from the mango trees, eti, than mangoes. Compare the stern, cold-eyed Germans (a word here, a word there, all is understood) to these British settlers who had come to fight them — here they referred to a mounted corps that had recently passed through (in safari suits and funny hats, sitting on
donkeys with their pots and pans rattling, servants behind them, arrogant as if they owned the land.) Even the legendary Abu Nawas could not have assembled such a crew. What were they arrogant for — eh, jamani — and they with their guns and police? Abusing people, enticing African boys to go with them as scouts and carriers — more likely to test the first German bullets. Eti, who is at war with whom? Did we say we were fighting? Have we enemies, jamani? Since when is the Chagga tribe our enemy? And if a Taita lives across the border — eti, where is this border? — is he my enemy, bwana?

— You ask where is this border, eti, heeeh!

— Do you know?

— Nobody knows, my brother. See that mountain — the mountain knows. The British gave it to the Germans.

— How?

— They draw a line in the grass, then they rub it out and draw another one.

— So one day you are on one side, the next day on the other. Like chickens.

— Kuk-kuk-kuk-kuk-kuk, kuk-kuk-kuk-kuk —

— We are not chickens!

— That’s exactly what we are. In Voi they started a little matata, a ruckus, to give the
DC
a little scare. The soldiers showed their rifles. Fired in the air and everyone ran. Like what? Like chickens into huts, into trees, under motorcars. Then they returned, scurried along to pick up spent bullets, even the old men — like what? Like chickens running after grain!

— One day all their lines will be rubbed out.

— Or their fingers cut. Some lines they draw are deep.

And then the first casualty, the blood-tie to the conflict.

Fumfratti’s scouts, a few miles outside town, discovered what appeared to be bushes on the move, taking short hops. With a
whoopee
they gave these German askaris the chase. They did not
have a single rifle among them, neither it seemed did the opponents. Just then a single shot rang out from behind them, bringing one of Fumfratti’s men down. They gave up the chase.

But who had fired the shot? The albino, with golden flowing beard and hair, the yellow bandanna and cowboy hat, looked around. Cunningly he said, “First the bush moves, then an anthill smokes.” This became the third riddle of the war.

With much ado the wounded man was carried to the town, while Fumfratti and another man stayed behind and crawled silently towards the large anthill. They came close to it, and then in a sudden move dashed against it, letting out shrieks that scared the man inside out of his wits. Then they pummelled him senseless.

The captured soldier turned out to be a Yao tribesman from Nyasaland, the British colony south of German East Africa. He had served the British army in the 2nd Battalion of the King’s African Rifles, the
KAR
, near Voi, and then was discharged a few years before with the rest of the battalion in Zanzibar. The way back to Nyasaland was through the German colony. In one of the towns, a unit of the German Defence Force promptly recruited him and sent him on to Moshi. He and his men were the advance scouting party for a mounted patrol in the area. If Fumfratti and his gang had continued their game of tag a little longer — the prisoner had beat his forehead with his fist to punish his stupidity in firing too hastily — they would have run into the patrol, the real Germans on mules, who would have finished them off.

So the war was no joke. It was upon them. The
ADC
sent the captive to Voi that same evening. The town was quiet, the talk subdued.

As the first days of the war passed, rife with rumours and with isolated incidents to egg them on, the Indians in town began to panic with uncertainty: to go — abandoning all — or not. Every day the mukhi came to the
ADC
for advice, comfort, the latest news. To a man they had relatives in Moshi, Tanga, Dar es Salaam.

— The British have bombed Dar. Don’t they know there are British subjects there? Our families, our brothers …

The mosque worked overtime, for prayers, for possible shelter and advice. And the young man Pipa and his bride were trapped in town, too afraid to leave.

One night, between four and five in the morning, the Shamsi mosque was enveloped by a deep silence — deeper than the surrounding night, its inhabitants would say. It was the hour of meditation, and not even the sound of breathing could be heard, for the breathing was controlled, relaxed, in order for the spiritual force Kundalini to move up the spine to the head. Only an occasional dry cough exploded, to be absorbed into the silence like a pebble into the infinite ocean. This night, to the distracted mind, the first explosion in the distance could have been a cough. But then the
ra-ta-tat
of the machine-guns, the crack of the rifles — and even those most immersed in the Universal were drawn out. The silence was no more, and the night filled with sighs, coughs, calls outside, each mind then acutely conscious of life, possessions, progeny, agonized about what was going on, what would happen. Because the hour was sacred, the sitting had to continue, and the mukhi waited till the clock chimed five before turning on the lamps. Then, after a hurried prayer, he despatched his people to their homes to await word from the government representative.

The distant shots became sporadic as the morning wore on. At midday a cyclist was already in town bearing news. The Germans — hundreds of them — had taken the border post at night, then attacked the border town Taveta early that morning. The
ADC
LeBlanc was on retreat towards Voi with his policemen, and the Germans were now at Salaita Hill, a strategic point outside Taveta. Then came news of people on the Voi road, carrying bundles, children, pushing carts; a few strayed into town, others moved on. The town sat tight. There was no sign, no news of the
KAR
all day. Only at night came rumours that they had arrived at Voi, were on their way to Bura twenty miles away. The night air hung heavy with uncertainty, the Shamsi mosque was filled once again, everyone there listening eagerly to a refugee from Taveta. The Mission ladies, who had so far refused to come down to Kikono for safety, now withdrew to Voi.

