PIO GAMA PINTO IN THE NATION NAIROBI

 https://nation.africa/kenya/life-and-style/weekend/pio-gama-pinto-s-dream-for-kenya-that-never-was-4136252

THIS AND THAT ...

 

THIS AND THAT…

The Northern Frontier District. (North Eastern Province)

My friend Mervyn Maciel knows more about this subject than I do. He served there in the colonial civil service. A neighbour of mine, Mohahmed Asgar in Eastleigh, was a native of Isiolo, one of the key centres in the NFD. Asgar was a native of Isiolo. In Nairobi, he worked for Coca-Cola, driving huge land trains supplying the NFD towns with a variety of soft drinks.  During the school holidays, I would go with Asgar on his travels. Isiolo used to be 260 km from Nairobi, probably one of the worst untarred roads in Kenya of the 1950s. Most roads where white folks did not live were always hellish, because most other folks walked and did not own trucks or cars. Drought, ever-present, is just part of life until the next rains.

The NFD was carved out of southern Somalia in 1925 (in an era when white folks were dividing Africa amongst themselves).

According to “Global Security”, A treaty drawn up in 1920 and ratified in 1924 provided that Italy take over the area west of the Juba River up to 41° east longitude, including the port of Kismaayo. Known as Jubaland, it was incorporated into Italian Somaliland the following year. The new colonial boundary left a Somali-populated area within Kenya equal to the ceded territory. Although a number of Somali had settled in towns or as farm workers elsewhere in the colony, British authorities prohibited the nomads from moving over the internal frontier of the NFD as a precaution against ethnic conflict and the spread of interclan warfare. Other barriers (including taxation at a higher rate) were erected as well, setting the Somali apart from the rest of the African population.

These distinctions, all of which indirectly recognized the Somali as an alien element in Kenya and therefore emphasized their ties with Somalia, remained in effect until Kenya's independence and continually reinforced the Somali sense of exclusiveness. The Somali in the NFD were convinced that their interests were neglected by colonial authorities, and they expected them to be similarly neglected by an independent Kenya. They looked to fellow Somali across the border for political leadership, particularly after Somalia's independence.

The NFD should have been christened Kenya’s Wild North. Violence in all its shapes was always on the daily menu. It was an American Wild West kind of place. First of all, most of the NFD was carved out of Somalia by the British and in 1963, after independence, there was no way Kenya was going to give it back to Somalia. It was not long before, Kenya’s armed forces were entrenched in a guerrilla war with the Shiftas, who sought to return the land to Somalia. Many people died from both sides but Kenya held firm.

“In the 2009 Census, Isiolo County had a cosmopolitan population of 143,234, with Borana, Samburu, Gabra, Sakuye, Turkana, Meru and Somali being the main ethnic groups in the region. From late 2011 into 2012, hundreds of people lost their lives and livestock was stolen in intense, well-organised violence as the Borana and Somali communities violently clashed with their Turkana neighbours. The conflict led to widespread internal displacements, the torching of several villages and schools and market disruption, with grave knock-on effects on people’s livelihoods. According to reports by the Isiolo District Peace Committee (DPC), from 2009 to January 2013, the Isiolo violence claimed 165 lives and about 9,000 livestock were stolen; an estimated 2,900 were displaced (Huka 2013; AlterNet 2011)”. The Politics of Pastoral Violence: A Case Study of Isiolo County, Northern Kenya.

Most of the NFD was almost always hot, dusty, and dry as hell. However, the various tribes called it home and managed to eke out a living. Most of them were nomads, herding their animals to the next water hole or next feed. I spent many nights with them, sitting by the campfires, listening (but not understanding a word) to the old men. Asgar would occasionally offer a translation or two.

While the wazee (old men) seemed grumpy most of the time, there was lots of laughter everywhere else.

 

Marsabit National Park, the land of large tusked elephants

The Somalis of the NFD were originally returning soldiers of World War One. Little wonder that in Kenya’s southern cities that were some of the best nightwatchmen. Ferocious fighters. Folks who did not know them said it was all because of Miraa (or Kat/Qat) which every Somali seemed to enjoy. As a result, and winning more fans south of the border, Miraa is a very profitable industry.

Marsabit has always been famous for its national park, and even more famous for its longest-tusked elephant. However, I found this excerpt from a larger charming piece by Dalle Abraham. A treaty drawn up in 1920 and ratified in 1924 provided that Italy take over the area west of the Juba River up to 41° east longitude, including the port of Kismaayo. Known as Jubaland, it was incorporated into Italian Somaliland the following year. The new colonial boundary left a Somali-populated area within Kenya that was equal in size to the ceded territory. Although a number of Somali had settled in towns or as farm workers elsewhere in the colony, British authorities prohibited the nomads from moving over the internal frontier of the NFD as a precaution against ethnic conflict and the spread of interclan warfare. Other barriers (including taxation at a higher rate) were erected as well, setting the Somali apart from the rest of the African population.

These distinctions, all of which indirectly recognized the Somali as an alien element in Kenya and therefore emphasized their ties with Somalia, remained in effect until Kenya's independence and continually reinforced the Somali sense of exclusiveness. The Somali in the NFD were convinced that their interests were neglected by colonial authorities, and they expected them to be similarly neglected by an independent Kenya. They looked to fellow Somali across the border for political leadership, particularly after Somalia's independence.

In all its torrid weather, its eternal drought, and all the ingredients of a hell on earth, Kenya’s Northern Frontier District has a lot of beauty to offer, you just have to let your eyes and your heart focus on it. You will find it, I assure you.

 

 

 

Mohamed Sahnoun, the greatness of man

 

Mohamed Sahnoun

1931-2018

An extraordinary diplomat

 

“Born in Algeria in 1931, the son of an imam, educated at the Sorbonne and later at New York University, he returned from Paris to serve in Algeria’s National Liberation Front in the days of its fight against French colonialism, where he was arrested and tortured, as recounted in his autobiographical novel Mémoire Blessée (“Wounded Memory”). When independence was won, he became diplomatic adviser to the country’s provisional government, and subsequently devoted his whole life to diplomacy and the pursuit of peace, with his career postings and titles enough to fill multiple lives.

“His first major postings, from the mid-60s to mid-70s, were as deputy secretary general of the Organization for African Unity at its headquarters in Addis Ababa, then of the Arab League. He went on to be Algeria’s ambassador to Germany, “France, the United Nations, the United States and Morocco. And from the early 1990s he represented the UN in a series of senior capacities, first winning huge international respect (though unhappily not the continuing support of Secretary-General Boutros-Ghali) for the mediation skills he showed as special representative to Somalia in 1992, and then playing multiple roles in the Great Lakes, the Congo, Sudan and Namibia and elsewhere as Special Advisor to Kofi Annan – at one point in the 1990s dealing with five conflicts at once in Africa on the UN’s behalf, and for six months sleeping almost entirely on aeroplanes.

Professor the Hon. Gareth Evans

Former Foreign Minister of Australia

 

As Gareth Evans wrote in his tribute to MS, this was an exceptional man with great reserves of patience, volumes of quiet diplomacy and the enduring ability to never lose his cool, even when all around him were spitting fire and brimstone.

 

I first met Mohamed in the mid-1960s when he was deputy secretary general of the Organisation of African Unity based in Addis Ababa. We met and discussed various political issues every day I was in Addis Ababa. I was also his sounding board for many of the political fires that were burning in Africa. While I considered him a sort of a friend (in the slightest way possible), or a political contact, or anything else, he never crossed the line. He came close to though on several occasions when he tried to twist my arm and tried to lasso me for a job at the OAU HQ. More often than not the OAU was a raging hotbed of African issues. Secretary-General Diallo Telli was a firebrand of a politician, and he relied on MS to regularly pull him out of raging political fires that were commonplace at the OAU.

 

Perhaps his greatest weapon was his enduring smile. It did not matter how hot it was, and even if discussions or not had reached moments from an explosion, MS always kept his cool. He stood his ground, sometimes stubbornly so, at least that is what the rest of us thought about his entrenched stand on a given issue. As usual, when the poetic sun shone an hour or two late and MS had his way, it became clear to all of us mere humans.

 

BY ROBIN WRIGHT

In the LA Times

Soft-spoken but stubborn, skilled at both gentle persuasion and diplomatic pressure, Sahnoun has been asked by both the United Nations and the Organization of African Unity (OAU) to oversee peace talks between Zaire’s government and the rebel faction led by Laurent Kabila, due to begin in South Africa this week. “We’ve made some progress in getting the two sides to meet for the first time in Lome [Togo] last month. They shook hands and agreed to talk,” he says. “Now the hard work begins.”

