A Grain of Wheat

by Ngũgĩ Wa Thiong'o

  In dealing with the African you are often compelled to do the unexpected. A man came into my office yesterday. He told me about a wanted terrorist leader. From the beginning, I was convinced the man was lying, was really acting, perhaps to trap me or hide his own part in the movement. He seemed to be laughing at me. Remember the African is a born actor, that’s why he finds it so easy to lie. Suddenly I spat into his face. I don’t know why, but I did it.

  Thompson woke to the present. He stared at the manuscript without seeing anything. Before Rira, his way to the top had been so clear, so open. Now at Githima he felt the irony of the words he had written, the irony accentuated by the fact that the Queen’s husband would be the guest of honour at the Uhuru ceremony. His vision, vividly resurrected by his wife’s touch, mocked him: what even if he had gone to the top, a DC, PC, or a Governor? All these would now go, like this house, the office, Githima, the country. Let silly fools like Dr Lynd stay. But eventually they would all be thrown out without ceremony. That is why Thompson had resigned, to get away before Uhuru. For why should people wait and go through the indignity of being ejected from their seats by their houseboys? And he remembered Dr Lynd and the story. His lie to Karanja. He wanted to talk to Margery. Tonight, anyway, because she had renewed her faith in him. Her softened eyes and voice would exorcize the hallucinations that plagued him. How we have grown old. He braced himself for the effort. His heart livened with hope and fear as he went into the bathroom to prepare himself for the great confession.

  He opened the door to the bedroom cautiously and stepped in. He did not put on the lights, feeling that darkness would create the right atmosphere. A man was born to die continually and start afresh. His hands were shaking, slightly, and he felt darkness creep towards him, as he reached for the bed. But Margery was already asleep. Thompson saw this and felt enormous relief and gratitude. He got into bed but for a long time he could not sleep.

  Six

  God helps those who help themselves, it is said, with fingers pointing at a self-made man who has attained wealth and position, forgetting that thousands of others labour and starve, day in, day out, without ever improving their material lot. This moral so readily administered, seemed true for Gikonyo. People in Thabai said: Detention camps have taught him to rule himself.

  Gikonyo was among the first group of detainees to pass through the pipe-line back to the village. (The pipe-line was the official euphemism for the chain of concentration camps all the detainees had to pass through.) When he returned his only companions were an old saw and a hammer. Fortunately he had come back during August and September harvests, when carpenters are in great demand to construct barns and stores for the maize and beans and potatoes. People in Thabai had known him before the Emergency. Now he worked harder and finished each barn on time. He got more orders. But if he promptly fulfilled his part of the contract, he expected no less from the other side. Thus he insisted on getting the money at the agreed day and time. He would not countenance a delay. He treated the poor and the rich alike. The only difference was that he could give a man who so requested a longer time in which to find the money. But on the date agreed, whether after one, two or three months, the money had to be ready. ‘Detention has changed him,’ they moaned. But they trusted and came to respect his scrupulous honesty. At least he did fulfil, on time, his own part of the bargain.

  Instead of buying clothes for himself or his family, Gikonyo did what Indian traders used to do. He bought maize and beans cheaply during the harvests, put them in bags, and hoarded them in his mother’s smoky hut. That’s where he and Mumbi also lived. He argued: they (his wife and mother) have been naked and starved for the last six years. A few months of waiting won’t make much difference. When the jobs-boom created by the harvest ended, Gikonyo did odd things here and there, waiting for an opportunity. At Thabai and villages around Rung’ei, most families finished their harvested food by January. Then there always followed one or two months of drought before the long rains started in March. Even then people had to wait for the crops to grow. That was the time Gikonyo gave up hack-work as a carpenter and entered the market. He went to the market very early in the morning, bought one or two bags of maize at a wholesale price from licenced, and at times black-market, maize suppliers from the Rift Valley. Later in the day his wife and mother would join him. Along with other market women, Mumbi and Wangari would sell the maize at a retail price using tiny calabashes for a measure. With the money obtained, Gikonyo would again haggle for another bag and the two women did the retail selling. The profit gained would be re-invested in the business on the next market-day. Sometimes Gikonyo would buy a bag of maize and then sell it there and then to another person at a higher price. He was never rude to customers. He talked with humble conviction and put himself at their service; always ready to apologize, he insisted on giving his customers prompt attention. This way, he coaxed in money. Women, especially, liked doing business with him. ‘Such a tongue, and so honest too,’ they said. So his fame spread through the market. All the time Gikonyo waited until the maize-grain was very scarce. The supply from the European farms in the Rift Valley was severely controlled. At the right time, he poured what he had hoarded on to the market at a high price.

