The Book of Secrets (16 page)

He left with a feeling that he was absconding.

The house that Pipa lived in with his bride, with its small shop-front at the side of the living and bed room, belonged to his wife’s uncle, Jamali, the mukhi. That community stalwart had effectively shut up the stepfather, Rashid’s, gossip about the wedding night upon threat of ostracism and had given respectability to the young couple. When news of the war came, Pipa had received the
ADC
’s permission to stay in town and run his pili-pili bizari business, selling kerosene and copra oil, spices and tobacco. Like all the town’s men, he gave up some of his nights to patrol the perimeter of the town.

It did not take long to reconcile himself physically to his wife. As the number of days of married life increased, her lack of innocence disconcerted him less. Men married widows, divorcees — the best example was God’s own Prophet, as the mukhi reminded him. He had finally had a man-to-man chat with Jamali, who in a very worldly way had scorned his prejudice. The blood that they go around showing after the wedding night — do you think it is always the woman’s, ay? Why not a chicken’s, a goat’s?

It was late in the night. Pipa and his wife had woken early that day, before dawn, to the distant sounds of guns, and like the rest of the town, had waited in anticipation of whatever else was to happen. At about ten in the morning, news arrived of Taveta’s capture by the Germans. And shortly after that the refugees started coming, those who had fled Taveta and its environs. There had been moments of anxiety in Kikono, but it had quickly become apparent that the fighting was not going to approach them yet. Business had been good. In mosque that evening there had been much discussion about possible evacuation of the town’s population, but it had amounted to nothing. Now having returned from that meeting, and after counting the day’s takings, Mariamu and her husband lay down to sleep.

He was awakened by a loud banging on the front door, on the shop side of the establishment. He swore at whoever it was, then remembered the war and its uncertainties and became worried. Partly dressed, he opened a panel in the door, and held up a lamp. A man-giant strode in, in boots; then another man, and another. A European and two Africans. They entered without a word but with grim, purposeful faces, and stood around him, their legs firm and spread apart with authority, their accusing eyes upon him. He looked from one to the other, his heart beating in fright, vaguely guessing his crime. In the other room behind the rag curtain his wife stirred. He took a step in that direction, but the African in kanzu, who was evidently a Swahili, pushed him back. The other African, a Somali, took a step towards him and brought his face close to his, meeting his eyes. Pipa barely had time to respond, was recoiling, when the tall, bony Somali gave him a tremendous slap in the face. He fell back, reeling. The presence of the white man emptied him of all courage.

“Mama! What did you do that for?” He was hurting. He held his cheek.

They said nothing, but stood watching as before.

He choked back a sob and lunged half-heartedly at them,
more in an attempt to get it over with, whatever it was. He was from German East, that must be his crime. He had carried letters once. But these men could be from either side. Had the Germans already arrived?

As he came at them, the Swahili hit him with something hard in the stomach — a club — and he heard Mariamu scream. Doubled up, yet strengthened by her presence, he rushed towards the nearest pair of legs, but was felled by another blow. As he lay on his side on the floor, the European took a step closer to him, touching him with a boot, toying with his stomach. He breathed in deep, looked away, waited for the blow that would surely crush his insides and kill him. Mariamu screamed again, ran up to the grinning white man, pounding him with her fists. He shoved her away and she fell down. The two Africans escorted her to the backyard and returned.

The European was in uniform. He had a huge head, which looked so powerful it could break a wall. He was dusty, his face was flushed, his eyes were red as a drunk’s. His hair was yellow, he grinned like a devil, exuding menace and terror. The Africans stood and watched.

“Tell me —” began the white man.

“What have I done? By God, hakia mungu, I have done nothing!”

“You work for the Germans, our enemies.”

“Hata! No!”

“You are lying!” The boot pushed into his stomach, then pulled back, ready to kick in his insides — a thick black boot caked with dry red mud. Pipa’s eyes remained fixed on this instrument of power, of terror, and he groaned, expecting the worst. Suddenly there was a pain so excruciating he thought his world had come to an end, and he screamed uncontrollably, passing out. When he came to, he thought he had been kicked in the groin, then realized the man had stepped on one of his hands, grinding the fingers into the floor.

