A Grain of Wheat

by Ngũgĩ Wa Thiong'o

  At night the valley was hidden in darkness, except for the light outside Mahee. It was quiet. The guards, following the example of their white officers, who were used to a life of indolence, for the name of Mahee itself was proof against any attack, had already drunk and gone to sleep, leaving a few guards to observe the convention. Suddenly the night was broken by the simultaneous sound of bugles, trumpets, horns and tins. From inside the prison came a responding cry of Uhuru. The officer in charge, aroused from the spell of whisky he had taken earlier by this commotion, instinctively reached for the telephone, trying the magic feat of pulling up his trousers and ringing at the same time. Suddenly, the hand that lifted the receiver let it fall, the trousers also rolled to the floor. The telephone wires had been cut, Mahee could not get help from the outlying posts. Caught unawares, the police made a weak resistance as Kihika and his men stormed in. Some policemen climbed the walls and jumped to safety. Kihika’s men broke into the prison and led the prisoners out into the night. The garrison was set on fire and Kihika’s men ran back to the forest with fresh supplies of men, guns and ammunition to continue the war on a scale undreamt of in the days of Waiyaki and Young Harry.

  People came to know Kihika as the terror of the whiteman. They said that he could move mountains and compel thunder from heaven.

  A price was put on his head.

  Anybody who brought Kihika, dead or alive, would receive a huge sum of money.

  A year later, Kihika was captured alone at the edge of the Kinenie Forest.

  Believe the news? The man who compelled trees and mountains to move, the man who could go for ten miles crawling on his stomach through sand and thorny bush, was surely beyond the arm of the whiteman.

  Kihika was tortured. Some say that the neck of a bottle was wedged into his body through the anus as the white people in the Special Branch tried to wrest the secrets of the forest from him. Others say that he was offered a lot of money and a free trip to England to shake the hand of the new woman on the throne. But he would not speak.

  Kihika was hanged in public, one Sunday, at Rung’ei Market, not far from where he had once stood calling for blood to rain on and water the tree of freedom. A combined force of Homeguards and Police whipped and drove people from Thabai and other ridges to see the body of the rebel dangling on the tree, and learn.

  The Movement, however, remained alive and grew, as people put it, on the wounds of those Kihika left behind.

  Three

  ‘We are not staying long,’ Gikonyo said, after a silence. ‘We have really come to see you about the Uhuru celebrations on Thursday.’

  Looking at Gikonyo, you could not believe that he was the same man whose marriage to Mumbi almost thirteen years before had angered other young suitors: what did Mumbi see in him? How could a woman so beautiful walk into poverty with eyes wide open? Now four years after returning home from detention, Gikonyo was one of the richest men in Thabai. He had recently bought a five-acre farm plot; he owned a shop – Gikonyo General Stores – at Rung’ei; and only the other day he had acquired a second-hand lorry for trading. On top of this, he was elected the chairman of the local branch of the Movement, a tribute, so people said, to his man’s spirit which no detention camp could break. Gikonyo was respected and admired as a symbol of what everyone aspired to be: fiercely independent, bending all effort to success in any enterprise.

  ‘What – what do you want?’ Mugo asked, raising his eyes to Warui.

  Warui’s life was, in a way, the story of the Movement; he had taken part in the meetings of Young Harry, had helped in building people’s own schools and listened to Jomo’s speeches in the ‘twenties. Warui was one of the few who saw in that recent employee of the Nairobi Municipal Council, a man destined for power.

  ‘He will do great things,’ he used to say of Jomo. ‘You can see it in his eyes.’

  Warui looked at the hearthplace. An oil-lamp with soot around the neck and sides of the glass, stood on the stone.

  ‘We of Thabai Village must also dance our part,’ he started, his voice, though low, embracing the whole room. ‘Yes, we must dance the song the way we know how. For, let it never be said Thabai dragged to shame the names of the sons she lost in war. No. We must raise them – even from the dead – to share it with us. Our people, is there a song sweeter than that of freedom? Of a truth, we have waited for it many a sleepless night. Those who have gone before us, those of us spared to see the sun today, and even those to be born tomorrow, must join in the feast. The day we hold Wiyathi in our hands we want to drink from the same calabash – yes – drink from the same calabash.’

