“‘My little fruit, what are you afraid of?’
“‘Besides, I wouldn’t want to break up your home. A borrowed necklace may make a person lose his own.’
“‘Didn’t I tell you that one doesn’t go to a dance wearing old, scentless perfume? Kareendi, my new necklace, my tomato plant growing on the rich soil of an abandoned homestead! What are you afraid of? What is the problem?’
“‘I have a Kamoongonye, a young lover.’
“‘Ha! Kareendi, don’t make me laugh. Are you really so old-fashioned? Are you talking about one of those boys who pretend to be men? Those boys, are they even circumcised?’
“‘The yam that one has dug up for oneself has no moldy patches. The sugar cane that one has picked out has no unripe edges. Those whom one loves do not squint. The young man who you claim is uncircumcised is my chosen one.’
“‘Kareendi, listen. I’ll tell you something,’ Boss Kĩhara says to her, panting. He gets off the table. He comes closer to Kareendi. ‘These days the question of a choice between Waigoko, the man with the hairy chest, and Kamoongonye, the young lover, is no longer valid. Waigoko’s hairy chest has been shaved by money. . . . But because it is true that the heart is hungry only for what it has chosen, I won’t press the matter of your becoming my mistress. You have refused a nice house. You have refused expensive clothes. And you have refused a shopping basket. All right. As you like. But allow me this one request. Don’t refuse me.’
“‘Aren’t you a member of the Church of Heaven? Do you ever read the Bible? When you go home, read Romans, Chapter XIII, line fourteen: “Make not provision for the flesh, to fulfill the lusts thereof. . . .” ’
“‘But in the same book it is also written: “Ask, and it shall be given you; seek and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you: For every one that asketh receiveth, and he that seeketh, findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened. . . .” My little fruit, my love, we need not even bother with accommodation. This office floor is adequate. If these offices could talk, they would tell many tales. A smooth cement floor makes a fantastic bed. It straightens the back and all the bones of the spinal cord right up to the neck.’
“‘I don’t want my back straightened!’ Kareendi snaps back, concealing her anger no longer.
“Boss Kĩhara now tries to embrace Kareendi. The two nearly trip over the chair. Kareendi gets up, hangs her handbag over one shoulder and begins to walk backward. Boss Kĩhara reaches for her. They circle one another in the office as if they were dancing the dance of the hunter and the hunted. Boss Kĩhara has abandoned all pretense at dignity.
“And suddenly Boss Kĩhara pounces on Kareendi. One hand holds Kareendi by the waist. The other tries to feel for her body. Kareendi attempts to free herself from the man’s grip, at the same time beating her fists on his chest and also trying vainly to open her handbag to take out the folding knife she normally carries. The sound of their heavy breathing fills the office. Kareendi senses that she is about to be overcome. Suddenly she forgets that this is her Boss and cries out: ‘If you don’t let me go, I will shout for help!’
“Boss Kĩhara pauses. He remembers his wife and children. He recalls that often on Sundays he is the one who reads the Bible at the altar in the Church of Heaven, and that from time to time he gives talks at weddings, advising newlyweds about the need for parents and children to live together in love and harmony. He recalls all these things simultaneously. He imagines the scorn of the whole country if he were charged with raping his secretary. The fire suddenly dies. Ardor retreats. He releases Kareendi. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes away the sweat. He looks at Kareendi. He tries to say something, then he stops. He is trying to find words to save his face. He tries to laugh, but the laughter fades. For the sake of saying something he asks: ‘Does this mean, Kareendi, that at home nobody teases you? Anyway, don’t jump to hasty conclusions. This was only a joke between father and daughter. Go home now. You’d better do the letters early tomorrow morning.’
“Kareendi goes home, still thinking about the joke between father and daughter. How well she knows that joke. It’s a joke between a leopard and a goat. . . .
“In the morning Kareendi comes to work as usual. She is five minutes late. She finds that Boss Kĩhara has already arrived. Boss Kĩhara summons her to his office. Kareendi goes in. She feels a little awkward as she recalls their struggle last night. But Boss Kĩhara does not even raise his eyes from his newspaper.
