"A type of story."
"Is it a true story?"
"In a way."
"If it is true in a way, then it is also a lie in a way, is it not?" she replied, and then continued before I could answer her. "And if I can listen to a lie, why can I not read one?"
"I have already explained it to you."
"It is not fair," she repeated.
"No," I agreed. "But it is true, and in the long run it is for the good of the Kikuyu."
"I still don't understand why it is good," she complained.
"Because we are all that remain. Once before the Kikuyu tried to become something that they were not, and we became not city- dwelling Kikuyu, or bad Kikuyu, or unhappy Kikuyu, but an entirely new tribe called Kenyans. Those of us who came to Kirinyaga came here to preserve the old ways—and if women start reading, some of them will become discontented, and they will leave, and then one day there will be no Kikuyu left."
"But I don't want to leave Kirinyaga!" she protested. "I want to become circumcised, and bear many children for my husband, and till the fields of his shamba, and someday be cared for by my grandchildren."
"That is the way you are supposed to feel."
"But I also want to read about other worlds and other times."
I shook my head. "No."
"But—"
"I will hear no more of this today," I said. "The sun grows high in the sky, and you have not yet finished your tasks here, and you must still work in your father's shamba and come back again this afternoon."
She arose without another word and went about her duties. When she finished, she picked up the cage and began walking back to her boma.
I watched her walk away, then returned to my hut and activated my computer to discuss a minor orbital adjustment with Maintenance, for it had been hot and dry for almost a month. They gave their consent, and a few moments later I walked down the long winding path into the center of the village. Lowering myself gently to the ground, I spread my pouch full of bones and charms out before me and invoked Ngai to cool Kirinyaga with a mild rain, which Maintenance had agreed to supply later in the afternoon.
Then the children gathered about me, as they always did when I came down from my boma on the hill and entered the village.
"Jambo, Koriba!" they cried.
"Jambo, my brave young warriors," I replied, still seated on the ground.
"Why have you come to the village this morning, Koriba?" asked Ndemi, the boldest of the young boys.
"I have come here to ask Ngai to water our fields with His tears of compassion," I said, "for we have had no rain this month, and the crops are thirsty."
"Now that you have finished speaking to Ngai, will you tell us a story?" asked Ndemi.
I looked up at the sun, estimating the time of day.
"I have time for just one," I replied. "Then I must walk through the fields and place new charms on the scarecrows, that they may continue to protect your crops."
"What story will you tell us, Koriba?" asked another of the boys.
I looked around, and saw that Kamari was standing among the girls.
"I think I shall tell you the story of the Leopard and the Shrike," I said.
"I have not heard that one before," said Ndemi.
"Am I such an old man that I have no new stories to tell?" I demanded, and he dropped his gaze to the ground. I waited until I had everyone's attention, and then I began:
"Once there was a very bright young shrike, and because he was very bright, he was always asking questions of his father.
"'Why do we eat insects?' he asked one day.
"'Because we are shrikes, and that is what shrikes do,' answered his father.
"'But we are also birds,' said the shrike. 'And do not birds such as the eagle eat fish?'
"'Ngai did not mean for shrikes to eat fish,' said his father, 'and even if you were strong enough to catch and kill a fish, eating it would make you sick."
"'Have you ever eaten a fish?' asked the young shrike.
"'No,' said his father.
"'Then how do you know?' said the young shrike, and that afternoon he flew over the river, and found a tiny fish. He caught it and ate it, and he was sick for a whole week.
"'Have you learned your lesson now?' asked the shrike's father, when the young shrike was well again.
"'I have learned not to eat fish,' said the shrike. 'But I have another question."
"'What is your question?' asked his father.
"'Why are shrikes the most cowardly of birds?" asked the shrike. 'Whenever the lion or the leopard appears, we flee to the highest branches of the trees and wait for them to go away.'
"Lions and leopards would eat us if they could,' said the shrike's father. 'Therefore, we must flee from them.'
"'But they do not eat the ostrich, and the ostrich is a bird,' said the bright young shrike. 'If they attack the ostrich, he kills them with his kick.'
"'You are not an ostrich,' said his father, tired of listening to him.
"'But I am a bird, and the ostrich is a bird, and I will learn to kick as the ostrich kicks,' said the young shrike, and he spend the next week practicing kicking any insects and twigs that were in his way.
"Then one day he came across chui, the leopard, and as the leopard approached him, the bright young shrike did not fly to the highest branches of the tree, but bravely stood his ground.
"'You have great courage to face me thus,' said the leopard.
"'I am a very bright bird, and I not afraid of you,' said the shrike. 'I have practiced kicking as the ostrich does, and if you come any closer, I will kick you and you will die.'
"'I am an old leopard, and cannot hunt any longer,' said the leopard. 'I am ready to die. Come kick me, and put me out of my misery.'
"The young shrike walked up to the leopard and kicked him full in the face. The leopard simply laughed, opened his mouth, and swallowed the bright young shrike.
