Devil on the Cross

by Ngũgĩ Wa Thiong'o

  “Truly, even today as we are sitting here, or when I’m alone, silently turning things over in my mind, or when I am typing or simply walking on the road, I can hear the heavy rumble of the train rolling along the rails toward where I stood waiting for it to take me away from all the troubles I had encountered in Nakuru. I stood in the middle of the rails, near the level crossing by Kabacia Estate, Section 58, Nakuru. It was about eleven on a Sunday morning. The train came toward me, belching steam, breathing hard and seemingly singing:

  Going-to-Uganda

  Going-to-Uganda

  Going-to-Uganda

  Go-ing

  Go-ing

  Go

  Go

  Go

  Goooiiing . . . uuuuuu-u!

  “I shut my eyes. I started counting, one, two, three, four, now take me. . . .”

  Warĩĩnga covered her face with her hands. She was trembling all over as if she were actually in front of the train. Drops of sweat were forming on her forehead as if she could see the train about to crush her beneath its wheels. Gatuĩria rose quickly from his seat, put his hands on her shoulders and shook her a little, asking: “What is it, Warĩĩnga? What is it?”

  2

  Jacinta Warĩĩnga was born at Kaambũrũ, Gĩthũngũri Kĩa Wairera, in 1953. In those days Kenya was ruled by British imperialists, under very oppressive laws that went by the name of Emergency Regulations. And our patriots, led by Kĩmaathi wa Waciũri, had sworn an oath of unity, declaring that since death was anyway a fact of life, they would struggle against the British terrorists (codenamed Johnnies) until all torture and oppression in the land ended. The sound of guns and bombs at Nyandaarũa and Mount Kenya was like thunder. When the British terrorists, together with the homeguards, their faithful Kenyan watchdogs—you sterile bastards: you sold your country for the sake of your bellies—saw that they were about to be defeated by the Mau Mau guerrilla forces, they increased their indiscriminate torture and oppression of the peasants and workers of the whole country.

  In 1954, Warĩĩnga’s father was arrested and detained at Manyani. A year later, her mother was also arrested and detained at Langata and Kamĩtĩ Prisons.

  Warĩĩnga was then only two. Her aunt, who lived in Nakuru, came for her. Her aunt’s husband worked for the railways then, and afterward for the Nakuru town council. Warĩĩnga grew up in Nakuru, with her cousins. In the early days they used to live in Land Panya Estate, but as Independence Day approached, they moved to a council house in Section 58.

  Warĩĩnga went to school at Baharini Full Primary School, near the Shauri Yako Estate. But her cousin went to Bondeni DEB, just below Section 58, near Majengo and Bondeni. She would go down through the grass-thatched Mĩthoonge huts for the destitute near the council butchery. She would then run through Bondeni, and before the last bell sounded, she would be at her place in the morning parade. Sometimes, after school or on Saturday or Sunday, Warĩĩnga and her cousins would roam about in Bondeni to watch women hunting for men or men fighting it out with knives. At other times, they would visit all the neighboring residential areas—Kiziwani, Kaloleni, Kivumbini, Shauri Yako, Ambongorewa (also known as the Somali Camp)—just to stare at the people and the houses and the shops. Sometimes they would go to hear concerts or to see plays in Menengai Social Hall, and at other times they would go to free cinema shows at Kamũkũnji. On some days they would walk along Lake Nakuru Road and down to the lakeshore to see the flamingoes and other birds, or they would go to the tracks to watch car and motorbike races.

  But what Warĩĩnga enjoyed most was not watching prostitutes fighting over men, or drunks urinating and vomiting in the open drains; no—what she loved most was going to church to pray and to listen to sermons. Every Sunday her aunt would take her to the morning mass at the Church of the Holy Rosary. Warĩĩnga was baptized at the Church of the Holy Rosary, where she was given her new name, Jacinta. What Warĩĩnga tried hard to avoid—though her eyes kept straying in that direction—was looking at the pictures on the walls and windows of the Church of the Holy Rosary. Many of the pictures showed Jesus in the arms of the Virgin Mary or on the Cross. But others depicted the Devil, with two cowlike horns and a tail like a monkey’s, raising one leg in a dance of evil, while his angels, armed with burning pitchforks, turned over human beings on a bonfire. The Virgin Mary, Jesus and God’s angels were white, like Europeans, but the Devil and his angels were black. At night Warĩĩnga would have a recurrent nightmare. Instead of Jesus on the Cross, she would see the Devil, with skin as white as that of a very fat European she once saw near the Rift Valley Sports Club, being crucified by people in tattered clothes—like the ones she used to see in Bondeni—and after three days, when he was in the throes of death, he would be taken down from the Cross by black people in suits and ties, and, thus restored to life, he would mock Warĩĩnga.

