A Ship Of A Different Sort [1/1]
Title: A Ship Of A Different Sort
Series: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Kenya, England
Rating: PG13
Date: Written today-ish
Status: one-shot; de-anoning from hetalia_kink
And So... A rough outline of Kenya's past as a colony of the British Empire. Stops after the Mau Mau rebellion.
Notes: I'm disgustingly under educated in African history that isn't Kemet, so I had to do a bit of research for this. Just the same, please forgive me for any discrepancies. Original request is here if you need to see it for anything. Also, I'm aware the name 'Kenya' isn't entirely accurate throughout this, but I'm sticking to it for clarity's sake.
Kenya loved all of her lands, but her fondest and worst memories were of the coast. Back then, there wasn't a definite line; what was hers could have equally belonged to her brothers and sisters, but the coast, ah! That had definitely been hers. The coast invited many visitors, coming to her by sail and ship. The first had been that great man with a scarf around his head--Persia, he'd called himself--and broad shoulders that seemed to block the sun. His people came to her shores and that was okay; together they'd worked iron into glittering, deadly shapes and fished together without much trouble. Eventually she'd learned how to build beautiful ships and ports, and her fondness for her coast grew even more. Mombassa was her jewel--Persia had praised her for it--and through Mombassa she had met far-flung neighbors; India with her long, beautiful hair and Yemen with his piercing eyes. It was difficult, at first, but she'd gotten used to their strange words and thanked them for their ivory in their own tongue. As it probably is for all nations, she felt herself growing, herself expanding in both body and mind. But she stayed by the coast, watching with delight as merchants and explorers came to her shores, entranced with Kenya.
A ship of a different sort appeared one day on the horizon, and she's somewhat ashamed to say that there was no shiver down her spine, no ache in her head as it appeared. It came to Kenya, and as the men stepped out onto her shoreline with great curiosity in their eyes, one man sauntered up to her without hesitation. He was Portugal, he informed her; did she know of him? Kenya frowned; she didn't, but it was safe to assume he was from very far away. She asked what his people had to offer in the form of trade, as she did with most of the nations who met her on the beach. Portugal had laughed and invited her to a meal on the ship--she was quite keen to look at it, take note of its shape and structure in her mind--and they'd talked of much that night. Trade had been cut off, it seemed, from Portugal to nations in the Far East by a man called the Ottoman Empire, and Portugal was just enthralled, really, to have discovered a new way to reach his trading partners by sea. It was his plan to control the ocean here, and the trade between Europe in Asia. He'd said it with such confidence and certainty that Kenya had nodded a moment before the chill finally took her. No one had boasted like this man, and at times throughout their meal Kenya got the distinct impression he was staring right through her.
He'd built a fort some years later in Mombassa--her beautiful Mombassa!--and it invited trouble to her horizon. More ships of a different sort appeared. England, Holland and others arrived, following Portugal like a mad dog on the scent of prey. When they came to her beaches, they'd walk past her--that had been the worst part--and went right for Portugal tooth and nail. Like she, Kenya, did not even exist. Eventually Portugal left, claiming her to be of no worth any longer. While she had been happy to see him go, being called worthless was a less than pleasing parting on her behalf.
Even though Portugal left, her coast was not her coast anymore. Men from the east came, took her people aboard ships, and Kenya had all manners of headaches, nightmares and shortness of breath as her people were wrenched away from her. She was in her house on the floor, gasping for breath--she could hear the screams, feel the anguish--when he appeared. Kenya looked up at green eyes and a pale face; it was England, who had walked past her before. Suddenly he was looking at her, acknowledging her, but this brought Kenya no comfort. The first words he ever said to her were: "Do you wish for me to make it stop?" His even, cool voice made Kenya shudder. Yes, of course she wanted it to stop! Of course she wanted to keep her children to herself, protect them at any cost! "I can help you," he'd said, smiling--she wondered if he knew he wasn't very good at it--and continuing: "For a price."
