God of Hunger Page 6
Third, control the towns. Town life, presents dangerous diversions.
Here we must be as resolute as in the countryside in not promising more than we can control. The urban intellectuals will demand democracy. Here lies great danger. By demanding all kinds of political alternatives it is the intelligentsia who foment dissension, and, ultimately, revolution. Like De Tocqueville, we should never wish to find ourselves sitting on a rumbling volcano. Let it be extinct and cold like our snow covered Kibo. And to that end, the gaining of political quiescence let us also admit that the great Rousseau was wrong. His view that men are naturally virtuous until they are corrupted by evil institutions, leads to the conclusion that if they are permitted to determine policy it will inevitably be virtuous. Not so. It is the state and only the state that should decide national policy; the state, as De Tocqueville admitted, must predominate over all other opinions. Of course he called for checks and balances. And I am sure that our constitution will embody these, as indeed does that of the Soviet Union; Lenin and Stalin gave people every constitutional right imaginable. But that is window dressing. The real question is:
What of democracy?
I have clearly shown that the direction we should take is towards a centralised democracy. And the problems this raises in the liberal mind can be avoided if we define our democracy as a laocracy; not people, but nation. Laos is Greek for nation. As a Greek I know that classical democracy was but a nascent laocracy. And as a citizen of this country I know what our party stands for. In name, the Tanganyika African National Union: TANU. Why not rename our country Tanunya?
The motto for Tanunya should be: One Party. One Nation. One People. All in the service of the state. And the state in the service of the people; a true laocracy.
In the long term all else is the rumbling of a destructive volcano and, in the short term, a diversion of valuable energies and resources which we can ill afford.
Let us therefore focus our efforts on a transformation of the countryside in ways that I have respectfully advocated in my short cut through history; from the eighteenth to the nineteenth and into our century; the twentieth century will not for nothing be called the century of history.
Such changes will require the thinking out of a unifying ideology in which all of us may find intellectual satisfaction. …’
*
Tomorrow he would go into town and post his missive.
News of his appointment as an adviser to the TANU leader would be out by then. Kokopoulos wondered how people would take it. Faces of friends and foes cultivated over the years passed through his mind’s eye. None, though was as vivid as the image of his son, Theo.
A wild thing. Clever. And fearless. He had shot his first buffalo at the age of twelve. Stole out early one morning on the farm manager’s motorbike, his father’s .375 rifle, custom built by Holland and Holland, strapped across slender shoulders; rifle as tall as the boy. He made for the old farm at Dongobesh, now laid to waste because of re-infestation by the tsetse fly, the carrier of sleeping sickness whose alleged threat to farm labour so nearly ruined his father’s early fortunes.
The boundary of the old farm lay along the nascent Karumera River, so called by the Dongo people when Kokopoulos first beheld it and said, with arms outstretched. ‘Ee kalee mou mera.’ (My good day. Kaleemera; karumera; to this day Greeks in the region are often referred to as Karumeras; as derived from the greeting.) It flowed from a spring into a shallow valley presenting wild life with the first of a series of permanent watering places. The stream then became a river fed by more underground water and went on through gorge and plain to become a lake at its southern end. River source and lake supported among the highest concentrations of buffalo in Africa. And to those who hunted, the buffalo was the undisputed king of beasts. Utterly fearless, ferocious when angered and highly intelligent in pursuit; often doubling back to snare the unaware hunter and when wounded fights death longer than any other big-game. No match for a boy. But this was no ordinary youngster.
He had mastered his father’s arsenal when first able to lift a firearm. First the .45 pistol with a kick like the farm donkey.
