Chapter 3 The second series of manor gun accident

gun accident On the night of December 19th, before going to bed, I went outside to see if it was going to rain.Many farmers on the plateau, I believe, are also looking up at the sky at this moment.In lucky years, sometimes there is a heavy rain around Christmas.This is very important for small coffee fruit.They bloom and set during the small rainy season in October.There was no sign of rain tonight, the sky was clear and starry, quietly rejoicing in victory. The starry sky at the equator is far more colorful than in northern Europe.You can see many stars, and you come out more often at night.In northern Europe, winter nights are too cold to gaze at the stars, but what about summer?The night sky is clear, as dark as wild violets, and it's hard to appreciate the stars.

Equatorial Night has certain characteristics of the Roman Catholic Church in contrast to the Nordic Jesuit Church, which makes you feel busy.It's like being in a hall, with people coming and going, and things going on.In the Arabian Peninsula and Africa, the sun at noon is so hot that night is a good time for travel and adventure.The stars are named here. For centuries, they have been the guides of human beings; under the guidance of the stars, a long line of teams crossed the desert, crossed the sea, and went to the north, south, east, west, and north of the world.The vehicle is more suitable for driving at night, riding a motorcycle, galloping under the stars, how happy it is.In the highlands, you are used to arranging appointments and visiting friends when the moon is full.On the first day of the new year, you start to go hunting. After that, how many moonlit nights belong to you.Then, when you return to Europe, you'll be amazed that your city friends live out of the orbit of the moon and barely know it.For Khadija's camel drivers, the new moon marks action.Once the new moon is in the sky, the camel caravan will embark on a long journey.When he looked up at the moon, he became a philosopher, traveling through the moonlight web of the universe.How many times has he looked at the moon?The moon also became a symbol of his conquest of the world.

Among the natives I have a reputation.In the manor, I was the first to see the crescent moon appearing like a slender silver bow in the afterglow of the setting sun many times. In particular, for two or three years in a row, I was the first to discover the crescent moon of Led al-Fitr, the holy month of Ramadan for Muslims. The peasants looked around the sky slowly, first to the east, and if there was rain, it came from the east, and the bright star Spica in Virgo was shining; Above it, my friend, and beneath the twinkling Milky Way, are the Alpha Centauri and Beta Centauri.To the southwest, Sirius emits a splendid view of the sky; there is also the constellation Scorpio, which seems to be meditating.To the west, above the looming outline of the Ngo Mountains, now appeared the three stars Aquila, Pony, and Dolphin, shining like diamond jewels in the rough.Finally, turning to the north, because eventually we will return to the north, their eyes scanned the constellation Ursa Major, and they fell into calm contemplation of the vastness of the universe.Ursa Major reveals a clumsy sense of humour, bringing sympathetic glee to immigrants from northern Europe.

He who sleeps and sleeps at night knows a peculiar joy that the world of day does not have, quiet and delightful, like honey on the tip of the tongue.The dreamer also knows that the real beauty of dreams lies in the artistic conception of unlimited freedom.It is not the freedom of the dictator to impose his will on the world; it is the freedom of the artist, who has no will and is above it.The real dream seeker's pleasure lies not in the content of the dream, but in the fact that everything about the dream is not interfered with by him, but completely outside his control.The majestic landscape in the dreamland is of his own creation, endlessly beautiful, rich and magical colors, roads, houses, all of which the dreamer has never even seen or heard of.Strange characters appear in the dream, either friendly or hostile, although the dreamer has never dealt with them.The idea of ​​flying to the sky and searching repeatedly appeared in the dream, which was also ecstatic.Everyone is talking about those wonderful and interesting adventures.All these, when recalled in daylight, lose their luster and charm.Sincerely said.Because they belong to different levels.And once the dreamer lies down at night, the stream of consciousness begins to connect again, and the dream spirit reappears in his memory.The feeling of complete freedom surrounds his heart all the time, like air, like light, running around his body, this is a blessing that cannot be found in the world.The dreamer is the privileged man: he has nothing to do, but all things come down to him, to give him joy, to make him rich.In dreams, the kings of Talshi pay homage to him; he will take part in a great battle or a grand ball.He is bewildered by his part in all events, and the dream brings him honor.When one loses the sense of freedom, when thoughts of need break into the world, when there is urgency and tension everywhere to answer letters, to catch trains when you have to work, to gallop dream horses, or to shoot rifles around ; only at these times does the dream begin to fail and become the dream of the poorest and grossest of nightmares.

