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A Fool's Knot

A Fool's Knot is Philip Spires second African novel set in Kenya and is published by Libros International.

 

A Fool's Knot is set in the mid 1970s Kenya and deals with different events in the life of the same cast of characters living in the mission, the first novel by Philip Spires is. The plot is based based on a crime that happened at the weekend, the author began work on Migwani high school in 1974.

A Fool's Knot is a sensitive portrait of John Mwangangi attempt to regain their cultural identity and at the same time, stimulate change. The contradictions faced in his campaign against poverty absolute of its people almost inevitably lead to conflict. Here is the first chapter of the book.

CHAPTER ONE

August 1976

England is smaller now. The sky is smaller. Natural light is softer, paler than memories of the harsh brilliance of tropical sun. People everywhere, there's no room here. There are no mountains, no clouds heavy, flat-bottomed in the sky and stretches to the horizon, as if floating on the surface of a lake land. There is no distance here. The horizon is near and the sun does not shine.

A tremor of regret, a gap born of a crash, went through the Janet's body. His eyes stared blankly as mile after mile predictable unnoticed. He was glad to be home again, but this happiness can not override the sadness I felt to leave the place where he had lived so happily for two years. Although Migwani felt a long way away, perhaps he felt more of a home than anywhere else that had the name. It had become no more than one phase in his life, transformed by the flying hours in a memory, survived and outdated. It was over and gone forever. How long will be, he thought, as the drumming of the road full of his mother's car, before you start to live looking forward rather than look at a destroyed past? How long before it is actually new?

She looked at her seat side on which rested the mess of a plot he had so carefully made up the previous morning. Protruding below the paper wrapper chains attached, which had been torn during their long wait in queues after landing in London, was an odd assortment of barbed arrowheads, polished cow horns the three legs of a stool unvarnished. Tied to one leg, and now swinging over the edge of the seat was a small pumpkin, a simple treasure, which meant more than all the other memories and the photographs with which he had returned. Of all the things she had at home, and this was the strongest reminder of daily life in Migwani, an exact replica of those used in all households for transport and storage of water. Polish it and use it as a vase of dried flowers. However, protruding above and below the trinkets and other objects was the staff rudely fashioned but beautiful Munyol staff had been present for her. Surely this is something to treasure.

His eyes were heavy. During two days of life had been hectic. It seemed that the time had passed too quickly to be noticed, as an immense half-forgotten dreams between two clear memories. One of them was the joy he felt when he learned that John had accepted his invitation to come to the farewell party of school. The other, only an hour earlier, was the joy with tears hug from his mother at the airport. She looked older, Janet thought. David Smythe, the neighbor and childhood friend, who had offered to drive her mother's car to the airport, has also changed, she had not seen much of him in the past years. Was maintained slightly overweight, silly boy, who still lived with his parents on the road. But her mother's letters had referred extensively to the help he had offered and the work he did for her. At least he was honest. He was both fatter and more fragile than before. Both seemed to speak more slowly than I remembered. Was they really? Had he really went to those thousands of miles to return home with the feeling that had never been away? She was not convinced - of anything, but there are truths which could not be ignored, truths locked in the trivialities of life, the fine detail of which to remember, even dreams do really feel. She had caught at the airport where his mother had greeted his arrival with those long, warm hugs. He had been a big surprise when the employee the car park spoke in Swahili. Janet had insisted on payment of royalties English coins had remained faithful for two years in a small box on the table night. By mistake had been included a Kenyan shilling with them and live in, an Asian, returned it saying, "Habari ya Kenya?" with a broad smile on his face. "Well," Janet had responded, taking the coin. The event itself was smooth enough, but the real awakening Janet was how strange it sounded Swahili. It was "strange" is not what I expected to hear. And how difficult it was for her to respond in kind. It had asked to speak but he was not just 'fine' would come. And a black face seemed a point of interest, a show that was unexpected account and noted as different. Its roots were already showing through suburban.

