an Agatha Christie society and a readingclub. It is the kind of small, quiet town where Dame Agatha might well have sent Miss Marple to spend a few days with a married niece and solve a mystery. In fact, the local Christie Club organizes regular events, including mystery getaways and fashion shows in which members appear dressed as Christie characters. The librarian here, to my surprise, turned out to be an Indian, a Ms. Chatterjee. The three of us had a lunch of fish and chips together.
According to Ms. Chatterjee, Korrenburg was founded more than two hundred years ago by seven Loyalist families from the United States. It was called Georgetown and later renamed to commemorate the marriage of one of the daughters of King George IV to a Bavarian prince. Korrenburg boasts many cultural activities, some impressive architecture, its own town crier, and a marina. You will like it, says the librarian.
FOUR.
Vikram?
Yes.
What was that?
What?
That sound —did you hear it? (She whispers.)
There’s nothing.
Do you think they could come for us?
No, of course not. Go to sleep.
It was the nights that curdled the blood, that made palpable the terror that permeated our world like a mysterious ether. The faint yet persistent chir-chir-chir of crickets or the rhythmic croak-croak of frogs when it rained, the whine of the solitary vehicle on the road, seemed only to deepen the hour, enhance the menacing ominousness lurking in the dark outside. TheMau Mau owned this darkness, which cloaked them into invisibility; then suddenly they materialized, a gang of twenty or forty seeking entry into a marked house, throwing poisoned meat to the guard dogs, hacking a watchman to death…or a single murderer looking down upon you as you lay in bed.
Such were the stories we had heard about them. The Mau Mau are your enemies, they will kill and maim your family and children, they perform bestial rites and orgies under the cover of night in the homes of their sworn supporters, one of whom could well be your Kikuyu servant in his room. A pamphlet was distributed by the government. It was in Swahili and illustrated with pictures of purported Mau Mau doings. Two of them seared my young mind then, have become forever unforgettable. In one, a naked African child of about four lay curled on the ground, in a posture of sleep; the neck abruptly drooped down, and at its back, the only disfiguration on the smooth body, a black inky smudge with thick bristly protrusions like crawling worms. It took a few days of brooding over and compulsive staring at the picture in secret, eventually through a stamp-collector’s magnifying glass, for the realization to catch hold that those were not worms on the back of the child’s head but broken ends of skin, bone, and muscle, all the exposed tissues of a neck hacked by a panga. In the other picture, a girl of about six, also naked, lay bent over a log; there were short panga slash marks on her calves; there was no head on the body, it lay about a foot away. The panga had cut away part of an ear, this I remember too.
Report Mau Mau activity in your area, the pamphlet exhorted. If you suspect that someone has taken the Mau Mau oath, or if you yourself are approached to take it, talk to the police. Call 999.
After Mahesh Uncle took up his job in the Resham Singh Sawmill near Njoro, Deepa was given his room to sleep in. Still afraid of the dark, she often slipped into my bed, her warm body close to mine, and she would start her fretful querying: Vikram?
Once a week, on Tuesdays, our father would go out on a patrol of our area of Nakuru in the night. He had volunteered for this Home Guard duty rather brashly, as Mother always made it a point to remind him, telling him there were enough younger men who were willing to do the job. He would go with one other person and the duty lasted from ten p.m. till one a.m. Before he left, as he stood at the door, Mother made sure he wore his thick sweater under the