Weep Not, Child

by Ngũgĩ Wa Thiong'o

  Jacobo was long in answering.

  ‘I have, Sir, but there’s something else. I didn’t, you know, want to tell you, but a few days ago I received this note in an envelope dropped at my door.’

  The chief fumbled in the inner pockets of his coat and took out a handwritten note which he handed to the curious Howlands:

  STOP YOUR MURDEROUS ACTIVITIES. OR ELSE WE SHALL COME FOR YOUR HEAD. THIS IS OUR LAST WARNING.

  ‘Why! Have you received more?’

  ‘Yes – two. But–’

  ‘What did you do with them, you fool?’ Mr Howlands was furious. He stood up.

  Jacobo moved a few steps back to the door. Howlands could never understand such ignorance. To receive two notes of warning and keep quiet!

  After a time he cooled down.

  ‘All right, leave this one with me. Where do you think they come from?’

  ‘From Ngotho.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Who else could easily come to my house? A few months ago, his youngest son was at my house–’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Well, he’s really a schoolboy, and, he had, eh, I mean, my daughter–’

  Mr Howlands could not understand all this. Jacobo must be mad.

  ‘All right. Leave this with me. You can have more homeguards if you want. You must not leave your house without a guard. Watch Ngotho’s every step.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘And by the way, when the new homeguard post is ready, you and your family better move there.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  It was a hot January morning. Two young men walked along a narrow cattle path, carelessly clutching their Bibles and hymnbooks. Behind them were a group of men and women, also holding Bibles and hymnbooks. They were discussing the saving power of Christ. Farther behind still were women gaily dressed in Sunday best. They were joyously singing.

  Nitugu-u-kugoca Je-e-Jesu

  Jesu Ga-a-tuurume Ka Ngai,

  Jesu, Thakame yaku iithera-agia mehia

  Ndakugo-o-ca Mwathani.

  We praise you Jesus

  Jesus the Lamb of God,

  Jesus, Thy blood cleans away my sins

  I praise you, O Lord.

  All of them were going to a Christian gathering a few miles away from the town.

  ‘Are we nearly there?’ Njoroge asked the other young man. His name was Mucatha.

  ‘No. We have not yet come to the wood I told you about.’

  ‘It is far, then?’

  ‘Not very far. I’ve been there on foot many times.’

  ‘Will there be many people?’

  ‘Yes. Many women.’

  ‘Why women?’

  ‘Where are the men?’

  ‘Why we?’

  ‘Two only.’

  ‘There are others.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  They both laughed and quickly fell silent. Njoroge thought how wonderful it would all have been if Mwihaki had been with them. But on this vacation she had not come home. She had gone to stay with Lucia. Njoroge always enjoyed reading her letters. During the second-term holidays they had met quite often. Only he never repeated the visit to her home. They had found a number of things to talk about. He could still remember her words that had always encouraged him when confronted with a difficulty: ‘Njoroge, I know you’ll do well.’ He had gone to the exam room with them. He would always be grateful to his mother, who had first sent him to school, and to Mwihaki. Yet what if he failed? That would be the end of all. What was a future without education? However, he trusted to God to carry him through.

  ‘There now! This is the wood.’

  ‘Oh! It’s so thick, it frightens me.’

  They stood on a rock.

  ‘Do you see over there?’

  ‘Beyond the dark wood?’

  ‘Yes. Beyond, to the left of that hill.’

  Njoroge could see a small hill in the distance.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘That’s where the meeting is going to be.’

  They moved down. Teacher Isaka and the others were nearer. They were still absorbed in their talk of salvation. The cattle path widened and wound through the dense wood. Suddenly, Njoroge heard a voice.

  ‘Stop!’

  Both stopped. Fright gripped them. For there, standing in front of them, was a white military officer.

  ‘Mikono juu.’

  They put up their hands so that their Bibles and hymnbooks were in the air as if they were displaying the word of God for all to see.

  ‘Kuja hapa.’

  They went nearer. A pistol was pointed at them. Soon the group of men who had been behind came. They went through the same process and lined up behind Njoroge and Mucatha. The women came, saw the scene, and the singing died with their steps. The women were first interrogated. They were then allowed to continue their journey. It was then that Njoroge looked around and saw that they were surrounded by many soldiers who lay hidden in the bush, with machine guns menacingly pointed to the road. Njoroge clutched the Bible more firmly.

  They were all made to squat and produce their documents. Fortunately, Njoroge and Mucatha had letters from the former headmaster which indicated that they were schoolboys. The men at the back were not so lucky. One of them was beaten so much that he urinated on his legs. But he did not plead for mercy. The only thing he constantly said was ‘Jesus’.

  Isaka squatted and calmly watched the scene. He had no documents. When the white soldier shouted at him, Isaka answered in a calm, almost resigned tone. Where had he left the documents? Satan had made him forget them at home. But the white soldier knew better. Isaka was a Mau Mau. Again Isaka replied that Jesus had saved him and he could not exchange Jesus with Mau Mau. The officer looked at him with reddening eyes. Yet he did not touch him. Njoroge wondered if he was afraid of Isaka. There was something strange in the teacher’s calm. When the others were allowed to go, Isaka was made to remain. He did not protest.

