Adeus Salazar. Namaste Nehru
Like the wind that sweeps over the African plains and builds up into a powerful dust storm, throwing everything into turmoil, I can feel Macmillan’s winds of change engulfing the country and me. With the stroke of a pen, the colonial government lifts the strict segregation laws. It feels like a window has blown open in a strong gust and has let fresh air into a dank and musty storeroom. The impact seems instantaneous. The Norfolk Hotel bar and other bars, restaurants, hotels, nightclubs and cinemas are suddenly overflowing with people of all races, albeit those patrons who have money to spend. These include almost all Europeans, a large number of self-employed Asians, and a number of Africans who are in well-paid, high visibility positions for foreign firms. For the rest, salaries and wages are still race-based and inadequate, or non-existent. At the same time, as Africans start to venture into non-African establishments, their music starts to first infiltrate the Goan clubs through Goan bands who have quickly picked up the rhythm of catchy Afro-rhythms of Kenyan, Congolese and Senegalese music; these bands transform themselves into Afro-music vectors in hitherto ‘Europeans only’ dance establishments in the city. Our own college band has renovated itself as some members have graduated and left; while new talent has arrived, including Donald Dias, a brilliant pianist from Daresalaam. The music covers the range from swing, jazz and the new afro-beat.
In October 1952, the colonial Governor General had described Jomo Kenyatta as ‘an evil man who would lead the country to death, disaster and darkness’. In April 1960 a petition with over a million signatures was submitted to the Governor General seeking Kenyatta’s release, and even while that matter was receiving consideration, Kenyatta was elected President, in absentia, of the Kenya African National Union on May 14, 1960. Political ploys and vicissitudes are moving at a break-neck speed. On all fronts the momentum of change spins almost out of control and many people are becoming nervous at the pace of developments. The months fly by. The balloons floating down at midnight on December 31 at the Goan Gymkhana confirm it is already 1961.
By May we are all glued to the TV watching events unfolding in America where the bloody confrontations between the Freedom Riders and the Ku Klux Klan in Alabama are being transmitted live. The black versus white conflicts are now being brought right into our living rooms, and into the streets of Nairobi in TV store windows. Europeans and wealthy Asians watch at home behind locked doors and drawn curtains. Africans and some Asians crowd around storefronts to watch images of the racial violence engulfing the most powerful nation on earth. Can it happen here in Kenya, we all wonder?
I spend the long vacation of 1961 in the office of Graham McCullough, one of Kenya’s leading architects. Graham is a charming man in his mid-fifties. Of medium build, with steely blue eyes and a large receding forehead trimmed around the back and sides with a flock of silver-grey hair, he cuts an impressive, professorial figure. Graham has been a regular ‘design resource’ at the Architecture Faculty and a lecturer on professional ethics and legal aspects of practice. He insists architects should know all aspects of office operations as part of their basic training.
“Lando remember,” he smiles, “To teach a dog tricks, you’ve got to know more than the dog.” He knows I didn’t expect to be making copies after four years of college, but I take it cheerfully in my stride. It is a nice office to work in.
“It’s okay, I’m the dog,” I grin back, as I continue turning the handle of a ‘Gestetner’ duplicating machine. It is slow and messy. The text is first typed on waxed stencils, which are then cranked over a well-inked roller; finally the copies are manually collated. I daydream that Kenya’s independence will bring Xerox to Kenya. In a recent architectural magazine, I read what an incredible breakthrough Xerox has been: it has transformed office technology in the USA since 1959. I wonder if I will one day get a chance to visit America.
“Shush, chaps!” An architect calls out in an attempt to hush the Punjabi chatter among the mainly Indian draftsmen. “The Governor General is about to speak.”
“Why today 21st August?” I ask. We crowd around a transistor radio. The Governor-General, referring to the same man who only nine years earlier in 1952 was described as a ‘leader into darkness’, proclaims Jomo Kenyatta as ‘a very good man – a forgiving, honourable and wise man – a great natural leader who will take the country forward in peace and prosperity’. Kenyatta, now 71, had been released from prison the previous month and placed under house arrest. The GG confirms that all restrictions are removed and that Kenyatta is at that moment travelling in a ceremonial cavalcade to his home in Gatundu, outside Nairobi. He returns as a national hero. I welcome the news, as we all knew that Kenyatta’s trial had been rigged. The rejoicing over Kenyatta’s release is widespread, and so is the anxiety about the future.
