Wizard of the Crow

by Ngũgĩ Wa Thiong

  The Ruler signaled Machokali to carry on, and it was not lost on anybody that the leader had not only ignored Sikiokuu’s words but had not even asked him to return to his seat. Sikiokuu remained on his knees for the entire meeting.

  A triumphant Machokali could not help but beat his rival into the ground. There was no point, he said, in changing the constitution to include something as obvious as the fact that the sun is the source of heat and light. “But I don’t want to get embroiled in this foolishness,” he said. “I want to go back to the report of the police rider. It is obvious that the queuing is connected with Marching to Heaven. Employers and workers knew the project meant economic growth and jobs galore; that was why even before the project had been launched employer and employee stood shoulder to shoulder in the streets of Eldares in support of Marching to Heaven! Has anything like this ever happened in the history of the world? The lion and the lamb lying together? Fear not those who queue in hope but those who fear those who queue in hope. Take a cue from me: use the queue, don’t abuse it. Instead of banning queuing, we should present it to the world as the very picture of a nation lining up behind its leader’s vision.”

  The Ruler was pleased with the idea. Ever since the people abandoned him in the park for fear of snakes, he had tried to hatch a scheme that would prove how much they still loved him, how much they desired nothing more than to follow in his footsteps. Here now was an opportunity.

  As soon as the other ministers realized that the Ruler was excited by Machokali’s motion, their tongues loosened, each claiming, one after another, that queuing was most intense in his respective region with his constituents singing nothing but songs in praise of Marching to Heaven. A few regions where the mania had yet to break out said they would send word to the grass roots to immediately get busy. Others suggested that the Bank missionaries should tour the city and other parts of the country to see for themselves the extent of popular support for Marching to Heaven.

  Even the humbled Sikiokuu tried to swim with the current, claiming that the Ruler was the founding father of all queuing and others were merely following his example. In his capacity as the Minister of State in the Ruler’s office entrusted with security, he, Sikiokuu, would add hundreds of M5S to the queues to ensure that no one would abuse the queuing mania as a referendum on anarchy.

  “A queuing referendum for Marching to Heaven,” Big Ben Mambo burst out, resenting Sikiokuu’s continuing attempts to deflate Machokali’s ideas. This triggered a round of political discussion, especially after Big Ben Mambo suggested that the queuing referendum could produce a new theory of politics, a point strongly supported by the Minister of Education. The latter insisted that such a theory, bearing the Buler’s name, could be taught in all Aburirian schools and colleges, supplanting the outmoded theories of Plato, Aristotle, Hobbes, and Pope. Another minister said that the political theories of ancient Greece belonged to the dead and should be thrown out the window. “We cannot allow the sepulchral mud of the dead to besmirch the spectacular mind of the living,” he said, and they all laughed. Even the Buler graced the remark with a smile and a humble opinion.

  “Some people think that it is only white people who can come up with new theories, and they are wrong!” he said, and all the ministers chorused back: Yeees!

  They had gotten the hint and unanimously selected Machokali to head a committee to write down the Buler’s Theory of Politics and Government.

  Fearing that all the blessings would pass him by, Sikiokuu, speaking from his kneeling position, said that by queuing people were already putting theory to practice and only the Buler could claim credit from it. What they needed to do was find a way to thank the people for queuing with such boundless enthusiasm. He himself volunteered to announce the Buler’s gratitude over prime-time radio and TV and to tour the country thanking the people in the name of the Buler for supporting the vision of Marching to Heaven.

  Machokali glared at him. He would not give the cunning fellow an opportunity to put a foot in the door of Marching to Heaven. The idea of ensuring that every queue was infiltrated by M5 was excellent, Machokali said, and it showed that Minister Sikiokuu, even on his knees, could be quick on his feet when it mattered. But it was best to leave media to the Minister of Information, Big Ben Mambo, for were the announcement to come from the Buler’s office it would create the impression, totally false, that the people had been coerced into queuing, and this would definitely take away from the positive impression of a spontaneous grassroots anticipation of Marching to Heaven. And even then, a simple statement would suffice.

