‘What thing?’
‘The ceremony at Rung’ei. Don’t you know they are organizing games and dances to celebrate Uhuru?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said vaguely.
‘But you can’t stay here all alone! Everybody from the camp here is going to hear Mugo speak.’
‘Who is Mugo?’ he asked, more uncertainty creeping into his voice. Mwaura seized it.
‘People say the man talks with God and receives messages from spirits of the dead. Or how do you explain that at Rira he escaped alive while ten of those involved in the hunger-strike died? And remember, he was the leader?’
‘Nonsense. People are full of wild tongues,’ he said without conviction. He had not thought what he would do on the day. But could he go back to Thabai and meet people who would mock him? What about if he went to see Mumbi just once? Couldn’t he make a last attempt to wrench her from Gikonyo?
‘You may call it nonsense. Anyway, I would rather go and see for myself. The man Mugo is a true hermit, has kept to himself, has never spoken to anyone, since he left detention camp. And there’ll be plenty of women. You know how they go free (even married ones) on such occasions.’
‘Are you going?’ he asked, tempted by a desire to see Mumbi.
‘Me, left behind?’
‘Let me know when you decide to go,’ Karanja said, looking at the window. John Thompson was just parking his Morris outside.
‘There is your Thompson,’ he told Mwaura, barely able to disguise his triumph. He stood up, quickly dusted the khaki overall, passed his hands over his hair and rushed out, hoping to meet Thompson along the corridor. Then he would put the awful question. A watery lump leapt to his throat as soon as he saw Thompson’s abstract face: should I ask him or not?
‘Excuse me, sir!’ he called out, wanting to cry. John Thompson walked as though he had not seen Karanja. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ Karanja raised his voice, gathering courage in despair. Thompson turned round to face Karanja.
‘Yes?’ The voice was clear, cold, distant.
‘You—’ Karanja swallowed some lumpy liquid. ‘—you are going!’ he made a statement instead of the intended cool question.
‘What!’
‘You are – you are—’ he swallowed some more lumpy liquid; it made a noise as it went down his throat. But he stood his ground.
‘—are you going back to – to your country.’
‘Yes, yes,’ the whiteman answered quickly, as if puzzled by the question. Panic seized Karanja. He played with his fingers behind his back. He would have loved to suddenly vanish from the earth rather than bear the chill around. Thompson was about to move, but then he stopped.
‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, in a brusque manner.
‘Nothing. Nothing, sir. You have been very kind.’
Thompson hastened away.
Karanja stood in the corridor for a while and took a dirty handkerchief to rub off the sweat from his face. Then he went back, his gait, to an observer, conjuring up the picture of a dog that has been unexpectedly snubbed by the master it trusts. Karanja did not seem to see Mwaura, who was still waiting in the room. He sat on the chair, his hands limply on the table, and uncomprehendingly stared at the world outside the window.
‘Is he going back, then?’ Mwaura asked, tentatively.
‘I don’t know,’ Karanja answered in a thin, colourless voice. Then suddenly he seemed to see Mwaura for the first time.
‘What are you doing in the office?’ he shouted at Mwaura, who quickly backed to the door. The tooth was aged and broken; it could not bite. As if exhausted by the gesture, Karanja resumed his deathly posture at the table. It was Mwaura’s turn to feel triumphant and, for a time, forgot that his mission was to befriend Karanja and lure him to the Uhuru ceremony.
‘Angry that master is leaving you, eh?’ he taunted, standing safely at the open door. ‘Not even decent enough to say farewell? I once worked for a whiteman in Nairobi. When he left Kenya, he at least shot dead all his pets – cats and dogs. Couldn’t bear to leave them alive without a kindly helper.’
Karanja apparently did not hear him. He did not make the slightest stir from his position at the table.