After new U.N. Secretary-General Kofi Annan, Sahnoun is one of Africa’s best-known and widely respected diplomats. He served on a host of U.N. political, cultural and environmental commissions and as deputy secretary-general of the OAU and the Arab League. A graduate of both the Sorbonne and New York University, he served as Algeria’s ambassador to the United Nations, United States, Germany and France. In Washington, the parties he hosted at The Elms, Perle Mesta’s former home, were legendary for the array of prominent names who turned up--most unusual for an African diplomatic function. After retiring from the diplomatic service, Sahnoun was also a senior fellow at the U.S. Peace Institute, the congressional think tank in Washington, and then its Canadian equivalent.”

The job wore him down, sometimes the battles were unwinnable. He was fired from the UN but promptly restored to his job when Kofi Anan became Secretary General.

However, for those who were part of his inner circle, he was something of a political prophet. In the few years I had known him, I learnt heaps. MS is one man I remember with a tear in my eye. We lost track of each after Addis Ababa and never connected again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some of the pioneer Goan Medicos of Kenya

 

BELOW ARE JUST SOME OF THE NAMES OF PIONEER GOAN DOCTORS, DENTISTS, PHARMACISTS ...

Rosendo Ribeiro, Ayres Ribeiro, Dr A C L D'Souza, 

Eli John Joseph Almeida

Ignacio Jose Marco Barretto, Arnaldo Francisco Carvalho,

Bonaventura Pinto

Aires Carvalho, Arnaldo Carvalho, Lui Torentino Carvalho,

Joseph Cardozo, Eulalia Cardozo, Diana Caiado, 

Alberto Da Costa, Alex Da Costa, Manuel Joseph D'Cruz,

Ruby D'Mello, Antonio De Menezes, Eclito D'Souza,

John Paul D'Souza, Peter Antonius D'Souza, 

Stephen Walter D'Souza, Valente D'Souza, Albert Fernandes, 

Mary Helen Fernandes, Charles Alexander Paes, 

Pedro Antonio Paes, Bonaventura Pinto, Doreen Pinto, 

Joel Pinto, Caetano Quadros, Graciano Ribeiro, Alexander da Gama,

Eric Josephy da Cruz, Joachim Campos, Joseph Castelino, Olinto D'Souza, Edward Dias, Alex D'Souza, Felibert D'Souza, 

Mary Mathilda D'Souza, Titus D'Souza, Valente D'Souza,

Vitalda Maria D'Souza, Raymond D'Souza, Ernest Figueiredo,

Helena Figueiredo, Louis da Gama, Bonaventure Pinto, 

L A Quadros, Francis Vaz, Jose Santana Vaz, Ancelo Dias, 

Charles Dias, Avelino D'Mello, Lucy Costa, Julia D'Mello, 

Ruby D'Mello, Olinto D'Souza, Edward Dias, Ignacio Mascarenhas....

PIO GAMA PINTO: Wasted by an ignorant bullet

 

One Nation: Pio’s dream for Kenya

Pio Gama Pinto with Jomo Kenyatta at Maralal and other members of the East Africa Goan League which was created by Pinto with a handful of friends. Kenyatta does not look happy at all in this photo. I was told that Pio had a falling out with Mzee long before this photo was taken. Mzee had refused to see him previously and he was surprised to see Pio with the League.

VETERAN Kenya-born journalist *CYPRIAN FERNANDES celebrates the life of Pio Gama Pinto, Kenya’s first political martyr who was assassinated 58 years ago on February 24, 1965.

THINGS THAT SHOULD NEVER HAVE HAPPENED:

1.       The assassination of PGP was unnecessary, he was leaving for Mtwapa, Tanzania anyway.

2.       PGP should never have had that stand-up slanging match with Jomo Kenyatta. He should have known better.

 

IF THERE is a single beacon alight, many, many decades from now, to evoke the name of Pio Gama Pinto, it will be because of the saddest of irony: that Africa chose to murder the one man who had two important lessons that could have saved the continent hundreds and thousands of deaths and created nations in which all of their people shared in the fruits of independence from the various colonialists.

His foremost vision was that every single man, woman and child (of any colour, of any tribe, of any religion, of any language) should be completely free, not just the few that were opportunistically positioned to grab power and exploit it for the benefit of the few. He always professed to be a complete African socialist.

However, it would seem in hindsight, that his devotion and dedication to African socialism, particularly sharing everything he had or owned was ridiculous, to say the least. At his death, he owned nothing and did not have a single cent to his name in his bank account.

He fed and clothed anyone who needed his help including many who went on to high political office and were counted among Kenya’s first millionaires. Even his Kenyan socialist colleagues were clever enough to practise the cynical idiom: what is mine I keep, I share everything else. No so-called Kenyan socialist was the beggar that Pio was in the end.

Yet, he was able to beg from various friendly nations, including India, and more importantly, the Kenyan Indian merchant community and arm, clothe and provide for the Mau Mau rebellion. He also provided the Mau Mau movement with strategic planning he later became famous for.

Almost a few days after marrying Emma Dias, he told her “intelligent women did not stay at home” and promptly drafted her into secretarial college. It was these skills that provided the bread-winning for the family, first with a private then replacing one of the many British secretaries who were leaving Kenya after independence.

Like many prophets before him, Pio Gama Pinto was shunned by his own community, the Goans in Kenya who were more aligned to their Portuguese masters and fought with words (amongst themselves in their clubs and through letters in the local media) to stop India from annexing their homeland of Goa. Pio and the Goans mutually divorced each other.

In October 1960, he led a campaign to disrupt the visit to Kenya of the Vice Premier of Portugal Pedro Teotinio Pereira, a sabotage mission that was opposed by the general Goan community.

Pereira was visiting at the invitation of the colonial government. His main aim was to renew links with the Goans in Nairobi and Mombasa. His program would see him officially open the Fort Jesus Museum in Mombasa and visit the Vasco Da Gama (the first Portuguese to set foot in Kenya en route to his search for spices) memorial in Malindi.

Pereira’s visit was pure Portuguese propaganda. Britain and Portugal colluded to prop up each other’s claims to their respective patches in Africa. Pereira had arranged the financing of the Fort Jesus Museum through the Gulbenkian Foundation of which Pereira was the administrator. Some 30,000 pounds was made available. Fort Jesus was hijacked and forced into celebrations marking 500th anniversary of the death of Prince Henry the Navigator. At stake was Portugal’s colonial identity.

Pereira arrived in Kenya on a six-day visit (two in Nairobi and four at the coast) on October 27, 1960.

In the media, the war was fought by the Goan Voice on the side of the loyalists and the Goan Tribune for the East African Goan League. There was also strong opposition to the visit by The Colonial Times and The Daily Chronicle.

Pio’s links with the latter publication date back to 1953 when he became editor. Both the Chronicle and the Times were owned by Indian merchants. It was rich Indians who propped up Pio’s efforts, especially against the Portuguese. In the weeks before the opening of the Fort Jesus museum, Pio made clear his opposition to the visit. He challenged the contention by the Goan Overseas Association that “Goans look to Portugal as their Fatherland.” Letters in the East African Standard (then strongly a paper supporting colonial rule) stomped on Pio’s East African Goan League as being unrepresentative. The letters were like a knee into Pio’s groin.

Catholic priests, perhaps putting an unofficial spin on the subject, had vilified socialists and communists as being akin to devil worshippers and told the Goans that they should have nothing to do with them.

Pio had cut his political teeth agitating against the Portuguese in Goa and against the British in Mumbai. When Goa was freed, he was asked to come back and lead the new state. He declined, saying that there was enough talent in Goa to do the right thing by the people.

Instead, having been born in Nyeri, he decided he would dedicate his life to the country of his birth. Thus was born his second lesson for Africa: total commitment to the country. His vision was for one country: Kenya for Kenyans, tribe-neutral, religion-neutral, colour-neutral, one people living the one shared dream.

To achieve this, he first shed his Goan/Indian skin and grew a new one to his complete Kenyan persona, taking the first steps by learning the proper Coast-style Swahili, at a time when virtually all foreigners spoke the ugly kitchen version, pathetic.

It was not long before that Pio was the respected confidante of Jomo Kenyatta, Tom Mboya, Harry Thuku, Njenga  Karume, Oginga Odinga, Achieng Oneko, Mbiyu Koinange, James Gichuru, Dr Julius Kiano, Paul Ngei, and an army of Kenyan politicians marching towards Kenya’s freedom. Before that, he had already won the respect of several Mau Mau leaders who quickly recognised in Pio a valuable ally.