The closest thing to a dream in the awakened world is the urban night, where no one knows anyone, or the African night, where there is also unlimited freedom.It is there that things work and destiny evolves around you.There is life in every direction, and it has nothing to do with you. In Africa, when the sun goes down, the sky is full of bats, cruising as silently as cars on asphalt.The nighthawk also flies past, crouching on the side of the road, its eyes glowing red due to the headlights, and it suddenly soars up in front of your wheel.The little hares on the road were jumping, squatting down suddenly, and jumping up suddenly, like miniature kangaroos.The crickets sang in the tall grass.There are various smells floating in the fields, and meteors falling from the sky, like a string of teardrops hanging on the cheeks.You are privileged and you have it all.The kings of Talsh offer gifts to you.

A few miles away in Masai Reserve, zebras are changing their pastures.They roamed the gray grassland in groups, undulating in the grass like streamers.Bison were out too, foraging on the long slopes.The boys from my farm came in twos and threes, casting long and narrow shadows on the grass.They walk briskly, straight to their goal, they don't work for me, they have nothing to do with me.They themselves asserted their status and slowed down because they saw the still burning cigarette butt I threw on the ground outside the house.They walked and said hello, Jiang Bo (Hello), Mshab! Jiang Bo, Morani (samurai), where are you going?

We're going to the Kasaigou village, where there's Ngoma tonight.Goodbye, Mshab. If their team is larger, they will bring their sheepskin drums to the meeting.When you are far away, you can faintly hear the drum music, as if a small blood vessel was pulsating on Ye's finger.And suddenly, before your ears are prepared, there is a violent vibration of air rather than sound, the short roar of a distant lion.The lion is also walking and hunting.Things run where they go.All this is not repeated, but only expanded horizons.What is dedicated to you is a long stream of animal dung and a spring well.

I was standing in front of the house when a bullet fell and a shot was fired not far from me.Then, the silence of the night enveloped the fields again.After a while, I heard the crickets playing their monotonous little tune in the grass, as if they had just paused to listen to what was going on around them, and then revived. There is something strange and vital about a single bullet in the night.It's as if someone shouted a one-word, no-repeat message at you.I stood there for a long time, thinking about the meaning.At this time of night no one is aiming at anything, and to scare something away two or three shots should be taken.

Maybe it was Bolai, an old Indian carpenter in the noodle factory.Singer, shoot some hyenas that slip across the yard.They were chewing and eating stones hanging from under the sheepskin belts that were used to make carriage bridles.Pole.Singer was no hero, but he might have pulled the trigger because the reins had left the door of the hut ajar.Once he has tasted the sweetness of heroism, he will definitely pull the double-barreled shotgun, and most likely reload and shoot.But how could it be a bullet followed by silence? I waited for the second bullet, and there was no movement for a long time.I looked up at the sky again, and there was still no sign of rain.So, I went to bed, picked up a book, and kept the lights on.In Africa, when you pick out a book worth reading from a sea shipment from Europe, you read it as seriously as an author wants his book to be read.You pray to God as you read: May the book be as engaging as these opening lines.On the new, deep green track, your heart gallops and runs.

Two minutes later, a motorcycle circled the road at a terrifying speed and stopped in front of the house.Someone was banging hard on the long window in my living room.I put on a skirt, a coat, and shoes, and took the lantern and went out.Outside the house is the manager of the manor noodle mill, under the light, his eyes wide open and sweating profusely.His name was Belknepp, he was an American, a very capable and clever mechanic, but his mood was always restless.For him, things are either nearly a hundred years old, or so dark that there is no ray of hope.When I first hired him, I was distraught by his changing views on life, on the prospects and circumstances of the estate, and it was as if he had placed me on a giant mental swing.Later, I gradually got used to it.These up and down oscillations are, to an active, much-needed temperament, merely an ordinary emotion, with seldom fruitful results.This is a common phenomenon among young, energetic whites, especially those whose early life was urban.But he has just come out of the clutches of tragedy, undecided: shall he use his wit to the fullest, so as to satisfy the thirsty soul, or show his wit as little as possible, in order to escape the soul's ruthlessness?He was in this quandary, and he seemed like a very young boy, rushing toward life and declaring catastrophe.His tone was so stammering that he ended up using a small part of his wit that he didn't have a good chance of expressing.Once again fate overwhelmed him.

