Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber’d here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream.
A dream! Dreams within dreams! What a relief, I murmur to myself as I wake up to sun’s rays streaming through the open door and the tiny windows. The prison warders are saying: out, out, stand in twos for your porridge. It is Sunday morning.
66
SUNDAY
I turn over the images of my prison night’s dream. I have always tried to make sense of the apparent illogicality of events in dreams. The images are often drawn from what has happened in the day or earlier in time. The illogical lies in the way these images are linked. Sometimes I fear when this happens to me in daytime. What does one call it when, in the fields or walking alone, different images begin to link up? What about when flowers in a field suddenly begin to dance in front of you or birds talk to you? Or a person walking in front of you is transformed into another person, from another place, another time? Is that also a dream?
But I should not have been surprised that images from spirituals should come to me in prison at night. Not too long ago, with my Kahũgũinĩ students, I had organized a performance, similar to the one I had done with the Limuru youth, at Kamandũra. This time the spirituals and other hymns centered on the theme of sacrifice, connecting Abraham’s intended sacrifice of Isaac to the actual sacrifice of Jesus on the Cross. Through dance and song, we told of barren Sarah pleading to God and then hearing His response through an angel. She gets a laughing boy she calls Isaac. We made a few additions to the biblical story, and eventually, again through dance and song, Sarah is transformed into Mary, crying for her only child, crucified. She too hears a voice that talks of resurrection into new life. There was no script: it was an oral improvisation, a thin fictional story line linking the two biblical events. The main performance was in a church in Gatũndũ, a few weeks before my arrest.
The success was such that the elders had asked me if I could have repeat performances. Kĩmani Ware was for it, as it meant Kahũgũinĩ Primary School continually being the talk of the community. With my Cambridge results and admission to Makerere, I knew that I had only a few weeks left. A farewell performance was clearly in order. I was to give a definite answer this very Sunday.
67
Despite my doubts about evangelism, I had somehow maintained an internal facade. Even without a confessional support group, I still clung to my faith, however riddled with doubt. Kĩmani Ware and my fellow teachers at Kahũgũinĩ tried to tempt me with alcohol and women. I decided to wear my faith on my sleeve. I would preach to them occasionally, which bolstered my resistance and dampened their enjoyment of sin. Even when I kept mum, they felt the moral weight of my silent presence. The more they tested me, the surer I felt about my faith. This was no consolation, for I was not able to make them follow my path. The fact that even in my heyday as a Balokole, I did not manage to convert anybody, had always deepened my unease about the conviction with which I stated my religious beliefs. As if they sensed this, my fellow teachers amused themselves by arguing back and asking questions for which I had no answer. How come Christians condemned polygamy yet believed in a Bible that featured Solomon of a hundred wives? Or Abraham impregnating his maid, Hagar, and then driving her and her son Ishmael into the desert?
These were not questions that seriously troubled them. They were asking just to hear me answer back. They were all nominally Christian. Why do you go to church every Sunday? I would ask, trying to turn tables around. They had no problem in saying that they went there to worship and pray to God. And how do you end your prayers? In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen. See, you profess to be Christians and then deny it. Yes, but we are not the twakutendereza Yesu, the Saved, like you. That would bring a truce, but temporary only.
They were otherwise very nice to me, receiving me in their homes, and our talk was not all religion. One of the teachers said that there was a lady teacher in his village in the Ng’enda area who devoured books, including the Bible: no man was a match for her in brains and no woman, in beauty. It would be interesting, he said, for she and I to meet. I laughed the matter off. Outside debates, I was never interested in intellectual contests for the sake of contest. I liked discussions and exchanges of ideas and experiences. I believed that there was always something to learn from every encounter.
