Wizard of the Crow

by Ngũgĩ Wa Thiong

  “Mr. Minister,” Tajirika started in a contrite tone. “I know that you and I cannot be said to be the best of drinking friends. But please believe me when I say that I would never countenance sedition against the Ruler by anyone, my wife and children included. My loyalty to the Ruler and his government is absolute.”

  To Sikiokuu, the discernible weakening of defiance in Tajirika’s voice augured well for what he wanted to extract from this encounter. Yet he was not amused by the apparent sincerity of Tajirika’s denials or firmness of his attitude toward the Ruler. Convictions are far harder to smash than conscious defiance.

  Sikiokuu replenished Tajirika’s glass with more brandy.

  “Here. A little brandy is good for you. As I said from the very beginning, personally I believe you.” “Then help me. Please, help me,” Tajirika pleaded between gulps of the brandy.

  “I have never said no to a cry for help. But as you know, God helps those who help themselves. That’s why I told you that your life is in your hands. I cannot help you unless you really want me to help you.”

  “I’ll give you half my wealth.”

  “I don’t need your wealth or anybody else’s. What’s of most concern to me is the security of the Ruler and his government.”

  “Then how do I help myself to get you to help me?” Tajirika asked in a teary voice.

  “Let’s start with the question of your illness. I believe that you described it to my men as a malady of words, words getting stuck in your throat, am I correct?”

  “Yes. Something like that.”

  “Had you ever suffered from this illness before the queuing mania?”

  “No.”

  “And since?”

  “No.”

  “And the malady was triggered by your longing to be white? An unfulfilled desire to be a white European?”

  “A white Englishman, that’s correct.”

  “Now, Titus. I want you to take a deep breath, count to ten, and think about the next question. As a result of your presumptive cure, what did you learn about the real significance of whiteness?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You did not suffer from an unfulfilled desire to be a poor white?”

  “Okay I longed for the power of whiteness,” Tajirika agreed.

  “Political power, military power, the power to rule,” Sikiokuu added quickly, stressing his words as if he were a teacher enriching the understanding of his pupil. “Nay not just to rule, but to create protectorates, colonies, empires; to make the glory of Rome, London, Paris, fade by comparison? Titum Imperium Tajirikum Majestica}”

  “No. No. No. Never. I reject that,” said Tajirika, jumping to his feet as if he had accidentally sat on a pin. “I have never thought or dreamt of power to rule, much less of taking it by force. I completely reject those thoughts and dreams,” Tajirika insisted unequivocally. “I simply wanted something that would distinguish me from all other blacks. But not political power-no, not me.” “Titum Imperium Tajirikum Majestica is taking it too far, perhaps,” said Sikiokuu, a little taken aback by the vehemence of Tajirika’s denial. “But how did your longing for whiteness originate? If not with you, then surely with someone else who must have expressed this simple wish, perhaps even indirectly: If only I had the power of a white man. Or, If this government were in my hands, I would be as powerful as a white man. Anyway, something like that. So think, Titus, think and have the courage of your thoughts, no matter where or to whom they might lead you.”

  Conflicting thoughts and fears swirled in Tajirika’s head as he dwelled on the compromising pictures, the image of his wife as a guest of honor at a gathering of women intruding into every train of thought. There was no doubt in his mind that the pictures he saw were authentic. He even recognized the dress she wore. But the whole thing was absurd, cruel, and jarring, and he was having trouble keeping up with Sikiokuu’s twists and turns of argument. Instead of responding to Sikiokuu, Tajirika drained the last drops of brandy in his glass and put out his hand for more.

  Sikiokuu was quite happy to oblige and went to the cabinet. He could see that Tajirika was weakening and a little confused. Maybe a drink or two more would ease a voluntary confession implicating his rival. The whole exchange was being recorded. A confession was a confession, even out of the mouth of a drunken captive.

  “Yes, Titus?” Sikiokuu prompted him as he handed Tajirika another brandy.

