Petals of Blood

by Ngũgĩ Wa Thiong'o

  ‘True, true,’ Munira said, and they all laughed.

  ‘But you must be tired, coming all that way. Did you take a bus?’ he asked and pressed a button.

  ‘No,’ said Wanja. ‘We walked.’

  ‘Really?’

  The secretary’s head peeped through the door.

  ‘Please, can you make coffee – five coffees, for these gentlemen and lady . . . Really?’ he asked again, looking at them. ‘But I am asking too many questions. We have not even introduced ourselves. My name is Nderi wa Riera.’

  ‘We know you,’ they all said.

  ‘I used to be called David Samuel. But I asked myself: why should we abandon our names for these foreign ones? Ha! ha! ha! I know a friend, black as the soot on a cooking pot, who calls himself Winter-bottom. Ha! ha! ha!’

  ‘These Europeans made us give up many beautiful customs. And I am not talking only of circumcision,’ said Njuguna. This was indeed a sensible man in Parliament, he thought, ‘I am Njuguna and I am a farmer in Ilmorog.’

  ‘I am sorry Parliament work has been so heavy, I have not had a minute to myself, but I was planning to come for a whole week or so and tour the constituency and get to know the people. I have wanted to acquaint myself with the farming problems in the area. Kenya is an agricultural country and our survival depends on farmers like you.’

  The secretary came in with a tray. They each took a cup and a biscuit and started drinking.

  ‘And you?’ he asked, pointing at Wanja.

  ‘I am Wanja . . . a sort of a visitor to Ilmorog.’

  ‘Good. And you joined them in this journey? Mgeni siku mbili, ya tatu umpatie njembe! Not so?’ he asked and turned to Munira. ‘You are also a farmer?’

  ‘No. I am the Headmaster of Ilmorog Full Primary School, and my name is Munira, Godfrey Munira. I am afraid I have not yet shed the foreign name. After all, if we can wear their shirts and live in their houses . . . but we have been over this before,’ he said turning toward Karega and Wanja.

  ‘You should have been in Parliament,’ said the MP. ‘I am glad to meet you, Mr Munira. What’s in a name? What’s more crucial is the quality of what one is doing for the country. Take teachers for instance. Without good teachers there is no nation. Teachers are the true men of the people. We here are only messengers. Do you come from Ilmorog?’

  ‘Not quite. I hail from Limuru.’

  ‘The Minister is your representative. I know him very well. Do you also come from Limuru?’ he asked Karega.

  ‘Yes. But I teach in the same school as Mr Munira here.’

  ‘You look too young to be a teacher,’ he said laughingly, but thinking, I must be careful now, why is it there is only one true Ilmorogian? ‘It is good to see a young man with sense these days. Most of the others want to be clerks – white-collar jobs – and they don’t even know how to type.’

  ‘I don’t agree with you there, sir,’ Karega replied, recalling his own experience in these same offices. ‘I am sure that many of the school leavers would be glad to accept a job which gave them a decent salary.’

  I knew I had to be careful, thought the MP, noting the passion behind Karega’s words. As a politician, Nderi had learnt that no enemy was too small, and no incident was too insignificant to be careless about and ignored, unless with calculated deliberation.

  ‘I quite agree with you. Unemployment is an acute problem in this country. But it is the same all over the world. Even in England and America you read of millions laid off and begging for bread. It is the population explosion. Family planning and population control is the only cure.’

  ‘Again, I am not so sure that I agree with you. Don’t you think that family planning is a deliberate trick of Western powers to keep our population low? Britain is a tiny island, yet it has over fifty million people: why don’t they curb their population growth? And after all, China is able to feed and clothe her millions.’

  Strange, that he should be talking the way I used to talk, thought the MP, seeing a bit of himself in this earnest youth.

  ‘But at what price has China been able to do that? No individual freedom . . . no freedom of the press . . . no freedom of worship or assembly and people wearing drab uniform clothes. Would you wish that for your country? You know when I was young I thought I could solve the problems of the world by shouting a slogan. But as I grow older I have learnt to be more realistic, and to face facts in the face. And we black people must learn not to fly against hard truths even if this means revising our dearly held theories. Take this population problem—!’