One weekend this teacher invited me to his home. I was particularly well received, with what amounted to a small banquet of roasted goat meat and irio. His one-bedroom was packed with young men and women my age, who were happy to be in the company of an Alliance graduate. I sat on the bed. My host, like the others, had exaggerated my learning and my performance at Alliance, claiming that some of the teachers there used to consult me when they failed to solve a problem. So they had come to see a genius in the flesh. I felt relaxed but inevitably questions of faith arose. Should I ruin this cozy atmosphere with morality? But the girls would not leave me alone: they wanted to know if I was really saved. Pushed into a corner, I said yes, firmly And then, just after the food had been cleared, the lantern throwing agitated shadows on the wall, she entered, like an actor entering the stage on cue. We shall call her Lady Teacher. All eyes were turned to her as she sat on a chair vacated for her. She was treated like a challenger to a reigning champion in a boxing ring. The talk resumed. At first the newcomer did not say much; she mostly listened, sometimes raising her big dark eyes. She was an untrained teacher in a nearby school, I learned. Was she the one I had heard so much about? Why, then, was she so silent? I could not tell if her silence was in wonder or skepticism. No matter how hard I tried, I could not get my eyes away from the light in her eyes. And then she started talking, asking questions and dissenting, gently, and I realized straight away that she had not come for a contest, that she was genuinely troubled by profound doubt.
How come a loving God allows famines and diseases, so much suffering, in the world? Why does he allow white people to kill black people? You say that God speaks to us, she said, directing the question at me. In what language does he speak to you? Does he talk to black people in their language and white people in theirs? Is he in favor of one over another?
I almost fell out of my seat. These were the same questions I had asked E.K. I could not admit that God did not speak to me in a discernible language. I resorted to the primacy of faith. God speaks directly to the heart, without the medium of a specific language. God speaks his own language. I wrapped myself in faith. Then what is the point of using reason to explain matters of faith? And why is one faith more believable than another? I recommended some passages from the Bible, but she knew them already, plus many other passages and incidents that contradicted the ones I had cited. By this time, we had shut out others who looked on our exchange as a contest, but for me it was like hearing echoes of an earlier conversation, within myself: what color is Jesus? And then the challenge: was God a man or a woman?
God’s gender? I had never really thought of God in terms of gender. I always assumed him to be male, although in Gĩkũyũ God is neither man nor woman, he is a thing, a big it! But the color of Jesus had arisen before in my life, when Sam Ntiro and his student, Elimo Njau, visited Alliance, talked to us about art, and showed us paintings of a black Christ. Now I recalled all of that, and I was able to sincerely elaborate on God making humans in his own image. People can see God and Jesus in any color or gender. In other words, since we are made in God’s image, each one of us can know what God looks like by looking deep into ourselves.
And suddenly I felt like something had been revealed to me. I had answered some of my old questions; rather, I talked as I had often talked to myself, whenever I felt uncertain about my faith. At that point even my own doubts seemed swept away, as I placed faith above reason in matters of belief. I wallowed in eloquence. I was gaining ground. The room had become silent. Here was my chance to convert one person, the challe
nger. I was so absorbed in my words, enjoying my anticipated evangelical triumph, that I did not notice that all the others had left the room. It was just me and the beautiful listener, whose responses were now reduced to saying, yes, yes, is that so? The paraffin lamp was losing power, making the room rather dark. Imperceptibly, still murmuring dissent and assent, the challenger had drawn nearer and now sat on the bed next to me. And when, as if reaching out for holiness, her fingers brushed against my hand, I felt the eloquence suddenly subsumed in flames.
I was surprised that I did not feel guilt. The fact that my will to resist had melted away at the first serious challenge bothered me more than a sense of sin. But I had lost any moral authority to pass quick judgment on others, I thought, recalling our holy cabal at Alliance.
I wanted to see her again. We did not meet. Two weeks later I was arrested.
68
Time in remand prison moves ever so slowly, the way the American evangelist once described the passage of time in Hell, and this Sunday will not be different. Even the process of waking up, falling in line for breakfast, receiving one’s plate, eating the porridge, are in slow motion. I begin to think that this is divine retribution. The evangelist who converted me had talked of omission and commission as being equal sins. I don’t want to leave things to chance. I murmur the Lord’s Prayer that stuck in my throat on my first day as the new Sunday school leader at Kĩnoo. Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name, dwelling on the line, and forgive our trespasses. I repeat the prayer in Gĩkũyũ and Kiswahili. But no voice speaks to me directly or indirectly in any of the languages. Only silence.
