A Grain of Wheat

by Ngũgĩ Wa Thiong'o

  Crowd: Amen.

  People started singing, led by the youth band with drums, guitars, flutes and tins. Again they recreated history, giving it life through the words and voices: land alienation, Waiyaki, Harry Thuku, taxation, conscription of labour into the white-man’s land, the break with the missions, and, oh, the terrible thirst and hunger for education. They sang of Jomo (he came, like a fiery spear among us), his stay in England (Moses sojourned in the land of Pharaoh) and his return (he came riding on a cloud of fire and smoke) to save his children. He was arrested, sent to Lodwar, and on the third day came home from Maralal. He came riding a chariot home. The gates of hell could not withhold him. Now angels trembled before him.

  Nyamu read apologies from the MP for the area and from members of the Regional Assembly, all of whom had gone to Nairobi to represent Rung’ei area in the national celebrations. He did not mention Mugo’s absence.

  Next came the speeches. Most speakers recounted the sufferings of the Emergency, or else told of the growth of the Party. They were proud of Kihika, a son of the village, whose fight for freedom would never be forgotten. They recounted his qualities of courage, humility and love of the land. His death was a sacrifice for the nation.

  At the end of each speaker, the crowd cheered or sang, even if the men or women had only repeated points already made. Githua’s voice, as he cried, cheered and shouted, drowned that of those who sat near him. All the time most people expected Mugo to speak. Whenever a speaker sat down, they thought the next on the list would surely be Mugo himself. But they waited patiently because the best dish was always reserved to the last.

  In the end, Nyamu announced that General R., the man who had fought side by side with Kihika, would speak, in the place of Mugo. Circumstances outside anybody’s control had prevented Mugo from coming to the meeting. This announcement was met with silence. Then from one corner, a man shouted for Mugo. The demand was immediately chorused from different parts of the field, until the meeting seethed with Mugo’s name in a threatening unison. Then the unison broke into undisciplined shouting and movement; people stood up, groups formed, and they all argued, gesticulated, protested, as if they had been tricked into the meeting. Nyamu consulted the elders. They decided to make one last appeal to Mugo. It took time for Nyamu and the elders to bring the gathering back to order with a promise that a delegation of two would be dispatched immediately to fetch Mugo. The two elders were asked not to take ‘No’ for an answer. Meanwhile, would the people sit and hear General R.’s words? They settled down again with the song of the trench.

  And he jumped into the trench,

  The words he told the soldier pierced my heart like a spear;

  You will not beat the woman, he said,

  You will not beat a pregnant woman, he told the soldier.

  Below the words was the sound of something like a twang of a cord, broken. After it, people became deathly quiet.

  General R. stood by the microphone, and his red eyes tried to penetrate the faceless crowd. He cleared his throat, twice. He knew what he wanted to say. He had rehearsed this act, word for word, many times. But now, standing on the edge of the precipice, he found it difficult to jump or fix his eyes on the scene below. Compressed into a single picture, his life in the forest flashed through his mind. He saw the dark caves at Kinenie, the constant flights from bombs in Nyandarwa forest, thirst, hunger, raw-meat and then their victory at Mahee. Tell them about this, a voice in him insisted. Tell them how you and Kihika planned it. This picture and the voice disappeared. Now it was the face of the Rev. Jackson Kigondu that stood before him: Jackson had consistently preached against Mau Mau in churches and in public meetings convened by Tom Robson. He called on Christians to fight side by side with the whiteman, their brother in Christ, to restore order and the rule of the spirit. Three times had Jackson been warned to stop his activities against the people. ‘In the name of Jesus, who stood against the Roman colonialists and their Pharisee homeguards, we ask you to stop siding with British colonialism!’ But Jackson became even more defiant. He had to be silenced. It was the same Jackson who now stood before him, mocking him, ‘We are still here. We whom you called traitors and collaborators will never die!’ And suddenly General R. recalled Lt Koina’s recent misgivings. Koina talked of seeing the ghosts of the colonial past still haunting Independent Kenya. And it was true that those now marching in the streets of Nairobi were not the soldiers of the Kenya Land and Freedom Army but of the King’s African Rifles, the very colonial forces who had been doing on the battlefield what Jackson was doing in churches. Kigondu’s face was now transformed into that of Karanja and all the other traitors in all the communities in Kenya. The sensation of imminent betrayal was so strong that General R. trembled in his moment of triumph. He clutched the microphone to steady himself. He was suddenly aware that the crowd had stopped singing and were watching him. This threw General R. into a panic. Could everybody see the face or was it only in the mind? General R. wondered in his panic. He looked straight ahead, and addressed the face that mocked him.

  ‘You ask why we fought, why we lived in the forest with wild beasts. You ask why we killed and spilt blood.

