The Gunny Sack (4 page)

Outside Matamu were two German farms, a coconut plantation belonging to Herr Graff and a cotton farm to Herr Weiss. Early every morning these two gentlemen, the Bwanas Guu Refu (Long Leg) and Wasi, would walk into town in their khakis and sun hats, slinging rifles, accompanied by their foremen. Twenty job cards for each farm were dropped with great ceremony outside Mzee Guaro’s house by the respective foremen in the manner of playing a winning hand, and then the party waited with arms folded for the return play. Mzee Guaro was the former jemadari of the village, the Sultan’s representative, now a German agent. A few minutes later,
perhaps sensing the expectant air outside, Mzee Guaro would emerge from his rooms and, drawing in his kanzu like a woman does her skirts, patiently pick up the passes from the ground and start distributing them to the first twenty able-bodied men he could find. Work on the German farms was hated, and Mzee Guaro as the harbinger of that fate was hated like the angel of death, Azrail, his other nickname. There were many stories of cruelty in the farms; of beatings and lashings, of a hanging, of insults to age and traditional rank. And one unnecessary death at which shrieks rang out for many nights.

One day, Guu Refu instructed his young water-carrier Yusufu not to move from a certain spot, whatever. Guu Refu was the more terrible of the two Germans. Everything he ordered was always followed to the letter. So that when a rain of coconuts cut from the trees around him started falling with great thumps as the men atop let them drop, the frightened Yusufu shouted, too late, but did not move from his spot. The battered body, of which all that bystanders saw was a bloodied boy’s kanzu, was brought into town with great ceremony. It was paraded in the lanes, the women wept and ululated and the men threw curses at the Germans.

Sometimes Guu Refu’s arrival was preceded by news that he was on the lookout for more men for a special project; and as soon as the lanky figure with the sunhat and the rifle was sighted, towering over his askaris, men and boys scurried towards the forest, at which sight the German and his mercenaries stomped after them in their heavy boots, cutting off their paths to safety.

It was as if a man-eating lion had taken up residence in the area, with every now and then a new victim.

When the Germans had marched out of the village with their sulking recruits, exhorting them to sing, Huseni and his Mshenzis would appear under their tree.

One morning, news arrived of trouble in the interior. A mchawi had appeared who had found a medicine to drive away
the Germans. All you had to do, it was said, was to go to a meeting and drink the medicine, take an oath and the German would be powerless against you. You could spit on his cat-eyes that shone in the dark, burn his big white house, drive a spear into his white belly, and he could not touch you. As soon as you chanted the words “Maji maji maji maji …” his bullets would turn into water.

The men of Matamu were not fighters. And though they were familiar with many medicines, this one they had never heard of. Late one afternoon a rumour spread that the mchawi’s followers were in the vicinity to recruit and at nightfall a nervous silence spread over the village like a blanket. Stores closed early, shutters were fastened carefully and lamps burned low. The medicine men were dreaded as much as the Germans. If you refused to take the medicine, it was said, straightaway you would receive a spear in your belly. And if you took the oath and went about chanting “Maji maji maji maji …” and were caught, straightaway you would be strung up from the nearest mango or mbuyu tree. Your farm would be razed, your family sent away. The Germans employed barbarous askaris, the Nubians, who had no qualms opening up the bellies of women with child. The Masai, the rumours said, were already on their way from the north. And a ship full of German soldiers and more guns had docked in Dar es Salaam.

That night the village did not sleep. And when in the early hours of the morning, just as the brave muezzin began his “Allahu Akbar Allahu Akbar Allahu Akbar …,” a frantic knocking sounded on the courtyard door and a chill went through Dhanji Govindji’s household as it prepared for prayer. On tiptoes Dhanji Govindji went outside to see or hear what was up. “Baba, it’s I,” came the half-caste’s urgent voice, “quickly, let me in, upesi!”

The lion of Matamu was admitted home nervous and trembling. “They are after me,” he said. “The Mdachis.”

“And what did you do that the Germans are after you?”

“I was watching the Maji Maji with my friends.”

Dhanji Govindji hastened his son inside and tried to abate Fatima’s fury.

“So,” began Dhanji Govindji. “What was it like, this Maji Maji?”