The following night Alfred Corbin slept fitfully. Much was happening; too much threatened to happen. Rifle shots rang out in the distance; there came shouts, and the sounds of the crying of children, a woman pleading somewhere; and his mind echoed with the machine-gun
ra-ta-tat.
Scenes from the day’s commotion replayed themselves again and again. As if this were not enough distraction, he could not help speculating about the fighting in Europe, and thinking about his family.

His father had by now retired and settled in Devon. It had been months since he’d last heard from his brothers — Kenneth in Nyasaland and Robert in India. He wondered how the war would affect their lives, and his. It seemed likely to end by Christmas, but that was only a guess. Anne had put off her visit to England and was a volunteer at a hospital in Nairobi …

Suddenly there was heavy pounding on the door. He thought the end had come, at least in this frontier town of Kikono. He gave himself a moment to dress. How would he surrender, what would he say? When he opened the door, a tall figure strode past him carrying a lamp. A shorter, African man followed. The lamp was put on the table and Corbin faced the intruders. The door was open, he could feel the cool air, hear the sounds of more men beyond it.

In front of him stood Maynard, in uniform, hands on hips, a smile on his face, eyes gleaming, perhaps from drink. He looked thin, emaciated. He had lost his moustache, but had a few days’ growth of beard.

“Captain Maynard! Why —”

“A drink, old chum. And some information.”

Corbin produced whisky and glasses.

“Surely you’re not with the retreating party?”

“No. Came straight from Mombasa, via Voi. Intelligence.
GSO
, if you have to know.”

The African who had come in with Maynard was in kanzu and cap, evidently a Swahili. The two men outside were invited in; one wore the dress of a Taita villager, the other, in khakis, was a Somali.

“Place is crawling with agents,” Maynard said, with a sigh. “Voi to Mombasa. Surely you know of the sabotage on the railway line. Our train was fired at on the way from Mombasa. Lost one man, captured two.”

The war was a godsend for him, a game designed somewhere and set before him to play. When had he arrived back in the country? The war was hardly two weeks old — the War Office must have rushed him back here, with his knowledge of the terrain.

“How long are you staying?”

“Not long. We need to talk to a man here. Coolie chap. Nurmohamed.”

Corbin looked nonplussed.

“Pipa,” the Swahili, named Shomari, said, a little impatiently.

“Why, he’s from German East on his way —”

“Exactly. Could be a spy.”

“Surely not!”

“Surely?” Maynard looked at him searchingly, and Corbin couldn’t reply.

“Just point out the house, old chap.”

“Over there — next to the mosque — your man probably knows it anyway,” Corbin said, and sat down at the table.

He finished the bottle, waiting, he didn’t know what for, staring in front of him as he heard first a shout or two, then a
door banging. Then came more shouts, a scream from the girl. Mariamu.

Corbin got up to go, then stopped himself. He realized he could do nothing.

Pipa’s howl bellowed through the town. It was probably exaggerated, but surely there was cause enough. The rest of the drama, it seemed, would proceed soundlessly, and Corbin waited for it to conclude, as did the rest of the town, which was unusually quiet.

Finally there were sounds: voices, the dog, footsteps approaching. Maynard’s boots came thumping on the verandah, and he strode in triumphantly and headed for a chair. Corbin, on his feet again, watched him intently for signs of sweat, exertion. Which of them had applied the beating?

“A drink, I say —”

“Was the man a spy?”

“Don’t think so. Now he is. For us.”

“After the beating?”

“Don’t be sentimental. The boy is tough. He knows it was necessary. There is a lot in it for him.” He smiled his rabbit smile. “I hear it gets pretty lonely here.… Orders from Voi.” He slapped a letter in Corbin’s hand.

Voi Station
15.8.14

Dear Corbin,

The bearer is Captain Maynard
GSO
(1) — whom I believe you know. He will apprise you of the situation. You are to shut down your station and proceed to Voi. Please give him the men he needs and bring the remaining police with you. Take possession of mules and deposit them with Cmdr. F. Coy 4/
KAR
at Bura.

W. C. Hobson, D.C.

“A Government station here would inevitably draw an attack,” said Maynard. “Propaganda victory — not good for us, we could have an uprising. LeBlanc is in Mbuyuni tonight. You could join him in the morning.”

“Yes, I shall do that. I’ll start preparations right now.”

“By the way, I met some of your scouts. You trained them well.”

“Yes … a fine bunch. They knew their job.”

“The Yao you captured could be the first enemy soldier captured in the E.A. operations — he told us a lot. Well done.”

Maynard slept in the spare bedroom for what remained of the night. The next morning he met Fumfratti and his scouts, recruited them, and had Pipa brought to him.

Corbin took with him only the most important papers. Others he burned or packed away in cases. Early in the morning he called a meeting of town elders, impressing upon them that they had nothing to fear, that the town was of no military value, and to be prepared to evacuate if fighting came close.