‘It is only that we are in difficulties,’ continued Munira.
‘We have come a long way,’ explained Karega.
‘We are thirsty and hungry and we have a sick child at the gate,’ added Abdulla.
‘Where do you come from?’
‘Ilmorog,’ they again chorused.
‘Ilmorog! Ilmorog!’ he repeated slowly, looking them up and down, from one to the other. If they had asked for work, he could have understood: but such big and obviously very fit, able-bodied men begging for food? He sighed more in pity than in anger.
‘Come into the house!’
His voice was filled with pity and understanding. As a Christian he knew wherein lay his duty. And Munira, full of happiness, was thinking: maybe I should tell him who I am.
The sitting-room was very huge. The wife, a huge matron, very much like his own mother, Munira observed, sat on a sofa by the fireside knitting. She gave them a quick glance, asked them if they were well, and continued with her work. Near her, against the wall, was a glass-cased bookshelf full of gold-lettered Children’s Encyclopedias and Bibles of various sizes and colours. Above the mantelpiece hung a wood-framed slogan behind a face of glass: Christ is the head of this house, the Silent Listener to every conversation at every meal. On another wall was a framed picture of King Nebuchadnezzar naked, hairy, on all fours like an animal, with words of warning printed below the picture. Otherwise on the walls mostly hung group photographs of the Reverend with various dignitaries.
Munira coughed in readiness to introduce himself, but the Reverend after fetching a Bible from the shelf had already asked them to join him in prayers. He prayed for the poor in spirit; the crippled in soul; for jobless wanderers, and all those who were hungry and thirsty because they had never eaten the bread and drunk the water from the well of Jesus. He prayed for everything and everyone under the sun and his voice touched something, a softness in their hearts.
He ended the prayer.
Munira coughed, cleared his throat to start the self-introduction. But the Reverend had already opened the Bible.
Now Peter and John were going up to the temple at the hour of prayer, at the ninth hour. And a man lame from birth was being carried, whom they laid daily at that gate of the temple which is called Beautiful to ask alms of those who entered the Temple. Seeing Peter and John about to go into the temple, he asked for alms. And Peter directed his gaze at him, with John, and said, ‘Look at us.’ And he fixed his attention upon them, expecting to receive something. But Peter said, I have no silver and gold, but I give you what I have: in the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, walk.
They sat patiently through the reading and the sermon that followed, thinking that it was only a necessary preliminary, though a rather long one: but what else would they have expected from a Church minister?
‘What the Bible is talking about is not so much a physical illness as a spiritual condition. For note that the man never went inside the Temple until he was cured of his spiritual lameness. He never begged again. The Bible is then clearly against a life of idleness and begging. This is what’s wrong with this country. Most of us seem to prefer a life of wandering and begging to a life of hard work and sweat. From the moment man ate the fruit of knowledge in complete disregard and defiance of God’s express command and wishes, he was told by God that henceforth he was to work and sweat, that never again was he to get free things, manna provided by the Lord. Even my own children, when they come from boarding schools at Lenana, Nairobi, Kenya High School and Limuru Girls School, I make them work: cut grass and trim up the hedges and feed chicken for their pocket money. As for the child who is ill (and why indeed did you not bring him in?) I have already offered prayers for him. Go ye now in peace and trust in the Lord.’
‘But Reverend Sir . . .’ Karega tried to say something, and could not proceed.
‘We need . . . we only need . . .’ Abdulla also tried and something blocked his throat.
Munira was so stunned he could hardly speak. Inwardly he was so glad that he had not made himself known to Rev. Jerrod. They stood up to go, but at the door Karega could not help it and turned round and quoted a passage he knew.
And when it grew late, his disciples came to him and said, This is a lonely place, and the hour is now late; send them away, to go into the country and villages round about and buy themselves something to eat. But he answered them, you give them something to eat . . . and taking their five loaves and fishes he looked up to heaven, and blessed and brake it and gave to his disciples to give the people. And they all ate and were satisfied.
‘That is it my son,’ said the Reverend gravely . . . ‘the bread and fish of Jesus!’
