Wizard of the Crow

by Ngũgĩ Wa Thiong'o

  The most senior of the three Bank officials now took it upon himself to get down to business. Excuse me, sir, he said, to no avail. He made a few more attempts, trying with difficulty to keep his voice level and his tone polite, but in the end he was forced to raise his voice considerably: Mr. President, sir! Mr. President, we bear an urgent message for you and are pressed for time because of other engagements.

  The phrase urgent message did the trick, and the Ruler switched off. He beheld the briefcases in the hands of the three officials. These must contain the contract between the Global Bank and Aburiria. The sight of the briefcases also stirred life in the ministers. Hope was alive. The persuasive arguments of the Ruler must have moved these officials. So they all clapped in what looked like slow motion, and there was no way of telling if they were clapping out of relief that the flow of words had stopped or in anticipation of the good news in those briefcases.

  “We have been sent to you because you had intimated that there was new information you wanted the Bank to take into consideration. But before we come to that, we have in our hands two reports concerning the present state of your country, and the Bank has a few questions regarding them.

  “The first concerns your women. We have heard that Aburirian women have started beating up men. In our view, this is taking women’s liberation too literally and too far. Female violence to counter male violence is not the answer to domestic violence, and it poses a serious threat to family values, which, as we know them today, are the very foundation of a stable social environment.

  “The second concerns this business of queuing. You told us, I believe, that you had put a stop to mass queuing. But we hear that there are people on motorcycles going around saying that you want the queues to resume, and that in some areas people are taking this call seriously. What, Mr. President, do you have to say on these two points?”

  “What are you talking about?” the Ruler asked, puzzled, having forgotten all about the motorcycle riders, in fact slightly annoyed that they seemed to be more informed about his country than he was. “I am sure that the queuing nonsense is the work of a terrorist dissident movement. But what I don’t understand is your claim that men, true men, are allowing themselves to be beaten by women. Do these women want to become husbands, turning men into wives?” he said, trying to make light of the matter.

  “That’s the point, Mr. President. Everything is upside down in your country. Your women are challenging the natural order of things, even setting up what they call people’s courts; and the queues challenge the social order. We don’t need to remind you of the obvious: if the masses take the law into their own hands, you will have nothing but chaos on yours. Extreme democracy. Direct democracy. The Greeks of old, in the city-state of Athens, I believe, tried it, and what happened? It brought down Greek civilization. Mr. President, go back to Aburlria. Put your house in order. Then send us a memorandum addressing anything new you wish us to consider. The Bank will review it thoroughly … but please excuse us. We have another appointment,” the Bank official said, glancing at his watch and, followed by the other two, also clutching their shiny briefcases, he went out, muttering under his breath, “Oh, damn, we are already late …”

  The Buler was aghast that the Banks officials would walk out without having heard his economic theories and philosophy and especially his architectural vision for Marching to Heaven.

  His jaw fell. His neck became limp and he inclined his head to one side against the wall. His was a silent scream.

  “Oh, no, not again,” Machokali said under his breath; dejä vu all over again. He remembered the Wizard of the Crow. He anxiously looked for him all around the chamber but did not spot him among those present. He went to the door, where A.G. was standing.

  “The malady of words has struck a second time,” he whispered. “Where is the Wizard of the Crow?”

  19

  These must be the representatives from the Global Bank, the Wizard of the Crow thought as he was about to enter the Buler’s infirmary. They must have just finished listening to fresh arguments for the loan from the Buler. But had Machokali not said that they would be here in seven days? Had he been sleeping all that time? I must have been very tired. He turned around and looked hard at the men walking away. There was something familiar about them, yet he could have sworn that he had never met them before. What was it in their looks, their dress, their gait, that made him feel so? And now he could not believe what dawned on him. Their general deportment was exactly like that of some of the people he had encountered in his flight as a bird: was he still dreaming?

  He had heard and even read stories of people who walked in their sleep, who could even go to market and buy goods while still asleep, return home, and go back to bed; when they awoke they would wonder how the goods had appeared in their rooms. He had read about the case of a man who had killed his wife and in court claimed that he had sleepwalked through all of it. Was he, the Wizard of the Crow, sleepwalking?

  He decided to find out. Instead of entering the Ruler’s room, he went back to his and grabbed his briefcase; in it were pen, paper, all his wordly possessions. He took a lift to the ground floor.

  He looked from side to side to spot the three men from the Global Bank. He noticed two beggars, a man and woman, their hands outstretched toward every passerby: I am a veteran, the man said. I am hungry. Have you some change to spare? Where could the threesome have disappeared so quickly? He should not have gone for his briefcase.

  Now he saw the three enter a cream-colored limousine. He tried to stop yellow cabs but the drivers sped away from him, one stopping to pick up a white couple farther down the road. Fortunately, a black cab driver came to his rescue. Follow that limousine, the Wizard of the Crow told him.