  Years later a few of those present would look back on this moment and wonder, Had Machokali foreseen it all, or in trying to crush his kneeling rival had he stumbled onto something with a significance that could be seen only in hindsight? All they could recall was Machokali whispering almost to himself, “They were four, but we can send five.” Some even claimed that the words were preceded by a light from his eyes so intense that it momentarily lit the room.

  “What are you talking about?” the Ruler asked, puzzled.

  “The four horsemen in the Book of Revelations,” he said without any hesitation.

  “And what has that got to do with us?”

  There was absolute silence as Machokali revealed his plan: they should send a rider to each of the five regions-northern, southern, western, eastern, and central-to assess firsthand the heat of the queuing fever and its effect on the general populace. The first thing he would impress upon the five riders selected by him was that they should make haste and not spend a whole week going in circles. He would tell them to roam all Aburiria and take a census of existing queues while conveying the Ruler’s gratitude and pleasure at the queuing and urging even more spontaneous eruptions in support of Marching to Heaven.

  Sikiokuu felt outmaneuvered and wished that he could answer with something from the Quran or another holy text. But, mindful of the saying that if you can’t beat them, join them, he argued that the duty of sending out more riders rested entirely with his department, as security matters were involved.

  Those ministers who normally monitored the war between the two rivals, always leaning toward the winner, named the struggle that just ended the Battle of the Five Riders, but they were not quite sure which side had won.

  As he left the State House, Sikiokuu fumed, and some even say that, like a hippo’s under water, his heavy breathing produced bubbles of air from his mouth and nostrils and that the bubbles surrounded him and his car all the way to the office. The minister was seething with rage. He had to be obedient, but in so being he did not want to further enhance his rival’s standing in the eyes of the Ruler. How could he at once obey the Ruler and avenge himself? He would use the written word to account for the letter of the law, and the spoken to subvert its spirit.

  On five sheets of paper bearing the letterhead THE OFFICE OF THE

  RULER, Sikiokuu typed the title Riders of the Ruler. To each he specified precise instructions: Know ye by this letter that I am sending ye to said direction…; the duty of each being to observe and assess; convey the Ruler’s satisfaction with the queuing; and spread the gospel where it had not reached. Sikiokuu would have signed the letters on behalf of the Ruler but thought better of it; he took them to the leader who, berating Sikiokuu-Why did you waste my time with such petty matters? Why did you not sign them yourself?-affixed his signature with relish and even stamped the letters with the seal of the State House.

  Armed with the authorization, Sikiokuu summoned the chosen five to his office and handed each a letter, the most precious document they had ever come across. They were particularly delighted with the Ruler’s signature, for it made them see themselves truly as his envoys to the country and the world. But Sikiokuu took pains with his instructions.

  He told the Riders of the Ruler that while there was some urgency to the matter, what was most important was absolute diligence: he would have no mercy for any who returned without having visited every nook and cra
nny of the country wherever there were queues, rumors of queues, or possibilities of queues. They could even go beyond the country, the Ruler’s envoys to the world, if necessary, he added, hoping in a light touch, but it did not come out that way. In short, there was really no hurry and they could take their time and space performing their duty, he told them, before sending them off to the world on brand new motorcycles.

  At the time that Sikiokuu was tweaking his own instructions, his rival, Machokali, was recalling, not without a sense of wonder, his inspired “riders of the apocalypse” moment. What most pleased him was that Sikiokuu would be sending riders to all the five regions of Aburlria to spread the very gospel of queuing, upon which he had at first tried to heap scorn. Furthermore, queuing as mass support for Marching to Heaven now had the Ruler’s blessings. Machokali was certain that the five riders’ reports would redound to his credit. What foresight on his part to have put forward the name of Tajirika as chairman of Marching to Heaven, for from all accounts, including that of the crazed rider, the queuing had started outside the offices of Eldares Modern Construction and Real Estate.