  “Tell me, please, Mr. Minister. When your men once put my wife in custody did you then know about her association with those traditional women, or did you discover it only after grilling her?”

  “You want me to tell you the truth?”

  “Nothing can surprise me more than what I have already heard and seen today.”

  “We started suspecting her long ago. But Titus, why do you ask about her?”

  “Don’t you see? If my wife, the mother of my children, the person with whom I share a bed, could so deceive me and I was unable to see through the deception, who else could have been doing the same to me without my knowing it? Mr. Sikiokuu, I am not sure about anything anymore,” Tajirika said in despair.

  Sikiokuu saw the opening he had been looking for.

  “That’s exactly what I have been trying to tell you all along. A person like you should not trust people. A certain Frenchman, I think his name is Descartes, says: Doubt yourself. Doubt your closest friends. Doubt everything. I doubt, therefore I am. That’s what they call Cartesian logic.”

  “There, you have spoken nothing but the truth,” Tajirika said, assuming Descartes to be a contemporary French version of the biblical Thomas his wife always talked about.

  “Which of my truths are you referring to?” Sikiokuu asked.

  “That a person should never trust another.”

  “That’s the right way to think.”

  “Before this, I never had any cause to suspect my wife of any conspiracy.”

  “You mean it never crossed your mind that she might have been told to whisper evil thoughts in your ear at night?”

  Tajirika felt weaker and weaker. Was this so? Was he the victim of thoughts submitted into his subconscious by his wife at night?

  “I wonder who would want her to whisper evil thoughts to a sleeping man?” he asked weakly.

  “Your buddy. The man you call your friend. Some people have weird notions of friendship.”

  “Who? You mean…”

  “Anybody,” said Sikiokuu quickly, retreating from mentioning Machokali, hoping Tajirika himself would bring up the name.

  “And what would they want her to whisper in my ear at night?”

  “Something about power. Taking power.”

  “Yes, but why by a whisper through Vinjinia? And at night, when I am asleep?”

  “They may have been trying to soften you up to recruit you into their treasonous acts later,” Sikiokuu said lamely.

  Despite Tajirika’s anger at his wife for not reporting his disappearance in time and now for having herself photographed with strange women, he still could not see Vinjinia having conversations on politics with anybody. An inner voice, an instinct of self-preservation, told him to be wary of the direction in which Sikiokuu was trying to push him.

  “Let me tell you again,” Tajirika said quickly, as if retreating from the edges of a cliff. “I have never heard any talk, by anyone at any time, awake or asleep, about overthrowing the government.”

  “Why do you trust people so much? Why are you so sure that an acquaintance, a close friend, a person high up in government even, has not used your wife for his own evil designs?”

  “Quite frankly, Mr. Sikiokuu, I don’t think Vinjinia is capable of political plotting.”

  “So you are defending her again? Where have all your doubts gone? Have you forgotten about the photographs so soon?”

  “Silver Minister, they pain me; I beg you again to let me go home right away and face this treacherous woman. One night will suffice for me to extract the rotten truth.”

 
Sikiokuu grew alarmed and annoyed at the direction of Tajirika’s thinking, leading not to Machokali but to his wife’s possible treachery to him, the husband.

  “Let’s go back to the beginning. Apart from yourself, have you ever seen or heard or been near any other person who desired to be white? Take your time. The trouble with you, Tajirika, is that you are loyal to the point of being, well, innocent. Don’t rule out anybody just because he may be your friend. Descartes says you doubt everything and everybody…”

  “Even the Ruler?” Tajirika asked, genuinely puzzled. “Does he say we doubt the Ruler and his government?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Sikiokuu answered sharply.

  “Is this Descartes your friend, or adviser?” asked Tajirika.

  “Mr. Tajirika!” Sikiokuu said coldly, barely hiding his anger and frustration. “I don’t really have time to waste. But you obviously need more time to think about the real meaning of your own words if, white, and wish.”

  Sikiokuu rose from his chair.

  “Please don’t go,” pleaded Titus Tajirika. “Don’t leave me in captivity.”

