“The heart in turn becomes the mirror through which we can look at ourselves and our work on this Earth. If you do not want a mirror that will reflect both good and evil, you have no place here on Earth. Be quick about it: rush your heart to the market, and you will remain a shell of a man. In those days that you are all aware of, we used to sing a certain song. It went like this:
Even if you sob and weep
Because of your sins,
Until you enter into patriotic service to help the nation
You will never find peace.
When you were lost and couldn’t see the way
To life,
The guide used to point out the only way:
Organized unity of the people.
“Driver! There are two ways: the one that leads people to death, and the one that leads people to life. Show me the way to death, and I will show you the way to life. Show me the way to life, and I will show you the way to death. For the two meet in the actions of every man, as he builds the heart he wants. . . . Mwaũra, you have just told us about the first law of the hyena, is that right? I ask you: the hyena that tried to walk along two paths simultaneously—where did it end up? Mwaũra: choose one path and stick to it.” Mũturi finished talking.
“I chose my path a long time ago,” Mwaũra replied.
“Which one is it?” Mũturi asked.
“The road to death!” Mwaũra replied, laughing a little, as if he were joking. “Where do you think you are heading now?” Mwaũra asked mockingly. Total silence gripped the matatũ.
6
Warĩĩnga heard a buzzing sound in her head, as if a mosquito were trapped inside. And her heart was beating like the heart of someone who has spent the whole day going round and round the Mtego-wa-Panya enclosure in the City Park in Nairobi, looking for an escape route. She had not followed the argument between Mwaũra and Mũturi clearly, where it had come from and where it had led, because in the midst of listening she would suddenly find herself back with her own troubles: John Kĩmwana, Boss Kĩhara, the job she no longer had, her eviction from her house, her attempted suicide, the young man who had held her hand, the invitation to the Devil’s feast, the competition in theft and robbery—and now all this talk about death, life and the soul. She wondered: When will I reach home so that I can rest my mind and body? Will my problems ever end? When did they all start? Where? And with whom?
Warĩĩnga remembered the Rich Old Man from Ngorika, Nakuru, a long time ago, and she felt her whole body fill with bitterness. . . .
Gatuĩria now cut off the flow of Warĩĩnga’s thoughts. “Please, wait a moment!” he said, loudly.
Mũturi, Wangarĩ, Warĩĩnga and the man in the dark glasses looked at him. Mwaũra turned his head slightly, then he looked back at the steering wheel and the road.
Gatuĩria lowered his voice: “Please, permit me to ask a question!”
Gatuĩria hesitated, like a man burning to get to the kernel of an important matter but uncertain about where to begin.
“Go ahead, ask!” Mwaũra encouraged him. “No one’s jailed for asking questions!”
“Ah, but in the Kenya of today?” Mũturi muttered.
“Don’t worry,” Mwaũra encouraged Gatuĩria. “When you are inside Mwaũra’s Matata Matamu Model T Ford, you are in the heartland of democracy!”
“Oh, yes, there you are right,” Wangarĩ supported him. “Matatũs are the only places left where people can discuss things freely. In a matatũ you can speak your thoughts without first looking over your shoulder to see who is listening.”
“When you are in my matatũ, you could be inside a prison or a grave. There’s nothing you can’t say.”
“Your argument, sorry, your discussion. . . . Excuse me. . . .” Gatuĩria paused again.
Gatuĩria spoke Gĩkũyũ like many educated people in Kenya—people who stutter like babies when speaking their national languages but conduct fluent conversations in foreign languages. The only difference was that Gatuĩria was at least aware that the slavery of language is the slavery of the mind and nothing to be proud of. But in the heat of discussion Gatuĩria was able to speak his language without pausing, hesitating or reverting to English.
“It is said that differences of opinion breed hatred. But often where there is conflict, shoots of truth spring up,” Wangarĩ told Gatuĩria, by way of encouragement.
