Minutes of Glory

by Ngũgĩ Wa Thiong'o

  THE RETURN

  The road was long. Whenever he took a step forward, little clouds of dust rose, whirled angrily behind him, and then slowly settled again. But a thin train of dust was left in the air, moving like smoke. He walked on, however, unmindful of the dust and ground under his feet. Yet with every step he seemed more and more conscious of the hardness and apparent animosity of the road. Not that he looked down; on the contrary, he looked straight ahead as if he would, any time now, see a familiar object that would hail him as a friend and tell him that he was near home. But the road stretched on.

  He made quick, springing steps, his left hand dangling freely by the side of his once white coat, now torn and worn out. His right hand, bent at the elbow, held onto a string tied to a small bundle on his slightly drooping back. The bundle, well wrapped with a cotton cloth that had once been printed with red flowers now faded out, swung from side to side in harmony with the rhythm of his steps. The bundle held the bitterness and hardships of the years spent in detention camps. Now and then he looked at the sun on its homeward journey. Sometimes he darted quick side-glances at the small hedged strips of land which, with their sickly-looking crops, maize, beans, and peas, appeared much as everything else did – unfriendly. The whole country was dull and seemed weary. To Kamau, this was nothing new. He remembered that, even before the Mau Mau emergency, the over-tilled Gikuyu holdings wore haggard looks in contrast to the sprawling green fields in the settled area.

  A path branched to the left. He hesitated for a moment and then made up his mind. For the first time, his eyes brightened a little as he went along the path that would take him down the valley and then to the village. At last home was near and, with that realization, the faraway look of a weary traveller seemed to desert him for a while. The valley and the vegetation along it were in deep contrast to the surrounding country. For here green bush and trees thrived. This could only mean one thing: Honia river still flowed. He quickened his steps as if he could scarcely believe this to be true till he had actually set his eyes on the river. It was there; it still flowed. Honia, where so often he had taken a bathe, plunging stark naked into its cool living water, warmed his heart as he watched its serpentine movement round the rocks and heard its slight murmurs. A painful exhilaration passed all over him, and for a moment he longed for those days. He sighed. Perhaps the river would not recognize in his hardened features that same boy to whom the riverside world had meant everything. Yet as he approached Honia, he felt more akin to it than he had felt to anything else since his release.

  A group of women were drawing water. He was excited, for he could recognize one or two from his ridge. There was the middle-aged Wanjiku, whose deaf son had been killed by the Security Forces just before he himself was arrested. She had always been a darling of the village, having a smile for everyone and food for all. Would they receive him? Would they give him a ‘hero’s welcome’? He thought so. Had he not always been a favourite all along the Ridge? And had he not fought for the land? He wanted to run and shout: ‘Here I am. I have come back to you.’ But he desisted. He was a man.

  ‘Is it well with you?’ A few voices responded. The other women, with tired and worn features, looked at him mutely as if his greeting was of no consequence. Why! Had he been so long in the camp? His spirits were damped as he feebly asked: ‘Do you not remember me?’ Again they looked at him. They stared at him with cold, hard looks; like everything else, they seemed to be deliberately refusing to know or own him. It was Wanjiku who at last recognized him. But there was neither warmth nor enthusiasm in her voice as she said, ‘Oh, is it you, Kamau? We thought you—’ She did not continue. Only now he noticed something else – surprise? fear? He could not tell. He saw their quick glances dart at him and he knew for certain that a secret from which he was excluded bound them together.

  ‘Perhaps I am no longer one of them!’ he bitterly reflected. But they told him of the new village. The old village of scattered huts spread thinly over the Ridge was no more.

  He left them, feeling embittered and cheated. The old village had not even waited for him. And suddenly he felt a strong nostalgia for his old home, friends and surroundings. He thought of his father, mother and – and – he dared not think about her. But for all that, Muthoni, just as she had been in the old days, came back to his mind. His heart beat faster. He felt desire and a warmth thrilled through him. He quickened his step. He forgot the village women as he remembered his wife. He had stayed with her for a mere two weeks; then he had been swept away by the Colonial forces. Like many others, he had been hurriedly screened and then taken to detention without trial. And all that time he had thought of nothing but the village and his beautiful woman.