On my way home, I drop in at the Gymkhana bar to meet Savio. Everyone has a view on the day’s big news. “It’s how Britain creates leaders, first it imprisons them,” Costa, a bar regular, says. “Gandhi, Kenyatta, so what. They have lost the battle with the Mau Mau.”
“Didn’t they also have a state of emergency in Malaya?” Dias, another regular, asks. “I remember hearing something about a Chinese rebellion like the Mau Mau. My sister-in-law’s family moved there after India’s independence. They couldn’t stand the way things were going on in Bombay. Good jobs depended on whom you knew.”
“If you ask me, I think Britain is handling this carefully,” Audit D’Souza says. “They must have promised something to Kenyatta,” he rubs his thumb and index finger to indicate cash, “to be nice to the Mzungus after independence. It is we buggers that will be shafted.” An older member of the club walks away in disgust at the language used by the speaker.
The topic changes to the ongoing racial conflicts in the USA. I realise we have all lost count of the combatants; the Freedom Riders in Alabama, the Civil Rights Movement, Black Power, Latino Labour, American Indians and others. It seems the armed retaliation and violence of the authorities has shocked everyone in Nairobi, and has become the topic of everyday conversation, just as the Mau Mau was in its early days. Perhaps it is because of the impending political changes ahead.
As I arrive home Dad and Mum are watching the TV news. I greet them.
“Any news from Linda?” I ask.
“No. Maybe we should trade in this TV set,” Dad says. “There is only bad news.”
“Everyone at the club is discussing the violence by whites on blacks in America,”
“At least they are not beating up on Catholics and Jews anymore,” Dad says. “I think watching TV will simply frighten folks here. Not everyone will know why the blacks in America have to respond so violently to the way they are mistreated.”
Meanwhile, African leaders agree to take part in the Constitutional Conference that has been convened by the Colonial Secretary in London to work out the details and timetable for Kenya’s Independence. The rumours of possible inter-racial violence grow. But a number of smaller tribes are frightened too. They are worried about the two biggest tribes, the Kikuyu and Luo, becoming too dominant in an independent Kenya; so, these smaller tribes form a new political party to negotiate their interests. Tom Mboya, a Luo, and a charismatic, well-educated ex-trade-union leader, takes a lead in calming all parties. He had addressed the students in the Taifa Hall at the College on his return from the USA and could not leave because of the long, standing ovation. He is intelligent and eloquent, a man of the new world, skilled at bringing people together for a common cause. Soon rumours circulate. The Kikuyu and Luo have made a secret deal. Tom Mboya will be the natural successor to Jomo Kenyatta. The prospect of tribalism and racial conflict begins to fade. Times are changing even faster than Joe at the Goan Gymkhana bar had predicted.
It is the week before Christmas – Monday, December 18, 1961 to be exact. My team and I must complete the hall decorations by Friday, but the well-used and much abused family Peugeot 203 is spluttering. It has survived two previous owners, and during our brief ownership has had multiple organ transplants at the hands of Mechanic Lobo of Chambers Road, Ngara. Despite all the tender loving care, it barely reaches the club gate. Then, like a drunk who makes it to his room and then flops onto his bed, the car coughs and lurches forward across the last few yards, onto the compacted murram patch we call the car park and the engine dies.
Merde! I race up the terrazzo steps.
The main hall is dimly lit to conserve electricity, but lights at the far end confirm the card players are alive and well. I head for the source of the loud voices instead.
In our youth, the Gymkhana bar functioned as our ‘newsroom’. Savio and I had eavesdropped our way to adulthood selectively picking juicy morsels of rumour and gossip that we would chew on until they eventually translated into a real story. Now that we have reached drinking age, we sit on those same bar stools and exchange real news. My helpers are all there: Savio, Gerson and Ferdie, among others. “One Tusker (beer) for Lando,” Savio says to Ben behind the bar, “and one for this man.” He gestures as Edwin walks in behind me, clutching a sheaf of papers. Edwin works for one of the daily newspapers.
