The Gunny Sack by M.G. Vassanji Read Free Book Online Page A

hunch, take off. Dhow captains knew of his quest, and so did caravan leaders and porters. It was the captain of a dhow called
Mariamu
who convinced him that he should see Mozambique.
    “We have the British to the north and east of us, the Germans are in our midst, and to the south, Bai, are the Portuguese.These gentlemen are different because they take to themselves women of the land; as a result there are numerous half-castes down south—Arab and Black, Indian and Black, Portuguese and Black. The town is old like Mombasa, but with many churches and Portuguese soldiers and priests. The Portuguese are carried in a machela, an open box with curtains slung on a pole covered with some animal skin, borne by black men at a trot … On the day I arrived, on a narrow street I came across a donkey laden with bales, driven with sticks, kicks and curses. I moved into a doorway to let it by, but as it passed, one of the bales pushed me quite roughly straight into the arms of a tall Swahili sheikh sitting on a stool. This sheikh, called Yakub, was of considerable age, dressed in immaculate white right to his beard. He spoke a little Gujarati, and it seemed he had been to these parts. He heard me out and offered to show me around. Together we went through the Arab quarter, then the Indian and the African quarters. In the Indian quarter I sought out the mukhi, asked him a few questions, and stayed for a meal. In the African quarter I saw Makonde women with lines drawn on their faces, and there were other black women with gold and jewellery, who Yakub said belonged to Portuguese chiefs. We met prisoners and their askaris working on the roads, and we questioned them.”
    Dhanji Govindji returned by the same dhow, the
Mariamu
. He never left Matamu again. He was still the mukhi and resumed his duties. But he was resigned and wistful. “Africa has swallowed him up, Bai, taken him back into her womb … My only regret is that I have not taken the rail gadi to Tabora and further, or the gadi from Mombasa further, up to the lake and into the land they call Uganda … Perhaps there … But how far can one go … this land has no end.”
    Africa was not as small as he had once confidently thought. It was more than the towns and the markets and the caravan routes. One could go deeper and deeper into it and perhaps never return. Perhaps that’s what happened to hisson Huseni. When anyone asked him now: “What news of Huseni?,” “He died,” he would answer. But the strangest thing was that when he saw someone from his community off at the door, he would often murmur, “Forgive me,” as though absent-mindedly. “What?” would come the reply; then an embarrassed laugh, an ambiguous turn of phrase, and the guest would hastily depart with an apologetic but knowing look at whoever else was present. It seemed that Dhanji Govindji’s grief and his fruitless journeys had affected his mind.
    One day with much commotion, and preceded well in advance by rumour and speculation in the street and expectation of business in the dukas and hastily constructed stalls, a detachment of askaris under a district officer from the interior arrived at Matamu on their way to the capital. It was noontime with its glaring, sticky heat, and the company broke up for rest. One of the askaris eating an orange at a stall caught sight of Bwana Khalfaan, eyes on the ground, hurrying to his house. The askari—his name turned out to be Daudi Amin—quietly got up from his stool, spat out a seed, and trotted off to the tent of Herr Lambrecht, his district officer. From there he picked up two other askaris and together they pounced on Bwana Khalfaan outside his house as he was hurrying off to another destination. Bwana Khalfaan, it seemed, had been recognized as one of the ringleaders inciting villagers to take the Maji Maji oath in the uprising around Iringa. A hearing was set for late that afternoon, and Bwana Wasi, as the local district officer, was asked to