  “Captivity in my office?” said Sikiokuu scornfully. “Tajirika, you seem to have a very high opinion of yourself. Were you seriously thinking that I was going to leave you alone in this office? Perhaps having fantasies of one day becoming a minister? Sir Titus Tajirika. You will never be anything more than a clumsy collector of bribes. The Waswahili say that if a Muslim must eat pork, then he might as well choose the juiciest. The same with the English. Better be hanged for a sheep than for a lamb. If you must accept bribes, at least have the imagination to ask for more than just a few symbolic coins, or else keep your nose clean like John Kaniürü, your deputy, and now, in your absence, both deputy and acting chairman of Marching to Heaven. And if he is confirmed in the seat, well, it is all because of your ungrateful refusal to cooperate.”

  Sikiokuu pressed a button. Within seconds Tajirika was blindfolded and led out of the office, screaming in desperation, What do you and your Descartes want me to dor

  4

  Sikiokuu sat back in his chair and for a while tugged at his earlobes.

  Then he took Vinjinia’s pictures and looked at each without taking in the details. The pictures had been his own invention, and it had almost broken his man. Everything was going on well until he mentioned the Frenchman. Why did I ever mention this Descartes? What if this idiot of a businessman should one day say that I was urging him to doubt the existence of the Ruler and his government?

  What most annoyed him was the fact that he knew very little about Descartes and his philosophy of doubt. He had first heard the phrases bandied around at a cocktail party he once attended at the Eldares French Cultural Center, and they sounded very learned and beautiful on the tongue. Little knowledge was danger, it had been said. In disgust at himself, Sikiokuu suddenly threw the pictures on the ground. What shall I do to contain the situation?

  It did not make matters any better when the following day he got yet another e-mail from Big Ben Mambo, Minister of Information, still in America, telling him to make preparations for the greatest airport reception for the Ruler.

  Sikiokuu did not know what he feared most: the return of the Ruler while Nyawlra was still free or the Ruler’s return with a loan from the Global Bank that would result in an even more powerful Machokali. A more powerful Machokali would mean a more powerful Tajirika. Was his star beginning to dim? Yet the e-mail had not specified the date of return or whether the Global Bank had approved the loan. But this was a mere postponement of the inevitable, for he had given up hope of apprehending Nyawlra in whatever time remained.

  As he slowly sunk into depression, he got an urgent call from Kaniürü with the incredible news that Kaniürü had finally found a way to get Nyawlra, but he did not want to discuss it on the phone.

  Sikiokuu felt like a drowning man who had been thrown a lifeline. He did not delay. He sent his own chauffeur to fetch Kaniürü and bring him to the office.

  5

  Kaniürü had gone to the shrine disguised as a worker in a dirty and creased blue uniform and a baseball cap with a fading American company logo.

  He had parked his Mercedes-Benz a mile away and walked. He had not breathed a word to anybody about his intended visit, and it was only when he reached Santalucia that he allowed himself to ask for the way to the shrine. He had made sure that he got there in the evening hours just as darkness was falling. No other client was waiting. A woman received him silently and pointed the way to the waiting room. After a few minutes, the same woman came back and showed him the way to the divination room and left him there, again without a word. He felt relieved that the woman had not asked him for anything about himself and, as no one knew his name, he grew even more confident in his disguise. He would give the Wizard of the Crow a false name and invent a history of himself.

  Through a tiny window in the wall, Kaniürü saw the Wizard of the Crow holding a small mirror in his left hand. The Wizard appeared to be reading it like a book, not raising his eyes even as he talked to the supplicant.

  “You live in Eldares,” the Wizard of the Crow stated.

  “Yes,” assented John Kaniürü.

  And you do not want anybody to know that you have been to my shrine.”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  “Even your bosses don’t know that you are here.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your work, or your name, has it something to do with smell?”

  That statement rattled Kaniürü, and it made him pause for a second. It was so close to the truth of his name that he saw no point in denying it. This mirror has a lot of power, he thought.