  Following the emergency Cabinet session, Machokali placed a call to Tajirika’s house to congratulate him on the fact that the daemons of queuing had started outside his offices. But he was disappointed to hear that Tajirika was still indisposed. What a time for his friend to get the flu! With whom would he share the joy of victory?

  That night he dreamt that he beheld four messengers, four riders on white cycles… He woke up in a sweat. Why four and not fiver

  He called Tajirika’s house again. Would Tajirika please call him back as soon as he felt better?

  9

  Tajirika, chairman of Marching to Heaven, CEO of Eldares Modern Construction and Real Estate, and friend of the Minister for Foreign Affairs, was not in a position to return any calls. He sat in front of the bathroom mirror all day long, his chin in cupped hands, staring vacuously into space. Sometimes his sight would stray into the mirror, slightly, ever so slightly, and he would mutter the word if and then resume looking nowhere. But when his eyes rested on the mirror a bit longer, he would bark the word continuously, his body shaking uncontrollably, until he moved his eyes away from the mirror and achieved an uneasy calm.

  In the early days of the affliction, Vinjinia believed that the mirror was somehow responsible for her husband’s condition, so one evening she lured him into bed, and when he fell asleep she relocated the mirror elsewhere, hoping to put an end to Tajirika’s violent ifs.

  The following morning Tajirika’s face was cheerfulness itself, as if the illness had vanished along with his having missed work the previous day. He set about his morning rituals with gusto, indications that he intended to go to the office as usual, and, seeing this, Vinjinia felt no need to bring up his erstwhile malady. There was one more hurdle to jump and all will be well, she thought as she watched him go to the bathroom. A second later, Tajirika was shouting, demanding to know who had removed the mirror from the wall. How was he supposed to shave without a mirror? He accused the children of being the culprits and threatened to beat them, forcing Vinjinia to own up to what she had done. I forgot to put it back when I mopped the wall clean, she said. Her stratagem had failed. For no sooner was the mirror in place when the ifs came back with debilitating force. It was Vinjinia who once again went to the office while Tajirika remained at home, in the bathroom, same as the day before.

  Things got worse. Vinjinia helplessly watched as Tajirika scratched his face between his ifs and if only‘s. He then removed his clothes and jumped into the bathtub, where he scratched himself all over, not uttering a word. He had lost all speech, save two words. Again she removed the mirror from the wall, but this time nothing would make her put it back.

  Emerging from the bathtub, Tajirika seemed shocked and confused when he did not find the mirror on the wall. But, having lost the ability to speak beyond “if” and “if only” he just gesticulated frantically in frustration. Finally, he rifled through Vinjinia’s handbag and found a small mirror. He spent the whole day holding the mirror in one hand, scratching himself with the other, and now and then jumping into the bathtub. Even when he went to bed that night he held on to the mirror the way a child clings to a beloved toy. When she came home from the office, Vinjinia once again waited until he fell asleep, took the mirror from his hands, and hid it. In the morning she instructed the workers to make sure that there was not a single mirror lying about in the house or anywhere else on the compound. Mirrorless, Tajirika became increasingly depressed.

  Vinjinia started phoning up doctors she knew to be discreet, telling them only that her husband was low in spirit and occasionally scratched his face, omitting even the slightest reference to the mirror and Tajirika’s loss of speech. When some suggested that she bring him to their clinics she would quickly downplay the seriousness of his malady. Others said flat out that they could not prescribe a cure over the phone; a few suggested over-the-counter drugs to relieve the itching and depression. The drugs did not work.

  What was she to do? As the days passed without her husband getting any better, Vinjinia felt a need to share her secret with others.

  “I think he has been bewitched,” Vinjinia one day told Nyawlra.

