John Karanja was looking forward to supper. It had been a long day in
the fields, hot and humid under unrelenting western Kenyan skies, with
no one but his cows for company. Karanja had set out early in the
morning with his tiny herd of skin-raggled beasts and roamed the
hillsides all day searching out the few stray clumps of good grass that
the neighbour’s cattle had left behind. His stomach rumbled like
thunder now as he walked his animals down the winding trail home.
Breakfast
had been a cold affair—a stiff lump of last night’s ugali, a
potato-like substance made from ground corn, and some leftover greens.
Karanja’s family was low on salt, and the food, which had been just
bearable the night before, became a struggle to swallow this morning,
even for John Karanja. He was used to hard times, to doing without. His
thin, tatter-clad body came from a long line of similarly bony bodies
that had tilled the fields in this lush, remote region of the country.
Sometimes it seemed as if his whole life had been one big, cold
leftover breakfast—someone else’s leftover breakfast. He had gone
without lunch.
Life was not easy for anyone in the Western Province of Kenya where
Karanja lived. The hilly region consisted of loosely spaced farms where
the people tilled corn and raised a few skinny cattle for food. But the
red earth never seemed to yield enough, and when the rains came every
spring, rampant malnutrition gave way to malaria, and raucous funeral
parties lit up the inky night.
At long last, Karanja sighted his thatched hut in the distance.
Curiously, he saw no smoke rising from it, as there should have been at
this supper hour. He tried to hide his displeasure as he waved a
greeting to his closest neighbour, Ben Omundi. Karanja’s insides
clenched tighter the closer he got to home and saw that there would be
no supper waiting for him tonight. Worse, as he entered his compound he
saw there was no fresh wood piled alongside the hut, no wash on the
line, and only a few litres of water left in the barrel.
“Martha!” He called for his wife. No answer. “Maina!” He called for his
eldest son. No answer. Karanja removed his water bottle from around his
neck and took a long drink to calm his rumbling stomach. He wiped his
lips and looked around his overgrown compound, clicking his tongue in
disgust. “Stupid Mizungus,” he said.
The Mizungus were the white men. They had come to the village three
weeks ago from America and immediately started into a flurry of
activity. All at once they began constructing a chicken barn, a medical
clinic, and a deep well to provide clean water for the village. All of
these projects were good, even Karanja had to agree to that. But still,
he did not trust these men.
Karanja’s mind flicked back to the last time a white man came to his
village when Karanja was still a child. Wilson was his name, and he was
also from America. He started a massive construction project, a school,
and he told the people about all the great things the school would do
for their village. He was right. The half-finished building now
provided an excellent shelter for Karanja’s cattle during the rain, and
the village children enjoyed playing in its ruins. Meanwhile, Wilson
was nowhere to be seen. He had left over 20 years ago after he ran out
of money. Before he left he took a collection from the villagers and
promised to return soon with more supplies. He was never heard from
again.
It seemed Karanja was the only person who remembered that betrayal. The
other villagers welcomed the new Mizungus with open arms. Karanja’s own
wife had taken a job hauling water and washing clothes for them. When
Karanja protested, Martha just told him that if he didn’t like it,
maybe he should work harder on the farm so she wouldn’t have to find
outside work to support him and their children. “Humph,” was all
Karanja said in reply. Now nothing else was getting done. Karanja’s
clothes were dirty, but there was no one to wash them, and no water to
wash them in, and—worst of all, no supper. That was the final straw.
Karanja set out to find his wife.
As Karanja walked down the narrow lanes of his village, he noticed
things were quiet everywhere. No fires burned in the huts, as they
should at this hour, and no children played in the road. When Karanja
drew closer to the village square, he noticed a line of women coming up
the trail from the river with water jugs on their heads. His eyes soon
caught sight of the familiar round shape of his wife amongst the other
women. Karanja waited by the path for Martha to pass by. She talked and
laughed with the other women as she trudged up the hill. But when she
saw Karanja she fell silent, though the light of laughter still danced
in her eyes.
“Well, my wife, it is good to see you finally tending to your husband and family,” Karanja said.
Martha laughed. “My husband, this water goes to the Mizungus, not you.
You will have to fend for yourself today.” The other women laughed.
Karanja grit his teeth.
“What about my supper?” he asked. Martha didn’t answer. She just kept
walking while the women laughed again. Karanja did not want to risk
embarrassment by chasing after her, so he fell in line behind the last
woman and followed them to the square.
Stupid Mizungus, he thought.
When they arrived at the square, Karanja saw the whole village had
turned out to watch the Mizungus work. Fathers, mothers, children, even
the old folks, wearing ill-fitting glasses and leaning on sticks, were
taking in the action.
“Hey look everyone,” shouted Karanja’s second closest neighbour, Thomas
Waruta. “Karanja herds women just like he herds cattle—they lead and he
follows!”