Then the twelve bore shotgun. Then the 9.3 Mauser. And finally the .375, the weapon of choice against two tons of charging flesh and bone. Whilst other children played with building blocks, Theo arranged bullets by size and weight. Spell bound by the shine of brass cases or the reds and oranges of Elley Kynoch cartridges, numbered 2 to 12 he played with live ammunition for hours on end. Best of all he liked to differentiate between hard and soft nose bullets, imagining the impact and resulting damage just behind the shoulder, or, if the head was momentarily raised the explosive entry at the point the neck sat on the fore-legs. And better than playing with ammunition was the dismantling and cleaning of guns. Instead of jig-saw puzzles this boy could put back together a play-room floor scatter of gun parts faultlessly, without pause. Mind dizzy with the dull glow of gun-metal and smell of cleaning oil. And the feel of smooth butt and breech. All this behind closed doors.
Out in the open he impressed at target practice and at game spotting when out on a hunt with his father. At whose side he learnt all there was to know about the tracking and killing of animals.
When Kokopoulos had come to Tanganyika in his and the country’s twenties that is what most young men did; hunt to their heart’s content. The Territory was one great zoological Eden. Its name meant the wilderness. On the coast it was called the Nyika. Up country the Pori, or Porini. Ask a Greek to characterize Africa and invariably he would reply, Porinia my boy, Porinia. And Tanganyika was the Manna, the Mother, of Porinia or Pori Tupu as said by all inland tribes: ‘Just Wilderness. Nothing but.’
It was to the hunt that young Greek bucks gave their emotional loyalty. To them nothing else about Africa mattered.
With but few exceptions women cursed the bush and its harshness. It was they who sought emotional solace in tales of softer country and climes. It was they who yearned after a Europe of home counties along a certain Pontus, Rhine, Vistula or Thames. It was they who spoke to children of a better life under northern skies.
All such talk was lost on Theo. In any case he was by now quite Anglicised; as much Thames as Temi. Primary school in Arusha, at which he was now in the final year, was an English establishment. Headed by Cyril Hampshire, who had just completed the education of the seniors with a slide show of frogs copulating, it inculcated the merits of being British. To children who in the main were all things but, as revealed on Sports Day. Loyalty to House, North and South, would be eroded by parents cheering on their progeny in Greek, Afrikaans, Italian, Dutch, Norwegian, German, Flemish or French. (Belgians from the neighbouring Congo.) All in loud voice over the more polite exhortations of British parents whose children rarely won an event in the heat of such international talent. Pali tous kertheesame: ‘We beat them again!’ would be heard again and again afterwards in the Hellenic Club.
The young Theo was not popular at its functions. Once he chose to pee into prams parked outside, once dousing a sleeping infant who cried inconsolably at the shock of that rude awakening. In fact Theo was gaining the reputation of being a young sadist and deserving of his nick-name, Satan. On another occasion he stood, wielding a stick, over a flock of juniors forced by him to eat the flowers bedecking the stage.
His parents looked forward to his imminent departure to secondary school. As a boarder.
It was this that prompted Theo to go out and hunt. He well understood the accolade bunyu, that quality of fearlessness so rated by men of all colours. Being a bunyu in the porini was the height of male accomplishment. Such ambition was on Theo’s mind as he coasted on the farm manager’s motor-bike, a big shaft driven machine, down to the stream. It was about the time they would be having breakfast on the farm. Even this was not in mind however, much as he delighted in the set ritual of half a paw-paw, doused in lime juice and sprinkled with sugar. Followed by fried egg, bacon and the steak and liver or kidney of whatever gaze
lle hung in the meat safe; usually a dik-dik or tommy. Martini could cook like no other. Even his toast was perfect, arriving warm and crisp at the table. But and all that could wait for tomorrow.
The sun had just cleared the tops of the yellow-fever trees that grew beside the water. There was already a shimmer of heat in the air above and the stones below. In an hour the smelters doors would open and soon after the sun would strike down as a hammer upon an anvil. Now was the best time to hunt. Or later that afternoon when the sun was at the same angle over the trees on the other side of the valley.
