Michael jerks his head forward in a silent question. “When I was outside earlier, it was Mulonzya who was doing all the talking. To be honest I couldn’t make much of sense of it. He went ranting on about... this and that … as if I ought to know the whole story, which of course - I now know - I didn’t. What you have just told me has filled in some of the gaps and now I can see what he was getting at.”
“Well? Enlighten me.”
“No. Not yet. I want to hear the rest of your story first. This fellow Munyasya, the old man. He keeps on cropping up, doesn’t he? Wasn’t it him who was hanging around outside the mission when I came up to see you the morning after the fire?”
Michael gives a short resigned grunt of a laugh. “It was indeed. I’d quite forgotten about that.” During a short pause he is obviously searching for words to express an idea, which has become suddenly clear in his mind but which also has remained perennially difficult to relate. “It’s ironic, you know.” In answer to O’Hara’s glance he continues. “It’s a hell of a coincidence when I think back on it. I remember that evening...” He seems momentarily to have forgotten the tragic events of that morning. He seems suddenly absorbed by his memories of a day some weeks earlier. “It was the day we opened the new church in Thitani. I got back just after dark feeling particularly low for a number of reasons. It’s quite funny, really, but I decided that night to commit my frustrations to paper and present them to you. I never managed it of course, but I was ready that night to resign from the priesthood and actually tried to write a letter to you to explain my reasons.” O’Hara shows no visible surprise at this. “Anyway, as is usual with me, when it came to the crunch I just couldn’t find the words so I gave it up as a bad job. I decided to write to Janet instead. Why is it, John, that I can express with such ease to her things which I find impossible to describe to anyone else?” O’Hara privately hopes that this is a rhetorical question. “Anyway, old Munyasya was hanging around then as well, as well as the following morning. I didn’t give it a second thought because for some months now he’s been coming to the mission for food and water. I haven’t seen him much but Mutua tells me that he calls at least twice a week. Mutua usually sees him, not me.”
“You said you were feeling depressed that night, Michael. Why? Just things in general or...”
“Oh everything, John. Things in general, things in particular. I’d just got Janet’s letter telling me she was pregnant - and then there was Thitani - and all the other frustrations I’ve been talking about just seemed to pile up before my eyes. It made everything seem so hopeless.”
***
Three scorpions in a week. The compound would have to be cleared. In his heart of hearts, Michael knew how much he had been neglecting the day-to-day running of the mission, but for some weeks both his energy and his willingness to devote time to such tasks had deserted him. Certainly the mission compound would have to be cleared. After the recent rain, it had become overgrown with long grass and weeds and he was now beginning to pay for not clearing it straight away. Scorpions and, more likely than not, snakes as well had moved in with him as unwelcome guests. As he stooped to clear the mess on the floor, he mumbled out loud to himself that he would have to get Boniface and the other catechists to help him to cut down the grass the following morning.
Only a minute before he had inhabited only his own mind and had been totally engrossed in the task he had set himself that evening. He had lost all awareness of the physical world around him and of his own presence in it. He had deliberated over words, reliving through memory the feelings which had prompted him to begin the letter and trying to imagine a new future which, he was convinced, its writing would unfold. Thus he had ceased to notice the silent room. Not even the flickering shadows of the candle-light by which he wrote disturbed this private world, which still would not quite reveal itself completely either in his mind or on paper.
The table was littered with sheets of writing paper. Some were almost blank, save for an odd word or two. Others had only crossings out which could in no way testify to the amount of time and thought Michael had invested in them.
Then, by the sound of scaly scratching across the floor, he was suddenly, abruptly, prodded back into the tangible world. Only a split second later, it was clear that the source of this sound had become everything, overriding both thought and sense. It was as if he, himself, had done nothing, as if a separate being inside his body had taken control and ordered complete subservience. This sound of scratching on concrete had triggered the reaction, a reaction which was now a part of him, unthought and unconscious, used but rarely felt, like walking, standing or thinking.
Immediately he drew up his feet from the floor. His eyes raced with the sound and its echoes until they had fixed on their target. In an instant he had taken off his shoe and set off across the room with it in his hand. With one giant lunge forward, he struck the blow apparently without thought or planning. The slap of the heel on the concrete floor and the crack of the scorpion’s skeleton were simultaneous, but nevertheless distinct sounds, experienced together, but perceived separately. The slap without the crack would have prompted another immediate strike. There would have been no time to think, no time to ponder, just the need to act. Only when he withdrew to sit on the floor a yard from his prey with his shoe still in his hand still ready to strike, only then did he become conscious of having done anything at all. Only then did he see that he had caught the animal but a glancing blow with the very edge of the heel, a blow which had cracked an oozing furrow diagonally across the carapace just above the tail. It had been enough, though, to weld the carcase to the floor, to leave the claws open and outstretched, to bring the sting high for the last time. In the same amnesia of instinct, he inspected the shoe for debris and, finding nothing sticking to the sole, put it back on his foot.
