Part 1

This first instalment of David Maillu’s upcoming novel The Haves and the Have-Nots opens our new book serialisation series. The novel dissects the dynamics of social relationships in Kenya’s immediate post-independence period, during which the divisions arising from the freedom struggle continued to have a profound effect on the young nation. In particular, the sense of loss felt by those who sacrificed everything for the struggle was deep and palpable, even as those who had sided with the colonial government reaped the benefits of independence.

‍

By David G. Maillu

-------------------

(Aria mari na aria matari) Kikuyu
(Ala mai na ala matai) Kikamba
(Walio nazo na wasio nazo) Kiswahili
(Jomoko gi jodhier) Luo
(Ababwate na abatabwati) Kisii
(Bhayinda nende bhatakha) ?
(Masimba na ngwerha)?
(Chetinye ak chemotinye) Kipsigis
(Wavelebwa na waveleba) ?
(Abalinafo nende abawuma) Luhya
(Chetnyei ak chematindoi) Nandi
(Barĩ na batarĩ) Kimeru
(Ndi aka jiaku na ndi ogbenye) Igbo
(Beena bio na batîna bio) ?
(Ababwate na abatabwati) ?
(Vasuri na ngotda)?
(Bainda ne batambi) Bukusu
(Joma nigi kod joma onge) ?
(Izityebi nabalambi) Xhosa
(Abasuthi nabalambi) Zulu

-----------

Chapter One

Campaign times were the seasons of harvest. Instead of hiring villagers in his village to sing his name, Junior Josiah Waruingi hired them to sing his nickname, Nding’uri, which means financier. Hence:

Nding’uri, we are all yours.
There has never been anyone like you.
There will never be another Nding’uri

But of late, he has been demanding that they sing, “Honourable Waruingi”. However, Nding’uri, remained his rural name in Mucethe Constituency. Outside his constituency, he was Honourable Jnr Josiah Waruingi, a heavy-bellied man, a lover of goat meat and a womaniser, one with a penchant for young girls. He wasn’t good at public speaking as he was given to stammering, but he let money speak for him. People nicknamed him “Man of Money”.

When drunk, Waruingi confessed why he loved schoolgirls. 

“They’re tight down there,” he would say, while smoking. In private, however, he occasionally smoked bhang.  But his wife, who would always smell it quickly on his breath, would exclaim, “Josiah, what’s that smell?”

“You,” he might tease or remain silent. He had fathered many children (English people called them bastards) with girls whom he silenced with big money. Behind the scenes, Honourable Waruingi had paid for many abortions. But he knew who to play with and kept off the daughters of men who could make him sweat or dispatch him to heaven.

Honourable Waruingi felt highly protected because he was close to the first president of the Republic of Kenya, Mr Jomo Kenyatta, a man he admired and imitated. However, he had been hesitant to emulate Kenyatta’s habit of carrying a flywhisk. 

He thought that if he carried one, it might be construed as challenging Kenyatta’s personality, pride and mystique. He could share some jokes with Jomo Kenyatta, who would tease him, laughing aloud and exclaiming, “Nduri ino!” (Normally this would be an insult in the Gikuyu language, but among close friends, it can easily pass as a joke).

When Honourable Jnr Josiah Waruingi built his two-floor house in the countryside, which was smaller than that of well-known wealthy businessman Njenga Karume, it became the subject in many a household in that part of the world. People couldn’t imagine what anyone wanted, with a house that had seven bedrooms and three bathrooms.

They kept asking many questions about the house and its occupant.
“Is he mad?” they wondered.
“Is he going to have many wives living in the same house?”
“It’s not our tradition to have two wives,” someone argued, “let alone more wives living in the same house. If you are married to one, you have one poison pot. If married to two or three, you’ve two or three poisons under your roof. Only God can save you from their wrath.”

As the house was built on a high raised ground, it could be seen from every side. Its size mocked all the homes around. Perhaps that was what Honourable Waruingi wanted. In the modern world, your name is measured by the size of your property, but not the size of your wife.

But then, as times changed, Honourable Waruingi realised the danger of displaying his wealth among poor people. He became vulnerable to ridicule. Other people concluded he was rich because he stole ruthlessly from people. The discomfort he felt made him understand the philosophy expressed in the proverb: In a kingdom of blind men, the one-eyed man is king.

To conceal the massive house, he built a huge perimeter wall around it, leaving only the red roof in view. But after concealing it with high walls, people started wondering what valuables he might have been hiding in that house.

