She left the hut and went to the headman of the village. Apparently he had nothing. And he seemed not to understand her. Or to understand that droughts could actually kill. He thought her son was suffering from his old illnesses which had always attacked him. Of course she had thought of this too. Her son had always been an ailing child. But she had never taken him to the hospital. Even now she would not. No, no, not even the hospital would take him from her. She preferred doing everything for him, straining herself for the invalid. And this time she knew it was hunger that was killing him. The headman told her that the D.O. these days rationed out food – part of the Famine Relief Scheme in the drought-stricken areas. Why had she not heard of this earlier? That night she slept, but not too well for the invalid kept on asking, ‘Shall I be well?’
The queue at the D.O.’s place was long. She took her ration and began trudging home with a heavy heart. She did not enter but sat outside, strength ebbing from her knees. And women and men with strange faces streamed from her hut without speaking to her. But there was no need. She knew that her son was gone and would not return.
The old woman never once looked at me as she told me all this. Now she looked up and continued, ‘I am an old woman now. The sun has set on my only child; the drought has taken him. It is the will of God.’ She looked down again and poked the dying fire.
I rose to go. She had told me the story brokenly yet in words that certainly belonged to no mad woman. And that night (it was Sunday or Saturday) I went home wondering why some people were born to suffer and endure so much misery.
I last talked to the old woman about two or three weeks ago. I cannot remember well as I have a bad memory. Now it has rained. In fact it has been raining for about a week, though just thin showers. Women are busy planting. Hope for all is mounting.
Real torrential rain began yesterday. It set in early. Such rain had not been witnessed for years. I went to the old woman’s hut with a gift, this time not of yams and beans, but of sweet potatoes. I opened the door and found her huddled up in her usual corner. The fire was out. Only a flickering yellow flame of a lighted lantern lingered on. I spoke to her. She slightly raised her head. In the waning cold light, she looked white. She opened her eyes a little. Their usual unearthly brightness was intensified a thousand times. Only there was something else in them. Not sadness. But a hovering spot of joy, or exultation, as if she had found something long-lost, long-sought. She tried to smile, but there was something unearthly, something almost diabolical and ugly in it. She let out words, weakly, speaking not directly to me, but actually declaring aloud her satisfaction, or relief.
‘I see them all now. All of them waiting for me at the gate. And I am going …’
Then she bent down again. Almost at once the struggling lantern light went out, but not before I had seen in a corner all my gifts; the food had never been touched but had been stored there. I went out.
The rain had stopped. Along the streets, through the open doors, I could see lighted fires flickering, and hear people chattering and laughing.
At home we were all present. My father was there. My mother had already finished cooking. My brothers and sisters chattered on, about the rain and the drought that was now over. My father was quiet and thoughtful as usual. I also was quiet. I did not join in the talk, for my mind was still on the ‘mad’ woman and my untouched gifts of food. I was just wondering if she too had gone with the drought and hunger. Just then, one of my brothers mentioned the woman and made a jocular remark about her madness. I stood up and glared at him.
‘Mad indeed!’ I almost screamed. And everybody stared at me in startled fear. All of them, that is, except my father, who kept on looking at the same place.
PART II
Fighters and Martyrs
THE VILLAGE PRIEST
Joshua, the village priest, watched the gathering black clouds and muttered one word: ‘Rain’. It was almost a whisper, spoken so quietly that a man a yard away would not have heard it. He was standing on a raised piece of ground looking thoughtfully at the clouds and the country around. Behind him stood a tin-roofed rectangular building from which thick black smoke was beginning to issue, showing that the woman of the house had already come from the shamba and was now preparing the evening meal. This was his house – the only one of its kind along the Ridge, and beyond. The rest were mud-walled, grass-thatched round huts that were scattered all over the place. From these also, black smoke was beginning to curl upwards.
Joshua knew that in most of the huts the inmates had been sleeping with contracting, wrinkled stomachs, having eaten nothing or very little. He had seen such cases in the past months during his rounds of comforting the hungry and the suffering, promising them that God would in time bring rain. For the drought had been serious, and had lasted many months, so that crops in the fields had sickened, while some had dried up altogether. Cows and goats were so thin that they could hardly give enough milk.
If it rained now it would be a blessing for everyone and perhaps crops would revive and grow and all would be well. The dry anxious looks on the faces of mothers and fathers would disappear. Again he looked at the darkening clouds and slowly the old man retraced his steps to the house.
Soon it began to rain. Menacing thunderstorms boomed in the heavens and the white spots of lightning flashed across with a sharpness and fury that frightened him. Standing near a window, the priest, his horse-shoe-shaped bald head lined with short grey bristles of hair, watched the slanting raindrops striking the hard ground and wetting it. ‘Jehovah! He has won!’ the priest muttered breathlessly. He felt cheated, bitter and angry. For he knew that the coming of rain so soon after the morning sacrifice would be nothing but a victory for the rain-maker at whose request a black ram had been sacrificed. Yes. This was the culmination of their long fight, their long struggle and rivalry in Makuyu village.