There were things she would have to relearn. She was sure that. How long will it take? He asked, thinking back to the stewardess on the plane. A girl the same age, but in Scotland and blonde, was placed on his duties immediately took the aircraft out of Nairobi with a direct trust and clarity of purpose unknown to Migwani lazy, timeless way. Janet had lucky to get a seat by a hatch, which had no seats in front and therefore no problem in fixing the bulky package. Carry plenty trays to clip aircraft seats, the hostess had approached Janet seat hall. She spoke with courtesy predictable after command of another language, seemed exaggerated. "Would you like a tray, madam?" The hostess had said. Janet, lost in thought for a moment, he candidly replied: "No, thanks", causing the conscious expression of the nice girl to harden a bit with the words: "But you'll have something to eat. "With the security tray fastens to the seat of the hostess Janet moved to the man sitting beside him. Of course, Janet thought, not was intended to be a question. If the girl said simply: "Take your tray," moved and Janet would have understood, but another person, more used to conduct "Normal" might have been offended.

But still the cry was his confusion. As the car traveled south, the city and country went outside, but within a single table set behind Janet's eyes and, try as I could, could think otherwise. In this painting, collage many scenes, two leafless trees stood out against a cloudless blue sky. Under a tree sat a group of women dressed in brightly colored clothing, many of them wearing cardigans, though the sun was high and the day was hot. Lay before them in bags provided to cover the hard red earth, there was plenty clean fruit, mangoes, oranges and limes, guavas, and green tomatoes. In the other tree sat a man, a shoemaker, surrounded by the sandals he had done that day of the tread rubber from old tires. Nearby, in his usual imperturbable, crazy town, Munyasya, slept with her legs spider almost merging with the tree roots. The sun was hot, but in an instant the image was sour, gray and cold. Cobbler's tools on the floor with him and his face was buried deep in their hands. Women, generally noisy, talking or singing, they were silent and some were crying.

How long, thought Janet, before I forget?

***

Father Michael squeezed foot hard on the accelerator. The sun was low in the sky. I had an appointment with the Head of Migwani that night and still had over a hundred miles away. As usual, had fallen asleep. He always stayed in Nairobi. The beds in the Mission Center were too easy to resist. After weeks of discomfort caused by the wonder spring that he called his "hole in Migwani undone, the soft mattress and clean sheets at the Centre were irresistible. To this is added the possibility that, for him, waking up usually means waking up with hangover, and the picture grows clearer. Nairobi was a place he both loved and hated. The hot and cold running water, comfort Centre, cinemas, visiting friends and the occasional drink, even liked. On the other hand was running errands, things to be bought, the messages to be given and always very little time in which to do everything. He would never finish all jobs in the city, but also never sacrifice a game or a long dream to make longer. At the end of the second day was always happy to be leaving everything behind. Worst of all travel to the city, however, was this, the ride home. The road was one hundred miles of dust. When driving into the city, you could wait for the last few miles on smooth road, with its promise of a hot shower at the end Center everything. But when he goes home there was only the prospect of a bucket of cold water and the creaking of the pit under undone.

Michael had something a reputation. He was aware of this and often played to his gallery, sometimes consciously. His fellow priests and parishioners alike saw him as something of a eccentric. It was perhaps too strong a character, too willing to accept a life of contradictions. Dedicated certainly was, but also ephemeral. Wherever he worked, their positive influence could be traced right through the community it serves. In Migwani, where he had been pastor for more than five years he had helped establish a school, three elementary schools, adult literacy plans and last but certainly not least, a team City soccer star named Black, whose ranks white face Michael always imagined. Above all it was a man of the people, a man positively loved by many. Not only was he a priest and a fluent speaker of Kikamba, the local language, but also a man who could speak and understand the problems affecting people's lives common. Some people, however, looked at him with disgust. Openly criticize him for drinking in bars, going to dances at Club Unity and, above all, to make " package "with raised bars on the same dances. He drank too much, smoke too much, swore too much and probably worked too. But his achievements were impossible to ignore and all agreed with that.

