Mission

by Philip Spires

  Listen, Munyasya, there is not much time.

  Not much time, you say? Then what about the years you have wasted?

  If you will listen to me I will tell you, my child. At least now I understand what it is that we must do. It has been clear all along, but we have been blinded to it by your reluctant mind.

  What, me? Reluctant? Nzoka, I would have left this place long ago had you not prevented me.

  You still don’t understand, Munyasya. It was when you said that we would go to seed... You were right. Don’t you see?

  Nzoka, I thought that you had become my eyes? How then do you expect me to see?

  Think back, Munyasya. Think back to the night we met. You were angry with yourself. In the bar, Mbuvu had made you see yourself as a failure, as a traitor to your own beliefs. You hated yourself that night. Your conscience had been awakened.

  Nzoka, we have been over this a hundred times. I have agreed with what you have said. I have accepted that Mbuvu was right. I have understood that others see my life as that of a traitor to my people. Why speak of it again? You know it causes me pain.

  Pain is yours to bear, Munyasya. It will never release you. I have sympathy for you, but I can do nothing to help. All that is your own doing and so it must stay with you forever. There is no escape, not even through me. But wait. Hear what I have to say. That night, when your mind was lost in thought, when anger clouded your senses more than the beer you had drunk, you tripped and fell. Now I will freely admit that I was impatient. I had waited for too long for you, Munyasya. For years I had waited, through wars and through peace, through danger and safety. There were times when I was sure that your days were finished. I even went as far as bidding goodbye to those waiting there with me, so sure was I that this particular moment would be the time to be summoned. And you still survived. I had waited too long for you, Munyasya, and I was eager to be on my way. I promise you that when I came to see you, you were all but dead. Your last breath was in you.

  You are stupid, Nzoka. I am even still alive here and now, years after that night when I fell.

  But why? Why, Munyasya? Do you not believe what I say? I have said that I had grown impatient, but I had been that way for half a generation. I chose my moment. I didn’t come running at the first sign. I waited. Made sure. Now think back, Munyasya. How is it that you managed to survive and trap me?

  I can’t remember, Nzoka. Let me sleep. How can you expect me to remember what happened years ago when now I can’t seem to remember what I did yesterday? I was ill, unable to move and too drunk to see.

  Precisely, Munyasya. You played no part in your own survival. Left to yourself you would surely have died, and died quickly. All my problems would have been solved as I expected they would when I came to you.

  But your problems, Nzoka, as you were soon to learn, were only just beginning.

  Now I see that, my son, but it is the source of these new problems that gives us the clue that will lead to a solution. What has happened cannot be changed, my son. But I can see now that what is afflicting both of us is not of my doing and neither is it yours. No, we have to look outside of ourselves to see the cause of our predicament.

  Tell me, Nzoka, what is today’s explanation of why we are being punished like this?

  I can answer that now, Munyasya, but only when I have explained all the circumstances. Think back. You had fallen. You were on the ground, incapable of helping yourself and surely dying.

  Nzoka, I am still incapable of helping myself.

  I am not talking about your bowels, Munyasya. I am just trying to make you see that to survive you needed help from someone else.

  But that is obvious, Nzoka. I have known that all along. When I woke up I was in hospital in Muthale. I told you that it must have been Father Michael who helped me. He must have found me there in the market place and then taken me to the hospital in his car.

  Exactly, Munyasya. You are now beginning to follow me. Let’s see if the path leads you to the same destination. Now it has taken me a long time to get used to this place again. It is not the place I remember. I felt a complete stranger here in my own town when I first saw it again through your eyes. But now I know my way around. You see, until recently, all these people you speak of were no more than names on your lips. Now I can see them and now I can explain what went wrong. This Father Michael is a priest, yes? A white man? A missionary for his Church?

  Nzoka, I think you must be getting more stupid as you get older. Are not all priests white men? Without them we would never have known the truth that is Christianity. It came from them.

  So there are no African priests?

  There are a few, but they are not real priests. They are mere boys among men. Everyone prefers that their home town should have a white priest. They are much more highly respected.