“Do you deny having worked for the Germans?”

“No.”

“What work did you do?”

“I brought some letters to post.”

“Who gave you the letters?”

“Bwana Rudolfu.”

“How many times?”

“Once! Only once!”

“You are lying!”

“No!”

“What did you do with the letters?”

“I brought them here to the post office … except the one for Bwana Lenz in Mbuyuni.… I was carrying it in my pocket — Bwana Corbin took it.”

“Tell us about Bwana Rudolfu.”

“A German. What do I know of him?”

Did he wear a uniform? … did he have a dog? … how many servants? … did he work at home? … what time did he get up? … was he married? … did he visit women? Which women?

“Tell us about this Hamisi the Arab.”

Hamisi was an exiled Arab from Sudan who had escaped a warrant for his arrest for seditious, or anti-British, activities. He had left behind a wife and two children. He was now a teacher and head of a Sufi mystical order in Moshi, where he had another wife and three children and received protection from the Germans.

“A teacher of Quran. A wife and three children. A kind man.”

“And?”

The men were seated now.

Yes, Hamisi knew Bwana Rudolfu. They were friendly, had long talks late in the night. Sometimes they argued, especially when the Germans tried to force people to eat pig. Bwana Rudolfu went to Hamisi’s for coffee at night … they were friendly, weren’t the Arabs closer to the Europeans?

How old were the children? they wanted to know. How old were his pupils? … did he write letters? … did Pipa deliver them? … did he teach him? … what else did he teach besides the Quran?

And Pipa told them what he knew of Hamisi, the Arab who had befriended him.

The white man leaned forward and looked Pipa in the eye.

“Listen carefully, you. My name is Maynard. Call me Fisi — what?”

“Fisi,” said Pipa nervously. Like a fisi, a hyena, he told himself, this giant stalks his prey at night …

“All right. From now on, you run your shop here. And you be my post office. My own post office. You. In the dead of night, in the shop — anytime — you will get letters for me. Parcels. The man who brings these will say to you, ‘Bones for the Fisi.’ And from time to time a man will come to you and say …”

He stood up and looked at his companions: “What — what will he say to this our post office?”

The Somali scratched his head.

“The Fisi needs bones to chew,” said the Swahili.

“Right. He will say to you,” the white man eyed Pipa once more, “ ‘The Fisi needs bones to chew.’ And you will give him all you have for me. Ume elewa? Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“You will be paid.”

“Yes.”

“If you tell anyone about the Fisi …” Maynard took out a pistol. “Risasi. In the head. Ask these two how many of your tribe I have hanged in Mombasa.”

Pipa was silent.

“Ask!”

“Eti, how many did this one hang?”

“Two. And shot many in Tanga. And killed one with his own hands, one who refused to obey,” the Swahili man said. “This
game is dangerous. It is war. Life has no value. We serve now King George.”

“You heard,” said Fisi. “Not one word to anyone. Not even to yourself. Or …” He turned to the Swahili man once more.

“The owl will hear you and carry your words away.”

“A mshairi,” said Fisi with a sardonic grin. “Poet.”

His given name was Nurmohamed — Pipa was the nickname given to the family by the neighbourhood, and it had stuck. It made him feel a lack: of respectability, of a place that was truly home.

He was simply an Indian, a Mhindi, from Moshi, a town in the vicinity of Kilimanjaro whose masters were the Germans.

He did not know where he himself had been born or when, in any calendar, German, Arabic, or Indian. Of his father he remembered only a tall thin man with a scraggly beard, a kindly grin on his face as he pulled the boy’s cheeks, saying “Dhaboo.” His father had not died — Nurmohamed could not recall grief, a graveyard. His father had gone away, and the boy carried this knowledge within him like a hidden deformity. He remembered him as Dhaboo, and for years lived in the expectation that his father would return, that one day when he came home from play Dhaboo would be there waiting.

Of his mother he remembered the long rains in the wet season falling through the cracks in the thatch roof, himself standing
with her, shivering in a pool of water, his sister holding his hand. Another scene: squatting in the latrine with his mother, watching a fast and furious stream hit the ground under her and joining with his own wavering little spurt. He had looked in vain at her darkness for a member corresponding to his own, had had his arm smacked for pointing his finger at that mysterious shadow.