  ‘Are you saying that women should not have more children?’ asked Wanja in a strangely pained voice.

  ‘No. But it should be paced to keep up with our abilities to feed the mouths. Unless something drastic is done we shall soon be like India, with a thousand hungry mouths reaching out for our throats. Don’t you agree with me?’ he said, turning to Abdulla. ‘You have not yet told us your name, and here Karega and I are solving the problems of the world.’

  ‘So people are now the enemy,’ thought Karega.

  Abdulla did not respond at once. He coughed a little, and then spoke in a dull lifeless tone of voice.

  ‘Hare and Antelope once fell into a hole. Let me climb on your back first, then I shall pull you out, said Hare. So Hare climbed on Antelope’s back and out he jumped onto dry sunny ground. He dusted himself up and started walking away. Heh, you are forgetting me, shouted Antelope. Hare lectured Antelope. Let me advise you, my friend. I fell into the same hole with you by mistake. The trouble with you, Mr Antelope, is that you go jump-jumping leap-leaping in the air instead of firmly walking on the ground and looking to see where you are going. I am sorry but you have only yourself to blame.’

  And Abdulla stood up and walked out, leaving a pall of awkward heaviness in the room.

  ‘Who is he?’ asked the MP.

  ‘He is Abdulla . . . a businessman . . . a shopkeeper at Ilmorog,’ Munira explained.

  ‘And a good storyteller too, ha! ha! ha! Business good in those parts?’

  ‘Not bad . . . he manages,’ continued Munira, obviously at pains to undo any harm that might have been caused by Abdulla’s abrupt departure.

  ‘That is the spirit, self-reliance. You know, before independence business was all in Indian hands. But now we have Africans managing the same dukas, and doing very well, sometimes making even bigger profits than the Indians. Good profit-making is not a monopoly of any one race. Is he a native of Ilmorog?’

  ‘Not quite. He too I am afraid is a newcomer to the place.’

  The MP sat back in his chair, leaning it back. His fears were now confirmed. There must be a plot to smear his good name. His political enemies were sending strangers to Ilmorog to unsettle a peaceful people. He had not yet forgotten what had happened to the two messengers whom he had sent to Ilmorog to arrange for a bit of tea. He himself had been very busy arranging for the smooth running of tea drinking as a whole. After all the idea of a cultural movement had been his and that of a few friends. They had sold the idea to a very important person. The tension in the country after the assassination of the Indian Communist had shaken Nderi and a few others, and the tea drinking on a mass scale to pledge eternal loyalty seemed ideal. But his constituents had let him down.

  ‘And now my friends, in what ways can I help you? We are all your servants, you know, no matter what constituency you come from.’

  ‘Sir, we have others waiting in the Jeevanjee Gardens. They only sent us to see if you were in.’

  ‘Why didn’t you bring them in?’ He pressed a button, slightly more relieved, and the secretary came in. ‘Can you go to the Jeevanjee Gardens and ask the others to come to the office? This is their office, their home, and they should not fear.’

  ‘Wait a minute . . . They are too many to fit in this office and it would be better if you went and talked to them out there,’ Munira explained.

  ‘All right, secretary . . . I am really so sorry I was not here yesterday. I had gone
to Mombasa. Government work. Aah, too much. But we have sworn to serve the public. No elephant is ever unable to carry his tusks, however big and weightful. So maybe you could tell me what has brought you this way before I meet the others.’

  He had at first wanted to go right out and meet the crowd, but suddenly thought it more prudent to learn about the mission beforehand so he could prepare himself.

  ‘We have come,’ said Njuguna, ‘because we know you are our son. There is no house with a male child where the head of a he-goat shall not be eaten. For the last six months we have been without rains in Ilmorog. Our cattle and goats have started dying. We have eaten the last grains of maize from the last harvest season. So we put our heads together and said: we have a son whose mouth is close to the ears of our government.’

  As he listened, Nderi became more and more grave. As an MP for the area he ought to have known about this. If it became general knowledge, his opponents would make political capital out of the whole mess. It might in fact be too late. It might be his enemies who had learned about the drought and engineered the whole thing to see what he would do about it, certainly to embarrass him.

  ‘Why didn’t you come earlier?’ he asked, with a frown of concern, at the same time racking his brain for a dramatic escape route.