Bitter and empty-handed, the recalcitrant three went back to the group waiting at the gate. They did not know how to break the news but their very faces and silence told them everything. Abdulla said: ‘Let’s try another house. This time we must avoid Europeans and clergymen.’
Wanja joined Karega and asked him what had happened. Karega suddenly burst out with laughter. ‘Do you remember the hymn we were singing at the beginning of the journey?’ He recited the words. ‘They are hungry and thirsty, those who have not eaten the loaf of Jesus. Do you know the Reverend holy bastard could only offer us the food of the spirit, the bread and fish of Jesus?’
They passed several houses not knowing which they should choose to enter. Most had Asian and European names, for this was one of the most fashionable farming and residential districts around the city. For Wanja the whole area brought back unpleasant memories of that experience in the city, and she did not want to venture into any. Munira abruptly stopped and his heart gave several beats. He read the name again before calling Karega. ‘Raymond Chui,’ Karega read, and looked up at Munira.
‘I will not accompany you,’ Karega told him, ‘I will stay back with the others and wait for you.’
‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ said Munira happily. ‘Don’t you know, he was a classmate . . . a great player . . . oh, my friend . . . you know . . . you and I have a lot to talk about . . . we were expelled from Siriana together . . . a comrade-in-protest, you know.’
He went alone. There were many cars in the compound. Through the window Munira could see several ladies in long dresses holding glasses, talking in high animated voices. A group started singing a few native cultural songs. They were female voices.
Waru wa ngirigaca
Red potatoes.
Uthigagirwko ku?
At whose place are they peeled?
Uthigagirwo kwa Ngina
They are peeled at Ngina’s place.
Twetereire oe Kihinguro
We waiting for her to pick the key.
Ciana citu ciaragie Githungu
Our children speak English.
Harambee! Tuoe Madaraka
Harambee! We take up high offices.
The men took over and sang the juicy sections of songs normally sung at circumcision.
Ngwirwo ni utuku
They say it’s dark.
Ngwirwo ni utuku
They say it’s dark.
Ngionaga Irima
But I can still see.
Cia Tumutumu
Tumu Tumu hills.
Hui, Wainaga
Oh yes, Wainaga.
Njuguma nduku
A big club.
Njuguma nduku
A big club.
Ya gukura k—ru kabucu
For pulling out a jaw of cunt.
Hui, Wainaga
Oh yes, Wainaga.
K—na igoto
Cunt with banana leaves.
K—na igoto
Cunt with banana leaves.
Githi k—ni unyuaga mbaki
So cunt! you take snuff.
Hui, Wainaga
Oh yes, Wainaga.
And they would burst out laughing and clapping at the daring of their voices. There were also a few Swahili and English ones. It was a truly culturally integrated party and Munira lost
courage. He merely stood at the door, eaten by indecision, for now he was suddenly conscious of his stinking body, his uncombed hair, his creased, muddy, dirty clothes. At the same time he was thinking about the social gathering of so many top representatives of the various communities: but only the other day, hardly six months ago, ordinary working people were being given an oath to protect: what? The singing voices?
The door was opened from the inside and Munira stood floodlit, face to face with a red-lipsticked lady with a huge Afro-wig and bracelets and bangles all over her neck and hands. He had no time to see the rest. For the lady, at first flabbergasted by the apparition, now found her voice and screamed, a loud blood-curdling scream, before she fainted on the floor. For a second he was chilled to the ground. He heard the scuffling of feet and the sound of broken glass. Chui and his friends were coming to the lady’s rescue, some voice told him, and he might be manhandled before he could explain. Courage completely deserted him. He would not, he dared not wait for the consequences. He slipped into the shadows and ran as fast as he could make his legs carry him. He jumped over the outer hedge; Munira could never tell how or where he got the strength. He joined the others and urged them to move, to hurry on down the road. Behind them, they heard a gunshot in the sky and all knew without being told that Munira was involved in yet another disaster.