What price wouldn't she pay to make it stop?
And then suddenly, it did stop. England made it stop, whether it be by sheer power of force, foreign diplomacy or the old magic he reeked of Kenya could not say.
She'd gone to thank him--because even though he reminded her of bad, terrible things that crawled up from the depths of darkness, England had kept his promise--and before the words could even leave her mouth he'd said; "Now what can you give to me?" Kenya frowned. Well, what do you want? He had never actually said; she had iron, bounties of fish, ports to shelter him from storms--England cut her off. "I want your labor. I want you to work for me, and then whatever product you make becomes mine." Her frown deepened; how is that any different from--? "From slavery?" England's lip curled at the very mention of the word; it was un-Christian, as he liked to say, though Kenya had little patience for the missionaries he assailed her with. "You will sell me your labor for a contracted amount of time, and you will be paid." Kenya waited for him to ask her thoughts on this, but he didn't; green eyes just stared at her, stretching out the silence. It was at that point she knew she had no say in the matter, not anymore.
"I want a railroad," he said, flicking a speck from his red captain's coat sleeve. "To Lake Victoria--" and here Kenya tried not to roll her eyes at the Europeans and their ridiculous penchant for naming things that already had names damn it--"and Uganda. You will do this for me." And that was that.
The British Navy was often docked in her ports, their crisp white sails dancing in the breeze. As much as she came to loathe England, she could not loathe his beautiful ships. With their masts looming over her, Kenya built England his railroad to her sister Uganda in the west. She did not want to--her people did not want to--but somehow Kenya could not refuse. He held a power over her now, and she swore she could feel phantom ropes chaffing at her wrists and neck. She saw her old friend India again at the railroad, and the beautiful woman had only smiled sadly at her and said nothing. Kenya suspected she too felt the ropes about her own body.
Before the railroad, the only way she had been able to visit Uganda was by wagon, so Kenya could not help but be a little bit pleased at the thought that she could now see her sister with much less hassle. She'd mentioned such to England on one occasion when he was actually around, and he'd only glanced at her like she had six heads. Kenya could only assume England was not on pleasant terms with his own relatives. "Well, when and if you see your sister, remind her to start clearing room." Room for what? "For the farmers." Kenya frowned; their farmers already had plenty of room. England had pinched the bridge of his nose; "The English farmers, for God's sake, the English farmers." Kenya stared at him and wondered if they were running out of room in England's home, but something dark in the back of her brain told her: No. It's not that. It's not that at all.
A birthmark of sorts appeared on her shoulder after the railroad was completed, though in places it was more akin to scar. People--her people--had been killed over this. Assassinated. With drink on his breath, England grazed the scar with the backs of his knuckles the day she'd shown it to him. "But the railroad will connect you to your lovely coast; isn't the greater good worth a tiny scar?" It was by sheer will alone that Kenya kept the bile in the back of her throat.
England's farmers came in droves to her shores. They took her land without her permission, without her consent, and pushed her children off to the side like nothing more than garbage. She wanted to scream. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to return to days when her coast was her own and the ships familiar at her ports. When England gave her the blue flag with her lion and his Union Jack on it she would have chocked him with it given half the chance. As such he held too many of her people in the palm of his hand and before her eyes Kenya suddenly became a colony; she was British East Africa and she was shaken.
For years she watched her people pushed to the side--and she would have gladly accepted the settlers, except they didn't even want to accept her!--and disregarded as something sub-human. Her people were impoverished, pushed from their lands, and angered. Kenya, in her darkest moments when the ropes were at their tightest, thought that perhaps they could not be blamed. After all, as a colony, she was sub-nation. And then she would smell the sea air coming from off her coast; she would remember Persia before he'd died, India when she still smiled like she meant it, and the joy of seeing her own ships in her own ports. And Kenya would be Kenya again, British East Africa be damned.