His influence was such that he was able to convince the Mau Mau leadership to leave the rural Indian shopkeeper community safe even though the urban Indians had set up two Indian units to fight the Mau Mau. One of the units actually killed two Mau Mau.  However, this was put down to misadventure by a few misguided Asians in Nairobi.

It wasn’t long before he was working shoulder-to-shoulder with the Kenya African National Union elite, first through the trade unions with the enigmatic Tom Mboya, later with Jomo Kenyatta himself, Dr Julius Kiano, Mbiyu Koinange, James Gichuru and others. However, his lifelong friends were Joseph Murumbi, Bildad Kaggia and Fred Kubai who shared his vision of an African socialist Kenya. Soon after independence Kenya was veering more and more towards a capitalist society under the guise of non-existent African socialism, he found a kindred spirit in the Luo leader Jaramogi Oginga Odinga.

He brought to Kenya politics a single, uncompromising and nationalistic vision: that independence meant independence from ignorance, poverty and disease for and for the few who happened to be in the right place at the right time. His war against the ravages of the early days of land-grabbing eventually cost him his life. Who is not to say that if the fruits of Uhuru had been shared equitably Kenya’s recent history would have been much less turbulent?

Successive Indian diplomats, beginning with the illustrious Apa Pant who captured the imagination of the Kenyan political leadership, had played a pivotal role in enhancing Pio’s political aspirations by providing him with the means including money to pursue his political dream. Pran lal Sheth, the outstanding Indian leader who was forced to leave Kenya after independence, remained a political partner until Pio’s death. He lit the pyre at Pio’s home to burn every scrap of paper Pio had ever written or any correspondence written to him. Sheth did this with the aid of another Pio disciple the economist Sarjit Singh Heyer. They did it instinctively to protect Pio’s family and his allies.

That is indeed a tragedy because very little or none of Pio’s written material exists today.

One of his closest friends was Fitz de Souza, barrister and former Deputy Speaker of the Parliament. He was also a kindred spirit who was able to mask his socialist ideals. Fitz de Souza tried his best to shepherd Pio away from a confrontation with Jomo Kenyatta. He reminded Pio that he did not have a tribe or an army of people behind him. Pio was on his own, he told him.

IN February 1965, Tom Mboya, the Economic Planning and Development minister, with the help of a couple of American strategists had drawn up Sessional Paper No. 10 which was designed to turn Kenya into a capitalist country. Kenya did become capitalist as a result.

There is mention that at some stage, Pio once called Kenyatta a land-grabber… fuelling an already simmering mutual dislike. In the meantime, Pio quit the Kenya African Union and joined the opposition Kenya People’s Union which professed social ideals to a point and was led by the experienced capitalist Oginga Odinga. Pio drew up plans for the KPU to raise a motion of “no confidence” in Sessional Paper No. 10 and President Kenyatta. The story goes that Pio and Kenyatta (with a group of Ministers and other officers) ran into Pio in the grounds of Parliament House and later Pio admitted that He “had called Jomo Kenyatta a bastard because Jomo Kenyatta called me a bastard first.”  The angry exchanges between the two men could be heard even in the halls of Parliament House that day.

For the life of me, I will never be able to understand Pio’s moments of lunacy. He was always a quietly spoken and a considered man. He was a skilled political strategist and he had to be a very skilled man to work with the Mau Mau. It must be just a few seconds of an emotional spat that fateful day that made him do what he did.

The issue of land redistribution after Uhuru was political dynamite and it is possible that Parliament could have passed a vote of “no confidence” but Jomo Kenyatta was always a supreme political strategist who would have won the day.

When I heard about it, I thought it was the dumbest thing ever. No human being could expect to remain alive after abusing the first President of Kenya or threatening to “fix” him in Parliament with a motion of no-confidence.

An excerpt from Fitz de Souza’s book: Forward to Independence: “I reminded Pio of Kenyatta’s strength, of the sacrifices and struggles he had made and his firm belief that sacrifices and struggles he had made and his firm belief that the fruits of independence should be his. I said, ‘Pio, I think you have a lot of good things to say, but however much you say them, Kenyatta is not going to give up power or go away. He is a very courageous man and would fight to the death to stay the leader if he had to.

“So, don’t try to attack him morally and not expect to get on his bad side, you are just wasting your time, it is not possible to remove him.” It was on an afternoon in February, as I was taking a break for tea outside the Parliament building, that I heard someone calling my name. ‘Mr de Souza, come quickly please!’ Turning around I saw that a few tables away an altercation had broken out between Pio and Kenyatta. Both men were gesticulating and swearing, and as their voices rose, everyone on the veranda could hear. Tom Mboya was standing nearby, now joined by several onlookers. Pio, his face contorted with anger was shouting, ‘I’ll fix you!’ Kenyatta, equally incensed, was shouting back at him. I knew immediately what they were arguing about: the English farms, which Pio claimed Kenyatta was grabbing. Running up behind Pio, I put both my arms around him, trying to restrain him and calm him down. When Kenyatta had gone, we sat down. I warned him not to shout at Kenyatta again, as Kikuyus rarely forgive someone who becomes their enemy. “In the eyes of most Africans,” I said, “you are just a Muhindi, you are perfectly dispensable, but he is not.” I reminded him how at almost every meeting, Kenyatta would ask the same rhetorical question: if a man plants a tree, who has the right to claim the fruit of that tree when it has grown? Ask any African, I told him, and they will say that Kenyatta has been very little compensated for the sacrifices and hardship he has endured in the struggle for independence. “If it comes to the push,” I said, “there’ll be two shots fired at you and no one will remember you in a year’s time.” Pio shook his head, “No, no, there would be a bloodbath.” I said, “Pio, you are overestimating your position; maybe if you were a Kikuyu or a Luo, then yes, there would be a backlash, but you’ve nobody to support you; like me, you’ve no support in the Indian community and none outside it.”

Joe Murumbi cajoled Pio out of hiding in Mombasa after the “bastard” spat in Parliament. Murumbi assured Pio “that everything will be all right.” Pio would be safe and Murumbi would talk to Jomo Kenyatta (who would listen to Murumbi) and all would be well. Broken-hearted, Murumbi would eventually leave politics. He would late cry his heart out every time he thought about Pio. The trade union visionary Makhan Singh shared Pio’s vision. The academic and visionary Pheroze Nowrojee knew  Pio from his earliest days, as a clerk, as a hockey correspondent, editing the Chronicle. Pheroze remains the single witness to the short life Pio lived.

There are many others who played a part in his life, too many to mention here. However, there are two outstanding people who helped make Pio who he was: his brother Rosario and his wife Emma. Rosario walked in the shadow of his illustrious sibling, but he provided the support Pio needed every single step of his life. If Rosario was the silent martyr in the family, then Emma was the silent spirit. She provided him with unconditional love as a wife, partner and mother and, as was the way in those days, she went about without the support of her husband without question, even though he did not provide even a single glimpse or the smallest whisper into his political life.

There is still time for Kenya to bring Pio Gama Pinto’s legacy to fruition for a better, more equitable and happier Kenya but without the violence that cost him his life. It has to be done with the will of maturity, the wisdom of hindsight, the vision of foresight and the sheer, unadulterated love of Kenya, its flora, fauna, and every single man woman and child: gender–neutral, colour-neutral, tribe-neutral, class-neutral, religion-neutral, rich or not. A truly beautiful paradise deserves a beautiful dream. Pio had one.

In the end, the was no place for an Asian like Pio Gama Pinto in Kenya. He had planned to move to Mtwapa in Tanzania to help the fight for freedom in the Southern Africa  States. He never got there.

In the end, he would have left Kenya, perhaps forever, they didn’t need to kill him.

*Fernandes, a front-line journalist, has worked in Europe and Australia, where he now lives. You can read more at his blog: www.headlinesofmylife.today

 

 

WHY KENYA ASIANS COULD NOT LIVE IN KENYA

 

Why Kenya Asians could not live in Kenya

 

 By CYPRIAN FERNANDES,

Former Nation Chief Reporter

Sydney, Australia

 

Isher Dass accompanied Jomo Kenyatta to England during 1920-1940. Dass helped Jomo with a little cash and assisted him while he pursued an English education. Dass, putting it mildly, was a mini adviser to Jomo. It would appear Jomo placed a lot of faith in the man who was helping him. While in London, Jomo spent as much time as he could with Mahatma Gandhi who, in later years, invited Jomo to his Ashram in India. Many, many years later Jomo would tell people like Mbiyu Koinange, Njoroge Mungai, Charles Njonjo and others that he regretted that he was unable to visit Gandhi in his younger ears. Suffice it to say that Gandhi impressed him during their short meetings in the UK. Similarly, Jomo counted a few other Asians amongst his "friends" in Kenya, all except Pio Gama Pinto who he considered a deserter and a renegade for joining Oginga Odinga and the opposition Kenya People's Union. Pio was Odinga's key political strategist. So why did he throw out the Asians out of Kenya? The answer to that lies buried with the cabinet ministers who pushed him to do it! 

