The King of Ruaraka, Nairobi
An excerpt from Forward to Independence Fitz de Souza My
Memoirs. Reproduced with the kind permission of the de Souza family.
Available on Amazon Books
JM Nazareth QC and Francis
D’Silva aka Baba Dogo (little father)
Many of the inhabitants of Ruaraka (on the outskirts of Nairobi) were impoverished whites, and Francis
D’Silva (Cyprian Fernandes: I think he was native of either Majorda or Utorda),
a Goan, owned quite a large area of land here. I had first met him when I had
stayed in River Road with Dr Dias, who was a good friend of his. D’Silva had an
English friend called Stanley Good, on whom he depended totally. Good, who had
been in the army in India, would attend auctions on D’Silva’s behalf and look
out for old farms to buy up from the poorer English. These tended to be smallish
poultry farms – chickens, geese and turkeys – and were also where some of the
English men kept their mistresses, usually African, sometimes Seychellois.
The farms were generally of about ten acres, and D’Silva had by
increments acquired about 40 acres. He had then proceeded to open some quarries
and build some bungalows, which was a bit of an exaggeration for such rough-and-ready
structures with unplastered walls, mostly of mud rather than cement, and roofed
with second- or third-hand corrugated iron sheets, or in some cases even the
flattened out 4-gallon kerosene tins. The layout was like most Indian
accommodation – single storey with two or three rooms, a courtyard and verandas
back and front, with the added touch of electric lighting from a generator. As
I recall, D’Silva had put up about 20 to 30 such dwellings and on the
surrounding land planted a huge amount of mangoes, and called the estate ‘Mango
Farm’. Access was something of a problem, as, after leaving the main road to
Thika you had to travel along a mile or so of very rough, muddy road, which in
the rainy season sprang potholes a foot deep, allowing only the big American
cars to crawl through at about two miles an hour. On finally arriving at Mango
Farm, one would usually see lots of Indian children playing outside. A relative
of one of the clerks at Magadi, M.T. Patel was among those who had moved into
the bungalows, and for many other Indians the accommodation D’Silva provided
was a tremendous change for the better. I am sure though that this influx must
have angered a lot of the Europeans living nearby, the poor whites being the
most racist of all.
Francis D’Silva had, I believe, originally been a clerk in the
District Commissioner’s office. During or after the war he had surmised there
was a lot of money to be made in army surplus and begun buying up uniforms and
equipment – hundreds of deckchairs, tents, tyres, generators, electric pumps,
machinery and any other items that looked useful at auction, and selling them
to second-hand shops. Thus he was able to build up some working capital, and I
might add that in acquiring land with it as he did, he was one of the few
Asians who had successfully got round the White Highlands Act, which normally
prevented them from moving into such areas. His secret lay in a simple piece of
subterfuge, in the shape of Stanley Good. A short, stumpy little fellow in his
late sixties, Good had no money of his own and had been almost destitute when
D’Silva took him in and gave him a room in his house.
When a farm was heard to be coming up for sale, Stanley Good would
put on his old military uniform, hat and medals, and D’Silva would drive him
into town where Good would make his way alone to the Land Office, a wood and
iron building at the end of Government Road. There he would impress upon the
officials how he had fought for the British Empire in India and how it was only
right and proper that he should buy the farm, and would then negotiate a good
price. The money was of course provided by D’Silva and the properties became to
all intents and purposes his, but to avoid any possible comeback the deeds were
all kept in Good’s name. It was, however, quite widely known that the land
comprising Mango Farm belonged in all but name to D’Silva, an Asian who was
doing quite well out of acreage once owned by Europeans. This must have caused
further resentment among the more racist of the poor whites in Ruaraka. After I
learned about the situation, I used to ask D’Silva what he thought might happen
if one day his friend changed his mind and decided to take over all the
property to which he had title. D’Silva would always reply no, no, Stanley was
a very good man, and would never do that to him. Having spent many an evening
sitting and talking with Stanley Good and finding him a very nice person, I
could certainly see no indication that he might renege on their
arrangement.
There was another Englishman living at Mango Farm, an elderly
doctor, who it was said had been struck off by the medical board and spent two
years in prison. People sometimes mentioned his past in vague whispers, but no
one talked openly about it. It was said by some that he had performed an
abortion on an English woman, an illegal practice in Kenya, as it still was
then in Britain. It was further rumoured that in this case the mother had died
from the procedure, which if true might explain why the doctor was completely
boycotted by the Europeans. Francis D’Silva, however, had taken him under his
wing and given him a room. Being almost 80 years old, and having practised for
many years, the old doctor used to tell us lots of stories about Kenya in the
old days. Despite his advancing years, he was still very active, a thin and
wiry figure, and still knew his medicine very well. He would treat people in
the neighbourhood for a variety of ailments, and they would pay him a little. I
suppose it was all unofficial, but very useful for the residents of Mango Farm,
being rather cut off from the city to have someone with medical experience on
hand that could help them. He seemed very conscientious in looking after
everybody, and really was a very fine person. Who knows, the poor woman who
died may perhaps have been in dire straits and he had acted from the best of
intentions.
My stay at Pumwani did not last long. In the end I was advised that
it was illegal for me to live in an African area. I must confess I was
relieved, as I don’t think I could have lasted long there. Pio came to the
rescue, putting me up for a few nights, then a good friend of our family, an
ex-postmaster from Magadi called Shantilal Amin, invited me to stay with him
and his family in his current accommodation on what was then Park Road. With
nine children, Shantilal’s small semi-detached government house was very full
already, he and his boys using one of the two bedrooms, his wife and daughters
the other, but he insisted on putting a bed in the dining room for me even
though they all slept on the floor. It was very kind of him, a generosity and
hospitality I will never forget.
I searched desperately for a place of my own, but although some new
houses were now being put up in Nairobi, landlords were demanding around 10,000
shillings in illegal pugree for even a single room, and my father’s salary was
only about 1,600 shillings a month. Then a friend called G.L. Vidyarthi, a
staunch nationalist and proprietor of the Colonial Times, who had been
imprisoned for his political activities, offered me one of the properties he
had recently built on First Avenue, Parklands. The rent of 300 shillings a
month was average, but he would not ask for pugree, provided that whenever I
decided to vacate, I would not pass the occupancy on to anyone else.
I was more than happy to agree, and thanking Shantilal and his
family for looking after me, I moved to the luxury of a three-roomed bungalow
with a shared courtyard and the usual toilets and bathroom outside. My father
would send me about 1,000 shillings a month, which left very little for him and
my mother and sister to live on. But they were doing everything possible to
help me, my mother even coming from Magadi whenever she could to cook for me,
as I didn’t have a servant. I had no fridge and little furniture, but we bought
two divan beds at auction for about 50 shillings so my mother could stay over.
My routine now was to take the bus into town each day, meet with Pio
and work on political campaigning, usually until 9pm or 10pm in the evening.
Some nights I would walk all the way back home, past Parklands Police Station,
then the little road that is now part of M.P. Shah Hospital, and across to
First Avenue, Parklands, the way pitch black with no streetlights, with roaming
dogs often attacking.
With bus fares and food, and still no paid
job, I was soon finding it difficult to afford the 300 shillings rent. At a
party one evening, I met a Mr and Mrs Rebello who said they had a spare room
that I should come and look at. It turned out to be very large, was only 80
shillings a month, and in due course I moved in.
The above material is the copyright of Fitz de Souza, no part
or parts can be reproduced without permission.
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