  ‘Come this way and we’ll see what Jesus will do for you.’ He was led into the thick dark wood. Before the others had gone very far, they heard one horrible scream that rang across the forest. They dared not turn their heads. Njoroge tried to hold his breath so that his stomach was taut. They went a few more steps. Suddenly there was one other scream which was swallowed by a deafening report of machine guns. Then silence.

  ‘They have killed him,’ one of the men said sometime after the report. Njoroge suddenly felt sick, sick of everything. It was to him painfully unbelievable that he would see Isaka, the worldly teacher they used to call Uuu, no more.

  ‘Don’t you believe in anything?’

  ‘No. Nothing. Except revenge.’

  ‘Return of the lands?’

  ‘The lost land will come back to us maybe. But I’ve lost too many of those whom I loved for land to mean much to me. It would be a cheap victory.’

  Boro was a bit more communicative as he sat with his lieutenant on a lookout a few miles from their new hideout. The old hideout had been in the wood where Isaka had been summarily executed into nothing. The patrol had been after the group that was led by Boro.

  Boro had now been in the forest for a considerable time. His own daredevil action, for he did not care what happened to him personally, had made him a leader of the other freedom fighters. The ripe hour of his youth had been spent in bloodshed in the big war. This was the only thing he could do efficiently.

  Boro had always told himself that the real reason for his flight to the forest was a desire to fight for freedom. But this fervour had soon worn off. His mission became a mission of revenge. This was the only thing that could now give him fire and boldness. If he killed a single white man, he was exacting a vengeance for a brother killed.

  ‘And freedom?’ the lieutenant continued.

  ‘An illusion. What freedom is there for you and me?’

  ‘Why then do we fight?’

  ‘To kill. Unless you kill, you’ll be killed. So you go on killing and destroyi
ng. It’s a law of nature. The white man too fights and kills with gas, bombs, and everything.’

  ‘But don’t you think there’s something wrong in fighting and killing unless you’re doing so for a great cause like ours?’

  ‘What great cause is ours?’

  ‘Why, freedom and the return of our lost heritage.’

  ‘Maybe there’s something in that. But for me, freedom is meaningless unless it can bring back a brother I lost. Because it can’t do that, the only thing left to me is to fight, to kill and rejoice at any who falls under my sword. But enough. Chief Jacobo must die.’

  ‘Yes. You have said this many times.’

  ‘I have said so many times,’ Boro repeated quietly.

  ‘And you delay.’

  ‘I wonder why I delay. You know sometimes you feel something here. But it cannot be helped. He has not heeded any one of the warnings we’ve sent him. Look at the way he treated many of the squatters who were sent away from the Rift Valley.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And with him, Howlands.’

  ‘He is a dangerous man.’

  ‘Jacobo must be shot alone. We don’t want more deaths just now.’

  The lieutenant could never understand Boro. In one breath he would talk of killing and killing as the law of the land, and then in the next breath would caution care.

  ‘Who’s going to do it?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘No! We cannot let you go. We cannot do without you.’

  ‘If I’m caught, you’ll take over. I’ve shown you everything.’

  ‘No, no! One of us will–’

  ‘This is my personal affair.’

  ‘But I think we should cast lots.’

  ‘We shall see.’

  They went back to their hideout.

  13

  ‘Njoroge is going to high school.’

  ‘High school!’

  ‘Yes. He has gone through KAPE.’

  Ngotho was pleased. And Nyokabi and Njeri were full of joy at the news. For the first time for many years something like a glimmer of light shone in Ngotho’s eyes. He could even be seen making an effort to walk upright. Here at last was a son who might be a credit to the family. Here was a son who might eventually be a match for the Howlands and the Jacobos and any others who at all despised him. Kamau too was pleased. He hoped he could go on helping Njoroge. Njoroge might do something for the family.

  Njoroge was happy. His first impulse when he learnt that he had passed was to kneel down and thank God for all He had done for him. ‘Give me more and more learning and make me the instrument of Thy light and peace.’ To go to secondary school, the big mission school at Siriana, was no small achievement.

  He was to learn later that he had been the only boy in all that area who would go to high school. Mwihaki too had passed. But because she had not done very well, she would only be going to a teacher training school a few miles from her boarding school. Njoroge was at first overjoyed to see he had beaten the daughter of Jacobo, but then felt sorry that she had not been able to continue.

  The news of his success passed from hill to hill. In spite of the troubled time, people still retained a genuine interest in education. Whatever their differences, interest in knowledge and book learning was the one meeting point between people such as Boro, Jacobo, and Ngotho. Somehow the Gikuyu people always saw their deliverance as embodied in education. When the time for Njoroge to leave came near, many people contributed money so that he could go. He was no longer the son of Ngotho but the son of the land.