  Warĩĩnga’s parents were released from detention in 1960—three years before Uhuru—only to find that their small piece of land at Kaambũrũ had been sold to the homeguards by the colonial regime. They moved to Ilmorog to look for borrowed pastures and somewhere to build a shelter.

  Since they found Warĩĩnga at school at Baharini, Nakuru, they allowed her to stay there. They prayed that she would get through her schooling quickly so that one day she could free them from the chains of poverty. Warĩĩnga was quick at learning, and she was often top of her class. In fact, it was Warĩĩnga who often coached her cousins at maths, even those who were a class ahead. When the CPE results were announced, Warĩĩnga was among those who had done very well. She was admitted to Nakuru Day Secondary School.

  This was the happiest period of Warĩĩnga’s life. When she saw herself in the school uniform, a blue skirt, a white blouse, white stockings and black shoes, Warĩĩnga felt like weeping with sheer joy.

  Even her years in Form One and Form Two were happy years. Warĩĩnga had no thoughts or worries other than the sheer love of learning and her ambition to complete school with high honor. Holding her books and ruler and pen in one hand, Warĩĩnga would run through the grass-thatched huts to Ladhies Road, past the council clinic to the right. At the junction, she would leave the road to Bondeni on her left and the road to town on her right and would cross into Ronald Ngala, which would take her past the residence of the African nuns near the Church of the Holy Rosary. There she would cross Oginga Odinga Road and on to the Nakuru Day.

  In the evening, returning home from school, she would follow Oginga Odinga Road past the Afraha Stadium, to branch off at Menengai High School, where she would climb up the slope past the clinic, past the butchery, to Section 58. But sometimes, when she was sent into town on an errand, she would go via the courts and council offices to the town center.

  But Warĩĩnga never lingered unnecessarily. Then she knew only two stops: school and home.

  Walking along those paths, in the morning on her way to school or in the evening on her way home, Warĩĩnga often felt that she was the queen of learning in all Nakuru. She lived on sweet dreams, reveling in the little body, the warm blood and the pure heart of her blossoming youth. But her dream of dreams was to finish school successfully and win a place at the university. Her ambition was to study electrical, mechanical or civil engineering. The word “engineer” was what made her heart beat whenever she shut her eyes and tried to look into the tomorrow of her life. Warĩĩnga could not understand why girls hardly ever opted for such challenging jobs, leaving the whole field open to men. There is no job that a girl cannot accomplish if she sets her mind to it and believes she can do it: that was what Warĩĩnga told the other girls, who would often laugh at the daring of her thoughts. But they were convinced that Warĩĩnga could complete an engineering course successfully; no girl or boy at Nakuru Day Secondary could beat her at maths. Her knowledge of maths was legendary, and her name was known in all the neighboring schools, like Afraha, St. Joseph’s, St. Xavier, Crater, Lake Nakuru Secondary, and even beyond, in schoo
ls like Nakuru High.

  Studying night and day, going to church every Sunday, helping her aunt on the land that they were allowed to cultivate by the council at Baari and at Kilimani, near the Menengai Crater—that was Warĩĩnga’s routine from Monday to Sunday. Her integrity, her industry in the fields and her diligence in everything she did helped to spread her reputation to all corners of Section 58.

  Then one Saturday at about four o’clock, as she and her cousins were returning home from the fields near the Menengai Crater, Warĩĩnga saw death for the very first time in her life. They had gone past the Annex of the Nakuru General Hospital and had crossed the Nakuru–Nairobi road, and they were now heading toward Section 58. At the level crossing they found a crowd of people gathered round the body of a man who had been completely crushed on the rails by a passing train. But was it really a body, or just minced meat, blood and bones scattered on the rails? No one could possibly tell who the person had been or make out what he might have looked like when alive. Warĩĩnga felt as if her stomach had been cut to pieces with a razor blade. She felt sick, about to vomit, and she ran home and left her cousins at the scene of the terrible accident. Warĩĩnga had always feared the sight of blood. News of deaths and funerals gave her sleepless nights as she wrestled with the paradox of life. But to see a man’s whole shape and form completely obliterated by a railway train—it was as if the man had never been, had never existed—that was something she had never imagined and the chilling sight made Warĩĩnga unable to use that particular crossing from that day on.