At this moment, Farah came out of his room and joined me to listen to his narration. Belknepp told me how the tragedy began quietly and happily.In the absence of his cook for the day, there was a reception in the kitchen for Cabello, a seven-year-old boy, the son of an old sharecropper, and the son of the old fox Caninu, who was next door to the estate.As it got late and the party became more lively, Cabello brought in the master's gun and played the role of a white man in front of his buddies.Belknepp is an authentic farmer engaged in sideline farming.He would raise capons and broilers and promote purebred chickens at the Nairobi fair.In his hallway hung a gun, which he used to drive away hawks and weasels.When we talked about it later, he insisted that the gun was unloaded and that the children found the bullets and loaded them themselves.However, here I thought he had made a mistake. Even if the children wanted to do this, it would be difficult for them to do so. It is more likely that the gun was loaded with ammunition, and they forgot to pull it out and hung it on the wall.No matter how the bullet was loaded, Cabello was showing off his various abilities and showing off, the bullet was already loaded, he aimed at the guests, and pulled the trigger.A string of bullets shot out of the house.The three children who were slightly injured ran out of the kitchen in fright.There were two, seriously injured or killed.Before Belknepp finished his account of what had happened, he made a long expletive of continental curses.My servants came softly out as he spoke.They went in again and brought a lantern.We took out gauze, bandages and disinfectant.Starting the car would delay time, so we sprinted through the woods to Belknep's house.The flickering hurricane lantern cast our shadows here and there across the path.Along the way, we heard short, staccato screams from time to time, the screams of dying children. The kitchen door was thrown back, as if death had entered and then rushed out of the house.The tragic scene after the catastrophe was left in the house, like a weasel getting into a chicken coop.A kitchen lamp was lit on the table, and the smoke was billowing.The cabin still smelled of ammunition.The gun lay beside the lamp.There was blood all over the kitchen floor and my feet were slipping.The dim hurricane lamps could hardly illuminate any details, but they shrouded the whole room in a bright light.With the light of the lantern, everything I saw formed my memory. I knew the kids who were shot and who used to graze sheep on the estate pastures.Varmay Djogona's son, a lively little boy who had once been to school, collapsed on the floor between the door and the table.He was not dead, but dying, moaning softly, almost unconscious.We lifted him aside for transfer.The one who screamed was Wa Nang Geli, the youngest of the kitchen night parties.He sat, leaning forward in front of the light.Blood poured from his face, if it could even be called a face, like water from a pipe.When the shot was fired, he must have been standing in front of the muzzle of the gun, and his entire jaw was knocked out.His arms danced up and down, like the rocker arms of a water pump, or like a chicken with its head butchered, flapping its wings. When you are suddenly drawn to the scene of this catastrophe, where there seems to be only one remedy, the shooting range and the field, you must fight fire for fire, swiftly and at any cost.Then you know you can't kill for revenge, and your mind turns to fear.I took the child's head in both hands and pressed it desperately.As if I had killed him, he stopped shouting at the same time and sat upright with his arms hanging down, like a wooden man.It was then that I realized that it was time to heal the gunshot wound. It is difficult to bandage a patient with half his face knocked off.You try to stop the bleeding, but you may suffocate him.I had to put Wa Nangeri on Farah's lap and Farah hold his head for me.His head fell forward, and I couldn't bandage it; his head fell back, and the blood would flow down again, filling his throat.Finally, he finally sat firmly, and I wrapped the bandages layer by layer. We lifted the Varmayi to the table and observed it carefully with