Chapter Five.
Nairobi, 1987.
Our guest that day seemed (to me, at least, having just turned seventeen), a much older woman. That is, she must have been in her forties. Slender, and of average height (about 1.6 meters), she wore a long, patterned, mostly red kitenge dress of the type worn by women from Uganda, Zaire and Ngongo. Over it was a brown cardigan sweater, presumably to protect against the chill of the September morning. The guest’s gray hair was closely cropped and, other than a pair of small gold hoop earrings, she wore no makeup or jewelry. She spoke in measured tones, and her voice, deep for a woman’s, carried easily (with the aid of a hand-held microphone) to the corners of the large lecture hall.
After his brief introduction, Dr. Mwita ceded the floor, taking a chair beside the guest, who spoke for above one hour. Without “editorial interruptions,” here are some highlights from the lecture: “…Some of you have heard of the so-called Kwilu Rebellion, which went on from 1963 to 1968. I am here today less to rehash the Rebellion than to draw a few lessons from it. Kwilu took place in what is now called Zaire. Although it stemmed, in part, from religious grievances, the insurrection was also triggered by widespread rural unrest. Note, as well, that it began a mere three years after Congolese Independence from our erstwhile Belgian masters.
“…The leader of the Kwilu Rebellion was a Maoist motivated by beliefs in non-alignment and the collectivization of agriculture. He organized the movement only after his political party had been betrayed by their partners in the governing coalition. Among the famous sayings of this man, “Pierre” —whose full name even I, a former close associate, still hesitate to mention— is this: “Agriculture is the most direct form of collaboration with the creative work of God.” To which I say, ‘Amen!’
“…So that this introductory summary does not usurp the whole of my allotted time, I will add only that Pierre’s attempt to bring about ‘a second Independence’ was very successful —until it was not. Drawing on traditional beliefs and rituals to create the sense that they were invulnerable, the rebels conquered large parts of western DRC, and their ideas even began spreading to other regions of the country. But when, prompted by these early successes, the leader made the tactical error of switching from guerrilla skirmishing to massive frontal attacks, he was defeated, captured, and subsequently executed.
“… I now reach —finally — the main point of my address. What lessons can be drawn from the failure of Pierre and his Rebellion? I mean, beyond the immediate cause, his switch to flawed tactics. Was the failure caused by incompatibility between Maoist and animist elements? (Pierre was fond of quoting the Maoist saying that revolutionaries in villages should be like “fish in water.”) Or, more broadly, was the reason Kwilu failed the inability of the urban, intellectual leadership to mesh fully with discontented agrarian elements —in other words, the inapplicability of Maoism to local conditions. Or was the cause Pierre’s failure to forge wider alliances —to seek help from other nations— whereas the ruling party, the ANC, was materially assisted by the U.S. and Belgium?
“This failure to forge local alliances was a great blunder. Were there no sympathetic neighboring countries to which the insurrectionists could flee when they suffered setbacks in battle? True, one of their neighbors, Angola, was roiling in the throes of its own war of Independence. But Pierre could have tried to establish supply chains through, and safe havens in, places such as Congo-Brazzaville.
“Of course, firepower was yet another decisive factor! Was it because ‘Pierre’ was a Maoist that he did not capitalize on the Cold War, which might have enabled him to procure arms from the Soviet Union, as well as supplies and other support from Cuba (which was of great help in Angola)?
“…Looking more deeply, did Pierre’s failure mean that rebellions based, in part, upon traditional cultural elements are inherently flawed? Not so, since subsequent ‘revivalist’ movements have been successful, especially when they succeed in enlisting significant outside support. Witness South Africa! Finally, for prospective insurrectionists among you students, there is one countervailing, extremely hopeful factor: any insurrection in our region can count upon the incumbent government’s failure to consolidate control over the countryside.” [My italics—P.T.]
When our guest had finally concluded her lecture, speech, or whatever it was, for a minute or two, the students sat in stunned silence. Then, Dr. Mwita stood up, shook hands with the speaker, and cued our applause, which was prolonged and enthusiastic. The guest apologized for not having left time for questions, but my sense was that the apology was disingenuous: she did not really welcome our questions or comments. Instead, glancing at her wristwatch, she strode across the stage, and left the hall via a side door.
To me, what the anonymous speaker said that day was deeply interesting, and memorable enough that I am still able to paraphrase it, after all these years, and after everything that I have since done —and that has been done to me. To this day, I also retain a sense that the woman behaved like a fugitive. Perhaps this perception is, at least in part, a projection from my own experience. I conclude by pointing out that much of my adult life has been strongly influenced by that lecture.
Blanche X
What could have gotten into me? I mean, why did I accept the invitation of my old comrade, Professor Mwita, to address his class? The answer is simple, but disgraceful: I needed the money. The honorarium (or “dishonorarium”) for my appearance was 1,000 Kenyan shillings, which might buy a stalk of mmea [“plantain”], but no oil to cook it with! And what did these forty “young, inquiring minds” get for their money? A rehashed summary of Kwilu, with cryptic references to the leader, my late lamented comrade, Pierre Mulele, plus a bunch of facile generalizations.