‘Let us go straight to the city,’ Munira suggested. ‘There’s no point in entering any of these houses, they are all the same.’ Abdulla agreed: ‘It is getting late anyway.’
But Joseph’s fever worsened and his groans and sighs were now audible to all. They crowded around him. He was now talking to himself, recalling scenes and things in his own past that only Abdulla seemed to understand. He would cry and laugh and shout and complain. ‘It’s mine . . . it’s mine . . . that . . . that . . . bone . . . I’m hungry . . . truth of God, I didn’t eat anything last night . . . Don’t beat me . . . please don’t beat me.’ He stopped. He was now obviously talking to somebody answering questions about himself. ‘I’ll sleep in a ndebe tonight . . . sometimes I sleep in wrecked abandoned cars . . . Yes, yes . . . in a bush too.’ He gasped for breath and once or twice he called out to his mother for help. But she was not there. Wanja could not bear it. The groans ate straight into her unfulfilled motherhood. It was she who suggested that she enter the very next house. Nyakinyua offered to accompany her, but the others protested in case of another disaster that might involve a hasty exit. Karega and Abdulla offered to go with her, but it was suggested that it was better for Abdulla to stay by Joseph’s side. But Njuguna was now urged to join them, for as an elder he would be good evidence that they were not ill-intentioned. Munira had not sufficiently recovered from his three previous shocks and he decided to stay behind and await the outcome of Wanja’s last mission.
But the mission met misfortune even before it got anywhere near the first building. Several men noiselessly surrounded them on all sides, grabbing their arms and tying them together behind. Karega protested but the men who arrested them did not even bother to answer. They just shone torches onto their faces. ‘They even have a woman among them,’ one said, and pushed them forward. They were taken to a room in the big house and locked up in darkness. The whole thing was so mysterious they felt as if they were in a foreign territory. And indeed that was what Njuguna was thinking: I was happy in Ilmorog. Aloud he said: ‘What does this mean? How dare they arrest an old man, their own father? Is this what has happened to our children, is this what they turned into after leaving Ilmorog?’
Before either Karega or Wanja could answer him or say anything in commiseration, the lights were suddenly put on. For a second their eyes were blinded by the light, but after blinking they looked around and could see no one apart from their own shamed faces. A few minutes silence elapsed. They heard somebody try the handle of the door. They looked at it expectantly. The door opened and a gentleman in a dark suit and a flowered tie stood before them.
Wanja’s eyes and his met and for a few seconds they surveyed one another in silence. Karega and Njuguna did not notice the little drama. The gentleman now looked at Njuguna and Karega before again turning to Wanja who was now staring ahead of her as if looking past the man, past the door, to a distant place, another location.
‘I am sorry I had to invite you to my home in this manner,’ he said with contrived politeness. ‘But as you may perhaps understand there has been an increase in incidents of robbery and violence in these parts. One must take the necessary precautions. Prevention is better than cure. Do you know even the Masai Moran occasionally wake up loyal peaceful citizens as they come to claim their cows? No, we all have to be careful and no harm is intended. Now, what can I do for you?’
‘How dare you treat an old man like this? Is this how you would treat your father, a man with grey hairs?’ Njuguna protested.
‘My father, were he alive, would know better than to disturb people’s peace on such a night. Anyway, you should thank your grey hairs and this lady that you were not shot.’
Karega explained the situation as best as he could. He even mentioned the purpose of their visit to the city.
The Hon. member for Ilmorog? Mr Nderi wa Riera? I know him. A friend of mine. You see how things change, old man, and hence don’t you speak ill of anyone. You never know where we shall meet tomorrow. Now, Mr Nderi wa Riera. We used to have our little differences. He was what you might call a, eh, a freedom fighter, that is, he was a member of the party and was taken to detention. And I was, well, shall we say we didn’t see eye to eye? Now, we are friends. Why? Because we all realize that whether we were on that side of the fence or this side of the fence or merely sitting astride the fence, we were all fighting for the same ends. Not so? We were all freedom fighters. Anyway, Mr Nderi and I, we are quite good friends. We have one or two businesses together. Did you people go to tea? I’ll tell you something. Some of it was held here. We are all members of KCO. Some of us have even been able to borrow a little – shall we say thousands – from the money collected from this tea ceremony. I am a life member of KCO. So is Nderi. I’m telling you this to show you that Nderi is no stranger to me. But he has not told me of a drought, let alone a famine, in Ilmorog! I am sure he would have organized a Harambee there – you know, self-help – he has many friends – and they all would have contributed something. Charity begins at home, ha! ha! ha!’