Gatuĩria cleared his throat, then he tried again. “I can’t quite see the difference . . . sorry, I mean, the difference between your two positions. . . . Let me ask . . . sorry, I mean, let me ask you this question. Do you believe that God and Satan exist, I mean, that they are alive, like you and me?”
“If God exists,” Mwaũra rushed in, “then Satan exists. But personally I don’t know.”
“But what about believing? What do you believe?” Gatuĩria persisted.
“Me? Young man, I don’t belong to those churches of yours. Business is my temple, and money is my God. But if some other God exists, that’s all right. Sometimes I pour out a little liquor for him, so that he won’t be tempted to do to me what he once did to Job. I don’t examine the world too minutely. What did I say before? If it leans this way, I lean with it. The Earth is round, and it changes. That is why Gĩkũyũ said that the sun does not rise the way it sets. Caution is not a sign of cowardice. I don’t have that many questions to ask. Show me where the money is and I’ll take you there!”
“What about you?” Gatuĩria asked Mũturi, after Mwaũra had had his say.
“Me? I believe.”
“What?”
“That God exists.”
“And that he’s alive?”
“Yes.”
“And Satan?”
“Yes, he exists too.”
“And he’s also alive?”
“Yes, he’s alive.”
“Do you really believe these things?”
“Yes, I really do.”
“But you have never seen either of them with your own eyes?” Mwaũra asked Mũturi.
“This young man was asking about belief,” Mũturi replied. “I believe that God and Satan are images of our actions in our brains as we struggle with nature in general, and with human nature in particular, in our search for something to eat, to wear and to shelter behind to keep out the sun, the cold and the wind. The nature of God is the image of the good we do here on Earth. The nature of Satan is the image of the evil we do here on Earth. The question is this: what are evil actions, and what are good actions? Young man, you are making me repeat the words I have already said and put behind me. There are two kinds of man: he who lives by his own sweat and he who lives by the sweat of others. The riddle lies there, so take a forfeit* and solve the riddle for us, because you seem familiar with books.”
“‘In the sweat of thy face,’ Wangarĩ spoke as if she was reading from a Bible open in front of her, ‘in the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground.’” Wangarĩ closed the Bible that was in her mind and turned to Gatuĩria: “That is another riddle, and you must solve that one too, so that we can all hear the answer. Take a forfeit from me too.”
“I won’t take too many forfeits because you are a clanswoman,” Gatuĩria replied, laughing a little.
“Oh, so you do speak good Gĩkũyũ, and I thought that you only knew this language of ‘Good morning,’”* Wangarĩ told him, lightheartedly.
Gatuĩria felt himself relax somewhat.
“I used to listen to riddle competitions long ago,” Gatuĩria replied, “but now I wouldn’t be able to solve even the simplest one. If you and I were to compete, you would win all the forfeits until you had won all my property. But let’s go back to the root of the matter. I must say, I felt that your talk raised doubts and conflicts that I’ve had in my heart for a long time. I mean, I have a knot in my heart, and I would be very glad if you would help me to u
ntie or loosen it a little.”
Gatuĩria paused again.
Warĩĩnga sensed that Gatuĩria’s voice had changed. She felt suddenly apprehensive, as if she had heard that voice somewhere else, a long time ago, but she could not place it. She decided that the apprehension was prompted by a burning desire to know what knot was troubling Gatuĩria.
All the other passengers were sitting attentively, anxious to hear the story. It was as if they feared that Gatuĩria’s knot might be similar to the one they each carried.