  It had been a life of struggle. At first other men derided him for doing a woman’s job. Brushing sides with women’s skirts. But when his fortunes changed, they started respecting him. Some even tried to follow his example with varying degrees of success.

  The story of Gikonyo’s rise to wealth, although on a small scale, carried a moral every mother in Thabai pointed out to her children.

  ‘His wife and his aged mother need no longer go rub skirts with other women in the market. This is only so because their son was not afraid to make his hands dirty. He never slept to midday like a European.’

  It’s true that Gikonyo always rose early. He did not let the troubles of the heart or anything deflect him from the immediate purpose. On the morning following the visit to Mugo, for instance, he rose before the birds and went to Kiriita, beyond Uplands, where he bought vegetables which he would later transport to Nairobi. Supplying vegetables to Nairobi (Gikonyo had many orders there) was a lucrative job, especially if you oiled smooth with money your relationship with the traffic and market police who could always create trouble for African businessmen. Internal self-government had not changed preferential treatment for Europeans and Asians. Because Gikonyo could not drive, he had employed two men, a driver and a turn-boy, who looked after this side of his business. But Gikonyo kept a vigilant eye on everything. In any case, he liked to set the pace for his workers. At lunchtime, he held a meeting with the committee responsible for decorating the field where sports and dances would be held on Uhuru day.

  In the afternoon he had an appointment with the MP for the area. About a month back, Gikonyo and five other men had decided to contribute and jointly buy a small farm belonging to Richard Burton. Burton was one of the earliest settlers, who, encouraged by the British Government to settle in Kenya after the railway line to Uganda was finished, came and got the land for a song. His children were born in Kenya, went to school there – the boys to the Prince of Wales School and the girls to Kenya High School (or as they called it, the Heifer Boma), and then went home to England for their university education. Most of them had stayed in England, but one son and a daughter had returned to Kenya. The son worked for one of the big oil companies in Nairobi. An old man, Burton really knew no other home than Kenya, and had never intended leaving the country (he never even went to Britain for leave or for health reasons) until he saw, beyond any doubt, that power was going to black hands. For, like many settlers and in spite of hints from their leader, Sir Michael Blundell, Burton had never believed that the British Government would abdicate. Now Burton wanted to sell the land he loved and in which he had put so much of his life and go home to Britain. Gikonyo had already contacted Burton and made preliminary arrangements. Because the five men could only raise half the amount (Burton
wanted cash), Gikonyo had gone to see the MP to find out if he could recommend them, or use his influence behind the scenes, to get them a government-backed loan from a bank. The MP had gravely listened to their needs, noting down all the particulars about the farm, on paper. Then he had asked Gikonyo to return today. ‘This is the real Harambee spirit. This is real self-help,’ he told Gikonyo, shaking his hand firmly.