The Asian businessmen made the late Dr Gikonyo Kiano a very rich man, giving him 10% of the value of import/export licences.

Other ministers also enjoyed the Asian generosity, probably more so than Jomo Kenyatta who raised funds for the Gatundu Hospital! Droves of Asians trekked to Gatundu to curry favour with the "old man".

During the 1960s, the last African countries still under imperial control regained independence from their European colonisers. The process of 'Africanisation' that followed was not straightforward. Economies suffered as political leaders struggled to unite communities in the face of drought and famine. The political instability brought danger to the large Asian communities in East Africa who had been brought from India by the British to help run their businesses.

Since the late 1800s, Asian people had settled in East Africa. Most were Hindus from Gujarat. Many lived in distinct communities, separate from their British rulers and their African neighbours. Many were successful professional and skilled workers. These communities became increasingly threatened as African governments cast Asians as a scapegoat group. In the face of rising hostility, many Asians decided to leave for Britain: the country whose culture they carried and whose passports they held.

There was no love lost between the Africans and the Asians. Separate development introduced by the British (a type of apartheid) meant that each race in Kenya lived separately and did not intermingle except at work and sometimes in sport. Otherwise, the different races were quarantined. So much so that Asians and others were forbidden to speak their vernacular anywhere especially at home on the premise that the vernacular was hindering students in school, especially in English and other related subjects.

By the terms of the 1962 immigration laws, British passport holders living in independent commonwealth countries could move freely to Britain. This position changed in 1968 when new controls restricted entry to people with at least one UK-born grandparent.

India also closed its doors to those trying to leave Kenya, causing the 'Kenya Asian crisis'. This was followed in 1971 by a more dangerous crisis in Uganda. In 1971, 50,000 Ugandan Asians were harshly expelled from the country by the military dictator, Idi Amin. The urgency of the situation prompted the British government to relax controls, allowing entry to 27,000 of the 50,000 refugees.

By 1973 approximately 103,588 Asians had entered Britain from East Africa. At this point, the crisis was deemed to have ended, although a new group of refugees came from Malawi in 1976.

Despite government efforts to distribute the refugees evenly about the country, many settled in areas with established Asian communities. In London, East African Asians settled principally in north and west London, particularly Harrow, Ealing and Wembley in Brent. (source unknown).

PAUL THEROUX (1967) once wrote:

In East Africa, nearly everyone hates Asians. Even some Asians say they hate Asians. The British have hated the Asians the longest. (I would say that is a mighty exaggeration) This legacy they passed on to the Africans, who now,  in Kenya, for example, hold the banner of bigotry high. Political scientists, anthropologists and sociologists in Africa largely ignore the Asian community. That students in East African universities hate Asians is a demonstrable fact. The Greeks and other European small traders in East Africa hate Asians, too. Racial insult against Asians now approaches the proportion of fashion; and when the pressure of fashion attracts Asians themselves to slander each other, I begin to worry and think it may be too late to do anything about it except talk.  Not much has changed since then.

IN a few years, perhaps even a couple of decades … no, it might have happened already: the history of Asians in Kenya (up to around 1970) will have been completely erased, if not in print, at least in the collective memory banks, even in the diaspora. Only Zarina Patel, the doyen of African journalism will continue to keep the flame of memory alive as long as she can. As long as she is alive, she will always be the keeper of the collective Asian memory, especially in Kenya. I pay the greatest tribute to the Asians (especially, my own community the Goans) who stayed and continued to make their own contributions to a new Kenya since Independence.

I knew from the very first day when I walked in off the street and got a job on the Daily Nation as a sports reporter at the age of 16 that the day would come one day when I would have to leave Kenya because I had chosen a British passport instead of a Kenya citizenship. However, before that day came, almost everyone in Government thought I was a Kenya citizen. So much so, I was selected to go on a couple of Kenya Government delegations, including one to the Congo in the company of G.G. Kariuki, Robert Matano and others. President Jomo Kenyatta refused to call me by my given Christian name: Cyprian Fernandes. Instead, he saw me called: “mtoto ya mhindi!”.  Other Kenyans who could not roll Cyprian around their tongue, christened me sufria!

I was only a toto in the middle 1950s but it was a time of immense activity, the country was gripped in a sense of resurrection (not insurrection … by 1954, the air was filled thick with the promise of “our” was coming). By 1956, I had managed to meet Tom Mboya at a Luo Union football match and from then on, every time we met he made time for me. On some of these occasions, he introduced me to many of the men who would shepherd Kenya to independence, men like James Gichuru (who will forever remain one of my favourite politicians), Oginga Odinga,  Jeremiah Nyagah (much later) and his delightful wife who introduced Charolais cattle to Embu. I stayed with them many times. Jeremiah was also one of my tutors in Kenyan politics. Three years after I had joined the Nation, while I was still a sports journalist, I met Joe Wanjui, first when he headed the Agricultural Development Corporation and later the even large Industrial and Commercial Development Corporation. He had been in the US and I think he was seconded to Kenya from Esso where he worked. Dr Gikonyo Kiano (Minister for Commerce and Industry, aka Mr 10 per cent allegedly for import/export licences) and at one time or another I met the whole of the first Kenya Cabinet and subsequent new members.

I mention all this because the white colonialist settler community, most of the Asians and other migrant communities who did not opt to remain in Kenya by taking up citizenship knew in their heart of hearts they would have to go. With the white communities, it was a race thing, many fled to South Africa, others to Rhodesia (later Zimbabwe) but most back to Europe.

The Europeans were not the only racists. The majority of the Asian community was religiously so. British journalist Yasmin Alibhai-Brown has been saying so of Uganda Asians for donkey’s years. I was once told by a Sikh friend of mine, a teenage friend at the time; he was still at school, I had already started work in 1956.  He said most Indians (including Pakistanis, Ismailis, Sikhs etc) made it their religious duty to send as much money as they could to their homelands. They knew that one day, they would be returning there. I always thought they were religious about making as much money as they could, some would do it illegally but that did not bother them one bit, because making money was a religious thing. In more recent times, I was told something similar happening around the world today. It might have been in jest, but I would think there is some truth to it. Apparently,  when a family migrates to a new country, the father gets everyone together and says something like this: “The first thing we have to do is to understand what the government can do for us, what are benefits, free services, does the government offer us any money … we must examine every avenue and we must exploit every opportunity to secure our future both here and in India (or wherever else they come from).

When independence came, those who knew time was running out for them were quite brilliant in lengthening their stays in Kenya after despatching wives and children, first to the country of origin and later to the UK. If it meant bribery was the price of their continued exploitation and success they paid it happily, even corrupting Africans in sleeping parts in Asian businesses. I am sure a few whites did it too. However, being a sleeping partner was not a joking matter because the sleeping partner eventually grabbed the business as soon as the Asian owner left Kenya. The term “sleeping partner” was also not a term familiar to Kenya’s African community. Some thought it was male prostitution.

Kenya will always remain my own paradise. I grew up in the Goan community which did not pay much attention to the politics of the day. Many thought they had a job for life, especially those who were still working in the Kenya Civil Service. After all, it was the Goans that kept the apple of the British colonial eye working as a well-oiled racist machine. Some of the reprobate British senior staff exploited the humble Goans to the limit. The only problem was, that many of the Goans were not that daft, they knew how to take of themselves. It might have been a case of “Yes Sir, Yes Sir, No Sir, No Sir”, always bowing to the white masters, but also having the last laugh. The Goans were great in the Kenya Civil Service, Winston Churchill and others of his ilk said so.

One major negative was that some of the Goans treated black Kenyans in the same awful manner as did their white masters but never with the same level of cruelty. After all, the Goans were pious Catholics, if it suited them.

However, like all other migrant races, they were all racist. Especially for one reason: they feared that wives and daughters would one day be raped, even in an independent Kenya. They feared for their womenfolk especially because of the black men’s large penises. That really was the stuff of their nightmares. The indentured labourers that were brought to Kenya from various parts of the subcontinent learned very quickly from their white masters, that the “blacks” were savages and must be treated accordingly. “Don’t trust them, don’t take your eye off them”.

