Radio boomed. And ‘the weather forecast for the next twenty-four hours’, formerly an item of news of interest only to would-be travellers, became news of first importance to everyone. Yes. Perhaps those people at K.B.S.* and the Met. Department were watching, using their magic instruments for telling weather. But men and women in our village watched the clouds with their eyes and waited. Every day I saw my father’s four wives and other women in the village go to the shamba. They just sat and talked, but actually they were waiting for the great hour when God would bring rain. Little children who used to play in the streets, the dusty streets of our new village, had stopped and all waited, watching, hoping.
Many people went hungry. We were lucky in our home – unlike most families – because one of my brothers worked in Nairobi and another at Limuru.
That remark by my father set me thinking more seriously about the old woman. At the end of the month, when my mother bought some yams and njahi beans at the market, I stole some and in the evening went about looking for the mud hut that belonged to the woman. I found it. It was in the very heart of the village. That was my first meeting with the woman. I have gone there many times. Yet that evening still remains the most vivid of all. I found her huddled in a dark corner while the dying embers of a few pieces of wood in the fireplace flickered slightly, setting grotesque shadows over the mud walls. I was frightened and wanted to run away. I did not. I called her ‘grandmother’ – though I don’t think she was really so old as to warrant that – and gave her the yams. She looked at them and then at me. Her eyes brightened a little. Then she lowered her face and began wailing.
‘I thought it was “him” come back to me,’ she sobbingly said. And then: ‘Oh, the drought has ruined me!’
I could not bear the sight and ran away quickly, wondering if my father had known it all. Perhaps she was mad.
A week later, she told me about ‘him’. Words cannot recreate the sombre atmosphere in that darkish hut as she incoherently told me all about her life-long struggle with droughts.
As I have said, we had all, for months on end, sat and watched, waiting for the rain. The night before the day when the first few drops of rain fell was marked with an unusual solitude and weariness infecting everybody. There was no noise in the streets. The woman, watching by the side of her only son, heard nothing. She just sat on a three-legged Gikuyu stool and watched the dark face of the boy as he wriggled in agony on the narrow bed near the fireplace. When the dying fire occasionally flickered, it revealed a dark face now turned white. Ghostly shadows flitted across the walls as if mocking the lone watcher by the bedside. And the boy kept on asking, ‘Do you think I’ll die, Mother?’ She did not know what to say or do. She could only hope and pray. And yet the pleading voice of the hungry boy kept on insisting, ‘Mother, I don’t want to die.’ But the mother looked on helplessly. She felt as if her strength and will had left her. And again the accusing voice: ‘Mother, give me something to eat.’ Of course he did not know, could not know, that the woman had nothing, had finished her last ounce of flour. She had already decided not to trouble her neighbours again for they had sustained her for more than two months. Perhaps they had also drained their resources. Yet the boy kept on looking reproachingly at her as if he would accuse her of being without mercy.
What could a woman without her man do? She had lost him during the Emergency, killed not by Mau Mau or the Colonial forces, but poisoned at a beer-drinking party. At least that is what people said, just because it had been such a sudden death. He was not there now to help her watch over the boy. To her this night in 1961 was so different from such another night in the ’40s when two of her sons died one after the other because of drought and hunger. That was during the ‘Famine of Cassava’ as it was called because people ate flour made from cassava. Then her man had been with her to bear part of the grief. Now she was alone. It seemed so unfair to her. Was it a curse in the family? She thought so, for she herself would never have been born but for the lucky fact that her mother had been saved from such another famine by missionaries. That was just before the real advent of the white men. Ruraya Famine (the Famine of England) was the most serious famine to have ever faced the Gikuyu people. Her grandmother and grandfather had died and only she, from their family, had been saved. Yes. All the menace of droughts came to her as she watched the accusing, pleading face of the boy. Why was it only her? Why not other women? This her only child, got very late in life.
She left the hut and went to the headman of the village. Apparently he had nothing. And he seemed not to understand her. Or to understand that droughts could actually kill. He thought her son was suffering from his old illnesses which had always attacked him. Of course she had thought of this too. Her son had always been an ailing child. But she had never taken him to the hospital. Even now she would not. No, no, not even the hospital would take him from her. She preferred doing everything for him, straining herself for the invalid. And this time she knew it was hunger that was killing him. The headman told her that the D.O. these days rationed out food – part of the Famine Relief Scheme in the drought-stricken areas. Why had she not heard of this earlier? That night she slept, but not too well for the invalid kept on asking, ‘Shall I be well?’
The queue at the D.O.’s place was long. She took her ration and began trudging home with a heavy heart. She did not enter but sat outside, strength ebbing from her knees. And women and men with strange faces streamed from her hut without speaking to her. But there was no need. She knew that her son was gone and would not return.
The old woman never once looked at me as she told me all this. Now she looked up and continued, ‘I am an old woman now. The sun has set on my only child; the drought has taken him. It is the will of God.’ She looked down again and poked the dying fire.
I rose to go. She had told me the story brokenly yet in words that certainly belonged to no mad woman. And that night (it was Sunday or Saturday) I went home wondering why some people were born to suffer and endure so much misery.