  And they are here to persuade people to worship their God?

  There is only one God, Nzoka. That is the first thing they teach. The God you know is the same God they know and the same God I know.

  But, Munyasya, you have told me that they teach you to worship a man!

  That man is God, Nzoka.

  So God is a man!

  No. God is God and God is man.

  So there is more than one God. He cannot be both a man and not a man at the same time.

  He is also a spirit, Nzoka. God the Son, God the Father and God the Holy Spirit.

  So then there are three Gods!

  No. There is but one God. They are the same.

  Munyasya, you are confusing me. Just listen to me. These priests, then, are responsible for converting someone like yourself to their religion? It was they who insisted that you ignore the truths that I had taught you?

  Not these priests, Nzoka.

  Others like them?

  Yes.

  Do you not see, Munyasya? For many years they had bewitched you, held you in their power, and used you to further their own ends. They controlled you so completely that you forgot even your responsibility to yourself. They worked you so hard for their own ends that you never had time to find even one wife, let alone a household to nurture a family. Your present lamentable state is all their doing. Had you fulfilled your responsibilities in life, you now would have a family and your name would be mourned. Your future would have been secured in their memories. Your death could be mourned and you would not need to cling to life and cause us both so much pain. It is all their doing, Munyasya.

  You are lying, Nzoka. If they had bewitched me, then why did the spell break?

  Munyasya, truth is more powerful than any lie. It is inescapable. You can hide from it, but it will find you out eventually. That night, truth found you through the voice of your friend Mbuvu. You knew he was right and that is why you were so offended by his words and therefore so angry. That’s why you left the bar in such an impatient state and that’s why you fell. Truth had finally reclaimed you. When I came to you I was happy. It seemed there and then that all the problems you had caused me over the years had been solved. I came to greet you and thank you.

  But I wasn’t dead, Nzoka. You should not have come.

  Munyasya, please remember that I am still your stepfather. You should not speak to me like that. What I have said is true. What I did not know then, however, is just how powerful these people are. They knew they were in danger of losing you so they had to act immediately. You see, you were still of use to them, Munyasya. Think back. Remember how much you were still helping them to get their own way. You were always having meetings for this and that. Everything you did with your life was planned by them. And yet, they were doing this so that they could preserve you like a piece of dried meat. Then, by displaying you in public, showing you off like some promise of good things to come, they used you to persuade others to do only as they, themselves, wished. They need you, my son.

  So they brought me back from the dead?<
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  That’s right, Munyasya. After all, who was it that took you to his doctor for medicine? Father Michael. Correct again. And he is still using you in the same way even now.

  But Nzoka, how can I be of use to them now? How can you explain that? I have not been near Father Michael or even the church since that night. You have always refused to go.

  But you still don’t see, Munyasya. The white woman, the doctor, knew that her medicine, her spells were not strong enough to overcome the power of truth. They knew they had lost your mind so they did this to your body to make sure you cannot warn others against them. Do you not remember what they said that night? He will never walk again. And now, are you not walking?

  I still cannot see how I can be helping them now.

  Oh, they are using you even at this moment, be sure of it. You are setting an example for them, Munyasya. Have you not heard what this Father Michael says to people? Only this morning he was there in the market place, not spitting distance from where we are sitting now, saying what a marvellous man you were, how hard you used to work for his church. More than this he reminds people that since your accident you have not been to his church. It is such a pity, he says, that you have lost your mind. Now many people know the story of that night. They all know you left the bar angry because you had been arguing with Mbuvu. Many people even know what the argument had been about and that Mbuvu had called you a traitor because you had worked all your life for foreigners and had betrayed the values by which we are all taught to live. People know how he goaded you, how he dared you to reject the white man’s lies and learn to respect the truth again. Now what this priest wants them to think is that you took Mbuvu’s advice that night and pledged yourself to rethinking your ways. Now that priest uses you. First, the fact that you very nearly died when you fell shows people how powerful his God is. Second, this God was capable of bringing you back from the dead.

