Secret Lives and Other Stories

by Ngũgĩ Wa Thiong'o

  A current went right through the church. Had they heard the correct answer? And the priest was almost hysterical: ‘Do you, Miriamu …’ Again the silence made even more silent by the singing outside. She lifted the veil and held the audience with her eyes. ‘No, I cannot … I cannot marry Livingstone … because … because … I have been married before. I am married to … to … Wariuki … and he is dead.’

  Livingstone became truly a stone. Her father wept. Her mother wept. They all thought her a little crazed. And they blamed the whole thing on these breakaway churches that really worshipped the devil. No properly trained priest, etc…. etc…. And the men and women outside went on singing and dancing to the beat of drums and tambourines, their faces and voices raised to the sky.

  A MERCEDES FUNERAL

  If you ever find yourself in Ilmorog, don’t fail to visit Ilmorog Bar & Restaurant: there you’re likely to meet somebody you were once at school with and you can reminisce over old days and learn news of missing friends and acquaintances. The big shots of Chiri District frequent the place, especially on Saturday and Sunday evenings after a game of golf and tennis on the lawn grounds of the once FOR EUROPEANS ONLY Sonia Club a few miles away. But for a litre or two of Tusker or Pilsner they all drive to the more relaxed low-class parts of Ilmorog. Mark you, it is not much of a restaurant; don’t go there for chickens-in-baskets and steak cooked in wine; it is famous only for charcoal-roasted goat meat and nicely dressed barmaids. And of course, gossip. You sit in a U-shaped formation of red-cushioned sofa seats you’ll find in public bars all over Kenya. You talk or you listen. No neutrality of poise and bearing, unless of course you pretend: there’s no privacy, unless of course you hire a separate room.

  It was there one Saturday evening that I sat through an amusing story. Ever heard of a Mercedes Benz Funeral? The narrator, one of those of our dark-suited brothers with a public opinion just protruding, was talking to a group, presumably his visitors, but loudly for all to hear. A little tipsy he probably was; but his voice at times sounded serious and slightly wrought with emotion. I sipped my frothy beer, I am a city man if you want to know, I cocked my ears and soon I was able to gather the few scattered threads; he was talking of someone who had once or recently worked in a bar:

  … not much … not much I must confess, he was saying. The truth of the matter, gentlemen, is that I too had forgotten him. I would not even have offered to tell you about him except … well … except that his name surfaced into sudden importance in that ridiculous affair – but, gentlemen, you must have read about it … no? Is that so? … Anyway the affair was there all right and it really shook us in Ilmorog. It even got a few inch columns in the national dailies. And that’s something, you know, especially with so many bigger scandals competing for attention. Big men fighting it out with fists and wrestling one another to the ground … candidates beaten up by hired thugs … others arrested on nomination day for mysterious reasons and released the day after, again for mysterious reasons. A record year, gentlemen, a record year, that one. With such events competing for attention, why should anyone have taken an interest in a rather silly story of an unknown corpse deciding the outcome of an election in a remote village town? And yet fact number one … not, gentlemen, that I want to theorize … yet the truth is that his death or rather his funeral would never have aroused so much heat had it not come during an election year.

  Now, let me see, count rather: there was that seat in parliament: the most Hon. John Joe James … would you believe it, used to be known as John Karanja but dropped his African name on first being elected … standard, efficiency and international dignity demanded it of him you know … anyway he wanted to be returned unopposed. There was also the leadership of the party’s branch: the chairman … wait, his name was Ruoro but he had been the leader of the branch for so long – no meetings, no elections, ran the whole thing himself – that people simply called him the chairman … he too wanted a fresh, unopposed mandate. There were vacancies in the County Council and in other small bodies, too numerous to mention. But all the previous occupants wanted to be returned with increased majorities, unopposed. Why, when you come to think of it, why do a few out of jobs they had done for six years and more? Specialists … experience … all that and more. And why add to unemployment? Unfortunately there were numerous upstarts who had different ideas and wanted a foot and a hand in running the very same jobs. Dynamism … fresh blood … all that and more. Naturally, gentlemen, and I am sure this was also true in your area, the job which most thought they could execute with unique skill and efficiency was that of The Hon. M.P. for Ilmorog. See what I mean? More Tusker beer gentlemen? Hey sister … sister … these barmaids! … baada ya kazi jiburudishe na Tusker.