There was one day when she awoke, and this feeling was so strong, so certain that it filled her with a sweet ambrosia. Something had just clicked, and for some reason the ropes felt a little looser. Her feet led her to the highlands--and she didn't know why, because she'd never felt this way before--and what she encountered there made her heart swell. There was such anger, but there was a righteous feeling here; she felt whole. She felt like a nation.
England scoffed at her--and her people by proxy. But Kenya smiled and told him that she had taken an oath with her people to break his rule, and if she broke that oath may she be destroyed on the spot. She would disobey, she would fight, she would defend her children. And even if she did not defeat him, at least she could spit in his face just once. The strangest thing happened; a wary look crossed those damn green eyes, green eyes that had seen old magic and the power of oaths more than once. A part of England was afraid of Kenya, and perhaps had always been fearful of this 'dark continent'.
Kenya knew it would not happen over night, and there would be lives lost. She sat with the workers--tens of thousands of them--as they refused to budge, refused to support England any longer. She could feel the eyes of her brothers and sisters upon her, watching, waiting. She sat in the prisons with those who were arrested for their resistance, and when England came to haul her out--how embarrassing to have a colony misbehaving so!--she could not help but grin at the weary strains on his face. She warned him, the longer this dragged out, the more chance of violence peeked at the surface. England dug his nails into her dark skin without saying a word.
She went to the secret meetings, saw the grim looks on her peoples' faces and knew the hammer would fall soon. Houses were burned, people killed; Kenya bit her lip. Still England would not budge. She had given him plenty of chances. Plenty of opportunities to right his wrongs; he was out of time and he knew it. His troops swarmed her cities, his government declared a years-long state of emergency. Years-long! And still the stubborn bastard would not let go. She could feel the ropes loosen; it would be ecstasy to finally have the phantom things gone for good.
Kenya made note of all the innocents his soldiers were killing; couldn't he at least try to tell people apart before he shot them? England scoffed. She raised an eyebrow, eyes cold and asked if he too was keeping score of how many people he killed. England bristled; "That is a practice forbidden by the General Officer Commanding and the troops have been issued a stern warning." Kenya told England that he and his 'stern warning' could go to hell. And that was when she declared war.
It hurt to admit that it had, perhaps, been a bit hasty; they had few modern weapons and operated in guerilla units, though a machete felt solid and true in her hand--for the time being. That weight was the only thing she could trust in, sometimes, when the soldiers killed people who were just as much a part of her but with different sympathies. Kenya swallowed harshly, ignored the sting as her people slowly divided against themselves by England's doing as much as her own. Something, somewhere, had gone wrong; women, children burned. She didn't want that. She just wanted England out out OUT and had a hard time believing the soldiers when they professed this was the only way. Finally she dropped the machete and left, unsure of which way was up or down. She walked back to the coast, avoiding the railroad, the line of sea the only thing that comforted her anymore. The phantom ropes were pulling her one way and the other, like ropes can pull a ship's mast to splinter and break in two. When England finally caught up--beat her, soundly--she had nothing to say. This wasn't how things were supposed to be, and she appreciated that he had for once kept his mouth shut as well.
The labor camp is a dark spot on Kenya's memory. She cannot remember it and, usually, has no desire to. She has a scar across her belly, one she can't quite recall getting in consciousness. It has not faded, so it must be symbolic, perhaps of the divide that came between her children. Kenya keeps it hidden as best she can.
England came to her again, told her of the concessions won even though she had lost the war. He looked down his nose at her, letting the document fall to her feet. "So, what it comes down to is this: I can either waste a fortune fighting you, a fortune that will never be made up to me by my farmers who contribute little to my Empire compared to the debt you've dug me into. Or, I can hope that some of these concessions will make your lot peaceful and not cost me an arm and leg. Clearly I've chosen the latter option. Aren't you happy?"
Kenya only stared at him; do I look happy?
