Mulonzya’s eyes have opened even wider.
“If they live their lives by Christian principles then they have the right to call themselves Christian. It may well be that even those who do not wish to call themselves Christian in any shape or form still have the right to do so, because of the quality of their actions. Those who do not accept the responsibility of Christ’s example - note, not necessarily his verbal teaching - those people simply are not Christians, and it doesn’t matter how many times they go to church in a week.”
Mulonzya was by now almost speechless with disbelief. “But... but... a Christian is a man who worships a Christian God. Your own Church teaches that as gospel.” Mulonzya again pats the bar top, though less vehemently this time. It is as if the power of the slap is proportional to his confidence of the truth of his statement. “What you are saying is that an uncivilised pagan, like some old man from the bush who has never been to church, never been baptised, you are saying that he is a Christian?”
“Not necessarily,” answered Michael, “but he could be. It would depend on how he lives his life. If he lives in the image of Christ, it doesn’t matter why he thinks he is doing it. In Christ’s eyes, he is a believer.”
Mulonzya scoffed in disbelief. “Never. If that is so then why do you - and others like you - come here? What need is there for you to build your churches, to drive your flock inside like sheep to teach them how to worship Christ, when they might even be closer to Christ than you are yourselves? Why shouldn’t we all just stay as we are?”
As Michael began to answer, Mulonzya mumbled on for a moment in a disapproving tone. “I have said that there are many people who do not live by Christian principles. Most people in fact. The Church is Christ’s school, where people go to learn his teaching. Not everyone, of course, manages to learn the message, no matter how many times they attend the classes! As a Christian, myself, my aim is not just to fill my church - that is only the beginning. When a person first comes to church to worship, I accept that person like a teacher admitting a pupil to a standard one class. The act of worship is but the first step towards learning the teaching of Christ that might take years of study and practice. The person might never learn. Not everyone who wants to be a Christian is capable of living a Christian life. After all, we are only human. We are all imperfect. Christ learned this when he walked the earth as a man and so, in our teaching, we recognise this. We accept the fact that even when people try to live up to Christ’s principles, they will sometimes fail to satisfy what He expects of them. Therefore every human being is a sinner and only redeems that sin through worship. That is the important thing about going to church. It is not simply a place to pray to God, to keep on the right side of the all-powerful. It is a place where one might ask for forgiveness for one’s failure to live up to the most essential human standards of Christ’s teaching.”
Though somewhat confused by Michael’s position, Mulonzya thought he had seen a giant flaw in the argument. “But Mister Michael, do you not see what you are saying? You have just said that there are no Christians.” Mulonzya’s finger wagged in emphasis. “To be a Christian, a man must live by Christian principles. Correct? But because he is a man, you say, he is incapable of doing this. There are no Christians and there never can be.”
“No. As long as a man continues to live by those principles and remains conscious and repentant of his failure to live up to them, he remains a Christian. He might not be perfect, but he is at least part of the way. It is those people who choose to ignore those principles, which they are taught through the Church who are not real Christians. People are not saved by their proximity to Christ’s Church, as your faith teaches. It is not the act of worship which is our salvation, but the way that we live our lives.”
Mulonzya’s expression was impatient and dismissive as he answered quickly. “Now, there, Mister Michael, I agree with you. The emphasis of the Protestants is wrong. They play too much on people’s superstitions.” Michael nodded in agreement. Mulonzya gave a quick laugh before continuing. “Look at what they are doing. They don’t even bother to build proper churches. Years ago, when I was young, they built their churches strong and permanent, made them from concrete, but what do they do now? They build them out of sticks and mud like cattle sheds. How do they expect our people to learn to develop from such an example?”
In reply to this, Michael offered only a broad, knowing smile and total silence. He was confident that his trap was finally ready to spring.
When the expected comment did not materialise, Mulonzya continued. “You know, Mister Michael, let me tell you what I and many of my colleagues are thinking these days.” Instinctively, he glanced about the bar as if to check that even in this small bush place there were no ‘official’ eyes or ears to witness the secret he was about to divulge. He then felt able to continue, but in a lower, more confidential, less self-promotional style. “Many of us believe that the Protestants’ time is up. There was a time when they positively helped our nation’s development, but now it is becoming clear that they are hindering it. For example, they used to aid our country actively with real hard currency. They used to finance the building of their churches and schools from overseas, by collections from the rich in rich countries. But nowadays? They tell us that it is good for our souls to make sacrifices for God, that we should learn to provide everything for ourselves. Self-reliance is good for the self, Mister Michael. Now you know at first hand that most people are poor. How can they be expected to provide thousands of shillings to build adequate churches? They cannot, obviously, and so what happens? All they are able to provide these days are cattle sheds. Now how is that helping development? Why should they expect people here to be satisfied with second best when anyone can see the magnificence of the cathedral in Kitui town? Confidentially …” Though it was unlikely that either of the others in the bar was listening, Mulonzya leaned across the bar towards Michael and spoke in a whisper. “... there is a fast growing belief in the government that unless they change their ways they will have to go. We will send their missionaries home and withdraw our support for their church.” As Mulonzya straightened from his sincere position, offering a serious, emphatic nod of the head in affirmation, Michael burst out laughing.