  Well, after the first round of trial runs and feelers through a whispering campaign, the field was left to the incumbent and three challengers. There was the university student … you know the sort you find these days … a Lumumba goatee … weather-beaten American shirts and jeans … they dress only in foreign clothes … foreign fashions … foreign ideas … you remember our time in Makerere under De Bunsen? Worsted woollen suits, starched white shirts and ties to match … now that’s what I call proper dressing … anyway, our student challenger claimed to be an intellectual worker and as such could fully understand the aspirations of all workers. There was also an aspiring businessman. An interesting case this one. Had just acquired a loan to build a huge self-service supermarket here in Ilmorog shopping centre. It was whispered that he had diverted a bit of that loan into his campaign. He would tell his audience that man was born to make money: if he went to parliament, he would ensure that everybody had a democratic chance to make a little pile. He himself would set an example: a leader must lead. Also in the arena was a Government Chief, or rather ex-Chief, who had resigned his job to enter the race. He claimed that he would make a very good chief in parliament. Sweat and sacrifice, he used to say, were ever his watchwords. As an example of S and S, he had not only given up a very promising career in the civil service to offer himself as a complete servant of the people, but had also sold three of his five grade-cows to finance his campaign. His wife protested of course, but … sister, I asked you for some beer … we all have our weaknesses, eh?

  Each challenger denounced the other two accusing them of splitting the votes. If they, the other two that is, were sincere, would they not do the honourable thing, stand down in favour of one opponent? The three were however united in denouncing the sitting member: what had he done for the area? He had only enriched himself and his relatives. They pointed to his business interests, his numerous buildings in the area, and his many shares in even the smallest petrol station in the constituency. From what forgotten corner had he suddenly acquired all that wealth, including a thousand-acre farm, asked the aspiring businessman? Why had he not given others a democratic chance to dip a hand in the common pool? The student demanded: what has he done for we Wafanyi Kazi? The ex-Chief accused him of never once visiting his constituency. His election had been a one-way ticket to the city. They all chorused: let the record speak, let the record speak for itself. Funnily enough, gentlemen, the incumbent replied with the same words – yes, let the record speak – but managed to give them a tone of great achievement. First he pointed out what the government had done … the roads … hospitals … factories … tourist hotels and resorts … Hilton, the Intercontinental and all that. Anybody who said the government had done nothing for Wananchi was demagogic and indulging in cheap politics. To the charge that he was not a Minister and hence was not in government, he would laugh and flywhisk away such ignorance. From where did the government derive its strength and power? From among whom was the Cabinet chosen? To the charge that he had made it, he answered by accusing the others of raging with envy and congenital idleness … a national cake on the table … some people too lazy or too fat to lift a finger and take a piece … waited to have it put into their mouths and chewed for them, even. To the ex-Chief he said: didn’t this wo
uld-be-M.P…. a man without any experience … didn’t he know that the job of an M.P. was to attend parliament and make good laws that hanged thieves, repatriated vagabonds and prostitutes back to the rural areas? You don’t make laws by sitting in your home drinking Chang’aa and playing draughts. For the student he had only scornful laughter: intellectual workers … he means intellectuals whose one speciality is stoning other people’s cars and property! Gentlemen … there was nothing in the campaign, no issues, no ideas … just promises. People were bored. They did not know whom to choose although the non-arguments of the aspiring businessman held more sway. You, your bottle is still empty … you want a change to something stronger? Vat 69? No? … oh … oh … Chang’aa, did you say? Ha! ha! ha! … Chang’aa for power … Kill-me-Quick … no, that is never in stock here … sister, hey sister … another round … the same.

