The
beginning of this year kept me busy with travelling and attending conferences.
I had been totally un-prepared for and overwhelmed by the chain of events,
enmities and attacks that eventually led me to ask for a transfer from Kenya to
the UK. And so we decided to take a farewell trip and go westward to Uganda
before our final departure from Africa. The journey by road was laborious so we
booked a compartment on a train instead, heading to Kampala in the first week
of June. The journey lasted 15 hours and was filled with excitement, stunning
scenery and adventures.
Just after
leaving Nairobi, the train enters the Great Rift Valley, a geological
fault-line that runs through Kenya from north to south. It contains valleys,
volcanoes, hills and lakes. The train thunders downwards, as if descending from
a cliff, traversing meadows and forests, passing Lake Naivasha where a pink sea
of flamingo, deer, gazelle, zebra, buffalo, and especially rare rhino are to be
seen. The train then ascends upwards, climbing up the Kenyan Highlands until it
reaches the highest point at 9,000 feet above sea level. This was the highest
point that a locomotive ascended in the former British territories. The train
then passes through the Equator, the tourist towns of Eldorate and Kitale,
until it enters Uganda through the border post of Malaba.
The railway
track is part of the famous East African Railway system instituted by the
British colonisers, with a history of toil and suffering once the project began
in 1896 from the port city of Mombasa. I have mentioned previously that work
was halted for a short while on the project because of a man-eating lion who
took the lives of 30 labourers, mainly Indian workers, until it was shot dead
by Jim Corbit, an English hunter. The problems faced by the company building
the railway were echoed in the British Parliament when MP Henry Labouchery
poetically deemed it the lunatic line in his famous address to the Commons:
“What it
will cost, no words can express,
What is its
object, no brain can suppose.
Where it
will start from, no-one can guess,
Where it is
going, nobody knows.
What is the use
of it, no-one can conjecture,
What it will
carry, none can define.
And in spite
of George Curzon’s superior lecture,
It clearly
is naught but a lunatic line.”
The train
finally halted at Malaba, the border post for immigration checks. Soon we were
at Jinja, the town at the banks of Africa’s greatest Lake, Victoria, the source
of the White Nile, the longest river in the world. The water flows through
Uganda, Ethiopia and Sudan, where the blue Nile, emanating from Ethiopia joins
it, and then continues its protracted journey of 4,160 miles, passing through
Egypt until it drops into the Mediterranean Sea at Alexandria. Egypt is a
country of dry sand and mounds of rocks, except for the fertile areas along
both banks of the Nile. At Cairo it expands like the palm of a hand, creating
the Delta, which gives life and nourishment to many Egyptian towns and
villages.
Our final
destination was Kampala, where we were welcomed by Ahmad Madkhali and his
assistance from the Saudi Embassy. He was to be our host for the rest of our
stay in Kampala. Before I go further, let me introduce the reader to Uganda,
the pearl of Africa.
It is
incredible that Uganda is very similar in size to the United Kingdom, the
former being 241,050 sq km, and the latter being 244,109 sq km. But the United
Kingdom created the Great British Empire that colonised Uganda in 1894 and
ruled it until 9 October 1962, the year of its independence. Our visit was
during the rule of Idi Amin, the famous Muslim general who took control of the
country after a military coup on 25 January 1971 and ousted Milton Obote. It is
a land of evergreen beauty and freshwater lakes, and shares Lake Victoria with
Kenya and Tanzania.
Uganda
borders Congo through the dense jungles of the Rwenzori mountains, also known
as the mountains of the moon. Mount Stanley has the highest summit and stands
tall at 16,762 feet above sea level. The land is rich with food and fruit, the
jungles harbour wildlife, and the lakes carry hippo and crocodile. Lake
Victoria is said to be the largest freshwater lake in the world, next only to
Lake Superior in north America. 84% of the population of Uganda is Christian
and 14% is Muslim. The name of the country is derived from the old kingdom of
Buganda. The equator passes through Entebbe, the airport town for the capital
city of Kampala.
My old
colleagues Sirajur Rahman Nadawi, Muhammad Tariq and their families escorted us
during our holiday. The former managed a great educational seminary in Kampala
and we were fortunate to visit this during our stay. One of the first places we
visited was an area of hot water springs; I do not recall the name exactly but
it may have been Sempaya hot water spring in Semuliki National Park. The area
was full of bubbling hot springs, some small and some very large. Some of the
locals were cooking dinner for the evening. Eggs were pushed into the spring,
to emerge boiled. One lady wrapped bananas in large leaves and cooked these in
the spring.
We spent the
night in a holiday lodge. The river near us was teeming with hippo and
crocodile, two animals that invoke feelings of amazement at their majesty as
well as dread at their fearsomeness. It was during the evening that the
shouting of the children made us run outside the hotel. The children of our
party had been playing near the pool when a baby elephant lifted one of them up
with its trunk. The hysterical screaming of the children brought running the
hotel wardens, who used their sticks to persuade the elephant to put the child
gently on the ground.
