He had noticed and picked out these changes within the first days of his return, because he had known the Ilmorog of Nyakinyua, of the mythical Mwathi and of Njuguna and Ruoro. But on looking back on all the places he had been to he could discern the same pattern: rapid in some places, slow in others, but emerging all the time in all of them. There was no other place to which he could turn. Further education? He had lost his chance: besides, what else was there to learn besides what he had experienced with his eyes and hands? Land? There was no land – he was born into a landless home. But even those with land: for how long could it continue to be subdivided into plots and sub-plots so that each son could own a piece? Why, anyway, should soil, any soil, which after all was what was Kenya, be owned by an individual? Kenya, the soil, was the people’s common shamba, and there was no way it could be right for a few, or a section, or a single nationality, to inherit for their sole use what was communal, any more than it would be right for a few sons and daughters to own and monopolize their father or mother. It was better for him to get reconciled to his situation: since the only thing that he had now was his two hands, he would somehow sell its creative power to whoever would buy it and then join with all the other hands in ensuring that at least they had a fair share of what their thousand sets of fingers produced.
At least he would not, he could not accept the static vision of Wanja’s logic. It was too ruthless, and it could only lead to despair and self- or mutual annihilation. For what was the point of a world in which one could only be clean by wiping his dirt and shit and urine on others? A world in which one could only be healthy by making others carry one’s leprosy? A world in which one could only be saintly and moral and upright by prostituting others? Why, anyway, should the victims of a few people’s cleanliness and health and saintliness and wealth be expected to always accept their lot? The true lesson of history was this: that the so-called victims, the poor, the downtrodden, the masses, had always struggled with spears and arrows, with their hands and songs of courage and hope, to end their oppression and exploitation: that they would continue struggling until a human kingdom came: a world in which goodness and beauty and strength and courage would be seen not in how cunning one can be, not in how much power to oppress one possessed, but only in one’s contribution in creating a more humane world in which the inherited inventive genius of man in culture and science from all ages and climes would be not the monopoly of a few, but for the use of all, so that all flowers in all their different colours would ripen and bear fruits and seeds. And the seeds would be put into the ground and they would once again sprout and flower in rain and sunshine. If Abdulla could choose a brother, why couldn’t they all do the same? Choose brothers and sisters in sweat, in toil, in struggle, and stand by one another and strive for that kingdom?
These thoughts matured as for six months he worked in the Theng’eta Breweries as a counting clerk. He kept a check on the bottles that came off the production line. He also helped in counting the number of cases put on a customer’s lorry. They called him the silent one because he worked in silence, observing, annotating, now and then arguing with one or two workers, but no more. He also stopped drinking because alcohol sapped his energy and reduced his power of concentration. But he frequented the bars, where he would insert a shilling or two in a juke-box and listen to his favourites as well as keeping up with the latest singers and poets. The juke-box had driven out all the live bands. In one or two places he met some of his old students, now young men. They would call him Mwalimu, but he discouraged them from calling him so. The only bars he avoided were those likely to be visited by Chui or Kimeria or Mzigo, who liked staying on after inspecting the workings of the factory. Once or twice he went to the Tourist Village. He liked the songs and dances of the older generation. But when he saw how Nderi wa Riera and his managing consortium of German and Greek proprietors had so mummified them and drained them of all emotion and meaning; when he saw how the fat tourists carrying cameras, chewing gum and adjusting their safari hats clapped and cheered at this acrobatic nothingness, he was disgusted and swore he would never return. He observed how the workers were disunited: in their talk he could see that they were proud of their linguistic enclaves and clans and regions and tended to see any emergent leadership in terms of how it would help or hinder the allocation of jobs to people of their own clan and language groups. Men too seemed to think they were better off than women workers because they got a little bit more pay and preference in certain jobs. They seemed to think that women deserved low pay and heavy work: women’s real job, they argued amidst noise and laughter, was to lie on their backs and open their legs to man’s passage to the kingdoms of pleasure.
