Devil on the Cross

by Ngũgĩ Wa Thiong'o

  Oh, Warĩĩnga,

  For the valley below belongs to the owner. . . .

  “Go away, you wicked man!” Warĩĩnga says, laughing. “Can’t you see there’s dew on the grass and darkness has fallen?”

  “Come to me, my love!” Gatuĩria whispers in her ear, pulling her to the ground. “The grass is a free bed given us by God, and the darkness is his blanket!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  1

  When Gatuĩria came to collect Warĩĩnga on Sunday morning he found her ready, beautifully dressed from head to foot. Gatuĩria was struck dumb, unable at first to recognize Warĩĩnga.

  Warĩĩnga was dressed the Gĩkũyũ way. A brown cloth, folded over a little at the top, had been passed under her left armpit, the two ends gathered together and held at the right shoulder by two flower-shaped safety pins, so that her left shoulder was bare. The cloth was long and fell to her ankles; its edges were held together on her right side with safety pins. Around her waist Warĩĩnga had tied a knitted belt of white wool, the two long, loose ends of which fell the length of the cloth to her ankles. On her feet she wore leopard-skin sandals. Around her neck were necklaces of white, red and blue beads, which sat beautifully on her breasts. She had Nyori-like earrings. Her hair was smooth, soft and black.

  As she walked, Warĩĩnga appeared to be the child of Beauty, mother of all beauties, just created by the creator of the twins, elegance and beauty.

  “Can a simple length of cloth really turn out to be so beautiful?” These were Gatuĩria’s first words on recovering his speech.

  “You mean the cloth is more beautiful than I am? In that case I should take it off at once!” Warĩĩnga said lightheartedly.

  “A smooth body is made of perfume oil,” Gatuĩria replied in the same bantering tone, “but perfume oil is not made out of a beautiful body. Mke ni nguo. . . . Lakini nguo si mke.”

  “Sometimes I feel guilty about decorating my body,” Warĩĩnga said, in a slightly sad voice.

  “Why?” Gatuĩria asked.

  “These are not times for decorating our bodies with necklaces and perfume,” Warĩĩnga replied. “These are times for keeping our bodies and minds in a state of readiness.”

  “For . . . ?”

  “The struggles ahead.”

  “Those will come soon enough,” Gatuĩria replied promptly. “Today is today. Don’t take off the cloth. The struggle for national cultures is still a relevant struggle.” He broke off to sing, and Warĩĩnga joined in.

  Gatuĩria: If God’s Heaven were close by,

  I would file a lawsuit against women.

  Beautiful bodies given you free by God—

  Why do you ruin them with skin-lightening creams?

  Warĩĩnga: Young man, hurry! Hurry! We are leaving!

  Run! Run faster! We are leaving for the Court in Heaven!

  Eyes given you free by God—

  Oh, our people, why are they only pleased at the sight of foreign things?

  In a gay mood, they climbed into their Toyota to drive to Nakuru to put an end to all doubts.

  Gatuĩria kept stealing glances at Warĩĩnga and praising the way she had dressed in her cloth and beads, till Warĩĩnga was forced to warn him: “Concentrate on the steering-wheel, young man. Or do you want us to overturn like Matatũ Matata Matamu?”

  “Earthly life is a passing cloud,” Gatuĩria replied. “If we overturned now, I’d be very happy, for if you stood at the gates of Heaven dressed as you are, the angel who keeps the keys would rush to open the gates wide. And as you entered, I, the sinner, would get a chance to enter Heaven too and live forever with you and the Lord.”

  “This Earth is my home. I am not passing through. So drive carefully because I’m no longer in such a hurry to get to Heaven.”

  “You’re quite right. But as your Earth is my Heaven, I have to look at you over and over again, for nobody is satisfied with just one glance at a beauty.”

  They stopped off in places like Naivasha and Gilgil for tea or soft drinks just to pass the time until two. Gatuĩria was not unhappy about that. His heart overflowed with joy at the sight of Warĩĩnga walking along, dressed in that cloth and her necklaces and earrings, with a handbag hanging over one shoulder, the backs of her heels just showing. And Gatuĩria was not alone. Several passers-by stopped to watch Warĩĩnga.