“It’s like they say. The men, and even women, were drinking from gourds. Then they put leaves on their heads and began chanting. We joined them. All those who were hiding in the bushes came to join. ‘Maji maji maji maji,’ we were shouting. ‘The Mdachis? Kill them! The Mdachis? Spear them, spear them!’ Then the Mdachis came with their askaris. They began shooting peu, peu, and some men fell. Then all started running, scattering everywhere, and the Mdachis started shooting with this gun that throws bullets like water—pye-pye-pye-pye-pye, like this, and aiii, many fell. Many will hang, I tell you. Guu Refu was there.”

Dhanji Govindji looked at his son. “And do you think it is right that for the sake of your games and to show your cleverness you endanger the lives of these children? And the water on your back, you think that’s the German bullets turned to water, do you? You fool, if a bullet had touched you, you would be meat for the hyenas.”

Huseni looked hurt. He was hidden for three days in the loft in the store, behind gunnies of produce. The next morning the Germans made a show of strength in Matamu and nearby areas, appearing with their askaris, and the villagers had their look at the notorious Nubians. Thus the Maji Maji revolt, which spread like a bush fire in the night across more than a quarter of the country, bypassed Matamu.

One day when Gulam, the other son, was fourteen he was sent to neighbouring Kitmangau on an errand. He came back on a stretcher carried by two Mshenzis from a nearby village. He had been attacked on the way, and the servant who accompanied him had run away. The first people to see the stretcher come in were Huseni and his gang under the tree.

“Wey! Who is sick?” shouted Huseni to the bearers.

“Bwana Dhanji’s son has been attacked by bandits,” came the obsequious reply.

“Move-move-move, pisha!” cried the half-caste, up on his feet, pushing aside the bearers. “I am also his son. Do you think I’ll simply sit while you carry my brother home?”

To this incident is traced the first transformation of my grandfather Huseni. The Maji Maji incident had already sobered him somewhat. Now he saw himself as the oldest son, the protector of Fatima’s children. So complete did his transformation seem, and so great was Dhanji Govindji’s relief, that to make sure the boy did not revert to his old ways he took a proposal of marriage to a local family who had in their home a girl who was of age.

My grandmother was an orphan of fifteen and the proposal was quickly accepted. Her name was Moti, pearl, and she was the first jewel in Dhanji Govindji’s life. The other was Ji Bai.

Ji Bai’s actual name was Mongi, precious. She was called Ji Bai because to every command from her father she promptly answered, “Ji, ha,” yes, sir. If her mother or father called her—Mongiiiii!—or whenever anyone else called her—Eh, Mongi!—promptly would come the reply, “Ji!” Such politeness in a child, so often desired, so rarely fulfilled! Ji Bai was the darling of Bajupur.

In Bajupur, Ji Bai at thirteen liked to play bandits. Like many girls of her age she had no plans for getting married, but imagined herself always in her father’s village. One day, she and her friends went to the local Brahmin to have their palms read. “I see a successful marriage in this hand,” droned the pandit, holding her hand, “you will be married to a
second-
timer, and your hand shows
many-many
children …”

“Go, go,” said Ji Bai, pulling back her hand. “You have teeth in your head. Like
this
I will marry a second-timer.” She showed him a derisive thumb and skipped away.

“Remember,” called out the pandit, with a red, liquidy paan-filled grin, holding up his forefinger,
“many-many
children …”

She woke up one day two months later to the sounds and smells of a wedding in preparation. The air was laden with the sweet, rich smells of hot ghee and saffron, cloves and cinnamon, as the mithai-makers got under way. In a compound outside her father’s house women were cleaning the rice and pulse was being pounded. And the most tell-tale sign of all: the women, all women, had on their lips the joyful, teasing songs of marriage. Her mother and father were not to be seen. She went to her sister-in-law and asked, “Aré, Bhabhi,
whose
wedding is this?” And the bright-eyed Bhabhi looked up, joyfully teasing, “Oh, my! Haven’t you heard? Yours!”

Ji Bai found that it was three days since she had been formally engaged. A troupe of men had come to their house with the mukhi and taken away her father’s consent in a register. Now a whole section of Bajupur was closed off to her because that was where the groom’s party had camped.

That was the first time she remembered saying “Na” to her father.

The boy was Gulam, sent to Junapur by his father in the company of Ragavji Devraj, when his first wife from Kitmangau died three months after the wedding. The girl Mongi was sighted playing with her friends as they stopped over on their way inland from Porbander. Enquiries were made, and two weeks later Ragavji Devraj returned with the boy and the proposal.