  That, then, was how Warĩĩnga grew up in Nakuru—upright, always seeking the path of virtue, according to the light of her knowledge and experience. So it was, Warĩĩnga! And so it was, Jacinta! Yes, so it was until she reached Form Three.

  By that time her breasts had developed. Her hair had grown long and brilliantly black. Her cheeks had blossomed, smooth and luscious like fruits in a good season.

  Her aunt’s husband, whom she called “Uncle,” was the man who caused Warĩĩnga to stray from the paths trodden by peasants into the paths of the petty bourgeoisie, the clan of tie-wearers.

  Uncle was one of those who had served the whites faithfully to save their own skins. After Independence, these same people became heirs to the whites, especially when it came to land and business. But Uncle was not as lucky as the others. His salary did not allow him to climb the ladder of his ambition. It was just enough for clothes and food and fees and other domestic needs. But despite his lowly conditions, he liked to live beyond his means: he kept company with those higher up the ladder of life. His companions consisted of a few rich men from Njoro and Ngorika. His wealthy friends drank at the Sportsman’s Corner in the Stag’s Head Hotel, or in clubs and hotels that, like the Rift Valley Sports Club, had previously been reserved for Europeans only.

  Uncle believed that he who walked with the rich might himself become rich, that he who searched diligently would eventually find wealth, and that the fart of the rich man never smelled foul. So he did not mind that they ordered him about, or that they gave him their fingertips for a handshake, or that they sent him on errands like those pre-colonial servants of ring-wearing feudal lords.

  Perhaps because he did not mind sniffing the rich men’s farts, there came a time when he was able to pick up a few leftovers. A wealthy man from Ngorika got him a house on hire purchase, just near the Kĩbaacia Estate, Phase Two, and then introduced him to a bank manager, who loaned him money for the initial deposit. The same wealthy man from Ngorika got him a piece of land near the Sambugo Scheme.

  You give, I give, so goes the saying. A good feast calls for a return feast. In the same way, Uncle did not simply pick up good fortune from the ground for free. Oh, no. He promised his wealthy friend from Ngorika some “veal” or a “spring chicken.” Warĩĩnga was going to be the chicken whose feathers would be plucked one by one, leaving the flesh naked and unhampered, soft food for a toothless old man. When a white man grows old, he eats veal.

  But Warĩĩnga did not know that she had already been sold, because they did not run after her the way a late passenger runs after a bus or the way a man jumps on to a bicycle. They started at the edges, the way a man approaches a hot dish, at first cautiously but in the end swallowing it all.

  Uncle started by asking Warĩĩnga to call at the council offices after school hours to collect a few items for home. But every time Warĩĩnga called at the offices, and before she and Uncle had exchanged two words, Warĩĩnga would see the Rich Old Man from Ngorika suddenly appear. Afterward, the Rich Old Man would give them a lift to Section 58, or he would drive Warĩĩnga to the council butchery.

  One day Warĩĩnga was invited by a schoolmate to a party in Bahati. She found her uncle there. The Rich Old Man from Ngorika was also present. That night Warĩĩnga was driven home by the Rich Old Man from Ngorika in a Mercedes Benz.

  Gradually Warĩĩnga and the Rich Old Man got to know one another. He was indefatigable in his relentless pursuit of her. On leaving school in the evening, Warĩĩnga invariably found a Mercedes Benz standing by Oginga Odinga Avenue, near the Church of the Holy Rosary. The Rich Old Man would offer her a lift, but before taking her up to the council clinic, near the butchery, he would first take her for a leisurely ride through the streets of Nakuru, or to Menengai Crater, or to Lake Nakuru, or to the race track.

  Then he started giving her pocket money, and money for the cinema, or for the races, or for the Nakuru Agricultural Show. And because Warĩĩnga had not resisted his initial smiles, she now became progressively weaker, until she was unable to refuse anything. On two occasions they met at the Eros cinema, on another at the Odeon.