  “Oh, that’s a fine-looking woman,” some said.

  Others commented: “You see, there’s no tradition that can’t be developed. Wherever she goes, people will defer to the beauty of that young woman.”

  Back in the car, Gatuĩria elaborated on their comments. “Those people are simply telling the truth. There’s no national tradition that we, the people of Kenya, can’t develop and build on—our architecture, our songs and our way of singing them, our theater, our literature, our technology, our economy. Although Mwĩreri wa Mũkiraaĩ didn’t reject the system of eating what has been produced by others, some of what he said was true. The essence of his speech was right: that we shouldn’t always run after foreign things, following in the footsteps of other people, singing only songs that have been composed by others, joining in the chorus of songs sung by soloists from other lands. We can compose our own songs, produce our own soloists, sing the songs to ourselves.”

  “Your own composition could start a revolution in Kenyan music,” Warĩĩnga told Gatuĩria, and then added with a laugh, “Gatuĩria Juu!”

  “I am not a politician, so don’t pay lip-service to my talent,” Gatuĩria said. “Revolution? Your words remind me of what a Russian composer, Igor Stravinsky, once said in his book Poetics of Music. He argued that there was no real revolution in music: each composer only adds something to what others have done before. But I say amen to your thoughts. We, the Kenyan youth, must be the light to light up new paths of progress for our country.

  ‘You, for instance, are a very good example of what I am trying to say. Your training in mechanical engineering, fitting and turning and molding, is a very important step. It is a kind of signal to indicate to other girls their abilities and potential.”

  For a minute Warĩĩnga heard not Gatuĩria’s voice, but the voice of her lecturer at the Polytechnic, talking to them about the workings of an internal combustion engine, especially a motor vehicle engine. . . .

  “A motor vehicle has several parts that make it work. The power that makes it move comes from the internal combustion of fuel. An engine is to the motor vehicle what a heart is to the human body. It is the engine that converts a mixture of air and fuel into the power that makes the vehicle move. There are two types of internal combustion engine, the diesel and the petrol, but today we shall only discuss the one that consumes petrol. An engine has a block with four or six cylinders. Each cylinder has a piston that is connected to the crankshaft by a conrod. A piston is like a pestle for crushing a mixture of air and petrol. There are two valves in each cylinder: the inlet for the mixture of air and petrol, and the outlet for the exhaust. Each cylinder has a spark plug. Petrol and air are mixed in the carburetor.

  “Combustion has four main stages: induction, compression, ignition or firing and exhaust. Let us take one cylinder, to see how it works. Now, the vehicle has been started by switching on the starter motor. The crankshaft begins to revolve. The piston is pulled to the bottom of the cylinder. The inlet valve opens. A mixture of air and petrol is injected into the cylinder and fills up the empty space. Now the piston which is at the bottom of the cylinder begins to move upward, in the process compressing the mixture of air and petrol, and the inlet valve closes. The spark plug sparks. The compressed mixture of air and petrol explodes. Now, since all the inlets and outlets are closed, the power from the explosion pushes the piston down. The crankshaft revolves. Before the piston begins to move up again, the outlet valve opens; the exhaust gases are released and so on. The power from the engine is taken up by the clutch, gearbox and
drive shaft, which distribute it to the axles, which in turn distribute it to the wheels. But we shall go over all this again in detail. Today’s lesson is only the beginning of greater things to come. . . .”

  Warĩĩnga was jolted out of her memories of the past by Gatuĩria, who was speaking with sudden bitterness: “. . . What about today? The abilities and potential of our women are enslaved to the typewriter, the bar or the beds in those hotels we have put up in every corner of the country for the pleasure of tourists. How insulting to our national dignity that our women should have become mere flowers to decorate the beds of foreign tourists, so that when they go back home to their own countries, they can praise the generosity of our women in bed! Is that real praise or contempt?”

