The Cape Cod Bicycle War. Billy Kahora

they were the first to tell that the river was coming into their shambas.

      Now the air stilled and the rain poured all day in a slow, steady drizzle, picking up at night in a furious torrent. And it came up the banks, further and further, till even those who were cursed by distance from the Tsana’s providence beheld a sight unseen in all their lives. Something they only knew in the tales of their grandparents from the War of ’67 – there was water on their doorsteps. And so the village paused in its drinking and dancing and watched the Tsana. When the water reached their feet they still laughed, stopped what they were doing and danced away nervously till it followed them. Then, they saw the crocodile snouts, their gaping jaws beyond the old banks and they fled and rushed into their homes to pack their belongings and drive their goats and cattle to the swamp, to high land beyond the river. And so, the Tsana, as if pleased, lazily at first, crawled into Ozi land through furrows and channels. It then overflowed the channels and overcame more land. It now licked the furthest houses from its banks and even there, it woke the people up in their beds the next morning. These people who had been cursed to live at a distance from the river but had rejoiced at their temporary fortune only a few days ago also started moving like others but, because there were already numbers at the edges of the forest, they were forced to crawl beneath poisonous vines and enter the undergrowth; and there their children and babies trembled when the elephants trumpeted and the buffaloes bellowed not too far away.

      As always, since the Malachini settled in Ozi the water stopped rising when it reached the ancient hut, where the Gasa sat inside. The hut was protected by old knowledge of the river and its ways, built in between its natural channels and history’s study of the land’s contours.

      Komora Kijana was seated outside the hut of Gasa waiting for his grandfather when the old man called him. He went to the doorway and stood there because no one but the elders was allowed to enter. His grandfather appeared and came out into the daylight and handed him the Book. ‘Bring your stool here.’ And this is what he wrote as his grandfather addressed the Gasa:

       My First Journey

      When I was born the river was not where we, the Malachini – or us the people of Ozi, live. The River was at Shisrikisho when I was born. It was the British who brought it here. I am sure that the river will be elsewhere when you die and your grandchildren grow up.

      I have travelled up the river. And it is these things I want to tell you. The British brought the sea to us – the river never came this way. Ungwana Bay is where the river went to that time long ago. When I was a boy we would watch the big pelican boat of the white man pass by our village – it made a loud noise that we had never heard before. Louder than thunder or any waterfall. I remember the British made my father and my uncles and all the men of the village dig the channel that became the river today. If the river had been left where Mola had placed it, the sea would not be attacking our land. Even now the days are too hot. Or too cold.

      We, the Pokomo, come from Comoros. Because Comoros is small, our forefathers had to leave and over many days and nights came in small boats to Shungwani. I hear people calling it Shingwaya. It is Shungwani. Like I said, it is because people get the message wrong that things are the way they are in the world today.

      All this place that we call home was forest and animals and all the peoples of the Coast were one. We were all Wakomora. Wakomora of the grass houses. The Galla made us start building mud houses. They were always fighting and we agreed to do what they wanted so that we could keep our land. Here at least, it was warm. Others were chased to where the Gikuyu have their God on top of a mountain. The age groups that we still have in our heads are part of the legacy of our forefathers: Gigiwa, my grandfather; Loda, my father; Japanisi, which is me; and the Gasa; Sinbad, the younger members of Gasa; Shombe, our sons; Moto, their younger brothers; Nyuki, the sons of my son and the ones who now think they are strong and call themselves ‘Generation Man U’. Wembe, the sons of my son’s younger brothers.

      But first the Wakamora forefathers spread in Shungwani – some of you call it Shungwaya. Then they spread to Siu where that real Faisal was said to be, Pate, Kizunguti, Majimwale, Makoe. Then, they started travelling up this river we now call Tsana on their Kinga. The river was called Gamba then. They passed Lango la Simba where there were hundreds of lions but had to stop to rest.

      One woman fell pregnant and when she stopped to give birth that is where the Pokomo settled. It is in the place that is now called Panda Nguo. Here the people started separating. Their tongue got twisted and because of the state of being pregnant (mbakomo) we became the Pokomo. Then they started spreading into Ndera, Gwano, Gwale, Kinakomba, Ndura, Zubaki, Malalulu and Malakote.

      We had also separated from the Digo whose common food was mihogo; the Rabai who stopped because they liked raha hii (easy living); the waDavidi, also called the Taita because they looked white. And that is how we came to be here and live next to the river.

      Our government was the Kijo. And every so often we made sacrifices on the river after planting and harvesting. We danced the kitoko and mwarabe. And we spread from Kibokoni to Garsen where the Ormah and their enemies the Somali live. The Ormah ran away from Ethiopia and on the way they started fighting the Somali who had always lived on the other side of the river. The Ormah came to us and asked for help and we hid them in huge baskets from the Somali. Ever since we have been enemies with the wakabira.

      There is nothing wrong between us and the Malajuu. I have been travelling to them for years. There is also nothing wrong with us and Kenya. What is wrong is always the message. There are too many people talking. About us and them. About us and the Orma. About us and the Wakabira. About us as different peoples. Wandera, Wagwaro, Wasumbaki, Milalulu, Kwakomba, Mwinamwina. This river was our shield. Our Ngao.

      His grandfather finished talking and Komora Kijana could hear the old men of the Gasa inside sneezing snuff from their noses. He heard them talk about how the Mbakomo lived in the balance of Tsana and Indian Ocean. How many of the people of the Tsana would die from this ancient battle now renewed but it was a death that was better than most. It was better than the desperation that was brought on by failure of the crops. The Gasa gave thanks to the strength of the Indian Ocean for nine years that allowed their sons to go upriver to fish. They talked of the risks of death by hippo or crocodile in the small boats on these fishing trips. They talked of death by the strong curses of other villages when Ozi was forced to steal from their shambas – clans up the river where the sea never reached and where crops thrived. This was better than death by buffalo, when Ozi was forced to go deep into the forest to look for food.

      Over a low fire the Elders of Gasa murmured and gestured over all these things and commiserated with the people of the Sea, the Mswahilis whose lives would be taken away till the sea came back. They prayed that the other clans, their other people, the Malajuu, had not already been swept aside from the outpouring of the river from the Mountain and the opening of the Seven Stone Men.

      Komora Kijana sat outside the hut of Gasa and wondered whether Mariam was okay.

      All the young men who had climbed into boats and danced their way to Mlangoni to cheer the Tsana had now wisely left the river. Not far from the hut of Gasa there was a half-built stone hall with a flat roof – this was the youth social hall that was yet to be completed. The money from the Constituency Development Fund had dried up before the windows and the floor could be put in. But the Tsana was yet to climb onto the roof and so, happy and distracted, the young men stood on this vantage point and cheered the river against Indian Ocean.

      The young men had been drinking maize beer since the War started. Most of the Nyuki and Moto generation were too young to remember the ’97 El Niño War so they celebrated the majesty of the river shouting: ‘Man U, Man U.’ There was no electricity since the rains had started and they could not watch their Premier League DVDs so they sang the song of their favourite team.

      Semikaro the councillor was among them and he put his hands up and they all fell quiet. Now he told that the water came from the upriver dams, the Seven Stone Men built by a government that did not care for them. The young men listened and became animated again, drunkenly shouting that they would go upriver and destroy the dams.

      Semikaro