  You mention Chang’aa. Actually it was Chang’aa, you might say, that saved the campaign. Put it this way. If Wahinya, the other watchman in Ilmorog Bar & Restaurant, had not suddenly died of alcoholic poisoning, our village, our town would never have been mentioned in any daily. Wahinya dead became the most deadly factor in the election. It was during a rather diminished public meeting addressed by the candidates that the student shouted something about ‘We Workers’. The others took up the challenge. They too were workers. Everybody, said the incumbent, everybody was a worker except the idle, the crippled, prostitutes and students. A man from the audience stood up. By now people had lost their original awe and curiosity and respect for the candidates. Anyway this man stands up. He was a habitual drunk – and that day he must have broken a can or two. Who cares about the poor worker, he asked, imitating in turn the oratorical gestures of each speaker. These days the poor die and don’t even have a hole in which to be put, leave alone a burial in a decent coffin. People laughed, applauding. They could well understand this man’s concern for he himself, skin and bones only, looked on the verge of the grave. But he stood his ground and mentioned the case of Wahinya. His words had an electric effect. That night all the candidates singly and secretly went to the wife of the deceased and offered to arrange for Wahinya’s funeral.

  Now I don’t know if this be true in your area, but in our village funerals had become a society affair, our version of cocktail parties. I mean since Independence. Before 1952, you know before the Emergency, the body would be put away in puzzled silence and tears. People, you see, were awed by death. But they confronted it because they loved life. They asked: what’s death? because they wanted to know what was life! They came to offer sympathy and solidarity to the living and helped in the burial. A pit. People took turns to dig it in ritual silence. Then the naked body was lowered into the earth. A little soil was first sprinkled over it. The body, the earth, the soil: what was the difference? Then came the Emergency. Guns on every side. Fathers, mothers, children, cattle, donkeys – all killed, and bodies left in the open for vultures and hyenas. Or mass burial. People became cynical about death: they were really indifferent to life. You today: me tomorrow. Why cry my Lord? Why mourn the dead? There was only one cry: for the victory of the struggle. The rest was silence. What do you think, gentlemen? Shall we ever capture that genuine respect for death in an age where money is more important than life? Today what is left? A showbiz. Status. Even poor people will run into debts to have the death of a relative announced on the radio and funeral arrangements advertised in the newspapers. And gossip, gentlemen, the gossip. How many attended the funeral? How much money was collected? What of the coffin? Was the pit cemented? Plastic flowers: plastic tears. And after a year, every year there is an ad. addressed to the dead.

  IN LOVING MEMORY. A YEAR HAS PASSED BUT TO US IT IS JUST LIKE TODAY WHEN YOU SUDDENLY DEPARTED FROM YOUR LOVED ONES WITHOUT LETTING THEM KNOW OF YOUR LAST WISH. DEAR, YOU HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A GUIDING STAR, A STAR THAT WILL ALWAYS SHINE, ETC., ETC.

  You see, our man was right. It was a disgrace to die poor: even the Church will not receive the poor in state, though the priest will rush to the death-bed to despatch the wretch quickly on a heaven-bound journey, and claim another victim for Christ. So you see where Wahinya’s death, a poor worker’s death, comes in!

  I don’t know how far this is true, but it is said that each candidate would offer the wife money if she would leave all the funeral arrangements and oration in their sole hands … You say, she should have auctioned the rights? Probably … probably. But those were only rumours. What I do know for a fact, well, a public fact, was that the wife and her husband’s body suddenly vanished. Stolen, you say? In a way, yes. It was rumoured that J.J.J. had had a hand in it. The others called a public meeting to denounce the act. How could anybody steal a dead body? How dare a leader show so little respect for the dead and the feelings of the public? The crowd must also have felt cheated of a funeral drama. They shouted: Produce the body: produce the body! The meeting became so hot and near-riotous that the police had to be called. But even then the tempers could not be cooled. The body, the body, they shouted. J.J.J., normally the very picture of calmness, wiped his face once or twice. It was the student who saved the day: he suggested setting up a committee not only to investigate the actual disappearance but to go into the whole question of poor men’s funerals. All the contestants were elected members of the committee. Well, and a few neutrals. There was a dispute as to who would chair the committee’s meetings. The burden fell on the chairman of the branch. Thereafter all the candidates tried to please him. Rumours became even more rife. Gangs of supporters followed the committee and roamed through the villages. And now the miracle of miracles. As suddenly as she had disappeared, Wahinya’s wife now surfaced and would not disclose where she had been. More, the body had found its way to the City Mortuary. This started even more rumours. No beer-party was complete without a story relating to the affair. Verbal bulletins on the deliberations of the committee were daily released and became the talking points in all the bars. People, through the chairman, were kept informed of every detail about the funeral arrangements. Overnight, so to speak, Wahinya had, so to speak, risen from the dead to be the most powerful factor in the elections. People whispered: who is this Wahinya? Details of his life were unearthed: numerous people claimed special acquaintance and told alluring stories about him. Dead, he was larger than life. Dead, he was everybody’s closest friend.

