through slave labor—the backbone of her family wealth—nobody knows. It may well have been what prompts a soldier to lay down his life for country, even when the cause that takes him to the front line is fraudulent; or for those inclined toward the divine scriptures, it is the same principle that leads a righteous man to lay down his life for sinners. Sally’s salacious behavior made her neither profligate nor righteous—her actions may have been an affront to the laws of the land but one could hardly consider them divine. Yet, it was difficult to divorce the simple privilege that her past afforded her, which freed her from the rigors of earning a living to fornicate at will. That fact of her life had been secured decades earlier, so her communion with black males, whether students in London or gardeners in South Africa, could only be seen as returning a favor of sorts—thanking the black forebears who had made possible her comfortable future.
So when Sally caught a glimpse of McDonald’s brutalized servants, it brought back that resentment. She walked away in silence.
She may not have spoken a word, but many words were spoken about her, especially after the assembled guests were told by a deflated and defeated McDonald that the guest of honor was unlikely to grace the celebrations due to some unexpected developments. He had been unable to extract any information from the servants, beyond the wind mishap and their flight from the station. But guests who had had a little too much to drink shouted that McDonald was lying because some had reported sighting a mysterious guest arrive and depart almost immediately. And since no one in the colony had met her previously, they all remarked on her skin, which was whiter than anyone they’d seen, her springy and dignified gait, as well as her manner of clothing, which was heavier than the Nakuru weather required.
It was Sally’s letter from England a month later that finally broke McDonald’s heart, resulting in a depression during which he locked himself up and mourned his loss. By then, McDonald had confirmed that Sally had arrived on the coast as scheduled and departed soon after, but he had no way of verifying whether or not she had visited his house:
I am distraught to write this letter, the last to you from me. Your cruelty toward me and fellow men, which I have borne and witnessed over the years, is the ground on which I’m filing for divorce. Yours is the Heart of Darkness.
Sally
Had locals been privy to this missive, they would have concluded that Sally was a witch, able to cast a spell and unleash a spirit. For the house that McDonald built soon turned into a veritable heart of darkness, with the windows shuttered for years and signs warning women to keep off the premises posted all over the property. Only male servants were allowed in the compound. They, too, were ordered to wear black uniforms because their master was mourning, although he did not specify his loss. Some overzealous workers chose to wear sackcloth as a mark of their loyalty, and those who learned about the secret code on the posters also abstained from touching their wives in solidarity with their master.
And when the doors and the windows to the house were finally opened, the villagers were surprised to see cows rearing their big heads in the doorway. That’s when the edifice was converted into a farmhouse that later gave way to the segregated social establishment, which further gave way to the multicultural outfit named the Jakaranda, the letter k for Kenya replacing the c in the jacaranda that McDonald said sounded “colonial.”
Now, on the cusp of the new republic and a new dawn for its multicolored citizens, the Jakaranda was about to acquire a new identity, yet again.
4
History has strange ways of announcing itself to the present, whether conceived in comforting darkness or blinding light. It can manifest with the gentleness of a bean cracking out of its pod, making music in its fall. Even when such seed falls into fertile soil, it still wriggles from the tug of the earth, stretching a green hand for uplift. The seed of wonderment that germinated from the flicker of a kiss in that darkened night had, in a few months, grown by leaps and bounds. And so it came to pass that the ancient history that Babu had dodged for two generations suddenly arrived at his doorstep, unfurling with the slow, deliberate motions of a burning rope, embers crawling from knot to knot. What was perplexing was the precision of the revelations: like the biblical plague that reached every household that did not bear a lintel, the dregs from Babu’s past rose to the fore, sliding beneath his locked door to sweep him off his feet.
But that’s rushing the story, burying the inimitable drama that unfurled the night Mariam made her grand return to the Jakaranda and reordered the lives of those who she touched—not just with her already famously flavored tongue, but with words rolled off the selfsame organ. So let’s hold it right there and absorb the moment when, lured by the smell of sweet, spicy perfume, Rajan descended the dais and stretched a hand, like a leaf dying for light after months in darkness. He stretched a hand toward the woman he suspected was the kissing stranger, and on whom he seemed utterly dependent for survival.
The young lass sat unmoved. She obviously did not understand the dance etiquette at the Jakaranda, and Rajan’s slight frame silhouetted against the dancing lights struck a statuesque pose, hair pulled into a ponytail, his lower lip trembling with both anticipation and trepidation, a hand stretched out to receive the reluctant girl. All this was witnessed by the hundreds of pairs of eyes that seemed hypnotized by the act. A hesitant beat broke the enveloping silence as Rajan knelt at Mariam’s feet, words instantly forming on his lips:
Malaika, nakupenda malaika
nami nifanyeje
kijana mwenzio . . .
The crowd roared appreciatively as the band started to play the slow love song they all knew by heart. Mariam flashed a coy smile and rose to her feet. The instantaneous clamor was enough to lift the roof off the Jakaranda, so that even Mariam could no longer resist the serenade. She made a few strides toward Rajan, who led the way toward the stage, doing a little dance because he could hardly contain his elation.
When she hesitated at the staircase leading to the dance floor, Rajan swept her off her feet, rocking her in his arms. She proved heavier than he had anticipated and Rajan staggered, nearly missing a step before regaining his balance. She swooned with pleasure, or perhaps fright, as he took the stairs before depositing her onstage. She steadied herself, her wide, circular silver earrings shining against the oscillating lights. Her mass of thick hair reached her waist. She smiled broadly, revealing twin dimples, straightening a crease on her long skirt as she did so.
If this was the kissing stranger he had encountered in the dark, Rajan thought, she certainly wasn’t afraid of the spotlight.
The love song faded and was replaced by a mugithi tune, bringing onto the stage the stories that Rajan had been told by his grandfather Babu about his experiences building the railway. The dance imitated the movement of the train and Rajan guided Mariam to join the trail of revelers doing their rounds through the dance floor, their feet spread wide apart to imitate the railway, every lap around the premises marking a completed journey.
The next tune was called the dance of the marebe. It involved thunderous drumming followed by the wail of the guitar and the blow of the sax. It was called the dance of the marebe because it told the true story of the Indian trader who encountered a lion in the Tsavo forest as he led his mule to the camp. The mule carried on its back pails of paraffin and when the lion struck, Babu had narrated to Rajan, its claws got stuck in the ropes holding the pails. The mule attempted to flee but was paralyzed by fear and the additional load on its back. The lion could not extricate himself from the hessian ropes. The pails of paraffin clanged together as the mule hee-hawed, trying to shake the beast burdening his back.
The