‘Can’t you show some charity and have these ropes cut?’ Njuguna interrupted his laughter. Karega was surprised at the man’s love of talk. It was as if he was striving to impress them. But why should he want to show off in front of them, prisoners? Why?
‘A spirited old man. I will send somebody.’ And without another word he left the room.
Karega looked at both Wanja and Njuguna. They had been turned into statues. He crept to the door and tried it with his foot. It was so strange, a scene in a melodramatic film or a novel, a thriller. The door was locked, and the experience was not particularly thrilling.
After a few minutes the man who had locked them in came. His face seemed mellower, he looked as if he was going to say something to them all and then changed his mind. He cut off the ropes and said the gentleman wanted to see the lady. Karega moved as if to accompany her. But the man said: only the lady.
Wanja, woken from her statuesque posture, bit her lower lip and followed him out, with a heart that trembled and a mind that tried to arrive at a decision. They went through so many corridors: a huge mansion, it was. She was shown into the man’s room, which looked like an office.
He stood up at her entrance, shut the door behind her. He showed her a seat but she refused to take it.
‘Do you mind if I sit down? At long last, Wanja, at long last,’ he said, in a tone halfway between a question and a statement.
‘Why are you doing this? To us, to an old man, to a child who is desperately ill?’
‘Do you think I believed your little story, Wanja? I sent two of my men to the gate to bring the others in. For your sake, I was
willing to help them all. But they were not there.’
‘It is not true. You are lying. They are there and with a donkey-cart.’
‘I don’t want your little lies, Wanja. Maybe you thought this was somebody else’s house. Maybe you were coming to visit a friend. Because I could see you were rather surprised to see me. Tell me – but why won’t you sit down? I will not bite you. I will not harm you – tell me, why did you run away from me?’
‘Can’t we talk of something else? You ruined my life once. Is that not enough?’
‘How? It was you who ran away. I only teased you about your being pregnant. I just wanted to test you and see if you were telling the truth. Tell me, what happened to the child? Where is he? Was he a boy or a girl? You see, I married a woman who has been bearing only female rabbits.’
She looked at him and there was cruelty in her eyes. There was cruelty in her heart. One day you’ll pay for this, she said inside her, one day you’ll pay for this. Aloud she only pleaded:
‘Why don’t you let me, us, go in peace? What harm have we done to you? We were only seeking for a little help because a child was ill.’
He stood up and walked to where she stood. She moved to one side. The man never seemed to grow old, Wanja thought, and hated herself for thinking even that much about him. He moved nearer her, she moved further back. She tripped over the sofa. He pressed a button and the sofa settee spread into a bed.
‘Kimeria! If you come near me, I shall scream, and your wife will hear,’ she warned him, eyeing something like a knife on the desk.
He stopped. She sat up and moved to the far end of the bed. He stood and rested his eyes on her. Then he suddenly knelt on one knee, edging toward her as he spoke.
‘My wife is not here tonight, but that is not the point. You are a witch, do you know that? My witch. Will you, will you come back to me? I can give you a nice little flat in the city centre. Muindi Mbingu Street. Or in Haile Selassie Avenue. Anywhere you choose. I shall pay the rent. You need not do anything. Just paint your nails or something. Or wait. You can join a Secretarial College. There are so many in the city. You need only know how to bang! bang! the typewriter. Then I can find you a job. I know a few people. Kenya is a black man’s country, you know. What are you really doing with these funny-looking fellows? What are you doing in Ilmorog? I love you, Wanja. The years, the hardships, seem not to have impaired your beauty.’
Petals of Blood Page 22
