Wizard of the Crow

by Ngũgĩ Wa Thiong'o

  “You know, don’t you, that this matter should not spread beyond these walls? That it should be confined to the small circle of those who are here?”

  “Mr. Minister, my motto is Get It by the Roots, and the Illness Shall Be No More. If I am to root the illness out, I must talk to whomever I deem necessary.”

  “Okay You may see all the ministers, the security men, and his doctor.”

  “How many doctors does he have?”

  “Just one. Dr. Wilfred Kaboca. His personal physician. He never leaves his side.”

  “Is he the only doctor who has seen him? No other doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine with me.”

  “That’s wise. There is no point wasting time talking to too many people. Time is of the essence. Consult your mirror and …”

  “Take the next flight home,” the Wizard of the Crow completed

  Machokali’s thought. “Believe me, Mr. Minister, I am not keen on staying in America a minute longer than necessary. I prefer the bush and its healing properties. My procedure will be quick or slow depending on whether or not those who have had dealings with the patient are telling all they know.”

  “Would a government minister lie to you?” Machokali said, offended.

  “Are you now telling me the truth?” the Wizard of the Crow asked him offhandedly, continuing to fumble with his tie.

  “Don’t flay with me, Sorcerer Kagogo,” Machokali said angrily in Kiswahili. “Why would I lie to you? I don’t want anything from you. I am not the patient here.”

  “Excuse me, but please come over here,” the Wizard of the Crow said, beckoning him with a finger.

  Machokali was not happy with the sorcerer giving him orders, but to speed up matters he toned down his own antagonism and did as asked.

  “Please look in the mirror,” the Wizard of the Crow requested, stepping aside to give him ample room.

  Machokali did so as the Wizard of the Crow looked at the palm of his own right hand.

  “What do you see?” the wizard asked Machokali.

  “My reflection,” Machokali said. “And yours standing there staring into your hand.”

  “Focus on your own reflection. Look at it carefully.”

  “So?”

  “If you look hard at yourself you will see what I am seeing. I will ask you again. Is Kaboca the Ruler’s only doctor?”

  “And I will answer you again: why would I lie to you?”

  “Keep looking at the mirror,” said the Wizard of the Crow. “What do you see? Do you see something white, like the whiteness of white people? Two white figures?”

  No matter how hard he tried, Machokali could not see any face other than his own. Where were the white figures the wizard was talking about?

  “No. This is a charade,” he said, and looked away.

  But the Wizard of the Crow continued to look intensely at his palm as if it were a handheld mirror.

  “There, there they are,” the wizard said excitedly.

  Machokali quickly turned his eyes to the mirror and stared feverishly. He saw nothing.

  “There are two wearing stethoscopes. One walks like he comes from New York. Very confident in the streets. And the other? Where is he from?” he said, fixing his eyes on Machokali.

  Machokali’s lips trembled. How did he know about Furyk and Clarkwell, and that they were from different places? Machokali had forgotten that last night he had left the Wizard of the Crow in A.G.’s company. He looked at the wizard and for a few seconds they sized each other up.

  “Oh, those two,” Machokali said, not wanting to be caught in more lies. “It is strange, but really I never thought of them as doctors. I thought that you would not want to see Professor Din Furyk and Clement C. Clarkwell. I have heard it said that white science and black sorcery do not mix, that they are like night and day. Are you sure that you want to talk to them as well?”

  The Wizard of the Crow indicated with a gesture that the two of them should now sit down for an additional chat.

  “Mr. Minister. When I said that I wanted to talk to everyone who has had some contact with the patient, I meant what I said,” explained the Wizard of the Crow.

  “How do you want me to introduce you?”

  “Tell them the truth.”

  “That you are a sorcerer?”

  “That I am a healer. An African healer. That I trap the bad to save the good.”

  “Okay Leave that to me,” Machokali said. “Whom would you like to talk to first?”

