A Guide to the Beasts of East Africa Page 6

  It had taken him some time to get used to city people. They had a strange direct way of talking – no respectful preliminaries, they just got right on to the subject. His cousin Emmanuel said that was the way wazungu talked. Not only that, city people seemed surprised when you only answered the questions they asked. It was as if they really expected you to be so disrespectful as to venture your own opinion, or to give information that was not specifically asked for. Benjamin had been brought up much too well to ever feel comfortable doing that. But Mr Malik was always polite to him. He didn’t call him a shamba boy; he said that Benjamin was his gardener. He always asked Benjamin’s opinion if he thought an old plant needed removing, or a new one should be planted. Whenever anyone complimented Mr Malik on his garden he would always say that it was Benjamin who should take most of the credit. And Benjamin not only looked after the garden. From growing up in the country he was familiar with much of the wildlife of Kenya and was once able to help Mr Malik when there was a birdwatching competition at the club. In the course of this competition they visited Benjamin’s home village, and on the way back they’d been held up at gunpoint by Somali bandits. Benjamin said that Mr Malik had saved his life, and Mr Malik said that Benjamin had saved his.

  It had been Mr Malik’s inspiration that Benjamin go along on the safari. ‘Ah, Benjamin,’ he said to him one morning as Benjamin came sweep-sweep-sweeping past the veranda. ‘I’ve had an idea.’

  At these words Benjamin’s heart sank. This was not the first time he had heard one of Mr Malik’s ideas. Only a couple of weeks ago Mr Malik had come up with the theory that if Benjamin shook each tree every day before he swept beneath it, he would have less work to do.

  ‘Any loose leaves will fall down, you see, so you won’t have so many to do the next day.’

  To Benjamin it was clear that in the long run this would make absolutely no difference. The number of leaves falling from any tree was dependent on the natural leaf cycle of the tree, and no amount of shaking would change that. But he went along with it. He liked Mr Malik, and he wanted him to be happy. Then there had been the idea that instead of burning the garden rubbish every day he could save time by letting it build up for a week and have one big bonfire. Which Benjamin did, with the result that instead of a very little smoke curling up into the Nairobi sky every afternoon there was an enormous plume on Friday that sent hadadas screeching from the trees and brought all the neighbouring askaris rushing round with buckets of water. But Benjamin tried his best to be an optimist. Perhaps this idea would be different.

  ‘As you may know, Benjamin, I have agreed to once more organize the annual Asadi Club safari. This year I have arranged a surprise, but I will need some help to set it all up.’

  Benjamin was not sure about surprises. There was, he thought, a lot to be said for a life without surprises.

  ‘I’ll show you what to do, then I’d like you to go on ahead to the campsite and get it ready. It’s in the garage.’

  Benjamin had indeed been wondering what was inside the two large crates that had been delivered the day before.

  ‘I realize that this will mean working on Sunday, but I thought that in exchange you might be willing to take Monday and Tuesday off – and Wednesday too, if you like. Perhaps we could drop you off at Embu on the way back. Then you’d be able to get the bus from there to your village and visit your family. How does that sound?’

  Benjamin’s mother and father – not to mention any number of brothers, sisters, cousins, uncles, aunts and both grandmothers – still lived in the village where he had grown up, and he never seemed to get home often enough. A few days with his family was a tempting offer.

  ‘But, Mr Malik, what about the wedding? I must get the garden ready.’

  ‘Benjamin, the garden is as ready as it possibly can be. You have been working very hard all month. It has never looked better.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Malik,’ he said. ‘In that case, I think your idea is a very good idea.’

  ‘Excellent, Benjamin. You have eased my mind.’

  And he took Benjamin into the garage and showed him exactly what he wanted him to do.