Yet, there were many hundreds of people from various migrant communities who cried bucket-loads that these “black bastards” had robbed them of their heritage. One common lament was: “We gave them the best years of our lives and now they are kicking us out.”

Most migrants stuck it out as long as they could and then headed off to Britain. By then entry into Britain had been paved. Or there was Australia, New Zealand and with relatives, USA.

In a similar vein, they cried that they had built schools, and given African menial jobs, especially as houseboys, cooks and ayahs and in their stores, warehouses and places of business such as construction sites, garages, and a phalanx of commerce and industry. Some of this home help was cherished to the point even after migration families would send money to their former employees. I know of one family in which the home help remained a part of the family for more 60 years … he may still be there … Mombasa.

Another thing, you did not see many Africans playing cricket, hockey, table tennis, billiards and snooker (after 1964, Fadhili William, the singer-songwriter used to play snooker regularly at Brunner’s Hotel (Queen’s Hotel). There was minuscule socialising between Asians and Africans. I don’t know, and I might be wrong, of any Asian family that went to dine in an African hut. Or invited their servants to dinner at their table and among the family’s friends.

The incoming Kenya Government did value the work of the Goan Civil Servants but long before Uhuru, Jomo Kenyatta had been preparing the Kikuyu for the various roles in government. In one of the earliest editions of Mwigithania (which he wrote while he was in London), he urged Kikuyu parents to send their children to the “Church” schools. That was in 1923 (I think), he was already planning then for Uhuru.

Over the years, I quickly built up a relationship of trust with most of the key players since the first cabinet was established. Trust is the greatest asset any journalist worth his salt must achieve in as many sackful as he can. I had that reputation. However, Njoroge Mungai and Charles Njonjo were almost at each other’s throats. Mungai had both his eyes set firmly on the presidency after Jomo Kenyatta left this earth. Charles Njonjo would have probably gone to war (of sorts) to stop him. That was my problem. I had rapidly made a name and a reputation for myself as a roving correspondent and much of that involved Njoroge Mungai who was the Foreign Minister. He never asked me for a favour but I had access to the senior staff in his ministry and I travelled to many parts of Africa and Europe, US and Canada. The Organisation of African Unity in Addis Abba was big for Kenya and for Njoroge Mungai. Njonjo hated every moment of Mungai’s role in it.  I think they finally declared war in Singapore. Mungai had spent the previous two or three going from country to country in Africa begging for support to stop Britain from selling arms to South Africa. The Boers swore that they needed the arms to keep the Indian Ocean Sea lanes safe. That was a load of crap. At the Singapore CHOGM (Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting), Vice President Daniel arap Moi, who was leading the delegation agreed that he would let Mungai represent Kenya in the “heads of Commonwealth families’ discussion on the anti-arms sales campaign to South Africa). I dined with Njonjo and Moi that night and everything was pretty jovial. The next morning, I waited to accompany Mungai to the talks. He never came down from his room. Njonjo had twisted Moi’s arm and told him it would “be a disgrace if the head of the Kenya delegation did not join other heads”. Mungai did not come down from his room for a couple of days. South Africa would get the arms, there was no one in that gathering families who could have articulated the case for stopping the arms sales more than Mungai. After all, he spent a lot of time on the project.

A couple of years later, Mungai came to London and at a reception at the High Commission he came close to me and whispered: “Keep away from me, the Special Branch is following me.” He had come to London to talk to me about returning to Kenya to head the election campaign which he lost and won again because of the winner’s death.

Next, morning, when I returned to Leicester where I lived, an anonymous person sent 40 cartons of Tusker.

The best editor, besides Tom Clarke (sports) and Hilary Ng’weno, was the first African Editor-in-Chief Boaz Omori. I had been away on assignment in Europe and Canada. I was digging into how the Aga Khan was facilitating Ismailis for migration. While I was away, George Githii became the editor. When I returned, I wrote the story and handed it to the Feature Editor Trevor Grundy (today a lifelong friend). Githii ordered us to “can” the story. We tried to explain to Githii (in front of the wonderful Henry Gathigira) that Boaz Omori had asked me to do this. “Not,” Githii said. Trevor Grundy said that Githii was being unreasonable and unjournalistic. “Bugger that, we will publish it,” he said. In a couple of weeks, we were packing our bags.

Ironically, some idiot went to my wife’s office in the Department of Education and told her “to get your husband out of the country, because there was a bullet with his name on it.” She wanted to get out the next day, and we left in four weeks. Being a sort of a clever chap, on one of my visits I managed to get a new passport issued in the UK. I was recognised as a resident of Britain on subsequent visits and when migrating did not have to wait in any queues. When we eventually got to the UK, my wife was held up at the airport for almost 8 hours while we waited for the doctor to finish his game and return to the airport. It took another five minutes to clear her entry into Britain after I showed the doctor my passport.

Still, the Nation was a great life experience that happened to a kid who was forced to leave school at the age of 12.

The final point, the Asians who remained and new Asian arrivals, have done themselves and their community proud.

On Madaraka Day, 1967: Jomo Kenyatta gave a stern warning to non-Africans who "abused Africans and the government because of their wealth ... But I have got information that some Europeans and Asians in Kenya have not realised that this country is independent, and go on abusing." He attacked some Asian shopkeepers who, "because of their wealth" showed no respect to the ordinary Africans, saying that Uhuru was nothing".

He then told them that if they don't change, they should not blame the government for the measures it may take to deal with their nonsense. 

I knew a lot of people who were quaking in their boots after that.

Kenyatta also told them that "one leg should not be in Kenya and the other in India."

Today, in hindsight, for many Asians leaving Kenya was probably the best move they could have made because East African Asians are thriving without any threats to their lives. The nostalgia of their unforgettable lives in Kenya, Uganda and Tanzania keeps them warm on cold and freezing nights ... and there's central heating of course!

Racism was not restricted to whites against the rest of us. I did not actually was never the butt of white racism. If you were not a Sikh or Muslim and you tried to woo one of their girls, there was a good chance she would end up in pieces in some river or some forested no-go zone. You, on the other hand, would come within an inch of losing your life, if you were lucky.  Love and marriage with African women were rare. If you were a Goan girl you would be packed off to Goa, perhaps even to a catholic convent and if you were a boy, you would probably be doused with holy water and exorcised by a priest or bishop.

One thing most Africans know is the fact that Kenya would not be the Kenya of the 1960s if it were not for the skills of the Asians. It is not stretching it too far to say, Asians built Kenya in many, many ways. We all had our faults but we also had skills. We were the fundis of Kenya (with a little help from the wazungu).

In the final analysis, the contribution made by Asians in developing and opening up Kenya, Uganda, Tanzania and Zanzibar will remain a glorious epitaph to the time they spent in these countries. Human foibles have already been wiped out in the pages of modern history.

Even the British Parliament reckoned that Asians did not count: "Primarily Kenya is an African territory, and His Majesty's Government think it necessary definitely to record their considered opinion that the interests of the African natives must be paramount and that if, and when, those interests and the interests of the immigrant races should conflict, the former should prevail." Parliamentary papers "Indians in Kenya".

Alibhai M Jeevanjee, the pioneer Indian leader, pursued equal rights with the British and European settlers but was thwarted at every turn by the colonial government. Indian leaders that followed suffered the same fate.

"In May 1920 the Secretary of State for the Colonies, Lord Milner, rejected the Indian demand for elective representation. He came quite decisively on the side of the settlers, announcing that the highlands would not be opened to the Indians, and concluding that the racial segregation of commercial and residential areas was advisable on the grounds of social convenience. As the Secretary for the Colonies buckled under pressure from European settlers and rejected the Indian demands, prominent merchants including the Karachi-born A.M. Jeevanjee, a leading entrepreneur began to protest. He had set up a company in Mombasa that serviced British ships and he soon became a key intermediary between the Imperial British East Africa Company and Indian labour. He had been appointed to the Kenya Legislative Council in 1909 because of his contributions to the development of the protectorate. Jeevanjee became the main political voice against encroachment by European settlers upon Indian economic activity in Kenya. (Based on British Parliamentary papers).

The main reason why Asians could not live in Kenya was because their jobs were "Africanised" and there was no other option but to get out!

They were forced to sell their businesses. They were all made to feel very unwelcome in Kenya and Uganda. Tanzania was not as brutal in getting rid of the Indian community.