“‘Miss Kareendi, it looks as though you’re your own boss these days.’
“‘I am sorry, sir. The bus was late.’
“Now Boss Kĩhara looks up from the newspaper. He leans back in his chair. He fixes Kareendi with a look full of bitterness.
“‘Why can’t you admit that the trouble is the rides you are offered by young men? Miss Kareendi, it seems as though you don’t much care for work. I feel I should let you follow the promptings of your heart. It would be better for you to go home for a while. If ever you feel that you need work, as other girls do, I haven’t closed the door. Take this month’s salary and next month’s too in lieu of notice.’
“Our Kareendi now has no job. Once again she roams the streets in search of work. She goes home to sorrow in silence. She sits in her room until evening, waiting for her young man. Her heart pulses to the rhythm of happiness as she recalls the sound of her young lover’s voice. Everyone cares about those whom he loves. Her Kamoongonye will give her strength to endure this sorrow through words of love. At long last Kamoongonye comes home. Kareendi pours out the whole story of Waigoko, whose bearded chest has been shaved by money. There is no greater love than this, that a modern girl should reject Waigoko’s money because of Kamoongonye! Kareendi finishes her story. She waits for a sympathetic sigh. She anticipates kisses that will brush away her tears.
“But no.
“Kamoongonye is the one who lowers his eyes like the shy leopard or like a lamb cropping grass. But he is motivated by hypocrisy. He lectures Kareendi. He declares that he knows very well that Kareendi has rumpled Waigoko Kĩhara’s bed, that Kĩhara is not even the first to eat from Kareendi’s thighs, that a girl who has sipped at the delights of money can never stop drinking. He who tastes develops a penchant for tasting. A chameleon will always be a chameleon. A girl who starts going with men old enough to be her father while she is at school, to the extent of giving birth to babies when still a student, how can she stop herself? ‘Tell me this, Kareendi of the easy thighs, if you had allowed Waigoko to rub off his soot on your thighs, would you have come to tell me? No. You are spinning me this yarn only because Waigoko has refused to let you continue making his bed in hotels for modern love.’
“Kareendi is speechless.
“Tears flow down her cheeks, and she does not wipe them away. Bitterness rages in her heart.
“Kareendi asks herself many questions without answers. The grade cow has stopped yielding milk. So is it now fit only for slaughter?
“For Kareendi, the sword is burned at both ends. She is back where she started.
“So tell me, you who held my hand so that I shouldn’t fall again: does this mean that the Kareendis of modern Kenya have only one organ? What will prevent Kareendi from roaming the streets as if she were sister to the legendary Cain?
“For today Kareendi has decided that she does not know the difference between
To straighten and to bend,
To swallow and to spit out,
To ascend and to descend,
To go and to return.
“Yes, for from today she’ll never be able to distinguish between
The crooked and the upright,
The foolish and the wise,
Darkness and light,
Laughter and tears,
Hell and Heaven,
Satan’s kingdom and God’s.
“Who said that in a man�
�s life on Earth there are only two days? Days
Of honey and acid,
Of laughter and tears,
Of birth and death?
“To the Kareendis of modern Kenya, isn’t each day exactly the same as all the others? For the day on which they are born is the very day on which every part of their body is buried except one—they are left with a single organ. So when will the Kareendis of modern Kenya wipe the tears from their faces? When will they ever discover laughter?”
3
When Warĩĩnga had finished her story, she looked up to study the young man’s face. Then she gazed down the length of Racecourse Road, and she observed that people were still busily going about their business and that cars were still hooting to get past each other and that Nairobi had not changed a bit since she had been thrown out of her house in Ofafa Jericho.
Just then the bells of St. Peter’s Clavers Church began to toll, reminding believers of the angelus before sunset. Warĩĩnga and the young man turned toward the peal of bells. As if the bells themselves were chanting, Warĩĩnga heard these words:
Come, come,
Hold fast to your plow
And don’t look back.
Come, come. . . .