  Warĩĩnga’s life now changed. She felt as if a door had opened on to a Nakuru she never knew existed. Suddenly she saw the world brighten; she saw a brilliant light illuminating a road that was broad and very beautiful. Warĩĩnga heard words of love whispered by wonderfully smooth and perfumed voices: “Warĩĩnga, my dear, how can you foolishly tie yourself to your books when sugary delicacies, and ripe, juicy fruits, and many other wonders calculated to stir the heart and to warm the body are to be found everywhere in Kenya?”

  Warĩĩnga grew wings. She tried out the wings and flew once with her Rich Old Man. She felt good. She flew again and again, and with every flight she felt the wonders of a Mercedes Benz multiply. Her Rich Old Man encouraged her with soothing words: he said that she should never worry, that he was perfectly willing to divorce his first wife on account of Warĩĩnga’s thighs and breasts. Warĩĩnga was now constantly poised for flight.

  She began to hate school, convinced that it was school that clipped her wings and dragged her back to Earth with iron chains just when she wanted to float free, soaring through the sky toward a heaven of everlasting happiness. Her dreams of learning and of ending up at the university to read for a degree in engineering vanished into thin air like the morning dew after sunshine. In the classroom she would count the seconds, minutes, hours, days, impatient for Saturday, so that she could fly to the freedom of real living. She also became an expert liar. On many occasions she would deceive her aunt into thinking that she was going to Ilmorog to see her parents.

  At such times Warĩĩnga would be picked up by her Rich Old Man at Nakuru bus stop, and she would be whisked along the tarmac highway toward Naivasha. At Naivasha they would take a ride around the lake in a motorboat, or they would walk along the lakeshore, watching the fishermen at work, her Rich Old Man lecturing her on how the small fishes were used by men to trap bigger ones, and how the big fishes lived on the smaller ones. “Yes, they swallow them whole,” the Rich Old Man would add, laughing.

  Sometimes they would go to the Hot Springs, ostensibly to hunt animals, though they had no hunting license. But instead of hunting animals, they would play a game called the Hunter and the Hunted. The Hunter would take the pistol to chase the Hunted until the Hunted was worn out and exhausted, whereupon the Hunter would catch
the Hunted and fire into the sky to announce his victory.

  It was the Rich Old Man who normally chased Warĩĩnga through the trees, holding a pistol in his right hand. Because Warĩĩnga’s body was agile and young, she could outrun the Rich Old Man. She would then hide in a bush until he was exhausted and started calling out for her in frustrated irritation. When Warĩĩnga noticed this trait, she started faking exhaustion. The Rich Old Man would catch up with her, then he would fire into the sky and beam with happiness. Warĩĩnga would then take the pistol and chase him through the trees. What always surprised Warĩĩnga was that no matter how tired she really was, once she had the gun in her hands, she would feel infused with a new strength, and she would dash forward and catch up with him to fire the shot of victory. One day she felt fed up with the whole game. She fired the gun before she had caught him. She could never really tell what happened—as she swung her hand to fire, a branch may have jogged the gun—but at any rate the bullet missed the man by no more than an inch. It hit a pregnant antelope and killed it instantly.

  The Rich Old Man was shaking and sweating. Warĩĩnga wept. She had never killed anything in her life. She told the Rich Old Man that they should stop playing the Hunter and the Hunted. He just laughed, pretending more courage than he felt, and told her that the game would never end. But now that he had seen that she could not be trusted with guns, she was not to hunt him again. He would do the hunting all the time.

  “But suppose you misfire?” Warĩĩnga asked him.

  “No, I’m not like you. I wouldn’t miss you,” the Rich Old Man said, as if he were joking.

  They laughed. The Rich Old Man was bewitched, obsessed by the game.

  The Rich Old Man would always make sure that they had a room in one of the hotels along the shores of the lake. In the evening, after eating and drinking, they would retire to their room, where they would spend a night of joy. The following day he would drive Warĩĩnga to Ilmorog. He would drop her off at the bus stop; she would run home; she would hurriedly greet her parents; then she would quickly run back to where her darling Rich Old Man was waiting, and they would fly back to another hotel to continue their life.