He leant the motor bike on a tree, cursing the scent of spent fuel filling the air with the alien molecules any game would detect. Peeling off his jacket and the sailor’s hat to which he had grown attached, he sat still, rifle now at his side. No sound except for the doves, almost like cicadas in their unceasing song, one linking to the next and the next. Flies flew at him for his sweat. And he felt the sting of the tsetse. An unmistakable bite and swelling; red pin-prick in the middle of a pale swelling which immediately needed to be scratched. He held off. Nothing would cause him to move a finger. He just crouched. Listened and looked. He was quite alone in his cylinder of heat. An hour, maybe more, passed uneventfully. A baboon bark broke the calm. Shit, shit, shit. Noisy and nosey bastards, baboons. He shut his eyes, hoping they would not come his way. They did not. Then the reeds in front swayed against the breeze. Above them he saw tips of horn. A tick bird flew up and down. Its unmistakable red beak clearly visible against the green shards which separated to reveal the proud head of a kudu, large ears turning this way and that, and tall twisting horns now against the sky absolutely still. He felt tempted to draw the gun up from the ground, but kept still. The beast moved forward. It was large. It was beautiful. Gunmetal grey to light mauve, white striped haunches, vast liquid eyes, rimmed with flies. This was a trophy to be had; a hat and coat hook matching his father’s kudu head on the verandah. As for the meat, the camp would go wild. But no. Kudu was not big game. Let him drink and move over for the real thing.
Nothing more for hours. More stings. More sweat. More flies. But he no more than flinched. It was past mid-day now and even the doves fell silent in the stupor of mid-day heat. Branches and trunks crackled in protest. There was no breeze. He became drowsy, but an empty stomach and parched throat kept sleep at bay. They would be worried about him at the farm and this thought kept the balance tipped further against the closure of his eyelids. He knew full well he would get an almighty beating. But this did not deter him from remaining fixed to his spot. Through the soporific phase, he fought the battle for wakefulness, which only the very strong could win. He was a tough little shit. That is what senior boys had called him and he was proud of it, ‘Gutsi’: a tough little shit. That was him. He went on thinking in this vein when all of a sudden he heard the sound of hooves on boulders.
They had arrived. Not a herd. More a gang. He counted five. Then six. The last had the biggest boss and very large ears under decent horns. One ear was torn and bleeding and hung limp. There must have been a scrap. This was a gang of young bulls. They were loud in their movements and showed no caution as they trotted to where the stream widened into a shallow elliptical pool. Right in front of Theo.
He tensed every muscle and quickly regained his keenness. Sharp juices coursed again through his veins. He stopped breathing. All power went into his eyes. He lifted the rifle horizontally off the ground and brought it up to his shoulder at the same time as lifting himself onto his knees. Slowly he brought one leg forward and placed the butt to his shoulder winding the sling of the gun once around his left arm. He paused to look and listen. The gang snorted and shoved oblivious to his presence. Five heads went down to drink. The big one remained on guard sniffing the air with neck outstretched like an expanded accordion. Tail whisking flies off his back, shoulder muscles trembling and rippling to achieve the same on his flanks. His nostrils ran with mucus. His muzzle shone bright black. The lashes on his eyes were long. A strong bovine smell pervaded the air. As Theo had hoped, hardly a breeze, more a waft; what flow there was came towards him. He put cheek to butt and still held the same lungful of air as he shot at the big one’s neck still outstretched above the rump of the next in front. He moved the bolt and the next round was in the breech before the porini crashed to the sound of fury of bullet and buffalo. The silence of the sun gave way to a clap of thunder as that of lightning striking at very close quarters. The bull collapsed, neck broken, spewing blood from a vital artery.
Theo dared to breath again, his attention now fixed on the other five. They wheeled this way and that. Eyes protruding, tiny black irises on egg sized lumps of white. Nostrils ajar. Ears scooping the air in circular motion. Every sense at its sharpest pitch. The milling around continued for another minute or two. Then stopped. The moment of crisis had arrived. His quarry lay still and now it was his life which was at stake. Theo had seen a gored body, spiked again and again to pulp.
What would the rest of the group do? What would he do? There was no question of another attempt at a kill. But he decided to shoot just above the group. To the left and immediately to the right, and once more in quick succession. The beasts went berserk and crashed headlong into the surrounding bush each in the direction of its last heading, radiating out from their fallen leader.
