(2 of 5)
Brandy & Bitterness
They drank a good,deal, and there was a raw bitterness in their talk. "Some bastards still think Kukes are human," said a red-faced young man, hitching up his gun belt and gulping brandy. "They aren't."
"I still trust my Kukes," said a quiet, older man. He spoke a little defiantly. "They're not all Mau Mau."
"Trusting bastards like you are the ones who get it," said the young man angrily. " 'I like Kukes,' said the Meiklejohns. So he's dead and his wife has only half a face. Bowyer liked Kukes; they ripped him up in his bath, and we had hell's own job to stop his bowels going down the drain. Bingley and Ferguson trusted Kukes; they're both dead. Gibson said his Kuke servants would warn him if he was in danger; who let Gibson's murderers in?
"Let me tell you," said the red-faced man, downing his fourth brandy, "how the Rucks were murdered. The Mau Mau were on the farm for three days, hiding in the huts of the Rucks' 'trusted, loyal' Kukes. Nobody told the Rucks. When Roger Ruck spoke to one of his Kukes, the Kuke grinned, and said, 'Yes, bwana.' He didn't say, 'Bwana, it's all decided, we're going to kill you tonight.' When Mrs. Ruck was handing out medicine to sick Kukes, they didn't say, 'Look out, they're sharpening the pangas in the huts'; they just thanked her for the medicine. When the Rucks' six-year-old son walked among the huts, they didn't say, 'Little bwana, tonight, when you are sleeping, after we have killed your father and mother, we will break down the door of your room, while you scream and scream, and then cut your throat.' "
The red-faced young man spat. "So you trust your Kukes, after that, do you?" he bawled. The other man coughed nervously, and looked abashed.
They were very bitter, up there in Thomson's Falls—and at Naro Moru, and Ol Kalou, and at Nyeri, and on the Kinangop, and in all that Mau Mau-infested country —about the politicians in Nairobi. "They sit," said a farmer vehemently, "on their fat behinds, in their nice offices, and make up soothing speeches. What we need is more men—far more men—and more action."
He spread out big hands. "Look, this way, how long will it go on? It could be years. But how long can we go on? Night after night, you lock the doors, and see to the guns, and kiss your wife and kids goodnight, and wonder if you'll see one another alive in the morning. We have no protection, except ourselves. And don't forget, most of us are out on commando duty. Some of us can't farm any more. So you go out a week or two weeks into the mountains, and you leave the farm to be run by your wife, or by a neighbor, in what time he can spare from his own farming, or to your aged parents. My father and mother are running my farm for me. Each time I go back, I can see they've got a little nearer the edge. They're going round the bend, under the strain of listening to every night noise, watching every black face. I bought them a radio." The farmer laughed derisively. "They don't dare to switch it on any longer! It might drown the other sort of noises they're always listening for!