They all forgot that Asians made a brilliant contribution in the making of the new independent Kenya. Asians were in the front line of the fight for independence. Asians were the power in the manpower needed to run Kenya smoothly: doctors, nurses, teachers, medical specialists, dentists etc. There were Asian lawyers of the highest order, Accountants and other business specialists. Asians were the founding fathers of the earliest East African trade known. They joined the Arabs in their dhows headed for Zanzibar when not many people knew the existence of the island. They built the railway, opened up East Africa for the British.

We take our hats off to those who remained and made it all work for them!

 Readers' comments would be appreciated!

 I FEAR FOR THE MIGRANT COMMUNITIES OF BRITAIN,  CANADA,  USA AND ANYWHERE ELSE AND I PRAY THAT I AM WRONG.

You can read 933 stories by Cyprian Fernandes www.headlinesofmylife.today

KENYA THROUGH THE EYES OF A CHILD

 

OLAF REBEIRO

Kenya, through the eyes of a child

 

 

Olaf Rebeiro was the son of Dr Manual and Angela Ribeiro de Santana. The large Ribeiro family was founded by the pioneer doctor in Kenya Dr Rosendo Ribeiro and his wife Marguerite.

 

 

Most of the good land was settled by Colonialists “mzungu or (white settlers)” who grabbed and usurped all the good land which they designated the “White Highlands”.

 

The British, rulers, encouraged segregation among the Asian and other communities, including the local African tribes. Their philosophy was to “divide and rule” We termed it, the “Colour Bar”. The Goans in the group that I belonged to, adopted the “Sussagade” - or make no waves attitude to life in Kenya. The Boers (Dutch from South Africa) and Seychellois (who spoke a pidgin French patois) were a minority group in Nairobi.

 

The Europeans (mainly British) lived in what was considered the best locations while the Asians – Sikhs, Hindus, Ismailis, Muslims and Goans had their own areas. Goans were a separate group of Indians who had Portuguese ancestry and were all Roman Catholics. Although there was some intermingling between the various Asian groups, their clubs were separate. Thus, we had the Indian Gymkhana, the Sikh Club, the Patel Club and the Goan Gymkhana. Sports rivalry in Cricket, Soccer and Hockey was keen between these groups.  Schools were also separate. I went to the Dr Ribeiro Goan School founded by my grandfather.  The native Africans lived in their own villages and only came into the city to seek work.

 

The road to Mombasa – the coastal city was the starting point for the British settlers that travelled inland to places like Nairobi, Njoro, Kitale and Eldoret.  This coastal “highway” had signs that read - “Rhinos have the right of Way” or Pole Pole (drive slowly in Swahili). The road was not paved, there was a section of 10 miles called Mackinnon Rd. that was tarmacked. The alternative was to take the train to Mombasa. This train made stops at little “towns” where the natives came up to the train trying to sell their wares, or serenading us with music made from homemade instruments that produced melodious tones.

 

Since the train left at dusk, one could see large numbers of wildlife in their natural habitat heading to their favourite watering hole.  On the train, dinner was announced by the catering staff walking down the train tinkling on a xylophone…those who could not afford to eat in the dining carriage, packed sandwiches etc. On the return journey, the train made a long stop at Voi Station, since another engine had to be added to the rear to make the long climb to Nairobi (5000 ft.), On our return trip, we would be loaded with baskets of fruits, and delicacies like Halwa, (a jelly-like sweet) which the Coastal Arabs were experts at making. These halvas were packed in skillfully woven containers made from palm fronds. Another commodity was cashew nuts, and salted dried fish, like mackerel, shark and ray fish. Fruits such as custard-apple, mangoes, passion fruit and granadilla, madafus, (tender coconut), centras (tangerines). These were packed in a kikapu - (A large basket woven from the palm frond). Toddy was a favourite drink derived from the coconut stalks that produced the coconuts.  In Goa, it is used to make sannas, a kind of steamed bread. If toddy was left too long, it turned into a popular Goan vinegar. A little-known secret, Feni, one of Goa’s famous liquors was available in Mombasa, through illegal local moonshiners. In Nairobi, the natives were skilled in brewing alcohol from maize.

 

In Malindi and Mombasa, it was a common sight to see the local women (Giriama) go topless, it did not bother or faze anyone, I am sure it must have bothered some of the more strait-laced missionaries. Quite a contrast from the local Muslim women totally covered wearing the buibui or the hijab.

 

Cooking was done on a charcoal (Makara) brazier or (Jiko). It was a makeshift oven with a large container, the bottom layer was sand and the item to be baked was placed inside on the sand layer and covered with a metal cover and then hot coals were heaped on the top. It worked really well. This later progressed to the Primus stove, which used kerosene fuel. To start we had to pump it until a little kerosene collected in a cup at the base then let the pressure off, lighted the kerosene which heated the base, then closed the valve and pumped again and now the heated base vaporized the fuel coming in and we now had a star-shaped flame at the top. The danger of an explosion was always imminent. There were stories of Indian women who wore saris and thus were more prone to these fiery accidents…. The Jiko still had to be used for baking and heating the bath water in the debbes (4-gallon rectangular tin cans, originally oil containers). Many of the Africans were talented; they made the charcoal (makara) by slow-burning wood a couple of feet underground, covered with mud and a vent for a little air and another for the smoke. 

 

Africa was still known as the “Dark Continent” when my grandfather arrived in the coastal city by an Arab dhow that took approximately 40 days to sail from India to East Africa. Stepping off the ship, my grandfather was greeted by a bustle of activity as the English were preparing to build a railroad into the interior - up into the mountains where the climate was reported to be very conducive to living and the surroundings were a vast expanse of beautiful tropical forests populated with the most amazing variety of wildlife that was not yet described in any books. Coolies, wiry but tough and resilient were brought in from India to help with the construction of the railroad. My grandfather was fortunate to arrive at a time when the British were solely in need of a medical doctor. He set up his dispensary with boxes which originally contained goods arriving from Britain.

 

My grandfather, Dr Rosendo Ayres Ribeiro eventually discovered bubonic plague and devised native cures for jaundice and malaria. His services were rewarded with an OBE (Order of the British Empire) from the British Government. He was also installed as the Portuguese Consul for Kenya. It was an adventurous time. The most exciting of which was the lions that preyed on the workers building the railroad. My grandfather often recounted his experiences to us about the fear felt at that time as each night brought another savage attack by the lions. These episodes are vividly recorded in the book “Man-eaters of Tsavo” by John Henry Patterson.

 

Being fervent Catholics, most of our time revolved around the church. After Sunday services and a special lunch at home, we had to go to our grandparents’ home for dinner. Sunday dinners at my grandparent’s home were elaborate affairs and required the attendance of all family members. Having two uncles and five aunts – three of whom were in Kenya, together with all their children, Sunday dinners were indeed a banquet.  All of us young children were dispatched to the huge gazebo located some distance from the house and left to our own devices to entertain ourselves until the dinner gong sounded.

 

The best memory I have of my grandfather was seeing pictures of him riding his Zebra on his rounds and visiting his patients – a feat yet to be duplicated to date! He later sold the zebra to the Bombay zoo for 800 rupees.

                              

                   

the occasion. Servants were seen scurrying around either serving drinks or appetizers while others took turns turning the handle of the bucket in which the milk, cream and other ingredients slowly turned into the most delicious ice cream. At least for us young impressible children!

 

In our early years, we were taken care of by a maid specially brought from India. We soon got to know the housemaid better than our mother - since she spent all her time clothing, feeding and bathing us. We were always scrubbed down with gram flour since my mother believed that this would lighten our skin! Genetics be dammed!

 

Our ayah from Goa.

 

It was around 10 years of age that I first realized my father was a well-respected medical doctor in the Asian community. I remember often waking up in the middle of the night to patients banging on the front door or knocking on the bedroom window and pleading with my father to come out to help a very ill family member.  “Doctor Sahib - you must come rapidly and soonest” were the pleas of those at the door. I never remembered my father saying “No”. He always got up dressed, picked up his bag and had the chauffeur drive him to the patient’s home. It was years later that I learnt how worried my mother was until he returned home. Kenya was not the safest place to be out and about in the middle of the night.

 

He was also always in demand to raise the toast at weddings. Apparently, he had the knack of bringing humour and human insights to every bride and groom he toasted.  I never really got to know my father since he was either at work or home in time for dinner and a foot massage from one of the servants before heading off to the club to play a few rounds of bridge. All I remember was an imposing man close to six feet tall and of considerable girth that made approaching him rather intimidating. Meanwhile, our mother kept us busy reading to us, playing games like carom (an Indian board game), tabla (another Indian game), or doing jigsaw puzzles. Life was simple and carefree as far as I was concerned.

