Gichombe’s Bicycle
By Stewart Boston
I can see him now, coming down the blue, jacaranda-strewn path. His head was bowed a little more than usual and his formerly lively gait had become a shuffle.
Time had not been kind to his generation. As a young man, Gichombe had been brought up to venerate old age and respect his elders. Old men possessed the wisdom and experience, which only the passing years could bring. Now an old man himself, Gichombe could expect only mockery and contempt from the young adult students at the technical and trades school where I taught English.
These young men were literate and were fast acquiring technical knowledge and skills. Gichombe, my illiterate house servant, could offer only wisdom as his forefathers had done. Wisdom, in the soon-to-be-independent Kenya of 1958, was not valued by those who were learning European ways. Indeed, there was some doubt that the young men even understood what wisdom was. Valuing it and the old people who held it belonged to the past.
On this particular day, Gichombe seemed more downhearted than usual. I thought, perhaps, some students had jeered at him as he passed their workshops. However, the cause of his grief was greater than that. Somebody had stolen his bicycle.
Old and beat up it may have been, but is was his, a highly valued possession. Imagine if your car were stolen with little or no hope if its being recovered. Even though that car might be an unreliable rust bucket, if it were your only means of transportation and irreplaceable to boot, you would grieve over its loss. And Gichombe was certainly grieving now.
He was usually cheerful. He helped himself only to the amount of sugar and tea, which was considered reasonable. The only time I had known him to be visibly upset was when his granddaughter had died.
As a servant, Gichombe was competent and reliable. At the height of Mau Mau terrorist activity, he would always point out which windows were open before he left for the night.
Telling me about the windows was his way of saying, “If the terrorists break in adn kill you during the night, at least we won’t have made it ridiculously easy for them.” He didn’t do this out of the concern of a friend — we weren’t friends — but because this was what responsible servant should do. And Gichombe was always a responsible servant. Old fashioned as he was, he believed in earning his keep. His concern for my safety was in sharp contgrast to the treachery of some other servants who had themselves let terrorists in to murder their trusting employers.
If he had duties as a servant, I had obligations as an employer. Therefore, I offered to drive him to the police station to report the bicycle theft.
The Kiambu police station boasted one European inspector and a few African constables. We arrived there in my Rover 90. Gichombe approved of this vehicle. He had been most concerned about my previous car, an ancient and somewhat rickety Volkswagen Beetle. The vehicle before that, a 1947 British Ford Anglia, had reduced him to despair because his standing among other servants was affected by the car his employer drove. The battered 11-year-old Anglia had dealt his prestige a serious blow. The Rover 90, albeit eight years old, had somewhat redeemed his previous disgrace.
Gichombe got out and went into the station. Almost immediately, he came out again and got back in the car.
“What happened?” I asked.
“There’s nobody there,” Gichombe replied.
“There must be,” I said. “There’s always somebody on duty.”
Gichombe said nothing.
“Let me go and have a look,” I said.
Inside I greeted the new African police inspector. In anticipation of independence, more and more senior government positions were being filled by Africans as vacancies occurred. This African inspector was a sign of the times. I told him that Gichombe would return soon to report his loss.
Back at the car, I told Gichombe that the new inspector was waiting for him.
Gichombe shook his head. He wouldn’t go in to report the theft.
“It will be a waste of time,” he said. “I have to speak to the mzungu.”
“The new inspector is fully trained,” I said, trying to encourage him to speak to the new officer, rather than wait for the European inspector. “He is quite capable of dealing with the theft of your bicycle.”
Gichombe shook his head again. “No good,” he said. “I cannot afford to pay him.”
He was sure that one of his people would expect a bribe. The little that he had to offer would not be enough to guarantee the return of his bicycle.
“I will wait for the mzungu,” he said, firmly.
“The mzungu will not be coming back,” I explained. “It’s the African inspector or nobody, now.”
“Then, it’s nobody,” he said.
His logic was irrefutable. He knew his own people. There would be no point in arguing about it. Nor would my intervention be acceptable, either to Gichombe or to the newly minted inspector. The latter would resent the implied slur on his honesty and would not welcome the precedent of employers advocating for employees. Who knew where that might lead?
Sadly, we drove back in silence.
Half a century later, I would like to hope that an illiterate old man would feel confident in having his concerns handled without the need for a bribe. Sadly, I have my doubts.