The home was built on a prime 22-acre piece of land that he had inherited from his father, Chief Paul Waruingi, who had died mysteriously after independence. Chief Waruingi left behind a trail of stories, among which was one that he had been killed by the dreaded Mau Mau fighters. He is said to have mistreated the freedom fighters when he was a colonial chief who ruled with an iron fist.

Before Paul Waruingi became a chief, he had been a poor gardener employed as a shamba boy by a White man called Bill Mackenzie. Bill Mackenzie is the one who recommended Waruingi to the Governor for employment as a chief because he spoke a smattering of English. Paul Waruingi rose to great prominence during the peak of the Mau Mau freedom struggle. 

He established himself as an authoritarian and was loved by the white colonial administrators for putting down his fellow African subjects. He vowed to protect the British Crown at whatever cost. When he was asked to recommend an Assistant Chief, he picked one of his brothers-in-law, Wang’ombe, who became his right-hand man.

Wang’ombe replaced a man who had been arrested and detained for aiding the dreaded Mau freedom fighters.

Chief Waruingi lived in the same neighbourhood as a wealthy man called Macharia wa Muchiri, who owned a huge piece of land and lots of livestock. Macharia, whom villagers referred to as “Nding’uri”, was a generous person. When Waruingi was employed as a Chief, he became envious of Macharia’s wealth, which he had been eying all along.

Although Macharia minded his business by keeping his mouth shut and never saying anything critical about the white people, his wealth and status challenged the Chief’s authority. That challenge came to the fore when Macharia complained before the Council of Elders that the Chief had forced himself on his beautiful second wife, Wangu. 

The accusation made the Chief mad, and he fought back by using the British Crown. He decided to take the beautiful woman from Macharia for good, and he forcefully grabbed her and took her as his own. However, to clear the way for the ownership of the beautiful Wangu, who had dimples to boot, he reported Macharia to the authorities, accusing him of being a Mau Mau member. Macharia was quickly arrested and taken to detention. Detention was the terror weapon the government used to destroy the will of those fighting for freedom.

After Chief Waruingi married Wangu as his third wife, he demanded from Macharia’s first wife half of Macharia’s livestock, claiming it was Wangu’s share. Macharia’s first wife, Muthoni, saved her life by giving Waruingi whatever he demanded.

In those days, Chiefs were like gods, something Macharia realised when he ended up in detention, where he was tortured mercilessly.  He saved his life by confessing he was a member of the dreaded Mau Mau. He had no way out.

Chief Waruingi, however, considered three wives not enough for him. Barely three months after snatching Macharia’s wife, he was walking in the field when he ran into another woman he thought was even more beautiful than Wangu. 

“Get this woman and take her to my home,” he ordered his guards. The woman’s attempt to struggle forced the guards to grab her and carry her high on their shoulders to the Chief’s home. Her pleas that she was married fell on deaf ears.

When the reports of her abduction by Chief Waruingi reached the husband, the man was angry and thought of storming the Chief’s place when one of the Chief’s guards whispered to him, “Do not challenge the chief lest he declares you a member of Mau Mau.”

By then, word had reached the Chief that his latest catch was somebody’s wife, just like Wangu had been Macharia’s. He issued a summons for the man to be brought to him. When he came before the Chief, the man knelt and wisely bought his freedom by crying, “My Chief, that woman hasn’t been a good wife to me. Taking her has saved me the burden of caring for her. She’ll serve you better because you are the Chief.” That ended the matter.

But Chief Waruingi was not done with Macharia yet. He moved further to destroy Macharia’s homestead by organising theft and plunder of the property, including the remaining livestock. When that was accomplished, he grabbed the man’s prized land. He began by using Wangu to lay claim to over half of the land by saying she was not actually married to the Chief, and therefore deserved her share of the land. 

The Chief had evil designs which included grabbing Macharia’s remaining land.  His next step was orchestrating a move to impoverish Macharia’s first wife, Muthoni, and forcing her into total submission.  Pushed into a corner, she had no option but to let the Chief take everything. 

All she wanted was to be left to live in peace with her two children so that she could   take them to school. With a husband in detention and her land now seized by the Chief, she thought education was the best thing she could give to children. She probably might never see her husband again. It was at that stage that the Chief extended an olive branch to her by promising protection for her and the children, besides helping with the children’s education.

The children were Macha and Mumbi. Unfortunately, Macha didn’t do well in school. When he was born, he was given the name Ndung’u, but his father nicknamed him Macha, due to his striking resemblance to his father. But as Ndung’u grew, the nickname stuck and gradually, the name Ndung’u faded into oblivion.