the hurricane lamp.He was shot in the throat and chest.He didn't bleed much, only a thin streak of blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.It is amazing how peaceful this lamb-like native child is at this moment.As we looked at him, his face changed, revealing an expression of great amazement.I told Farah to go home and bring the car. We had to hurry and get the kids to the hospital. While waiting for the bus, I asked about Cabello and he fired, causing a bloodbath.Belknepp told me a curious story about Cabello.A few days ago, he had bought a pair of shorts from his master for a rupee from his salary.Belknepp ran to the kitchen when the shot rang out. He was standing in the middle of the room with a smoking shotgun in his hand.He glanced at Belknep, then with his left hand he took out a rupee from the pocket of the shorts he had bought for the party, and put it on the table; at the same time he put the gun on it with his right hand.Having confessed this last matter, he fled.In fact, although no one knew at the time, he disappeared from the face of the earth with such a high profile.This was an unusual move for the Natives, who were generally too quick to think of defaulting on their debts, especially money owed to white people, and they didn't take it very seriously.Maybe it was a day of judgment for Cabello, and he felt he had to look on it with awe.Maybe he's trying to protect a friend in times of crisis.Or, in the face of this sudden accident: the bang, bang, bang, the death of his friends; the little boy's little consciousness was deeply shocked, and his messy nerve endings were all condensed into his conscience . At the time, I had an old Overley.I have no intention of describing any of its flaws, as it has served me well for many years.But it rarely runs on more than two cylinders.Its lighting system was also out of order.I used to drive it to dances at the Mushaiga Club, with a windbreak lamp wrapped in a red silk scarf as a taillight.When starting, you have to push it a few steps.On such a night, a lot of precious time was wasted. The guests who came to the manor complained that the road in my house was too difficult to walk.As I drove that night, I realized they had a point.At first, when I let Farah drive, I always thought he was driving into a pothole or an old wagon rut on purpose, so I just took the steering wheel and drove myself.For this reason, the car stopped by the pond, and I washed my hands in the water in the dark.That night, the road to Nairobi seemed endless, and I thought it would be long enough to drive from the estate to Denmark. Nairobi Hospital is located on the hillside at the entrance to the city.At this moment, the night is deep and silent.We knocked at the door with great difficulty, and at last caught up with an old Goan doctor or assistant doctor, in a strange robe, very fat and mild-natured.He behaved strangely, the same gesture, first with one hand, and then repeated with the other.As I helped lift Varmayi out of the car, I felt the child struggle, but in the bright waiting room he died.The old Goan waved his hand at him and said: He is dead.He waved his hand at Wa Nang Gaili again, he was still alive.I never saw the old man again, because I never went to the hospital at night, maybe he was on the night shift.His manner was repulsive, but then it seemed to me that, amidst the layers of white coats, fate itself seemed to stand at the threshold, ruthlessly governing life and death.After we took Wa Nang Geli to the hospital, he woke up from a coma, and the terrible pain began to torment him.He grabbed me and the other people beside me with all his strength, crying out loudly, falling into extreme pain.The old Goan sedated him, looked at me over the top of his glasses and said: He's alive.I left them on two stretchers, different fates: life and death. Belknepp came with us on his motorcycle to help us push the car and start the motor if the car broke down on the road.At this point he thought we should report the shooting to the police station, so we drove straight to the police station on Little River Street. The nightlife atmosphere of Nairobi along the way.Got there, the white officer wasn't there, the clerk went out to get him, and