  On the last Sunday he met Mwihaki. They went to the same hill. Njoroge had now a new feeling of pride and power, for at last his way seemed clear. The land needed him, and God had given him an opening so that he might come back and save his family and the whole country. It was a year now since he and Mwihaki had been to the same hill. Mwihaki had not changed much. She now ate blade after blade of grass. She did not sit so very close to him as she had done the first time. They talked about many things, but nothing was said about the one thing that was foremost in their own hearts.

  Then she asked him, ‘When will you go?’

  ‘Early next month.’

  ‘Siriana is a good school.’

  ‘Oh, yes!’

  ‘When people go away, they tend to forget those that they leave behind.’

  ‘Do they?’

  She was hurt. But she said, ‘Yes. What will you do after all your learning? I am sure you will be a big man.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I have not thought out my plans. But I would probably like to go to Makerere or Britain like your brother.’

  ‘My brother went to America, not Britain.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter,’ he said, moving close to her as if he was aware of her presence for the first time. She was looking at the ground where she was trying to draw something on a mould of soil – mole’s soil. He wondered why she was not looking at him. Could she be feeling jealous?

  ‘And after that?’

  He became serious and a little distant. He was again in his vision.

  ‘Our country has great need of us.’

  ‘Do you think the country really needs you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said rather irritably. Was she doubting him? ‘The country needs me. It needs you. And the remnant. We must get together and rebuild the country. That was what your father told me the day that I was at your home.’

  ‘The country is so dark now,’ she whispered to herself.

  ‘The sun will rise tomorrow,’ he said triumphantly, looking at her as if he would tell her that he would never lose faith, knowing as he did that God had a secret plan.

  ‘You are always talking about tomorrow, tomorrow. You are always talking about the country and the people. What is tomorrow? And what are the People and the Country to you?’

  She had suddenly stopped what she had been doing and was looking at him with blazing eyes. Njoroge saw this and was afraid. He did not want to make her angry. He was pained. He looked at her and then at the plain, the country beyond stretching on, on to the distant hills shrouded in the mist.

  ‘Don’t be angry, Mwihaki. For what can I say now? You and I can only put faith in hope. Just stop for a moment, Mwihaki, and imagine. If you knew that all your days life will always be like this with blood flowing daily and men dying in the forest, while others daily cry for mercy; if you knew even for one moment that this would go on forever, then life would be meaningless unless bloodshed and death were a meaning. Surely this darkness and terror will not go on forever. Surely there will be a sunny day, a warm sweet day after all this tribulation, when we can breathe the warmth and purity of God…’

  She lay quietly now with her head near him. Her eyes dilated with a pleasure that was warm to her. She wanted to hear the boy go on talking, preaching hope. She could now trust him. She could see the sunny day tomorrow and this could make her forget the present troubles. If every man came to breathe the warmth and the purity of God, then hatred and–

  ‘Are you sleeping?’

  ‘No! no!’ she said quickly.

  ‘The sun goes down. We should go home.’

  They rose to go. When parting she looked at him and firmly said, ‘You will do well.’

  Njoroge felt a heaviness in his heart and for a time was ashamed of having thought Mwihaki jealous. He said, ‘Thank you, Mwihaki. You have been like a true sister to me.’

  She whispered, ‘Thank you’. She watched him go and then turned away her head. She took out her handkerchief and rubbed something wet on her cheeks while she ran towards her home faster and faster.

  14

  Siriana Secondary School was a well-known centre of learning. Being one of the earliest schools to be started in the colony, it had expanded much due mainly to the efforts of its missionary founders.

  To Njoroge, coming here was nearly the realisation of his dreams. He would for the first time be taught by white men. And this was what confused him. Though he had never come into rea
l contact with white men, if one had met him and had abused him or tried to put him in his place, Njoroge would have understood. He would have even known how to react. But not when he met some who could smile and laugh. Not when he met some who made friends with him and tried to help him in his Christian progress.

  Here again, he met boys from many tribes. Again, if these boys had met him and had tried to practise dangerous witchcraft on him, he would have understood. But instead he met boys from other black communities who were like him in every way. He made friends and worked with Nandi, Luo, Wakamba, and Giriama. They were boys who had hopes and fears, loves and hatreds. If he quarrelled with any or if he hated any, he did so as he would have done with any other boy from his village.

  The school itself was an abode of peace in a turbulent country. Here it was possible to meet with God, not only in the cool shelter of the chapel, where he spent many hours, but also in the quietness of the library. For the first time he felt he would escape the watchful eyes of misery and hardship that had for a long time stared at him in his home. Here he would zorganise his thoughts and make definite plans for the future. He was sure that, with patience and hard work, his desire to have learning would be fulfilled. Maybe the sun would soon rise to announce a new day.

  Siriana Secondary School took part in interschool sports meetings at which some Asian and European schools took part. The Hill School was a famous school for European boys.

  The Hill School sent a team of boys to Siriana for football. It was four o’clock. Along with the eleven players were some who were mere spectators. Njoroge did not play football and it happened that he fell into conversation with one of the visitors not actively engaged in playing. But as soon as Njoroge spoke to the boy, he felt that he must have seen him somewhere else. The boy was tall, with long brown hair that kept on being blown into his face by the wind. He had to keep on swinging his head to make the threads of hair return to their proper places.