When Macha passed to go to high school, he studied only for a year and then dropped out altogether. Eventually, when he was 15 years old, he got a job at a Mukamba farmer’s homestead in Mbooni area, nearly one hundred and fifty kilometres from home. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he wanted to run away from Agikuyu people. He felt relieved when he was employed in Ukambani. Furthermore, he wanted to keep as far away as possible from Chief Waruingi’s eyes. The farmer, Mutunga, had a tractor, which  Macha learnt how to use.

Chief Waruingi had many children. He, however, lost his authority completely when Kenya became independent. But the pain and damage he inflicted on Macharia’s family became part of the history of independent Kenya.

Macharia was one of the earliest victims of castration during interrogation by a monster of a White man nicknamed “Luvai” by the Akamba. Macharia regretted not admitting right from the beginning the allegation that he was a Mau Mau, and thereby saving his masculinity. But he had stubbornly resisted in the belief that his refusal would save him and force the authorities to return him home. Women were tortured into submission by the use of a bottle which was forcefully inserted into their private parts.

After being in detention for seven years, the distraught Macharia returned home, perhaps just to die. He was all bones, broken in body and spirit. He had lost everything, but was totally unprepared for what he found at home.

When Kenya became independent, Chief Waruingi experienced nightmares, fearing that Macharia would seek revenge and destroy him. So, he quickly rushed to the council of elders and pleaded for mercy, saying, “Please, protect me from Macharia. I did what I did because I was a colonial Chief. Colonial water has been spilt. It can’t be collected.” But when the council challenged him to return the land to Macharia, he refused, vowing to fight back.

Fearing that Macharia’s former wife Wangu would betray him, Chief Waruingi had her executed by hitmen,  claiming that she too had secretly joined the Mau Mau.

Even after the attainment of independence, Macha didn’t feel like going back home. He felt comfortable in Mbooni where he learned a lot about the Akamba people. He felt totally at home. He spoke Kikamba fluently and made many friends. He thought there was nothing to go back to in Kikuyuland, where their land had been grabbed and his family left in sheer poverty.

However, just like many people, hoped President Jomo Kenyatta would heal their wounds by compensating the Mau Mau fighters for their sacrifice. However, as years of the young independent country passed by, compensation remained elusive until new voices began to emerge from survivors of freed fighters and general losers who claimed that independence had been compromised. The real bird --- independence - had flown away, leaving them with feathers only.

“Independence is only for President Kenyatta and his cronies,” some people said bitterly. Mau Mau fighters threatened to return to the forest to fight for independence and land. But President Jomo Kenyatta put his foot down, protecting independence by creating nightmares for those who objected to the status quo. The shocking reality remained for those whose land had been grabbed by the colonisers. President Kenyatta soon became totally inaccessible to anyone who wished to see him.

Months after Macharia returned home, he couldn’t speak. He had come home looking scary to his wife and daughter. Some relatives and friends advised Muthoni and her daughter to leave him.

“Go underground before this man locks you up in the grass house and sets it on fire. When he spends the whole day without uttering a word, what do you think he is planning? He could be plotting vengeance and disaster. Look at his red eyes – they can easily kill.”

But the stoic Muthoni stayed, with the hope that one day her husband would open up. She liked it that when she gave him food, he ate heartily. He had also gained substantial weight gradually. Although he had not disclosed to her that he had been castrated, she had learnt it from other people. She loved him fully in whatever form he was. She was prepared to live with him for the rest of her life. He was the father of her children.

Then something happened that forced Macha to return home. It was the death of his father, who went to bed one day and never woke up. Macha returned to bury him after promising he would be back. They believed he would come back because they had discovered he had fallen in love with their daughter, who, by sheer coincidence, was named Mumbi, just like his sister. The two had kept their affair secret.  He knew too well how strict and matter-of-fact Mumbi’s father was. Another motivation was that his employer paid him handsomely.

Behind the scenes, Macha had often seduced Mumbi, engaging her in private passionate conversations. Physically, Mumbi was not one of those raving beauties. She had many boyish features, particularly her voice. If she spoke while out of sight, her voice could easily be mistaken for a boy’s. When she laughed, it was a belly laugh.

There was something about Macha that weakened Mumbi. She adored his mastery of the guitar, which he loved playing during his leisure time. She loved listening from a distance, but the more she listened, the more it worried her. She was confused and enchanted at the same time, wondering what the music would do to her in the end. He played and sang in Kikuyu, which made the music even more mysterious. At one time, she had helped him translate one song into Kikamba. But she thought the ones he sang in Kikuyu sounded better.