One thundered past him. Close enough for the mosaic of dried mud, above the splash marks of the stream on its haunches, to be visible in all its detail. Theo bowed his head, rifle in right hand, bent double with knees on the ground. He closed his eyes against the dust which filled the entire scene, blotting out the sun. Then silence. A long still silence through which the running stream could in due course be heard again. Nothing else. He opened his eyes. They stung with dirt. And with the tension of focused looking. He tried to stand but nothing moved beneath his waist. He fell to his left keeping the rifle aligned along the top of his body. There was one round left in the breech and so he took out the box of bullets lodged in one of the large pockets on his khaki shirt. Still lying on his side he fed six new rounds into the rifle. All soft nose, as selected the night before. He used the rifle as a crutch to straighten up and managed to stand though his knees quaked uncontrollably and fell down again as cramp took control in both calves. The pain was piercing and completely debilitating. He lay there sweating profusely into the dust and onto the pebbles causing dark streaks which he noticed as he turned his head to the ground in silent anguish.
He dare not make a sound. They would be back. Then he heard a familiar sound. Way in the distance. Unmistakably his father’s Chevy pick-up. In his calmer moods he and his cousins would lie in a ditch at night by the Great North road, while the adults played cards at Manolis’s, to compete at vehicle recognition. Between them every truck, car and tractor would be correctly identified well before it passed by. (Once their game was interrupted when Manoli came out for a pee. It was raining in the hills beyond his farm where it never rained. “Why Lord do you continue to punish me? Make it rain here too,’ he begged plaintively while his water ran in a rivulet into the ditch where the boys were hidden. Out they leapt causing Manoli to quake, first in fright then in rage. No one ever forgot that story; KK made sure of that.)
Now at the river, Kokopoulos heard his son calling: ‘Baba. Etho. Etho. Baba’. Here father.
Vre to Bastartho. Etho eise? More bravo! Kai emees se psaksame sto Babati. ‘Well, you little bastard, and there we were looking for you in Ndareda.’ (The village closest to the farm where the young Kokopoulos often went on the motor-bike to buy tins of condensed milk, his favourite sweet thing.) Off came the belt. But it got no further than that. The old man realized what had happened. He had experienced a killing ground many times before and this had all the signs of success in the face of great danger. He could not but feel relieved and strangely proud as well as angry; emotions which got in the way of the beating first thought of.
‘You little bastard. What the hell have you done here? Bloody hell. You blo
ody little fool. How in hell did you manage it? At your age!’ He strode towards the dead beast. Looked back at his son who was now on his feet, forgetting all pain of cramp in anticipation of worse to come, and said, ‘Damn good shot.’
It was the only time Theo remembered his father uttering a word of praise. Soon buried in a growl of threats and curses which continued throughout the journey home to fetch the men who would attend to the dead beast.
News was already out in the camp. Knives were being sharpened. Women danced. Children and chickens ran around as though headless. Dogs barked. Theo’s mother was the only person standing still. But as the Chevy came to a stop she ran towards the passenger door, opened it, clouted her son, both arms flailing and then clutched him to her ample breasts. Each as big as the lamps on the old Buicks as it was often remarked away from Kokopoulos’ ears.
The heat had gone out of the day and out of the situation. The buffalo was taken off the tractor drawn trailer which had been sent to the kill. On the ground it looked much bigger than Theo had remembered. The head carried amply sized horns. A hole was dug to bury it so that worms would, in time, strip off all flesh leaving the skeletal head as a trophy for the house. Theo saved the limp ear for himself.
The carcass was skinned and jointed. The house got the salala or fillets, kidneys, liver and heart. The rest was shared out amongst the farm labourers. The whole camp stood around the jointed buffalo. Its blood dark on the red earth. Its guts dragged in a contest of strength by the dogs. The strong smell of bovine innards filled the air. Flies everywhere. Smiles on every face. The coming night promised a celebration of drink, meat and dance. The ngoma drums were already out. But before the primeval and animistic rituals of joy at the sight of flesh came prayers.