The In-Between World of Vikram Lall by M. G. Vassanji Read Free Book Online Page B

windbreaker and had his police whistle in his pocket. She put a flask of coffee and a box of savouries in his hands, and she would hear out his long string of reminders—to keep an occasional eye on the lighted backyard, to keep within rapid access of the alarm switch and the gun by their bedside, when to use the telephone and always to be brief whether calling out or answering, to pay heed if neighbourhood dogs started barking, how to listen for the reassuring sounds of the two Dorobo watchmen who did the rounds of our development every night armed with bows and arrows…and what to do just in case…no point in hiding the kids, they should all stay together. If he didn’t stop, she would interrupt him and put in her plea: Now listen, don’t be foolish and step out of the car, did you hear? Yes, yes, don’t worry, he would say, which hardly convinced her. One night, while going around some house to inspect the servant quarters, as he was required to do occasionally, he had been brought to the ground by two Alsatian guard dogs. The consequences, if the residents had been tardy in their response or too quick with their guns, could have been dire for him. Finally it would be time to leave. If it was his partner’s turn to drive, the car would arrive outside and toot its horn briefly. Adjusting his khaki cloth hat, of which he was rather conscious, with a reassuring glance at his official white armband that said “H.G.,” and saying, “Accha, mein jaunga,” Papa would take leave, and Mother would secure all the bolts and locks on the door and turn around to face us, white as a sheet. She would hurry to the table which held the statues of all the importantgods and whisper brief prayers. It was her puja day and she would already have been to the temple earlier.
    Morning came refreshingly, vigorously, with the cocoricoo of a cock, brilliant sunlight smiling through the windows, the radio tuned to Hindustani service, servants chatting outside in Kikuyu, Luo, Nandi, or Swahili, tea paraphernalia clattering in the house, the smell of woodsmoke and hot toast and parantha and butter, and we were all alive and the world was wonderful.
    Mwangi, Njoroge’s grandfather, was released two days after being taken away during the police raid. Deepa and I were sent by our mother to take some bananas and chappatis for him to welcome him home. We did not bring curry, because he did not like our curries, preferring his own spinach or bean stews without spices but with a lot of salt. One of the three other men who had been taken with him had been sent to a detention camp. He had been sporting a “Jomo” beard, I had heard, and was one of the two who had tried to escape when the raid began. In my experience, Africans often disappeared, having gone “back home” or been taken into detention or sent to jail for not paying tax or rent or for getting into a brawl.
    After we had made our presentation, Deepa ran off to play somewhere. Njoroge was not around. I stayed back and watched Mwangi as he sat crouched outside the doorway of his quarters and proceeded to eat. His knees were grazed and dusty, from going down on them while gardening, and his fingertips were coarse, the nails black-edged. He probably found ugali, a meal made from maize flour, more filling, but chappati was a delicacy for him, and he ate it carefully, cutting each one into quarters, and then into smaller pieces, which he used to scoop up the vegetable and sauce.
    What did they do to you at the police station, Muzee, I asked, when he was finished and had put aside his plate.
    He smiled, took a long draught of water, emptied the glass. He said, They asked and asked.

    What, Muzee? What did they ask?
    Am I Mau Mau? I said no.
    And then?
    They asked me again, as if they had not heard the first time.
    And that Sergeant Boniface, that fat one who calls himself the lion, did he ask, too?
    Eeh, yes, he too asked, that one. The dog barks loudest in the presence of its master—always