The Warm Heart of Africa. Kevin M. Denny
children soon calmed at the strange sight of a white woman. The mothers lifted their heavy loads onto their heads, their babies on their backs, and boarded the ferry, waving back, white teeth still gleaming long after the ferry churned away.
A footpath along the river carried me past the D.C.'s house, its past splendor a victim of decay and neglect. As I passed, I wondered how many ghosts of bwanas and memsabs of bygone days still haunted its decrepit halls. (Some time later the D.C. shared with me that he had no intention of spending another shilling on his residence because he was damned sure that within months of Independence there would be an African D.C. and “chickens and goats would be roaming his bougainvillea bushes”.)
Beyond the D.C.'s residence, the path opened into a broader dirt road, lined with a canopy of flamboyant trees, from which dangled huge pea-pod-shaped seeds. An ancient brick building with a metal-covered veranda occupied the far side of the road. This was the Mandala that I had heard about the night before at the club. "We're all trying to buy some of our provisions there to keep Margaret and Henry going," it had been explained to me by "Public Works.”
It was Margaret who greeted me. She and her husband had run the store for 17 years, ever since Henry retired from his civil service position. "It isn't really much," she explained, in her friendly but proper manner, "but it does keep us going. Since we really don't miss England anyway, we don't need to make enough money for home leaves."
In a way, their indifference to their homeland seemed a bit irrelevant...for they appeared to have brought England to them. One of their long shelves held an elaborate selection of jams, jellies, and preserves, the labels all proudly proclaiming their heritage..."By Appointment of Her Majesty, The Queen.” On the opposite shelf there was an equally elaborate selection of mustards, chutneys, syrups, soups, salad dressings, meat sauces, gravy mixes and heretofore-unseen-by-the-American-eye items such as Marmite and Bovril . . . Each, by its markings, gave indication that the Queen had given a special proclamation that she wanted this, and this alone, placed upon her table. A complete selection of the Monarch's favorite biscuits was proudly arranged on a facing shelf. In the corner there was a selection of wines, liquors and liqueurs, including one dust-covered gin with an actual picture of the Queen (or a Queen-like figure) seeming to give testimony that this was the chosen distillate that Her Majesty added to her tonic after her day's work was done.
Margaret explained, "This was the original trading post for the African Lakes Corporation. You know, Livingstone felt that trade was just as important as Christianity in the civilizing of Africa. This main part was built around 1871, I believe. The locals call it the mandala and so do we. You see, mandala actually means glasses. It seems that the first European who came out here to run it wore spectacles and the name has just stuck.
I recalled the date on the plaque at the Club and calculated that the first Mzungus had gone ten years without The Nyasa Yacht and Gymkhana Club. Now, those must have been the "bloody difficult years!"
"You must come around some night and dine with us. Do you play Scrabble? Henry and I play almost every evening after dinner. Maybe you can join us some night. We'll even allow American spellings," she added, delighted with her whimsy.
Henry appeared from the storeroom. First impressions are usually dangerous, but this one appeared safe. It was immediately clear why the Wilson's stayed at "The Fort". He appeared timid and frail, with parchment-like skin and sad drooping eyes---a man in acceptance of his own fate, a man who had gone from clerk in service of the Queen to clerk of the general store.
He was as friendly as his wife and immediately suggested that I join them for Scrabble some night. I once again expressed my enthusiasm for the idea. Mr. Wilson assured me that even though they played almost every night, they were not really experts. I was ready to believe him.
Mrs. Wilson gently instructed her newest customer on local protocol, "You have probably been told by now, we work "lakeshore hours" during the hot season. It gets bloody hot by noon. Remember, Dearie, we close from noon until four---Henry and I just go home and take a long nap after lunch---so if you need something, make sure to send your boy around early."
"Thanks, I'll remember that," I said, eager to give up the fan-cooled air of the general store for the scorching heat of the out-of-doors.
"Cheerio," Mr. Wilson said.
"Now, cheerio, don't forget about the Scrabble," Mrs. Wilson called after me.
"No, I won't," I assured her.
A row of Indian dukas lined the dusty road leading back to the center of town. Each appeared identical. Each seemed to carry the same goods: pots, pans, soap, cloth, sugar, salt and jars of candies. The expression on the face of each of the shopkeepers was identical: a practiced indifference acquired through the ages. An expression that said no European was likely to make a purchase or offer friendship. They had come to build the Kenya railroad, Mombasa to Nairobi---the famous "Lunatic Express"---and they had been unable or unwilling to leave the continent since. They were a worried lot, as well they might be, for they were the ones with the most to lose with Independence. They were in touch with their own vulnerability and acutely aware that they were tolerated but appreciated by no one, black or white. And, indeed, many Africans held the hope that the dukas and the Mercedes would be theirs following Independence.
I saw almost nothing I would ever need in any of the shops, with the exception of batteries and film. I felt no connectedness with the brown-skinned men behind the counters, who I imagined kept their wives and daughters locked up behind forbidding walls.
Africans came and went, up and down the road. I was stopped three times by young men asking, "Memsab, are you needing a cook boy?"
The post office, directly across the street from the D.C.'s office, with its bank of red postal boxes on its outside wall, was a hub of activity. Inside there were long lines at each of the five counters. The smell was dank and African; the noise loud; the activity hectic. I turned to leave, to return at a less busy time, but a woman with a baby on her back stepped from her position in line and said, "Zikomo Memsab," pushing me to the person ahead of her, a school boy who said in very correct English, "She wants you to go to the head of the queue, Madam." Like a leaf caught in the wind, I soon found myself being passed to the front of the line, in spite of my persistent protestations for equality.
The clerk greeted me, "Oh, you are the American coming to the hospital, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir," I replied, adding that I hoped to be able to open a postal box.
"Of course," he replied. "I will get the forms for you to fill out." He returned in a few minutes. Aware of the line behind me, and suspecting that the counter would undoubtedly close at noon for lunch, I suggested that I just take the forms and return back the next day when things were less busy.
"No, madam, this is something I must do," he said with officialdom and some hurt. After an additional fifteen minutes---and three separate forms each completed in triplicate, stamped and authorized with flowing signature---he said, "I must now get the Postmaster to sign this and then I will get you a key."
The line behind me waited patiently.
After several minutes the postmaster, himself, appeared. "I am happy to see you, Miss Jarrett and am hoping you like it here. I am sorry for the delay but we had some difficulty finding the key," he said proudly handing over my new key. "Mail from the United States usually comes on Tuesday and Friday, but sometimes it is delayed by a day or so. So it is best to check everyday."
"Thank you," I offered, embarrassed to hold up the line another second for chit-chat. "Thank you for all your help," I said to the clerk making my exit.
Those behind me in line smiled and gave me greetings. An old man reached out and grasped my hand. He was ancient and toothless, except for a single incisor stained brown by years of tobacco. "Thank you for coming, Memsab," he said, now holding my hand vigorously with both of his. The woman with the baby, still at the end of the line, smiled and clapped her hands, "Zikomo, Mai," she kept repeating softly.
Chapter 6. Gather Hope...Ye Who Enter