Read Online The Book of Secrets by M.G. Vassanji - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: M.G. Vassanji
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leftover meat, fighting over the pieces, rowdy as only monkeys can be. The mzungu went and waited behind a large bush, observing. “Kwa taratibu yule mzungu akalenga,” said my man, conscious of his audience. Carefully the white man took aim, and with his rifle shot as many of the stupid baboons as he could. About ten in all.
“Truly, that was a mzungu,” said Fumfratti.
I wondered what to make of this veiled judgement of me. “Describe him to me,” I said.
“Menandi,” he said. “That was his name. Big, head like a rock, two teeth like this …” he gestured with two fingers.
And yes, the CMS ladies tell me Maynard was here, on his way to Moshi (ever the soldier) to see what the Germans in their colony were up to.
But this was not all. The stream had more for us than a reminder of that grisly episode. As we prepared to leave, some villagers approached: a young man in the company of older men. They had so far kept their distance, fearing, I suppose, that I was after taxes. After humming and hawing, in broken Swahili and a mixture of local languages, they made their plea. They wanted the bwana — me — to kill a python who had moved into the vicinity. But surely they could kill snakes, I put it to them. But the mzungu had a bunduki (a gun). And all the wild animals fear the mzungu.
So off we went in search of the snake. It was a strange, bewildering procession through the bush. My companions chanted all the while: “Dudu … dudu … dudu-dudu …” Why, I askedFumfratti, why dudu — insect? “They want to fool the snake, make him think the mzungu is after a dudu.”
Why the snake should understand Swahili, and why a white man should go after an insect armed with his rifle I did not bother to inquire. Finally we stopped. We were at a boundary of sorts. The growth became dense ahead of us, and small trees littered the area. “What?” I said. A villager pointed at the ground beneath a tree, and I saw the snake slithering away into the bush rather unhurriedly. It was a pretty large one — about nine inches in diameter. The villagers, by creating a racket, forced it to turn back, whereupon Fumfratti said, “Shoot,” and I shot it twice.
Any resistance it had left was bludgeoned out of it with clubs and sticks, and it was finally dragged out in front of us, belly swollen with its latest prey. Very skilfully it was cut open, lengthwise, so it could be skinned later, and out of the slimy inside that still twitched, they brought out something so revolting I shudder even now. It was a human baby.
We stopped at two other villages, at the second of which there was a long case involving a father and his sons …
Fumfratti has proved invaluable on this journey. He has travelled widely as a scout, and is a mine of information. My askaris and porters defer to his age and experience, and his wit. Several of them can carry a tune, lead the company in song through forest and grass, but Fumfratti is the storyteller. In the evenings, by the fire, his long stories continue from the previous night and (I believe) change plots and characters. During marches he keeps the men’s minds off their loads, their pangs of hunger, and the intense heat with a marvellous supply of riddles. Not surprisingly he was greeted like an old friend when we arrived in Taveta. We had been on the road three nights and a little over two days.
In Taveta Corbin was shown the graveyard, which lay in arcadian peace and shade behind a mango grove. There he saw two European graves built up as shrines. He was taken to the site where the explorer Thomson had struck camp thirty years before. Kilimanjaro loomed even closer here, and he learned that an underground stream from the mountain practically surrounded the town. From the top of the hill where the Mission offices were, he could see the green belt of dense vegetation that followed the water line. The water surfaced first at a crater lake, called Chala, in the hills to the west. It then
“Truly, that was a mzungu,” said Fumfratti.
I wondered what to make of this veiled judgement of me. “Describe him to me,” I said.
“Menandi,” he said. “That was his name. Big, head like a rock, two teeth like this …” he gestured with two fingers.
And yes, the CMS ladies tell me Maynard was here, on his way to Moshi (ever the soldier) to see what the Germans in their colony were up to.
But this was not all. The stream had more for us than a reminder of that grisly episode. As we prepared to leave, some villagers approached: a young man in the company of older men. They had so far kept their distance, fearing, I suppose, that I was after taxes. After humming and hawing, in broken Swahili and a mixture of local languages, they made their plea. They wanted the bwana — me — to kill a python who had moved into the vicinity. But surely they could kill snakes, I put it to them. But the mzungu had a bunduki (a gun). And all the wild animals fear the mzungu.
So off we went in search of the snake. It was a strange, bewildering procession through the bush. My companions chanted all the while: “Dudu … dudu … dudu-dudu …” Why, I askedFumfratti, why dudu — insect? “They want to fool the snake, make him think the mzungu is after a dudu.”
Why the snake should understand Swahili, and why a white man should go after an insect armed with his rifle I did not bother to inquire. Finally we stopped. We were at a boundary of sorts. The growth became dense ahead of us, and small trees littered the area. “What?” I said. A villager pointed at the ground beneath a tree, and I saw the snake slithering away into the bush rather unhurriedly. It was a pretty large one — about nine inches in diameter. The villagers, by creating a racket, forced it to turn back, whereupon Fumfratti said, “Shoot,” and I shot it twice.
Any resistance it had left was bludgeoned out of it with clubs and sticks, and it was finally dragged out in front of us, belly swollen with its latest prey. Very skilfully it was cut open, lengthwise, so it could be skinned later, and out of the slimy inside that still twitched, they brought out something so revolting I shudder even now. It was a human baby.
We stopped at two other villages, at the second of which there was a long case involving a father and his sons …
Fumfratti has proved invaluable on this journey. He has travelled widely as a scout, and is a mine of information. My askaris and porters defer to his age and experience, and his wit. Several of them can carry a tune, lead the company in song through forest and grass, but Fumfratti is the storyteller. In the evenings, by the fire, his long stories continue from the previous night and (I believe) change plots and characters. During marches he keeps the men’s minds off their loads, their pangs of hunger, and the intense heat with a marvellous supply of riddles. Not surprisingly he was greeted like an old friend when we arrived in Taveta. We had been on the road three nights and a little over two days.
In Taveta Corbin was shown the graveyard, which lay in arcadian peace and shade behind a mango grove. There he saw two European graves built up as shrines. He was taken to the site where the explorer Thomson had struck camp thirty years before. Kilimanjaro loomed even closer here, and he learned that an underground stream from the mountain practically surrounded the town. From the top of the hill where the Mission offices were, he could see the green belt of dense vegetation that followed the water line. The water surfaced first at a crater lake, called Chala, in the hills to the west. It then
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