‘And now that we have talked,’ he would say, ‘let us settle into old men’s water to quench our thirst.’
Laughing at this temptation, Jackson would go out, resolved to come back again and continue the unfinished game of words and actions. He was small and thin with a tight-skinned face and hollow eyes that seemed to carry years of wisdom. He always wore a pastor’s collar and a hat that covered his shining bald head. Jackson was a respected elder among the ridges that surrounded Rung’ei; often the village council of elders invited him to participate in important issues affecting the ridges. They saw him as an elder among elders and he too carried himself as one.
‘Reverend here will read the word from his book and tell us what he thinks about this,’ an elder would say. All this went on for many years before the revivalist movement reached Kenya and swept through the ridges like a fire of vengeance. The movement was of those Christians, irrespective of denomination, who had seen the light. By publicly confessing their sins, they became the saved ones. It is said that this evangelical movement (its remnants survive in the villages to this day) was started by a white missionary in Ruanda and quickly spread to Uganda and Kenya. A few months after the State of Emergency was declared, Jackson suddenly became converted to this movement. He stood in front of the congregation at Mahiga and like a man possessed, trembled and beat his breast, saying: ‘I had called myself a Christian. I had put a white collar around my neck and thought this would save me from the fire to come. Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher, vanity of vanities. All was vanity. For my heart harboured anger, pride, jealousy, theft and adulterous thoughts. My company was with drunkards and adulterers. I walked in the darkness and waded through the mud of sins. I had not seen Jesus. I had not found the light. Then, on the night of the 12 January 1953, I was suddenly struck by the thunderbolt of the Lord, and I cried: Lord, what shall I do to be saved? And he took my hands and thrust them into his side and I saw the print of the nails in his hands. And I cried again: Lord, wash me in thy blood. And he said: Jackson, follow me.’ Then he confessed how he used to minister unto the devil: by eating, drinking and laughing with sinners; by being too soft with the village elders and those who had rejected Christ; by not letting Christ’s blood water the seed so that it could take root. He was now a Christian soldier, marching as to war, politics was dirty, worldly wealth a sin.
‘My home is heaven: here on earth I am a pilgrim.’
Brothers and sisters in the Lord rose and started singing and jumping about in the church: others went to the front and embraced Jackson and kissed him a holy kiss. Jackson tore the collar and his hat – a sign of humility and a heart broken to pieces by the Lord. The revivalist movement was the only organization allowed to flourish in Kenya by the government during the Emergency. Jackson became the leader in the Rung’ei area.
He was among the first group of Christians to be killed in Rung’ei.
His body was one morning found hacked with pangas into small pieces: his house and property were burnt to charcoal and ashes. His wife and younger children were not touched. But they were left without a home! Richard was then away in England. News of Jackson’s death spread into people’s hearts in Thabai and the surrounding ridges. Which other traitors would be struck down next by the Mau Mau, people wondered, remembering Teacher Muniu (another revivalist, also reputed to be a police informer) who had been killed in a similar method only a few days before? The revivalists praised God and said that Jackson and Muniu, by their deaths, had only followed in the footsteps of the Lord. What greater honours could befall a Christian? But the people prayed a different prayer: yes, let all the traitors be wiped out!
Few would have foreseen this turmoil in the days when Kihika was going to school and discovering the world of the printed word. The boy was moved by the story of Moses and the children of Israel, which he had learnt during Sunday school – an integral part of their education – conducted at the church by the headmaster. As soon as he learnt how to read, Kihika bought a Bible and read the story of Moses over and over again, later recounting it to Mumbi and any other person who would listen.
Kihika left Mahiga school a little disgraced. It happened like this. During a session one Sunday morning, Teacher Muniu talked of the circumcision of women and called it a heathen custom.
‘As Christians we are forbidden to carry on such practices.’
‘Excuse me, sir!’
‘Yes, Kihika.’