we waited outside in the car.The road has a green space with tall eucalyptus trees.Eucalyptus is a street tree in the old city of the plateau.At night, the long eucalyptus leaves give off a fragrant and specific smell, and the eucalyptus looks extraordinary in the light of the street lamps.Several native police officers shoved and shoved a strong, tall Swahili woman into the police station.She resisted with all her strength, scratching their faces, and yelling like a pig.A group of brawlers were also brought in, still gesticulating and shouting as they walked on the steps.A thief, I judge, came from the road, followed by a large group of nocturnal spirits, some spoke for the thief, and some stood by the police, arguing loudly about the case.Finally, a young police officer arrived, who I could tell had just arrived from a jolly dinner.He really disappointed Belknep.He first recorded the whole story of the gun accident with great interest and at a very fast speed, and then fell into deep thought, moving slowly on the paper with a pencil.At last he stopped and put the pencil back in his pocket.In the night air, I feel cold.Thank goodness we were finally able to drive home. The next morning, before I got up, I felt that there were many people around in the strange silence outside the house.I can imagine who they are, the old people in the manor, squatting on the stone, pinching and sniffing their snuff, spitting, and whispering to each other.I can also deduce what they're up to: They must have come to tell me they want to call a Kiama over yesterday's shooting and the death of the child. The Kiama was the council of elders of the estate, sanctioned by the government, and settled any disputes among the farmers.Kiama members meet to study a criminal case or accident.They would sit together for weeks about it, talking about the disaster over mutton.I know that these senators now want to talk to me about the history of the matter, and they also want, if they can, to finally let me attend the meeting and make a judgment.At this point I didn't want to participate in the endless discussion about last night's tragedy, so I got up and led the horse out, avoiding them. As I expected, as soon as I went outside, I saw the senators forming a circle around the servants' quarters on the left side of the house.Out of the dignity of their meeting, they pretended not to see me until they realized that I was going to go out for a walk, and then they staggered impatiently to their feet and waved their arms at me.I also waved to them and rode away. riding a horse through the wilderness I rode my horse and headed towards the Masaiyi Reserve.There is a river to cross.After a quarter of an hour's ride, you can reach the Wildlife Sanctuary.I live in the manor, and I was looking for a place where I could ride a horse across the river, but it took a lot of trouble: the slope is full of bumpy stones, and the hillside on the other side is so steep, but once you are there, how excited your heart will be I have to scream. Before me lay a hundred miles of flat plains, empty, undulating fields.There are no fences, no patches, no roads.Except for the village of Masai, no one else lives there.And those Maasai villages are empty for half a year.During the half year, these great wanderers drive their cattle and sheep to other pastures.Low thorn trees are regularly scattered on the grassland.The narrow, deep canyon exposes a dry, large and flat stone riverbed.There, you'll have to find a winding path to lead you across the river.After a while, you gradually feel how peaceful it is in the wilderness.Seeing the scene makes me fall in love, I once wrote a poem: Tall grass undulates and advances in the field gusts of wind blowing in solitude and loneliness The wilderness, the strong wind play with my heart Now, when I look back on my life in Africa, I feel that this little poem as a whole expresses the state of mind of a person who comes from a hurried, tense, and noisy world in a land of deep silence. During the first few days of the rainy season, the Maasai set fire to remove the old dry grass.It is not pleasant for you to wander through the barren fields with their black chests so bare: the horse's hooves kick up blackened