  There is only one God, Nzoka.

  Look, Munyasya, when will you stop playing children’s’ games with me? You have already said that there are three! Let me continue. Besides proving the power of his Gods, he also displays how powerful is his medicine.

  Then why did he not cure me completely and restore me to my full strength?

  Ah, there are three reasons for that, Munyasya. One, he wanted to use you as an example to scare others and two, you had to be punished. The third reason, however, is the most important. Unfortunately for Father Michael and his plans, I intervened. It may well originally have been his intention to restore you to health, but with me here it was impossible. Did I not say to you, Munyasya, that there is no lie that can have power over truth? With me here alongside you representing a truth that is greater than their lies, their medicines failed. It is I who commands you now, not three Gods and the white man. So now he makes you an example and punishes you for apparently rejecting his power. And you said before that your God could do you no harm. Now that is certainly true of the God we both knew, but this priest’s god, his three gods are capable of punishing people in life if they reject him or them. Why, the man even admits it openly. Think about it yourself, Munyasya. Does he not use you as an example of one who has been punished in life for the way you have lived? See if I am not right! It has taken me a long time to understand it myself, but I must possess greater wisdom than you. It must be correct. It must be.

  Let’s suppose you are right, Nzoka. How does that affect us? How can it help us if you are right? You said yourself that we must solve our problem together. How can this knowledge help us?

  Think, Munyasya! Think! Do you remember me speaking of an appointed task, some work left undone in life? Well I assumed that it was some task of my own, but I was wrong, wrong from the beginning. It is all so clear now. You see, as your stepfather, I am still responsible for you. I share the credit for your achievements, share the blame for your mistakes. I must absolve myself by helping you to throw off this burden, which presses you to this earth and holds you here. That is it, Munyasya! It is clear.

  It is as clear as your cloudy beer, Nzoka. It is still a riddle to me.

  You are as slow as a tortoise, Munyasya. Think. This man has been using you as an example to others to prove the truth of his message. While you did as he said, you were a pillar of the community he desired. When you rejected his ways, you grew like this as punishment. Through you, I must use him to do the opposite. We are going to make an example of him, Munyasya, so show everyone that he is wrong and that he is using deception to trick people into following his false ways. He tells people not to ignore his version of the truth as you did. We must convince them that ours is the only real truth. Now I know what I’m doing, my friend. Trust me. We have found the door of our cage. Now we can step through it together.

  Munyasya awoke from his drowsing with a start. His body was cold and stiff. The day had changed completely. Wind was howling across the market place lifting whirls of dust into the air. The sun had gone and the sky was laden with darkness. He had to move. There was no time to waste. The bar, already, was too far away for the time he perceived, so with bottle and stick firmly grasped, he shuffled unerringly over the uneven ground to the nearest refuge, a restaurant, one of the line of concrete box shops closest to his tree. He reached its safety only just in time. By the time he had crossed the room and claimed a chair in the corner furthest from the door - a chair which had been vacated unasked by another who had seen him enter - the market place was a flurry of frenzied activity. Rain had already started to fall. People were running for shelter clutching their as yet unsold wares. Women held their skirts up in front of them to hold their potatoes and fruit, before bouncing towards the shops for shelter, howling with laughter and whoops of excitement along the way. It was not often that rain came here, and even less often that it came during the day. It would be a long storm, Munyasya told himself. A cup of tea appeared on the table before him, but he ignored it. He felt suddenly tired again after his exertions, and went quietly to sleep.