The boy stood up, trembling with fear. Even in those days Kihika loved drawing attention on himself by saying and doing things that he knew other boys and girls dared not say or do. In this case it was his immense arrogance that helped him to survive the silence and blurt out:
‘That is not true, sir.’
‘What!’
Even Teacher Muniu seemed scared by the sudden silence. Some of the boys hid their faces, excited yet fearing that the wrath of the teacher might reach them.
‘It is just the white people say so. The Bible does not talk about circumcising women.’
‘Sit down, Kihika.’
Kihika fell into his seat. He held on to the desk, and regretted his impulsive outburst. Teacher Muniu took a Bible and without thinking asked the pupils to look up 1 Corinthians, 7, verse 18, where St Paul discussed circumcision. Muniu triumphantly started reading it loudly, and only after a couple of sentences did he realize the mistake he had made. Not only was there no mention of women, but circumcision of the flesh was not even specifically condemned. He closed the Bible, too late. For Kihika knew he had won the contest and could not help trying to seek approval from the eyes of the other boys, who secretly rejoiced to see a teacher humiliated by one of themselves. Muniu rather awkwardly explained the verses away and then dismissed the children. Kihika was the centre of attention, a little hero, as the boys argued and commented, and puzzled out what the teacher would do next. On Monday, Teacher Muniu said nothing. On Tuesday morning he assembled the whole school (pupils and staff) in the church building. In a voice trembling with emotion, he warned them to be aware of blasphemy against the sacred word.
‘For who are we to say that the word from God’s own mouth is a lie?’ his deep voice boomed across the building.
However, after discussing Sunday’s incident with the church elders, he had decided to give the boy a chance to save his soul. The teacher had therefore decided to whip the boy ten times on his naked buttocks in front of the whole assembly – this for the sake of the boy’s own soul and of all the others present. After the beating, Kihika would have to say thank you to the teacher and also recant his words of last Sunday. The church was absolutely still. One or two coughs only increased the tension. Muniu turned to a fellow teacher and asked him to get the two sticks that lay prominently on the altar.
‘Kihika, stand up.’ Until that moment, the teacher had not mentioned Kihika by name, he had talked of a certain pupil. Now many boys including those who had proudly identified themselves with Kihika in his moment of triumph on Sunday, looked at him with hostile eyes that disassociated themselves from his guilt.
‘Come forward!’
Kihika’s feet stuck to the ground. His inside was hollow as if all the contents had been removed. Even before he had started to move, others had cleared a path for him.
‘I said, come forward.’
He made as if to move. His eyes rolled to the roof, to the teacher, the sticks, the altar.
‘You will hit me only after you have told me exactly the wrongs that I have done!’ Kihika said, trembling with anger. Muniu lurched towards him. Suddenly Kihika clambered on to the desk, jumped to another, and before people knew what was happening, had reached the nearest window and climbed out of the church to freedom. He never stopped running until he reached home, where he fell down crying with fear.
‘I would rather work on the land,’ he told his father, who had suggested another school.
For a long time the incident boiled in his mind. He read more; he even taught himself how to read and w
rite Swahili and English. Years later, soon after the end of the war, he went to work in Nairobi, attended political meetings and discovered the Movement. He had found a new vision.
‘You ask what is needed,’ Kihika was now saying. ‘I will tell you. Our people have talked for too long.’
‘What can we do?’ asked Karanja whose eyes kept on moving from Kihika to Mumbi. ‘They have got the guns and the bombs. See how they whipped Hitler. Russia is the only country now that makes the British tremble.’
‘It’s a question of Unity,’ Kihika explained excitedly. ‘The example of India is there before our noses. The British were there for hundreds and hundreds of years. They ate India’s wealth. They drank India’s blood. They never listened to the political talk-talk of a few men. What happened? There came this man Gandhi. Mark you, Gandhi knows his whitemen well. He goes round and organizes the Indian masses into a weapon stronger than the bomb. They say with one voice: we want back our freedom. The British laughed; they are good at laughing. But they had to swallow back their laughter when things turned out serious. What did the tyrants do? They sent Gandhi to prison, not once, but many times. The stone walls of prison could not hold him. Thousands were gaoled; thousands more were killed. Men and women and children threw themselves in front of moving trains and were run over. Blood flowed like water in that country. The bomb could not kill blood, red blood of people, crying out to be free. God! How many times must fatherless children howl, widowed women cry on this earth before this tyrant shall learn?’