It was a harsh mocking laugh, and Mulonzya’s overtly serious expression soon changed, first to confusion and then to a frown of mistrust. “And why is that funny, Mister Michael?” he asked, stressing the Mister.
“Ah Mulonzya,” Michael began, “you astound me.” He thinks for a moment before continuing. “Now where was it? Ah yes, I remember. It was at Ndau, just before the election. Now you know as well as I do that Ndau is a solidly Protestant area. The speech you gave there told people exactly what you thought they wanted to hear.”
“And what was that?” asked Mulonzya defiantly. He was beginning to be offended by Michael’s laughter.
“At Ndau you told your audience that it was ‘widely believed in the government that unless the Catholic Church began to ordain more African priests in this area then it would be kicked out. You would send its missionaries home.”
“A quite valid criticism in my opinion,” snapped Mulonzya, changing his tack with effortless ease.
“I suppose that is an example of your being practical, of judging what is possible depending on the circumstances?” Mulonzya began to eye Michael with suspicion and some anger. “I call it convenient and calculated to win votes like everything else you do. Your sole end is to reinforce your position so that you can continue to line your own nest. You even called yourself a Christian in the same speech.”
Mulonzya took hold of his bottle of beer and slammed it hard onto the counter. “Then why is it, Mister Michael,” he shouted angrily, “that I have so much support in the District? Do you think that people would vote for me if they did not believe what I said? Do you think I would have such support if I were not telling the truth? Do you not think that it shows that people
are satisfied with what I am doing on their behalf?”
“People vote for you because you are a chameleon, Mulonzya.” Michael’s voice hardened as he continued. “Out here in the bush you tell people how hard you work for them. You tell them exactly what you think they want to hear, but as soon as you get through the barrier and on your way to Nairobi, you completely forget them. Everything you do from then on is calculated to achieve your only true aim which is nothing other than lining you own pocket and increasing your power - your potential for further earning. If people knew that you and other politicians are actively working against their interests, you’d probably have a revolution on your hands.”
After a tense silence, Mulonzya spoke with uncharacteristic reticence, in a slow cynical tone. “And what, Mister Michael, is going to convince people that what you say is true?”
“I would have thought that was obvious. As they grow poorer you grow richer. It’s plain for all to see. While their crops fail, forcing them to sell their animals and land just so they can eat, it’s people like you who come along and do the buying. You’re getting people’s hard-earned assets for a song, just because times are difficult. And then what do you do with the land? You sink boreholes and then plant cash crops like coffee or sisal for sale out of the area and then you pocket the profit to build a new house in Nairobi!”
Mulonzya reacted dismissively, waving his hand and scoffing. “What rubbish you are saying! People are happy to see their location developed by those who have the resources to do it in just the same way that they are proud when they see fine buildings like schools and churches being erected. They are all signs of our nation’s increasing prosperity. It makes people happy to see such progress.”
“Well I suppose they all need something to keep them going while they starve because less and less land is being used to grow food. They need some consolation when they eventually find that their men folk have to go to the city to live in the shanties of Mathare valley to find whatever work they can, just so that the family can eat.”
“People are starving because of drought. Whom do you blame for that? Me or your God?”
“Neither, of course, but I do blame you for making the effects of the drought much worse than they need be. If you and others like you were to use your fine tracts of land to grow food, there would be no famine. You have the best land, boreholes to irrigate it and often tractors to plough it - and yet the people of this area gain absolutely no benefit from the end product. You don’t even provide people with jobs.”
“So this is what you preach in your church?”
“Yes.” Though Michael was clearly trying to antagonise, the reply took Mulonzya by surprise and shocked him. “I tell my congregation,” Michael continued, “that they should live by Christian teaching and seek to work for the benefit of their fellow men - and that they should not respect those people who flout Christ’s ideals - whatever their standing in the community.”
“You say that as if you believe I do not live by those principles.”
Michael’s laughter angered Mulonzya further. “After what you have done to the Mwangangis at Kamandiu, that is what everyone believes, not just me. Look at what you have done to that family!” Michael implored Mulonzya to listen, but by this time the other was growing ever more disaffected by what he heard and had taken to staring proudly into space, feigning deafness. “After the complete tragedy of Musyoka killing John, the family picks itself up from the floor and sets about trying to make a life for itself again. They understandably assume that John Mwangangi’s land will stay in the family and that it is theirs to farm. No one challenges them. They work hard to till the land and plant their crops. Meanwhile, in Nairobi, you have been doing your homework. You know that John left everything to his wife so you can bribe her to marry your son and so become a member of your family. And then of course, tradition demands that she change the deed on the land to favour the husband’s family - which ultimately turns out to be you. You offer no compensation whatsoever to the family, despite the fact that the profit on the sale of old Musyoka’s stock helped John to buy the farm in the first place. And to cap it all you claim half of the produce from the crops the family have planted, leaving them as good as destitute. You get a big farm, complete with borehole, ready-made to plant a cash crop, tilled for you by unpaid labour, maize and beans to sell, to which you had no right in the first place - and all for nothing!”