For her remaining days in the village Ji Bai sent constant word to her father to change his mind.

“Are you crazy?” came the reply. “Do you want me to break my word?”

For those remaining days, as the village celebrated her supposed joy, she wept alone in a dark room and refused to touch food. On the last day, the day of the wedding, her father came to see her.

“What is it, my grandmother?” For she was, to him, his own grandmother returned.

“Where are you sending me, Bapa?” she cried. “Where is Africa? I know no-one in those parts, I’ll never see you again.”

“I am your father, na? Trust me,” he said, patting her head. “You’ll never be unhappy. Now be good and make me proud.” He embraced her and she relented.

One last gesture of love for her father, one last gift to make him happy. For truly she would never see him again. She sat on his lap, and from the plate he had brought with him he fed his darling daughter with his hands as he gave her advice on conduct.

“Don’t let me down, Ji Bai. Do nothing to bring shame upon yourself. Never walk out alone. Don’t speak of your home outside the four walls. Always cover your family’s shame. Don’t come back without your husband’s permission …” And he bade the female members of the family to come and bathe the bride, to anoint her with saffron, to await the puro, the procession of singing females of the opposite side bringing in the bridal clothes and henna.

So the pandit’s prophecy came true. And Mongi overnight became a woman. She came to Africa with her husband in a steamer. Disembarking in Dar es Salaam, the two respectfully touched the feet of Dhanji Govindji and his wife who had come to meet them.

By this time the Indians of Matamu and neighbouring towns had acquired a sheth in Dar es Salaam, their agent Karmali Samji, who bought their produce and supplied them with goods. Karmali Samji’s dhows plied the sea between Dar es Salaam and Kilwa; his team of porters went a hundred miles into the interior along the old caravan route. Zanzibar, which had ruled the coast for centuries, finally lost its grip on the mainland. Amarsi Makan’s millions had been squandered, as were Jairam Shivji’s and Ladha Damji’s. In their place, new “uncrowned kings” of business were setting up along the coast
from Kilwa to Mombasa, with empires stretching all the way up to Kampala in the interior.

Ji Bai and Gulam stayed a month in the newly-constructed rest house of Dar es Salaam, after which they travelled in one of Sheth Karmali Samji’s dhows to Matamu. The dhow anchored in shallow water, and Ji Bai was carried ashore on the back of an African as Gulam followed with rolled trousers, instructing the porters. They were welcomed by a band playing an Indian wedding tune on reed flutes, and the procession left for Dhanji Govindji’s shop, stopping at the mosque on the way, for the bride and groom to bow their thanks. As they crossed the threshold of their home a shower of rice grain greeted them, waiting women broke into a geet, and the crunch of clay saucers under their feet wished them good luck.

One of her first acts when she reached Matamu, Ji Bai would say, was to engage in a childish squabble with one of Fatima’s children. Growing up in such a short time was not easy.

With two jewels in his breast, Dhanji Govindji’s luck seemed to have blossomed. What past acts come now to reward me like this? he would say with a satisfied sigh. The sounds of their pleasant voices, their laughter, their singing and games rang joyfully through the house and filled him with pleasure. Like all respectable women they did not meet his eyes, of course, and they hid their faces behind their pachedis. Nevertheless there grew a communication between them, an understanding. Whenever their laughter and singing desisted for long, when prolonged silences were punctuated by mutterings and whispers and sighs, he would call Fatima and ask what was the matter. Instantly matters would return to normal. In turn the two girls pampered him. When he praised some food one of them had prepared, it would be repeated after a suitable interval. A severe mood on his part would be placated by a favourite sweet, a mithai. A more lax atmosphere was taken advantage of by more extravagance. He was like a god to them, whom
they daily propitiated, whose attributes they sang to each other, whose idiosyncracies gave them joy to recall.

A few months after she arrived, Ji Bai, pushing aside the gunny curtain, entered the outhouse late one night before going to bed. Her kerosene lamp, raised in front of her, revealed a black face, wide-eyed, frightened and looking drunk. Herself frightened out of her wits, she asked, “What do you want?” Back came an incoherent reply. There was a rustle in the shadows, and when she raised the lamp higher she saw two more men.