"The first true step toward independence," says Kenyatta.
"But our men were slaughtered. We did not kill a single white man."
"If you had killed ten of them, it would make no difference," replies Kenyatta. "There are fifty million more where they came from." He paused. "Listen carefully, and do exactly as I say. After darkness falls, take five men that you trust to Gura."
"And bring back the bodies?" asks General Tibet.
Kenyatta shakes his head. "No. Arm them with sharp pangas, and when you arrive, cut the arms and legs from the bodies."
"We cannot do this!" protests General Tibet. "They are Kikuyu, not British!"
"They are dead. They will not mind." Kenyatta stares at him. "If you cannot do this, tell me now, and I will get someone who can."
"I will do it," said General Tibet, frowning. "But I do not know why I am doing it."
"Trust me, and it will all become clear," says Kenyatta.
General Tibet leaves, and Kenyatta turns to an aide. "Bring them to me now."
Four white men and two white women, all blindfolded, are ushered into Kenyatta's presence.
"You may remove your blindfolds now," says Kenyatta in English.
They do so.
"Well, I'll be damned!" mutters one of them. "So the rumors are true!"
Kenyatta surveys them. The reporters and photographers from the New York Times, Newsweek, the Chicago Daily News, two more from the British tabloids, and a documentary filmmaker.
"Welcome to Kikuyuland," says Kenyatta at last. "I apologize for the blindfolds, but I'm sure you understand why they were necessary."
"Okay, we're here," says one of the Americans. "Now what?"
"I promised you exclusive interviews when my emissary made secret contact with you, and you shall have them," answers Kenyatta. "I will give each of you half an hour. Then we will have dinner, and you will spend the night. Tomorrow morning you will be taken to observe the battlefield, such as it is." He pauses. "You are free to wander around my camp here, but please do not take any photographs that might help the British to identify our location. Also, do not overexert yourselves until you have adjusted to the altitude. I do not want the British reporting that we kill journalists."
One by one, Kenyatta gives his interviews. He is the voice of reason, only too happy to cease the hostilities if the British would stop slaughtering his people and give them back their country.
While the journalists are fed their dinner, Kenyatta retires to his cave to catch up on the day's news. His spies have little to report: the British seem to have melted into the forests and vanished. They are getting to know the Aberdares and the holy mountain as well as the Kikuyu themselves do.
"We have killed no British today?" asks Kenyatta.
"We have not killed any this week, Burning Spear," says an aide.
"Just as well. When it has been dark for three hours, and the journalists are all asleep, take two men out with you. Find a clearing within a mile of here, and dig three shallow graves. Then fill them in, and put a cross at the head of each."
"But we have no one to bury in them," says the aide, puzzled.
Kenyatta smiles. "I won't tell them if you don't."
"I do not understand any of this," says Deedan Kimathi, and for the first time Kenyatta sees that his second-in-command is sitting at the back of the cave.
"You will."
"Why do you allow these journalists to see our camp?" persists Kimathi. "Even if they take no photographs, they will remember enough landmarks to lead the British to this very cave."
"But they won't," says Kenyatta.
"How do you know?" demands Kimathi.
"Because I have lived among the white man and you haven't. I know it is difficult for you to believe, but there is an entire segment of white men who are predisposed to believe only the worst of their own race and only the best of ours, and these journalists represent the publications that they read, that mold their opinions. When they see the mutilated bodies of our men in the morning, they will not ask who mutilated them; they will assume it was the British, because they have been taught to assume that their own race is morally flawed. And when they see the graves with the crosses, they will not dig them up to see if British soldiers are really buried there. They will see that we treat their dead with respect, that we mark their graves with the cross of the Christians, and they will never doubt the evidence of their eyes."
"But this is foolish!" says Kimathi. "I would not believe it!"
"You are not a white journalist who is searching for a story that fits his prejudices," said Kenyatta.
Within a week, the photos of the limbless Kikuyu corpses have appeared in every major newspaper and magazine in the Western world. Three Pulitzer Prizes are eventually awarded for photos and articles cataloging the descent of well-trained British soldiers into total savagery.
Kenyatta has chewed the qat leaves for two hours. He feels his consciousness slipping away. It is almost as if he has broken free of his old, weakened body, and is looking down on it from a great height.
"You are sure, Burning Spear?" asks the mundumugu, the witch doctor.
"I am sure."
"If I hear you cry out, I will stop."
"If you stop, I will order you put to death," says Kenyatta placidly. The mundumugu cannot tell if it is the Burning Spear speaking, or the qat leaves.
Five minutes later Kenyatta is so far gone into his trancelike state that he can no longer respond to questions. The mundumugu rolls him onto his belly and picks up the leather whip.
"May Ngai forgive me," he mutters as he brings the whip down on the old man's back. Tears roll down his face as he whips the man he worships again and again.
"I was treated fairly by my captors," Kenyatta is saying to four British journalists.
"That's not the way I heard it," replies one of the journalists.
"I have never said otherwise," protests Kenyatta.
"But a couple of your men say we tortured you."
"You are British," says Kenyatta. "Would you torture a middle-aged man who did not have the power to do you any harm?"
"No… but I'm not in the military."
"I have no complaints about my treatment."
"They never beat you?" persists another journalist, whose face practically begs him to contradict her.
"If they did, I'm sure they had their reasons."
"Then they did beat you!"
"You are putting words in my mouth," says Kenyatta. "If I were beaten, then surely I would bear the scars." He spreads his arms out. "Can you see any?"
"Would you take your shirt off?"
"Are you calling me a liar?" asks Kenyatta with no show of anger.
"No, sir," answered the journalist quickly. "But I would like to report to my readers that I have seen you shirtless and that you bear no scars."
"And then what?" asks Kenyatta with an amused smile. "Will you ask me to remove my pants as well?"
"No," says the journalist, returning his smile. "I'm sure just the shirt will be enough."
"As you wish," says Kenyatta, getting to his feet and starting to fumble with his shirt. "But I want you all to remember that I told you I have no complaints about my treatment at the hands of the British. I bear them no malice. The day will come when England will be Kenya's greatest friend and ally."