 

Before going to school each morning we would line up by the door in our khaki shorts and shirts wearing a pith helmet. My mother would then give each one of us a spoonful of cod liver oil. I never got used to its taste!

 

My most fond memory of my mother was sitting under the grand piano listening to her play Chopin.  In time, I got to know my favourites which I would beg her to play over and over again.  Soon, my older brother Graciano was given piano lessons by Father Wargosky, one of the priests at the local Catholic church. In time, I was required to attend recitals by my brother at the local conservatoire of music. The piano tuner – a refugee from Poland would come over at frequent intervals to tune the grand piano that took most of the space in the living room.

 

My own attempts at learning to play the violin were a miserable failure despite the patience of the tutor who faithfully showed up each evening after work. It was also the time when I realized that the deep trenches in our backyard were remnants of bomb shelters for us to take refuge in during World War II blackouts. We also had several of these trenches on our school grounds. We used these trenches to play Hide-And-Seek.

 

During rainstorms, we would rush out to the street where gushing water ran down the street drains and place our hastily constructed paper boats in the gushing water and then run alongside the gutters until the boats got too soggy and could no longer float. 

 

Most evenings were spent flying kites in the open field in front of our house. We built our own kites and strived to build one that would fly higher than the others.  The kites were made of thin transparent coloured paper glued with sticky rice onto a bamboo frame bent to resemble a kite. Some of the Indian boys would layer their kite strings with broken glass glued onto the strings. The joy was to get close to another kite and try to cut its strings with these broken glass-layered strings … and watch these kites fly into the distance never to be retrieved.

 

One time we were chased out of the field by the owner of the property. I tried to get through the barbed wire fence and cut my knee severely. It bled profusely for a while, scaring me immensely. However, my mother took it all in stride and held my knee under the outside fawcett until the bleeding stopped. I still have the scars on my knee from that episode.

 

During butterfly season, we had thousands of butterflies flying around. We would go out in the field with our butterfly nets trying to capture the most colourful butterflies which we would pin on a large board.

 

Another game we played almost daily was pushing a bicycle rim with a metal rod and seeing who could be the fastest down the street. One time while visiting a friend, we were pushing our rims as fast as we could when I hit a hidden gutter resulting in the metal rod piercing my lower abdomen. The family we were visiting rushed me home and my dad, being a medical doctor looked at the gaping hole, and ascertained I had not pierced any vital organs. He had a shunt inserted so that the pus that developed could be drained. It took several weeks before all the pus drained and I could walk again!  I decided to try a less risky game after this episode!

 

Infection by jiggers was a common occurrence on my toes since I was usually in sandals while playing in the yard. My mother would prick the infections and drain out the pus and then apply an antiseptic. Later, I decided to use shoes when going out to play!

 

At school, our main pastime during recess was playing marbles. Some marbles have such beautiful colours that we would compete to win these marbles. A beautifully coloured marble helped one get into a tournament, as all contestants tried to win these marbles. The marbles were put inside a circle roughly drawn in the dirt. The idea was to try and push out the marbles while standing and taking aim at the marbles. The marble pushed out of the circle was claimed by the person who pushed it out of the circle.

 

Meanwhile, my mother had a large tent put up in the backyard to plant her various tropical plants. In time she had quite a collection of exotic plants.

 

My Uncle Victor - our adopted uncle was fair-skinned and blonde – a British orphan. He would use black shoe polish on his hair to try to “blend” in with the rest of the family. We considered him fearless and always felt comforted in his presence.  One night some robbers tried to break into our house. My Uncle Victor grabbed the rifle and ran to the backyard and sat silently by the wall waiting for the robbers to show up again. One blast from his gun and all the natives hiding in the bushes took off in a hurry! We stood by the window in awe at my uncle’s courage in being out there on his own. In hindsight, it was obvious that spears were no match for a rifle!

 

Our latrines were a short walk from the main house with a bucket below. Every evening the local sanitary department would come around and take these buckets away replacing them with clean buckets.  Needless to say, the path behind our house smelled rather “strong”!

 

Medicines

 

Even though my father was a medical doctor, my mother still believed in traditional cures for our ailments. A warm bath with Eucalyptus leaves was the universal cure for colds. Datura leaves were made into a paste and applied to the jaws for mumps. Datura grows wild in Kenya and is a well-known poisonous plant. Leeches were another universal cure. Leaches were placed on the body and allowed to do their work. A bottle of leeches was always kept handy on the top shelf in the Kitchen. Leaves of a particular tree were boiled and used as a cure for jaundice. This worked very well. However, my father never divulged the name of this tree. Eau de Cologne was another universal standby for all manner of ills. Later my mother would swear by Vicks Vapo Rub for all chest and cough ailments. Another standby was Waterbury Compound. Splinters were treated with a cut onion blackened over the fire and then attached to the wound. It acted as a poultice!

 

If we “acted up, my mother would call the local “medicine man” – a withered old man. He would spread his different potions on the ground and chant. He would then take some red-hot dried chillies and go around our heads several times with them. He would then throw the chillies into the fire. If they did not burst and burn, it meant that the devil had not moved out of the body. He would then give you a good whipping as a last resort to remove the evil spirits (diste, a Konkani word) from the body. This seemed contrary to the teaching of the Catholic Church! I guess Jesus could only do so much. 

 

Our House

 

Since our little house was getting too small as we grew up, my parents built a beautiful new home that we shortly moved into. The futuristic design of this home was designed by a young Indian architect who had just graduated from an architectural college in London.

 

We moved into this beautiful modern house in 1951 surrounded by majestic Nandi flame trees (Spathodea campanulata). The servants’ quarters were located at the back boundary of the property. Behind these quarters was a stone wall 8 ft. high topped with broken glass bottles embedded in cement to discourage intruders.   The most impressive room in the house was the living room full of hand-carved furniture from India. The living room was separated from the dining room by an elaborate wooden arch of the finest veneer installed by Italian craftsmen.  A bronze replica of the Last Supper was visible on the far wall. The upper and lowers verandas that curved around the front of the house had mosaic tile floors carefully designed and installed by skilled Italian craftsmen.

 

  Our Nairobi Home

  

   

                                                                         

Much to my sorrow, this home was demolished in 1990 to make way for an apartment complex. Progress cannot be denied!

 

High School

 

It was at the age of 13 that I first had to face the reality that my family was not the carefree family I always imagined it to be.  It all began when I was summoned home by one of the servants from a friend’s house since my father who had been ill, had taken a turn for the worse. It turned out my father was suffering from heart problems. This would keep him bedridden with 24-hour care by a group of nurses and family friends. I was woken up very early on the morning of March 19, 1952, with the news that my father had passed away at age 49. Dashed were his hopes of celebrating his 50^th birthday and 25 years in medical practice.

 

Confusion, anger, despair, tears, denial, more tears...what is coronary thrombosis that everyone was whispering about?  Oh, the finality of knowing I would never speak to my dad again.   By mid-morning, I saw my dad lying in an elaborate coffin on the dining room table. More tears, and the constant stream of mourners as the word spread that their beloved doctor had died, the rosary being recited continuously throughout the day and evening, hugs, and kisses from family and strangers - life changed in an instant! The funeral was a majestic affair.  Three priests celebrated the high mass. Reportedly, over a thousand people attended clogging the road to the church. The mass had ended before some of the mourners could even get close to the church.  I now reflect on my brother Hubert’s last stanza from the elegy to my dad written some years later: 

 

“There echoed in his breath the famous blood

Of seven centuries which now echoes

In my own, his legacy. My breath stands

Between oblivion and this lopped scion

Whose blood I share with the forest trees in bloom;

But I am his son, his resurrection.”

 

My mother, widowed at 33 years of age had to take care of the four of us ranging in age from 8-16 years. My brother soon left for schooling in Dublin, and I was transferred to a new school with European teachers, a first for an all-Indian school!  It was a school for boys only. Leaving the Dr Ribeiro Goan School (named after my grandfather), a mixed boys’ and girls’ school for an Indian school was close to heresy!  As a compromise, I had to attend catechism classes at the church after school. 

 

My sister and younger brother attended St. Teresa’s school in Eastleigh, a suburb of Nairobi. It was much later that I discovered that my brother had been molested by one of the priests – a fate I narrowly escaped from at the parish priest’s residence behind the church - by jumping out of a window and running home. Abuse changed my brother forever. It is unfortunate he never lived long enough to see the church finally brought to account for its rampant abuse of children. My mother was always in denial and blamed us for spreading vicious rumours. When my mother finally realized the extent of the abuse and tried to rectify the situation, it was much too late!  I never did find out how many were molested in that far outpost of the Catholic Church. A very detailed and vivid description of the abuse by the clergy with firsthand accounts is given in Cyprian Fernandes’s book “Yesterday in Paradise” (Balboa Press).