  “The foreigners are not entirely to blame,” Warĩĩnga replied. “Even you, the Kenyan men, think that there is no job a woman can do other than cooking your food and massaging your bodies. The other day I told some young men that my ambition was to design and build a simple machine to ease the burden of rural women, a simple machine that would exploit the greatest source of energy on the Earth—solar energy. And you know, the men laughed! Why have people forgotten how Kenyan women used to make guns during the Mau Mau war against the British? Can’t people recall the different tasks carried out by women in the villages once the men had been sent to detention camps? A song of praise begins at home. If you Kenyan men were not so scornful and oppressive, the foreigners you talk about so much would not be so contemptuous of us.”

  “Haidhuru! Haidhuru!” Gatuĩria said quickly, mollifying Warĩĩnga. “Let’s agree this is a new beginning for better things to come,” he added, his optimism springing from conviction that things were bound to change.

  Then Gatuĩria remembered the invitations to the day’s celebration and the way the guests had been instructed to dress, and he fell silent as he contemplated the shock his parents would have when they saw the way Warĩĩnga was dressed—a cloth, bead necklaces and Nyori-type earrings.

  Gatuĩria laughed inwardly. He thought of showing Warĩĩnga the card, then dismissed the idea.

  “The dawn of new and more productive things to come,” he repeated, speaking more to himself, to bolster his spirits, than to Warĩĩnga.

  “Let’s hope so!” Warĩĩnga said, but after a pause, she took back what she had said: “No, let’s not be content with hoping. We aren’t going to wait for things to happen by themselves any longer. Why can’t we make things happen the way we want them to happen?”

  “Let’s make them happen then,” said Gatuĩria.

  “Let’s make them happen,” Warĩĩnga repeated.

  “The revolution of the Iregi rebels!”

  “A new beginning for a new Earth!” Warĩĩnga said.

  “So be it!” Gatuĩria shouted, pressing his right foot hard on the accelerator. . . .

  2

  It is true that their journey to Nakuru was pleasant.

  And their journey was still pleasant as they went past Lanet, and as they branched off toward Ngorika in their red Toyota.

  And their journey was pleasant even when they drove into the home of Mr. and Mrs. Hispaniora Greenway Ghitahy, Ngorika Heavenly Orchards. . . .

  You who were there, what more can I say?

  3

  Gatuĩria and Warĩĩnga’s journey was pleasant even as they walked through the gates of the homestead; was still pleasant when they entered the yard and their eyes met the faces of Kĩhaahu wa Gatheeca, Gĩtutu wa Gataangũrũ, Nditika wa Ngũũnji, Kĩmeendeeri wa Kanyuanjii and many others whom they had last seen at the Devil’s feast in Ilmorog two years before. Robin Mwaũra, of the Matatũ Matata Matamu Modern Transport Company, was also present, as he had brought some foreign guests in his brand-new taxis.

  Warĩĩnga almost refused to accept the evidence of her eyes. But her eyes were not deceiving her: her uncle and aunt were there. . . .

  4

  What are you saying? That such things cannot be? Give me strength, you who asked me to tell this story. Give me the tongue. Give me the words. . . .

  5

  What happened then is a story that has been told over and over again, but it is one that those who were not there find difficult to believe. Give me the tongue . . . give strength, you who commanded me to tell this tale. Give me the words. . . .

  6

  When Gatuĩria and Warĩĩnga walked into the courtyard, they were met by servants in uniform: striped trousers, dark tail coats, top hats and white gloves. Gatuĩria and Warĩĩnga were escorted toward a special room, where Gatuĩria’s father, together with a select inner circle of elders, was waiting to receive them. Things had been organized so that Gatuĩria’s father would be the first to receive his son’s bride, would be the first to touch her. The owner of the homestead had to be the first to receive the bride of his only son, according to modern tradition.

  The guests had lined up on either side, and they clapped as Gatuĩria and Warĩĩnga passed by.

  The men had on dark suits, white frilled shirts and bow ties. The women wore very expensive clothes of different colors. But they all wore hats and white gloves.

  On the outer edges stood foreign guests and tourists, dressed very lightly for a sunny day and bemusedly watching the drama unfolding before them as if they were studying the ridiculous products of their own civilizing missions.