Eleven
The farewell party held at Githima hostel was to start at eight. John and Margery Thompson went early but found some guests had already arrived. Dr Brian O’Donoghue, the Director of Githima Agricultural and Forestry Research Station, could not attend the party because he had gone to an International Forestry Commission in Salisbury. He was a tall thin man with big-rimmed glasses, who was never seen walking across Githima ground without a book under his arm. His wife, however, made a brief appearance. The official contingent was later strengthened by the arrival of the Deputy Director, his wife, and the heads of the various departments. Within an hour or so, the common room at the hostel was full of men and women, diversely dressed, clinking glasses, cracking little jokes, laughing.
At first, Mr and Mrs Thompson were the monopoly of the official contingent. Envious and deprecating glances were cast at the wives of the two Directors; they always dominated the scene, couldn’t they give other people a chance to say a word to Mr Thompson (poor John, a real dear, liked him so much, such manners, such dedication: could a man be worse treated by his government?). They searched their hearts and suddenly discovered that they had always admired John, that Margery had been their special friend, and what wouldn’t they do to help them settle down in their next home!
Thompson’s imminent departure and the Independence tomorrow night brought back in their hearts the man who had been at the centre of scandal at Rira. Thompson was therefore a martyr, had been so received at Githima, was so regarded now on the eve of his departure from a country he had served so well.
As soon as the official contingent had gone, the party jumped to new life and commotion. Women fussed over Thompson: What was he going to do? Had he found a job? Wasn’t it a shame the way the British Government abandoned men she had encouraged and sent abroad? It came from her yielding to African violence and International Communism. Didn’t you see what was happening in Uganda and Tanganyika? The Chinese and the Russians had rushed to establish embassies. Mrs Dickinson, the Librarian, was always the more out-spoken in politics and predicted a holocaust after Uhuru. She and Roger Mason, her boyfriend had already booked a flight to Uganda, where they would stay to escape the violence that would be unleashed on all white people in Kenya. Now she was saying: ‘I tell you, I can see it all, in ten years these countries will be Russian satellites or worse still, part of the Chinese Empire—’ Another woman broke in: ‘You resigned, didn’t you? Now, think of that, and I—’ Some wanted to know why he had taken such a step. Others withdrew fearing to embarrass John (poor John, they moaned again, casting deprecating glances at Margery, surrounded by men. The way she had carried on with that alcoholic, it wouldn’t be surprising if really John wanted just to get away from the scene of shame).
Dr Lynd was talking to Roger Mason about her work, but kept on casting anxious glances towards John Thompson. She talked incessantly and Roger Mason, a tall man with a red moustache, looked bored though he made no effort to get away.
‘Githima area? Oh, it’s all right, because though most potatoes here suffer from Fungus blight, they can be treated with copper sulphate. But potatoes suffering from bacterial blight can’t. And it is this blight which affects most parts of Kenya, especially the African areas. Oh, yes, we do all sorts of experiments, like, for instance, the one I am doing now – injecting a specific bacterial strain to trace the path of infection through the plant. But – oh, excuse me—’
She hurried to where Thompson was standing and just managed to hold him to herself. Gradually she led him into a corner and compelled him to sit down. She looked agitated and he expected her to tell him about the dog.
‘You remember the incident I told you about yesterday?’
‘The dog?’
‘Yes … the murder of my dog!’
‘Y
es.’
‘You remember I told you about the houseboy.’
‘Yes.’
‘He was never caught.’
‘Yes, I believe you told me so.’
‘I am frightened. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Why, what’s happened?’
‘Because – because, I saw him again—’
‘When?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Yesterday … Do you think it is going to be safe for us who remain?’ she asked him. But before he could answer, she added defiantly, ‘No! Safe or not, I’ll not leave this place. I’ll not leave my property to them.’
‘Then you’ll have to get better homeguards!’ he said, rather savagely. But Dr Lynd did not get the irony. She clung on to the idea. ‘Yes … many more mbwa kalis to protect our lives and property,’ she said and started talking about the qualities of the most loyal and the most ferocious guard dogs.
By eleven o’clock people were getting drunk. A few couples were dancing. The African waiters stood aside, like posts, dressed in white Kanzus, a red band round the waist, and a red fez on the head.