“Hey chaps! Hot off the press!” Edwin says, “Look at what’s happening in Goa. Just fresh off our teleprinter.”
“What?” Savio asks.
“The Indians have invaded.” We crowd around the printouts. Gerson, recently graduated as a schoolteacher, reads the startling headlines aloud: ‘Finally Freedom for the Oppressed’; ‘Indian War Mongers Invade Goan Peace Lovers’; ‘Vassalo Vacillates – Governor hesitates in offering Total Surrender’.
The dispatches, datelined Bombay, India, 18 December 1961, tell the story:
‘India has launched an armed attack on the Portuguese enclaves in India.’
‘Goa will be liberated,’ says a Government spokesman. ‘The army, navy and air force are combining operations. Tanks, war- ships, bombers and ground troops are involved. It is expected to be a quick operation. It has taken the Portuguese by surprise. Their troops are hopelessly outnumbered and their defence is almost non-existent. Portugal has indicated its agreement to negotiations. India ignores their response’.
‘Goa airport’s single runway in Dabolim has been bombed out of action. Goan radio station in Bambolim is silenced.’
Mr. JFX (initials used on his scorecard) in his late fifties, puts down the two whiskeys he has just paid for. I see him stiffen and quickly turn pale. I fear he may be having a heart attack.
“Please, please let me see those,” he says. “Back soon.” JFX strides out of the bar clutching the news reports. Minutes later all sixteen card players that make up the four tables try to squeeze into the bar. I realise my father’s generation is most affected by the news. Edwin suggests we move into the main hall. I can see the shock and nervousness on most faces. Savio and I exchange glances; our whole team goes out into the hall and quietly observes, as JFX motions us to pull our chairs around. He emerges as the self-elected chairman.
“This is a very serious situation,” JFX says. “Before we decide what to do, we must assemble our views. I want you each to speak frankly. Say exactly what you think.”
“Who asked Nehru to liberate Goa?” someone shouts.
“Yeah, who did?” There is loud applause. The spontaneity is electrifying.
“Politicians don’t do anything for people,” a man says. “Nehru must have an ulterior motive.”
“What’ll happen to our culture?” L. D’Cruz asks. I know him well as Dad’s friend. He was one of the original members of the Goan Overseas Association with Dr. A.C.L De Souza, and a Founder Member of the breakaway Goan Gymkhana in 1936, and a member of the Goan Academic Circle. He is a good friend of J.M. Nazareth. “And what of our Catholic religion, our music, literature? Our special way of life is still the...” He is interrupted by Costa, a bar regular.
“Please do not interrupt. Everyone must be heard,” JFX appeals for order.
“There have been Goans outside Goa, fighting for freedom ever since India’s Independence,” Costa says. “You remember Pio? Anton Gama Pinto’s boy? He already told us it would happen. He said one day the Goans would run their own country. He said freedom fighters in Bombay have been organising for this day.”
“Even if I agree with freedom,” Audit Pereira joins in, “this is not the way to do it. Not by violence. Goa is a peaceful country. What happened to Gandhi’s thinking and preaching?”
“We came to Africa for jobs, remember?” It’s Dad voice. “Perhaps now we can return and develop Goa peacefully?” Many people shouting interrupt him.
My friends and I can just listen in awe as our parents’ generation erupt with a passion we have never witnessed before. They are bitterly divided for and against the invasion. The emotion is palpable.
“Nehru has been trying to negotiate peacefully since Independence,” Costa shouts, “but Salazar will only listen with a torpedo stuck up his backside.”
“Negotiate with military force?” Dad asks. “What sort of negotiation is that?”
“No Chico! Nehru offered to make it a peaceful transfer – even to guarantee that Goa’s culture will be maintained intact,” Rego, another supporter joins the discussion.
“But we Goans are different,” D’Cruz says. “We have embraced our Catholicism and blended Portuguese culture within our bones. Our cultural masala flows in our veins after nearly four and a half centuries. We have our music, our literature, our special cooking.
We never were purely... we are not Indian.”
“Rubbish!” Rebelo, the bearded man shouts. “Before the Portuguese came and converted our ancestors by force, they were all pukka Hindus, so that makes you Indian too!”