  Rose Mbikwa flicked through the stack of LPs, still in the box beside the sofa. The house was just as she’d left it. For most of the time that Rose had been away it had been let, staffed and furnished, to a Canadian entomologist researching army-worm control in maize crops. The woman seemed to have spent most of her time in her laboratory or in the field – so the staff had had little to do, except keep things just as they had always been. Elizabeth polished and dusted, Reuben pruned and mowed, and the three askaris took turns to guard the house and garden from thieves and rascals. Now Rose was home again, and all that remained of her tenant was the faintest smell of naphtha and balsam.

  Elizabeth had said dinner would be ready in an hour. What would it be – Chet Atkins, Anita O’Day, Peggy Lee? Rose paused, pulled a vinyl disc from its sleeve and put it on the turntable. The orchestra swelled, and from the stereo speakers came a sweet, slightly breathless voice. Rose flopped down on the old sofa and looked up at the portrait hanging over the fireplace. A handsome black face smiled back at her. It was her husband Joshua.

  Rose Macdonald had been twenty-five when she first came to Kenya from Scotland and twenty-six when she walked down the aisle of the Holy Family cathedral in Nairobi to wed the handsome aspiring politician Joshua Mbikwa. Those were turbulent years. Just before their only son Angus turned eighteen and was due to start university at St Andrews, Joshua was dead – killed when the light plane he was in fell out of a blue sky. By now on the Opposition front bench, he had been returning to Nairobi from a political meeting in Eldoret to vote on a censure motion against the government. Though the Prime Minister (who, by a single vote, survived the motion) ordered an immediate and thorough enquiry, the Minister of Aviation was unable to deliver a definitive result to parliament. The cause of the crash is still officially unknown.

  One of the many surprises awaiting the young bride Rose Mbikwa when she moved into the house in Hatton Rise with her husband was to see that his record collection contained every disc that Doris Day had ever recorded. Doris Day? That American epitome of all things nice and normal? That blonde-haired, pink-lipped, tightly corseted symbol of fifties domestic womanhood? Rose (who as a sixteen-year-old pupil of Edinburgh Presbyterian Ladies’ College had made a point of reading The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie though it was banned at school, who in her bedroom had rocked to Little Richard and rolled to Chubby Checker, and who had made it a point of teenage honour to hitch her skirt up at least four inches above her knees as soon as she was out of the house on a Saturday night) had always thought of herself as more of a Ruth Brown girl. But once she’d got over the shock of discovering that someone younger than forty could actually like the sight and singing of Doris Day, she mellowed. And now whenever she found herself in a nostalgic mood she would put one of the old LPs on the turntable and find herself back in those happy, hectic days of her marriage to Joshua Mbikwa.

  Mr Malik pulled back the garage doors of Number 12 Garden Lane.

  ‘There you are, Ally. Mind out, though, they’re heavier than they look.’

  Ally Dass ordered his truck to back up and his men to load the two wooden crates, each about seven-foot square by two-foot deep, that were lying on the floor. From the dents and scratches that covered them, they were clearly not new. The men heaved them into the truck, finding just enough room for them behind the blackened gas range and assorted crates of food and kitchen equipment.

  ‘Benjamin’s coming up with you. He’ll show you what to do with them when you get there. As I mentioned to you at the club, Ally, it’s going to be my little surprise for this year’s safari. Now, Benjamin, have you got everything you need?’

  ‘I have remembered all that you showed me, Mr Malik. First the erection cranks, then the draw-bar extender screws, then the spirit adjustment.’

  ‘Good. And remember that there’s an instruction book in the
left-hand case if you need it. Oh, I nearly forgot – here’s something for you all on the journey.’

  Mr Malik handed Benjamin a large round tin on whose side were colourful sketches of lions, giraffes and elephants. On the top was printed in large lettering: JOLLY MAN ASSORTED BONBONS.