  “You!”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “How it all began.”

  10

  If Machokali’s affairs had begun to take the wrong turn when he failed to secure a state visit for the Ruler, they had worsened after the delegation’s arrival in America. He tried to ameliorate the failure by appealing to his American friends to influence the president to receive the Ruler of Aburlria, even for fifteen minutes. But apparently the American president was fully booked.

  As for the vice president, the secretary of state, senators, and right down to congressmen, the results were similar. Finally, through much furious lobbying, a prayer breakfast with the president was secured.

  The Ruler was very glad to hear that he and the American president were going to have a prayer breakfast, his only regret being that he had forgotten to include a cleric in his delegation to put in a word of prayer for Aburlria. The Ruler chartered a plane to Washington, where he and his entourage were met by the Aburlrian ambassador and his deputy, Yunice Immaculate Mgenzi, who addressed the Ruler as if she were the real ambassador. From there, in a fleet of limos, they headed toward the place of prayer.

  Machokali was beginning to feel his spirits rise when, as luck would have it, they arrived at the venue only to confront demonstrators carrying placards and chanting slogans all denouncing the Aburlrian dictator and his plans for Marching to Heaven. Who are these crazy fellows who dared to call themselves Friends of Democracy and Human Rights in Aburlria? Machokali wondered bitterly. He peeked through the window of the limo and recognized one of the demonstrators, perhaps even its mastermind, Materu, former professor of history at the University of Aburlria, who earlier had been released after serving ten of ten and half years of hard labor in the country’s maximum-security prison for writing about the independence of Aburlria and failing to mention that the Ruler had been a freedom fighter. And this professor had yet to thank the Ruler for giving him back six whole months of his life. Machokali’s anger deepened as he watched the arrogant bearded professor strutting about in a foreign land, betraying his country and Ruler and spoiling the good feelings about the coming breakfast.

  He was relieved that the Ruler did not ask him about the demonstration. But bad luck continued to stalk him; as soon as they entered the reception area and the Ruler realized that he was only one among thousands who had paid thousands of dollars a plate, he looked menacingly at Machokali as if to ask, What’s all this about? Will I not be able to shake hands with the president and sit next to him?

  Machokali had assumed that the Ruler had all along understood that the occasion was to raise money for the American president’s charities. It was obvious that a misunderstanding had occurred; the prayer breakfast had turned into a disaster, a further blow to Machokali s prestige in the eyes of the Ruler.

  He did not give up; he made strenuous efforts to mollify his wounded pride by trying to get the Ruler on such television shows as Global Luminaries& Visionaries and Meet the Global Mighty, which were then very popular among foreign politicians because they gave them a chance to make their cases directly to the American people while addressing a global audience. But the producers had shown no interest in the Ruler.

  So the only opening was an address before the General Assembly of the United Nations. But a mutually convenient date had proved problematic because the Ruler wanted to address the august body only after he had secured the loan for Marching to Heaven.

  Those were troubling
days for Machokali; nothing he did seemed to lift the cloud developing between him and the Ruler. Nothing seemed to work in his favor.

  And then one day the Ruler invited the entire delegation to a luncheon in his special dining room. They had not eaten together with him for quite a while, and they were all struck by the celebratory atmosphere. There were flowers and champagne on the tables. What’s going on? Machokali asked himself; all the other ministers were asking the same question. But when they saw how the Ruler talked to them jovially, they concluded that something good had happened.

  This was confirmed when the Ruler turned toward the protocol officer and asked him where he thought the chairman of the Board of

  Directors of the Global Bank should sit. But, of course, since he is coming here in his capacity as the Bank’s messenger, maybe he should simply stand at the door or else kneel down or even crawl, or what do you think? They all laughed. Since the drama of the women at Eldares, they had not seen the Buler so fancy-free. Everybody could see that the chair between him and Machokali was empty, confirming that the Buler had not the slightest doubt that the chairman of the Global Bank was really coming, and there was no way such a dignitary would come in person unless he was bringing good news about the long-awaited loan for Marching to Heaven.