ash, which covers you all over and captivates your eyes.The leftover straw is as sharp as glass, and your hounds will inevitably cut four feet.But when the rainy season comes, the green grass on the wilderness is so fresh, you feel like you are riding a horse on springs, and the horse is happy and wild.All kinds of antelope came to graze on the grass, like toy animals lined up on a pool table covered with green flannel.You might run into a herd of spinhorn.These big, docile animals will let you approach, then hop away from you.Their long, streamlined horns stand on raised necks; the skin on their breasts hangs loosely, giving them a rectangular shape that wobbles as they move slowly.They seem to have stepped down from the tombstones of ancient Egypt, but there, they plowed the soil and radiated a familiar and domesticated look.Giraffes are deep in the reserve. During the first few months of the rainy season, a fragrant pink-white wildflower blooms across the fields.From a distance, the wilderness looks like it is covered with a layer of snow. From the human world to the animal world, my heart is still mourning the tragedy of last night.Those old people sitting in front of my house disturbed me deeply.In ancient times there must have been a feeling that the tragedy was the work of a neighboring witch; or that in that hour of sorrow the witch hid a child of wax under her robes, and named the dead children He is baptized. My relationship with the natives in the estate law matters had a peculiar quality, for above all I needed a peaceful estate and I could not do without the natives.Disputes between native tenant farmers, if not resolved seriously, are like the carbuncles you got in Africa, known as prairie sores: if you don't pay attention, they will heal on the surface, but the inner layer will continue to fester until you have major surgery to cut out the roots. Clean it up completely.The natives are also aware of this, so if they really want to settle a case, they often come to me to judge. I know nothing of their laws.In the sacred court of justice, I often judge like a leading actor in a play who can't remember a line, but is able to perform it because of the support of other characters.My elders will fully and patiently undertake this task.It also sometimes happens that the lead actor, offended, shocked by the role, refuses to continue and walks off the stage.When such a turn of events occurs, my audience sees it as a crushing blow from the hand of fate, an act of God beyond their comprehension.They deal with it in silence, or argue endlessly. Regarding the concept of justice, Europe and Africa are different, but the justice of this world is not tolerated by the other world.For the African, there is only one way to counteract the existential catastrophe, transposition, he does not look for the motives of an action.Whether you lay in wait for the enemy and strangle him in the dark, or whether you fell a tree and accidentally kill a passer-by, the natives thought it should be the same as far as punishment was concerned.The natives have neither time nor desire to measure merit and guilt, whoever and wherever they may inflict damage to the community must be compensated.Maybe he's afraid of going too far, or he thinks such things are none of his business.But if a sin or a misfortune had to be paid for by the herd, the native was engaged in endless bargaining, and time mattered little to him.He leads you into the divine maze of sophistry.At the time, this method of proceeding was contrary to my notion of justice. In these halls, all Africans are the same.The Somalis are very different psychologically from the Kikuyu and look down on them very much.But the Somali people in their hometown will sit down very seriously and punish crimes such as murder, rape or fraud to compensate livestock. They love camels and horses very much, and they have their pedigree and names engraved in their hearts. Once, word came from Nairobi that Farah's ten-year-old brother, Bram, had stoned a boy from another tribe, knocking out two front teeth.Representatives from both sides met at the estate and sat on the floor of Farah's home night after night to discuss the incident.There came gaunt old men, all of