Wizard of the Crow

by Ngũgĩ Wa Thiong

  Kaniürü, who had expected hostility, was surprised by this reception. The man who spoke so smoothly now was the same who had refused to let him marry his daughter, going so far as to disown her for defying him and associating with a beggar, as Wangahü had called him then, but he did not let that get in the way of his appreciation of the moment. He enjoyed being in the living room from which he was once barred and hearing Wangahü talk to him politely, even as an equal. Still, Kaniürü did not like Wangahü saying that he was thinking of seeing Kaniürü only after the Global Bank money had arrived. Didn’t the old man realize that many, some wealthier than he, had already started calling on Kaniürü in his capacity as the deputy chair to make themselves known? Each would be sure to leave a “calling envelope” behind. Did the old man have the slightest clue as to how he had acquired his Mercedes-Benz?

  Kaniürü recalled the pain the old man had caused him, and, although he had now taken a step in the right direction by receiving him well, still Kaniürü thought to assuage past hurts. With the word partnership Wangahü had given him an opening. He cleared his throat and tried to assume dignity, for despite his new elevation and Mercedes-Benz, Kaniürü felt slightly intimidated by the man’s bearing.

  “Actually, that is one of the things that brought me here, for, as the saying goes, the early bird catches the worm,” Kaniürü said, throwing in a couple more proverbs for what he assumed to be greater profundity. “But you have already taken the words right out of my mouth, and I thank you for it. Let’s start our partnership right here today. If you feel that you want to hand over to me one or two of your plots in town as a sign of goodwill, I will not say no. Or we could start by your giving me a few shares in your timber business. Again as goodwill. If you ask me, I would say that a plot or two or a couple of shares are nothing compared to what will flow to you from Marching to Heaven.”

  “My child,” Wangahü hastened to say, alarmed by the direction the conversation was taking, “Hurry and Hurry-it broke up the house of Harry and Harriet, the English people say. It is not good to rush into decisions. We shall talk about everything and go into detail once the Global Bank has released the money. By the way, when is the Buler expected back in the country?” Wangahü wanted to know, steering the conversation away from plots and shares.

  Kaniürü was not amused by the English proverb. He had never heard it before and did not realize that Wangahü had made it up on the spot. It sounded to him like a veiled reference to the breakup of his marriage with Nyawlra.

  “Well,” Kaniürü said, somewhat disappointed, “as you like it, for as the saying goes, the one in need is the one who presses his needs. Let me remind you: don’t be as slow as the tortoise in the story…”

  Wangahü himself felt like reminding Kaniürü that it was the slow tortoise who won the race, not the hasty hare, but he held back. I should have let the man say what brought him here before putting my cards on the table, Wangahü admonished himself, noting that Kaniürü had sidestepped the question about the Buler’s return from America.

  “I am not saying that we should walk with the pace of a tortoise,” Wangahü explained. “But we should look for what the English call via media.”

  “Actually, that is not English but Latin,” Kaniürü corrected him.

  “Whatever you say. You are the teacher.”

  “Ex-teacher!”

  “Well, you are the one with education, and if you say it is Latin, then it is Latin. If my Nyawlra had stayed at home, she would have been the one interpreting this Latin for me.”

  “That’s the other thing that brought me here,” Kaniürü said. “Now, about Nyawlra…”

  “What? Has she been found? Arrested? What could have corrupted such a dutiful daughter?” Wangahü asked, hope and despair in his voice.

  “No, she is still at large. Did you know that Nyawlra is a member of the outlawed underground organization?”

  “Why ask me? How would I know? We know only what we read in the newspapers or hear on the radio,” Wangahü said, again alarmed at this new turn in the conversation.

  “Does Nyawlra not visit you?” Kaniürü asked.

  Roithi walked in at that moment with plates of food on a tray.

  “Tell me, has she been found? Is she alive?” she asked with concern as she placed the plates on the table.

  “Can you please give my driver some tea and a piece of bread?” Kaniürü said, ignoring her question.

  “We have taken care of him. Not only tea and bread but also a chicken wing.”

