Chapter Six.
Nairobi, 1987-1988.
As the days, weeks and months fled past, my life continued to veer in new directions. Not that I stopped attending University (two courses per semester) or working for Mr. J. But the “I” changed. The strongest sign of this was, perhaps, my altered appearance. Partly through the encouragement and charity of Mr. J., during my second year in Nairobi (1987-88), I forsook my drab and ratty old dashikis and dubakus [“African shirts”] in favor of Mao shirts in bright, flashy colors, such as jade and magenta. For dress-up occasions, I bought a clip-on chintz bow-tie, in emulation of one of my new heroes, Patrice Lumumba (1925-1961). I also acquired a cheap pair of window-pane spectacles, in the style of a second member of my burgeoning pantheon, the Afro-American Malcolm X, aka Malcolm Little, aka Malcolm Shabazz (1925-1965). Since I was still poor, however, I made do with the shiny blue trousers from my only suit, eschewed the jacket, and, when the occasion called for it, wore my old white shirt with the new bow tie.
My altered appearance may seem an affectation, but it was the sign of more important change. To say that my inner man changed might, in itself, be an affectation, but the best way to prove that something was really happening will be to relate two further stories, or anecdotes. The first was told to me, but the re-telling may ballast my claim. Like several previous anecdotes in this, my life story, this one was serendipitous: it began with a surprise meeting.
At around four o’clock on a gray Friday in May, 1967, Mr. J. was seated at his desk (the low one in the back of the shop), enjoying his afternoon cup of tea. Since, earlier in our relationship, I had expressed surprise (which he had probably interpreted as envy) that he would add not only evaporated milk, but a generous dollop of cherry jam, to his tea, I sat at my own small table beside his desk, enjoying a cup of the same, with the same in it. We had yet to add to this weekly treat our usual quota of biscuits (about which, more to follow shortly).
We had reached the point of blowing on our tea to cool it when the bell at the front announced the arrival of, presumably, a customer. Having, the day before, gotten in a shipment of the popular west-African Kente cloth, the present day had been so busy that I think neither of us welcomed the interruption. Thus, we were both slow to respond to the tinkling bell. When the intruder issued a series of loud throat-clearing grunts, I rose to my feet and hurried toward the front of the shop. As I went, I called out, in my “customer is always right” voice, “How may I help you, please?”
The intruder was a man of medium height and stocky build, whose European-style shirt, trousers, leather briefcase, and tan laced shoes were all worn, but clean. The man’s copper-coloured complexion suggested that he might be of mixed race, an impression reinforced by his reddish hair. His furrowed brow suggested chronic worry. He was hatless, an anomaly in this part of the world, especially at this time of year, where torrential rain might fall without warning. Nor was he carrying an umbrella.
“Mishach Ndukwe, here,” he cried, swinging the briefcase once or twice. “You must be young Tshombe. Eliyahu has told me good things about you.” Since the visitor was my elder, and did not offer his hand, I bowed. His voice was high-pitched, and he spat out his words like bullets.
By now, Mr. J. had joined us at the counter. “Mishach, my friend,” he said, extending his hand, which the visitor pumped vigorously. “I heard you introduce yourself to Pierre just now. Won’t you join us for a cup of tea? I’ll break out the biscuits.” He went behind the counter, and reaching down onto the low shelf, brought forth a round blue tin containing an assortment of biscuits. The lid of the tin bore the logo of a venerable Scottish firm. I knew of this tin because, most Fridays, the final day of our work week, while I prepared the tea, Mr. J. would bring the tin out, and offer me “a biscuit, or three.” (As I said, my employer loved his petites blagues [“small jokes”].) With Mr. Ndukwe leading the way, the three of us proceeded to the back of the shop, where I set out a third chair and began brewing his cup of tea, using the same bag I had used for Mr. J’s. and mine.
“No, no, Pierre. An honored guest merits a fresh cup.”
I took out a new bag. When the tea was ready, carefully placing the briefcase beside his chair, Mr. Ndukwe declined the jam, but added a healthy dollop of evaporated milk, and helped himself to a big handful of the biscuits. Mr. J. also took one, and gestured for me to help myself. I took my usual portion, two of the sweet meal ones. After that, Mr. J. and the guest made small talk while I drank my tea and ate my biscuits. Then, for an uncomfortable minute or two, we all smiled and looked at each other, until Mr. J. broke the silence.