He was equally proud of his fame and shame. A story he loved to tell which summed up his attitude was that Janet had told the night before, just before taking her to the airport. One day, he said, went to Kitui to play football. Since, as usual, arrived late, he was in a hurry and driving too fast to remember that he was approaching a part of stone from the road. The car crashed against the rocks to a speed and tire simply disintegrated, with the result that the car slid to a halt amid clouds of dust and sand. The cat, of course, was in home in the mission. He could not remember why she got the car. Some ten minutes later, while I was unsuccessfully trying to lift one side of the car push a large stone from the point of taking his foot, a group of men came walking down the road and beckoned to them for help. Men, however, simply stood up and looked in disbelief at this mzungu, European, dressed in football kit and bush hat, which was trying to lift a car. Frustrated, Michael had then shouted in his broad tones of Limerick, "You silly buggers, you can come and help me change this round of shit?" "Ah, Father Michael, "said one of the men." We did not realize it was you. "

The night before this particular story has helped to clarify things, but only slightly. Janet had planned to take in Nairobi for a final night in town before she flew back to England. In Nairobi they could do as they please without worrying if the Bishop of Kitui or people might start to gossip. Michael had everything planned. They arrived in the afternoon, leaving time for a wash and a rest before the Chinese food in Government Road, followed by an hour or so on the grid in Switzerland, where they would have a dance or two. Janet flight was not due out until the 0:30, so it could easily handle both places before your arrival time.

What would be a great night, in fact, deteriorated in just a sad farewell for a beer at the airport lounge, where the fluorescent lights flickering on unless defective starters, did see all emaciated and sick. The best laid plans can get lost, so it probably would be no surprise that Father Miguel faint idea turned out to be a non-starter. But this time failure was not his. Still would have liked his night out, but the events of that morning had overtaken them. Janet, upset and near tears in everywhere, had laughed a little in its history, but it was a unique moment to be weighed against the rest of the day when the sadness, tragedy and invaded disappointment to everyone.

The car shook and banged along the unpaved road as Migwani backbone of the spectacular mountains appeared through the twilight. The long journey was almost over. A hundred miles away might not be at all, but on these roads that allowed four drilling hours and often longer. He had been lucky today, unlike one occasion, when he had fixed no less than thirteen punctures tires with tubes and taken more than eight hours to make the trip. Yet their repertoire of songs he always sang while he was driving was almost exhausted. Some minutes later, the darkness began to fall with the headlights and height in the dark, the car accelerated over the last hill and the only light in the evening appeared to Migwani view. Michael sang a chorus of celebration of the "We are here because we're here ', but at the end of this particular trip the words were not stained only with resignation, but also with the challenge and concern. Like a moth to light, the car left the road and track career by leading to In light of the mission house, his home. Mutua, the cook, who had been awaiting the return of Father Miguel, looked out the kitchen window and waved the car reached the back door.

When Michael came into the house, he was greeted not only to each other, but by two others, not from both foreign everything. As Mutua lamp pressure pumps that provide the only light in the room, went to Michael in Kikamba. "These guys have been waiting for," said.

Michael hoped to see the Head of Migwani location and it was he who first gave him the hand of Michael. Then in English, said: "Let me Bwana introduce Joseph Kamau, who is the Chief of Police in the town of Kitui. "

The second man approached and offered a handshake hands. "I am pleased to meet you, Father Michael. Thanks for volunteering to return to Nairobi tonight. It is best to discuss these pressing issues of today. "

Father Michael sat down at the two men. In the years since his ordination as a missionary priest, who had experienced hunger, illness and war. He had lurked death and had lived with him. But during those years, he could not remember any sad tragedy like this.

About the Author

Philip Spires
Author of Mission, an African novel set in Kenya

http://www.philipspires.co.uk

Michael, a missionary priest, has just killed Munyasya. It was an accident, but Mulonzya, a politician, exploits the tragedy for his own ends. Boniface, a church worker, has just lost his child. He did not make it to the hospital in time, possibly because Michael went to the Mission to retrieve a letter from Janet, a teacher, and the priest’s neighbour. It is Munyasya who has the last laugh, however.