  ‘The whiteman went in cars. He lived in a big house. His children went to school. But who tilled the soil on which grew coffee, tea, pyrethrum, and sisal? Who dug the roads and paid the taxes? The whiteman lived on our land. He ate what we grew and cooked. And even the crumbs from the table, he threw to his dogs. That is why we went into the forest. He who was not on our side, was against us. That is why we killed our black brothers. Because, inside, they were whitemen. And I know even now this war is not ended. We get Uhuru today. But what’s the meaning of “Uhuru”? It is contained in the name of our Movement: Land and Freedom. Let the Party that now leads the country rededicate itself to all the ideals for which our people gave up their lives. The Party must never betray the Movement. The Party must never betray Uhuru. It must never sell Kenya back to the Enemy! Tomorrow we shall ask: where is the land? Where is the food? Where are the schools? Let therefore these things be done now, for we do not want another war … no more blood in my … in these our hands….’

  General R. found it difficult to continue. Looking at these people, his doubt fled, he knew they were behind him, that in asking for change he had spoken their word. The mocking face of the Rev. Jackson disappeared. Now he resumed his speech in a calm, confident voice.

  ‘We want a Kenya built on the heroic tradition of resistance of our people. We must revere our heroes and punish traitors and collaborators with the colonial enemy. Today we are here to honour one such hero! Not many years ago today, Kihika was strangled with a rope on a tree here. We have come to remember him, the man who died for truth and justice. We, his friends, would like to reveal before you all the truth about his death, so that justice may be done. It is said, I am sure this is the story you all know, that Kihika was captured by security forces. But have you ever stopped to ask yourselves a few questions? Was he captured in battle? Why was he alone? Why was he not armed? Shall I tell you? On that night Kihika was going to meet somebody who betrayed him.’

  He paused to let his words sink. People looked at one another, and started murmuring. The drama was even more exciting than they had imagined.

  ‘Go on!’ someone shouted.

  ‘We hear you,’ several voices cried out.

  General R. continued.

  ‘Maybe he who betrayed Kihika is here, now, in this crowd. We ask him to come forward to this platform, to confess and repent before us all.’

  People looked this way and that way to see if anybody would rise. General R. waited, enjoying the tension, the drama was now unfolding as he had envisaged. Though he could not see him, he knew where Karanja sat. He had told Mwaura and Lt Koina to keep him in sight.

  ‘Let him not think he can hide,’ General R. went on. ‘For we know him. He was Kihika’s friend. They used to eat and drink together.’

  ‘Speak his name,’ Githua stood up a
nd shouted.

  ‘Toboa! Toboa!’ more people cried, severally, almost thirsty for revenge.

  ‘I give him a last chance. Let him come forward as a sign of repentance.’

  People suddenly stopped rumbling and shouting. They sat tensed-up, eyes turned in the same direction, to see the man who was standing. He was tall, imposing, but those near him could see his face was agitated. Nobody had seen Mugo come to the scene. He wore a dirty coat and sandals made from an old lorry tyre. It is Mugo, somebody whispered. The whisper spread and became louder. People clapped. People shouted. At last, the hermit had come to speak. The other drama was forgotten. Women cried out the five Ngemi to a victorious son. General R. was angry with Mugo for ruining the climax of the other drama. Would Karanja escape? He did not show his anger, in fact, he immediately left the microphone to Mugo. People waited for Mugo to speak.

  ‘You asked for Judas,’ he started. ‘You asked for the man who led Kihika to this tree, here. That man stands before you, now. Kihika came to me by night. He put his life into my hands, and I sold it to the whiteman. And this thing has eaten into my life all these years.’

  Throughout he spoke in a clear voice, pausing at the end of every sentence. When he came to the end, however, his voice broke and fell into a whisper. ‘Now, you know.’

  And still nobody said anything. Not even when he walked away from the platform. People without any apparent movement created a path for him. They bent down their heads and avoided his eyes. Wanjiku wept. (’It was his face, not the memory of my son that caused my tears,’ she told Mumbi later.) Suddenly Githua rose from his corner and followed Mugo. He laughed and raised one of his crutches to point at Mugo, and shouted: ‘A liar – a hyena in sheep’s clothing.’ He denounced Mugo as an imposter and challenged him to a fight. ‘Look at him! Look at him – the man who thought he would be our Chief. Ha! ha! ha!’ Githua’s laughter and voice only sharpened the profound silence at the market place. People sat on with bowed heads for a minute or so after Mugo and Githua had gone. Then they rose and started talking, moving away in different directions, as if the meeting ended with Mugo’s confession.

  The sun had faded; clouds were gathering in the sky. Nyamu, Warui, General R., and a few other elders remained behind to complete the sacrifice before the storm.

  Karanja

  But the rain when later it fell, did not break into violence. It drizzled continuously, varying neither in speed nor in volume. The country, it seemed, was going to plunge into one of those stinging drizzles that went on endlessly. On such days the sun never said good morning, or else good night. Without a watch, you could never guess the time.

  At his mother’s hut in Thabai, Karanja crammed a few clothes into a bag.

  ‘You’ll not let me make you a cup of tea?’ his mother asked again. She sat on a stool near the fireplace; her right leg bent at the knee, resting on a hearthstone. She was bowed double, leaning forward, so that her chin and hands rested on the bent knee. Wairimu was wizened, with hollow eyes and protuding jaws. Her eyes now watched the silent movements of her son at the door.

  ‘No,’ Karanja said, after a pause, as if words and speech cost him pain.