  They were now into the second week as coworkers. The rider had come back all right, but for Vinjinia and Nyawlra the news of endless queues and motorized madness was depressing. Gacirü and Gaclgua had gone back to school, and Nyawlra missed the storytelling sessions.

  “You see, a lot of people are envious of his success,” Vinjinia went on, “and particularly his appointment to head Marching to Heaven. Now he is not even eating well. If you saw him you would not recognize him, he has lost so much weight.”

  “Who would want to cast an evil spell on him?” Nyawlra asked, curious as to whom Vinjinia considered an enemy.

  “I don’t know; maybe any of those so-called businessmen who came here to make his acquaintance. They don’t come around anymore. Why? Perhaps as soon as they knew their evil had worked, they stopped.”

  “But how do you know he is bewitched?” Nyawlra asked, recalling that Vinjinia was a devout Christian. “Did he do, eat, or wear anything unusual before or during his illness?”

  Vinjinia remembered the glove he wore on one hand, which was very strange because even when he ate or went to bed he never took it off.

  “Yes,” Vinjinia said, after wondering to what extent she should confide in Nyawlra. “Since the Marching to Heaven craze began, my husband has taken to wearing a glove on his right hand. He never takes it off, and so he never washes the hand.”

  “Remove the glove,” Nyawlra suggested.

  That night, after making sure that he was asleep, Vinjinia removed the glove from Tajirika’s hand, and it stank so badly that she threw it to the floor. Was the stench attributable to the bewitchment? What if she herself became a victim of the same dark powers? she suddenly thought in fright. She was determined to avoid further contact with the glove or with the hand that wore it. But how could she allow these powers to dictate what she should or should not touch in her own house, including her husband’s hand? She brought her Bible, kept it near, and felt more courageous. She examined the hand. There were small crusts of dirt under the long fingernails. She thought of trimming the nails, washing the hand, and throwing the glove into the garbage bag, but this would have been tantamount to discarding evidence. She picked up the glove from the floor and put it in a drawer.

  The following day she told Nyawlra that she was now sure that her husband had been bewitched by the evil placed inside the glove.

  “Why in the glove?” Nyawlra asked. “And why did the evil not strike when he first wore it?”

  “You have a point there,” Vinjinia said. “The bewitchment must have happened as they shook hands in this very office or slipped in the envelopes with the money. He became ill soon after counting, well, touching the money with the glove.”

  “Money? Was there a lot?” Nya
wlra asked, not only to keep the conversation alive but also to learn the actual figure.

  “You should see how much!” Vinjinia said with pride and fear, looking around to make sure that the police officers guarding the yard were not within hearing distance. “Each of three sacks was full of notes, and no note was worth less than a hundred Burls.”

  “Three sacks bulging tight with notes?” Nyawlra asked histrionically.

  “So you can see why not everybody might be happy for him,” Vinjinia said. “The evildoers could have been any of those who brought the sacks of money”

  “Yes, I see,” Nyawlra said, a little tired of the talk of sorcery. “What you now need is a good witch doctor,” Nyawlra added, in part to shock the good Christian, but it was she, Nyawlra, who was shocked by Vinjinia’s impassivity.

  “The only problem,” said Vinjinia in a matter-of-fact tone, “is that I have no idea where to find a witch doctor.”

  It was clear that she imagined that Nyawlra would be as clueless as she was, but she was wrong.

  An idea struck Nyawlra. Why had she not thought of it earlier? There was, after all, the Wizard of the Crow! She was amused by the thought of Tajirika seeking a cure from the very person he had humiliated.

  “As for witch doctors,” Nyawlra said, “I hear there is a new one in town. The Wizard of the Crow!”

  “Where is he to be found? I mean, where is his shrine?”

  “Santalucia. Southern.”

  “Southern Santalucia?” Vinjinia screamed with genuine horror. “You mean the southern slums where the poo… poo… people…” she stammered, a little confused, remembering that Nyawlra lived somewhere in Santalucia.