Wahinya’s drinking became so bad that he was dismissed from his job. And I never really saw him in that ruined state because my duties with the Progress Bank International took me outside the country. But even now as I talk, I feel his presence around me, his boasts, his dreams, his drinking and well, that last encounter.
The narrator swallowed one or two glasses in quick succession. I followed his example. It was as if we all had witnessed a nasty scene and we wanted to drown the memory of it. The narrator after a time tried to break the sombre atmosphere with exaggerated unconcern and cynicism: ‘You see the twists of fate, gentlemen, Wahinya dead had become prominent, even J.J.J. his former employer was fighting for him,’ but he could not deceive anybody. He could not quite recapture the original tone of light entertainment. There was after all the Chura episode behind us. Wahinya, whom I had never met but whom I felt I knew, had come back to haunt our drinking peace. Somebody said: ‘It’s a pity he never got his Mercedes Benz – at least a ride.’
You are wrong, said the narrator. In a way, he got that too. You shake your heads, gentlemen? Give us a drink, sister, give us another one.
It was all thanks to the rivalry among the candidates. Although they were all members of the committee charged with burial arrangements, they would not agree to a joint effort. Each you see wanted only his own plan adopted. Each wanted his name mentioned as the sole donor of something. After one or two riotous sessions, the committee finally decided on a broad policy.
Item No. 1. Money. It was decided that the amount each would give would be disclosed and announced on the actual day of the funeral.
Item No. 2. Transport. J.J.J. had offered what he described as his wife’s shopping basket, a brand-new, light-green Cortina G.T., to carry the body from the city mortuary, but the others objected. So it was decided that the four would contribute equal amounts towards the hire of a neutral car – a Peugeot family saloon.
Item No. 3. The Pit. Again the four would share the expenses of digging and cementing it.
Item No. 4. The coffin and the cross. On this they would not agree to a joint contribution. Each wanted to be the sole donor of the coffin and the cross. Mark you, none of them was a known believer. A compromise: they were to contribute to a neutral coffin to transport the body from the mortuary, to the church and to the cemetery. But each would bring his own coffin and cross and the crowd would choose the best. Participatory democracy, you see.
Item No. 5. Funeral Oration. Five minutes for each candidate before presenting his coffin and the cross.
Item No. 6. Day. Even on this, there was quite a haggling. But a Sunday was thought the most appropriate day.
That was a week that was, gentlemen. Every night, every bar was full to capacity with people who had come to gather gossip and rumours. Market-days burst with people. In buses there was no other talk; the turn-boys had field-days regaling passengers with tales of Wahinya. No longer the merits and demerits of the various candidates: issues in any case there had been none. Now only Wahinya and the funeral.
On the Sunday in question, believers and non-believers, Protestants, Catholics, Muslims, and one or two recent converts to Radha Krishnan flocked to Ilmorog Presbyterian Church. For the first time in Ilmorog, all the bars, even those that specialized in illegal Chang’aa, were empty. A ghost town Ilmorog was that one Sunday morning. Additional groups came from villages near and far. Some from very distant places had hired buses and lorries. Even the priest, Rev. Bwana Solomon, who normally would not receive bodies of non-active members into the holy building unless of course they were rich and prominent, this time arrived early in resplendent dark robes laced with silver and gold. A truly memorable service, especially the beautifully trembling voice of Rev. Solomon as he intoned: ‘Blessed are the meek and poor for they shall inherit the earth: blessed are those who mourn for they shall be comforted.’ After the service, we trooped on foot, in cars, on lorries, in buses to the graveyard where we found even more people seated. Fortunately loudspeakers had been fixed through the thoughtful kindness of the District Officer so that even those at the far outer edges could clearly hear the speeches and funeral orations. After the prayers, again Rev. Solomon with his beautifully trembling voice captured many hearts, the amount of money each candidate had donated was announced.
The businessman had given seven hundred and fifty shillings. The farmer had given two hundred and fifty. J.J.J. had given one thousand. On hearing this the businessman rushed back to the microphone to announce an additional three hundred. A murmur of general approval greeted the businessman’s additional gift. Lastly the student. He had given only twenty shillings.
What we all waited for with bated breath was the gift of coffins and crosses. There was a little dispute as to who would open the act. Each wanted to have the last word. Lots were cast. The student, the farmer, the businessman and J.J.J. followed in that order.
The student tugged at his Lumumba goatee. He lashed at wealth and ostentatious living. He talked about workers. Simplicity and hard work. That should be our national motto. And in keeping with that motto, he had arranged for a simple wooden coffin and wooden cross. After all Jesus had been a carpenter. A few people jeered as the student stepped down.
Then came the farmer. He too believed in simplicity and hard work. He believed in the soil. As a government chief he had always encouraged Wananchi in their patriotic efforts at farming. His was also a simple wooden affair but with a slight variation. He had already hired the services of one of the popular artists who painted murals or mermaids in our bars, to paint a picture of a green cow with udders and teats ripeful with milk. There was amused laughter from the crowd.
