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I wish I could explain to Joseph, a descendant of those people, that that world was not of my devising. But I fear I already sound too earnest.
    That was a sad day in my life.
    Out with your karatasi, your tax receipts! Show your work permits, or you have explaining to do before you go back to Kikuyuland. Hiti! Fisi! Hyenas! Chop-chop!
    Two men who had foolishly made a dash for it when the police arrived had been chased and captured and now, thoroughly dishevelled, were shoved brutally by CorporalBoniface into the ragged line of Africans awaiting inspection.
    The entire population of our four blocks of flats was now outside, it seemed, at the back stoops or in the yards, eyes fixed on the policemen; only Njoroge was nowhere in sight, as if the earth had swallowed him up. Where had he gone and hidden himself? He was always afraid of being caught and sent away. Suppose he was discovered now? Askaris were searching the interiors of the servant quarters, emerging now and again with whatever they found suggestive of possible Mau Mau ritual to show to their superiors. An ebony walking stick, a banana leaf, a newspaper with a picture of Jomo Kenyatta on the front, a sheepskin-covered Bible, a bicycle pump, a half-eaten joint of beef in a porcelain bowl. A drunk was dragged out and pushed into the line, given a couple of slaps. No Njoroge, yet. Beside me, Mahesh Uncle was muttering a stream of invectives in Punjabi—badmash salé…kaminé…neech…kambakht log…bastards—and my mother told him a few times to control himself.
    One of the two English officers was coming by the houses with an askari, chatting up the Asian residents, peeping discreetly inside their homes. He was a man of compact build, with fine features under his peaked cap, and held a swagger stick behind his back. He looked friendly yet menacing, and beamed a smile as he approached us.
    How are you, kem-ché, namaskar, salaam—you can never be too careful with the terrorists, this is for the safety of you and yours. Remember, even the most trusted boy can turn against you with a panga (makes a chopping gesture with a hand) if he has taken the Mau Mau oath, so you must report anything suspicious. Don’t hire Kikuyu. Safeguard your guns, get proper training in shooting, even the women, yes, you too, madam, and you, sir, have you installed your alarm…
    Yes, sir, Lieutenant Soames, Papa said, you can never be too careful. Of course I have taken shooting lessons, I do the Home Guard patrols in this area, and it’s a good thing you’re keeping an eye on the blacks…

    The man was at the back window of the house, peeping inside with curiosity as Mother drew a sharp breath, and he spoke softly, How are you, little girl, missing out on all the excitement, are we? What’s your name?
    She was asleep, explained Mother anxiously. My daughter—Deepa. She must have woken up just now.
    Just then an uproar began outside the third house from ours, as Corporal Boniface and the second European officer staggered from the back door, pushing out someone who, though dark as an African, was known to most people in Nakuru as Saeed Molabux, nicknamed Madrassi and the son of a pre-eminent Nakuru family. He was thrown violently on the ground. He shouted something defiantly at the officer, the herded crowd of servants stirred into a collective murmur. Provoked, the officer, the corporal, and other askaris converged on Saeed, raining rifle butts and kicks on his back as his body curled up on the ground like a worm and he tried to shield his head with his raised elbows. Behind, at the doorway of the house, his mother Sakina-dadi, my dadi, and his sister Amina were all shouting incomprehensibly.
    A furious Mahesh Uncle, Saeed’s friend, charged forward bull-like, shouting, He’s Juma Molabux’s son, don’t you know that? Stop or I’m calling his lawyer Mr. Kapila in Nairobi, right now !
    Wisely, my uncle halted halfway, before reaching the policemen, and a glaring match ensued.
    The