Read Online The Gunny Sack by M.G. Vassanji - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: M.G. Vassanji
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the British are neighbours. It has killed a prince and Ulaya is burning. It has exploded like a keg of powder to which a mischievous handhas applied a match. No, it’s burning like dry leaves in a forest. And even we can feel the heat. Yes, times are a-changing. Did you hear what this one here said?—Eti, the times are achanging: the times
have
changed, my brother. Did your grandfather ever trade in paper money? Ah, I have no use for paper money … since when has paper any value? But this one is guaranteed by the Government. It has the signature of the Governor himself, Herr Bwana Von Soden. The Indians like it, they are raking it in, they can fill their pillowcases with it. You can rake it in too if you go to M’logoro or Dar—Eti, is it true there is work—So it is. You can make bullets or sew boots—You can carry for the askaris—travel to Korogwe or Moshi or Tanga—Ah, I’m too old for that … but the young are going. They are fools; they go looking for excitement, but soon they’ll cry for their mothers.
In the class the chanting stops, and the old men raise their heads expectantly. The teacher is heard telling off a boy; a cane whistles thinly in the air, the sound of weeping starts and the boy emerges pathetically from the doorway clutching his kanzu, his nose running, as the class resumes, “Kan-fata-ha-tin …”
“What happened, my son?” asks an elder. “The mwalimu cane you?”
The boy, clutching his kanzu even tighter, nods forcefully and sobs like a grief-stricken woman.
“You wet your pants?”
Before he has quite nodded assent, he narrowly misses a cuff on the head (“Mpumbavu weh, shame on you!”) and escapes, wailing even more loudly than before.
He has to learn, the wise men nod to themselves. Times are a-changing, says the man who said it before. Times are achanging, mimics his companion.
Old Man, did you go to see the
Koniki
on the Rufiji? Ah, I have no time to walk forty miles just to view a ship and rub my face against an insolent askari. You have no strength, youmean. That, too. They say the
Koniki
lies mouth open like a dead fish. A crowd goes there every day to watch; from Kitmangau, and Kisiju, even Kilwa. They say that the British manuari chased the
Koniki
on the ocean like a cat chases a mouse. The
Koniki
entered the mouth of the Rufiji, pye! and raced in. But then it went kwama: khon! and it got stuck! There it lies in the river, for all to see. The shame of the Mdachis. If you ask the askaris what happened, they threaten to shoot you. What worries me is that now there is no manuari to defend us … how long before the British cannonballs go flying through our roofs? The Mdachis have had it, you think? The Mdachis are trembling. To the north are the British, to the west the Belgians, and to the south are also the British. And in Zanzibar, and on the ocean … Yes, the Mdachis have cause for trembling. But what about us, Old Man? Ah, when two elephants fight, it is the grass that is injured … But the grass is persistent … when the elephants are gone the grass keeps on growing and proliferating …
It was August 1915. Gulam at twenty-four was mukhi of Matamu in place of his father, now dead more than two years. He and Ji Bai had a crop of five children, the youngest, Mongi, just over a year old. With them lived his younger unmarried siblings and the squint-eyed matron Fatima. News of the war reached them through word of mouth and gossip in the village, and dispatches from Sheth Samji in Dar es Salaam. Exports to India and Britain had stopped, there were shortages of food and stockpiles were being depleted, and the government had introduced the one-rupee note to conserve metal. Villagers had heard of the
Konigsberg
—or
Koniki
—how it was destroyed in the Rufiji, and they watched fearfully the grey silhouettes that were the British man o’ wars, manuari, patrolling the ocean like wild animals on the prowl. The prevailing mood among the Indian
have
changed, my brother. Did your grandfather ever trade in paper money? Ah, I have no use for paper money … since when has paper any value? But this one is guaranteed by the Government. It has the signature of the Governor himself, Herr Bwana Von Soden. The Indians like it, they are raking it in, they can fill their pillowcases with it. You can rake it in too if you go to M’logoro or Dar—Eti, is it true there is work—So it is. You can make bullets or sew boots—You can carry for the askaris—travel to Korogwe or Moshi or Tanga—Ah, I’m too old for that … but the young are going. They are fools; they go looking for excitement, but soon they’ll cry for their mothers.
In the class the chanting stops, and the old men raise their heads expectantly. The teacher is heard telling off a boy; a cane whistles thinly in the air, the sound of weeping starts and the boy emerges pathetically from the doorway clutching his kanzu, his nose running, as the class resumes, “Kan-fata-ha-tin …”
“What happened, my son?” asks an elder. “The mwalimu cane you?”
The boy, clutching his kanzu even tighter, nods forcefully and sobs like a grief-stricken woman.
“You wet your pants?”
Before he has quite nodded assent, he narrowly misses a cuff on the head (“Mpumbavu weh, shame on you!”) and escapes, wailing even more loudly than before.
He has to learn, the wise men nod to themselves. Times are a-changing, says the man who said it before. Times are achanging, mimics his companion.
Old Man, did you go to see the
Koniki
on the Rufiji? Ah, I have no time to walk forty miles just to view a ship and rub my face against an insolent askari. You have no strength, youmean. That, too. They say the
Koniki
lies mouth open like a dead fish. A crowd goes there every day to watch; from Kitmangau, and Kisiju, even Kilwa. They say that the British manuari chased the
Koniki
on the ocean like a cat chases a mouse. The
Koniki
entered the mouth of the Rufiji, pye! and raced in. But then it went kwama: khon! and it got stuck! There it lies in the river, for all to see. The shame of the Mdachis. If you ask the askaris what happened, they threaten to shoot you. What worries me is that now there is no manuari to defend us … how long before the British cannonballs go flying through our roofs? The Mdachis have had it, you think? The Mdachis are trembling. To the north are the British, to the west the Belgians, and to the south are also the British. And in Zanzibar, and on the ocean … Yes, the Mdachis have cause for trembling. But what about us, Old Man? Ah, when two elephants fight, it is the grass that is injured … But the grass is persistent … when the elephants are gone the grass keeps on growing and proliferating …
It was August 1915. Gulam at twenty-four was mukhi of Matamu in place of his father, now dead more than two years. He and Ji Bai had a crop of five children, the youngest, Mongi, just over a year old. With them lived his younger unmarried siblings and the squint-eyed matron Fatima. News of the war reached them through word of mouth and gossip in the village, and dispatches from Sheth Samji in Dar es Salaam. Exports to India and Britain had stopped, there were shortages of food and stockpiles were being depleted, and the government had introduced the one-rupee note to conserve metal. Villagers had heard of the
Konigsberg
—or
Koniki
—how it was destroyed in the Rufiji, and they watched fearfully the grey silhouettes that were the British man o’ wars, manuari, patrolling the ocean like wild animals on the prowl. The prevailing mood among the Indian
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