The Book of Secrets (5 page)

The following day a rather unpleasant task awaited me. Those porters who had deserted on the way from Voi and had been
caught were lined up to receive their dues. One fellow was brought in that morning with fervent protestations of having lost his way, so his case had to be heard. It was decided against him. Each received 10 strokes of the whip. “6 is too little, 20 too much,” said Axworthy.

It seems to me there has to be a better way of making the native willing to carry burden for a wage, some attractive inducement at journey’s end perhaps …

It’s been 5 days since I arrived, and Axworthy left this morning. The girl who cooked and waited at table for him has also disappeared, having joined the departing entourage, so Thomas swears. I am now lord under this mbuyu tree.

26 March

… My powers are modest.… In criminal cases I can inflict only one month’s imprisonment and a fine of Rs 50, whilst in civil cases my jurisdiction amounts to fines of up to Rs 250.… Bothered by boils, saw dispenser.

Ask for —

½ doz whisky

6 tablespoons

biscuits, any kind

… already Mombasa seems far away — and Europe?

He administered with a quiet, forceful diligence, a monastic rigour, in the unquestioned belief that what he did in his small way was part of a bigger enterprise in which he had some stake. His method — for he was a methodical man and thought carefully about what he did — was to understand the motives behind his people’s reluctance, recalcitrance, or hostility, and to make them understand his own position. He was there to administer in the name of his king and nation, to bring the land into the twentieth
century in as painless a way as possible, in the belief that the British Empire with its experience of ruling other lands and with its humane system was the best nurturing ground for an emerging nation, for backward Africans and Orientals to enter the society of civilized peoples.

Governor’s Memoranda for PCs and DCs (1910)
 (Native Policy, pages 5–6) 

… The Fundamental principle and the only humane policy to be followed in dealing with peoples who have not reached a high stage of civilisation is to develop them on their own lines and in accordance with their own ideas and customs, purified in so far as is necessary. Whilst retaining all the good in their government, which makes for manliness, self-respect, and honest dealing, only that which is repugnant to higher ideals of morality and justice should be rejected; and the introduction of so-called civilisation, when it has a denationalising and demoralising tendency should be avoided. It is not from the present generation that we may look for much; the succeeding generations are in the hands of the Provincial Commissioners with their district staffs.… It must certainly be their endeavour to lift the natives to a higher plane of civilisation; but this can only be achieved by gradual methods and by observing existing conditions.

He was police chief, magistrate, doctor, tax collector and, when his superiors demanded, surveyor. It was a job that required infinite patience, a certain amount but not an excess of good humour, an ability to turn cold, a knack for improvisation, an ability to forget the day’s concerns. Only by the most abstract idealism could you try to convince tribes to send their sons to work with the Indians, or of the benefits of paying taxes. How to convince them to abandon their own laws, their universes, for a
European view of being? How to explain that an ugly girl was not an evil omen, when if the people really believed in the portent they could will bad luck and prove their prophecy right?

Much of his work involved arbitration and administering British justice. The former took cajoling, reasoning, using threats or the lockup, always with native custom as guide. But imposing British justice was like constructing a marble edifice, irrelevant and alien to people governed by their own laws and ways of doing things. Even so, his waiting room was full when he began hearing shauris — the petitions from the people — in the morning. He believed he was often used as a curiosity, as a test, or for an opinion, while the real, the binding decisions on the cases were taken elsewhere by tribal councils.

17 April, 1913

The powers of an
ADC
are greater than I at first suspected. I can give imprisonments up to 6 months, but beyond 1 month the sentence has to be approved by High Court. My Court entirely independent of the
DC
’s …

Governor’s Memoranda for PCs and DCs (1910)
 (Native Policy, cont’d, page 7) 

By upholding the authority of the Chiefs and Elders, I do not wish to imply that officers are to sit down and enforce blindly — possibly at the point of the bayonet — all orders issued by these men who, after all, are only savages. The main object of administering the people through their Chiefs is to prevent disintegration amongst the tribe …

There was a Government Station in Voi and a temporary one in Taveta, between which his small dominion lay, and every quarter an
ADC
arrived from Voi to assist for a few days and to collect reports. The first one of these was a big, bluff man called Woodward. Corbin was lucky, Woodward told him over brandy, his area was so sparsely populated: “Mostly coastal people and foreigners.” But even so: “Won’t be long before a real test case comes along, old chap.”