  “Then you may sit down,” Wangahü told Roithi, pointing to a chair. “These days there is no separation between matters reserved for men and those reserved for women. Women are also elders. Our son here has words he wants to share with us, and you should hear them from his own mouth.”

  “Nyawlra has not been found,” Kaniürü said.

  “Who or what put so much confusion in our daughter?” Roithi said, tears coming to her eyes. “So much for her education and book learning.”

  “There is a saying that out of the same womb comes a thief and a sorcerer,” said Kaniürü, trying to be profound.

  “What of yours has she stolen?” Roithi asked sharply. “And what sorcery has she ever practiced on you?”

  “Listen to me,” Kaniürü said, picking the last piece of meat from a chicken leg. “I came here to tell you that the government is determined to get Nyawlra dead or alive. I want to help you, but you must help me to help you. I want you to tell me whether Nyawlra calls here from time to time. Has she done so recently? Have you any idea where she might be hiding? I hold no grudge against her. I have always said that no matter what she does she will always be my wife.”

  “You know very well that I disowned Nyawlra a long time ago when she decided to defy me and…” Wangahü was about to refer to the time that Nyawlra defied him and married a beggar, but that beggar had been transformed into the man sitting before him, with his sword of death and seeds of great wealth. So he corrected himself and continued, “… refused to wait for me to give her away to you in a proper church wedding.”

  His self-correction came too late. Kaniürü had already gotten the gist of what the old man had intended to say, and Kaniürü felt a resurgence of the humiliation he had suffered.

  “Nyawlra’s father,” Kaniürü said, barely controlling his anger and pain, “let us not dance around each other like two bulls in a kraal. To the Point is my motto. Nyawlra is in trouble. I am the only person who can help her. You are in more trouble. Your wealth is in danger. Only you can decide what you want to do about it. There are two ways out. Give me some shares in your business. Through joint ownership, my name shall shield your wealth and property. Or hand over Nyawlra. I promise you that I shall use all my resources to ensure that no harm comes to her. I still care about her and hope that one day she and I will walk down the aisle in a proper wedding blessed by you and God.”

  “Young man, have you no ears?” Roithi said, barely disguising her own anger and contempt. “Didn’t you hear that Nyawlra has not called here?” she added bluntly.

  Like mother, like daughter, Kaniürü was thinking, for Roithi with her sharp tongue reminded him of Nyawlra. Her blunt speech made him uneasy and a little afraid of her.

  In contrast, Wangahü was quiet, very quiet. Kaniürü’s words that Wangahü’s wealth was in danger had clearly shaken the old man, but once again he controlled himself so as not to give this scoundrel the upper hand. That he might have to be partners with Kaniürü to protect his property made him feel sick. This scoundrel has always been after my property, he told himself, but I would rather give up Nyawlra than a single share to this shameless youth.

  “What do you have to say?” Kaniürü said, turning toward the seemingly less daunting figure of Wangahü.

  “Concerning matters of property and partnership,” Wangahü said, controlling himself with difficulty, “I told you clearly that we have to wait on the Global Bank. As for Nyawlra, the mother of my children ha
s spoken for both of us. But shouldn’t you, as the one close to the ears of the State, be advising us on what to do to show the government that we do not support Nyawlra’s subversive deeds?”

  Kaniürü was desperate to leave Wangahü’s house with something tangible, anything, with which to further endear himself to Sikiokuu. He knew that Sikiokuu’s greatest wish was to be able to greet the Ruler at the airport with news of Nyawlra’s capture, and he knew that he himself would benefit thereby.

  He often lost sleep trying to figure out how she could have slipped his grasp on the day they had first gone after her. How had she fled without leaving a trace? he would ask himself bitterly, time and again.

  Suddenly an idea came to him. What if Wangahü and his wife, Roithi, were to go to the offices of Silver Sikiokuu and before media reporters and television cameras make a teary appeal for their daughter to give herself up? And even threaten to disown her should she fail to heed their call?