  Just then the police guard announced that there was a messenger from the Global Bank at the door. Let him in, the Buler himself said. When they turned their eyes to the entrance, they saw a man holding an envelope in his hands. Before he uttered a word, they all concluded that whatever else he was, he was not the chief of the Bank. Or maybe it was all a mistake. For though the reception desk and the hotel security had been instructed to let through anybody from the Global Bank, they may have let in the wrong person. But the man did not keep them in doubt for long. He was from the Global Courier Service, Manhattan, and the letter he brought was from the Global Bank. Would somebody sign for it, pleaser

  The Buler nodded toward Machokali. Machokali handed the letter to the Buler, who was about to take the envelope when he realized that his hand was trembling in anticipation. To avoid exposing this to everybody, he asked Machokali to open it and read its contents aloud for all at the table to hear. What was important, after all, was the message and not the messenger.

  “So you understand that even then the Buler and all of us were expecting good news,” Minister Machokali told the Wizard of the Crow. “But on glancing at the letter, I felt something cold in my belly.”

  The letter was about ten lines. After reviewing the entire project, the Global Bank did not see any economic benefits to Marching to Heaven. To argue that the project would create jobs, as the Aburirian government had claimed, was a case of outdated Keynesian economics. Neither old-fashioned nor neo-Keynesianism had any place in the modern global economy. The Global Bank cannot release funds on the basis of the current representation. If Aburiria wanted to pursue the matter further, it would have to make a better case. Money was not the problem. But the Global Bank cannot pour money into a project in which the sky was literally the limit. Aburlria was given seven days to come up with better facts and arguments for the Global Bank to reconsider funding Marching to Heaven.

  Everyone in the room was stunned. They did not know where to look—down, up, away, sideways, or what! All they knew was that they did not want to look at the face of the Buler.

  It was worse for Machokali, and even now, as he told the Wizard of the Crow the story of that day, the minister could feel the chill in the room after he had read the letter. His lips trembled. He felt paralyzed. Should he hand the letter over to the Buler? Should he opine that at least the Global Bank had not closed the door? The sepulchral silence seemed to intensify by the second. The Buler stretched out his hand as if to see the letter for himself. Machokali handed it to him and quickly sat down.

  The Buler rose to make a speech, completely unaware that the letter in his hand was now shaking. They sat glued to their seats, anticipating his every word. But when the Buler opened his mouth, no word came out. The Buler stood there, trying pointlessly to speak. What? The Buler, lost for words? Terror struck them all: here was the Buler, his mouth open, attempting to say something but producing only hot air and bronchial wheezing. The true horror was only a few seconds away.

  Suddenly his cheeks and stomach began to expand. No, not just the cheeks and the tummy but the whole body. They looked at one another in dismay. They had never seen anything like this. The Buler gestured with his hands that he wanted pen and paper, but he could not even hold the pen properly, his fingers fattening by the second. The official biographer tried to give him his thick pen, but the Buler waved him away. Then the Buler indicated that the gathering was over.

  Even now as Machokali narrated the events of that day, his heart was beating wildly, as if the whole scene was unfolding afresh before his very eyes.

  “Let me sum up what you just told me,” the Wizard of the Crow said. “The Global Bank denies a loan for Marching to Heaven. The Buler’s body begins to swell. He loses the power of speech.”

  “Something like that, although it was more complex than you are making it seem,” Machokali said.

  “I am trying to understand. Was the Ruler’s food checked for poison?” the Wizard of the Crow asked.

  “We entertained similar thoughts,” Machokali replied, “but no food had yet been ordered. We left the tables with the champagne unopened. And since then … well, you know the rest.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “We have lost count of the days. Perhaps weeks, but it is only a guess. Maybe I can ask his biographer, who records all his deeds and sayings.”