  20

  “True! Haki ya Mungu,” A.C. would say later whenever a listener expressed doubts and tried to dismiss the tale as balderdash. “I am a teller of tales and not a monger of rumors,” A.C. would add, and then, as evidence, he would remind his listeners that he himself had been there. “I was tired, very tired, but Machokali’s question startled me back to life. Where indeed was the Wizard of the Crow? When had I last seen him?

  “I now remembered that during those days when all of us were captives of our Ruler’s theories of a world governed by the economy of happiness and sorrow, I never once saw the Wizard of the Crow. It says something of the mesmerizing power of the voice of the Ruler that I never even thought about the Wizard of the Crow. Like everybody else, I had forgotten that it was he who had set free the mouth of the Ruler.

  “I left the sick chamber and went to look for him in his room. He was not there. I went down to the reception desk. They had not seen the person I described. I went back to his room. There was nothing that spoke of his presence. Where had he gone? What had happened to him? I went back to Machokali.

  “Everything was as I had left it. The Ruler’s mouth still open as if frozen in the act of speaking. The ministers, their faces haggard with fatigue and lack of sleep, heads drooping to one side, were still in their seats, looking for all the world like corpses. Machokali was the only one among them who answered to his name, Ferocious Eyes: he seemed alert to what was taking place, although with him it was not always easy to tell, because his huge eyes were always the same size and never closed, even when he slept. We, the police, were trained to endure hardship, and I was not surprised that most of us were awake and mindful of our calling, guardians of the Ruler and our nation.

  “Machokali gestured to me with a slight wave of the hand, and I understood that he wanted us to meet outside. I told him that the Wizard of the Crow had disappeared without a trace. He kept quiet, very quiet, staring ahead, slowly pulling his hair above the right ear, as if his mind had wandered, leaving his body behind. Questions crossed my mind: Had the Ruler succumbed to a heart attack, accounting for Machokali’s state? Where was the Wizard of the Crow, who could raise the dead?”

  21

  The Wizard of the Crow settled in
the backseat, relieved that the smell from the sick chamber had not followed him into the cab. This was also a good opportunity for him to see the real New York, for since his arrival he had not had the time to stroll outside the hotel.

  He thought about the Fifth Avenue VIP Hotel, and soon he was engrossed in comparing the little he had seen of it with others he had seen in Aburfria, and this took his mind away from meditations on reality and illusion.

  At a traffic light, the driver noticed that the limousine had stopped a block or so away. Your people have stopped, the driver said, waking him from his introspection. The three men got out and ran across the street as their limo sped away. He asked the taxi driver to pull over, paid him, and then got out of the cab quickly. The men entered an imposing skyscraper. He crossed Global Avenue as if he, too, was bound for the same address. He was mesmerized by the power encased in all that glass and concrete. All the laws and regulations governing the economic and monetary policies of the nations of the earth issued from this building: whatever the tune the Bank sang, the leaders of the earth danced to it; whenever it sneezed, the whole world complained of migraines. What should he do? Enter and confront the three men? Pretend that he was coming for their literature on their role in the development of the new global community? As he approached, still undecided, he passed a side street marked DEAD END.

  He was a little dizzy, unable to believe his eyes. This was a scene he had seen while in his bird form. Was this sign an omen? He pondered its possible implications, smiled to himself, and decided to return to the hotel. He was now more focused on the Ruler’s condition than he had ever been.

  At the Fifth Avenue hotel, the Wizard of the Crow walked past reception toward an elevator. No matter how hard he pressed the buttons, the elevator would not ascend beyond the third floor. It was the receptionist who cleared the matter. The floors above were private and could be accessed only with a special pass, which he did not have.

  The receptionist asked for his last name to look him up in her register. He was about to babble Kamltl wa Karlmlri when he remembered that his passport had a different name, Abdi Mganga, for Sikiokuu’s security reasons, and he had no recollection of having been checked in. The receptionist offered to call the suite, but nobody picked up the phone. There was nothing she could now do for him, she told him, but he was welcome to wait in the reception area; perhaps someone in his party might call or wander down.

  He sat; he waited. Why were matters becoming so complicated?

  22

  The Wizard of the Crow hung around reception, not knowing what to do with himself. He bought a newspaper but he could not follow the stories. He scrutinized everyone, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the delegates. A visibly pregnant woman exited a cab and entered the hotel; his eyes followed her until she disappeared. Out of nowhere, he started thinking of Nyawlra as an expectant mother. He had always longed for a family founded on love and respect among husband, wife, and children.

  His need to see Nyawlra was by now bottomless; he had been away far too long. He recalled that even Machokali had told him that he was needed only for a day and would be returned home the very first day after he had administered his cure. Maybe the Ruler had recovered, become well; maybe he was still talking. Whatever the case, it was clear that his services were no longer needed. He had to go back to Aburlria. Luckily he still had his passport and plane ticket.