Men clustered around Margery, caressing her figure with their eyes. One by one they were pulled on to the floor by their wives, until only one fat man with a long unkempt beard and bushy eyebrows was left talking to her. She kept on stealing SOS glances at her husband, who did not see because he was now engaged in a group that was discussing politics, Independence Day, and the fate of the whiteman under a black government.
‘It’s logical, isn’t it?’ the bearded man was saying, as he pulled her to the floor for a dance.
‘What’s logical about that?’ she yawned, unable to disguise her boredom. The man reminded her of the worst aspects of her lover.
‘That we are all drunk, eh? I don’t know why I act like this today – hiccup! – and it follows that – hiccup – you—’
Suddenly she heard the sound of a broken glass on the floor. Everybody stopped dancing and talking. Margery looked at the group behind her husband. His empty hand was in the air as if holding a glass to his mouth. Everybody’s eyes were now turned on him. Margery quickly walked across and linked her hand in his and bravely smiled at nowhere. An African waiter rushed in with a dustpan and brush and collected the broken pieces. The silence was over. The conversation resumed as if nothing had happened.
John and Margery drove back in the dark slowly. The consciousness that she was seeing Githima for the last time drew her closer to her husband.
‘Before the party I didn’t feel that we were really leaving. Now it seems that all this belongs to our past.’
He drove on, avoiding their home. At the very edge of the forest, he stopped the car and lit two cigarettes. Suddenly Margery realized that this was the very spot where Van had made love to her. She started smoking furiously, waiting for him to accuse her.
‘Perhaps this is not the journey’s end,’ he said, at last.
‘What?’
‘We are not yet beaten,’ he asserted hoarsely. ‘Africa cannot, cannot do without Europe.’
Margery looked up at him, but said nothing.
Twelve
When Gikonyo came home in the evening, Mumbi could tell that he was in a bad mood. First he did not talk to her. This was not unusual. Then, when she gave him food, he only glanced at it once and then continued staring at the wall. Again this was not unusual. But it was the way he was breathing, as if suppressing a groan, that convinced her that something had happened. Though scared of him, of his moods, she could not help but probe into his affairs.
‘What is the trouble?’ she asked with submissive concern.
‘Since when did I start discussing my affairs with you?’ he answered. She withdrew, ashamed. What had come over him these last few days? She did not know which was worse: the previous formal, polite talk, or this recent attempt to hurt her with words.
‘Mugo was here today,’ she said coldly, after a while. ‘He said that he would not take part in the ceremony.’
‘What!’ he shouted at her as if she was responsible for Mugo’s actions. She did not answer.
‘Have you no ears? It’s to you that I am speaking. What did he say?’
‘You seem to be seeking a quarrel tonight. Didn’t you hear what I said? Mugo said that he would not lead the Uhuru ceremonies.’
‘You should open your mouth wide and not speak with your teeth closed. Nobody is interested in seeing your teeth,’ he added, resuming his previous posture.
Things might have returned to normal (politeness and all that), but then the boy in dispute came running into the room from Wangari’s place. Previously, Gikonyo also treated the boy politely, showing neither resentment nor affection. For, as he argued in his heart, a child was a child and was not responsible for his birth. The boy had sensed his coldness and instinctively respected the distance. Today, however, he propped himself in between Gikonyo’s knees, and started chattering, desiring to be friendly.
‘Grandma has told me such a story – a good one – about – about—Do you know the one about the Irimu?’
Gikonyo roughly pushed the boy away from the knees, disgust on his face. The boy staggered and fell on his back and burst into tears, looking to the mother for an explanation. Mumbi stood up, and for a minute anger blocked her throat.
‘What sort of a man do you call yourself? Have you no manly courage to touch me? Why do you turn a coward’s anger on a child, a little child …’ She seethed like a river that has broken a dam. Words tossed out; they came in floods, filling her mouth so that she could hardly articulate them.
‘Shut your mouth, woman!’ he shouted at her, also standing.
‘You think I am an orphan, do you? You think the gates of my parents’ hut would be shut against me if I left this tomb?’