He now knew his line of attack and approach. These divisions had to end if they were going to successfully demand recognition and a fair share of their own sweat. From nowhere, so it seemed, pamphlets started appearing: and they all carried the same theme: workers were all children of the machine and the New Road. Those who owned the machine did not care where a worker came from in the game of exploitation. But the machine and the New Road were the children of the workers, for it was their sweat that built the road, the factory, and it was they who sustained the whole complex by their energy and consumption. The machine was no less their father than they were its father, and the struggle in future would be fought on who should own and control the machine and the products: those whose sweat made it move or those whose power was the bank, and who came to reap and harvest where they had not ploughed or planted. Every dispute was put in the context of the exploitation of labour by capital, itself stolen from other workers. Why should so few wield power of life and death over so many?
Suddenly, after six months, people realized that something was happening in this factory. Workers would argue and discuss in groups of two and threes. Every pamphlet was the subject of heated discussion and it would secretly pass from hand to hand in the factory. Except for the few in the inner circle nobody knew the source. But what the pamphlets said was true and so to the workers its origins and source did not worry them. As a first step the workers decided to form a union. The directors and the management were taken by surprise: whence this whizzing noise from those who only the other day were docile and obedient and spent their salaries on Theng’eta and fighting amongst themselves?
The first contest came over the recognition and registration of the Theng’eta Breweries Workers’ Union. The workers stood together. They went on strike. The Board of Directors gave way: after all, other unions in the country had been effectively neutralized by employers. But they had to look for a scapegoat. Karega was dismissed, even though on paper he was only a committee member. The management had somehow dug up his past. But the dismissal gained him popularity and he was immediately elected full-time paid Secretary-General of the Union.
The victory of the Breweries Workers’ Union had a very traumatic effect on the hitherto docile workers of Ilmorog. Suddenly even barmaids wanted their own union. The women dancers formed themselves into a Tourist Dancers’ Union and demanded more money for their art. The agricultural workers followed suit. Something big was happening in Ilmorog and the employers were shaken and worried.
And then Karega’s real problems started. The employers went out of their way to sow discord. They encouraged national and regional chauvinism. When this did not work, they promoted some workers, especially the more outspoken, and labelled them management. By law these were not allowed to go on strike. Other workers were encouraged to buy one or two shares so that they would feel that the company was theirs. Despite this, or because of the increase in discussions, study groups and pamphlets, the workers’ union remained strong.
But the biggest threat came from a new charismatic religious movement which sprang up and spoke in very egalitarian terms. It opposed the hypocrisy of the organized church. For them, there was no difference between the poor and the rich, the employer and the employed . . . the only thing was acceptance of Christ. Jesus saves. Love was the only
law that they needed to obey. They were to avoid the strife and struggles of this world. This world was a distorted image of the other world. Distorted by Satan. Therefore the only meaningful struggle was a spiritual battle with Satan. They held rallies in which girls claimed they could speak in tongues, communicate with Jesus and heal by faith. Lillian led them.
For a time this wave carried off many workers. Some even resigned from the union, believing that the Kingdom of God was near at hand.
Karega knew that this too was to be fought. He would often quote the verse ‘Give unto Caesar’ to show the separation between the secular and the religious struggles, that one need not exclude the other. But inwardly he knew that religion, any religion, was a weapon against the workers!
Munira especially annoyed him. He would not leave Karega alone but would seize every opportunity to ask him to give up the path of earthly struggle and first change people’s hearts. If all employers were converted and turned to Christ, then selfishness would end. Karega was very impatient, and with him he would use strong words. Once or twice he bluntly asked him to leave him alone, but Munira would not hear. He persisted all the more until Karega began to wonder if Munira was employed to trail him. Later Karega learnt that the whole movement was financed by some churches in America which made a lot of money by insisting on the followers giving a tenth of their salaries as tithe. A bit of this would later be given back as the American parent movement’s contribution to Harambee church-building efforts. The kinds of books the followers were encouraged to read were interesting: Tortured by Christ by Wurmbrand; World Aflame by Billy Graham, and other tracts published in America and speaking of communism as the Devil: they also warned of the immediate second coming of Christ to root out all the enemies of freedom.
One night Wanja sent for him. The note simply asked him to meet her in the old hut: he was not to fail. He wondered why she should call him. For two years they had not spoken much . . . and now she had called for him . . .