A moment passed before England replied: "You look like shit." And then he left, for the last time.
Series: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Kenya, England
Rating: PG13
Date: Written today-ish
Status: one-shot; de-anoning from hetalia_kink
And So... A rough outline of Kenya's past as a colony of the British Empire. Stops after the Mau Mau rebellion.
Notes: I'm disgustingly under educated in African history that isn't Kemet, so I had to do a bit of research for this. Just the same, please forgive me for any discrepancies. Original request is here if you need to see it for anything. Also, I'm aware the name 'Kenya' isn't entirely accurate throughout this, but I'm sticking to it for clarity's sake.
Kenya loved all of her lands, but her fondest and worst memories were of the coast. Back then, there wasn't a definite line; what was hers could have equally belonged to her brothers and sisters, but the coast, ah! That had definitely been hers. The coast invited many visitors, coming to her by sail and ship. The first had been that great man with a scarf around his head--Persia, he'd called himself--and broad shoulders that seemed to block the sun. His people came to her shores and that was okay; together they'd worked iron into glittering, deadly shapes and fished together without much trouble. Eventually she'd learned how to build beautiful ships and ports, and her fondness for her coast grew even more. Mombassa was her jewel--Persia had praised her for it--and through Mombassa she had met far-flung neighbors; India with her long, beautiful hair and Yemen with his piercing eyes. It was difficult, at first, but she'd gotten used to their strange words and thanked them for their ivory in their own tongue. As it probably is for all nations, she felt herself growing, herself expanding in both body and mind. But she stayed by the coast, watching with delight as merchants and explorers came to her shores, entranced with Kenya.
A ship of a different sort appeared one day on the horizon, and she's somewhat ashamed to say that there was no shiver down her spine, no ache in her head as it appeared. It came to Kenya, and as the men stepped out onto her shoreline with great curiosity in their eyes, one man sauntered up to her without hesitation. He was Portugal, he informed her; did she know of him? Kenya frowned; she didn't, but it was safe to assume he was from very far away. She asked what his people had to offer in the form of trade, as she did with most of the nations who met her on the beach. Portugal had laughed and invited her to a meal on the ship--she was quite keen to look at it, take note of its shape and structure in her mind--and they'd talked of much that night. Trade had been cut off, it seemed, from Portugal to nations in the Far East by a man called the Ottoman Empire, and Portugal was just enthralled, really, to have discovered a new way to reach his trading partners by sea. It was his plan to control the ocean here, and the trade between Europe in Asia. He'd said it with such confidence and certainty that Kenya had nodded a moment before the chill finally took her. No one had boasted like this man, and at times throughout their meal Kenya got the distinct impression he was staring right through her.
He'd built a fort some years later in Mombassa--her beautiful Mombassa!--and it invited trouble to her horizon. More ships of a different sort appeared. England, Holland and others arrived, following Portugal like a mad dog on the scent of prey. When they came to her beaches, they'd walk past her--that had been the worst part--and went right for Portugal tooth and nail. Like she, Kenya, did not even exist. Eventually Portugal left, claiming her to be of no worth any longer. While she had been happy to see him go, being called worthless was a less than pleasing parting on her behalf.
Even though Portugal left, her coast was not her coast anymore. Men from the east came, took her people aboard ships, and Kenya had all manners of headaches, nightmares and shortness of breath as her people were wrenched away from her. She was in her house on the floor, gasping for breath--she could hear the screams, feel the anguish--when he appeared. Kenya looked up at green eyes and a pale face; it was England, who had walked past her before. Suddenly he was looking at her, acknowledging her, but this brought Kenya no comfort. The first words he ever said to her were: "Do you wish for me to make it stop?" His even, cool voice made Kenya shudder. Yes, of course she wanted it to stop! Of course she wanted to keep her children to herself, protect them at any cost! "I can help you," he'd said, smiling--she wondered if he knew he wasn't very good at it--and continuing: "For a price."