  But he did not want to leave just like that, without telling anybody. So he walked to the reception desk and asked for a piece of paper. He would leave a note for Machokali. But as he bent down to write, a succession of images blurred his vision. First, a bloated Mighty Excellency. The image transformed itself into that of the pregnant woman, and then into the three men from the Global Bank. Now he saw Furyk and the delegates proceeding before the big mirror in the sick chamber. Again the Wizard of the Crow recalled how the Ruler had glared at Machokali, a glare vivid for its ferocity. His body tingled with anxiety, and he felt immense pity for Machokali. The Wizard of the Crow was quite clear as to what that look and the Ruler’s shake of his head from side to side signified; but he also knew that nobody, not even Machokali, would believe him were he to put it down on paper. Still, as he bore no person any ill will, he felt it his duty to warn Machokali, without being explicit, of the danger that faced the minister.

  He wrote: I have no pass. Take care of yourself. The country is pregnant. What it will give birth to, nobody knows.

  He looked over the note, folded it, addressed it to Machokali, and handed it to the receptionist.

  Then he hailed a yellow cab and headed for the airport to catch a flight, any flight, to Aburfria, anticipating a reunion with Nyawlra.

  23

  At that very moment, Machokali was still in his room, depressed, weighed down by fatigue, defeat, and indecision. What was he to do about the Ruler’s relapse? The Wizard of the Crow had mysteriously disappeared without a trace. How dare he defy authority?

  The word authority led him to recall what the Bank officials had said: there are people going about the country calling for a resumption of queuing. He recalled that just before the women did the shameful deed at Eldares, the Ruler and the cabinet had authorized the five riders. They never called them off. What was going on?

  The phone rang and he picked it up. Just trying my luck. For seven days nobody has been picking up the phone, said the receptionist. Machokali was about to tell her to mind her own business but changed his mind. Even anger feeds on energy, and his was now in short supply. Minister Sikiokuu was calling from Aburfria! There were no preliminaries. Sikiokuu simply wanted to know if the Wizard of the Crow had arrived in America. Machokali told him yes, he had arrived, but just now they did not know his whereabouts. I just wanted to confirm, Sikiokuu said quickly, and put down the receiver without explaining his own need to check on the wizard.

  Why this belated concern with the arrival of the Wizard of the Crow? Why now, when the man had disappeared? The telephone conversation removed any doubts Machokali may have had about the connection between Sikiokuu and the mysterious disappearance of the Wizard of the Crow. He noted that Sikiokuu did not ask about anything else—the status of the loan, the day of their return, or even the Ruler’s condition. No, there was something dangerous afoot, and he was not about to keep his suspicions to himself.

  He left his room, not noticing that A.C. stood outside the door. He went back to the sick chamber and found the others as he had left them: in various and desperate positions of prostrations, completely exhausted by the torrential seven days’ verbiage. Machokali dragged himself to where the Ruler sat, his mouth wide open and his head slumped to one side, a lifeless deity. Machokali felt it his duty to tell the Ruler his suspicions about what was happening in Aburiria, whether he understood or not. He put his mouth close to the left ear of the Ruler and whispered. Many governments in Africa, Asia, and South America had been overthrown while the Ruler was out of the country. The renewed call for queues was a plot for a coup d’etat in the making.

  The words had an immediate effect on the Ruler: he straightened up. And what are you all doing lying about on the ground instead of packing? We have to go, he said, turning to Machokali as if assigning him the responsibility for ensuring that everybody and everything was ready for their departure to Aburiria to counter threats posed by the queuing and husband bashing.

  24

  “It was sad, very sad, because it looked as if they had all forgotten about the Wizard of the Crow,” A.G. was later to say in his narration of the visit. “But not me—oh, no, not me. True! Haki ya Mungu. I tried every which way I could to see the Ruler to tell him about the mysterious disappearance of the Wizard of the Crow, but it was difficult to get a private audience with him because most of the time he was surrounded by sycophants, each wanting to show that he alone knew how to take care of the needs of the Ruler.

  “Once I did manage to steal a moment with him alone, but when I broached the subject of the Wizard of the Crow I saw that the
Ruler did not seem to know what I was talking about. He took it that I was talking about witchcraft, bewitchment, and news from home. He told me, There you have spoken some truth, because those fellows who are queuing and the women who are beating men must be under the influence of cunning wizards. But these queuers and man beaters don’t know who they are dealing with; I will teach them a lesson they will never forget. He tried to scratch his stomach as if to remove an itch, but his hand could not reach it. Then he turned to me and told me to forget witchcraft for the time being, to go and do like everybody else: get ready to leave America. Wonders as yet unseen awaited, he said, twisting his lips into an enigmatic smile; to me it was as if he was holding something back, trying, with difficulty, to prevent himself from laughing in triumph at what he contemplated. It was a smile of suppressed anger, and, to be honest, I could not tell what had made him angrier: his bodily self-inflation, the Global Bank, the reported return of the queuing mania, or this business of women beating up men. True! Haki ya Mungu! I did not like that twisted smile one bit. And what were these wonders as yet unseen that he claimed awaited us? But I was soon caught up in the complexities of our imminent departure.”

  25

  How would they move the Buler from his hotel room? How would they get him through the doors? And what about getting him to the airport? Piles of money from the Aburirian treasury, paid to a company, the hotel, and the airline, facilitated solutions and confidentiality about the operation they code-named Hotexit.