“Such as?”

“When a real hard one comes along, you don’t know what to do — that is, you know what you have to do, but it doesn’t feel right. It’s a case you never forget. Welcome to the Colonial Service.”

He wouldn’t say what his own such case had been. But he had a word of advice: “Whenever you find things getting a bit too much for you,
go on safari.
” He emphasized the words. “And women … it’s easier on safari. But don’t bring them back. Concubinage is not tolerated any longer.”

There were regular football matches in town, in which all the races participated. The post office was active; mail was collected and taken to Voi once a week. The
East African Herald
arrived regularly from Nairobi, and it was in one of its issues that Corbin learned of Captain Maynard’s transfer out to Palestine. The settler community in Nairobi had picketed the Governor’s residence in protest, and the paper carried a strongly worded editorial. On King’s Birthday they had a march-past, the mukhi Jamali donated sodas, and that night the Indians held a function to which Corbin was invited.

As he surveyed the district he ruled over like a king — some of the tribesmen even confused him with his own monarch, King George — Frank Maynard would come to mind. A man who returned savagery for savagery, no longer needed in East Africa. Throughout the country, towns like Kikono were springing up,
full of life, the whole land buzzing with a vitality it had not known for millennia, all due to European intervention. The likes of Maynard would be needed only if the imposed order broke down, a prospect that seemed remote.

11 May, 1913

Imagine waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of trees rustling, a hyena barking … and, of all things, a dissonant, whining hum. What could it be — some animal, a sick donkey braying, a lost calf — perhaps the stray dog Bwana Tim was wounded? Then gradually I realized what it was. What is it in human intonation that makes it identifiable? For that’s what I could swear it was. People singing! I could not believe my ears. A faint sound of human singing, a chorus not in full control. Was I in some ridiculous dream? I sat up, pinched myself. The singing ceased after a while, but voices persisted intermittently. Something was going on. I walked to the window but desisted from opening it, if only because it would create its own racket. By this time the sounds had ceased altogether. It was eerie. I have never believed in ghosts, although in Mombasa I was told not to be too sceptical. Fortunately it was almost dawn, and soon the town was stirring. Upon inquiring later in the morning, I was told that the Indian Shamsis wake up at 4
A.M.
to pray!

The administrative centre of Kikono consists of the government buildings, situated on the top of a low hill. My own “jumba” is a crooked wooden house with iron roof and no ceiling. The furniture has to be moved during rains, and the creaky verandah gives ample warning of any arrival. There are two bedrooms on one wing, facing back and front. In the rear of the house are the kitchen and a servant’s hut. The office is an even more dilapidated affair. Beside it is the police station and post office. Out in front, in the compound, are a mbuyu tree and a large thorny bush, which overlook a sharp drop, itself covered by
scrub. And beyond that is the rest of this little town, the brown mud-and-wattle huts that make up the business and residence section where the Indians and Swahilis live and run their dukas. The dispensary is in the rather lethal hands of the Indian Chagpar. A footpath runs down the hill on the west side, from my house, arrives in the town, and goes beyond to join the road to Voi.

Roughly half the Indians belong to the Shamsi sect of Islam and have a separate mosque. They are in touch with Voi, Mombasa, Nairobi, even Bombay and German East. Once or twice a year it seems they hold large feasts, and when they do not go to Voi for that purpose they collect in Kikono community members from the neighbouring towns and give themselves a regular jamboree. There are also Hindu, Punjabi, and Memon families, but quite often the distinction blurs.

Nowadays I mostly sleep through the pre-dawn Shamsi hum, but in the morning am awakened by the flapping wings of a flock of birds on the move and then the
cockorickoo
of a cock crowing somewhere.