An inquisitive head rose above the arm of the chair by the bookcase and surveyed the scene for a moment. Then, with languorous disinterest, Michael’s cat, Ikuli, silently crossed the room and stopped a yard from the dead scorpion. Ikuli’s eyes fixed on the animal and then turned to stare wide and questioning towards Michael. With continued glances for reassurance, the cat tentatively reached forward and gently flicked the dead scorpion with an outstretched paw. The front of the body rose and fell, whist the rest remained still, the whole hinging along the impact line of Michael’s blow. With growing confidence the cat then lunged forward and a paw sent the carcase slithering and spinning across the floor. As it hit the far wall, Ikuli’s eyes again turned to seek Michael’s reassurance. Was this really no more than a plaything now? Then with a mad dash across the room, Ikuli regained his prize and immediately bit the dead animal through the middle of its body, neatly avoiding the claws, bringing another loud crack from the carapace. Again Ikuli looked up as he stood proudly over his prize, but a moment later his interest faded. His face stretched and then shrank in a yawn before returning to his chair to lick his lips and sleep.
“I feed you too much porridge,” said Michael out loud as he rose to his feet.
A couple of minutes later the corpse was in the dustbin and Michael was back at the table, trying to recreate the sentient inner world of his own mind, which would again shut out all reality. He soon realised, however, that the disturbance caused by the scorpion had broken his concentration. Instinct - or was it a lack of commitment? - immediately told him that his desire to express what he believed were his true feelings in a letter of resignation to John O’Hara had yet again been thwarted. How many times in the last few months had he tried to write that letter? He had tried as many times as he had failed. On every occasion, and this was to be no exception, he had been prevented by his inability to make his grievances sound sufficiently important or credible to warrant the unquestionably drastic action of leaving the priesthood. After all, were not the frustrations he was currently experiencing neither more nor less serious than those he had encountered and, for the most part, learned to acc
ept at any time during more than ten years as a missionary priest? Could it be that the merely over-zealous activities of an eager-to-impress catechist in Thitani that day had focused his conscience on what was never more than a collection of isolated trivia and magnified it out of all proportion?
The day was to have been one of joyous celebration. For some years the people of Thitani had clamoured for their own church. Though Michael had tried to convince them that the primary school classroom that they had always used for mass was perfectly sufficient, they remained adamant. Ever since John O’Hara, during his time as parish priest in Migwani, had deigned to create this small market centre as one of his stations, the Catholics of Thitani had consistently demanded their own church. Their demands were understandable for numerous reasons, paramount among which was the fact that this small town could already boast of two small but purpose-built Protestant churches.
It had taken the Catholic minority several years to amass enough money even to lay the mere foundation of their dream. The final designs, accepted by both the diocese and the parishioners were very ambitious. The church would be large to cater for the equally large number of expected converts who would be attracted to the faith by the magnificence of the new building. It would be built from cement blocks, not the much cheaper earth bricks which people used to build their homes. Its stature would be worthy of respect and its solidity and air of permanence would inspire the confidence of its congregation.
The scheme had, of course, suffered its ups and downs over the years. They had run out of money several times. They had been forced to rely at one stage on money collected by Michael during a tour of American dioceses. He had been sent on a fund raising tour by John O’Hara and his photographs of the unfinished church in Thitani had created more interest and thus raised more money than any of the other - and in his opinion more deserving - aspects of the diocese’s work. It was therefore slowly, sometimes almost brick by brick, that he and his Thitani parishioners had seen the project through to its conclusion and that day was to see the first service under its resplendent, shining tin roof.
The daylong celebration was proudly enjoyed by all who attended. The mass was solemn and uplifting, both joyous and sad, quite different in feeling from any other the Thitani congregation had ever known in their primary school classroom. It was perhaps the sense of weight and permanence that the new building gave to the ceremony which muted people’s usual exuberance. Whereas, on a normal day, the entire congregation would have belted out their contributions in full voice, on this day they had behaved rather like the English at evensong.
And then there was a meal laid on by the parish council for the numerous guests. Surely cow peas and stewed goat had never tasted so sweet. In the heat of the afternoon, over two hundred people, including an uninvited but welcome few who had sneaked in for a free meal, sat on the ground in the church compound. A deep contentment, even a sense of fulfilment pervaded all conversation. Everyone confessed that they had felt that day a true feeling of community. Individually, every person who had lived through the duration of the project from idea to completion greeted Michael with great affection, shook his hand for minutes on end and thanked him sincerely. Though he often complained that he was not getting a chance to eat his food, he could not deter the seemingly endless queue of people who waited their turn to express personal, heart-felt thanks for his help and encouragement over the years. By the time the sun began to sink towards the horizon, tiredness had begun to take its toll on the celebrant and some of those who had shared the day had already set off home. Most, however, remained to stand in small groups discussing their lives in the spirit of hopefulness, reconciliation and brotherhood that the day had sought, apparently successfully, to engender.