  The others had been like him. They had talked of nothing but their homes. One day he was working next to another detainee from Muranga. Suddenly the detainee, Njoroge, stopped breaking stones. He sighed heavily. His worn-out eyes had a faraway look.

  ‘What’s wrong, man? What’s the matter with you?’ Kamau asked.

  ‘It is my wife. I left her expecting a baby. I have no idea what has happened to her.’

  Another detainee put in: ‘For me, I left my woman with a baby. She had just been delivered. We were all happy. But on the same day, I was arrested …’

  And so they went on. All of them longed for one day – the day of their return home. Then life would begin anew.

  Kamau himself had left his wife without a child. He had not even finished paying the bride-price. But now he would go, seek work in Nairobi, and pay off the remainder to Muthoni’s parents. Life would indeed begin anew. They would have a son and bring him up in their own home. With these prospects before his eyes, he quickened his steps. He wanted to run – no, fly to hasten his return. He was now nearing the top of the hill. He wished he could suddenly meet his brothers and sisters. Would they ask him questions? He would, at any rate, not tell them all: the beating, the screening and the work on roads and in quarries with an askari always nearby ready to kick him if he relaxed. Yes. He had suffered many humiliations, and he had not resisted. Was there any need? But his soul and all the vigour of his manhood had rebelled and bled with rage and bitterness.

  One day these wazungu would go!

  One day his people would be free! Then, then – he did not know what he would do. However, he bitterly assured himself no one would ever flout his manhood again.

  He mounted the hill and then stopped. The whole plain lay below. The new village was before him – rows and rows of compact mud huts, crouching on the plain under the fast-vanishing sun. Dark blue smoke curled upwards from various huts, to form a dark mist that hovered over the village. Beyond, the deep, blood-red sinking sun sent out finger-like streaks of light that thinned outwards and mingled with the grey mist shrouding the distant hills.

  In the village, he moved from street to street, meeting new faces. He inquired. He found his home. He stopped at the entrance to the yard and breathed hard and full. This was the moment of his return home. His father sat huddled up on a three-legged stool. He was now very aged and Kamau pitied the old man. But he had been spared – yes, spared to see his son’s return—

  ‘Father!’

  The old man did not answer. He just looked at Kamau with strange vacant eyes. Kamau was impatient. He felt annoyed and irritated. Did he not see him? Would he behave like the women Kamau had met at the river?

  In the street, naked and half-naked children were playing, throwing dust at one another. The sun had already set and it looked as if there would be moonlight.

  ‘Father, don’t you remember me?’ Hope was sinking in him. He felt tired. Then he saw his father suddenly start and tremble like a leaf. He saw him stare with unbelieving eyes. Fear was discernible in those eyes. His mother came, and his brothers too. They crowded around him. His aged mother clung to him and sobbed hard.

  ‘I knew my son would come. I knew he was not dead.’

  ‘Why, who told you I was dead?’

  ‘That Karanja, s
on of Njogu.’

  And then Kamau understood. He understood his trembling father. He understood the women at the river. But one thing puzzled him: he had never been in the same detention camp with Karanja. Anyway he had come back. He wanted now to see Muthoni. Why had she not come out? He wanted to shout, ‘I have come, Muthoni; I am here.’ He looked around. His mother understood him. She quickly darted a glance at her man and then simply said:

  ‘Muthoni went away.’

  Kamau felt something cold settle in his stomach. He looked at the village huts and the dullness of the land. He wanted to ask many questions but he dared not. He could not yet believe that Muthoni had gone. But he knew by the look of the women at the river, by the look of his parents, that she was gone.