My friend
Ahmad Madkhali, the head of the Saudi Da’wa delegates in East Africa, was kind
enough to arrange a fantastic trip for us to the Rwenzuri mountains on the edge
of the country’s border with Congo. We drove in his two cars, a Mercedes and a
Range Rover, to this majestic area. The drive took us off a tarmacked road and
into a narrow and muddy track. As the cars jolted on this uneven and broken
path, we found our way blocked by a large van. The wheels of the heavy van were
stuck fast in the mud and no matter how hard the driver tried to accelerate,
the wheels simply spun and sunk deeper into the mire. The van was blocking the
path of many cars, trucks and buses, and their occupants all tried to push the incalcitrant
van forward but to no avail. Sheikh Madkhali jumped out of his car with
alacrity, found a long metal cable, and tied one end to the front rod of the
van, and the other was hooked to the back of his Range Rover. He then heaved
his car forward with roars and ghastly screeches, but slowly and surely, his
car pulled the van out of its muddy misery. The long queue of waiting vehicles
sighed with relief at this sudden rescue.
During the
long drive we drove into the territory of a number of pygmy tribes. Some of
them were selling brightly coloured handicrafts by the road, and we stopped to
purchase them from one stall. As was the custom in the area, we haggled and
bargained for a better price, but the seller was stubborn and we left without
accepting his price. As we continued with the drive along the winding road, we
were astounded to find the same seller waiting at a bend in the road. He wished
to continue with the bargaining, but we were spellbound at his sight. How on
earth had he appeared ahead of us after a long drive? We wondered if he were a
jinn who had flown ahead. Our African driver laughed at our suggestion and
explained that while we had driven along a winding path, the pygmy had run in a
straight line through the forest and so had appeared ahead of us. Our
bargaining was concluded successfully and we left with our souvenirs.
Sheikh Ahmad
Madkhali was aware that I was leaving soon for the UK and he was keen to change
my mind and advised instead that I move to Uganda. The situation in Nairobi was
dangerous for my family so I was keen to leave the continent quickly. My
passport shows a large stamp from the Saudi Consulate in Kampala, dated 7 June
1976, allowing me to visit Saudi Arabia en route to London.
Soon we
boarded our train for the return journey of 400 miles, back to Nairobi. And
then it was a frenzy of packing, farewells to friends, colleagues and students,
and attending farewell functions and gatherings. During my nine years as a
humble teacher of Arabic and Islamic teachings according to the Salafi
tradition, I had roused the ire of some Asians in the community. Much of my
work was in building and running a school called Mungano Madrassa Riyadha
Islamiyya in the Pumwani (or Majengo) district of Nairobi. The man who led the
battle against my teachings was the head of a goldsmith (sunara) family. He
disliked me intensely because of my Aqida (creed) and because I had loudly
opposed the religious innovations that the community practised. Many run-ins
took place with this sunara family. On one occasion, I returned home from a
long day of teaching to find that his son had verbally abused my wife while she
was teaching children in a large room near our home. Our families lived behind
the Pangani mosque and our children had been playing together when an argument
must have taken place. I was deeply upset by the news and rushed to the
sunara’s house. A loud row broke out and may well have turned into a physical
fight. But we were separated by my dear friend and neighbour Muhammad Luqman
and by our Imam, Izhar Ahmad Qasimi (who was the father of Imam Qasim, the
founder of Islam Channel in London).
I then walked
to the Mosque to pray Isha Prayer and was sitting there when I was informed
that a policeman was waiting to speak to me. The sunara’s son had made a
complaint against me, but after a short conversation, the policeman realised
there was little substance to the complaint and departed. But the sunara was
not satisfied and took further action while I was away for my tour of West
Africa and Noakchout. Muhammad Luqman was my very dear neighbour, living close
by with his wife and three sons. He and his wife were always ready to offer any
help or advice that we needed. Four of my children were born in Nairobi, and
his wife would look after my children and provide hot soup for my wife whenever
she was in hospital. Their friendship was deeply valued by my family. One
afternoon, his wife was alone at home with two servants when three Africans
knocked at her door. As soon as she opened the door, she was attacked
violently, bound and gagged with a piece of cloth inserted into her mouth. She
sustained severe injuries due to the beating. The servants were also bound and
gagged. The men then ransacked the house, taking cash and jewellery. My wife
heard the screams of the maid after their departure and rushed to help. The
bravery of the lady was such that she asked my wife why she was sobbing so
uncontrollably, as if nothing vile had taken place. The police were called but
were unable to make any progress on the case. The mystery of the crime was
never solved. I wonder if it was a case of mistaken identity, and that my home
was the real target of the crime. Or that the Luqman family was targeted as a
warning to anyone who supported my cause. These questions will have to wait to
be answered on the day when all secrets will be revealed.