Everyone laughed, except Karanja. He tried to hide himself in the crowd
and pretended to be interested in what the Mizungus were doing. Just
then Karanja spotted his youngest son, David, age nine, laughing and
pointing at the Mizungus with his friends. Karanja walked over and
grabbed his arm.
“David, why are you here? Go home now with your sisters and cook your father some supper. The day was long, and I am hungry.”
David twisted away from his father and bounded away, laughing with the other children.
“Sorry, Papa. I’ll come later.” Then he called out "Mizungu! Mizungu!"
in unison with his friends. One of the white men turned and smiled at
the children and at Karanja. Karanja grit his teeth and ducked back
into the crowd.
As Karanja watched the Mizungus he saw that a group of them were
gathered around a long silver pipe that was held up in the air by a
makeshift crane. The pipe appeared to be sunk deep into the ground. The
Mizungus were trying to get in close so they could each take hold of
the pipe. Once they all had their hands on it, a man called out a
signal and the crane was released so now all that held up the pipe was
the Mizungus. Another signal and they began lowering the pipe into the
hole, bit by bit. The strain of its tremendous weight showed on the
Mizungus’ white faces as they turned red and veined from exertion.
The crowd behind Karanja clucked their tongues anxiously as they
watched the Mizungus lower the pipe. If they dropped the pipe, people
said, it would sink down hundreds of feet into the hole and all their
work would be in vain. If it falls, it’s just as well, Karanja thought.
Then we’ll be rid of these Mizungus. He turned and started walking home
when a cry of alarm rippled through the crowd.
“Help!” one of the Mizungus called out. Karanja turned back. As the
pipe was being lowered, the Mizungus had let go of it one-by-one and
backed away, there being no room left to hold on. But the few people
left holding it were not able to finish the job on their own. The pipe
was too heavy, and it was starting to slip.
“Help!” the Mizungu called again. This time he caught Karanja’s eye.
Karanja looked behind him. The villagers all murmured and clucked their
tongues, but no one made a move to help. He looked back to the
Mizungus. Some were quickly wrapping a chain around the pipe so more
people could take hold of it, but they needed help if it was going to
work.
“Aaagh!” One of the Mizungus cried out, and fell away from the pipe.
One of his hands had been mashed between the chain and the well’s
cement pad when the pipe slipped. Karanja knew he must act, Mizungus or
not.
He rushed forward and took the fallen Mizungu’s place, wrapping his
hands around the cold silver pipe. He saw right away that they would
need more help if they were to save it.
“Get over here and help, you cowards!” he shouted to his fellow
villagers. Karanja’s words seemed to trip a switch, and they sprang
forward as a group, some of them taking up the chain and others taking
the Mizungus’ places around the pipe. They all grunted under the strain
of the pipe’s incredible weight. Once they had it secure, a Mizungu
rushed up with a metal collar to be fitted around the pipe to prevent
it from sinking into the ground. He slid it over the top and down past
each set of hands until he had it where he wanted it, then bolted it in
place.
“Okay, you can let it down all the way!” the Mizungu said. “Slowly!
Slowly!” The people eased it down until the collar came to rest on the
cement, where it was bolted again. “Good, we’ve done it!” he said.
Everyone cheered.
“Asante-sana!” The Mizungu said to Karanja. “Thank you!” He grabbed
Karanja’s hand and shook it. “You helped us save the well. Now you can
have fresh water to drink and your wife won’t have to haul it so far.”
Karanja smiled shyly and nodded at the white man.
Karanja’s friends also came and clapped him on the back.
“Good job, Karanja. Friend of Mizungus now, hey?” They said, and laughed.
Karanja just smiled and walked away.
“Hey, don’t you want to see the well work?” The white man asked.
“Maybe later,” Karanja replied. “First, I must eat my supper.”
Martha was waiting for Karanja when he came home.
“You didn’t want to see the well work either?” He asked.
“I’ll see it soon enough,” she said. “I thought you wanted supper, my hero.” She gave him a hug.
Karanja smiled.
Two weeks after the Mizungus left, Karanja was returning from the
fields once again, hot and tired from a long day in the sun, when he
met his wife coming up the river path with the village women. They had
jugs of water on their heads.
“What are you doing?” Karanja asked, and pointed to the water jug on Martha’s head. “Why aren’t you using the Mizungu’s well?”
Martha looked at the other women and laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Karanja asked.
“The children were playing with the well this morning and they broke
the handle. Now no water comes out, and no one knows how to fix it.”
The women chuckled as they filed past Karanja.
When they were gone, Karanja sat down on a smooth, flat boulder. He
picked a piece of grass and chewed it thoughtfully for a moment. Then a
huge smile crept across his face as he shook his head.
“Stupid Mizungus,” he said.
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