Gatuĩria cleared his throat again. He looked at Mũturi. “You talk as if you knew I came from the university, and it is true. I am from there. I’m a kind of research student in culture. I’m a junior research fellow in African culture. Our culture . . . sorry, I mean, our culture has been dominated by the Western imperialist cultures. That is what we call in English cultural imperialism. Cultural imperialism is mother to the slavery of the mind and the body. It is cultural imperialism that gives birth to the mental blindness and deafness that persuades people to allow foreigners to tell them what to do in their own country, to make foreigners the ears and mouths of their national affairs, forgetting the saying: Only he who lives in the wilderness knows what it is like. Hence a foreigner can never become the true guide of another people. It is about our generation that the singer sang:
The deaf man, the deaf man,
The deaf man is he who can’t hear for the nation!
The blind man, the blind man,
The blind man is he who can’t see for the nation!
“Let us now look about us. Where are our national languages now? Where are the books written in the alphabets of our national languages? Where is our own literature now? Where is the wisdom and knowledge of our fathers now? Where is the philosophy of our fathers now? The centers of wisdom that used to guard the entrance to our national homestead have been demolished; the fire of wisdom has been allowed to die; the seats around the fireside have been thrown on to a rubbish heap; the guard posts have been destroyed; and the youth of the nation has hung up its shields and spears. It is a tragedy that there is nowhere we can go to learn the history of our country. A child without parents to counsel him—what is to prevent him from mistaking foreign shit for a delicious national dish?
“Our stories, our riddles, our songs, our customs, our traditions, everything about our national heritage has been lost to us.
“Who can play the gĩcaandĩ for us today and read and interpret the verses written on the gourd? Today who can play the wandĩndĩ, the one-stringed violin, making it sound like the voice of a young man wooing his love as she comes back from picking peas in the field, or fetching water from a cave in the valley, or digging up arrowroot, or cutting sugar cane in the slopes of the valley? Today who can play the bamboo flute, whose sound makes the hearts of a young man and a maiden beat in unison as they go to the fields to scare birds from the millet fingers while the moon casts its light over the land?
“That’s why some people at the university, students and teachers, are now attempting to unearth the roots of our culture. The roots of Kenyan national culture can be sought only in the traditions of all the nationalities of Kenya.
“I, for instance, work in the Department of Music, which concerns itself with music and musical instruments and their uses. I study traditional instruments mostly—drums, flutes, jingles, rattles, oryx horns—and all kinds of string instruments, like the lyre and the one-stringed violin.
“I am also a composer. My ambition and dream is to compose a piece of music for many human voices accompanied by an orchestra made up of all kinds of national instruments: skin, wind, string and brass. I have composed a number of songs. But I have not yet found the tune or the theme of the music of my dreams. Day and night I have searched for the tune and the theme, but in vain.
“You can’t know the pain I carry about in my heart.
“Often, when I’m alone in a hut thatched with grass and bracken and it is raining or the wind is blowing, or when I’m on my own at night and the moon is shining down on the land, I can hear the many voices gone, the many voices now living, the many voice to come, all singing to me in whispers. At times like those I feel I am just about to catch the tune, the rhythm and the theme of the music I have always longed to write. But it drifts away, carried on the waves of the wind.
“At other times, lying under the shade of a spreading tree or walking all alone in the plains or by the seaside, I often hear with the ears of my heart flutes and trumpets blown by a choir of herdsmen in the plains, the drums of the whole land calling on the youth of our country to go to war, then a thousand jingles, and rattles swung by our national heroes as they sing victory songs, and then the voices of women ululating in praise of their victorious sons. And suddenly I hear the sound of the national horn blown in victory, and oryx horns and others responding in joy. And then I hear the voices and the sounds of all the men and all the instruments come together, finishing with one voice in many voices, with many voices in one voice, like a choir of earthly angels proudly celebrating the heroic deeds of the nation.
“I seize pen and paper to write down the message of the voices before they are carried away by the wind.
“People, what can I tell you now?
“Have you ever dreamed of fruit hanging just above your head when you are very thirsty, under a scorching sun during a dry month, and when you raise your hands to pick one to cool your parched tongue, the fruit slowly rises out of reach and disappears into the sky? ‘Here I am! Here I am! But as you have refused to pick me, I am going away. . . .’ Or that’s what they seem to be saying, teasing you merely to whet your appetite and desire. That is how the voices and the instruments whet my appetite. But when I start to write the music down, alas, the music and the flutes are no longer there.