“Well, Mishach,” he said. “I heard you mention to Pierre that I had told you something about him, but I am sure he does not know anything about you, or your very interesting story. Why not tell it once again?”
The guest seemed embarrassed by this request. “But Eliyahu, you have already heard the story several times, so…”
Mr. J. made his “never mind” gesture. Popping another biscuit (the fourth or fifth) into his mouth, and drawing a deep breath, our guest crunched the biscuit and simultaneously launched into his narrative.
“Where to begin? Suggestions, Eliyahu?” Mr. J. gave his ‘why ask me?’ shrug. “Right, then. Let me begin, if I may, by asking your young man a question.” Mr. J. and I both nodded our agreement. “Monsieur Pierre, if you do not object to a personal question, what is the tribe, or if you prefer, the ethnic group, to which you belong?”
By keeping in mind that he was our -- Mr. J’s -- guest, I tried not to take offense at the man’s question, or at his manner, which was at once abrupt and officious. I began to think Mishach Ndukwe was a blowhard!
“I come from Ngongo, sir. My family are ethnic Acholis. Our first languages are Acholi and Luo.”
“Thank you for that precise reply.” Mishach swallowed another biscuit with a single bite, provoking the irreverent thought that he looked and ate like a hippopotamus. “Well,” he continued, not even pausing to brush the crumbs from his chin, “my own identity is less simple. We Ndukwes hail from the town of Bonny, in eastern Nigeria. Although we speak Igbo, the language of the majority population in that part of the country, we belong to the Ibani ethnic group. And thereby, as they say, hangs a tale -- my tale...”
I reached across to the teapot and replenished his cup, anticipating that this would be at least a three-cup narrative.
“…which, if it were not so tragic, might be considered ironic or amusing.” I refrained from even a smile at the man’s pomposity. “I am sure you have heard of Nigeria’s recent, horrible civil war, the so-called ‘Biafra War.’ ”
I indicated with a nod that I had, indeed, heard of this war. In fact, my Contemporary History professor, a Kikuyu and a “One Nigeria” man, had spent several lectures during Fall semester trying to persuade his students that our pro-Biafra sympathies were misplaced. He had waxed eloquent (or, as one wag put it, “elephant”) about the dangers of balkanization and the Communist threat to Africa. Perhaps the most interesting detail in his lengthy harangues was that those iconic, heart-wrenching photographs of starving Biafran children, which everyone had seen, were part of an expensive global public-relations campaign produced by a Swiss firm. As Mishach Ndukwe kept up his fusillade of word bullets, those details flashed through my mind.
“Let me explain what I meant by ‘ironic,’ just now. In time of war, neutrality is unacceptable to either camp. Even as members of my family and clan were fending off charges of being insufficiently sympathetic to the Biafran ‘cause,’ as they were being heavily taxed by the Biafran authorities, and some even dragooned into the Biafran army, I was being attacked for being an Igbo, which I was not –- and am not.”
At this point, Mr. J. interrupted. I took the opportunity to refill the kettle from the sink and to put it back on the hotplate. “Slow down a bit, Mishach,” he gently admonished. “If you expect Pierre to grasp the import of what you are saying, you must include more context, my friend! Your story needs more context. Don’t forget, it took you several installments to tell me the story.”
The hot-tempered Mr. Ndukwe took umbrage. “Then, why don’t you just tell it, yourself, Eli? You can ‘include more context.’ ”
“Now, now, Mishach, don’t get your nose out of joint! All I was suggesting was that you should explain when and where your part in these historic events took place, how you came to be there, and so forth. But no, no, you must certainly tell your own story.”
With a visible effort, the guest calmed himself. “All right, then,” he agreed, drawing a deep breath. “By 1966, when I became a player –- a very minor player -- in these historical events, I had recently graduated from the University of Nsukka, in eastern Nigeria, with a Bachelors in Econs. Since my funds were exhausted, by then, I postponed any thought of postgraduate studies.
“In 1964, I was fortunate to obtain a position at Anglican College, a secondary school in a town called Idare, in what was then Nigeria’s western region. This was a high point in my life, you might say. Among their reasons for hiring me was the rarity, in those days, of Nigerian Econs. graduates. Also, I had, myself, attended CMS primary and secondary schools back home. Those initials, Pierre, stand for ‘Church Missionary Society,’ an Anglican outreach group from the colonial era that carried on after Independence, in some African countries. This affiliation may have overcome any lingering objections the Yoruba Headmaster might have had to hiring an easterner.”
To be continued...
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