  ‘We knew you are a busy man. We knew that government work was keeping you away, else, you would have come back to see us. But we had elected you for that: so why should we complain? And we thought it would still rain. But they say that God above does not eat ugali. He brought us this woman and these teachers who know more about these things than we do. They told us that you would be glad to see us.’

  ‘Of course, of course. They were right and I am most grateful,’ he said, turning appreciative eyes toward Munira and Karega. But inwardly he was seething with anger at this obvious trick. My enemies think they are clever, working through teachers, or maybe this Munira here has ambitions, ingratiating himself with my constituents. Ha! ‘It is a good thing that you went to teach in Ilmorog. Is – eeh, I have forgotten his name – who is the Education Officer at Ruwa-ini?’

  ‘Mr Mzigo.’

  ‘How long have you been – eeh – at—’

  ‘We are strangers there, really. But I have been there for over two years, and Mr Karega only the last few months.’

  Ha! That Mzigo. Bribed. Make trouble for me. Create disaffection. His fighting instinct was now fully aroused.

  ‘You have had a long and difficult journey. Right! Let us go out now and meet the others. Then I can give you an answer together.’

  They trooped to the Jeevanjee Gardens and, as they approached the others, the women ululated the Five Ngemi usually sung for a male child and a returning victorious hero. Within seconds, this had attracted a crowd of hangers-on, the hordes of the jobless, who normally slept off their hunger at the Gardens and were grateful for any distracting drama, religious, political or criminal. The reception pleased Nderi but did not quite allay his fears. Njuguna introduced him to the crowd as ‘our prodigal son we sent to bring us back our share from the city’, and repeated their call for help in face of the drought. Karega could not quite analyse his attitude to the MP but he, like the others, was hopeful and hung on the MP’s lips, closely followed his movements and gestures, and eagerly waited for a dramatic solution to their problems. As for Nderi, he had not yet worked out a coherent plan. But a politician was a politician and the sight of the growing crowd excited him, inspired him, and even reminded him of the thrilling days of the Lancaster House Conference, trips to London, other waiting crowds at the airport and the speeches at Kamukunji which were always greeted with heart-rending cries, ululations of hope and glory.

  ‘Uhuru!’

  ‘Uhuru!’

  ‘Uhuru na Kanu!’

  ‘Uhuru na Kanu!’

  ‘Down with the enemies of our hard-won freedom!’

  ‘Down with our enemies!’

  ‘Down with rumour-mongers and trouble-makers!’

  ‘Down with rumour-mongers and trouble-makers!’

  ‘Harambee!’

  ‘Harambee!’

  ‘Thank you, my friends. Thank you. My people of Ilmorog. This is the happiest day of my life since you gave me your votes and told me to go forward and forever fight as your servant in Parliament.’

  He paused and waited for the encouraging applause to die.

  ‘I have heard of your tribulations in Ilmorog. It is not of any man’s making or doing . . . but I am glad that you brought the problem to your servant. Kamuingi Koyaga Ndiri. That is the meaning of Harambee. Do you want us to work together so we can fight against joblessness and other maladies?’

  ‘Yees!’

  ‘You are talking!’ the crowd of job-seekers shouted.

  ‘Toboa! Toboa!’ others added.

  He paused for the riotous applause to die away. And suddenly, as if inspired by the crowd and the applause, he saw clearly how he could confound his enemies and turn their machinations to his own advantage. The idea was so simple and direct that he wondered why he had not thought of it earlier and ended the whole business.

  ‘Thank you, my friends. So now I have a few suggestions to make and I want you to listen carefully, for it will mean a sacrifice from each one of us – big or small, teachers or pupils – for the common good and the glory of Ilmorog.’

  The women ululated for three continuous minutes, which brought in more people walking along Market Street, Muindi Mbingu Street and Government Road, from their places of work. It also brought in a few University students.

  ‘Now, I want you to go back to Ilmorog. Get yourselves together. Subscribe money. You can even sell some of the cows and goats instead of letting them die. Dive deep into your pockets. Your businessmen, your shopkeepers, instead of telling stories, should contribute generously. Get also a group of singers and dancers – those who know traditional songs. Gitiro, Muthuu, Ndumo, Mumburo, Muthungucu, Mwomboko – things like that. Our culture, our African culture and spiritual values, should form the true foundation for this nation. We shall, we must send a strong representative delegation to Gatundu!’