  ‘She was a good daughter to us,’ his mother was explaining. ‘She waited for you and patiently bore all the ills of the land. Then Karanja came and said that you were dead. Your father believed him. She believed him too and keened for a month. Karanja constantly paid us visits. He was of your Rika, you know. Then she got a child. We could have kept her. But where is the land? Where is the food? Ever since land consolidation, our last security was taken away. We let Karanja go with her. Other women have done worse – gone to town. Only the infirm and the old have been left here.’

  He was not listening; the coldness in his stomach slowly changed to bitterness. He felt bitter against all, all the people including his father and mother. They had betrayed him. They had leagued against him, and Karanja had always been his rival. Five years was admittedly not a short time. But why did she go? Why did they allow her to go? He wanted to speak. Yes, speak and denounce everything – the women at the river, the village and the people who dwelt there. But he could not. This bitter thing was choking him.

  ‘You – you gave my own away?’ he whispered.

  ‘Listen, child, child—’

  The big yellow moon dominated the horizon. He hurried away bitter and blind, and only stopped when he came to the Honia river.

  And standing at the bank, he saw not the river, but his hopes dashed on the ground instead. The river moved swiftly, making ceaseless monotonous murmurs. In the forest the crickets and other insects kept up an incessant buzz. And above, the moon shone bright. He tried to remove his coat, and the small bundle he had held on to so firmly fell. It rolled down the bank and before Kamau knew what was happening, it was floating swiftly down the river. For a time he was shocked and wanted to retrieve it. What would he show his – Oh, had he forgotten so soon? His wife had gone. And the little things that had so strangely reminded him of her, and that he had guarded all those years, had gone! He did not know why, but somehow he felt relieved. Thoughts of drowning himself dispersed. He began to put on his coat, murmuring to himself, ‘Why should she have waited for me? Why should all the changes have waited for my return?’

  A MEETING IN THE DARK

  He stood at the door of the hut and saw his old, frail but energetic father coming along the village street, with a rather dirty bag made out of a strong calico swinging by his side. His father always carried this bag. John knew what it contained: a Bible, a hymn-book and probably a notebook and a pen. His father was a preacher. He knew it was he who had stopped his mother from telling him stories when he became a man of God. His mother had stopped telling him stories long ago. She would say to him, ‘Now, don’t ask for any more stories. Your father may come.’ So he feared his father. John went in and warned his mother of his father’s coming. Then his father entered. John stood aside, then walked towards the door. He lingered there doubtfully, then he went out.

  ‘John, hei, John!’

  ‘Baba!’

  ‘Come back.’

  He stood doubtfully in front of his father. His heart beat faster and there was that anxious voice within him asking: Does he know?

  ‘Sit down. Where are you going?’

  ‘For a walk, Father,’ he answered evasively.

  ‘To the village?’

  ‘Well-yes-no. I mean, nowhere in particular.’ John saw his father look at him hard, seeming to read his face. John sighed, a very slow sigh. He did not like the way his father eyed him. He always looked at him as though John was a sinner, one who had to be watched all the time. ‘I am,’ his heart told him. John guiltily refused to meet the old man’s gaze and looked past him appealingly to his mother who was quietly peeling potatoes. But she seemed oblivious of everything around her.

  ‘Why do you look away? What have you done?’

  John shrank within himself with fear. But his face remained expressionless. He could hear the loud beats of his heart. It was like an engine pumping water. He felt no doubt his father knew all about it. He thought: ‘Why does he torture me? Why does he not at once say he knows?’ Then another voice told him: ‘No, he doesn’t know, otherwise he would have already jumped at you.’ A consolation. He faced his thoughtful father with courage.

  ‘When is the journey?’

  Again John thought: ‘Why does he ask? I have told him many times.’

  ‘Next week, Tuesday,’ he said.

  ‘Right. Tomorrow we go to the shops, hear?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Then be prepared.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘You can go.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’ He began to move.

  ‘John!’

  ‘Yes?’ John’s heart almost stopped beating.

  ‘You seem to be in a hurry. I don’t want to hear of you loitering in the village. I know young men, going to show off just because you are going away? I don’t want to hear of trouble in the village.’

  Much relieved, he went out. He could guess what his father meant by not wanting trouble in the village.