The porridge has stilled my hunger. Afterward we are allowed to mingle in the yard; for those of us brought here from Thĩmbĩgwa, it feels like a family reunion. They repeat the same assertions of innocence, now spiced with complaints about conditions in our different cells. These lead to our common woe: we don’t know what they want to do with us.
Some of the inmates come up with the idea of a game of checkers. Since there is no checkerboard, they draw a semblance of one in the sand. Dry bits of wood become the white pieces; green bits, the black. Kinging, or crowning, is achieved by simply doubling the sticks. People crowd around this game. Here in this place of confinement, it helps to prevent the mind from drifting into boredom, lethargy, and self-pity.
I walk to the barbed wire and look out. Kĩambu town stands on ridges with valleys in between. My eyes wander toward the location of the education headquarters, and then the Tailor’s Ridge, as I call the place where I bought my customized pair of woolen trousers. I still wear them; they are my sleeping rag and cover. Remarkably, the creases have held.
From the yard, I can see people passing by on the road toward downtown Kĩambu. Members of a fundamentalist sect who wear white garments with a red cross stitched onto them follow, singing that they are on their way to Heaven. They are not walking; they are running, symbolizing their readiness. Walking without supervision seems an unreachable desire, but I long for it.
Hope rises suddenly. I see my brother, Good Wallace. I note that he is not with Kabae, whose soldierly gait and mannerism of authority so impressed the guards at Thĩmbĩgwa. I am not allowed out to see him, and he is not allowed in, but we are able to speak through the barbed wire mesh between us. I cannot forget this reversal of our positions. He is sorry that their efforts did not result in my release. He talks of his fears when yesterday he went back to Thĩmbĩgwa, and nobody could tell him where they had taken me. This morning he returned to Thĩmbĩgwa, and one police officer, after some money changed hands, told him: why don’t you try Kĩambu? The same officer told him that it is likely that we will be taken to court tomorrow. He has not brought me any bread, but he excuses himself and soon rectifies the situation. My mother, he tells me, has sent a message: Ndũgakue ngoro! Ma ndĩkuaga! Don’t give up hope! Truth never dies!
Despite his attempt to shore up my spirits, I note his helplessness. He does not try to console me with we are seeing some people. And he does not say a thing about Kabae and his influence. Soon the guards ask him to leave. He has a few words for me, the only thing he can give. He says: Be prepared for the worst, but always hope for the best. See you in court tomorrow. He leaves as the guards are herding us back to our cells. The hope that the court tomorrow will end my misery buoys my spirits. I whisper to one inmate what I have learned. Soon everybody has the same news about the court tomorrow.
69
MONDAY
It turns out that Monday is a public holiday. The morning porridge is tasteless. I feel as cheated as I did on Saturday, when I was rearrested minutes after being set free. I don’t know how I can face the entire Monday watching my fellow inmates playing checkers over and over again with sticks for pieces and holes dug in the ground for a checkerboard. Two who try to play without spectators stop after a few moves. Everybody seems listless. I can feel their disappointment. I just hope they don’t blame me for being the unwitting conduit of false hope.
I sit down, apart, then stand up and walk about, then sit down again to mull over my fate. I should not have put all my hope in a court appearance today, and I certainly should not have passed on what my brother told me.
Don’t feel bad, a voice says. I look up and find Mr. Body Parts standing above me. I tense up, hoping it doesn’t show. Shauri ya Mungu, he says, sitting beside me without invitation. God works in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform. Shall I tell you a story?
I don’t feel like conversation, and I certainly hope it is not about the burial of body parts. But instead he tells me a tale of Hyena, who has fallen into a pit. He cannot climb out. He stays there, day and night, without food or water. Luckily for him, Antelope passes by and, hearing the cries of the trapped animal, stops. Hyena pleads with Antelope to get him out. Antelope stretches out his hand and helps Hyena out. Thank you very much, says Hyena, but you know what, I am very hungry, and I have to eat you. Along comes Hare, who offers to settle the dispute. They tell him what happened, and there seems to be no disagreement over the facts of the story. Hare says that he cannot believe that Hyena, so big an animal, could have fallen into such a pit. Hyena is angry at not being believed. Show me how, says Hare. When Hyena is back in the pit, Hare tells Antelope, case closed. Go your way.