She was beautiful, his mother. An oval face with smooth cheeks and pointed chin, eyes as big as plums. She had a smile in those days. Big haunches and warm breasts and a smell that was all things to him. She had strong legs, and a little swell in the belly, and she was the most mysterious and lovely thing in his life.

There had been many uncles. There was Fateh, the short, fair shopkeeper with a nervous grin and a patch of white hair at the back of his head, who always brought sweets. Morani, the tall, stern, squeaky-voiced teacher, whose large and bobbing Adam’s apple was believed by boys to be a trapped almond seed. And others. He would watch them intently when they visited and they would toss a heller coin at him to make him go away, and his mother would shut the door with that look which gave the secret away when he was old enough to understand it. One of the last uncles was a Greek doctor, who became more or less regular and the others stopped coming. His mother then walked out with a little style, becoming a woman of substance. The Greek was an older man, long-faced and quiet, always in a suit. He came in the afternoon during siesta time when the town was quiet. Sometimes he would bring a bottle of soda. When he emerged from the house later, word of his presence would have spread and there would be women with children waiting outside with ailments to show. He was a kind man and listened to as many mothers as he could.

They lived in a Swahili section of town that had a lot of women and children and few men. His mother made the fried sweet vitumbua and the vermicelli tambi and the candy called gubiti — whatever suited her moods and needs — to sell to the neighbours.
The boy was big and thickset, and the nickname Pipa, meaning “barrel,” described him so well that it became exclusively his. Boys teased him by running past and jeering “pip-pip-pip Pipa!”

One day, when he was fifteen, he threw a stone at the departing Greek and drew blood. His mother called him in and scolded him. He told her exactly what he thought of her, and, wounded by his insult, she struck him with a broom. He wrenched the object from her and pushed her back, sending her to the floor in surprise and fear. He was a burly youth with an angry glower for a world that did not want him.

If guilt, in subsequent months and years, came at all, it came not from his having raised a hand against his mother — that blow became the single act of violence that absolved her in his eyes, a punishment for her sin. Instead, he felt a vague sense of guilt at his inadequacy, at not being able to do anything with himself that would raise his mother and sister from degradation to Indian respectability.

Like many of the boys in Moshi, he made a few hellers carrying at the railway station, and like them became more adept and aggressive as he grew older, jostling and shouting and crowding around the two weekly trains on the Tanga-Moshi line. And like many a young man, one day he allowed a Tanga-bound train to take him in its third-class carriage to wherever it would. It was grey dusk when the train left the station, and for a long time he watched the grassland and mountains he was speeding past on wheels of iron, captive to the roaring rhythm of the fire-driven engine. And at dawn he woke up from a snooze to gaze in wonder at the dense vegetation, sandy soil, palm trees, women veiled in black buibui, men in kanzus and kofias: a different world. The languid, casual world of the coast, made more so by the early-morning hour at which he met it.

There was no mountain in sight, the heat was like a weight on the head, his language sounded halting and uncouth in this town
where talking could be a profession, where the nuances of words were many and could be used to wound or caress, to litigate or to tease, to rebuke or to make a joke. But the town of Tanga was beautiful. There was the ocean you could walk up to or sit watching, as many did, looking away into the distance or at the ships or at the island across the harbour where prisoners were sent to be hanged. There were houses with verandahs and balconies, the white ones of stone near the water belonging to the Germans. And there were the gardens with shrubs and flowers, and the promenade along the shore where men and women walked in the afternoon, and on Sundays a band played.

He found a job as a sweeper in the big hotel called Kaiserhof on the promenade. The German ladies came for confections in the morning, in the afternoon the men came to drink beer. Like most others, he feared these people. He found them amazing, dressed in the brightest white, stiff and composed. The women looked clean and pure as angels, pink and fresh-eyed; and they left behind delightful odours of flowers and creams. He would clean under the tables and chairs after they had gone, sweeping away cigarette stubs and crumbs, scraps of paper. On rare but not impossible occasions they left something behind. Once he returned a wallet — not before removing one note from it, a modest one — and was rewarded.