War in the Forest

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© Copyright 1971, 2011 Kiboi Muriithi (General Kamwana) with Peter Ndoria.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored

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MAU MAU LEADER

First published in 1971 by the

East African Publishing House, Uniafric House

Koinange Street, P.O. Box 30571

Nairobi, Kenya

ISBN: 978-1-4269-4875-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4269-4876-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010917421

Trafford rev. 03/26/2013

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CONTENTS

Introduction

1    Glade of death

2    The beginning

3    My arrest

4    Into the forest

5    Mau Mau schoolboys

6    Wounded

7    China is arrested

8    Into action with Tanganyika

9    My first journey to Meru

10  My first command—and disaster

11  The long lonely journey

12  The second arrest

13  Interrogation

14  The road to release

Endnotes

WAR

IN

THE

FOREST

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A

MAU MAU LEADER

Introduction

Charlie, as he is known to every one, was my neighbour. I knew that he had been a forest fighter for five years. His arrest, too, I remembered.

He was born into a poor family. His father had almost no land, yet from it he supported a wife, two daughters and four sons. To his father Charlie owed his early ideas of nationalism. Then came the time when he worked for an Indian architect in Nairobi. From his house in the Burma area, after a day’s work, he was tricked into going to attend an oathing ceremony.

After his arrest he passed through the famous pipeline to his home. After only a few days he was obliged to join the forest fighters to avoid re-arrest. His sufferings, his wounds, his travels through the forests, his fortunes and misfortunes, are all told here. In one famous battle, at a spot later christened Glade of Death, he was the sole survivor. Finally, going to the reserves for tobacco, he was arrested. In detention he was made to work to the limit of endurance, in prisons and in quarries, before he was finally let go, a free man once again.

This, then, is the story of Joseph Kiboi Muriithi as he told it to me. It is a true story, a story with nothing left out, a story sometimes moving, sometimes brutal. Most of all, a story of a proud and unremitting struggle for freedom.

Peter N. Ndoria

In memory of two great soldiers of freedom

MURIUKI KAMOTHO (General Tanganyika)

GITITI KABUTU (General Kariba)

Freedom Fighters’ Song

Ririkana Nyakeru niatuthuire

Atucaragia utuku na muthenya

Abatairio ni mioyo itu kiumbe

Mwene Nyaga twakuhoya

Nainyui mweririirie kugaruruka

Mwetigira heho na ikuu cia thina

Magetha Manyu na inyui

Mukagetha o gikuu

1

Glade of death

I scrambled on my knees through the grass. Escape was the one thought in my mind. In front was the edge of the forest and sanctuary. Behind, ambush, the bodies of my comrades, capture. I reached the trees as bullets sucked across the clearing. Safety was a step away, but before I could grasp it a chill stabbed my stomach. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a soldier of the King’s African Rifles draw a bead on me. Reflexes developed as a freedom fighter saved me. As I dived sideways I heard the shot. The bullet passed overhead to strike another soldier on the forehead. Worming my way through the undergrowth I reached the cover of the trees. Leaping to my feet I ran for my life away from the ambush, away from the clearing and the sound and smell of death. Behind me, lost for ever, were my record books, my documents and my gun.

Exhausted, I made my way over to the road. As I lay in hiding I could clearly see the packed army lorries only a few yards away. I was still panting. The fear struck me that if the soldiers passed close they could not help but hear me. Gradually they struggled back and carelessly threw the six bodies of my comrades into the back of one of the trucks. The seventh, tied up and under heavy guard, was thrown headfirst into the same lorry. Other soldiers filtered back out of the trees. They carried a body—the body of the soldier killed by the shot meant for me. He was placed carefully in a different lorry.

Soon I was alone, hungry and tired—the sole survivor of my eight-man group. Where would I ever find more men as bold as these? I thought of the man captured on the previous day. Betrayal—the word flashed through my mind. Perhaps bribery, perhaps torture, had bought the secret of our hiding place, and stamped the memory of the Glade of Death for ever on my memory. For me, it marked the beginning of the end.

As I shivered that night, alone in the depths of the forest, without jacket or coat, and hungry, my mind went back to how it all began. To that day in Nairobi when, as a callow, frightened youth I was tricked into taking the oath of allegiance to Mau Mau. The oath was the watershed of my life. It marked the beginning of manhood. It lit the torch of freedom within me, the torch that even in the depths of despair never went out. It made me into a soldier, brought me danger, wounds and, several times, almost death. It awoke in me a fervour I had never before known.

Years later, on that day of independence, when the man who even in prison had been the source of our inspiration saw the fulfillment of his dreams, I looked back. Back to the hardships, the deprivations, the danger. Mzee Jomo Kenyatta was our President, the leader of Kenya, a statesman honoured and respected. The battle was over, the victory ours. I breathed deep the breath of Uhuru.

2

The beginning

The voice penetrated my dreams. Charlie! Charlie! I gave up trying to sleep and swung my legs out onto the floor. I angrily walked over to the door. It was one of my greatest friends, Kamau.

How are you? I asked. Then I noticed he looked anxious.

Not bad, he said after a pause.

Anything wrong? He looked down.