  And Gikonyo was very hopeful as he hurried from the meeting to catch a bus for Nairobi. The bus, called A DILIGENT CHILD, belonged to one of those people in Rung’ei whose fortunes were made during the War of Independence. Those were men who through active co-operation with the colonial government had acquired trade licences and even loans to develop their business. Although Gikonyo was hopeful he was slightly bitter about having to go all the way to Nairobi. Few MPs had offices in their constituencies. As soon as they were elected, they ran to Nairobi and were rarely seen in their areas, except when they came back with other national leaders to address big political rallies. Before they reached Nairobi, the bus was stopped by two African policemen. One came in and counted the number of passengers, while the other one asked for the driver’s licence. The bus had two passengers extra. The driver argued with the policemen. Then the cashier took the two policemen outside, and waved the driver to go on. The driver understood the sign. He drove a few yards and stopped. Soon the cashier came running, and got into the bus. ‘They just wanted a few shillings for tea,’ he said, and people in the bus laughed. A DILIGENT CHILD continued on its journey to the city. The Uhuru Highway (formerly Princess Elizabeth), was lined on either side with columns of the new black, green and red Kenya flags, and flags from other African countries. For a time Gikonyo forgot his mission to the city as his heart fluttered with the flags. He got out of the bus and walked down Kenyatta Avenue feeling for the moment as if the city really belonged to him. The statue of Lord Delamere that proudly dominated the Avenue (the Avenue previously bore his name) had been replaced by a fountain around which African men and women crowded, spilling into the grounds of the New Stanley Hotel, all pointing at, and talking about, the rotating jets of water. ‘They are many penises spurting out water in competition,’ Gikonyo heard a woman say. The others around her laughed. To Gikonyo, Nairobi seemed ready for Independence. He resolved that when he returned to Thabai he would try to inject new enthusiasm into decorating Rung’ei.

  He crossed Government Road to Victoria Street and his business mind started to work again. He started wondering, he often did whenever crossing the two streets, why there was not a single African shop in the whole of the central and business area of Nairobi. In fact, Nairobi, unlike Kampala (at least, so Kariuki said) was never an African city. The Indians and Europeans controlled the commercial and the social life of the city. The African only came there to sweep the streets, drive the buses, shop and then go home to the outskirts before nightfall. Gikonyo had a vision of African businessmen like himself taking over all those premises!

  A crowd of people waited outside the office of the MP because he was not in. But people were used to broken appointments and broken promises. Sometimes they would keep on coming, day after day, without seeing their representative.

  ‘It is like trying to meet God,’ one woman complained.

  ‘Why, what do you want to ask him?’

  ‘My son wants a scholarship to America. And you?’

  ‘It’s just troubles at home. Last Saturday, they came and arrested my man because he has not paid taxes. But how does he pay poll tax? He has no job. Our two children have had to leave school because no money …’

  Some people had come for land problems, others for advice in their marriage problems, and yet others were a delegation to seek the support of the MP in applying for a secondary school in their ridge.

  ‘Our children have nowhere to go after their primary schools,’ one of the elders was explaining.

  After an hour or so, the MP arrived; he was dressed in a dark suit and carried a leather portfolio. He smoked a pipe. He greeted all the people like a father or a headmaster his children. He went into the office without apologizing. People went in one by one.

  Gikonyo’s heart was beating with hope. If only they could get this loan! A vision of a new future unrolled before him. They would work the farm on a co-operative basis – keep grade cows, grow pyrethrum, tea, maize – everything. Later the co-operative might be broadened to take in more people. A new black brotherhood in business! At long last, his turn came. The MP seemed surprised to see him.

  ‘Sit down, sit down, Mr Gikonyo,’ he said generously pointing to a chair with his left hand while his right hand supported the pipe in his mouth. He took out a file from the drawer, opened it, and for a few minutes seemed really absorbed. Gikonyo waited in suspense. The MP raised his face from the file and leaned back against the chair. He removed the pipe from his mouth.

  ‘Now, about these loans. They are difficult to get. But I am trying my best. Within a few days I may have good news for you. You see, these banks are still controlled by whites and Indians. But some are already realizing that they cannot do without help from us politicians. Gikonyo, my brother, they need us!’

  ‘When can I come back?’ Gikonyo asked, unable to hide his disappointment.

  ‘Aah! Let us see. Today is …’ He fumbled through his diary and then looked up at Gikonyo.

  ‘Let us leave it like this: suppose I come to see you, or even write to you, when I’ve got results? You have a shop in Rung’ei, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That will save you a lot of trouble. Shall we leave it like that?’

  ‘All right,’ Gikonyo said as he rose to go. At the door, Gikonyo turned round.