That was almost a week before the fatal accident . . .
As Karega waited in the cell he wondered what had happened to her, whether for instance she had recovered from the fire.
Three days after the arrest, the officer started questioning him. He seemed well informed. What Karega did not know was that Inspector Godfrey was using Munira’s notes. And it was immediately obvious to Karega that the Inspector wanted to connect him with the arson. For a start he seemed particularly interested in certain incidents in Karega’s past. How, for instance, did he lose his elder brother? He explained that he did not know the circumstances, that it was Abdulla who had told him what had really happened.
‘Did it make you perhaps a little bitter?’
‘It happened so long ago. Besides, in a struggle one has to be on a particular side. Nobody can stand on the fence. A struggle is a form of war. One side wins or loses. But even the side that wins has to lose individuals.’
‘You seem to be fairly knowledgeable about struggles.’
‘It’s common sense.’
‘Tell me: why did you leave Siriana?’
‘I was . . . I was asked to leave.’
‘Why?’
‘I was involved in some sort of strike.’
‘I see. Who was the headmaster?’
‘Chui.’
‘The same one as the late Director of Theng’eta Breweries?’
‘The same.’
‘I see. And did it make you a little bitter perhaps?’
‘Listen. Why are you asking me all these questions?’
‘Sit down, Mr Karega. I’ll not hide it from you. Look at it this way. Three Managing Directors are burnt to death in the house of a woman who was known to have been rather partial to you. You are the General of . . . I mean . . . General Secretary of a union that had called for higher wages. The directors meet to decide on your demands. They come to the conclusion that your demands are too high; that should you declare a strike all your people would be expelled and new workers engaged. On the same night, the directors are all burnt. I am a police officer. Unlike a judge, I start with the assumption that anybody could be guilty, even myself.’
‘But I’ve told you that I was at an all-night executive meeting to decide on tactics for the strike we had called.’
‘I know. I know. I am not saying, I am not alleging anything. I work – like a doctor – on the principle of elimination. Let me ask you another: you once were a teacher in this school?’
‘True!’
‘Why did you suddenly give up teaching?’
‘I was asked to leave.’
‘By whom?’
‘Mzigo!’
‘The same as the late . . .’
‘You know. Why ask me?’
‘I must be sure that we are talking about the same thing. Tell me about your relationship with Wanja!’
‘I knew her. In the past.’
‘Did you resume your cordial relationship after your rather unexpected return?’
‘No. We lived in two different worlds.’
‘You never met?’
Karega hesitated.
‘No. For two years we never really met.’
‘I see. Let me now play you something.’
He walked to the wall and pressed a button. A tape or a record started playing. Karega heard his own voice during the last meeting of the Executive Meeting of the Union saying: We can lay the basis of a New World.
‘How . . . how dare . . .’ He was really staggered by this and wondered who the traitor could be. The officer waved him to silence. He switched it off.
‘You see, Mr Karega, we have our own way of working.’ Suddenly Godfrey banged the table and stared at Karega as if he would hypnotize him. ‘Tell me: who killed Kimeria, Mzigo and Chui? Who gave the orders?’
‘I thought you had your own ways of working,’ Karega said acidly, sensing the man’s uncertainty.
For the next eight days they played that game. Sometimes he was kept awake for two days. Then suddenly Inspector Godfrey would spring questions at him. He would needle him with sharp-pointed comments: sometimes he would sneer at Karega’s involvement in trade unionism; and at times he would issue direct threats. On the tenth day the officer came to his cell wearing a cruel, triumphant smile.
‘Mr Karega . . .’
‘Listen. I am tired. I’ve been kept here for I don’t know how long, answering the same stupid questions. I have told you, I know nothing about the arson. I’ll not pretend that I am angry, sad or anything, except that the incident gives all of you and the employers a chance to kill the union. But I had nothing to do with it. I don’t believe in the elimination of individuals. There are many Kimerias and Chuis in the country. They are the products of a system, just as workers are products of a system. It’s the system that needs to be changed . . . and only the workers of Kenya and the peasants can do that.’
Petals of Blood Page 42