I last talked to the old woman about two or three weeks ago. I cannot remember well as I have a bad memory. Now it has rained. In fact it has been raining for about a week, though just thin showers. Women are busy planting. Hope for all is mounting.
Real torrential rain began yesterday. It set in early. Such rain had not been witnessed for years. I went to the old woman’s hut with a gift, this time not of yams and beans, but of sweet potatoes. I opened the door and found her huddled up in her usual corner. The fire was out. Only a flickering yellow flame of a lighted lantern lingered on. I spoke to her. She slightly raised her head. In the waning cold light, she looked white. She opened her eyes a little. Their usual unearthly brightness was intensified a thousand times. Only there was something else in them. Not sadness. But a hovering spot of joy, or exultation, as if she had found something long-lost, long-sought. She tried to smile, but there was something unearthly, something almost diabolical and ugly in it. She let out words, weakly, speaking not directly to me, but actually declaring aloud her satisfaction, or relief.
‘I see them all now. All of them waiting for me at the gate. And I am going …’
Then she bent down again. Almost at once the struggling lantern light went out, but not before I had seen in a corner all my gifts; the food had never been touched but had been stored there. I went out.
The rain had stopped. Along the streets, through the open doors, I could see lighted fires flickering, and hear people chattering and laughing.
At home we were all present. My father was there. My mother had already finished cooking. My brothers and sisters chattered on, about the rain and the drought that was now over. My father was quiet and thoughtful as usual. I also was quiet. I did not join in the talk, for my mind was still on the ‘mad’ woman and my untouched gifts of food. I was just wondering if she too had gone with the drought and hunger. Just then, one of my brothers mentioned the woman and made a jocular remark about her madness. I stood up and glared at him.<
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‘Mad indeed!’ I almost screamed. And everybody stared at me in startled fear. All of them, that is, except my father, who kept on looking at the same place.
* Kenya Broadcasting Service
PART II
Fighters and Martyrs
THE VILLAGE PRIEST
Joshua, the village priest, watched the gathering black clouds and muttered one word: ‘Rain’. It was almost a whisper, spoken so quietly that a man a yard away would not have heard it. He was standing on a raised piece of ground looking thoughtfully at the clouds and the country around. Behind him stood a tin-roofed rectangular building from which thick black smoke was beginning to issue, showing that the woman of the house had already come from the shamba and was now preparing the evening meal. This was his house – the only one of its kind along the Ridge, and beyond. The rest were mud-walled, grass-thatched round huts that were scattered all over the place. From these also, black smoke was beginning to curl upwards.
Joshua knew that in most of the huts the inmates had been sleeping with contracting, wrinkled stomachs, having eaten nothing or very little. He had seen such cases in the past months during his rounds of comforting the hungry and the suffering, promising them that God would in time bring rain. For the drought had been serious, and had lasted many months, so that crops in the fields had sickened, while some had dried up altogether. Cows and goats were so thin that they could hardly give enough milk.
If it rained now it would be a blessing for everyone and perhaps crops would revive and grow and all would be well. The dry anxious looks on the faces of mothers and fathers would disappear. Again he looked at the darkening clouds and slowly the old man retraced his steps to the house.
Soon it began to rain. Menacing thunderstorms boomed in the heavens and the white spots of lightning flashed across with a sharpness and fury that frightened him. Standing near a window, the priest, his horse-shoe-shaped bald head lined with short grey bristles of hair, watched the slanting raindrops striking the hard ground and wetting it. ‘Jehovah! He has won!’ the priest muttered breathlessly. He felt cheated, bitter and angry. For he knew that the coming of rain so soon after the morning sacrifice would be nothing but a victory for the rain-maker at whose request a black ram had been sacrificed. Yes. This was the culmination of their long fight, their long struggle and rivalry in Makuyu village.
Makuyu was an isolated little place. Even the nearest missionary station was some fifty-five miles away – quite a long way in a country without roads. It was in fact one of the last areas to be seriously affected by the coming of the white missionaries, farmers and administrators. And so while the rest of the country had already seen the rain-maker, the medicine-man and magic workers being challenged by Christianity, this place had remained pretty well under the power and guidance of the rain-maker.
The challenge and rivalry here began when the Rev. Livingstone of Thabaini Mission made a visit and initiated Joshua into this new mystery – the new religion. The white man’s God was said to be all-powerful, all-seeing, the only one God, creator of everything. And the rain-maker had denounced his rivals when he saw how many people had been converted by Joshua into this new faith. He had felt angry and tried to persuade people not to follow Joshua. He threatened them with plague and death. But nothing had happened. The rainmaker had even threatened Joshua.
But Joshua had not minded. Why should he? Had he not received an assurance from Livingstone that this new God would be with him ‘always, even unto the end of the earth’?
Then the drought had come. And all the time Joshua told the village that there would be rain. And all the time he prayed over and over again for it to come down. Nothing had happened. The rain-maker said the drought was the anger of the old God. He, the rain-maker, was the only person who could intercede for the people. Today under the old sacred tree – Mugumo – a black ram, without any blemish, was sacrificed. Now it had rained! All that morning Joshua had prayed, asking God not to send rain on that particular day. Please God, my God, do not bring rain today. Please God, my God, let me defeat the rain-maker and your name shall be glorified. But in spite of his entreaties it had rained.