  Silence followed these words. Each person seemed engrossed in himself as if turning over the words in his mind. The woman cleared her throat, an indication that she was about to take up the thread from Warui. Mugo looked at her.

  Wambui was not very old, although she had lost most of her teeth. During the Emergency, she carried secrets from the villages to the forest and back to the villages and towns. She knew the underground movements in Nakuru, Njoro, Elburgon and other places in and outside the Rift Valley. The story is told how she once carried a pistol tied to her thighs near the groin. She was dressed in long, wide and heavy clothes, the picture of decrepitude and senile decay. She was taking the gun to Naivasha. As luck would have it, she was suddenly caught in one of those sporadic military and police operations which plagued the country. People were collected into the square behind the shops. Soon came her turn to be searched. Her tooth started aching; she twisted her lips, moaned; saliva tossed out of the corners of her mouth and flowed down her chin. The Gikuyu policeman searching her was saying in Swahili: Pole mama: made other sympathetic noises and went on searching. He started from her chest, rummaged under her armpits, gradually working his way down towards the vital spot. And suddenly Wambui screamed, the man stopped, astonished.

  ‘The children of these days,’ she began. ‘Have you lost all shame? Just because the whiteman tells you so, you would actually touch your own mother’s … the woman who gave you birth? All right, I’ll lift the clothes and you can have a look at your mother, it is so aged, and see what gain it’ll bring you for the rest of your life.’

  She actually made as if to lift her clothes and expose her nakedness. The man involuntarily turned his eyes away.

  ‘Go away from here,’ he growled at her. ‘Next …’ Wambui never told this story; but she never denied it; if people asked her about it, she only smiled enigmatically.

  ‘It is like our elders who always poured a little beer on the ground before they themselves drank,’ Wambui now said. ‘Why did they do that? It’s because they always remembered the spirits of those below. We too cannot forget our sons. And Kihika was such a man, a great man.’

  Mugo sat rigidly on his stool. Warui watched the lamp that badly lit the hut into an eerie haziness. Wambui rested her elbows on her knees and wedged her chin into the cupped palms of her hands. Gikonyo looked abstractedly into space.

  ‘What do you want?’ Mugo asked with something like panic in his voice.

  Suddenly there was a loud knocking. All eyes were turned to the door. Curiosity heightened the tension. Mugo went to the door.

  ‘General!’ Warui exclaimed as soon as the new guests entered. Mugo walked back behind the two men. One was tall, clean-shaven, with close-cropped hair. The shorter man had his hair plaited. They were some of the Freedom Fighters who had recently left the forest under the Uhuru amnesty.

  ‘Sit down – on the bed,’ Mugo invited them, and was startled by the sound of his own voice. So old – so rusty … today … tonight … everything is strange … people’s looks and gestures frighten me … I’m not really afraid because … because … a man’s life, like mine, is not important … and … and … God … I’ve ceased to care … I don’t … don’t … The arrival of the two men had broken the mounting tension. Everybody was talking. The hut was animated with a low excited murmur. Wambui was explaining something about the Uhuru preparations to th
e man with plaited hair. In the forest he was called Lieutenant Koina. The tall one was the General, General R.

  ‘A sacrifice! A sacrifice!’ Koina exclaimed, laughing. ‘And let me eat the meat. A whole ram. In the forest we only ate bamboo shoots and wild animals—’

  ‘What do you know of sacrifice?’ Wambui interrupted, joining in the laughter.

  ‘Oh, we did sacrifice – and ate the meat afterwards. We prayed twice a day and an extra one before any expedition to wrest arms from European farms. We stood up facing Mount Kenya:

  ‘Mwenanyaga we pray that you may protect our hideouts.

  Mwenanyaga we pray that you may hold a soft cloud over us.

  Mwenanyaga we pray that you may defend us behind and in front from our enemies.

  Mwenanyaga we pray that you may give us courage in our hearts.

  Thai thathaiya Ngai, Thaai.

  ‘We also sang:

  ‘We shall never rest

  Without land,

  Without Freedom true

  Kenya is a country of black people.’