She asked herself: These voices I keep hearing—where do they come from? Where will they lead me? Although she had not entered a church for a long time, she found herself muttering a prayer:
O Holy Virgin Mary, Mother of God and our Mother,
And you, Holy Joseph,
And you, my guardian angel,
And all you Holy Ones,
Pray for me
That I may give up
The sin of wanting to end my life
Before I have completed my span on Earth.
Watch over me today
And all the days of my life
To the day of my death.
Amen.
When the bells of St. Peter’s fell silent, Warĩĩnga turned to the young man and said: “Thank you for listening to me so patiently. My heart feels lighter, just as it used to feel after I had confessed to the Catholic priest.”
“Maybe I’m a priest who has not yet been ordained. . . . But I belong to an order that has been called to serve by the poverty of the people of Kenya. That story of yours—I mean, about Kareendi, Waigoko and Kamoongonye—pierced my heart like a spear. There are countless Kareendis in Kenya, as you say. But I don’t agree with you that our children will never know laughter. We must never despair. Despair is the one sin that cannot be forgiven. It is the sin for which we would never be forgiven by the nation and generations to come. Where are you going now? Where are you heading?”
“Ilmorog.”
“Ilmorog? Is that where you come from?”
“Yes, Ilmorog is home. Why?”
“Because . . . er . . . no particular reason. I was just asking. But buses for Ilmorog don’t stop here. This stop, Kaka, is for buses to Kĩambu, Nduumbeeri, Ting’aang’a, Ngeemwa, Ikinũ, Karia-inĩ and Gĩthũngũri. Matatũs for Ilmorog halt at the same stop as those bound for Nakuru, over there at Nyamakĩma.”
“I know. In fact, that was where I was going. I don’t know which ill wind blew me to this side of the road.”
Warĩĩnga stood up, like a person emerging from a deathly day dream, and she slung her handbag over one shoulder. “Well, take care,” she said to the young man. She was happy, but also a little ashamed.
“Look after yourself. I hope the dizziness doesn’t strike again.”
As Warĩĩnga turned to make her way toward Nyamakĩma, the man called out to her: “Wait a moment. . . .”
Warĩĩnga stopped and looked back, asking herself: Could he be another Kamoongonye who thinks he has found a Kareendi of the easy thighs?
The man opened the bag he was carrying. He searched inside it, took out a card and gave it to Warĩĩnga, explaining: “I told you that your story, or the parable about Kareendi and Waigoko and Kamoongonye, pierced my heart. If you would like to know more about the conditions that breed modern Kareendis and Waigokos, go to the feast advertised on the card when you get to Ilmorog.”
The man strolled away. Warĩĩnga walked down Racecourse Road, through the grounds of the Esso petrol station, across River Road and on to Nyamakĩma. She only looked back once, just to see if the man was following her. She did not see him. And I never asked for his name, Warĩĩnga thought. It might be on the card he gave me. But all men, whoever they are, are soothing blood-suckers. He tells me to go to a party. I don’t want to go to any parties. I don’t want any more affairs, be they with Waigokos, old and hairy-chested men, or with Kamoongonyes, young lovers.
At Nyamakĩma there were no matatũs bound for Ilmorog or Nakuru. Warĩĩnga leaned against the wall of a shop selling onions and potatoes, near the Nyamakĩma Bar. . . .
After a while Warĩĩnga caught herself fingering the card she had been given. She remembered that she had not even read it. She paused, then she took it out of her pocket and examined it closely. This is what she read:
The Devil’s Feast!
Come and See for Yourself—
A Devil-Sponsored Competition
To Choose Seven Experts in Theft and Robbery.
Plenty of Prizes!
Try Your Luck.
Competition to Choose the Seven Cleverest
Thieves and Robbers in Ilmorog.
Prizes Galore!
Hell’s Angels Band in Attendance!
Signed: Satan
The King of Hell
c/o Thieves’ and Robbers’ Den
Ilmorog Golden Heights
Warĩĩnga felt as if she had been stabbed in the stomach with a razor blade. She gazed about her, from side to side, in front of her and behind her, to establish whether her body really was at Nyamakĩma or if she was dreaming again. Questions assaulted her mind’s ear like a swarm of bees on the move. And just as a single bee is sometimes left behind by the others, one question in particular remained lodged in Warĩĩnga’s mind: Who was that young man who had taken her by the hand? And did this mean that her handbag had been retrieved for her by a thief? She trembled. She felt for the card again. She leaned against the wall of the onion and potato shop to prevent herself from falling.