  “You have asked a good question,” he said. “I can help you. Refore the Ruler left for America, he appointed me not only as deputy chairman of the Committee for Marching to Heaven but chairman of the commission inquiring into the recent queuing mania in Eldares. The commission has the power to summon anybody to give evidence, and believe me, we have already done so with a number of people close to Nyawlra, and they are providing us with very useful information all pointing to your daughter as being part of the root of all the evil. As for you two, I don’t want to drag you before the commission. As you said earlier, we are still in-laws, and thus we shall remain. I can see that you’re not entirely comfortable with the idea of a business partnership. This is your only way out. Let me put it to you as clearly as I can. Cooperate with the State and save your property. Otherwise you will be staring ruin in the face.”

  As soon as Kaniürü began to describe his plan, Roithi, Nyawlra’s mother, stopped him in his tracks. She stood up and wagged a finger at him.

  “You can forget about my denouncing my daughter. No power on earth can make me do that. Even if Nyawlra were dragged to the scaffold, I would still claim her as my daughter. I don’t agree with her actions, but that does not mean that everybody else in Aburlria is clean. What kind of property is so precious that I would be willing to sacrifice my daughter to save it? If Nyawlra’s father wants to appease

  Sikiokuu, he will be doing so without me or my support. I leave you to your foolishness. I am going to church,” she said with a tone of finality as she walked out of the room.

  The silence she left behind was tense, almost palpable. Wangahüs word was normally the law in his household. Roithi had faith in his judgment regarding many issues. But he also knew that when Roithi rejected a course of action, she would never change her mind.

  “Well, you have heard for yourself,” Wangahü said to break the awkward silence.

  “Women. They surely know how to bring disaster into homes,” Kaniürü said. “You yourself heard her say that she does not care about property. Does she know the energy that goes into accumulating even the smallest amount? That’s why our ancestors denied women the right to own property.”

  Matthew Mügwanja Wangahü could have strangled this scoundrel with bare hands and not regretted it. How dare he talk like that in his home! In earlier days, he would have thrown the bum out. But he was just as frustrated to know that part of him agreed with Kaniürü’s assessment of women. They are all the same. Even the most educated. Look at the hole into which his own daughter, a woman with a university degree, had forced him! He faced ruin or more humiliation by this scoundrel. And look at how Roithi had dared to talk to the man who held their fate in his hands! What shall I do to save myself and my property? He silently counted the number of ministers he knew to whom he could appeal for help, but they were all in America with the Ruler. He had to try to buy time.

  “I have to go to church,” he told Kaniürü. “I will think about all you have counseled.”

  “What about a public call for Nyawlra to surrender?” Kaniürü asked, thinking that Wangahü had responded to questions of shares in his property.

  “There is nothing more to add to what I told you,” Wangahü said.

  8

  In receipt of a steady income, Kamltl, with Nyawlra’s support, decided to take two weeks off to visit his parents. Don’t worry, I can be the Wizard of the Crow by myself, Nyawlra assured him.

  The village where Kamltl’s parents lived was called Klambugi, the Village of the Cowbells, because in the past its wealth had resulted from the raising of cows and goats. The herds used to be led by bulls with cowbells of different sizes and shapes, designating different owners. By the time Kamltl was born the wealth was gone, but he always remembered the song that the village children used to sing, prancing about, imitating both the movement and sound of cows.

  Rain come down

  I’ll offer you a sacrifice

  Of a bull and another

  With bells around the neck

  Making beautiful sounds

  Mwalimu Karimlri, as his father was popularly known, and his mother, Nüngari, had grayed well. Kamltl was glad to find them in good health. They were happy to see him and jokingly chastised him for staying away so long without a word about how he was doing in Eldares. He told them of the many years he had spent on the road, looking for work: they laughed, observing that primary school education of their day must then be superior to even the higher learning of today, because, back then, with an elementary school certificate, one could get a job as teacher, nurse, agricultural instructor, or veterinary assistant and one did not have to walk the roads for three years to get it. He told them that he was going to buy them a piece of land and build a modern stone house for them to show his appreciation for their many sacrifices on his behalf. As pleased as they were to hear this, they reminded him that his happiness was paramount, that they were used to the village plot on which they lived and were accustomed to working on other people’s farms for pay. Life was not hard, they assured him. What we earn is enough for the two of us, but we would not mind sleeping on a nice bed in a modern stone house and owning a plot of land with a cow or two for milk.