“Maybe some were even Muslims,” Audit Pereira says. “Can’t you see how dangerous this type of talk is? Look around. Even after 14 years of independence Hindus and Muslims are still killing each other on the sub-continent.”
“But how can we live as part of India?” Gomes speaks up for the first time. “Are we ready to give up drinking? All over India there’s prohibition. In Bombay, Poona, Calcutta... everywhere people are distilling homemade liquor chini-chini, illegally. If you’re caught, you are thrown in jail, until you agree to bribe the policeman, and even his boss for the rest of your life!”
“Maybe that’s what their motives are, their so-called liberating Goa,” The grey-haired man who opened the discussion speaks up. “The politicians want to be liberated to take charge of the smuggling trade from Goa to India – Just see what we can buy freely in Goa – liquor, medicines, tobacco, watches, Van Heusen shirts, imported cars and nylon socks. India has had so-called independence since 1947, and you still can’t buy foreign goods in the shops there as freely as in Goa.”
“But the smuggling in Goa is not done by Catholics,” D’Cruz says. “It is already mostly in the hands of Hindus. They have the expertise.”
“That’s not true!” Dad says. “For over 400 years the Church and the Administration officials controlled all the permits and licences for trade, shipping and land sales. They traded money and favours and became very rich themselves working with Hindu and Arab traders. Corruption is not a new idea and is not an Indian monopoly.”
“Chico, the Indians will steal all the jobs from Goans,” Jovito, a Chemist, has joined in the discussion. “The price of everything will shoot up. I have just returned from home leave to Goa, and by the way, spent a week in Bombay. Everything is more expensive in India.”
“Let sleeping dogs lie,” Gomes says. “In my opinion Goa should continue under Portuguese rule because we are a long way away from Lisbon, and mostly they ignore us anyway. Our people enjoy a peaceful life in the villages. There is always fish in the sea and fruit falls off the trees. It is stupid to fight for freedom. We must say to Nehru, no thanks, we are happy with the present arrangements.”
“What about freedom to speak and write?” Jovito asks.
“Every Goan has equal rights as any citizen of Portugal,” Dad says. “It’s been so since the eighteenth century, when the Marquis de Pombal abolished the colour bar and other restrictions in Goa and all overseas territories. In fact...”
“What nonsense! All that has changed,” Rebelo, the bearded man interrupts him. “This bloody dictator Salazar in Lisbon has reversed everything. Since 1926, there is censorship of newspapers. Informers send secret reports to the government. They have a file on each one. Has anybody holding a Portuguese passport tried to get a visa?”
“Yes. I went to Mozambique in 1953 to visit my brother Nicolau,” Dad replies.
“And please tell us how long did it take to get a visa, Chico?” Rebelo asks.
“About nine months.” Chico replies.
“You see what I mean? Even with a Portuguese passport, it is so difficult to visit another Portuguese territory,” Rebelo says. “With Goa being part of India, all the travel restrictions will be lifted. Now travelling to Bombay from Goa, you have to change trains at the border, carry your bags across a no-man’s land, and connect with a train on the other side. All that will change. Just imagine how fantastic that will be.”
“In my opinion Goa will change for the worse,” a loud preacher-like voice booms for the first time. It’s Fernandes, a man with angry eyes that have darted from speaker to speaker all evening, “Our beloved land will one day become one big slum. We will have filth and rubbish everywhere. Our clean towns will become just a few more dirty Indian cities. The politicians will steal the money meant for schools, drainage, trash clearing and roads. You mark my words! I have spoken at this club on 18th December 1961.” He makes his point and slumps back into his seat.
“I think they should resolve this conflict peacefully,” JFX says nervously from the chair. “Perhaps our Goan Overseas Association should be involved. Let’s wait and see what the great world powers say about the invasion.”
“The so-called great powers have already spoken,” D’Cruz says as he holds up one of the teleprinter messages being circulated. “Let me read it to you: ‘Prime Minister Harold McMillan has appealed directly to Nehru to negotiate, and is rebuffed’. In America, ‘US Secretary of State Dean Rusk met urgently with his top aides. A statement was released shortly thereafter. It stated ‘This is a classic example of the use of force by one of the most moralistic members of the Neutral Bloc’.”