them pilgrims to Mecca, wearing green turbans; pompous lads, who had never seen the world, but were gun-bearers with European travelers or hunters; black-eyed The round-faced boys also came, shyly representing their respective families, not saying a word, just listening and learning intently.It was bad enough, Farah told me, because the boy's face had been disfigured: when it came time for the men's college to marry, he would be in trouble.He will ask for higher compensation on the pretext that because of the lack of two front teeth, he cannot give birth normally or his ugly appearance affects the bride's love for him.The final award was to compensate fifty camels.These camels will be bought from distant Somalia, and in the next ten years, as compensation to the bride, she will not care about the lack of two front teeth of the groom.Perhaps the seeds of marital tragedy have been sown.Farah himself sees the ruling as a blessing among misfortunes. The natives of the manor would never understand my views on their legal system, and they came to me primarily to make amends for their misfortune. Once, during the coffee picking season, a little Kikuyu girl named Wampoi was run over to death by a bullock cart in front of my house.The bullock cart transports the coffee beans from the field to the processing factory. I forbid anyone to climb on the bullock cart, otherwise, there will be a large group of frolicking coffee bean picking girls and boys competing for a ride in the bullock cart every time they run. Faster than the oxen roaming the estate unhurriedly, this overloads the oxen that pull the cart.But the guys who drove didn't take my ban to heart, and couldn't bear to rush the little girls who were running by the side of the road begging for a ride. They had pairs of dreamy eyes.What they could do was tell the girls to jump out of the car as they approached my house.But Wampoi stumbled as she jumped off, and the wheel ran over her little dark-haired head and crushed it.There was a thin stream of blood in the rut. I got her old father and mother, who came here from the fields, to lie on top of their daughter and cry.I know it is a great loss to them too, for the girl is of marriageable age, and will bring them a rich dowry of sheep, goats, and a heifer or two.All this is what they have been looking forward to since the girl was born.I was thinking about how much help I should give them, but they stopped me, vented their resentment and hatred on me, and demanded that I pay a lot of compensation. No, I said, I will not compensate.I told the girls at the farm that I wouldn't let them ride in the ox cart, and everyone knew it.The two old people nodded and said yes, without expressing any objection, but they still insisted on compensation from me.Their reasoning: Someone has to pay the compensation.In doing so, they do not contradict the principles ingrained in their minds, nor do they go beyond the theory of relativity.When I broke off the discussion and turned back to the house, they followed me closely, not out of greed or malice, but according to a law of nature.I'm like a magnet. They sat down on the spot and stood guard outside my house.They are poor, thin, and undernourished.They're like a pair of small roaches on my lawn.They sat there until the sun went down, and I could barely make out them in the grass.They are in deep sorrow.The loss of flesh and blood, the loss of money intertwined into overwhelming despair.Farah was not at the estate that day.When lighting the lamps, I gave them money to buy sheep to eat.It was such a bad move that they took it as the first sign that the lights of a besieged city were dying, and they sat down again for the night.I don't know if they left with that in mind, if not.At night, they had a thought.We have to seek compensation from the young man driving the ox cart.This drove them off the lawn in silence, and early the next morning to Dagoleti, where our assistant district chief lived. This led to a protracted life lawsuit on the estate, and a swarm of young Aboriginal policemen who swaggered.But all the district mayor's assistant could do for them was hang the young man driving the car as a murderer, but because of insufficient evidence, he was