“I console myself by claiming that it does not matter: who has ever gained by moaning?
“I begin the search all over again. I myself ask a question that I have posed many times: what can I do to compose truly national music for our Kenya, music played by an orchestra made up of the instruments of all the nationalities that make up the Kenyan nation, music that we, the children of Kenya, can sing in one voice rooted in many voices—harmony in polyphony?
“I have spent many sleepless nights. A composer who is unable to snare the tune, the theme and the rhythm of his music is a shell of a human being.
“For a year or so after coming back from abroad, I was like a farmer trying to uproot a blue gum tree with a blunt digging stick. I could not get to the bottom of the root I was after. . . .”
Gatuĩria cut short the story of his endless search. Nobody spoke.
Warĩĩnga felt restless, but she did not know why—was it Gatuĩria’s words, or the way he told his story, or simply his voice? His voice was like that of a man who has been carrying a load of deep troubles for several days and who has spent sleepless nights wrestling with questions for which he cannot find answers. Why had he ended the story at that point? Warĩĩnga kept asking herself. What was the knot he had wanted help in untying?
Gatuĩria turned to Warĩĩnga as if he could read her thoughts. But before he could take up the story again, the man in dark glasses spoke in English: “So you are on the staff of the university?”
The other passengers were startled by the voice. These were the man’s very first words since he entered the matatũ at Sigona bus stop. Throughout the journey he had remained in his corner as if he were afraid that he would be murdered in Mwaũra’s matatũ.
“Yes, yes, I’m on the research staff,” Gatuĩria replied in English.
“So you know Professor Ngarikũũma and Professor Gatwe Gaitumbĩ?”
“Yes, Professor Ngarikũũma is in the Political Science Department, and Professor Gatwe Gaitumbĩ is in the Department of Commerce and Economics.”
“What about Professor Kĩmenyiũgeni?”
“He is in the Department of History. But he only knows European history.”
“And Professor Bari-Kwĩrĩ?”
“He’s in the Department of English—English literature. But he sometimes gives lectures in the Department of Philosophy and Religion.”
“I see, I see,” the man in dark glasses said, in a voice that indicated a heart more at peace with itself.
They waited for him to ask another question or to add something else, but he didn’t speak again. It appeared that he was now much less afraid, however, and he even sat back, more relaxed. Gatuĩria resumed his story.
“The day came when I thought I could at last see the light. A certain old man from Bahati village in Nakuru—”
“Bahati, did you say?” Mwaũra shouted. “Bahati, Bahati in Nakuru?”
“Yes,” Gatuĩria replied. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing . . . nothing much. Go on with your story,” Mwaũra said in a worried voice.
“Anyway, the old man from Nakuru, from Bahati, was the one who showed me the way. I had gone to him and I had begged him: ‘Father, tell me old stories—tales of ogres or animals.’ He was silent. He looked at me. Then he laughed a little. He told me: ‘There is no difference between old and modern stories. Stories are stories. All stories are old. All stories are new. All stories belong to tomorrow. And stories are not about ogres or about animals or about men. All stories are about human beings. Young man, I can’t understand the kind of education you all receive these days, or the kind of learning you want to acquire overseas during the course of so many years. How many? Fifteen years? Did they ever teach you that literature is a nation’s treasure? Literature is the honey of a nation’s soul, preserved for her children to taste forever, a little at a time! Gĩkũyũ said that he who has put something aside never goes hungry. Do you think Gĩkũyũ was a fool when he said that? A nation that has cast away its literature is a nation that has sold its soul and has been left a mere shell. But it is good that you have come. Say yes, and I’ll tell you the stories I can remember.’
Devil on the Cross Page 9