  “That won’t be necessary. At least not now. And you say that he has not spoken a word since?”

  “Furyk claims he heard him try to say coral, or crawl, or cruel. You had better ask Din Furyk, though I think he was hallucinating. But if in the light of my narrative you have now decided that it is not necessary to see Din Furyk or Clement Clarkwell, I can ask them myself. Or get Dr. Wilfred Kaboca to meet them and try to get the exact words and even tape their answers for you.”

  “This is what I need from you,” the Wizard of the Crow said, ignoring Machokali’s hints and offers. “Two things. Get me a big wall mirror that two or three people can look into at the same time without crowding one another. The mirror should be put against the wall facing the bedroom or the seat of the patient.”

  “There is a mirror on the wall.”

  “Then ask Din Furyk to come in.”

  11

  “Who? A doctor?” asked an astonished Furyk after Machokali had summoned him. Machokali allowed that the man was some kind of specialist or spiritualist; only after many probing questions did he admit that he was talking about a witch doctor.

  “What? A sorcerer in New York?” an astounded Furyk asked.

  “I looked at Machokali to reassure myself of my sanity,” he wrote in his diary, “and I found his big eyes begging me not to reject the summons. So instead of giving a resounding no as I had intended, I found myself telling him not to worry. He is a doctor of the mind and I of the body, so between us we should be a dream team. I was simply trying to calm him down even as I grew curious. I looked forward to meeting the man who seemed to have a hold on this Western-educated high-ranking government minister. As I was about to enter the man’s room, I wondered how we would communicate. With hand gestures?

  “Imagine my surprise when I encountered a witch doctor who spoke English as if he had been educated at Harvard! I said to him: You speak excellent English. Where did you learn the language so well? He said: At the University of Treetops. I had never heard of that university or seen it cited anywhere. He asked me: What about your You speak excellent English. Where did you go to school? I was a little irritated by both the question and the tone, for could he not see that I was white? What else did he expect me to speak? Harvard, of course, I said curtly, and I asked him: So in your country they teach sorcery and witchcraft at the u
niversity level? He replied: Oh, yes, the art and science of witchcraft are the core of the university system of Tree-tops. We have both teaching and research departments that specialize in magic. Don’t you? Of course not, I said. We have departments of medicine and psychiatry and pharmacology.

  “I quickly changed the subject and told him how glad I was to meet him to discuss the strange illness that had befallen their leader, a strange malignity, this self-induced expansion. Rare. Never ever heard of it before.

  “Yes, that was it, and I suddenly realized that I had given a name to the oddity. SIE: self-induced expansion.

  “He listened attentively to my story without interruptions. But when I talked about pressing the patient’s belly only to hear the word coral, crawl, or cruel issuing from his mouth, the so-called Wizard of the Crow raised his head.

  “He asked me: Did he say coral, crawl, cruel, or corwar? At first I could not tell the difference in the sounds. He repeated the words, pronouncing each slowly and distinctly, until eventually I heard the differences; I had to admit that his own word sounded nearest to that emitted by the Ruler. So I told him, Yes, yes, that’s the word. But why should the man be obsessed with the cold war, now a thing of the past?

  “He asked again: And this word or sound came out only when you tapped his tummy? Yes, I said. Are you sure? he asked, and I answered yes. He wrote that down in his notebook. What about when the other doctors tapped the Ruler’s tummy? I told him that I was the only person who had done so. I asked him: Any other questions? At first he did not answer me; it was as if he had not even heard me. I was about to leave when I heard him call out to me. He came nearer. Up to then he had said or done nothing to suggest that he was a witch doctor. His way of doing things and asking questions was not much different from that of any modern doctor. I saw no signs of voodoo or juju paraphernalia.

  “But when he now explained in a low voice what he wanted me to do, I could not tell whether he was playing tricks with me or not. Then I felt like laughing. He wanted me to walk past a mirror on a wall.”