"'What a silly bird,' laughed the leopard, 'to pretend to be something that he was not! If he had flown away like a shrike, I would have gone hungry today—but by trying to be what he was never meant to be, all he did was fill my stomach. I guess he was not a very bright bird after all."
I stopped and stared straight at Kamari.
"Is that the end?" asked one of the other girls.
"That is the end," I said.
"Why did the shrike think he could be an ostrich?" asked one of the smaller boys.
"Perhaps Kamari can tell you," I said.
All the children turned to Kamari, who paused for a moment and then answered.
"There is a difference between wanting to be an ostrich, and wanting to know what an ostrich knows," she said, looking directly into my eyes. "It was not wrong for the shrike to want to know things. It was wrong for him to think he could become an ostrich."
There was a momentary silence while the children considered her answer.
"Is that true, Koriba?" asked Ndemi at last.
"No," I said, "for once the shrike knew what the ostrich knew, it forgot that it was a shrike. You must always remember who you are, and knowing too many things can make you forget."
"Will you tell us another story?" asked a young girl.
"Not this morning," I said, getting to my feet. "But when I come to the village tonight to drink pombe and watch the dancing, perhaps I will tell you the story about the bull elephant and the wise little Kikuyu boy. Now," I added, "do none of you have chores to do?"
The children dispersed, returning to their shambas and their cattle pastures, and I stopped by Juma's hut to give him an ointment for his joints, which always bothered him just before it rained. I visited Koinnage and drank pombe with him, and then discussed the affairs of the village with the Council of Elders. Finally I returned to my own boma, for I always take a nap during the heat of the day, and the rain was not due for another few hours.
Kamari was there when I arrived. She had gathered more wood and water, and was filling the grain buckets fo
r my goats as I entered my boma.
"How is your bird this afternoon?" I asked, looking at the pygmy falcon, whose cage had been carefully placed in the shade of my hut.
"He drinks, but he will not eat," she said in worried tones. "He spends all his time looking at the sky."
"There are things that are more important to him than eating," I said.
"I am finished now," she said. "May I go home, Koriba?"
I nodded, and she left as I was arranging my sleeping blanket inside my hut.
She came every morning and every afternoon for the next week. Then, on the eighth day, she announced with tears in her eyes that the pygmy falcon had died.
"I told you that this would happen," I said gently. "Once a bird has ridden upon the winds, he cannot live on the ground."
"Do all birds die when they can no longer fly?" she asked.
"Most do," I said. "A few like the security of the cage, but most die of broken hearts, for having touched the sky they cannot bear to lose the gift of flight."
"Why do we make cages, then, if they do not make the birds feel better?"
"Because they make us feel better," I answered.
She paused, and then said: "I will keep my word and clean your hut and your boma, and fetch your water and kindling, even though the bird is dead."
I nodded. "That was our agreement," I said.
True to her word, she came back twice a day for the next three weeks. Then, at noon on the twenty-ninth day, after she had completed her morning chores and returned to her family's shamba, her father, Njoro, walked up the path to my boma.
"Jambo, Koriba," he greeted me, a worried expression on his face.
"Jambo, Njoro," I said without getting to my feet. "Why have you come to my boma?"
"I am a poor man, Koriba," he said, squatting down next to me. "I have only one wife, and she has produced no sons and only two daughters. I do not own as large a shamba as most men in the village, and the hyenas killed three of my cows this past year."
I could not understand his point, so I merely stared at him, waiting for him to continue.
"As poor as I am," he went on, "I took comfort in the thought that at least I would have the bride prices from my two daughters in my old age." He paused. "I have been a good man, Koriba. Surely I deserve that much."
"I have not said otherwise," I replied.
"Then why are you training Kamari to be a mundumugu?" he demanded. "It is well known that the mundumugu never marries."
"Has Kamari told you that she is to become a mundumugu?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No. She does not speak to her mother or myself at all since she has been coming here to clean your boma."
"Then you are mistaken," I said. "No woman may be a mundumugu. What made you think that I am training her?"
He dug into the folds of his kikoi and withdrew a piece of cured wildebeest hide. Scrawled on it in charcoal was the following inscription:
I AM KAMARI
I AM TWELVE YEARS OLD
I AM A GIRL
"This is writing," he said accusingly. "Women cannot write. Only the mundumugu and great chiefs like Koinnage can write."
"Leave this with me, Njoro," I said, taking the hide, "and send Kamari to my boma."
"I need her to work on my shamba until this afternoon."
"Now," I said.
He sighed and nodded. "I will send her, Koriba." He paused. "You are certain that she is not to be a mundumugu?"
"You have my word," I said, spitting on my hands to show my sincerity.
He seemed relieved, and went off to his boma. Kamari came up the path a few minutes later.
"Jambo, Koriba," she said.
"Jambo, Kamari," I replied. "I am very displeased with you."
"Did I not gather enough kindling this morning?" she asked.
"You gathered enough kindling."
"Were the gourds not filled with water?"
"The gourds were filled."