Mulonzya’s patience ran out. He reached across the counter and shook the barman, who somehow had managed to sleep right through the crescendo of argument. When he awoke with a start, he found Mulonzya almost shouting at him. “I want my bill. It’s time I was going.” Turning to Michael again, he emphatically stated his case. “What I did was perfectly legal, so beware of what you say, Mister Michael!”
As the young man behind the bar lethargically eased himself off his stool and began to count the biro tally marks along the edges of the drinkers’ beer mats to calculate their bills, Mulonzya again spoke, but this time in a patronising, admonitory tone which was tinged with threat. “For your own good, Mister Michael, I would like to remind you that you are a guest here - a guest of the Kenyan people and the Kenyan government. You have no God-given right to stay here, as you will soon discover if you continue to concern yourself with things that are none of your business. Furthermore, should you break the law here - and I will remind you that slander is a crime, even if it is delivered from a pulpit - I will personally see that you are expelled from our country.”
“Well then let me point out to you, Right Honourable James Mulonzya MP,” said Michael defiantly, “that if you believe it is part of your job to denounce publicly the work of my Church and my fellow priests within it, then I have the right, as a man of the Church, to explain why you have no right to express such opinions.”
“Why do I have no right? What makes me so special?”
“Because, Mulonzya, your actions prove you are no Christian and not a practising member of any Church worthy of the name, and yet you court the votes of the young by quoting scripture in your speeches and by saying that you follow its principles in public life. In my view you do the exact opposite. You are no Christian. If people ask me to explain to them what I think, then it is my duty to do so. Mulonzya, all I do is allow your deeds to speak for themselves.”
At this point, two completely unexpected events intervened and thus averted the danger of Michael and Mulonzya setting about one another in a full-blown row. First, the barman who had completed his sums presented the two of them with their bills. Michael gave his a quick glance, extracted a crumpled ten-shilling note from his pocket and said diffidently, “Keep the change,” as he placed it on the bar with the receipt. Meanwhile Mulonzya had been rendered uncharacteristically speechless by what he had read. His jaw sagged and then he issued a few short words of Kikamba to the barman who replied instantly, nodding towards Michael, obviously saying that the priest had been keeping a tally of the beers whilst he, himself, had been asleep.
As Michael looked on innocently, feigning incomprehension, the old man who had been dozing in the corner began to rise to his feet, uttering loud grunts of discomfort at the exertion. With a hint of a wry smile on his lips, Michael looked on as Mulonzya begrudgingly counted out from his fat wallet a total of forty-five shillings and fifty cents to settle his bill. So absorbed were these three, Michael, Mulonzya and the barman, in counting money, that none of them paid any attention to the wizened form of old Munyasya slowly shuffling across the bar towards them, his stick punctuating the sand-scraping of his feet with light staccato taps.
With all dues paid and checked, Mulonzya finally turned towards Michael with the intention of asking how he had managed to amass a bill almost five times as large as Michael’s. He was angry, but the encounter would also clearly have been carried through with a good deal of humour. After all, what was fifty shillings to a member of parliament like him? But his question was c
ut short by Munyasya, who pushed himself between the two of them.
Munyasya lifted his head to look Michael straight in the eye. He was smiling, as ever, and stood so close that the priest winced and drew away as the smell of the old man’s hot and fetid breath hit him full in the face. Then, without any warning, without any hint of a growl in his throat to raise the mucus and phlegm, Munyasya spat directly into Michael’s face. The priest jerked to avoid it but did not succeed and was left with a heavy streak of slime on his cheek.
Mulonzya began to snigger as an embarrassed Michael wiped his face with his handkerchief and glared back at the old man who simply carried on staring and smiling. Then, as if activated by the flick of a switch, Munyasya’s entire body stiffened. He threw his head back until almost horizontal and shouted at the ceiling. But his words were so garbled, so slurred that only he, himself, knew what he had said. Both Mulonzya and the barman began to snigger again, but Mulonzya soon stopped when the old man turned to face him.
“Well I’ll be going then.” “Goodnight and thank you.” Michael and Mulonzya thus announced their departures at the same moment, as if sharing the same breath and, as they left the bar and walked out into the night, the only sound that rose above the rattle of the wind was the continued laughter of the barman as he bolted the door behind them. The old man, grinning still, settled down for the night in his usual place, along the concrete veranda of the bar, just to the left of the closing door.
***
John O’Hara has refrained from interrupting, allowing Michael to tell the story as he, himself, remembered it. As the story has progressed, the initial expression of interested concern on the Bishop’s face has hardened to obvious worry. When Michael finishes, he remains silent, pensively turning over his own recollections of the argument he has just had outside with Mulonzya and the others. Michael does not break the silence now. He seems content to lean back on the settee and blow long curling swirls of smoke at the ceiling. Eventually, it is O’Hara who is first to break the silence. He speaks slowly, in a low heavy voice, which seems to communicate more meaning than the words themselves. “That explains quite a lot.”
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