‘I’ll make you shut this mouth of a whore,’ he cried out, slapping her on the left cheek, and then on the right. And the flow of words came to an abrupt end. She stared at him, holding back her tears. The boy ran out of the house crying to his grandmother.
‘You should have told me that before,’ she said quietly, and still she held back the tears. Wangari came hurrying into the hut, her face contorted with pain, the boy following behind at a safe distance. Wangari stood between Gikonyo and Mumbi.
‘What is it, children?’ she asked, facing her son.
‘He calls me a whore, he keeps me in this house as a whore, mother,’ Mumbi said, in a choked voice, and now sobbed freely.
‘Gikonyo, what’s all this about?’ Wangari demanded from the son.
‘This does not concern you, Mother!’ he said.
‘Does not concern me?’ She raised her voice, slapping her sides with both hands. ‘Come all the earth and hear what a son, my son, answers me. Does not concern me who brought you forth from these thighs? That the day should come – hah!— Touch her again if you call yourself a man!’ Wangari had worked herself into an uncontrollable fury. Gikonyo wanted to say something; then, suddenly he turned round and walked out of the house.
‘And you now, stop crying, and tell me what happened,’ she said gently to Mumbi, who had already sat down and was heaving and sobbing.
A river runs along the line of least resistance. Gikonyo’s resentment was directed elsewhere; it was only that Mumbi happened to be near. And her face and voice found him at a time when the walls that carefully guarded his frustrated life from the outside world were weakest.
Following yesterday’s talk with the MP, Gikonyo called on the five men concerned with the scheme. They reviewed their position and decided to enlarge the land company, raise the price per share, and invite people to buy the shares. In this way, they would raise enough money for Burton’s farm. In the afternoon they went to see Burton, to see if he would accept a large, first instalment. Then they would pay the rest at the end of the month. If the loan promised by the MP came, they would use it to develop the farm. The first thing they saw at the main entrance to Green Hill Farm (as Burton’s farm was
called) was a new signpost. Gikonyo could not believe his eyes when he read the name. They walked to the house without a whisper among themselves, but all dwelling on the same thought. Burton had left Kenya for England. The new landowner was their own MP.
Gikonyo tried not to think of the day’s experience or his quarrel with Mumbi as he went to Warui’s hut. His first duty was to the Party. Besides he wanted the Uhuru celebrations to succeed, for this would add to his power and prestige. Warui was in the hut alone, taking snuff at the fireside. What made such a man as Warui contented with life in spite of age and loss of a wife, Gikonyo mused, taking a seat and listening to Warui’s delighted words of welcome. Was it because he had lived his own personal life fully as a man, a husband and a father, or was it because he had lived his life for the people? ‘I have got my heart’s earliest wish: my mother has a good house in which to live. I have a bit of land and money enough to buy me food and drink. But now the money gives me no pleasure, the wealth tastes as bitter water in my mouth. And yet I must go on seeking for more.’
Warui was not as contented with life as his outer frame suggested to Gikonyo. It was only that he took delight in active living, and refused to bow to disappointments. His wife had died the year before. Mukami had been a wife who admired her husband and enjoyed singing his praises among other women. Warui on his part always brought delicacies to her every evening. She was a good listener and every night he would relive his doings of the day with her. If nothing exciting had happened he would relate old stories about the birth of the Movement, the Gikuyu break with the missions, and about the Harry procession. Mukami would often rebuke him for his vanity, but enjoyed every episode that told of her man’s strength and courage.
Warui’s main disappointment in life lay in his three sons. They had been conscripted to fight for Britain in the Second World War. The eldest died in active service; the other two came back, overwhelmed less by the actual hardships and violence in the war, than by the strange lands and women they had seen. Both had gone through the Emergency unscathed, escaping forests and concentration camps, by prostrating themselves and cowering before whichever side seemed stronger at a particular time and place. After the Emergency they returned to the Rift Valley to live as squatters on the land owned by the white people. Kamau, the elder of the two, believed implicitly in the power of the British.
A Grain of Wheat Page 19