In reality, my lecture was a tease. Even that tall, zealous Acholi boy in the front row, probably a Ugandan, seemed to sense that I was not delivering the goods. He looked his unasked question: “But what has been your personal legacy from Kwilu?” Never mind the pablum that I dished out about so-called lessons for would-be insurrectionists! I could almost hear the question bursting from his lips: “But what are you doing now?” Exactly the question I was avoiding!
I mean, how could I have answered: “I am not at liberty to say”? And what is it that “I am not at liberty to say”? That I am a member of the Executive of the banned “One Kenya” Committee, an organization that opposes, by any means necessary, the prevailing corruption and tribalism of this nation’s so-called leadership? And that I am one of the principal planners of a mass insurrection, scheduled to occur no later than three years from now, in 1990? And that that slimy bastard, Moi, has declared me persona non grata in my adopted country? Should I have said all this? I think not!
I have alluded, several times, to my first job in Nairobi, which was, in essence, as a janitor. My boss was a kindly Kenyan-Asian gentleman, by name Eliyahu Josephai. When I had been working in his dry goods shop for two or three weeks, Mr. Josephai told me to address him as “Mr. J.,” which I understood to mean that he had taken a liking to me. Why not? I was a reliable, hard-working —and inexpensive— employee.
Since Mr. J. was to be a principal in my life’s drama, I should pause to describe him, although, frankly, I find it difficult to do so. What can I say? To me, he seemed a short-ish gentleman, but perhaps he was average, or even above average, for an Indian man of his generation. Likewise, his body type: slender, I would say (like myself). His skin color was light brown, his features what I believe is called “aquiline.” (Or does that term refer only to the profile?) His hair was gray, and he wore neither beard nor mustache. This description stems from my early association with him, 1986-1990. By the time of our only subsequent meeting, two decades later, he was a sick old man, with all that this implies about changed appearance.
To resume my narrative… Towards the end of my shift, after the store had closed, we formed the habit of conversing. I would lean upon a broom or mop, while he perched on a stool at his high desk, toting up the day’s receipts with the help of an old-fashioned abacus.
As far as I could understand the convoluted story that Mr. J. told me, over several such conversations, his people were what are called “Malabar Jews.” That is, they reside in Cochin, which had recently become part of independent India’s Kerala state. I could not follow his account of the tortuous route by which his antecedents had found their way to India, but the essence was that, having originated in either North Africa or the Middle East, they had fled persecution, making several stops along the way. In short, they were refugees.
During one conversation, by then in the sixth month of my employment, I asked Mr. J. what had brought his family of nine —himself, one wife, six living children, and Mrs. J’s widowed mother-— to Kenya, in 1970 (coincidentally, the year of my birth).
He replied, “Again, we came as refugees, in this case, economic refugees.”
“How so?” I persisted.
“Simple, Pierre: opportunity. You and I both were lured to Kenya by opportunity.” I had already confided to my kindly employer the short version of my autobiography.
Mr. Josephai was a bookish man, and we soon shared reading tastes with one another. During his lunch hour and afternoon tea break, he would frequently pore over his two favorite tomes, the account book and the “good book,” i.e., the Old Testament of the Bible, “which,” he explained, “is our entire Bible.” This book he read in Hebrew.
Mr. J. was also a voracious consumer of everything from abstruse works of history and philosophy to poetry and fiction, including those trashy sub-genres that feature detectives, cowboys, and “Indians.” In other words, Mr. J. loved to read about violence, as long as it was directed toward groups other than Jews.
By now, it was 1987, my second year both at U. of N. and in Mr. J’s employ. One day, after he had rolled down the iron gates on the shop window, he went to his personal closet in the back and emerged with a small book, which he tossed to me.
“Here, Pierre,” he said. “Another crime story, this one in verse. You can keep it. I will deduct the cost from your wages.” With a wink, he added, “Just kidding!” Where did I get the idea that Jews love jokes?
When I had returned to my room, I prepared and ate a simple supper, consisting of two boiled eggs, a portion of spinach, also boiled, and a dish of ndizi ya kukaanga [“fried plantain”], washed down with a glass of my favorite beverage, water. After hastily cleaning up, I turned on the reading light above my bed, did my prep for the next day’s classes, and settled down with my gift.
The small volume turned out to be a book-length poem. The title was Song of Lawino; the poet, a northern Ugandan, Okot p’Bitek (1931-82). This I learned from the front material, which fleshed out what my Literature-101 instructor had already mentioned, as part of a unit that featured the work of other African poets, notably the late Nigerian, Christopher Okigbo (1932-1967).
Needless to say, I devoured the literary work with the same appetite as I had devoured my literal supper. (Sorry, Reader!) It took me only ninety minutes to hurry through the slender volume. Then, knowing that my first class the next day began at 7:30 a.m., sharp, I reluctantly put the book aside, vowing to re-read it ASAP. I began preparing for sleep, but, just before turning the light off, I found and re-read one remarkable passage (p. 110):
And those who have
Fallen into things
Throw themselves into soft beds,
But the hip bones of the voters grow painful
Sleeping on the same earth
They slept on
Before Uhuru.
With those lines in mind, I settled into my own “soft bed.”
To be continued...
The Piker Press moderates all comments.
Click here for the commenting policy.