  I once spent a Christmas in Australia, where I was surprised not so much at the novelty of sitting down in a hundred degrees in the shade to an alfresco lunch of hot roast turkey with all the trimmings and plum pudding to follow, as being asked by my bikini-clad hostess to pull her bonbon. It was only when I noticed the beribboned paper tube in her hand that I finally caught on and was rewarded with a bang, a paper hat and a joke – about a chicken, I seem to remember (though now I come to think of it, it may have been the one about the cockatoo). At home we had always called them ‘crackers’, you see. I suppose that to Americans crackers would be what we called ‘fireworks’ – or perhaps even ‘biscuits’. And they would think a biscuit was a ‘scone’ and – oh, the complexities of the tongue that binds us. When it comes to edible confectionery, things get even more confusing. What are ‘sweets’ in England are ‘candy’ in America and ‘lollies’ in Australia and New Zealand. In Kenya they have always been ‘bonbons’ – but wherever you are and whatever you call them, these small lumps of flavoured sugar have long proved a hit with young and old. Equipment to manufacture these delights is not complicated to make or operate, and the items produced are easy to pack, store and distribute. Among the confectionery manufacturers of Kenya, few take their business more seriously than the Jolly Man Manufacturing Company.

  Like many a commercial enterprise in Kenya, the Jolly Man Manufacturing Company has been through many ups and downs. Begun by Mr Malik’s father in the 1930s as a maker of cigarettes, it was badly affected in the 1940s by wartime tobacco restrictions, then by competition from cheap imports from the US. When Mr Malik Senior had made the move from cigarettes to cigars, the company had done well, mainly as an exporter. Since Mr Malik had taken over the running of the firm on his father’s death in 1964, it had continued to prosper. But about three years ago Mr Malik began to notice orders drying up. The problem, as his daughter Petula soon discovered, was China.

  ‘They are cutting into our markets, Daddy. I’ve been looking into it – similar product, cheaper price. It’s the labour costs, you see.’

  ‘But can’t we –?’

  ‘Improve our product? There’s only so much you can do with rolled-up leaves, Daddy, and I think you’ll have to agree that we’ve done it.’

  ‘What about –?’

  ‘Cutting costs? We can’t compete on wages, so the only way we can cut costs is to improve efficiency. The only way we can do that is to shed labour and invest in new plant.’

  ‘Shed labour? You mean, sack people?’

  At the last count the Jolly Man Manufacturing Company had 132 people on the payroll, each of whom Mr Malik considered as more or less part of his larger family.

  ‘Out of the question. Isn’t there something else we can do?’

  Petula thought.

  ‘What we might be able to do, Daddy dear, is diversify.’

  When four old but still serviceable Brückner and Gabell confectionery production machines came up for a good price in Kampala, Petula bought them and had them shipped by rail to Nairobi. The new venture took off like a rocket.

  Much of its success was due to Mr Malik’s reputation. His staff liked him, his suppliers and distributors trusted him. It was also due in large part to Petula’s inspired idea to use African animal names for the new products. Although jelly babies have a worldwide following, what African child could resist biting the head off a Jiant Jelly Jiraffe? And while lollipops are lovely and gobstoppers are great, wouldn’t you rather get your tongue to work on a Lion All-Day Licker or suck on an Elephant Ball (available in a handy two-pack)?

  And so the Jolly Man Manufacturing Company began winding down its cigar operations and winding up production of bonbons.

  9

  The rhino eats the melon, but kills the lion

  ‘Gentlemen, and ladies.’

  Other than at the regular Sunday curry tiffin, ladies were still an unusual sight at the Asadi Club. Tonight was an exception. News of the Lord Erroll debate had spread and though it was being held on the evening before the annual Asadi Club safari, the dining room was packed with members and their wives. Even Petula, who never came to the club, had sounded interested but at the last minute had phoned her father to say she wouldn’t be able to make it – another CI meeting.

  Tiger Singh stood. The room fell silent.

  ‘This is, as you know, an unusual event. Tonight at the Asadi Club, rather than our usual lecture, we are going to examine a crime. The crime is murder. This is not, of course, a trial – it is a debate between two of our members, Mr Gopez and Mr Patel. But it is in many ways like a trial, with you, ladies and gentlemen, as the jury. As in a court of law, you will not be called upon to make a moral decision, though morality may well be discussed. You will be called upon to make a decision of fact. Certain facts are undisputed, and I will outline them shortly. Other facts are disputed, and I will allow the debaters themselves to describe to you whichever of these they think you will find pertinent.’