  Warĩĩnga glanced at her aunt and uncle to dispel the doubts she now felt. She saw them hide their faces; she assumed that they were ashamed of the way she was dressed. . . .

  A red carpet had been laid at the entrance to the special room. On the floor of the special room was green carpet four inches thick. From the ceiling hung chandeliers like bunches of glass fruit.

  Gatuĩria’s father sat on a high seat covered with cushions of different colors. On either side of him his elderly friends were sitting on seats similar to his, only theirs were smaller.

  The news of an only son returning home had reached every corner of the area, and this was borne out by the crowds of people who had come to the feast. Yes, the news of him who had been lost returning home for the blessing of his father and of all the other elders around had spread far and wide.

  Warĩĩnga felt as if she were an actor in a film.

  That was how she felt as she stepped on to the red carpet.

  That was how she felt as she entered the special room and stood on the green carpet.

  That was how she felt as she let her eyes wander around the room. . . .

  And suddenly Warĩĩnga’s eyes met those of Gatuĩria’s father.

  Gatuĩria’s father? Oh, no!

  Warĩĩnga’s eyes had met the eyes of the Rich Old Man from Ngorika, who was sitting on the high seat, ready to receive her.

  Gatuĩria’s father? Wambũi’s father!

  7

  “Father, this is—,” Gatuĩria started to make the introductions. His father stopped him with a wave of his hand. He was a sturdily built old man. His bald patch, which now divided his gray hairs into two sections, gleamed in the light.

  His face betrayed nothing.

  Even his voice gave nothing away as he asked everyone to leave the room, including Gatuĩria, so that he could become acquainted with his son’s fiancée, so that father-in-law and daughter-in-law could get to know each other.

  “Gatuĩria, go and greet your mother, and take these guests to join all our other guests. Shut the door behind you, please, and tell your mother that I would be grateful for strictly no disturbance.”

  The guests left the room, glancing lasciviously at Warĩĩnga, some of them muttering to themselves: “The young of today really are beautiful! What a terrible calamity old age is!”

  They imagined that everything was going according to plan. None realized that there had been an unexpected development—none, that is, except Warĩĩnga and Gatuĩria’s father.

  Gatuĩria’s fathe
r? Wambũi’s father!

  8

  The hands of the Rich Old Man from Ngorika were trembling. He stretched out his arms and laid his hands on a Bible that was lying on a table in front of him. And all this time his eyes were fixed on Warĩĩnga’s face. His lips trembled too. He did not know where to start.

  The firebrand of words was burned at the handle.

  Warĩĩnga stood on the same spot, her fearless eyes meeting the gaze of the Rich Old Man. She shifted her handbag from her right shoulder to her left.

  “Won’t you sit down?” The Rich Old Man asked her, standing up and pushing a chair toward her.

  But Warĩĩnga remained where she was. She did not utter a word.

  The Rich Old Man from Ngorika sank back into his seat, his eyes still on Warĩĩnga’s face. “Did you . . . did you know that Gatuĩria was my son, my only son?”

  Warĩĩnga shook her head.

  The Rich Old Man stood up again and said to Warĩĩnga: “Let’s kneel down and pray together.”

  Warĩĩnga shrugged her shoulders. She remained on her feet.

  “Please, I beg you, let’s pray together so that the Lord can show us the way.”

  Warĩĩnga did not move. The Rich Old Man from Ngorika knelt on the carpet in front of Warĩĩnga.

  Warĩĩnga looked at him like a judge at an unrepentant prisoner who is pleading for mercy.

  The Rich Old Man tried to pray. No words of prayer came to him.

  Warĩĩnga’s lips parted slightly, as if she were about to laugh, but she did not.

  The Rich Old Man from Ngorika opened his eyes and looked up at Warĩĩnga, but he was greeted by eyes that danced with laughter and irony.

  The lips of the Rich Old Man trembled. He abandoned his prayers, stood up and began to pace about on the carpet, his hands clasped together behind him, but every few steps he would stop to touch the table or the chair on which he had been sitting.