His words and his slightly broken voice told on those present. Their effect was captured in the silence that followed. Mumbi was always moved by her brother’s words into visions of a heroic past in other lands marked by acts of sacrificial martyrdom; a ritual mist surrounded those far-away lands and years, a vague richness that excited and appealed to her. She could not visualize anything heroic in men and women being run over by trains. The thought of such murky scenes revolted her. Her idea of glory was something nearer the agony of Christ at the Garden of Gethsemane.
‘I would hate to see a train run over my mother or father, or brothers. Oh, what would I do?’ she quickly exclaimed.
‘Women are cowards,’ Karanja said half in joke.
‘Would you like a train to run over you?’ Mumbi retorted angrily. Karanja felt the anger and did not answer.
‘Take up my cross, is what Christ told his people,’ Kihika resumed in a more lighthearted tone. ‘If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me. For whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it. Do you know why Gandhi succeeded? Because he made his people give up their fathers and mothers and serve their one Mother – India. With us, Kenya is our mother.’
Gikonyo was touched more by the voice of Kihika and the glint in his eyes than by the argument which he did not follow anyway.
‘I would faint at the sight of blood,’ Mumbi commented.
‘What we want in Kenya are men and women who will not run away before the sword,’ Kihika told her.
‘How do we unite the people?’ Gikonyo said, just to contribute to the discussion.
Wanjiku came to the door and announced that tea was ready. They said they wanted it outside in the sun. Soon, two girls from Thabai joined them.
‘Have you become Europeans, taking tea outside in the wind?’ Wambuku asked.
‘Yes, yes, true Europeans but for the black skin,’ Karanja replied, imitating a drawling European voice. Everybody laughed.
‘You do it well,’ Njeri said.
Wambuku and Njeri were Mumbi’s friends and often teased her about Karanja’s love for her.
At the sight of Wambuku, Kihika’s face brightened. Kihika nearly always partnered Wambuku at dances and generally liked talking to her. The two girls joined in the tea-drinking. Karanja’s eyes rarely left Mumbi. Gikonyo watched to see if Mumbi would give Karanja a smile similar to the one she had bestowed on him. Njeri’s eyes turned to Kihika who was sharing a joke with Wambuku. Left in the cold, Njeri tried to amuse herself by watching the rivalry between Karanja and Gikonyo. The carpenter attempted to engage her in a talk but his heart was not in the words. Mumbi, whose hair was now done, left them and went inside the hut to change into her Sunday clothes. Njeri walked away lazily and climbed onto a small hill near the hedge. Suddenly she started shouting: ‘The train! the train!’
She ran down the hill: ‘We are late for the train.’
The others too could hear the rumbling noise. Wambuku stood up, and taking Kihika’s right hand, jerked him up. She let go his hand and started running down the path, through the hedge, towards the station. Kihika followed her. He was a small man with a rather sad face. Mumbi! Mumbi! the train! Njeri was shouting as she swooped on the kerchief she had left on the chair and followed the other two. Karanja and Gikonyo hesitated a little as if each expected the other to take the lead. Both had stood up at Njeri’s first mention of the train and now glanced, in comic unison, at the hut and then at the running figures. Mumbi came out adjusting a belt around her small waist. Wanjiku’s voice reached her: Here, you have left your handkerchief. She dived back into the hut. Karanja and Gikonyo still waited, pretending they were on the run.
‘Let us go,’ Mumbi called, already ahead of them by many yards. Gikonyo followed her, Karanja held the rear. The Kisumu train could be heard urging them: run and run, run and run. The path from Mumbi’s home to the station passed through a small forest at the far end. Njeri was approaching the wood. Wambuku and Kihika were already hidden from view.
