The Book of Secrets (19 page)

“Marhaba, marhaba, sheikh.”

After placing his order, Hamisi said, “Your imam says you are travelling to the British side.”

“Yes, bwana.”

“Bwana Rudolfu has an errand for you. If you do it he’ll reward you.”

Hamisi’s eyes met Pipa’s briefly. The implication of his message was clear. Bwana Rudolfu was the German commandant of Moshi. Pipa had no choice but to go and see him.

The commandant was a short rotund man in khakis, with close-cropped hair and a light beard. He looked kindly and spoke softly, but you never judged a German by appearance.

“Ah, Mohmet,” he said, standing up, putting his hands to his hips. “You are going to Kikono, I hear. An auspicious visit.”

Pipa stood and muttered something.

“I want you to do something for me, Mohmet.”

“Yes, bwana.”

“Listen. They have a good postal service there. I want you to post these letters in Kikono. From there to Voi to Mombasa — and, fut! — to the world. To India, to your homeland. Also, give this to Bwana Lenz by hand — in Mbuyuni. You will be paid for your trouble.”

Pipa took the bag of letters that was given him. Why should the Germans trust him with important letters? The thought of emptying the sack in a bush somewhere — a latrine perhaps — occurred to him. But they’d find out and have the hide off him.

On his way out he paused to look at the bundle of money Bwana Rudolfu had given him. They were used but crisp notes, like the ones he would pick up at the Kaiserhof in Tanga. These were not the smelly pieces of limp, moist paper that had seen tobacco boxes and armpits and bosoms and farmers’ hands and whatnot. As he fingered and counted the money, he could not believe the amount and wondered if there was a mistake. Forty rupees! He should check. He could have received the wrong bundle of notes. Perhaps the German was testing him. Ruefully he walked back and told the commandant, “Bwana. You made a mistake.” He showed the notes.

“No, no.” The commandant raised a benevolent hand. “The government pays handsomely those whom it chooses. Go, now.”

“Those letters,” Pipa told his wife ten months later, “are what got me into this trouble, why Fisi now has me in his clutches.”

She was quiet.

“One day you will tell me all about yourself,” he said.

She looked away, deferential, shy, quiet. To him she would always be a mystery.

The morning after Pipa was visited by the Englishman Maynard and his two henchmen, the Swahili, called Shomari, came over.

“Weh, Fatso, you are wanted.”

“By whom?” Pipa asked sullenly.

“You have forgotten aheady? By the one who chews bones.”

“You have been conscripted, my friend,” said Shomari. “You are not free. Nobody is free in this war.” As they approached the
ADC
’s house, Fumfratti the albino was leaving it. He looked briefly at Pipa when they passed him, then strode off down the hill. Under the tree outside his house, Corbin was addressing the town businessmen. Pipa had already learned that the
ADC
was leaving town due to the war. Corbin was seated on a chair, using both hands to make a point, as his audience sat patiently on the ground listening.

Maynard was sitting at the table in the main room of the
ADC
’s residence. In front of him were some papers, a pen, a box, and some keys. Close to the door stood an askari.

“Bwana,” said Shomari.

Maynard looked up. He had been reading a pamphlet that had appeared recently in town. “Ah … yes. The Indian from town. My post office.”

“Tell me,” Maynard said to Pipa, “have you seen a paper — a gazeti — like this one before?”

“Like this one — yes — my wife brought it from the mukhi’s house.”

“Do you know what it says?”

“ ‘The Imam of Istanbul says —’ ”

“So you can read!”

“No, bwana. My wife —”

“She can read!”

“No, bwana.”

“No one can read, yet the whole town knows what this paper says.”

The pamphlets had appeared that morning, bearing an anti-British message. But that was not Maynard’s main concern with Pipa.

“Do you remember what you were told last night?” he said in a low, even voice.

“Yes, bwana.”

“Do you have any questions?”

“No. But —”

“Baas, then. You do as you were told, and everything will be all right. We are all required to play our part. Sawa sawa?”

“Sawa sawa, bwana.”

“And don’t open your mouth, or —”

“The owl will hear you,” said Shomari, finishing his sentence.

He was given ten rupees, made to sign for them, and dismissed.

On his way out, as he stepped onto the verandah, he saw the
ADC
was now on his feet outside, bidding farewell to the businessmen. The mzungu was all dressed up that day, in sparkling white tunic, trousers, and sun helmet. As Pipa watched, a boy gave a present to the
ADC
, who bowed and shook hands. Pipa looked away, proceeding to leave, when he saw a chair beside the doorway, pulled back against the wall. On it lay a book.

He could never tell how long he stood there looking at it, tempted by it. That whole moment could have been a dream, but he knew it wasn’t. The book was lying closed. Beside it was a pen. The cover was yellow with red and black print on it. It was where the
ADC
had left it before going to meet the delegation of businessmen waiting for him outside under the tree. That it was Bwana Corbin’s, Pipa had no doubt. It was the kind the old men,
the wazees, called the book of secrets. He recalled the occasion before when, foolish and inexperienced, he had swiped a missionary’s valise that had contained a similar book. He heard clearly in his head that voice … halt! No, he turned away, he would not take the book.

On his way home he met Mariamu and the mukhi’s wife, Khanoum, walking towards the
ADC
’s house.

“Where were you?” Mariamu asked.

“Oh,” he said, giving her a quick but mild look of reproach for putting him on the spot, “that mzungu Maynard was asking about the pamphlet — it’s come from the German side, Moshi. The sooner this war is over the better,” he muttered. “And where are you two off to?” he asked her.

