Peter Kimani. Dance of the Jakaranda
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Peter Kimani. Dance of the Jakaranda. The MIT Faculty has made this article openly available. Please share how this access benefits you. Your story matters. Citation Aiyar, Sana. "Peter Kimani. Dance of the Jakaranda." American Historical Review 125, 3 (June 2019): 342. © 2019 Oxford University Press As Published https://doi.org/10.1093/ahr/rhz283 Publisher Oxford University Press (OUP) Version Original manuscript Citable link https://hdl.handle.net/1721.1/130291 Terms of Use Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike Detailed Terms http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0/ Africanizing Kenya’s Indian History1 In July 2017, Uhuru Kenyatta approved the constitutional inclusion of Kenya’s South Asian citizens as the nation’s 44th tribe.2 This came on the eve of a tightly fought general election between Uhuru and Raila Odinga, both of whom lay a familial claim to the nation. Raila’s father, Oginga Odinga, briefly served as Vice President to Uhuru’s father, Jomo Kenyatta, Kenya’s first President, before becoming his most ardent and vocal critic. As “fathers of the nation” Odinga and Kenyatta were bitterly divided over the shape their nation would take, as the former posed a Leftist challenge to the government. Kenyatta deflected this opposition with populist politics that positioned Kenya’s Indian middle class as a colonial hangover that did not belong in the nation. In 1967 he deported large numbers of Indians and legislated Indian shopkeepers out of the country. Fifty years later, in stark contrast to his father’s disavowal, Uhuru’s presidential proclamation acknowledged “the Kenyan Asians’ contribution to Kenya” that had “roots at the dawn of our Nation”.3 Just five months before this announcement, Peter Kimani published Dance of Jakaranda in which he not only revisits this contested period of history, but positions its central character, a Punjabi Muslim migrant, Babu Salim, as the father of the Kenyan nation. Kimani is the first African novelist to use historical fiction to claim Indian diasporic history and political belonging as one that is unquestionably Kenyan. After a brief summary of the plot, this essay discusses the three historiographical concerns Kimani takes up in making this assertion: state-building and resistance, narratives and archives, and intimacy and identity. Dance of Jakaranda unfolds over four sections: House of Music, House of Silence, House of Light, and House of Darkness. The novel opens in June 1963 in the House of Music – the Jakaranda hotel in Nakuru – that was built in 1902 in by a colonial soldier-turned-administrator, Ian Edward McDonald. Rajan, Babu’s grandson, and his band play to an African and Indian audience at the recently deracialized hotel. Crooning in Swahili with his 1 I am very grateful to Kenda Mutongi and Leah Mirakhor their insightful comments on this essay, and the many conversations we have had about history, writing, and literature. 2 Many have criticized this move as opportunistic and divisive. See http://www.the-star.co.ke/news/2017/06/05/asians-dont- seek-to-be-44th-tribe_c1571938 3 Daily Nation, 22 July 2017 bandmates, including a close Kikuyu friend, Era, Rajan represents a utopian vision of the young nation that gained independence in December 1963. Rajan’s social circle includes Era, unnamed Indian and African women he sleeps with, and Gathenji, the butcher at the hotel. A lust-fueled encounter with a mysterious woman sends the besotted Rajan on a journey that leads him to Mariam. Together they discover the messy entanglement of their shared history that is rooted and routed through the East African railways that was built by McDonald. House of Silence dives into this thick history, as indentured labor, including Babu, arrived from India to build the railway line. The railway functions as a metaphor for Kenya’s colonization, as it facilitated the occupation of the territories and peoples living between Lake Victoria and the Indian Ocean, and laid the foundations of a racially divided and segregated colony. For the people over whose lands the line ran and whose hands were forced to produce crops for the colonial market, this “Iron snake” threatened to swallow them up. Kimani highlights the intimate ways in which colonization was experienced by individual men and women. These included Babu, Nyundo, a Kikuyu drummer employed by the railways, elders of local communities, and Seneiya, the daughter of a Maasai chief. Each of them was silenced by the colonial state, assisted by Christian missionary, Reverend Turnball. But they resisted and this resistance is explored in the House of Light. For example, after multiple run-ins with McDonald and Turnball, Babu, who is suspected of impregnating Seneiya, quits the railways. Having witnessed the silencing of Kenya’s people and Babu’s challenges to McDonald, Nyundo also leaves government employ. In so doing, both not only