  ‘Do you think it possible to get the loan, or should we go ahead and find other means of getting the money?’

  Gikonyo thought he detected alarm on the other’s face.

  ‘Oh, no, no,’ he said, and stood up. He walked with measured steps to where Gikonyo was standing. ‘There is no real difficulty about that. The loans are there. It is just a question of knowing the ways. I have told you: the whites cannot do without us! … just leave it with me. All right?’

  ‘All right!’ Gikonyo said, resolved to go and see Mr Burton tomorrow. If Mr Burton could accept half the money now, they could surely give him the rest when the loan came or else raise the money by some other means. Before Gikonyo had gone a few yards, he heard people whistling behind him. He turned his head and saw people beckon to him. The MP wanted him back. So he again ascended the steps into the office.

  ‘It’s about these Uhuru celebrations at Rung’ei. Please thank the branch and the elders for inviting me. But on that day all the Members of Parliament have been invited to various functions here in the capital. You see, we have so many foreign guests to look after. So apologize to the people for me and say I can’t come.

  ‘Uhuru!’

  ‘Uhuru.’

  Two days later, people were to talk about Mugo in the eight ridges around Thabai: they told with varying degrees of exaggeration how he organized the hunger-strike in Rira, an action which made Fenna Brokowi raise questions in the British House of Commons. His solitary habits and eccentric behaviour at meetings marked him as a chosen man. Remember also that the years in detention and suffering had enhanced rather than diminished his powerful build. He was tall with large dark eyes; the lines of his face were straight, clearly marked, almost carved in stone – one of those people who induce hope and trust on the evidence of their looks.

  But neither on Sunday nor on Monday had Mugo any premonition that general worship was coming his way. In fact, the sudden proposal from the Party threw him off his balance. He woke up in the morning hoping that last night’s experience was another dream. But the sight of the stools on which the delegates had sat dispelled such illusions. The words spoken passed through his head with a nightmarish urgency. Why did they want him to lead the Uhuru celebrations? Why not Gikonyo, Warui, or one of the forest fighters? Why Mugo
? Why? Why?

  He thought of going to the shamba. No, he could not do any work. Besides he did not want to walk through the village. He did not want to meet Warui, Wambui, Githua or the old woman. A walk to Rung’ei would be better. It was another hot day; the sand burnt his bare feet; dust collected and stuck to his sweating toes. The heat accentuated the feverish excitement and confusion in his head. Yes … they want me … me … to make a speech … praise Kihika and … and all that … God … I have never made a speech … oh, yes! … I have … they said so … said it was a good one … Ha! ha! ha! … told them lies upon lies … they believed … Anybody … why me … me … me … want to trap me … Gikonyo – Kihika’s brother-in-law … General R…. Lt Koina … Oh yes … a speech … speak … words …

  Mugo had made only one real speech in his life. That was at a meeting which took place outside the Kabui shops near Thabai. The Movement convened the meeting to introduce returning detainees to the public. Mugo agreed to attend because, then, he had thought he could settle down to a normal life in the village: why draw attention to himself by refusing to attend? Many people from Thabai attended the meeting because, as you’ll remember, we had only just been allowed to hold political meetings; other people came, hoping to be diverted with escape stories and other heroic deeds. The situation in Kenya was then like this: the state of emergency had officially ended (almost a year before) but Jomo Kenyatta and his five compatriots of the Kapenguria trial were still detained in prison. Also the many wounds which our people had suffered were too fresh for the eye to look at, or the hand to touch.

  Party leaders from the district were the first to speak. They said Jomo Kenyatta had to be released to lead Kenya to Uhuru. People would not accept any other person for the Chief Minister. They asked everyone to vote for party candidates in the coming elections: a vote for the candidate was a vote for Kenyatta. A vote for Kenyatta was a vote for the Party. A vote for the Party was a vote for the Movement. A vote for the Movement was a vote for the People. Kenyatta was the People! The meeting had, however, really been called to introduce the men whose sacrifice and loyalty to the country had made these elections possible.