What price wouldn't she pay to make it stop?
And then suddenly, it did stop. England made it stop, whether it be by sheer power of force, foreign diplomacy or the old magic he reeked of Kenya could not say.
She'd gone to thank him--because even though he reminded her of bad, terrible things that crawled up from the depths of darkness, England had kept his promise--and before the words could even leave her mouth he'd said; "Now what can you give to me?" Kenya frowned. Well, what do you want? He had never actually said; she had iron, bounties of fish, ports to shelter him from storms--England cut her off. "I want your labor. I want you to work for me, and then whatever product you make becomes mine." Her frown deepened; how is that any different from--? "From slavery?" England's lip curled at the very mention of the word; it was un-Christian, as he liked to say, though Kenya had little patience for the missionaries he assailed her with. "You will sell me your labor for a contracted amount of time, and you will be paid." Kenya waited for him to ask her thoughts on this, but he didn't; green eyes just stared at her, stretching out the silence. It was at that point she knew she had no say in the matter, not anymore.
"I want a railroad," he said, flicking a speck from his red captain's coat sleeve. "To Lake Victoria--" and here Kenya tried not to roll her eyes at the Europeans and their ridiculous penchant for naming things that already had names damn it--"and Uganda. You will do this for me." And that was that.
The British Navy was often docked in her ports, their crisp white sails dancing in the breeze. As much as she came to loathe England, she could not loathe his beautiful ships. With their masts looming over her, Kenya built England his railroad to her sister Uganda in the west. She did not want to--her people did not want to--but somehow Kenya could not refuse. He held a power over her now, and she swore she could feel phantom ropes chaffing at her wrists and neck. She saw her old friend India again at the railroad, and the beautiful woman had only smiled sadly at her and said nothing. Kenya suspected she too felt the ropes about her own body.
Before the railroad, the only way she had been able to visit Uganda was by wagon, so Kenya could not help but be a little bit pleased at the thought that she could now see her sister with much less hassle. She'd mentioned such to England on one occasion when he was actually around, and he'd only glanced at her like she had six heads. Kenya could only assume England was not on pleasant terms with his own relatives. "Well, when and if you see your sister, remind her to start clearing room." Room for what? "For the farmers." Kenya frowned; their farmers already had plenty of room. England had pinched the bridge of his nose; "The English farmers, for God's sake, the English farmers." Kenya stared at him and wondered if they were running out of room in England's home, but something dark in the back of her brain told her: No. It's not that. It's not that at all.
A birthmark of sorts appeared on her shoulder after the railroad was completed, though in places it was more akin to scar. People--her people--had been killed over this. Assassinated. With drink on his breath, England grazed the scar with the backs of his knuckles the day she'd shown it to him. "But the railroad will connect you to your lovely coast; isn't the greater good worth a tiny scar?" It was by sheer will alone that Kenya kept the bile in the back of her throat.
England's farmers came in droves to her shores. They took her land without her permission, without her consent, and pushed her children off to the side like nothing more than garbage. She wanted to scream. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to return to days when her coast was her own and the ships familiar at her ports. When England gave her the blue flag with her lion and his Union Jack on it she would have chocked him with it given half the chance. As such he held too many of her people in the palm of his hand and before her eyes Kenya suddenly became a colony; she was British East Africa and she was shaken.
For years she watched her people pushed to the side--and she would have gladly accepted the settlers, except they didn't even want to accept her!--and disregarded as something sub-human. Her people were impoverished, pushed from their lands, and angered. Kenya, in her darkest moments when the ropes were at their tightest, thought that perhaps they could not be blamed. After all, as a colony, she was sub-nation. And then she would smell the sea air coming from off her coast; she would remember Persia before he'd died, India when she still smiled like she meant it, and the joy of seeing her own ships in her own ports. And Kenya would be Kenya again, British East Africa be damned.