He was puzzled; he could not understand it. And through the evening his forehead remained furrowed. He spoke to no one. He even went to bed and forgot to conduct the evening prayer with his family. In bed he thought and thought about the new God. If only Livingstone had stayed! All might have been well. He would have read from the black book and then prayed to his God and the rain-maker would not have won. A week later Livingstone would have prayed for rain at a public meeting. Then everyone would have believed and Joshua would have remained the undisputed spiritual authority in Makuyu.
A thought occurred to him; so staggering was it that for a time he could neither move nor breathe as he lay on his bed woven with rope and bamboo poles. He ought to have thought of this, ought to have known it. The new God belonged to the white man and could therefore listen to none but a man with a white skin. Everybody had his own God. The Masai had theirs. The Agikuyu had theirs. He trembled. He seemed to understand everything. Some gods were stronger than others. Even Livingstone probably knew this. Perhaps he feared the God of Agikuyu. That is why he had gone away and had not appeared all the time the drought had continued.
What shall I do? What shall I do? Then his way became clear. A sacrifice had been performed that day. Early in the morning, he would go to the sacred tree and there make peace with his people’s god.
The morning was dark and chilly. The first cock had already crowed. Joshua had just put on a big raincoat over his usual clothes. He trudged quietly across the courtyard.
The dark silhouette of the house and the barn beside it seemed watchful and ominous. He felt afraid. But his mind was set. Down the long path, to the distant forest, to the sacred tree, and there make peace with the god of his people. The birds were up and singing their usual morning songs, the prelude to dawn. To Joshua they had a doleful note and they seemed to be singing about him. The huge old tree stood where it had always been, even long before Joshua was born. The tree too looked at once mysterious and ominous. It was here that sacrifices to God were made under the direction of the elders and the medicine-man. Joshua made his way through the surrounding dry bush and to the foot of the tree. But how did one make peace with God? He had no sacrificial ram. He had nothing.
‘God of Agikuyu, God of my people …’ He stopped. It sounded too unreal. False. He seemed to be speaking to himself. Joshua began again. ‘God of …’ It was a small crackling laugh and the crack of a broken twig that interrupted him. He felt frightened and quickly turned his head. There, standing and looking at him maliciously, was the rain-maker. He laughed again, a menacing laugh but full of triumph.
‘Hmm! So the white man’s dog comes to the lion’s den. Ha! Ha! So Joshua comes to make peace. Ha! Ha! Ha! I knew you would come to me Joshua … You have brought division into this land in your service to the white strangers. Now you can only be cleansed by the power of your people.’ Joshua did not wait to hear more. He quickly moved away from the dumb tree, away from the rain-maker. It was not fear. He no longer feared the tree, nor the rain-maker. He no longer feared their power, for somehow it had all seemed to him false as he spoke to the tree. It was not even the feeling of defeat. It was something else, worse … shame. It was a feeling of utter hollowness and hopelessness that can come only to a strong-willed man who has sacrificed his convictions. Shame made him move more quickly. Shame made him look neither to the left nor to the right as he made his way back, in the break of day.
The journey was long. The path was muddy. But he did not mind. He saw nothing, felt nothing. Only this thing, this hollow feeling of shame and hatred of self. For, had he not sacrificed his convictions, his faith, under the old tree? ‘What would Livingstone say to me now?’ he kept on murmuring to himself. Livingstone would rebuke him again. He would think him unworthy. He had once rebuked him when he had found Joshua quietly sipping a little beer just to
quench his thirst. He had another time warned him when he found Joshua beating his wife because she had not promptly obeyed him.
‘This is not the way a man of God acts,’ Livingstone told him in a slow sorrowful tone. Yes. No one could understand Livingstone. At one time he would be unreasonably stern and imperious, and at another time he would be sorrowful. And as he looked at you with his blue sunken eyes, his head covered with a thick-rimmed sun helmet, you could never divine his attitude. Joshua was now sure that Livingstone would think him quite useless and unworthy to be a leader. He thought so of himself, too.
The sun had already appeared in the east when Joshua finally reached his home. He stood outside and surveyed the whole ridge and countryside. Suddenly he felt like running away, never to preach again. He was so deep in thought that he did not seem to see the anxious, excited countenance of his wife as she came out to announce that ‘somebody’, a visitor, had called and was waiting for him in the house.
Who could it be? These women. They would never tell anyone who a visitor was, but must always talk of somebody. He did not really feel like seeing anyone for he felt transparent through and through. Could it be the rain-maker? He shuddered to think of it. Could it be one of his flock? And what would he tell him after he himself had betrayed the trust? He was not worthy to be a priest. ‘If I saw Livingstone today I would ask him to give me up. Then I would go away from here.’
He entered and then stopped. For there sitting on a three-legged Gikuyu stool was none other than Livingstone himself. Livingstone, tired and worn out after a whole night’s journey, looked up at Joshua. But Joshua was not seeing him. He was seeing something else.
Minutes of Glory Page 3