Nairobi, Kenya 19**
FERDINANDO Amilcar e Sousa
Braganca arrived in Nairobi on the overnight express train from Mombasa,
Kenya’s premier port city. So, this is British
colonial Kenya, he thought to himself, as he waited outside the Nairobi Railway
Station.
Nairobi, the Kenyan capital,
sat regally at an empirical 7,000 feet above sea level and enjoyed a temperate
climate throughout the years, peppered with the rainy season and the occasional
drought. Nairobi had the potential of the being a truly floral paradise given
its cool climate, a loving golden sun and a comforting spray of rain but in 1947
it was early days in the flora aspect of the capital. After all WWII had
virtually only just ended. European settlers and the local councils had made
some efforts but Nairobi’s only real floral decorations (he would discover)
were giant decorative date palms strewn through the capital. And, of course,
Nairobi turned a seasonal blue/purple each time the jacaranda bloomed and
popped underfoot along the few concrete pathways.
Ferdinando (Ferdi to his
friends) was inwardly very pleased with what he saw. He felt good and pleased with
himself that he had chosen to come to this part of darkest and wildest Africa.
There were wide-open spaces, tarmacked roads, a few tall buildings, the last
remaining vestiges of the city’s early buildings, tin and wood shacks really, a
few cars (nothing to cause a traffic jam, although there was always an askaris
(traffic policeman) directing what traffic there was. It seemed there were more
parking spaces than cars. At the station he marvelled at the buses, especially
the “London Red” double-deckers. Gosh, they are so clean, he said to himself.
Each bus, he noticed, had a bus driver and a bus conductor who made sure
everyone had a ticket. There were horse carts, donkey carts, “man carts” (like
those in India where generations lived by the yoke of pulling a family cart or
were employed as cart pullers). He also watched a few white settlers riding
their horses around the station area.
As part of his European
education, Ferdinando had spent a few years in the university town of
Cambridge, working in an import-export business. While there he found many
academics who schooled him in the ways of the British colonies. Later, he spent
some time working as a researcher in the Colonial Office in London and found
that he was particularly attracted to British East Africa. In Lisbon he had
gained much knowledge about Portugal’s overseas colonies, especially those in
Africa. Throughout his adult life, he had managed to hide and prosper in his
role as a senior operative of that dreaded Polícia
Internacional e de Defesa do Estado
1945-1969, PIM (Military Intelligence Police in the Portuguese
colonies). The US Criminal Intelligence Agency is reputed to have trained PIDE
operatives in the dark political arts of torture, murder, espionage and
counter-espionage which helped the Portuguese dictator Alberto Salazar keep a
tight lid on matters at home and abroad in the colonies. This laughing, smiling
Casanova /Adonis was never once identified as a PIDE killer or torturer.
By the time he arrived in
Nairobi that day, he was no greenhorn in the ways of British East Africa. He
was easily likeable and made friends easily.
As he stood outside the
railway station in somewhat bemused wonderment, he felt someone tugging at his
bags. He learnt later that the man was a porter and had been trying to tell him
in the lingua franca, Swahili, that the taxi rank was further up the road. But Ferdi
stood fast by his baggage and shooed the man away with hand-gestures that
indicated “no”.
Watching his little to-do with
the porter was a very a red-skinned, smiling man, in khaki shorts and shirt. He
wore a slightly broad-brimmed hat and twirled a small whip in his hand; at
least it looked like a whip, a horse whip, perhaps? Ferdi did not really notice
the man until they were both standing almost nose-to-nose.
“You all right, old man?” asked
the redskin.
“Yes, thank you.”
Recognising a quite polished
Queen’s English accent, the redskin asked:
“British?”
“No. From Goa, India, actually.”
“I detect an English accent?”
“Cambridge. I worked in
export-import for a while there.”
“Are you OK? Can I help?”
“No, thank you. I am being
met.”
“Very well. Welcome to Kenya.”
“Thank you.”
“I will wander around after a
beer or two. Ta ra!”
Ferdi nodded and waived his
hat.
The train had arrived at noon.
Since then, Ferdi had lunched at the little European bar at the station, had a
couple more Scotches, this time with lots of ice and water as it was beginning
to get a little warm under the collar. He was pleasantly surprised to find the
lavatory was of a European standard and clean. There was an African man who
handed you hand towels at the wash basin.
Outside, he continued to wait.
At 5 o’clock, just as the
first of the late afternoon shadows were just beginning to kiss the ground, the
redskin was back.
“Your man has not turned up
yet?”
“No. I am sorry to say.”
Ferdi found himself slightly
embarrassed and rather sheepish about the whole affair.
“Well, follow me and I will
take you to the Portuguese consulate. Perhaps they will be able to help you. At
least, they will find you a bed for the night, even feed you, I expect. Come on
then.”
They walked a bit before they
stopped at a Morris Minor station wagon. The redskin opened the “boot” and
piled Ferdi’s bags in.
“You are really awfully kind
to help me like this,” Ferdi told the man.
“Nah, nothing at all!”
“Lisboa?”
“Don’t understand …”
“Did you come all the way from
Lisbon?”
“Oh no. Portuguese Goa, off
Western India. On the SS Karanja, off loaded for a stay in Zanzibar then cadged
a spot on a dhow to Mombasa and here I am. I did spend five years in the old
country, Portugal I mean. However, I have spent time in Portugal, especially
Lisbon.”
“What are you doing in Kenya?
Farming, business, holidaying …?”
“I will be working at
Government House. I don’t know in what capacity but I am told ‘doing what needs
to be done.’
“That sounds posh, barra sahib
(big boss).”
Ferdi understood his pidgin
Hindi.
“On the contrary, my
appointment is designated ‘Clerk, Grade 1’ ”.
“But that is a job for a
coolie. An Asiatic. Not a white man’s job.”
“I did not know that. I may be
facing one of life’s dilemmas. I guess I will know more in a day or two. I am
not due to start work for a week but I will pop in and make myself known and
work things out from there.”
“Good luck old son, but I
won’t be holding my breath.”
“Sorry. I did not even
introduce myself: Ferdi Braganza.”
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