  “Yes,” he said at last.

  “So you can be called the Smelling One… no, no… One-Who-Smells… Oh, why is the image of your name becoming blurry?… Oh yes, it’s back. Much clearer now. Something to do with Nose or Noses, something like that.”

  Kaniürü almost jumped off his seat. The Wizard of the Crow had not yet looked up at him. His eyes were fixed on the book of the mirror the entire time. How did he know that my name is derived from nose? he wondered.

  “Yes,” Kaniürü agreed in a slightly tremulous voice.

  “And now your job! You used to capture shadows of humans, animals, plants, brooks, the bush.”

  “How?” Kaniürü asked, pretending not to know what the Wizard of the Crow was talking about.

  “On paper or in stone, the likeness of things?”

  “Yes. Yes,” Kaniürü agreed quickly.

  “But now you shadow people instead of capturing their shadows.”

  “What?”

  “You know, the Lord told the fishermen to leave their nets behind and follow him; he would make them fishers of men. You too must have heard the call of your Lord and Master to leave the images of things behind and follow him so as to become fisher of men and women.”

  “Yes, something like that,” said Kaniürü lamely.

  “The writing on the mirror has vanished,” said the Wizard of the Crow as he raised his head and looked directly at Kaniürü. “I am now ready to hear your story. But wait a minute!” the Wizard of the Crow said, looking at the mirror again. “There is more writing here. It is to do with your being captive. I see a heart held prisoner. Is your heart being held captive by somebody?”

  “What does the mirror mean by that?”

  For a moment Kaniürü thought that the Wizard of the Crow was referring to Jane Kanyori. He felt like laughing at the thought, because he had used her only for sexual release and money laundering.

  “You mean the woman who works at the bank?” Kaniürü asked, as if the Wizard of the Crow already knew about her. “Jane Kanyori will never capture my heart. She is not bad, but she is not my type and class,” he said, forgetting that he had gone there posing as a base workman.

  “Why so? Has another of your class or type already captured your heart?”

  “Yes,” Kaniürü said quickly, wondering how the Wizard
of the Crow could know about both Jane Kanyori and Nyawlra. There was clearly no need to deny what the wizard already knew. “There is one who captured my heart long ago. She is special, Mr. Wizard of the Crow.”

  “Where is she now?” the Wizard of the Crow ventured to ask.

  “I don’t know. I wish I knew.”

  “Are you looking for her?”

  “Day and night. But that is not the reason I came here today”

  “The images have all disappeared. There is now only darkness in the mirror,” said the Wizard of the Crow, now fixing his eyes on Kaniürü. “Say what ill wind blows you to my shrine?”

  “Mine is not an ill wind,” Kaniürü said. “Mine is the healthy breeze of property.”

  “Land? Cows and goats?”

  “No, more than land, goats, and cows. Money”

  “Newly rich? New money that suddenly came your way?”

  “Yes,” Kaniürü said. “But you know how our people are. Driven by envy.”

  “And you fear that they might cast evil on your new wealth? That they might make the riches disappear as quickly as they came?”

  “You have read my mind, Wizard of the Crow. So I want a magic potion, a magic spell, anything that will protect my wealth forever so that I can sleep in peace.”

  “Does your boss know about the new wealth?”

  “No.”

  “Does anyone?”

  “Wizard of the Crow, there is a saying that he who eats alone dies alone, but there are some delicacies that a person should eat alone, even at the risk of dying alone.”

  “You are so young and yet so well versed in proverbs.”

  “Gray hairs are not necessarily a sign of wisdom,” said Kaniürü, happy at the compliment.

  The flattery made him feel that the Wizard of the Crow was a real diviner, a true seer of useful truths, and he began to like him.

  “This shrine is for treating the sick-you know that?” said the Wizard of the Crow. “Here we bewitch evil. So let me ask you, has your property sickened you already?”

  “Oh, no, no, I’m not at all sick of it. I mean, mine is not a real illness.”