“And what was Nehru’s response?” JFX asks.
“This!” D’Cruz makes a rude sign with his hand.
The meeting breaks up. Chairs scrape the floor as people leave. I take Dad’s arm. “Let’s go home, Dad. It’s late,” I feel Dad’s arm trembling. His eyes are teary. Savio offers us a ride home. I will pick up the Peugeot in the morning.
At home, we bid Savio a good night, as Dad puts his hand on my shoulder for support. “Lando, till today, I never realised how one is attached to the soil of one’s birth,” he says in a soft barely audible voice. “Now you children may never really know your heritage, and the glory that was once Goa.”
We enter the house; I pour Dad a peg of Johnny Walker. He says he wants to sit alone, quietly in the living room. I recount to Mom in a few words what happened at the club.
“It was his dream one day to return to Goa,” Mom says. “That dream is gone.”
I go off to my room. Sleep is evasive as I replay in my mind the scene at the club. I feel guilty. Perhaps if I had stayed on in boarding school in Goa and remained behind to make a life, Dad would have returned sooner to Goa, and lived the last years of his life as happily as he lives in Kenya. On the other hand, perhaps the doomsday scenarios predicted for Goa about filth and slums and corruption will never happen. Who is to know? Only time will tell. I toss and turn and punch my pillow into different positions. I cannot understand why Dad was so happy in 1947 to carry me on his shoulders to watch the Independence parade when the British left India, and yet now he’s so sad to see Goa become a part of India. I wonder if Pio Gama Pinto will return to Goa to live, now that he has been released from prison in Kenya? If he does, who will continue his work in Kenya?
The next day it is all over. ‘Goa has been liberated’ is splashed across the front page of the local newspapers. That evening, back at the club with my decorating team, we hear that a similar reaction to the invasion had taken place at the rival Goan Institute.
As many members were in favour of the invasion, as against. It appears several members who had been born, lived and trained in British India, had migrated to Africa within five years of India’s independence. They were the angriest over the invasion. A fist-fight resulted in one black eye, two broken chairs and a smashed windowpane of their recently opened clubhouse.
The Christmas season’s festivities at the Goan Gymkhana are subdued. Too many folks are waiting for news of loved ones at home, as the invading forces have imposed a blackout on news from Goa. It is over 12 days now since the invasion. I attend the New Year’s Eve Ball but it feels especially different for me this year, with Linda away, and no girl in particular holds my attention.
‘The Scorpions’ band, led by Henry Braganza, an ex-classmate from the Goan School, look stunning in their black trousers, white tuxedo jackets and bow ties. Many of my parents’ generation have stayed home, but there’s no shortage of energy on the dance floor by my age group. The place is swinging. I spot Anita in the crowd; she’s now older, and in the subdued light, looks a wee bit heavier. She is whirling gracefully in a long red gown in the arms of a young man who is expertly guiding her past the slower moving traffic of the dance floor. She taught me to dance. Savio notices my glance.
“She has a new one every year,” he says, “and a new dress as well.”
“Hey, Savio,” I say, pretending not to hear. “Want to take a stroll around this joint? See if anything’s changed? Do you remember when we went round together in 1949? Let’s pick up a drink first.”
“Sure.” He’s still grinning at his joke about Anita, as he adjusts his bow-tie.
The bar is packed as usual, except that now a couple of women, drinks and cigarettes in hand, are comfortably chatting to men in the bar. The billiard room has again been temporarily converted into a crèche, only now the infants sleep in their own carrycots; not like the early days when a mattress was placed over a rubber sheet over the green baize. The ayahs still seem more asleep than the infants in their care. “Most folks now have babysitters at home,” Savio explains. “At least, both my sisters do.”
“Things are finally changing around here,” I say.
“Lando, talking of changes,” Savio says, “What do you think is going to happen to us Goans now with the British leaving Kenya, and the Indians forcibly taking over Goa?”
“I don’t know,” I reply. “Dad and Mom and my uncles are worried and confused. It’s been almost their only topic of conversation this Christmas.”
“Mine too,” Savio says. “They say we now belong nowhere.”
“Come on. Let’s go and find some partners for the midnight special,” I say. “These problems can wait until 1962.”
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