"Then what did I do wrong?" she asked, absently pushing one of my goats aside as it approached her.
"You broke your promise to me."
"That is not true," she said. "I have come every morning and every afternoon, even though the bird is dead."
"You promised not to look at another book," I said.
"I have not looked at another book since the day you told me that I was forbidden to."
"Then explain this," I said, holding up the hide with her writing on it.
"There is nothing to explain," she said with a shrug. "I wrote it."
"And if you have not looked at books, how did you learn to write?" I demanded.
"From your magic box," she said. "You never told me not to look at it."
"My magic box?" I said, frowning.
"The box that hums with life and has many colors."
"You mean my computer?" I said, surprised.
"Your magic box," she repeated.
"And it taught you how to read and write?"
"I taught me—but only a little," she said unhappily. "I am like the shrike in your story—I am not as bright as I thought. Reading and writing is very difficult."
"I told you that you must not learn to read," I said, resisting the urge to comment on her remarkable accomplishment, for she had clearly broken the law.
Kamari shook her head.
"You told me I must not look at your books," she replied stubbornly.
"I told you that women must not read," I said. "You have disobeyed me. For this you must be punished." I paused. "You will continue your chores here for three more months, and you must bring me two hares and two rodents, which you must catch yourself. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
"Now come into my hut with me, that you may understand one thing more."
She followed me into the hut.
"Computer," I said. "Activate."
"Activated," said the computer's mechanical voice.
"Computer, scan the hut and tell me who is here with me."
The lens of the computer's sensor glowed briefly.
"The girl, Kamari wa Njoro, is here with you," replied the computer.
"Will you recognize her if you see her again?"
"Yes."
"This is a Priority Order," I said. "Never again may you converse with Kamari wa Njoro verbally or in any known language."
"Understood and logged," said the computer.
"Deactivate." I turned to Kamari. "Do you understand what I have done, Kamari?"
"Yes," she said, "and it is not fair. I did not disobey you."
"It is the law that women may not read," I said, "and you have broken it. You will not break it again. Now go back to your shamba."
She left, head held high, youthful back stiff with defiance, and I went about my duties, instructing the young boys on the decoration of their bodies for their forthcoming circumcision ceremony, casting a counterspell for old Siboki (for he had found hyena dung within his shamba, which is one of the surest signs of a thahu, or curse), instructing Maintenance to make another minor orbital adjustment that would bring cooler weather to the western plains.
By the time I returned to my hut for my afternoon nap, Kamari had come and gone again, and everything was in order.
For the next two months, life in the village went its placid way. The crops were harvested, old Koinnage took another wife and we had a two-day festival with much dancing and pombe-drinking to celebrate the event, the short rains arrived on schedule, and three children were born to the village. Even the Eutopian Council, which had complained about our custom of leaving the old and the infirm out for the hyenas, left us completely alone. We found the lair of a family of hyenas and killed three whelps, then slew the mother when she returned. At each full moon I slaughtered a cow—not merely a goat, but a large, fat cow—to thank Ngai for His generosity, for truly He had graced Kirinyaga with abundance.
During this period I rarely saw Kamari. She came in the mornings when I was in the village, casting
the bones to bring forth the weather, and she came in the afternoons when I was giving charms to the sick and conversing with the Elders—but I always knew she had been there, for my hut and my boma were immaculate, and I never lacked for water or kindling.
Then, on the afternoon after the second full moon, I returned to my boma after advising Koinnage about how he might best settle an argument over a disputed plot of land, and as I entered my hut I noticed that the computer screen was alive and glowing, covered with strange symbols. When I had taken my degrees in England and America I had learned English and French and Spanish, and of course I knew Kikuyu and Swahili, but these symbols represented no known language, nor, although they used numerals as well as letters and punctuation marks, were they mathematical formulas.
"Computer, I distinctly remember deactivating you this morning," I said, frowning. "Why does your screen glow with life?"
"Kamari activated me."
"And she forgot to deactivate you when she left?"
"That is correct."
"I thought as much," I said grimly. "Does she activate you every day?"
"Yes."
"Did I not give you a Priority Order never to communicate with her in any known language?" I said, puzzled.
"You did, Koriba."
"Can you then explain why you have disobeyed my directive?"
"I have not disobeyed your directive, Koriba," said the computer. "My programming makes me incapable of disobeying a Priority Order."
"Then what is this that I see upon your screen?"
"This is the Language of Kamari," replied the computer. "It is not among the 1,732 languages and dialects in my memory banks, and hence does not fall under the aegis of your directive."
"Did you create this language?"
"No, Koriba. Kamari created it."
"Did you assist her in any way?"
"No, Koriba, I did not."
"Is it a true language?" I asked. "Can you understand it?"
"It is a true language. I can understand it."
"If she were to ask you a question in the Language of Kamari, could you reply to it?"
"Yes, if the question were simple enough. It is a very limited language."
"And if that reply required you to translate the answer from a known language to the Language of Kamari, would doing so be contrary to my directive?"
Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two Page 21