Slightly the taller, Karanja soon outdistanced Gikonyo. The carpenter summoned his strength in the race for Mumbi. Karanja overtook Mumbi and strode ahead; already he could see leaves of victory on his head. Gikonyo’s heart sank with fear of humiliation as he too overtook Mumbi; he panted hard, realizing, bitterly, that he would not catch up with Karanja, who had already disappeared into the wood.
Mumbi stopped running; she called out to Gikonyo who slowed down and waited for her.
‘I am tired,’ she said.
‘Why do you stop? We shall miss the train.’
‘Is it so important to you? Would you die if you didn’t see it today?’
Gikonyo was surprised: why was she angry with him?
‘I don’t want to go there today,’ she continued, more gently.
They walked side by side. Gikonyo smarted under the defeat in the race to the station. But as they came to the wood, the resentment melted away when it suddenly occurred to him that he was alone with Mumbi, the real object of the race. He groped for words, hoping, at the same time, the girl would not hear the loud beat of his heart. Mumbi, leaned against a tree trunk and Gikonyo saw that laughter had come back into her eyes. The wood made a cool shelter from the sun. The grass and the thick underfoliages teeming with flowers had grown higher, tree-tops and branches seemed to have dropped closer to the ground. Mumbi said:
‘You must have put a lot of hard work into fixing the handle to that panga. It was light and smooth; my mother was so pleased.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘I mean it was a small piece of work and I liked doing it.’
‘And you say it is nothing?’ she laughed quietly. Her cheeks were full; her voice stabbed into his flesh pleasantly.
‘I am sure,’ she went on, ‘it must be wonderful to be a carpenter, to work in wood. Out of broken pieces of timber, you make something.’
‘You knit pullovers, too.’
‘It is not the same. I once watched you in your workshop and it seemed – it just seemed to me you were talking with the tools.’
‘Let us explore the wood,’ Gikonyo suggested in a voice vibrant with subdued emotion. They came to an open place at the centre of the forest. Green Kigombe grass reached up to their knees. He stood facing Mumbi and surrendered himself to a power he knew drew them together. He held her hands and his fingers were full, so se
nsitive.
‘Mumbi, —’ he tried to say something as he held her to himself. She lay against his breast, their heart-beat each to each. It was all quiet. Mumbi was trembling, and this sent a quiver of fear and joy trilling in his blood. Gradually, he pulled her to the ground, the long grass covered them. Mumbi breathed hard, but could not, dare not, speak. One by one, Gikonyo removed her clothes as if performing a dark ritual in the wood. Now her body gleamed in the sun. Her eyes were soft and wild and submissive and defiant. Gikonyo passed his hands through her hair and over her breasts, slowly coaxing and smoothing stiffness from her body, until she lay limp in his hands. Suddenly, Gikonyo found himself suspended in a void, he was near breaking point and as he swooned into the dark depth he heard a moan escape Mumbi’s parted lips. She held him tight to herself. Their breath was now one. The earth moved beneath their one body into a stillness.
At the station, Karanja found the crowd and the train dull. He was tired, his stomach was empty. The exciting possibilities he had felt alive when Mumbi was present had fallen from the air. In vain, his eyes searched for Mumbi in the restless crowd.
The women, as usual, were more colourfully dressed than men, in fashions that differed from ridge to ridge. Those from Ndeiya and ridges miles away from Rung’ei had bright blue, green or yellow calicoes passed under their armpits and ending in complicated flower-shaped knots over the right shoulder. Thin wool or cotton belts hung loosely from their fat waists. The long belt-tails flapped and rippled behind as the women walked along the platform, parading themselves before the men. Most of the girls from Thabai, Kihingo or Ngeca had cotton printed frocks in styles two or three years behind the current fashion in Nairobi.
A Grain of Wheat Page 11