  ‘Why do you persecute the boy so much?’ Susana spoke for the first time. Apparently she had carefully listened to the whole drama without a word. Now was her time to speak. She looked at her tough old preacher who had been a companion for life. She had married him a long time ago. She could not tell the number of years. They had been happy. Then the man became a convert. And everything in the home put on a religious tone. He even made her stop telling stories to the child. ‘Tell him of Jesus. Jesus died for you. Jesus died for the child. He must know the Lord.’ She, too, had been converted. But she was never blind to the moral torture he inflicted on the boy (that was how she always referred to John), so that the boy had grown up mortally afraid of his father. She always wondered if it was love for the son. Or could it be a resentment because, well, they two had ‘sinned’ before marriage? John had been the result of that sin. But that had not been John’s fault. It was the boy who ought to complain. She often wondered if the boy had … but no. The boy had been very small when they left Fort Hall. She looked at her husband. He remained mute though his left hand did, rather irritably, feel about his face.

  ‘It is as if he was not your son. Or do you …’

  ‘Hm, Sister.’ The voice was pleading. She was seeking a quarrel but he did not feel equal to one. Really, women could never understand. Women were women, whether saved or not. Their son had to be protected against all evil influences. He must be made to grow in the footsteps of the Lord. He looked at her, frowning a little. She had made him sin but that had been a long time ago. And he had been saved. John must not tread the same road.

  ‘You ought to tell us to leave. You know I can go away. Go back to Fort Hall. And then everybody …’

  ‘Look, Sister,’ he hastily interrupted. He always called her Sister. Sister-in-Lord, in full. But he sometimes wondered if she had been truly saved. In his heart he prayed: Lord, be with our sister Susana. Aloud, he continued, ‘You know I want the boy to grow in the Lord.’

  ‘But you torture him so! You make him fear you!’

  ‘Why! He should not fear me. I have really nothing against him’.

  ‘It is you. You. You have always been cruel to him …’ She stood up. The peelings dropped from her frock and fell in a heap on the floor. ‘Stanley!’
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  ‘Sister.’ He was startled by the vehemence in her voice. He had never seen her like this. Lord, take the devil out of her. Save her this minute. She did not say what she wanted to say. Stanley looked away from her. It was a surprise, but it seemed he feared his wife. If you had told the people in the village about this, they would not have believed you. He took his Bible and began to read. On Sunday he would preach to a congregation of brethren and sisters.

  Susana, a rather tall, thin woman, who had once been beautiful, sat down again and went on with her work. She did not know what was troubling her son. Was it the coming journey? Still, she feared for him.

  Outside, John was strolling aimlessly along the path that led from his home. He stood near the wattle tree which was a little way from his father’s house and surveyed the whole village. They lay before his eyes, crammed, rows and rows of mud and grass huts, ending in sharply defined sticks that pointed to heaven. Smoke was coming out of various huts. It was an indication that many women had already come from the shambas. Night would soon fall. To the west, the sun – that lone day-time traveller – was hurrying home behind the misty hills. Again, John looked at the crammed rows and rows of huts that formed Makeno Village, one of the new mushroom ‘towns’ that grew up all over the country during the Mau Mau war. It looked so ugly. A pain rose in his heart and he felt like crying – I hate you, I hate you! You trapped me alive. Away from you, it would never have happened. He did not shout. He just watched.

  A woman was coming towards where he stood. A path into the village was just near there. She was carrying a big load of Kuni which bent her into an Akamba-bow shape. She greeted him. ‘Is it well with you, Njooni (John)?’

  ‘It is well with me, Mother.’ There was no trace of bitterness in his voice. John was by nature polite. Everyone knew this. He was quite unlike the other proud, educated sons of the tribe – sons who came back from the other side of the waters with white or Negro wives who spoke English. And they behaved just like Europeans! John was a favourite, a model of humility and moral perfection. Everyone knew that though a clergyman’s son, John would never betray the tribe. They still talked of the tribe and its ways.