  He was so excited at the prospects of such a mission that he took the hushed silence for attentive assent and this spurred him to even higher imaginative realms.

  ‘To drink more tea – Gachai!’ somebody shouted.

  ‘But—’ a few voices tried to get to him, but he was already off to more details.

  ‘We must show that we are playing our part in self-help schemes in the Harambee spirit to put an end once and for all to all future droughts in the land.’

  ‘But – but – we are starving,’ more voices tried to interrupt the flow of his rhetoric in vain.

  ‘Very important. And you, Munira and Karega, play your parts. Prepare the children. Let them form a choir. Teach them a few patriotic songs.’

  The man is mad, it painfully occurred to Karega, sensing a general unease and unrest in the crowd.

  ‘Mr Nderi,’ he shouted and stood up to speak, but Nderi waved him to silence.

  ‘Get a few elders. Sensible ones like Njuguna – you know, those who can colour their speeches with a proverb or two. Get true Ilmorogians as your spokesmen, not foreigners – and I shall definitely lead the delegation. I will present your prayers and petitions. We must put the name of Ilmorog on the national map. Uhuuuru! Harambeeee!’

  He paused to gather breath and to bask in the applause. Somebody in the crowd shouted: ‘These are the people who are misusing our freedom,’ and this was greeted with a general murmur of protesting assent. Suddenly a stone flew and hit Nderi on the nose. This was followed by a hailstorm of orange-peels, stones, sticks, anything. For a few seconds Nderi tried to maintain his dignity and ignore the miscellaneous missiles which flew about him. Then a bit of mud hit him full on the mouth. It was too late to make a dignified exit. He suddenly took to his heels, wondering what had gone wrong, whether he had underestimated the desperation of his political enemies. He ran across Jeevanj
ee Gardens toward the Central Police Station with a few people pursuing him and shouting ‘Mshike! mshike! Huyuu!’ and he wishing he could truly fly in the air above the staring passers-by.

  ‘The mission has failed,’ Karega bitterly muttered. He felt hot tears pressing. He avoided people’s eyes. Abandoned by their MP, abandoned by the crowd of townspeople, who had all quickly dispersed to the surrounding streets, the delegation from Ilmorog sat on the grass, feeling as if the whole world was against them.

  A riot squad and sirened police car came to the scene. But the officer-in-charge was surprised to find a dignified though puzzled group of old men, women, children. Nderi sat beside the officer in the car and pointed at Munira, Abdulla and Karega.

  ‘You are wanted at the police station to answer a few questions,’ the police officer told the three men as he led them to the waiting police car.

  Nyakinyua watched them drive away. She turned to the stunned delegation. ‘Let us follow them and demand their release,’ she said, firmly. ‘They have done no wrong, no wrong!’

  6 ~ Munira, Karega and Abdulla were detained at the city’s Central Police Station for a night. The following morning they were taken to court where they pleaded not guilty to acting in a manner likely to cause a breach of the peace.

  It was the lawyer who saved them. He successfully applied not only for the case to be heard the next day but also for their release on bond, whereas the prosecutor had wanted the case postponed to a fortnight hence and for the three to be remanded in custody while investigations continued. And on the day of the trial they witnessed a different face of the lawyer: not the jovial host, not the concerned social analyst but a hard fierce defence lawyer, ruthless and totally contemptuous when it came to cross-examining prosecution witnesses and especially the MP. From the questions and side comments the lawyer somehow managed to tell a story with a coherent pattern which highlighted the plight of those threatened by the drought and the general conditions in the area. He described Ilmorog with such phrases as a ‘deserted homestead’, ‘a forgotten village’, an island of underdevelopment which after being sucked thin and dry was itself left standing, static, a grotesque distorted image of what peasant life was and could be. He castigated the negligence of those entrusted with the task of representing the people. If the people’s representatives did their duty, would such a journey have been necessary? He summed up by describing their epic journey in such detail that the people in court, even the magistrate, were visibly moved. Then he dramatically asked the court to go outside to see the donkey and the cart which he had only that morning managed to have released from custody.