  Everybody had stopped talking and listened to Koina’s singing. And the plaintive note below his words was at odds with his apparent mirth. There was a sudden, almost an uneasy silence. None of this is real … I’ll soon wake up from the dream … My hut will be empty and I’ll find myself alone as I have always been … Gikonyo coughed, dryly. Warui burst in.

  ‘Cold? I always say this. The young of these days have lost their strength. They cannot resist a tiny illness. Do you know in our days we would lie in the forest nights long waiting for Masai? The wind rubbed our necks. As for our clothes, they were drenched with dew. Yet you would not hear a cough in the morning. No, not even a small one.’

  The two freedom fighters looked at Warui. They had been in the forest for more than seven years. But nobody challenged Warui’s claim.

  ‘What is a prayer?’ General R. suddenly asked, as if continuing the previous conversation. ‘It did not help Kihika. Kihika believed in prayer. He even read the Bible every day, and took it with him wherever he went. What I never understand is this: Why is it that God would not whisper a word – just one word – to warn him not to walk into a trap?’

  ‘A trap?’ Gikonyo asked quickly. ‘Do you want to tell us that Kihika was betrayed?’

  ‘The radio said he was captured in a battle in which many of his men were killed,’ Wambui said.

  General R. took his time to satisfy this awakened interest. He stared at the ground in absorption.

  ‘On that day he was going to meet somebody. He often went out alone to spy or to finish off a dangerous character like DO Robson. Yet he always told me about his plans. On this day, he told me nothing. He seemed very excited, you might say almost happy. But he grew angry whenever anybody interrupted him. Again, he never forgot to take his Bible. But on this day he left it behind. Perhaps he never meant to be long.’

  General R. fumbled in his pockets and took out a small Bible which he passed on to Gikonyo. Warui and Wambui craned forward, excited by this, like little children. Gikonyo shuffled through the small Bible lingering on verses underlined in black and red. His fingers were slightly shaking. He stopped at Psalm 72, where two verses were underlined in red.

  ‘What are these red lines?’ Wambui asked, with awed curiosity.

  ‘Read a few lines,’ Warui said.

  Gikonyo read:

  ‘He shall judge the poor of the people, he shall save the children of the needy, and shall break in pieces the oppressor.

  For he shall deliver the needy when he cometh; the poor also and he that hath no helper.’

  Again this was followed by a profound silence. Then General R. continued.

  ‘Actually Kihika was never the same person after the day he shot DO Robson. And that’s why we have come here tonight.’ All this time, General R. had stared in one spot. And he spoke quietly, choosing words as if he was directing questions at his own heart. Now he suddenly raised his eyes to Mugo. And every other person’s eyes were turned to Mugo.

  ‘I believe you were the man who sheltered Kihika on that night. That is why you were later arrested and sent to detention, is that not so? What we want to know is this. Did Kihika mention to you that he would be meeting somebody from the village – in a week’s time?’

  Mugo’s throat was choked; if he spoke, he would cry. He shook his head and stared straight ahead.

  ‘He did not mention Karanja?’

  Again Mugo shook his head.

  ‘That’s all we wanted to know. We thought you might be able to help us.’ General R. fell back into his former silence.

  ‘Now, now, who would have thought—’ Warui started and then stopped. Wambui seemed fascinated more with the Bible than with General R.’s news.

  ‘A Bible! You might have thought his father a priest …’ she moaned. ‘Our son should have been a priest …’

  ‘He was a priest … a high priest of this our freedom.’ Warui said. Gikonyo laughed, uneasily. He was joined by Wambui and Lt Koina. Mugo and General R. did not laugh. Again the tension was broken. Gikonyo coughed and cleared his throat.

  ‘General, you almost made us forget why we came here,’ he announced, now the voice of a businessman who had no time for rituals. ‘But I am glad you came for this also concerns you. It is like this. The Movement and leaders of the village have thought it a good idea to honour the dead. On Independence Day we shall remember those from our village and ridges near, who lost their lives in the fight for freedom. We cannot let Kihika’s name die. He will live in our memory, and history will carry his name to our children in years to come.’ He paused and looked straight at Mugo and his next words addressed to Mugo were full of plain admiration. ‘I don’t want to go into details – but we all know the part you played in the movement. Your name and that of Kihika will ever be linked together. As the General here has said, you gave Kihika shelter without fear of danger to your own life. You did for Thabai out here and in detention what Kihika did in the forest. We have therefore thought that on this important day, you should lead in the sacrifice and ceremonies to honour those who died that we might live. The elders will guide you in the details of the ritual. For you the main thing will be the speech. We are arranging a large meeting at Rung’ei Market around where Kihika’s body hung from a tree. You will make the main speech of the day.’