  Later, one evening when Kamltl and his father were sitting at the veranda, Mwalimu Karlmlri inquired about his son’s occupation. You talked to us about buying us a piece of land and putting up a modern house, his father said. Where would the money come from? And I did not hear you talk about a job. Or are you into some illegal venturer You know very well that I would not touch even a cent born of crooked ways.

  Kamltl hesitated, wondering what and how to tell him about his new profession as the Wizard of the Crow. His father had eyes that pierced a person’s heart; he could spot a lie a mile away.

  He decided not to trim the truth and told him that he had set up a business venture under the name Wizard of the Crow. Kamltl, who expected his father’s rebuke, was surprised to see him laugh. He laughed so hard, Kamltl later told Nyawlra, that tears flowed down his cheeks.

  “And what is it you do as Wizard of the Crow?” his father asked him between bouts of laughter. “Sorcery? You know that I cannot touch any money from sorcery. Before the whites came with their own forms of punishment, sorcerers, when caught, were burned alive. So what services does the Wizard of the Crow perform?” the old man asked again.

  “I don’t kill people, if that is what you are thinking. Let’s just say that I punish evil itself, not the evil ones. I am a healer. I heal wounded bodies and troubled souls. I see things that are hidden from many. I did not choose divination; it chose me.” He briefly explained to his father how the shrine came about.

  As Kamltl recounted his story, his father became increasingly solemn. Then Kamltl saw him stand up abruptly and excuse himself, and after a while he came back, more serene.

  “Listen to me, my son,” his father began. “Human will cannot will away God’s will. Maybe you are asking yourself why I became solemn after almost drowning myself in laughter. At first I thought that you were just
joking, so I greeted your words with laughter. But the more you talked, the more I realized that you meant what you said, and I started looking at myself with a questioning eye. I remembered that you once asked me about our family’s story. I don’t quite recall why you wanted to know. At the time I only hinted at the strange past and fortunes of our clan. Let me tell you. The Mit! clan used to be mighty. But over the years it has been scattered by slave raids, colonial ventures, and world wars. In our house we have always desired peace, but what we have gotten are woes of war. What might we have been had we not been scattered to the four corners of the wind? But the water that has spilled cannot be scooped.

  “We are descended in part from hunters who dwelled in the forest, mostly, and came to know it well. Nearly all were healers. There was not an illness against which nature did not provide the necessary juices of life. Not only were they healers, but some had the gift of seeing things hidden from ordinary eyes. Some could even fly like birds. Consider your grandfather, Kamltl wa RTenjeku, from whom you take your name! He sometimes found himself atop a mountain impossible for humans to climb or floating in the middle of a lake though he did not know how to swim. I never fleshed out his story because I did not want you to follow in his footsteps. We sacrificed, sent you off to school, to prevent that from happening. But today you have taught me a great lesson. Or, you have reminded me of something no one should ever forget: that the will of God will always triumph over human willfulness.”

  How did my grandfather die? Kamltl wanted to know. In the past he had been put off with vague answers like he died of old age or in an accident or of an illness. Now his father was direct: his grandfather, Kamltl wa RTenjeku, had been a holy seer, a spiritual leader working with forces fighting the British in the war of independence. “He lived with the fighters in the mountains, teaching them how to be at peace with one another, settling conflicts, leading units into battle, and cleansing them of evil after their engagement with the enemy. He knew every path, every plant, every living thing. No one knew the ways of the forest better than your grandfather. The British shot him dead one day, but his body was never found. Some maintain that he is still alive and that his spirit hovers over Aburiria, ensuring that the truth of our past endeavors shall never be forgotten. So you see, human will cannot change God’s design,” his father repeated.