Just wondering why you’re sleeping at this time of the day. Are you sick? I could see he had something on his mind.

I worked hard today, boy, and I felt like a rest. That’s something they never give us, I yawned. Kamau was still on the doorstep, so I asked him inside for a cup of coffee.

No thanks. Let’s take a stroll. You’ll soon feel all right. I allowed myself to be persuaded, on the promise of a beer. That’s what I needed, I told myself as I put on my shoes and brushed my hair.

It was early in 1952. I had finished school at the age of twenty-one and was working for an Indian architect in Nairobi. I was living near Barma market. It was six o’clock in the evening.

Which way?

Bahati. He seemed very sure. Soon we had crossed the railway and were covering the distance to the centre of Bahati Location, two and a half miles from the city centre of Nairobi. We arrived outside a door. Kamau knocked. There was a shout, Come in!

Instead of following, I found myself in front, and in one of the strangest rooms I had ever seen. It was pitch black, lit only by a candle in the furthest corner. The room was small, no more than twelve feet by twelve. And it was full of people, more than twenty men and women. There was no noise. Those speaking spoke quietly. I looked round for beer, but without much hope. It was dawning on me that I was now involved in something completely different from the beer I had been expecting.

A small man, no more than four feet in height, appeared in front of me. He spoke softly. I could not catch what he said. Annoyed, he repeated his question louder, thinking I had refused to reply. My head jerked as a slap caught me.

How did you come here? The question lashed through the pain.

Er… .Confused, I play for time.

Answer! I would not understand why he was asking me and not Kamau. I suddenly realised that if I said I had been the victim of a trick it could cost me my life. I stalled.

I just thought of coming and having what you are having. I was trembling, not sure what would follow the slap. As I spoke I moved my head, trying to locate Kamau in the darkness. Another slap cracked across my face.

What are you looking for? Are you counting us? Not daring to move, I stood rigid. Someone pushed me.

With nine others I was led through the back door into the next room, ill-lit from the glow of a fire in the centre. Beside the fire squatted a man. Serious, he neither moved nor spoke as we entered. I risked lifting my eyes for a second, making sure no one was watching. We were standing in a line, myself third from the front. Kamau, I guessed, was behind me. In front was an arch cleverly built from two curved sticks, grass and banana leaves. Suddenly, coldly, I knew this was the Mau Mau. I was about to take part in an oathing ceremony.

The ten of us were bound together with a rukwaro,¹* which was passed around each neck, symbolizing unity and confidence. In a line, we passed seven times through the arch, then squatted. A calabash was brought forward by the oath administrator containing among other things, I guessed, blood, soil and faeces taken from the intestines of a slaughtered goat. The first man took a mouthful. Then the next. Then it was my turn. It was the foulest thing I have ever tasted. I was ordered to swallow. The revolting mixture trickled down my throat and into my stomach. The urge to vomit came on in waves. I fought against it. I told myself what would happen if I threw up. I would forfeit my life or be made a cripple. The turmoil in my stomach slackened. I did not vomit.

Repeating the words of the administrator, I swore the oath: I swear that I will fight for the African soil that the White man has stolen from us. I swear that I will always try to trick a White man and any imperialist into accompanying me, strangle him, take his gun and any valuables he may be carrying. I swear that I will offer all available help and further the cause of the Mau Mau. I swear that I will kill, if necessary, anybody opposed to this organisation. I swear that I will never in any way betray a member of this organisation and I will always try to strengthen the organisation. I further swear that I will never reveal any Mau Mau secret or anything regarding this oath, either directly or indirectly, to any of the enemy. And if I don’t keep my word, MAY THIS OATH KILL ME.

On uttering this last word me another mouthful of the mixture was forced past my lips. This time it tasted even worse, but I was a changed man. The gathering and the oath, the feeling of unity and the belief in a cause awoke in me the stirrings of a new emotion: Nationalism. It was the greatest day in my life so far. The first milestone in a long and hard road—the road to freedom. The ceremony was over at about eleven p.m. We were escorted out by one of the men we had found in the small room, who had been instructed to see if, even at that early stage, there were any potential traitors. There was Kamau again, the first time I had seen him since going into the small room. He looked pleased with himself as we excitedly talked of the fight that lay ahead. Our escort left us, satisfied that none would betray the organisation.

It took some time before rumours of the secret organisation reached the ears of Kenya’s white rulers. By then many people in Central Province, realising that the African must act if he were to better his life, had taken the oath.

There were now two different types of people: members of the Mau Mau, and non-members. Simple codes were evolved to warn members of the presence of possible enemies. If a stranger entered a room during a secret discussion some one would utter the warning, There are plenty of fleas in this house, or This house is filthy. The conversation would switch to a safe subject.

For some people inveigled into taking the oath, the method, unlike my case, was not a success. My original home was at Karuthi in Nyeri District, where my mother and father still lived. One afternoon in October 1952 my mother, at fifty already an old woman, was tricked into attending an oathing ceremony. A friend told her there was liquor next door that they could drink. They went into the house. A crowd of men and women of all ages were packed into the circular room. A guard stood at the gate. Many of the people were strangers to her and had obviously travelled far. Some were bearded, with their hair long and matted. Their eyes glowed