  Munyasya! Munyasya! Wake up! Oh no, not you again. Go away. Do you never sleep? Can’t you see how tired I am? What need have I for sleep, my child? I have no life from which to seek rest. Anyway, there is no time to sleep. Listen! I want you to look over there, by the doorway. Who is that woman, that white woman? I don’t know her name. Is she a priest? A woman cannot be a priest, Nzoka. They are all men. Then she is the wife of a priest? No. She cannot be that either. Priests are not allowed to marry. What is that, Munyasya? Priests cannot marry? That cannot be natural! Just another reason why we should not trust them. Unmarried men cannot be wise. Listen, Munyasya, I don’t know who this woman is, but I have seen her before with this man Father Michael. She must work with him. I have heard it said just now that she teaches our children in the church. No, Nzoka, you are wrong. I can explain. The people of Migwani wanted a school where their children could be educated. Why? Because with an education you can get a job. For example, nowadays it is not possible for a man to enter the army like I did when I was young. You must attend school first and get qualifications. Yes, Munyasya, I have seen what happens. These whites run the schools and teach people to follow their ways. No, Nzoka, that is not true. They teach many things... I know what they teach, Munyasya. I am not blind. Let us say that I see it differently from you. Tell me, did this Father Michael help to build the school? Yes. Well he helped by providing some of the money. Look, Nzoka, I have known this man and I still cannot believe that he is in any way evil, as you claim. You don’t? Munyasya, if it is so obvious to me, why is it that you cannot see it as well? That man must have affected you with his trickery more deeply than I thought. I do hope that we are not going to fight over this. Come over here with me and watch this. I will prove it to you.

  Munyasya now almost burst to life, as if fired by some new spring of youthful energy. This sudden movement first surprised and then provoked instant fear in those around him. His stick-like body was erect and stiff and his previously saggi
ng flesh newly alive with tensed muscles. The walking stick, without which he was formerly unable to stand, was now a swinging baton, a means of asserting his newly re-created power, his newly reclaimed strength and superiority. This was the Munyasya that people feared.

  He crossed the room, his step still unsure, but now his shuffling displayed a confidence, his gait suddenly stronger than before. He seemed to know he would not fall. On reaching the table where Janet sat with her friends, he stopped and stared directly at her. He seemed pleased when she displayed immediate unease. When he spoke, the mumble was gone. His words were now shouted at the same scream that had momentarily stopped life in the market place earlier that morning. When he behaved this way, he demanded attention and invariably received it. While rain thundered to earth outside, the room had become full of activity and noise. People had packed into the restaurant’s single bare room to shelter from the storm which had brought market day to a premature close, and there was a loud buzz of conversation and laughter as trays of tea were distributed over the heads of the crowd and then sipped by drenched customers. But when Munyasya spoke, all conversation, all laughter and all clanking of teacups abruptly stopped, the performer instantly winning his audience. For some moments he said absolutely nothing, preferring to stand, silent and threatening, towering over the diminutive seated group before him. With a broad smile showing brown teeth through his saliva and rain-matted beard, in turn he looked people in the face and, it seemed, offered a silent challenge. Wide eyed, he was noting every reaction.

  The white woman was consciously trying to ignore him. An occasional sideways glance in his direction revealed her growing concern. In vain she tried to continue her conversation with her three companions, all younger than herself, mere boys, in fact. Everyone else in the room was watching old Munyasya, however, awaiting the expected tirade of words they knew would soon come. The short, but seemingly endless silence was tense. Only the near whisperings of the white woman to her friends broke it, in spite of the general animation that seemed to pervade that crowded room. When Munyasya finally spoke, it was with the thundering voice of Nzoka, the voice his audience had expected. It was not the light tone of Munyasya, the voice which would murmur its almost inaudible request to have his beer bottle filled at the bar several times a day. No, this was the voice of Nzoka, loud, declamatory and spat forth like a curse. It was clearly a great effort for the old man, to speak like this. His entire body stiffened and heaved, his head jerked back on his neck, as if the words demanded an easier passage from the throat. The strain caused him to spit, and saliva soon began to hang like strands of silk from his mouth, matting to a glistening mass the hair of his beard. Each time he spoke, his words dissolved all the tension that had built during the moment of silence that had preceded them and provoked much of his audience to laughter, hilarity that was clearly born of both expectation of entertainment and the tension of fear. Renewed silence, and with it his renewed unerring stare at his target, retrieved the momentarily lost sense of foreboding. What would he say this time? What would he do? How would she react?