One particular discussion brought the two closer. That was when Macha said, “I always thought Mumbi was a Kikuyu name until I met you. I was so surprised because I have a sister called Mumbi, and then I came all the way to find another Mumbi.”

And then the conversation flowed easily.

“Mumbi is a common name in my community.”

“True?”

“Absolutely.”

“What is the meaning of Mumbi in Kikamba?”

“A creator -- someone who moulds , forms or creates.”

“No Kidding?”

“Why should I be?”

“It’s the same meaning in my community. How come?”

“You didn’t know?”

“Tell me.”

“Both the Kikuyu and Akamba communities are simply one big family with different dialects. Kamba can understand everything Kikuyu people say, and vice versa. I didn’t know how closely related in language we are until you came to us. I was surprised you understood nearly everything we said, although you never learned the language. Is that true you didn’t have a problem in understanding?”

“Correct.”

“Why should that happen if we weren’t related?”

“You’re now revealing something important to me.”

“In some cases, for instance, you simply change one letter, and the word becomes the other language. What do you call a goat in Kikuyu ?”

“Mburi.”

“Remove ‘r’ and it becomes “mbui” in my language. Could that be by coincidence?
  How do you say, ‘come here’ in Kikuyu?”‍

“Uka haha.”‍

“We say, ‘uka vaa.’ Mumbi means the same in both languages But where did the little differences come from if we were one community?” she asked. Then answered her own question.

“I really didn’t know the difference until you joined us. One day, I was talking to my father about the little difference in the two languages when he surprised me with a story I had never heard before. It was about the origin of your community. Legend has it that the Kikuyu have their origin in Mount Kenya. Another version says they originated near Mount Kenya at a place called Mukurwe wa Nyagathanga. Is that correct?”

“Yes. Where did the Akamba come from?”

“My father didn’t tell me. But he told me that your famous ancestral parents, Gikuyu and Mumbi, were actually Akamba children.”

“That’s the biggest joke of the year.”

“You can confirm it from my father. It’s not a made-up story.”

“How come?”

“My father told me of that ancestry, or how the Kikuyu became the children of Akamba. He said, a long time ago, over four hundred years ago, when they lived near Kyulu Hills, the community was struck by a terrible drought that made them lose the black bean seed.”

“The one we call njahi in Kikuyu?”

“Correct. We call it nzavi – sample the similarity of the names. However, the community knew there was another living at the foot of Mount Kenya. Incidentally, what do you call the mountain?”

“Kirinyaga.”

“You see? The Akamba call the mountain ‘Kinyaa.’ See the similarity again?”

‍“Kirinyaga and Kinyaa,” Macha said.

“Akamba people call it Kinyaa because of its ice top that gives it the feature of the tail of an ostrich. What do the Kikuyu call an ostrich?”

“Nyaga.”

“We all it, nyaa. Nyaa and nyaga, sample the similarity! Okay, let’s return to the story. My father narrated that after the community lost the seed during the drought, they knew where to get it. So, they sent a messenger all the way to the mountain to get nzavi seeds. As you know, from Kyulu Hills to Mount Kenya is quite far, a distance of more than three hundred kilometres. In those times, the messenger would travel for a long time, through dense forests inhabited by dangerous animals. A young man called Kikuyu was picked up as the messenger.”

“Kikuyu, really?”

“Precisely. Kikuyu means fig tree. It is also a man’s name. We have many men called Kikuyu. The Kikuyu messenger I’m talking about, according to the story, was called Kikuyu because when he was born, there was no water around. Instead of water, they used fig tree milk to perform some birth ritual. So, they did not want the messenger to travel on his own. 

“According to the tradition of that time, such a long journey meant a young man had to be accompanied by a girl. This was done just in case they got stranded somewhere and had to wait for long periods, and also in case they wished to have a family. So, the elders looked around for a girl to be Kikuyu’s companion. They picked up a girl called Mumbi.” 

She studied Macha’s curious face — his mouth was open in awe as she continued, “So, Kikuyu and Mumbi took off. My father told me the couple didn’t return for whatever reason. The story is told that the couple was forced by circumstances to settle near that place you now call Mukurwe wa Nyagathanga, which the Akamba call Ithanga. It was there when Kikuyu and Mumbi married and got the nine daughters that the Kikuyu people talk about as their ancestral parents.   Their children multiplied and spread over Mount Kenya and beyond, where they live today. That, my father said, was the origin of your community, the Kikuyu. Does it make sense?”

“I’ve no words for that.”