This time Mariamu was on the spot. She turned to Khanoum, who said, “Some of her things are still at Bwana Corbin’s house, from when she worked there.”

“Yes, go then,” Pipa said, curbing the old anger erupting again at the thought of the mzungu with his wife. But, he thought approvingly, how like sisters the two women are, though one is an African and the other an Indian.

Back in his shop, at the till, he could not help thinking of the
ADC
’s diary he had seen. If he had taken it he would have stolen something personal and mysterious — in an unreadable hand, a foreign tongue. But long before, he had been cured of stealing.

A little later that morning, he saw Maynard and Fumfratti come down the hill and head towards the Taveta road, where Fumfratti’s men always prowled around looking for enemy patrols. Shortly afterwards the
ADC
took off, leaving Kikono with an entourage of askaris and porters, the dog Bwana Tim, and five mules.

So much for Corbin, Pipa thought. He need not enter our lives again.

How do the little people fare in a war between big powers? In answer, the Swahili proverb says, “When two elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers.”

To the religious, the wise have always said, “Pray wisely.” Even in the best of times, prayer can be a mistake. In a war, the wrong prayer can be deadly. It is not only the Omniscient who listens — who might tune in only too well this time and grant the petition, so that you have only yourself to blame for the ultimate disaster — there are government agents and spies, too, who listen in. Jamali’s followers in Kikono began simply enough in the first days of the war. “O, Lord,” they beseeched in their best Hindu-Muslim fashion twice a day in their mosque, “O, husband of the earth and master of the fourteen directions, give success to the efforts of our wise and just government.” But was this a wise prayer?

As if in answer, pamphlets appeared from across the border, sowing seeds of doubt and discord. “O, Muslims!” exhorted in them the Grand Imam of Istanbul. “O, brothers! The government of the Kaiser is our true ally! Pray for his victory and rise against your Ingleez oppressors! And verily, Allah will protect you from the unbelievers …” And though this was the first time the Shamsis of Kikono had heard of the Grand Imam of Istanbul, they wondered if they had not been too hasty. For the flyer to be distributed right under the noses of the British was itself an impressive achievement. The English agent Maynard questioned a dozen people. They all shrugged their shoulders: I found it with the sweepings; so-and-so showed it to me; a young man brought it and asked if I could read it to him; no, I don’t know the young man. The young man could not be found, but he had entered several stores.

“Those who believe do battle for the cause of Allah; and those who disbelieve do battle for the cause of idols. Fight the minions of the devil,” said a short message in Arabic from the Sufis of Moshi across the border, on little scraps of paper handed from person to person. A Quranic verse, explained the local skeikh, a
message from God to the oppressed. Copies were scarce and in demand, were used to make charms. The Englishman Maynard was not around this time to ask questions.

At the Shamsi Indian mosque they began to wonder, too, what victory their brethren on the other side — Jaffer Bhai, the mukhi of Moshi, and his congregation — were praying for.

For the pragmatic there were tales of British defeats — surely one should pray for the winning side? Taveta had been taken within days of the outbreak of war, and their own
ADC
had retreated, unable to defend the town. There were rumours of Mombasa’s imminent fall: Kisii, near Lake Victoria, had been taken. The German man-of-war
Königsberg
prowled the ocean from Lamu to Kilwa with its fearsome guns, appearing like a spectre in the mist and destroying British warships. The terrible German demoness Bibi Malkia went around with a troop of her own, appearing from behind hills and trees to wreak havoc on British forces, leaving hacked, mangled bodies behind, especially of the white settler troops. To top it all, there came pictures of the shameful British defeat at Tanga …

Three months after the outbreak of war, in November, a convoy of ships of the British army, called the Indian Expeditionary Force B, arrived full of confidence straight from India. Their objective was to begin the British takeover of the German colony at Tanga. It was early in the morning, and the Germans seemed to be in their beds when the British landed their troops. “Chalo! Maro! Tally-ho!” the British sirdars rallied their Indian men. But when the Punjabis, the Rajputs, and the Madrasis ran forward, bayonets fixed, they were set upon — not by African askaris, but by bees. In panic the Indians retreated; their British officers pushed them back, sometimes at gunpoint. Only after the Tanga killer bees had done their work did the German side, well prepared, start firing. It was a rout.

A few copies of German newspapers found their way into
Kikono — no one any longer cared how — with pictures of captured British officers, masking their faces with their hands; dead Indian soldiers piled on the Tanga beach; and German officers proudly posed with an oversized captured Union Jack.

Two Indians, it was heard, were hanged in Mombasa for signalling at night to the
Königsberg.

With all this news, and more arriving every day, Jamali, the mukhi of Kikono, very prudently introduced in his mosque a neutral prayer for peace and guidance in the region.

His people had waited for word to leave — for Mombasa, for Voi. But stories of the near-siege of Mombasa, its evacuations, were discouraging; and Voi was more dangerous because it was the railway that the Germans were after. A German troop could come to your door in the middle of the night demanding shelter and information. And the next day soldiers from the King’s African Rifles would come and beat you up for assisting the enemy. And so it was, right in the middle, between two warring sides, that the Shamsis of Kikono sat trapped and waiting with prayers in their mouths. Soon it became too late even to think of moving, as the area around them became a hunting ground for the marauding patrols of either side; it was only a matter of time before one of them set up camp in their town.