 

I attended the Dr Ribeiro Goan School (named after my grandfather). All Goans attended this school. In high school, my mother decided to transfer me to an Asian school much to the consternation of the parish priest. High school was an invaluable experience since I got to mingle with Muslims, Hindus, and Sikhs. In time, my closest friends were a Muslim and a Sikh.  I got to respect their cultures and their customs and was often invited into their homes. My friendship with my Sikh friend Ranjit Singh Bedi has lasted to this day – over 65 years - although we went our separate ways after high school – Ranjit to Britain and me to the United States.

 

It was in High School that I realized I was a very good sprinter and could beat anyone in the school. I was sure of winning most of the events when the unexpected happened. While at my Aunt’s house, I fractured my ankle. By the time I healed, I missed all the athletic events and I was never the same again.

 

I did manage to get a place on the high school hockey and football teams. We played matches against other High School teams. We were not a very good team. However, I enjoyed playing much to the dismay of my mother who much preferred if I studied instead!

 

The British had their own schools which we greatly envied since they had swimming pools, the best of sports equipment and beautiful well-manicured school grounds. We were never allowed to trespass on these grounds for any reason. The annual multi-racial track meets were the only time we could compete against the white schools.  Why was there this segregation, I often wondered? What made us so different? Did we not eat the same food, dress the same way, and play the same games? Why the difference? My dad never spoke about it in our presence. My mother would often be angry and upset that we were shunned at civic functions despite the fact that my grandfather was the Portuguese Consul and my dad was so well-known in the community. We spoke Portuguese at home. My mother spoke several languages including Portuguese, English, French, Gujarati (an Indian dialect) and Konkani (a Goan dialect).

 

Every day coming home from school, I would go to the garden and climb the mango tree and look for a ripe mango which I would then pick and sit under the tree and eat with great delight. This was my daily after-school snack! If there were no mangoes, I would climb the guava or pomegranate tree looking for some ripe fruit. Usually, there was always some fruit I could find in the garden. It was under the mango tree that I looked at some pictures given to me by my friend. It quickly enlightened me about what sex was all about and life was never the same!

 

One day I came home from school to find a bunch of baboons had come over from the forest across the street and were ravaging our fruit trees. It was not unusual to have a baboon or two come over from the forest. However, to see so many was most unusual.  Nothing would get them to move along. In fact, they became aggressive when the servants tried to shoo them away!

 

Another time, we were invaded by swarms of locusts. The sky darkened from the sheer size of the swarm and after they left, all vegetation had been completely stripped away. The servants meanwhile built a fire and put frying pans on it. They then caught as many of the insects as they flew by and threw them into the pans - and then ate the fried locusts! I did not have the courage to try them! We occasionally had these locust swarms each year. Ah, the joys of living in Africa!

 

Although Kenya was far from the battlefront, we had to black out our windows and often heard the wailing of the warning sirens at the fire station. The Italians invaded Kenya – they took Moyale and Fort Harrington eventually liberated in 1941. Malindi was also bombed.  Kenya ended up with a lot of Italian POWs. They were detailed to build the road along the Rift valley escarpment, going North. Halfway they constructed a little Chapel overlooking the Great Rift Valley. It was a stop for many of our trips and picnics. Looking down was a terrific view of the Great Rift Valley, which stretched for over 3000 miles, starting in Lebanon and via East Africa, south to Mozambique. The “Axis” Italian POWs were from the North African front, mainly Somalia, Eretria and Ethiopia. Rommel was further, to the north. During this period, food was rationed, and families were given Ration Coupons, I do not know how this sticks in my mind, as I was very young at that time. Maybe because it was frequently discussed at home. The African Regiment that fought the Germans & Italians was the K.A.R. (King’s African Rifles). They also had South African and Rhodesian soldiers in Kenya – the KAR later served in the Burma campaign alongside the Gurkha regiments.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE CATHOLIC CHURCH

 

Since the Goan community to which I belonged, was strong Catholics, our lives revolved around the church. Mass every Sunday (dressed in our finest), church every evening during Holy Week and midnight mass on Christmas Eve. Attendance was also required on other special feast days. We were also required to attend each Friday the Stations of the Cross where we knelt before each picture of the stages of Christ’s journey up Mount Calvary depicted around the interior walls of the church. These stations of the cross were donated by my mother.

 

My mother would spend each Saturday at the church making up the beautiful flower bouquets that decorated the altar on Sundays. As an altar boy, I was required to serve at mass each morning at 6.30 am. I would leave the house at 6 am and run down the road to the church that was approximately ¾ miles away, dash into the sacristy, put on my vestments and with another altar boy, lead the Father to the altar. All prayers were in Latin and we had to respond in Latin (although most of the words were meaningless to me).

 

Although the vast congregations at the church were Goans, the priests were all from the Holy Ghost missionary in Ireland. They made sure that the Europeans got the front rows at mass. Yes, segregation was also practised in the Catholic Church! My grandfather and grandmother were given front-row seats since they had contributed large sums of money to the church and helped pay for the marble altar. Yes, money did make a difference!  Later on, my mother paid for some of the priest’s vestments and was given special privileges.

 

After mass, it was customary for us to visit some of my parents’ friends before going home to a delicious meal prepared by the cook. Often, we had some of my parent’s friends join us for Sunday lunch. I loved these meals since it was the only time we children, were allowed to drink a glass of Woodehouse cider.

 

It was much later that I learned about the abuses by the priests of young boys (see below). It was one of the reasons I left the Catholic Church – a religion I believed was based on fear of eternal damnation and based on “do as I say” and ignoring the abuses committed by the priests.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE MAU MAU REVOLUTION

My High School years were during a tumultuous period in the history of Kenya as the natives began to agitate for independence. The savagery of the attacks against the white farmers in the Highlands was sufficient to scare us all. In retaliation, the British forces performed equally savage atrocities against the native population with the encouragement of British Prime Minister Winston Churchill.

My mother tried her best to hide the newspapers that daily carried accounts of the savagery on both sides. The inhumanity and unimaginable cruelty reported daily on both sides of the conflict left me in shock and despair that this is what civilization had come to. My most vivid memory was reading how the British troop laid the African prisoners on the ground and drove their trucks over them continuously until they died, taking bets as to how long it would take them to die.

All our teachers came to school with pistols in holsters strapped to their waists. Rifles were stored in the principal’s office. We had to have constant drills on how to prepare for an attack. The reality of the situation was brought home when bodies were found buried in the vacant ground just beyond our school.  This uprising called the Mau Mau Insurrection would come to dominate all my high school years.

We had loaded guns in each room of the house in case of a surprise attack. Whenever my mother heard a noise at night, she would wake us up and we would follow her around with loaded guns in our hands. Most of the time it was just rats playing in the ceiling!

I reflect on how brilliantly my brother Hubert described this period in his poem “The Mau Mau Remembered” in his book “El Peregrino”- I quote:

Order shook apart under implacable hooves,

Orphaning blades sundered our world into halves;

And innocent blood ridden into the soil,

As if massacre could ransom the country’s soul!

Freedom could have come with paper as with panga -

Machine-gunned black and quartered white, will your pain go

The way of passing rage and be forgiven,

Or will death take the saddle and fear govern

As before? If we had pledged with England,

Would she have kept her word? It was from her we learned

All that is best and worst; the passion and the pain,

But honour most of all, no politician’s pun.

History is plastic. In fifteen years of peace

Pity and stench of war lost in a heavy purse.

The hunted who when mentioned made our senses numb

Now are modern heroes and give the streets their name.

The land is still again, no screaming cracks the night;

In the Abedares only Nandi blossoms burn.

It is to a free Kenya, children now are born,

But their races’ conscience is voiceless and betrayed,

A wilderness of words chokes like a hangman’s knot-

Never will paths of honour in our day be trod”

 

Behind our house was the Indian High school with the running track close to our backyard.  I spent evenings with a group of friends running on the track and dreaming of becoming champions.  Other times we played hockey and again dreamed of being champions. Ultimately some of our friends ended up trying out for the Olympics one did make it to the Rome Olympics in 1960 in track and another two made it to the Olympics on the Kenya hockey team.  I had to give up my dreams of glory as my mother insisted, and I had to go to Britain for my post-graduate education.