What would the businessman bring us? He, in his dark suit with a protruding belly, rose to the occasion and the heightened expectations. People were not to be bothered that a few had never had it so good. What was needed was a democratic chance for all the Wahinyas of this world. A chance to make a little pile so that on dying they might leave their widows and orphans decent shelters. He called out his followers. They unfolded the coffin. It was truly an elaborate affair. It was built in the shape of a Hilton hotel complete with stories and glass windows. Whistles of admiration and satisfaction at the new turn in the drama came from the crowd. His followers unfolded the cloth: an immaculate white sheet that elicited more whistling of amused approval. The businessman then stepped down with the air of a sportsman who has broken a long-standing record and set a new one that could not possibly be ever equalled.
Now everyone waited for J.J.J. His six years in parliament had made him an accomplished actor. He took his time. His leather briefcase with bulging papers was there: he collected his ivory walking stick and flywhisk. His belly though big was right for his height. He talked about his long service and experience. People did not in the old days send an uncircumcised boy to lead a national army, he said slightly glancing at the opponents … He had always fought for the poor. But he would not bore people with a long talk on such a sad occasion. He did not want to bring politics into what was a human loss. All he wanted was not only to pay his respects to the dead but also to respect the wishes of the dead. Now before Wahinya died, he was often heard to say … but wait! This was the right cue for his followers. The coffin was wrapped in a brilliantly red cloth. Slowly they unfolded it. People in the crowd were now climbing the backs of others in order to see, to catch a glimpse of this thing. Suddenly there was an instinctive gasp from the crowd when at last they saw the coffin raised high. It was not a coffin at all, but really an immaculate model of a black Mercedes Benz 660S complete with doors and glasses and maroon curtains and blinds.
He let the impact made by this revelation run its full course. Only the respect for the dead, he continued as if nothing had happened. Before Brother Wahinya had died, he had spoken of a wish of dying in a Benz. His last wish: I say let’s respect the wishes of the dead. He raised his flywhisk to greet the expected applause while holding a white handkerchief to his eyes.
But somehow no applause came; not even a murmur of approval. Something had gone wrong, and we all felt it. It was like an elaborate joke that had suddenly misfired. Or as if we had all been witnesses of an indecent act in a public place. The people stood and started moving away as if they did not want to be identified with the indecency. J.J.J., his challengers and a few of their hired followers were left standing by the pit, no doubt wondering what had gone wrong. Suddenly J.J.J. returned to his own car and drove off. The others quickly left.
Wahinya was buried by relatives and friends in a simple coffin which, of course, had been blessed by Rev. Solomon.
About the elections, the outcome I mean, there is little to tell. You know that J.J.J. is still in parliament. There were the usual rumours of rigging, etc., etc. The student got a hundred votes and returned to school. I believe he graduated, a degree in commerce, and like me joined a bank. He got a loan, bought houses from non-citizen Indians and he is now a very important landlord in the city. A European-owned estate agency takes care of the houses.
The businessman was ruined. He had dug too deep a pit into the loan money. His shop and a three-acre plot were sold in an auction. J.J.J. bought it and sold it immediately afterwards for a profit. The farmer-chief was also ruined. He had sold his grade-cows – all Friesians – in expectation of plenty as an M.P. J.J.J. saw to it that he never got back his old job of a location chief.
You go to Makueni Chang’aa Bar where Wahinya used to drink in his last days and you’ll find the ruined two, now best friends, waiting for anybody who might buy them a can or two of KMK—Kill-me-Quick. It costs fifty only, they’ll tell you.
J.J.J. still rides in a Mercedes Benz – this time 660S – just like mine – and looks at me with, well, suspicion! Four years from now … you never know.
Gentlemen … how about one for the road?
THE MUBENZI TRIBESMAN
The thing one remembers most about prison is the smell: the smell of shit and urine, the smell of human sweat and breath. So when Waruhiu shrank from contact with the passing crowd, it was not merely that he feared someone would recognize him. Who would? None of his tribesmen lived here. The crowd hurrying to the tin shacks, to the soiled fading-white chalked walls with ‘Fuck you’ and other slogans smeared all over, scribbled on pavements even, Christ, what a home; this crowd had never belonged to him and his kind. Waruhiu could never bear the stench of sizzling meat roasted next to overflowing bucket lavatories: he and his tribesmen always made a detour of these African locations or kept strictly to the roads. Now he recognized the stench. It reminded him of prison. Yes. There was an unmistakable suggestion of prison even in the way these locations had been cast miles away from the city centre and decent residential areas, and maintained that way by the Wabenzi tribesmen who had inherited power from their British forefathers, for fear, one imagined, and Waruhiu accepted, the stench might scare away the rare game: TOURIST. Keep the City Clean. But these people did not behave like prisoners. They laughed and shouted and sang and their defiant gaiety overcame the stench and the squalor. Waruhiu imagined that everyone could smell his own stench and know. There was no gaiety about his clothes or about the few tufts of hair sprouting on his big head. The memory of it made him bleed inside and again he imagined that these people could see. And he saw these voices lifted into one chorus of laughter pointing at him: they would have their revenge: one of the Wabenzi tribesmen had fallen low. The shame of it. This pained him even more than the memory of cold concrete floor for a bed, the cutting of grass with the other convicts, the white calico shorts and shirt, and the askari who all the time stood on guard. The shame would reach his friends, his wife and his children in years to come. Your father was once in prison. Don’t you play with us, son of a thief. Papa, you know what they were saying in school. Tears. Is it true, is it true? And the neighbours with a shake of the head: We do not understand. How could a man with such education, earning so much, what couldn’t we do with his salary. The shame of it.