released again.The elders also did not convene Kiama after I dismissed the matter with the district chief's assistant.So the two old men ended up, like everyone else, only submitting to the laws of relativity, although they knew nothing about it. I was growing weary of the senators of Kiama, to whom I confide my opinion. You senators, I said, only fine the lads to keep them from hoarding their money.The young man will not disobey you, so you bought the girls yourself.The senators listened carefully, their small black eyes gleamed on their dry, wrinkled faces, their thin lips moved gently, as if they were repeating my words, they listened happily, an impeccable For the first time, principles are expressed in words. I am satisfied that my status as a Kikuyu judge affords me ample leeway for differing points of view.At that time, I was still young, and I considered all opinions, whether just or unjust, mainly from the point of view of the defendant, not from the point of view of the judge.In order to make a proper ruling and to maintain the stability of the manor, I spent a lot of energy and endured various setbacks.When encountering difficult problems, I often close the door to thank guests, think for a long time, and use reason to control my mind.This is an effective method for the people in the manor.At long intervals, I also heard them speak with respect of a case so complex that no one could understand it in a week.To make the natives feel that things are difficult, it will only take more time to show. As for why the aborigines are willing to let me be their judge and why they value my ruling so much, we must seek explanations from their mythological mentality or theological consciousness.Europeans have lost the ability to create myths or dogmas, and our inability to do so is due to the failure of our history to provide us with these abilities.But the spiritual consciousness of Africans can pass through such a deep and winding path very naturally and smoothly.This gift of theirs is most strongly displayed in their relations with whites. 你能從他們給有過交往的歐洲人起的外號中領略到這種天賦，你若派人給一個朋友送信，或在車上打聽去某位朋友家的路，就必須熟悉這些外號，因為土著世界只認可這些名字。我有一個離群索居的鄰居，他家從不招待客人，於是被詡為沙哈尼．莫加一隻盤子。我的瑞典朋友艾里克．奧特有個外號叫里沙西．莫加一顆子彈。他槍法頗準，只須一顆子彈便能打死獵物，這自然是尊稱。我還有一個喜好賽車的朋友，雅號半人半車。土著也給白人起動物外號，諸如魚、長頸鹿、大公牛等等。他們在起這些綽號的時候，心中一定掠起過有關的古老寓言或神話。我相信，在土著的潛意識裡，這些白人是被分解為人與獸的。 此類外號具有一種魔力一個人長年以其動物名字著稱於周圍世界，最終他自己也對這種動物產生了感情上的連繫：他有了一種認同感。當他回到歐洲後，才會感到奇怪再沒人那麼叫他了。 有一回，我在倫敦動物園與一位退休的文官相逢。他在非洲時人稱波瓦拿坦姆包大象先生。他一個人站在大象館前，久久地凝視著大象，陷入幽幽的沉思。也許他經常去大象館。他的土著傭人也會順理成章地料想他會去那裡可惜在倫敦，沒有任何老朋友，除了我這個來去匆匆的過客，對他算是知音。 土著心理活動的方式頗為特異，與歷史人物的精神相通。他們會自然地想像奧丁北歐神話中掌管一切的至神是為了看穿整個世界而剜掉了一隻眼睛，他們也將愛神描繪成一個對愛情一無所知的孩子。同樣，莊園裡的吉庫尤人對我這個法官奉若神明，而實際上我根本不懂據以判案的任何律法。 也是由於在神話上的天賦，土著還會做出一些你無法防備、難以逃脫的唐突之事。他們能將你轉化為一具偶像。我深諳這一過程，並對此有一評語供自己玩味在我心目中，他們是將我神化為厚臉皮的撒旦的。與土著長期相處過的歐洲人會理解我的意思，儘管從《聖經》的角度來說此詞用得不確切。我認為，即便我們在這塊土地上開拓著種種事業，即便我們取得了科學技術的長足進步，即便我們享有英國統治下的某種和平，但在實用這一點上，土著著實勝過我們一籌。 當然，他們不可能對一切白人都加以利用，而且利用的程度也因人而異。在他們的世界裡，他們根據我們可資利用為厚臉皮的撒旦的程度，將我們加以排列。我的許多朋友戴尼思．非乞．漢頓、戈爾波萊斯和貝克里．考爾、諾思勞普、麥克米倫都被土著據其能力排於前列。 德萊米爾勳爵居厚臉皮的撒旦之首。我記得，有一次我在高原旅行，適逢田野裡蝗災泛濫。上年蝗蟲大肆活動撒下的蟲卵已破土而出，大吃剩餘之食。蝗蟲所及之處，草葉蕩然無存。這對土著是可怕的打擊。儘管他們歷盡磨難，可這場蟲災嚴重到難以承受的地步。他們的心碎了，呻吟著，嚎叫著，猶如垂死的犬，試圖幹那些絕無可能的事。那時，我偶爾向他們談起我穿過德萊米爾莊園時見到遍地的蝗蟲圍場、牧場無處不有。我還補充說，德萊米爾對蝗蟲惱怒極了，失望極了。話音剛落，聽的人就立刻安靜下來，緊張情緒頓消。他們詢問德萊米爾對自己的不幸有什麼說法，並一再要我重複，而後便不再說什麼了。 作為厚臉皮的撒旦，我雖比不上德萊米爾勳爵那樣舉足輕重，但是，在不少場合，我於土著還是很有用的。 在大戰期間，土著世界對由非洲人組成的運輸部隊的命運頗為關注。莊園的佃農常常聚坐在我的宅子周圍。他們一言不發，互相之間也無言以對，只是眼巴巴地盯著我，把我當作他們的厚臉皮的撒旦。他們毫無害人之心，我也不便把他們轟走，再說，即使轟走了，他們也會在別處團聚。這真是令人難以忍受的事。不過，以下一個事實使我得以度此難關我兄弟的軍團那時正在最前線瓦埃米．里奇，我可以望著他，將他奉為我的撒旦。 吉庫尤人每逢大難降臨莊園的時候，把我當作首席悼念者或亡夫之婦。這在那次槍禍中也是如此。因為我對傷亡的孩子表示哀悼，莊園裡的人們便在心中得到寬慰，暫時將此事擱置起來。在不幸之中，他們把我當作全體教徒的代表，在以他們的名義獨飲苦酒。 這幾近於巫術，一朝施行於你，就永遠不可能完全擺脫。我感到這是一個痛苦的、極為痛苦的過程被綁在杆子上，我企求掙脫出來，卻難以辦到。不僅如此，許多年之後，你還常常會想：我居然遭受這樣的待遇我竟成了一個厚臉皮的撒旦！ 我騎馬返回莊園，正涉水過河時，遇到了卡尼努的兒子們三個青年，一個小孩。他們手執長矛，急速跑來。我攔住他們，打聽他們的兄弟卡貝羅的近況。他們在齊膝的河水中神色緊張，雙眼無光，有氣無力地慢聲講話。卡貝羅，他們說，還沒有回來，自從那天夜裡潛逃後，一直沒有消息。現在他們肯定卡貝羅死了。他要麼自殺了因為自殺的意念在土著間很普遍，連小孩也不例外要麼在野地裡迷路，被野獸吃了。他的兄弟們四處搜尋他，此刻正趕往保護區，試圖在那裡找到他。 我到了河對岸我自己莊園的這邊，轉過身放眼眺望草原。我的莊園地勢高於保護區。大草原上沒有任何生命的跡象，除了遙遠的地方有斑馬在吃草、奔跑。河對岸的曠野裡出現那幾個尋人的青年，他們急急地向前趕路，一個跟著一個。他們儼如小小的蚱蜢在草地上東跳西蹦。陽光不時地輝映他們手中的長矛。他們似乎對前進的方向很有把握，但那該是什麼方向呢？在尋找走失的小孩途中，他們唯一的嚮導是那些在草原上的屍體上空盤旋的蒼鷹。牠們將向你指明獅子捕殺物的確切方位。 但那將是一個很小的軀體，遠不足為空中饕餮者的盛宴。不會有多少蒼鷹為你指示出事地點，牠們也不會久久盤旋於某一空際。 想到這一切，我不禁哀從中來，策馬往家裡走去。