  Me? Yes, gentlemen, me too. I had actually met him on three different occasions: when he was a porter, then as a turn-boy and more recently as a watchman. And I can say this: Wahinya’s progress from hope to a drinking despair is the story of our time. But what is the matter, gentlemen? You are not drinking? Sister, hey, sister … see to these gentlemen … well, never mind … as soon as they finish this round … Yes, gentlemen … to drink, to be merry … Life is – but no theories I promised you … no sermons, although I will say this again: Wahinya’s rather rapid progress towards the grave is really the story of our troubled times!

  There was a long pause in the small hall. I tried to sip my beer, but half-way I put the glass back on the table. I was not alone. Half-full glasses of stale beer stood untouched all round. Everybody must have been listening to the story. The narrator, a glass of beer in his hand, stared pensively at the ground, and somehow in that subdued atmosphere his public opinion seemed less offensive. He put the glass down and his voice when it came seemed to have been affected by the attentive silence:

  I first came to know him fairly well in the 1960s, he started. Those, if you remember, were the years when dreams like garden perfume in the wind wafted through the air of our villages. The years, gentlemen, when rumours of Uhuru made people’s hearts palpitate with fearful joy of what would happen tomorrow: if something should – ? But no – nothing untoward would possibly bar the coming of that day, the opening of the gate. Imagine: to elect our sons spokesmen of black power, after so much blood … so much blood …!

  He too, you can guess, used to dream. Beautiful dreams about the future. I imagine that even while sagging und
er the weight of sacks of sugar, sacks of maize flour, sacks of magadi salt and soda, he would be in a world all his own. Flower fields of green peas and beans. Gay children chasing nectar-seeking bees and butterflies. A world to visit, a world to conquer. Wait till tomorrow, my Lord, till tomorrow. He was tall and frail-looking but strong with clear dark eyes that lit up with hope. And you can imagine that at such times the sack of sugar would feel light on his back, his limbs would acquire renewed strength, he was the giant in the story who could pull mountains by the roots or blow trees into the sky with his rancid breath. Trees, roots, branches and all flew into the sky high, high, no longer trees but feathers carried by the wind. Fly away, bird, little one of the courtyard and come again to gather millet grains in the sand. He would lay down the sack to watch the bird fly into the unknown and no doubt his dreams would also soar even beyond the present sky, his soul’s eye would scan hazier and hazier horizons hiding away knowledge of tomorrow. But from somewhere in the shop a shout from his Indian employer would haul him back to this earth. Hurry up with that load, you lazy boy. Money you want, work no! You think money coming from dust or fall from sky. Kumanyoko. No doubt Wahinya would sigh. He was after all only a porter in Shukla and Shukla Stores, an object like that very load against which he had been leaning.

  Shukla and Shukla: that’s where I used to meet him. I was then a student in Siriana boarding school. A missionary affair it was in those days, I mean the school and its numerous rules and restrictions. For instance, we were never allowed out of the school compound except on Saturday afternoons and even then not beyond a three-mile radius. Chura township, a collection of a dozen Indian-owned shops and a post office, was the only centre within our limits, both physical and financial. With ten cents, fifty cents or a shilling in our pockets, we used to walk there with determination as if on a very important mission. An unhurried stroll around the shops … then a Fanta soda, or a few madhvani gummy sweets from Shukla and Shukla … and, our day was over. Well, I used never to have more than two shillings pocket money for a whole term. So I would often go to Chura without a hope of crowning my Saturday afternoon outing with Fantas, madazis or madhvanis. A sweet, a soft drink was then a world. You laugh. But do you know how I envied those who strode that world with showy impunity and suggestions of even greater well-being at their homes? As soon as I reached the stores, friends and foes had to be avoided. I lied and I knew they knew I lied when I pretended having important business further on. Still, can you imagine the terror in case I was found out and exposed?