  ‘It is raining outside. A cup of hot tea will warm you inside – since you say you’ll not stay here for the night.’

  ‘I’ve already said I don’t want tea – or anything,’ he said, his voice raised with obvious irritation. The irritation was directed less at Wairimu than at the bag he handled, the smoke-ridden hut, the drizzle outside, at the life and things in general.

  ‘Hii, I was only talking,’ Wairimu said in a withdrawing voice.

  It was never easy to tell the relationship between Karanja and his mother. She was the third of the four wives that Karanja’s father had acquired by paying so much bride price in goats and cattle. He acquired them, yes, and then left them to their own resources. He built his hut a mile away from his wives, maintaining equidistance in emotions and help from each of the wives and their children. He visited each woman in turn, sprung a child at her and then retired to his hut. Wairimu’s children died at birth; Karanja was the sole survivor, the only living evidence of her man’s surprise visits to her bed. Wairimu had expected much from her son. She looked up to him as the man who would take care of her in her old age. From an early age Karanja had, however, shown tendencies that were not the normal attributes of a hardworking son. He sang, played the guitar, and ran after women.

  ‘You must stop playing that thing,’ Wairimu had complained. ‘You must do some useful work,’ she often said, threatening to break or burn the guitar. They often quarrelled. But in rare moments when son and mother came together, she would gently tell him a story to illustrate the fate of every idle person. It was in this story that Karanja often remembered his mother and in time of agony it made him long for her.

  ‘Once, long ago,’ she would begin, ‘there was a poor woman who had only one son. Njoki, for that was her name, wanted her son to realize that they were poor and could only get enough to eat by working hard. Every morning her son woke up and polished his shoes and ironed his clothes carefully and then went to his playmates in the shops and streets. In the evenings he would come back with a crowd of young men and women, and would ask his mother for food. Njoki was a generous woman and liked young people in the house. She would give them food and tell them stories. But every day she grew sadder because her son would never take a jembe or a panga to the shamba. Because she did not want to embarrass her son, she always hid her sadness whenever there were people in the house. Njoki was a woman with a good heart and people always praised her generosity and hard work. This pleased her son, because he was really proud of his mother and people called him son of Njoki.

  ‘One day he brought home three great friends from a distant village. He had visited them many times and was always lavished with food and drinks. He in turn talked about his home and had often promised them a similar treat should they ever visit him. That is why he now asked his mother to treat them to a feast. Njoki lit a good fire. She laid a clean cloth on the table. She brought plates and spoons and wiped them clean. Then she went back to the kitchen. Her son was very happy and talked about his mother and her cooking. Njoki came back from the kitchen with three plates and on each plate was a pair of shining shoes. She put the plates and the shoes on the table.

  ’ “I am afraid today I did not go to the shamba,” she said. “I spent the whole day polishing these shoes, and so this is all there is to eat."

  ‘Her son could hardly talk for shame. The following morning he took a panga and a jembe and never left the field until sunset.’

  ‘Aah, that is meant for me,’ Karanja would say. ‘All right, tomorrow I shall come to the shamba with you.’

  During the Emergency, Wairimu disapproved of her son becoming a homeguard and a Chief and said so.

  ‘Don’t go against the people. A man who ignores the voice of his own people comes to no good end.’

  Although ashamed of his activities, she stuck by him, for, as she said, a child from your own womb is never thrown away.

  Karanja finished packing things into the bag. Then, as an after-thought, he turned to his mother.

  ‘Is my guitar still here?’

  ‘Look in that heap at the corner.’

  Karanja had forgotten his guitar until now. During the Emergency he had stopped playing it altogether. He rummaged through a pile of broken pots and calabashes until he fished out the instrument from the bottom. The wood was cracked, was covered with dust and soot, and smelt of smoke. The strings were loose and two were broken. He tried to dust off the layer of dust and soot, then gave up the effort. He fastened one or two of the loose strings. He strummed a little; the instrument produced a rumbling noise as dust fell into the hole. He walked to the door. Outside, it was still drizzling.

  ‘Where are you going in the rain?’ Wairimu asked. Karanja stopped at the door as if shocked by the question. He slowly turned round; his dull eyes flickered slightly, his ch
est heaved outwards. He was going to say something when a wisp of smoke entered his eyes, he coughed a little, and stepped aside. His eyes glistened with tears. The moment was gone.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I am going back to Githima,’ he continued with decision. He went out, his bag and guitar slung on his back. Wairimu did not stir from her huddled position near the fireplace.

  The drizzle tapped, drummed the guitar and the bag. Soon the dust and the soot soaked and started to slug down. He walked towards the bus stop at Thabai Trading Centre, through the greying mist, looking neither to the right nor to the left. A bus arrived at the stop, dropped passengers and then went away. Karanja walked in the steady pace of a person not in a hurry to reach his destination. He saw Mumbi (she must have come out of that bus) cross the road into the village, shielding her head from the drizzle by a Gikoi. His heart beat suddenly rose from near paralysis and quickened at the sight of Mumbi. Caught in the mist and the drizzle, she appeared more beautiful than ever before.