But her heart was beating fast. A devils’ feast at Ilmorog! A competition for thieves and robbers at Ilmorog! Tomorrow, Sunday? Who would believe that such miracles could happen?
CHAPTER THREE
1
Nyamakĩma, like so many matatũ stops and bus stops in Nairobi, is very congested with people and cars—people coming from or going to Grogan Valley, where it is said one never fails to find spare parts for any and every type of vehicle; people coming from and going to River Road, said to be the street where workers and peasants, especially those from the rural areas, go shopping on Saturdays and Sundays. Some are just buyers of potatoes and onions and sukuma wiki vegetables; others want to visit the bars and restaurants to have a beer and fill their bellies before going home to the locations: Kariokor, Eastleigh, Pumwani, Shauri Moyo, Bahati, Makaandara, Ofafa Jericho, Kariobang’i and Dandora. But the majority are travelers waiting for matatũs bound for Naivasha, Gilgil, Olkalou, Nyahururu, Nakuru, Rũũwa-inĩ and Ilmorog. Nyamakĩma, when the place is full of people and cars, resounds with the din of seven markets.
That Saturday there weren’t many vehicles bound for Rũũwa-inĩ and Ilmorog. Whenever she heard the rumble-tumble of a matatũ Warĩĩnga would look up in expectation. But on hearing that only passengers for Nakuru or Nyahururu were being called, her heart would sink. When six o’clock came, she began to pity herself, and she silently prayed: “O, Virgin Mary, Mother of God, have pity on me. I don’t want to spend another night in Nairobi. Help me to find a bus, even a donkey cart, anything that will take me away from Nairobi and home to Ilmorog. Praise be to the Father, and the Son, and the Holy S
pirit, as it was in the beginning, is now and will be forever and ever. Amen.”
She had barely finished her prayer when an Ilmorog-bound matatũ arrived. But on looking at it, Warĩĩnga was appalled: had this thing just been collected from a rubbish heap in Grogan Valley? Certainly, it was old: but the owner had tried hard to disguise its age by painting on its sides many eye- and mind-catching ads: IF YOU WANT GOSSIP OR RUMORS, RIDE IN MWAU˜RA’S MATATU˜ MATATA MATAMU. YOUR WAYS ARE MY WAYS. TOO MUCH HASTE SPLITS THE YAM. CRAWL BUT ARRIVE SAFELY. HOME SWEET HOME.
Just before she had finished reading all the ads, Warĩĩnga saw the driver jump out and start praising his matatũ, calling attention to it with words and songs that were intended to distract people’s eyes from its decrepit condition.
“Get in, get into Matatũ Matata Matamu Model T Ford, and you’ll find yourself in Limuru, Satellite, Naivasha, Rũũwa-inĩ, Ilmorog, before you’ve blinked twice. I once heard young men sing
If God’s kingdom were near,
I would take you whores to court.
Something given you free by the Lord
You now sell for twenty shillings.
Young men, let me tell you a secret: God’s kingdom has been brought closer by Mwaũra’s Matatũ Matata Matamu Model T Ford. Even the journey to the Devil’s place is nothing to Mwaũra’s Matata Matamu Model T Ford. Get in! Get in! Ilmorog is here, no further than the eye is from the nose.”
On hearing the mention of the word “devil,” Warĩĩnga once again experienced an eerie sensation. She remembered her invitation to the Devil’s feast and the competition in theft and robbery, and she again asked herself: What kind of a feast is this? What does the competition consist of? Someone who was so good to me—how can he possibly have joined a band of thieves and robbers? Why didn’t he steal my handbag? But as she listened to the words that were gushing from Mwaũra’s mouth, for a while she forgot the load she carried in her heart.
By now dozens of people had come out of bars and shops and were standing on the curb to see the owner of the matatũ for themselves, egging him on: “Yes! Yes! Tell us everything!”
Devil on the Cross Page 5