Makuyu was an isolated little place. Even the nearest missionary station was some fifty-five miles away – quite a long way in a country without roads. It was in fact one of the last areas to be seriously affected by the coming of the white missionaries, farmers and administrators. And so while the rest of the country had already seen the rain-maker, the medicine-man and magic workers being challenged by Christianity, this place had remained pretty well under the power and guidance of the rain-maker.
The challenge and rivalry here began when the Rev. Livingstone of Thabaini Mission made a visit and initiated Joshua into this new mystery – the new religion. The white man’s God was said to be all-powerful, all-seeing, the only one God, creator of everything. And the rain-maker had denounced his rivals when he saw how many people had been converted by Joshua into this new faith. He had felt angry and tried to persuade people not to follow Joshua. He threatened them with plague and death. But nothing had happened. The rain-maker had even threatened Joshua.
But Joshua had not minded. Why should he? Had he not received an assurance from Livingstone that this new God would be with him ‘always, even unto the end of the earth’?
Then the drought had come. And all the time Joshua told the village that there would be rain. And all the time he prayed over and over again for it to come down. Nothing had happened. The rain-maker said the drought was the anger of the old God. He, the rain-maker, was the only person who could intercede for the people. Today under the old sacred tree – Mugumo – a black ram, without any blemish, was sacrificed. Now it had rained! All that morning Joshua had prayed, asking God not to send rain on that particular day. Please God, my God, do not bring rain today. Please God, my God, let me defeat the rain-maker and your name shall be glorified. But in spite of his entreaties it had rained.
He was puzzled; he could not understand it. And through the evening his forehead remained furrowed. He spoke to no one. He even went to bed and forgot to conduct the evening prayer with his family. In bed he thought and thought about the new God. If only Livingstone had stayed! All might have been well. He would have read from the black book and then prayed to h
is God and the rain-maker would not have won. A week later Livingstone would have prayed for rain at a public meeting. Then everyone would have believed and Joshua would have remained the undisputed spiritual authority in Makuyu.
A thought occurred to him; so staggering was it that for a time he could neither move nor breathe as he lay on his bed woven with rope and bamboo poles. He ought to have thought of this, ought to have known it. The new God belonged to the white man and could therefore listen to none but a man with a white skin. Everybody had his own God. The Masai had theirs. The Agikuyu had theirs. He trembled. He seemed to understand everything. Some gods were stronger than others. Even Livingstone probably knew this. Perhaps he feared the God of Agikuyu. That is why he had gone away and had not appeared all the time the drought had continued.
What shall I do? What shall I do? Then his way became clear. A sacrifice had been performed that day. Early in the morning, he would go to the sacred tree and there make peace with his people’s god.
The morning was dark and chilly. The first cock had already crowed. Joshua had just put on a big raincoat over his usual clothes. He trudged quietly across the courtyard.
The dark silhouette of the house and the barn beside it seemed watchful and ominous. He felt afraid. But his mind was set. Down the long path, to the distant forest, to the sacred tree, and there make peace with the god of his people. The birds were up and singing their usual morning songs, the prelude to dawn. To Joshua they had a doleful note and they seemed to be singing about him. The huge old tree stood where it had always been, even long before Joshua was born. The tree too looked at once mysterious and ominous. It was here that sacrifices to God were made under the direction of the elders and the medicine-man. Joshua made his way through the surrounding dry bush and to the foot of the tree. But how did one make peace with God? He had no sacrificial ram. He had nothing.
‘God of Agikuyu, God of my people …’ He stopped. It sounded too unreal. False. He seemed to be speaking to himself. Joshua began again. ‘God of …’ It was a small crackling laugh and the crack of a broken twig that interrupted him. He felt frightened and quickly turned his head. There, standing and looking at him maliciously, was the rain-maker. He laughed again, a menacing laugh but full of triumph.
‘Hmm! So the white man’s dog comes to the lion’s den. Ha! Ha! So Joshua comes to make peace. Ha! Ha! Ha! I knew you would come to me Joshua … You have brought division into this land in your service to the white strangers. Now you can only be cleansed by the power of your people.’ Joshua did not wait to hear more. He quickly moved away from the dumb tree, away from the rain-maker. It was not fear. He no longer feared the tree, nor the rain-maker. He no longer feared their power, for somehow it had all seemed to him false as he spoke to the tree. It was not even the feeling of defeat. It was something else, worse … shame. It was a feeling of utter hollowness and hopelessness that can come only to a strong-willed man who has sacrificed his convictions. Shame made him move more quickly. Shame made him look neither to the left nor to the right as he made his way back, in the break of day.
The journey was long. The path was muddy. But he did not mind. He saw nothing, felt nothing. Only this thing, this hollow feeling of shame and hatred of self. For, had he not sacrificed his convictions, his faith, under the old tree? ‘What would Livingstone say to me now?’ he kept on murmuring to himself. Livingstone would rebuke him again. He would think him unworthy. He had once rebuked him when he had found Joshua quietly sipping a little beer just to quench his thirst. He had another time warned him when he found Joshua beating his wife because she had not promptly obeyed him.