“Macha, why are you then surprised that your sister is called Mumbi like me, although we come from different communities?”

“I must tell my mother and sister that story.”

That tale made Macha and Mumbi feel they belonged  together even more.

Her memory remained etched deeply in his mind during his departure to bury his father. He replayed their emotional parting, thinking of moments when, behind the family house in the night and under the moonlight, they lay together, his bare chest beside her pointed breasts.

Those were the moments when he thought he felt the throb of her heart through her breasts, transmitting waves to every part of his being, as they kissed passionately. It was a confirmation that they had met to become life companions on the long journey on earth. Each felt as if that moment was the peak of their lives.

Macha returned to Mbooni after forty days, this time determined to announce his love of Mumbi to her parents, and to reveal their plans of getting married. Mumbi’s father received the news cautiously, treating it with the care and attention it deserved. 

In his search of security for his daughter, he requested Macha to guide four elders to visit his home to meet the family, and to confirm that “he belonged somewhere”. He couldn’t allow his daughter to get married into a family he didn’t know.

After five days, the elders returned but they did not good news. They painted a miserable picture about Macha’s home, which was beset by poverty. Their highlight was, “The family has no land.” His mother Muthoni had told them the shocking story of her life and how Chief Waruingi, now dead for a while, had used the British Crown to grab their land while her husband was in detention.

Waruingi’s children had been brought up to draw a red line beyond which they should never cross – this was the line of poverty. They saw Muthoni and her children as outcasts in the neighbourhood. They had inherited a colossal amount of wealth from their father, the colonial Chief. 

But their nightmare had remained that Macharia might one day renew the demand for the return of the land he had lost, which they strongly believed was their property, and   which they would protect at whatever cost. Macharia’s death had given them great relief. They knew his poor son couldn’t afford a lawyer to lodge a claim for the land.

In fact, when Macha emerged to bury his father, no one from the Chief’s homestead attended it. The family power baton was in the able hands of arrogant Junior Josiah Waruingi, who had already engaged a lawyer to take charge of the estate. In the meantime, Junior Waruingi was vying to become a member of Parliament. Everybody knew he would beat his competitor early in the morning because he used his father’s might. Chief Waruingi’s homestead was unassailable.

All that the Waruingis had heard of Macha’s son, who had been lost for years, was that he played the guitar beautifully, and finally, he had come for the burial of his father carrying the guitar.

When the elders brought the bad news to Macha’s prospective father-in-law, he took action swiftly and asked his daughter Mumbi not to marry Macha. 

“My dearest daughter, don’t plunge yourself into unbearable misfortune. There’s no life and no hope in Macha’s home. Don’t be deceived and misled by his music. For the sake of your future, just shut your soul, forget about him and move on. You would be better off being single than getting yourself into that dungeon,” he begged, almost in tears.

Mumbi took her father’s advice seriously and, shedding tears of love, she told Macha, “No, no, I can’t.”

“Mumbi, I can’t believe it. You can’t do that to me,” Macha said, tears welling in his eyes. Mumbi replied by simply walking away, leaving him looking into a future without her.

A miserable and distraught Macha returned home to nurse his mother and sister and also to take his father’s position in the family. His courage had now returned, and he needed to be there for them. But the wound Mumbi had inflicted on his heart would take ages to heal. That is, if it would ever heal. He had prayed to God to spare Mumbi for him, but God had not listened. 

He admired Mumbi’s family and would have loved to be part of it. Mumbi’s father owned a big piece of land, and one day, during their courtship, Mumbi had asked him, “Would you like to settle down in Ukambani? My father wouldn’t mind sharing his land with his son-in-law. Come home where your ancestors come from. Macha, we are one extended family.”

When Jnr Josiah Waruingi became a Member of Parliament, he attempted to silence Macha by offering him a job, but Macha turned it down. Unfortunately, this action was a red flag to Waruingi, who couldn’t understand why a poor, jobless person would decline a job offer. But he knew one thing: Macha hated the Waruingi family with passion.

When Mumbi turned him down, Macha was left contemplating remaining single for the rest of his life. He disliked Kikuyu women, saying they were extremely materialistic. They demanded huge amounts as dowries in marriage and also sought quick riches.

Macha waited for a long time, never believing that Mumbi had actually left him for good. She never told him the reason her father dissuaded her from marrying him. She had repeatedly begged him in tears, “Just go and forget about me.”

But when he asked her in anguish, “Will you forget me?” she did not say a single word.

‍Next week: Did Jomo Kenyatta's death mark the end of a bad era?