There was one day when she awoke, and this feeling was so strong, so certain that it filled her with a sweet ambrosia. Something had just clicked, and for some reason the ropes felt a little looser. Her feet led her to the highlands--and she didn't know why, because she'd never felt this way before--and what she encountered there made her heart swell. There was such anger, but there was a righteous feeling here; she felt whole. She felt like a nation.
England scoffed at her--and her people by proxy. But Kenya smiled and told him that she had taken an oath with her people to break his rule, and if she broke that oath may she be destroyed on the spot. She would disobey, she would fight, she would defend her children. And even if she did not defeat him, at least she could spit in his face just once. The strangest thing happened; a wary look crossed those damn green eyes, green eyes that had seen old magic and the power of oaths more than once. A part of England was afraid of Kenya, and perhaps had always been fearful of this 'dark continent'.
Kenya knew it would not happen over night, and there would be lives lost. She sat with the workers--tens of thousands of them--as they refused to budge, refused to support England any longer. She could feel the eyes of her brothers and sisters upon her, watching, waiting. She sat in the prisons with those who were arrested for their resistance, and when England came to haul her out--how embarrassing to have a colony misbehaving so!--she could not help but grin at the weary strains on his face. She warned him, the longer this dragged out, the more chance of violence peeked at the surface. England dug his nails into her dark skin without saying a word.
She went to the secret meetings, saw the grim looks on her peoples' faces and knew the hammer would fall soon. Houses were burned, people killed; Kenya bit her lip. Still England would not budge. She had given him plenty of chances. Plenty of opportunities to right his wrongs; he was out of time and he knew it. His troops swarmed her cities, his government declared a years-long state of emergency. Years-long! And still the stubborn bastard would not let go. She could feel the ropes loosen; it would be ecstasy to finally have the phantom things gone for good.
Kenya made note of all the innocents his soldiers were killing; couldn't he at least try to tell people apart before he shot them? England scoffed. She raised an eyebrow, eyes cold and asked if he too was keeping score of how many people he killed. England bristled; "That is a practice forbidden by the General Officer Commanding and the troops have been issued a stern warning." Kenya told England that he and his 'stern warning' could go to hell. And that was when she declared war.
It hurt to admit that it had, perhaps, been a bit hasty; they had few modern weapons and operated in guerilla units, though a machete felt solid and true in her hand--for the time being. That weight was the only thing she could trust in, sometimes, when the soldiers killed people who were just as much a part of her but with different sympathies. Kenya swallowed harshly, ignored the sting as her people slowly divided against themselves by England's doing as much as her own. Something, somewhere, had gone wrong; women, children burned. She didn't want that. She just wanted England out out OUT and had a hard time believing the soldiers when they professed this was the only way. Finally she dropped the machete and left, unsure of which way was up or down. She walked back to the coast, avoiding the railroad, the line of sea the only thing that comforted her anymore. The phantom ropes were pulling her one way and the other, like ropes can pull a ship's mast to splinter and break in two. When England finally caught up--beat her, soundly--she had nothing to say. This wasn't how things were supposed to be, and she appreciated that he had for once kept his mouth shut as well.
The labor camp is a dark spot on Kenya's memory. She cannot remember it and, usually, has no desire to. She has a scar across her belly, one she can't quite recall getting in consciousness. It has not faded, so it must be symbolic, perhaps of the divide that came between her children. Kenya keeps it hidden as best she can.
England came to her again, told her of the concessions won even though she had lost the war. He looked down his nose at her, letting the document fall to her feet. "So, what it comes down to is this: I can either waste a fortune fighting you, a fortune that will never be made up to me by my farmers who contribute little to my Empire compared to the debt you've dug me into. Or, I can hope that some of these concessions will make your lot peaceful and not cost me an arm and leg. Clearly I've chosen the latter option. Aren't you happy?"
Kenya only stared at him; do I look happy?
A moment passed before England replied: "You look like shit." And then he left, for the last time.