Free The Gunny Sack by M.G. Vassanji Page A

eyed him and waited for the German to continue.
    “In return,” said Bwana Wasi, “I would like to have some supplies from you.”
    And so, in one hour of bush diplomacy, one of the last slaves in the country changed hands, and the wishes of the Government were made known to an alien minority. As one of his last gestures of kindness to the Indians of Matamu, Bwana Wasi brought several sacks of paper money which he used to buy stock and even offered to exchange for coins. “Paper, Bwana Gulam, is lighter, and German money does not rot.”
    They thanked Bwana Wasi profusely. They waved his wife-teacher goodbye, and the day following saw the man himself off accompanied by his retainers. Then they proceeded to do as he had instructed, and diverged to separate towns inland so as not to overcrowd any particular village.
    The community in Matamu, fifty years old and more, vanished overnight. The traces they left behind were the boarded-up stores, with some possessions in them, the empty mosque where Ragavji Devraj and Dhanji Govindji had once presided, the cemetery where they buried their dead, the platform behind the mosque where they assembled for festivities. Retainers had been kept to watch over the homes; but there was a sense of finality in this parting, as there was in the events around them. The men had their wives and children with them, they had their money, one-rupee notes stuffed in gunnies, and their wives’ jewellery tied around their waists; and they took whatever else they could carry. If they did not return they could start again, elsewhere. Along caravan left in the morning and headed inland through the grassy bush trails, every member loaded with two packages. There were no animals, a few porters, and two guides. At every junction where two trails crossed, two families would leave the caravanand take the cross-trail to the nearest village. They used a simple device to select the two families whose turn had come. A woman would sing a line from a song; the next one would sing one from another song, beginning with the last word sung. And so the game was played as the singing caravan proceeded deeper inland, until at a junction one of the guides called a halt, selecting the woman with a song on her lips, and her predecessor. The two families would then start their farewells to the rest of the caravan.
    The one whose name is called last wins. Ji Bai had always been good at the game, and she often won. The trick, she would say, was to take the cue quickly, without a moment’s hesitation, and to pick a short line to sing—no matter how silly it sounded. This time it was important she should win, and perhaps they let her win because the mukhi’s wife should be the last, the mukhi should see everyone else settled before settling himself. Forty-five miles from Matamu and three days later, the sole remaining family of the caravan trudged into Rukanga behind Gulam. And found that they had walked into a crossfire.
    Rukanga was more a market than a place for habitation. It was an artificial village, put there by Swahili, Arab and Indian foreigners from the coast for the mere purpose of trading. There were no streets; ten shops sat at the perimeter of a large clearing, which was the central square where people from the countryside came to sit with their wares; until recently Sheth Samji’s porters would come bearing ready-made and imported goods from the capital, and take away local produce. But not any more. A path led from the village to the top of a hill, where stood a German boma. Behind the hill a small German force had set up to defend itself against a British attack from the northeast. The day Sheth Samji’s porters did not arrive from the east, and no further word was forthcoming, the people of Rukanga braced themselves for theimpending battle. This was when Gulam walked in, followed by Ji Bai carrying Mongi in the heat of fever, and Fatima and the boys, Nasser and Abdulla and the other children, and Mtumwa. And