When Michael began to announce his departure by explaining that he wanted to reach Migwani before darkness fell, it was Boniface who stepped forward to interrupt. He told Michael and the attentive crowd, though it was obvious they already knew what he was about to say, that there was one more thing they wanted Michael to see before the day could be brought to an official close.
Having offered no more information than this, he invited everyone to follow him across to his own homestead a few minutes away on the other side of the main road. Michael assumed - even hoped! - this extra unexpected event would probably be a beer, or a bottle of soda or some memento, a carving possibly to commemorate the occasion. Though by then he felt thoroughly exhausted, he made no excuses and accepted the invitation with sincere enthusiasm. As the large group made its way over the road and on through a wide gap in the thorn-bush thicket which surrounded Boniface’s homestead, it occurred to Michael that he seemed to be the only person present who did not know what was about to happen.
All the invited guests, the Bishop, the District Officer, the Members of Parliament, the Chiefs and the like had all left some time before. It was obviously something laid on especially for him and, though he tried not to show it, he began to feel both touched and embarrassed at the same time.
As the hundred-strong party approached the admixture of round earth-walled huts and part-built concrete structures that made up Boniface’s homestead, these feelings were heightened by the mood of those around him. Everyone seemed to have grown strangely serious, solemn, in fact. Boniface led them all to a granary made from split sisal poles and set on sturdy legs to stand a foot above the ground. It was obviously very new. The roofing thatch had been left untrimmed and in places strands of green showed clearly that grass freshly cut after the recent rain had been used to complete the covering.
People took up positions around the structure as if they had rehearsed the entire affair. There was suddenly no talking, no joking, just a sea of serious and now determined faces which seemed to Michael to express more a sense of duty than celebration. Boniface beckoned to Michael to come forward and then invited him to look inside the granary. As he peered into the darkness, Boniface began to speak in a low voice.
He addressed only Michael, saying that this was designed to show him how much people wanted to thank him for having transformed their town from a small bush market place to one worthy of a fine grand church. It would also display to Michael just how much the members of his church truly wished to follow the teaching of Christ. Boniface said several other things, but by this time Michael had ceased to listen.
Inside the granary, piled from floor to ceiling was a collection of objects the like of which he had never before seen in Kenya. The interior of the hut was packed so tightly he could hardly make out what most of the objects were. Certainly there were carvings, both large and small, painted shields and spears, clothes, headdresses, knives, skins and much, much more. Michael was transfixed by the sight, rendered utterly speechless by the wealth of beauty he saw.
Boniface was still speaking, saying something about now wanting to publicly prove their desire to be true Christians. By the time Michael shifted his gaze from the interior of the granary back to Boniface and then to the faces of the crowd, a number of appointed children had already pushed armfuls of dried grass between the legs of the structure. Boniface took Michael’s arm and led him aside. All drew back away from the hut except Boniface, who again came forward, pausing on the way to take a corked bottle from an old man. Then, after quickly sprinkling the contents of the bottle inside the hut, he stood back and lit the dry grass below. “For you, Father,” he said as the grass smoked white and flames began to lick the base of the granary.
Michael wept, just a little, not enough for anyone to see. Surely this had never been his intention. This hut was obviously filled with these people’s most treasured possessions, many of them family heirlooms passed down from long-forgotten generations who had never even heard of a white man, let alone his God. Obviously everything which was about to fuel this bonfire was of great religious or ceremonial significance and hence the need to destroy it in order to confirm the strength of their conviction to Christ. Or could it be that they we
re merely symbols, artefacts of the ‘old life’ being destroyed to demonstrate that Thitani and its people had entered a new age and with it the state of ‘development’? Whatever the explanation, whatever the significance of these beautiful things, the seriousness of this gesture was plain to see. The crowd looked on in silence as first the grass burned and then, with an almost foreboding thud, the kerosene inside lit to engulf the entire structure in flames. No, this had never been Michael’s intention, but he had no means of communicating this now without adding insult to obvious injury.
This single event had soured his entire day. In his eyes it nullified, even outweighed, all the good that a new church in Thitani could ever hope to realise. In the long run this act could surely alienate people from the Church or turn people against Christ in whose name it was being perpetuated. Thus it was with great sadness and a sense of failure that Michael rode home. No external sound penetrated the cocoon of noise from the motorbike’s engine. His thoughts turned inward as his body instinctively and efficiently kept the motorcycle upright and moving through the sandy dry river beds and the loose scree of the narrow, scrub-lined track. By the time he reached the mission in Migwani, his resolve to write to the Bishop was set. It seemed that every potential step forward was necessarily accompanied by an immediate and tangible step back. Every plus had its inevitable and greater minus.
And yet the conviction remained that if only he were qualified - or even just allowed - to attack what he considered to be the root causes of suffering, then his work, both in and out of the church, would see real progress. What could he ever achieve with his hands tied? He could see himself as a child plugging the dyke with his fingers to hold back the inevitable flood. His handicap in the task appeared to be that forces out of his control were driving bulldozers by the dozen into the other side of the dam.
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