He deserves it, the stupid Hyena, some voices say, and I realize that the story has attracted other listeners. There is animated talk about Hare and his cunning ways. But Hare is no match for Chameleon, another person chimes in. Without an invitation, he too tells a story.
As far as I can tell, it is a retelling of the Tortoise and the Hare, except instead of Tortoise, it is Chameleon who challenges Hare to a race. They agree to meet by a certain bush where Chameleon lives. When Hare turns up at the bush, he does not see Chameleon and waits for a few minutes. That Chameleon has chickened out, says Hare, whereupon he hears Chameleon’s voice tell him, Let’s start. Hare dashes ahead, and then stops, looks back. Chameleon is nowhere in sight. Even if I give him a day, he will never catch up with me, Hare says, and enters a restaurant. Our storyteller describes the food, which in variety, color, richness, and quantity is the exact opposite of the porridge we have been given. Hare’s other stops include a night in a whorehouse, where the room, the bed, and the bedding are the exact opposite of ours at the remand prison. After days of self-indulgence, Hare arrives at the agreed-upon spot. As he sits down, he hears Chameleon’s voice: Don’t sit on me, I have been waiting for you for a day and a half. What happened? asks one listener. He is asking for the sake of saying something, because they all know the answer: Chameleon climbed onto Hare’s tail, and wherever Hare went, Chameleon changed colors accordingly and hung on, waiting for his chance.
Did you know that it was the same two animals that brought death to the world? asks another listener. By this time, nearly all the inmates have become a participatory audience, in what has turned out to be a storytelling session. When all attention is turned to the new voice, he coughs and tells his story of
how death came to the world.
When God first created humans, he had not made up his mind whether to make them immortal. One day he decides that humans, because they are made in his image, will never die. He sends Chameleon to take the good news to the human race. It takes Chameleon many days to reach the humans, and when he gets to them, he starts delivering the message. Go-Go-God sa-sa-says tha-tha-that … In the meantime, God has changed his mind. Because man is made in his image, there has to be something that differentiates the gods from the humans. Immortality for gods; mortality for humans. He dispatches Hare to tell the human race that they are mortal. Hare has to deliver his message before Chameleon’s because God does not break his word. Hare arrives just as Chameleon is saying that … that … and Hare completes the sentence: humans must die.
Arguments erupt about the advantages and disadvantages of immortality. The debate shifts to qualities of different animals. More stories and anecdotes are told in support of one position or another. Even Messrs. Bank Robber and Body Parts tell more stories without flaring tempers. The stories have calmed our nerves and brought us closer together. The day passes very quickly. I recall what my mother told me about stories under the Mugumo tree.
In my corner at night, I now cling to hope. At Alliance, Carey Francis used to talk of treating triumph and disaster as impostors. Be prepared, I tell myself. The words have a familiar ring. They are the scout motto. But the dread of what will happen tomorrow is deadweight on my nerves, and I don’t know if my scouting skills can lift it.
70
TUESDAY
When on Tuesday morning I wake to my imprisonment, I again feel dread, but I console myself that today, at the very least, there will be some kind of movement. And indeed, after a breakfast of porridge, armed guards take us to court. Somebody from Kahũgũinĩ recognizes me: John, a teacher, but not at Kahũgũinĩ proper. He taught with Lady Teacher, in the same school. We last met on the day of my Fall from Grace, not so long ago. He walks toward me, asking loudly, Mwalimu, what is the matter, but he is not allowed to shake hands with me. Quickly I tell him that I have been in this situation since Friday. He has come to sort out matters with the education office. He will come to the court as soon as he is through.
In the House of the Interpreter: A Memoir Page 17