That is what galled him most. He had been to a university college and had obtained a good degree. He was the only person from his village with such distinction. When people in the village learnt he was going to college, they all, women, men and children, flocked to his home. You have a son. And the happy proud faces of his parents. The wrinkles seemed to have temporarily disappeared. This hour of glory and recognition. The reward of all their labour in the settled area. He is a son of the village. He will bring the white man’s wisdom to our ridge. And when the time came for him to leave, it was no longer a matter between him and his parents. People came to the party even from the surrounding villages. The songs of pride. The admiration from the girls. And the young men hid their envy and befriended him. It was also the hour of the village priest. Take this Bible. It’s your spear and shield. The old man too. Always remember your father and mother. We all are your parents. Never betray the people. Altogether it had been too much for him and when he boarded the train he vowed to come back and serve the people. Vows and promises.
The college was a new world. Small but larger. Fuller. New men. New and strange ideas. And with the other students they discussed the alluring fruits of this world. The white man is going. Jobs. Jobs. Life. He still remembered the secret vow. He would always stand or fall by his people.
In his third year he met Ruth. Or rather he fell in love. He had met her at college dances and socials. But the moment she allowed him to walk her to her hall of residence, he knew he would never be happy without her. Aah, Ruth. She could dress. And knew her colours. It was she who popularized straightened hair and wigs at college. You have landed a true Negress even without going to America, the other boys used to say. And their obvious envy increased his pride and pleasure. That’s why he could not resist a college wedding. She wanted it. It was good. He was so proud of her as she leaned against him for the benefit of the cameras. Suddenly he wished his parents were present. To share this moment. Their son and Ruth.
Should he not have invited them? he asked himself afterwards. Ruth’s parents had come. She had not told him. It was meant as a joke, a wedding surprise for him. Maybe it was as well. Ruth’s parents were, well, rich. Doubts lingered. Perhaps he ought to have waited and married a girl who knew the village and its ways. But could he find a girl who would meet his intellectual and social requirements? He was being foolish. He loved this girl. Oh my Negress. She was an African. Suppose he had gone to England or America and married a white woman. Therein was real betrayal. All the same he felt he should have invited his parents and vowed not to be so negligent in future. In any case when they saw the bride he would bring home on top of his brilliant academic record! He felt better. He told her about the village and his secret vows. I hope you will be happy in the village. Don’t be silly. Of course I shall. You know my father and mother are illiterate. Come, come. Stop fretting. As if I was not an African myself. You don’t know how I hate cities. I want to be a daughter of the soil. Ruth came from one of the rich families that had early embraced Christianity and exploited the commercial possibilities of the new world. She had grown up in the city and the ways of the country were a bit strange to her. But her words reassured him. He felt better and loved her all the more.
His return to the village was a triumphal entry. People again flowed to his father’s compound to see him. She looks like a white woman, people whispered in admiration. Look at her hair. Her nails. Stockings. His aged father, with a dirty blanket across his left shoulder, fixed his eyes on him. Father, this is my wife. His mother wept with joy. For weeks after the couple was all the talk of the area. She is so proud. Ssh. Do you not know that she too has all the wisdom of the white man, just like our son?
A small, three-roomed house had been built for them. He became a teacher. Ruth worked in the big city. They lived happily.
For a time.
She started to fret. Life in a mud hut without electricity, without music, was suffocating. The constant fight against dirt and mud was wearying. She resented th
e many villagers who daily came to the house and stayed late. She could not have the privacy she so needed, especially with her daily journeys to the city and back. And the many relatives who flocked daily with this or that problem. Money. She broke down and wept. I wish you would ask them all to go. I am so tired. Oh, Ruth, you know I can’t, it’s against custom. Custom! Custom! And she became restless. And because he loved her and loved the village, he was hurt, and became unhappy. Let’s go and live in the town, we can get a house at the newly integrated residential area, I’ll pay the rent. They went. He too was getting tired of the village and the daily demands.
She kept her money. He kept his. He gave up teaching. The amount of money he would get as a teacher even in the city would be too small to meet the new demands of an integrated neighbourhood, as they preferred to call the area. An oil company was the answer. He worked in the Sales Department. His salary was fatter. But he soon found that a town was not a village and the new salary was not as big as he had imagined. To economize, he gradually discontinued support for his countless relatives. Even this was not enough. He had joined a new tribe and certain standards were expected of him and other members. He bought a Mercedes 220S. He also bought a Mini Morris – a shopping basket for his wife. This was the fashion among those who had newly arrived and wanted to make a mark. There were the house gadgets to buy and maintain if he was to merit the respect of his new tribesmen. And of course the parties. He joined the Civil Servants Club, formerly exclusively white.
Secret Lives and Other Stories Page 14