  Mugo stared at a pole opposite; he tried to grasp the sense of what Gikonyo had said. He had always found it difficult to make decisions. Recoiling as if by instinct from setting in motion a course of action whose consequences he could not determine before the start, he allowed himself to drift into things or be pushed into them by an uncanny demon; he rode on the wave of circumstance and lay against the crest, fearing but fascinated by fate. Something of that devilish fascination now seemed to light his eyes. His body was deathly still.

  ‘What do you say?’ Wambui asked slightly impatient with Mugo’s intense look. But Warui was fascinated by people’s eyes and he always said this of Mugo: He has a future, a great future. Shouldn’t I know? You can see it in his eyes. He now said:

  ‘You need not talk the whole day. I have seen many people ruin good speeches because they would talk till their mouths were drained of all saliva. A word to touch the hearts – that is all. Like the one you spoke that day.’

  ‘I do not understand,’ Mugo at last said.

  ‘We of Thabai want to honour our heroes. What’s difficult in that?’ Warui asked.

  ‘I know how you feel,’ Gikonyo said, ‘You want to be left alone. Remember this, however: it is not easy for any man in a community to be left alone, especially a man in your position. No, you don’t have to make up your mind now. But we would like to know the answer soon, December 12 is only four nights away.’

  Saying this, Gikonyo rose to leave. The others also stood up. Gikonyo hesitated a moment as if an undelivered thought lingered in his mind.

  ‘Another thing! You know the government, now that it is controlled by the M
ovement, will allow chiefs to be elected by the people. The branch here wants you to stand for this area when the time comes.’

  They went out.

  A smile slowly spread from the edges of Mugo’s mouth. It could have indicated joy, mocking or bitterness. The visitors had left the door ajar. He shut the door and sat on the bed. Gradually the meaning of what Gikonyo had said began to light the blank abyss of incomprehension. What do they want? What do they really want? he asked himself, holding his head in his hands to steel himself.

  Outside Mugo’s hut the forest fighters parted from Gikonyo, Wambui and Warui. The two shared a hut at the other end of the village. The hut had been bought for them by some ardent members of the local branch of the Party who then believed the Party was the reincarnation of the Movement.

  ‘Do you think he will help us?’ Koina suddenly asked.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That man!’

  ‘Oh, Mugo. I don’t know. Kihika rarely mentioned him. In fact, I don’t know if he knew him well.’

  They walked the rest of the way without more words. Koina fumbled for matches to light the oil-lamp. He was small-boned, light-skinned, and had large veins that protruded on his face and hands. General R. sat on the bed, absorbed in thought. Koina stood and stared at the yellow flame.

  ‘All the same, we must find out the traitor,’ General R. said, as if continuing their earlier conversation. His voice was low and carried grim determination.

  Koina did not answer at once. He remembered the day Kihika went out, never to return. Kihika commanded more than three hundred men, split into groups of fifty or even twenty-five men. The groups lived apart, in different caves, around Kinenie Forest, and only came together when going for a big venture like the capture of Mahee. Koina was always struck by Kihika’s absolute disregard for personal danger. The way he had finished DO Robson was already a legend in the camps around Longonot, Ngong and even in Nyandarwa. Koina felt worshipful admiration for Kihika. At such times he would swear: ‘I will never leave him. I swear to God above I’ll never abandon Kihika. I was without faith. He has given it to me.’ Yes, Kihika had given him, a mere cook, new self, by making him aware of black power. Koina had felt this the day they took Mahee. As they waited for Kihika to return, he keenly felt the imminence of that black power. Later they sent out scouts, who reported that a big operation was on. Word went round. General R. ordered his men to prepare for a quick retreat into Longonot, their other big hide-out. They learnt that Kihika had been arrested. Njeri had wept. And even he, too, a man, could not hide his tears.