‘This is not the way a man of God acts,’ Livingstone told him in a slow sorrowful tone. Yes. No one could understand Livingstone. At one time he would be unreasonably stern and imperious, and at another time he would be sorrowful. And as he looked at you with his blue sunken eyes, his head covered with a thick-rimmed sun helmet, you could never divine his attitude. Joshua was now sure that Livingstone would think him quite useless and unworthy to be a leader. He thought so of himself, too.
The sun had already appeared in the east when Joshua finally reached his home. He stood outside and surveyed the whole ridge and countryside. Suddenly he felt like running away, never to preach again. He was so deep in thought that he did not seem to see the anxious, excited countenance of his wife as she came out to announce that ‘somebody’, a visitor, had called and was waiting for him in the house.
Who could it be? These women. They would never tell anyone who a visitor was, but must always talk of somebody. He did not really feel like seeing anyone for he felt transparent through and through. Could it be the rain-maker? He shuddered to think of it. Could it be one of his flock? And what would he tell him after he himself had betrayed the trust? He was not worthy to be a priest. ‘If I saw Livingstone today I would ask him to give me up. Then I would go away from here.’
He entered and then stopped. For there sitting on a three-legged Gikuyu stool was none other than Livingstone himself. Livingstone, tired and worn out after a whole night’s journey, looked up at Joshua. But Joshua was not seeing him. He was seeing something else.
He was seeing the altar on which he had sacrificed his convictions. He was seeing the rain-maker, listening to his menacing triumphant laughter.
Run away, Joshua! But he did not move.
Run away, Joshua! But he went nearer Livingstone as if for protection.
Do not tell him then! But he told him everything. And all the time Joshua had not dared to lift his head. He kept it down. And as he confessed, even this sense of utter hollowness and shame, he felt as if strength was ebbing from his legs. He was sinking down, down …; he leaned more firmly against the wall, with his eyes still bent to the ground. Livingstone had not spoken a word. There was complete silence. Joshua could hear his own heart beating, tom-tom, tom-tom. He was waiting for Livingstone to stand up and go, after upbraiding him and telling him how unworthy of his calling he had been.
Cautiously Joshua lifted his eyes. He met the full smiling face of Livingstone. Joshua was never more surprised in his life. The old sternness and apparent hardness of Livingstone was no longer in his eyes but only a softened, condescending sympathy of a man sure of a new and stronger follower. Joshua could not understand this look and his heart beat faster and more loudly.
With slow deliberation, Livingstone took Joshua’s right hand in his and with the left patted him on the shoulder. He muttered something about a broken heart and contrite spirit. Joshua looked mutely at him. ‘Let’s pray,’ Livingstone said at last.
Joshua’s wife entered the room, found them deep in prayer and went back to the kitchen wondering what had happened. When a few minutes later she came back she found Livingstone talking about the problems of Makuyu now that the rain had come and the drought was over. Joshua listened.
THE BLACK BIRD
Nobody really knew him. Even Wamaitha, who may claim to have been most close to his heart, never understood him. He lived alone. Who, then, could help him?
I remember him well. I remember him as a tall person with powerfully built limbs. He gave an observer the impression that he could have crushed anybody by the mere act of walking on him. His eyes were large and black and bright. There were some moments, though, when those piercing eyes looked imploring, or helpless, like a child’s eyes. They made you feel for him. Or be afraid of him. Sometimes he looked at a wall and he would seem to be sucking in every detail. I don’t know if he was subject to hallucinations but he would frequently start out of a reverie and stare around as if he had been woken up from a strange dream or nightmare.
I first met him at school. Manguo was then the only school in Limuru. And, so, many children came from all over the country to it. He came from Gathigi-ini Ridge which was several miles away from the school. He had to cross a number of hills, valleys and plains before he reached home. At school we called him Kuruma, meaning ‘bite’. Funny, but now I cannot remember why we called him
so. His real name was Mangara. He was a tall, athletic sort of chap. He was reckoned to be handsome. Girls liked him; but he shunned their company, as indeed he shunned the company of all. He was good at games and liked the tough kinds of sports like running, jumping and boxing. He especially loved wrestling and he would challenge anybody, even the older boys. If he was knocked down he would try again and though he was put down twenty times, he would never show any anger. At football, he had no equal and was the hero of nearly everybody.
At first I was not much attracted to him. Perhaps it was envy on my part. You see, I was not good at games and I could not shine in any field, not even in class. A chap who was popular, a favourite with girls and teachers, was bound to excite the envy of the less fortunate ones. I hated him. I hated his aloofness and what I thought was proud disdain of all favours or approaches for friendship.
And then I discovered his isolation.
I don’t know what made me first notice it. Was it his eyes? Probably … It was, I think, at a school assembly that I chanced to look back and saw him gazing as if he was being very attentive to what was happening around him. But I caught him unawares. It was only for a second. When he saw me, he lowered his eyes and shifted his gaze.
Another time I came to school rather early. I strolled in the direction of the cemetery. Mangara was there before me, alone and deeply meditating. I did not speak to him.
My real encounter with him was yet to come.
Secret Lives and Other Stories Page 3