Only a night
or two before my departure from Kenya, I saw an extraordinary dream that I will
never forget. I dreamed that I was travelling in a car with my wife and
children. As I drove along the road, an immense and terrifying python appeared
ahead, its huge, twirling body blocking my path, its vicious face with long
fangs staring at us. I pushed the accelerator down with full force and drove
into the beast. The whirling wheels of the car struck it hard and shattered it
to pieces, allowing us to escape. Alhamdulillah.
This dream
came true only a couple of days later. We were leaving Nairobi on 19 July 1976
and a number of friends and colleagues were at the airport to bid us farewell.
The departure should have been as easy as all my previous travels, but it was
not to be. The officials seemed to take an inordinate interest in my luggage
and plans, asking repeated questions, and examining everything in minute
detail. Our luggage was spread everywhere as each tiny thing was examined. I
was at a loss at this disturbance, as all my papers were in order, and I was
carrying only the cash that was permitted. But the search continued, until my
wife’s sewing machine was left. This had been packed carefully in bubble-wrap
before being put in a box and tied with string. The official stepped forward to
open it, but my wife thundered at him angrily: “if you open it, make sure you
wrap it exactly as you found it!” The
commotion brought a senior officer who permitted us to leave without further
delay. Soon we were in the Pakistan International Airways aircraft, bound for
Jeddah airport. As we buckled our belts, the man behind our difficulties
appeared on the plane. It was the eldest son of the sunara family. This man’s
father had targeted me from my earliest days in Nairobi, a man who could not
tolerate my salafi teachings, a man who tried to use the Eastleigh Masjid
incident to instigate proceedings against me. This man was clearly not
travelling, yet he was on the plane against all protocol, was gesticulating
towards me while talking to some officials, and was surveying the length and
breadth of the aircraft in apparent fury. I could not fathom the machinations
of this man. Was he trying his final plans while I still remained on Kenyan
soil?
He finally
left the plane and we breathed in relief. As the plane took off and flew into
the sky, I looked down at the plains of the country and thought about my last
nine years in this beautiful land. I came to this country while in my mid-twenties,
with a young wife and a little daughter. Today I was leaving, in my
mid-thirties, with another three sons and daughter. My sons Wohaib, Mohammad
and Usama, and my youngest daughter Hafsa, were all born in Nairobi. I had
arrived in Kenya after graduating from Madina, my head full of theoretical
knowledge. Today I was leaving with mountains of experience in teaching and the
field of Da’wa. I had met and worked with so many people, from so many fields
of life, all of whom had left their imprints on my life. I had worked with
colleagues in the field of Da’wa in both Kenya and Uganda, built close
friendships with them, benefitted from their experiences and advice, and shared
with them both moments of joy and sorrow.
I had come
to know and love a new land. The most glorious days of my life were spent in
Kenya, a land of splendid weather, gorgeous sunshine, cool breeze and gentle
rain. As a young man in the prime of youth, I had enjoyed adventure and travel.
My family and I had explored jungles and valleys, visited remote villages, met
ancient African tribes and learned of their customs, and enjoyed some of the
most breath-taking scenery on this amazing earth.
Nairobi had
been my base for nine years, and from this I had travelled for work and
pleasure to the southern and western points of this great continent. I know
more about Africa than any other continent. I learned to speak Ki-Swahili, and
read the history of Africa, especially its colonial past and quest for freedom.
English was also widely spoken, so I was able to keep up with my knowledge of
English as well. The reader should remember that my mother tongues are Urdu and
Arabic.
As an Asian,
I felt a close connection with the people of Indian and Pakistani extraction,
as well as with the Arabs of Hadhramaut and Yemen who lived in Africa. I
learned of their efforts to establish Mosques, Madrassahs and to spread the
light of Islam wherever they lived. Their contributions to spreading the
teachings of Islam were always a source of inspiration for me.
In Kenya I
began my career as a teacher, as a Daee ilallah. داعى
الى الله
It was in
Nairobi that I first delivered the khutbah of Jummah prayer, something that has
been a cornerstone of my life.
I stand in
humility, praising my Creator, my Lord, Allah Almighty, for all His numerous
blessings and favours that He has conferred on me and my family.
We landed
safely at Jeddah airport, received by my elder brother Shoaib Hasan, an
engineer who worked for Saudia Airlines. After performing Umrah, we travelled
to Madina to spend a week with my parents and my siblings. We visited the great
Mosque of the Prophet (peace and blessings be upon him), and then my teachers
and Sheikhs at the university. It was a wonderful reunion before I began a new
chapter in my life in London, leaving Jeddah on 29 July 1976.
A pleasant
and happy chapter in my life had closed and new doors were beckoning.
And with Allah remain all matters, their beginning and their end. Upon Him is my trust and from Him comes all ability and strength.
ربنا عليك توكلنا واليك انبنا واليك المصير
O Lord! In You alone we put our trust, to You alone we turn in repentance, and to You alone is our final return.
(Written in
the morning of Thursday 11 February 2021, at my house in Leyton, London, during
the Covid-19 pandemic).