  The Tiger adjusted his gold-framed spectacles low on his splendid nose.

  ‘The people involved in the case are, with one exception, now dead. No new witnesses will be called, no new evidence presented. Such evidence as will be presented is in the public domain. I’m sure many of you will be familiar with much, if not all, of it. Some of you may even have formed your own judgement about the guilt, or innocence, of one or more of the parties involved. Should you have done so, I urge you to put away your prejudices and to listen with open minds to what Mr Gopez and Mr Patel have to say. Our two protagonists will soon be presenting their arguments, but before they do so they have agreed that I should read out a summary of the background to the case, and of the evidence produced in the trial of the only person prosecuted for the murder on the twenty-fourth of January 1941, of Lord Josslyn Hay, the twenty-second Earl of Erroll.’

  The Tiger turned towards the two men seated beside him and, after receiving a nod from each, began outlining the facts of the case – the crashed car, the discovery of the body, the police investigation. He described the clues the police had found at the scene of the crime – the broken armstraps, the lipstick-stained cigarette and the white marks on the back seat of the car – and how when the investigating officer visited Sir Jock Delves Broughton at his house on the afternoon of the murder, he noticed a pair of half-burned white gym shoes on a bonfire in the garden.

  ‘And now, to the trial. The prosecution alleged that Broughton, on hearing Lord Erroll dropping off Diana at the house in Karen at about 2.20 a.m. on the night of the murder, put on a pair of gym shoes and climbed out of his first-floor bedroom window armed with a pistol. He hid in the back seat of Erroll’s car. When the car slowed down at the junction with Ngong Road, Broughton shot Erroll, pulled him on to the floor, drove the car into a murram pit, ran home, climbed back up the drainpipe and got back into his bedroom without being seen by anyone in the house – though one person in the house gave evidence that she heard a dog barking sometime in the night. As corroboration the prosecution hoped to show that the bullet that killed Lord Erroll matched bullets previously fired from Broughton’s own gun.’

  The Tiger pursed his lips.

  ‘I have to say that their case was not a strong one. In a fine example of the barrister’s art, the counsel for the defence, Mr Morris, showed conclusively that Broughton’s gun could not have been the one that fired the fatal bullet, thus demolishing the ballistic evidence on which the prosecution largely relied. As a house of cards will fall after one card is removed, their case collapsed. In a unanimous decision the jury acquitted Broughton of the murder of Lord Erroll. I will now leave Mr Patel to explain to you why he thinks they were wrong.’

  Tiger Singh bowed towa
rds Mr Patel, who now stood.

  ‘Thank you, Tiger.’ He turned to face the audience.

  ‘The Tiger has said that I will try and convince you that the jury was wrong to find Sir Jock Delves Broughton not guilty of the murder of Lord Erroll. On the contrary, I think they were right. Why? In the light of the evidence – or lack of evidence – and in the light of Broughton’s plea of not guilty, they had no choice. But we, ladies and gentlemen, are privy to information that the jury did not have. We know what happened after the trial.’

  If Mr Patel had been wearing a waistcoat, thought Mr Malik, at this point he would undoubtedly have stuck his thumbs into its pockets.

  ‘Since the trial and acquittal, there have been many theories about who was the murderer. Means and motives abound. There were, apparently, many people in Kenya who would have been quite happy to see Erroll dead – as well as, if you believe one theory, the British government. But after the trial no new witnesses came forward, no new and reliable evidence was found.’

  Mr Patel reached for the glass of water in front of him and took a small sip.

  ‘But many years later – in 1982 to be precise – one of the people involved in the story made an astounding claim. Juanita Carberry, at the time of the murder fifteen years old and stepdaughter of Erroll’s friend and former lover June Carberry, told the English journalist James Fox that two days after the murder Broughton had arrived at the farm where she lived near Nyeri. Finding her alone, he confessed to her that he killed Lord Erroll.’