sever their relationship with the colonial state but together move to overturn it. Wandering across the lands of Rift Valley, the occupation of which he had been complicit in as a railway engineer, Babu becomes the first settler in Nakuru township, establishing a hugely successful business enterprise with Fatima, his wife. He channels his wealth to fund anticolonial resistance in Kenya, including the Kiama kia Rukungu (party of the dust) which is a direct invocation of the Land and Freedom Army, known as the Mau Mau. Nyundo joins this armed struggle. While light is shone on resistance, and the British withdraw, the nation enters the House of Darkness as Bwana Mkubwa (Big Man, a reference to Jomo Kenyatta) becomes president.4 At the same time, Kimani uses a posthumous confession in which Turnball reveals himself to be the father of Seneiya’s child to remind us of the complicated legacy of colonial destruction that did not simply disappear with decolonization. The Kiama kia Rukungu had fought for the return of their ancestral lands that the Europeans had stolen. Big Man had no intension of doing this. Instead he uses an opportunity presented by an arson attack on Jakaranda to outlaw them. Moreover, his government deployed colonial-era legalities and nationalist discourse to define belonging and citizenship racially to exclude Indians, not Europeans, from the nation. At the novel’s end, a failed attempt to deport Babu’s grandson catapults Rajan into a popular national hero, but not for long. Rajan is assassinated on the eve of general elections to prevent him from running for office before he had declared any intention of doing so. Through McDonald, Turnball and Bwana Mkubwa, Kimani examines how the cycle of power, violence, and resistance was inextricably linked with projects of state-building, both colonial and national, in Kenya. The tensions of empire are evident in every scene where McDonald misinterprets and misunderstands the actions of local elders and his railway employees, reading into their every word the seeds of “rebellion” that he counters with violence. Kimani exposes the nervous condition of state-builders that triggers violence, making state power so absolute and destructive. Despite this silencing, the force and scale of the state’s violence serves to mobilize further resistance. Kimani highlights the illegitimacy of the state by turning our gaze to this resistance. Significantly, he pulls back the veil not only from the colonial state but also Kenyatta’s to expose the fraudulence of statesmen who claim to represent the people. McDonald’s firepower, used to ruthlessly raze villages and shoot down rebels, was transferred to Big Man’s police and army to coerce Kenyans into public displays of loyalty and dispose of any challengers. Rajan’s assassination is a direct invocation of Pio Gama Pinto, a Goan 4 This is an obvious literary allusion to Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, but Kimani argues that the heart of darkness of colonialism continues into the post-colonial state. politician and Oginga Odinga’s close ally, who was gunned down in broad daylight in 1965, a murder allegedly directed by Kenyatta himself.5 Big Man’s ultimate betrayal of his people is signaled by his anointment of McDonald as the father of the nation, whitewashing the violence he unleashed on the people of Kenya. This is juxtaposed in Dance of Jakaranda, to Gathenji and Nyundo’s selection of Babu Salim as the father of the nation. In a climatic confrontation with McDonald, Nyundo reveals that Kenyans owned their freedom to Babu, pronouncing that “when the history of this country is written, a chapter will be devoted to him.”6 But Indian fathers did not fit into Kenyatta’s nationalist discourse based on racialized majoritarianism espoused by his serikali ya Mwafrika (the black man’s government). Critical of this erasure, Kimani locates the people’s archive in the realm of subaltern oral traditions. While the protagonists in the novel are European and Indian, the main narrative voices belong to the Kikuyu storytellers, Nyundo and Gathenji. Through them, Kimani “reclaims people’s histories.”7 In her influential work, Gayatri Spivak has pointed to the limits of historians’ endeavors to recover such subaltern voices. She cautions against the propensity of scholarship to raise specters of hallowed signifiers that impose, from above, a wholeness to elusive archival voices.8 The genre of historical fiction allows Kimani to address this critique. Deliberately eschewing positivist accuracy, Nyundo and Gathenji’s stories are replete with rumor, contradiction, and possibilities since, “neither the victim nor the villain is willing to tell what truly happened”.9 It is by virtue of this incompleteness, Kimani argues, that fragmentary subaltern narratives destabilize racial and gendered identity. The colonial project was premised on the racial segregation of white, black, and brown subjects in Kenya, a separation that was never complete in practice.