It was on the occasions when this string became nothing less than the object of his obsession that Munyasya was feared. With his right hand he would stretch it out to its full length between finger and thumb and then flick it loose to loop its way through gravity. This was Munyasya’s own snake, with whose power he could curse others. The word ‘nzoka’ was always clear and indeed emphasised during such episodes, and thus people who witnessed them generally interpreted this behaviour as an invocation that those whom he assailed should themselves be turned into snakes. It was in such circumstances that his body would reverberate and indeed physically vibrate with the awesome power of a voice that surely was not his.
These aberrations, however, were relatively infrequent. His usual self was this broken, mumbling old man who troubled no one and, even when he did revert to his other, threatening self, he was rarely interested in anyone other than strangers in the town, so most people allowed him to live his simple life unhindered and even untroubled. As an assumed child of God, however, his assumed desires were always respected.
***
Munyasya had decided to go home, where he would be alone. The company there would be better, he thought. It was not far, just across the market, along the road past the mission house and then just two cigarettes’ walk, twenty minutes for someone like him, who had a watch. But as he stood to steady his swirling head before setting off, even the first step seemed impossible. The path was straight, but the way tortuous. Too much beer and too little food caused his head to swim. The starlit town seemed to shimmer before him. Buildings seemed to move, transforming the gentle, cold and corrugated moonlit glow of their mabati roofs into a flashing glare that hurt his eyes. But he was still walking, slowly but surely, and in the right direction. His mind, though, was straying from its purpose. Drunkenness usually flaunts itself by demanding total concentration on the trivial. What would normally be controlled merely by instinct becomes a conscious act, requiring thought, precision and, unfortunately for the drunk, awareness.
The act of walking, the simple process of standing upright and placing first one leg and then the other thus becomes an operation that demands forethought and planning. In a well-lit room, the drunk considers his path, mapping out both his route and even the very placement of his feet, before he even rises from his chair. The fact that the body will surely enact what the mind has planned is no more than is to be expected. In the drunk’s case, however, the body will invariably fail to respond, but the drunken mind still plans its course with apparently unwavering devotion. It was this single-mindedness, this need to concentrate on the job closest to hand that Munyasya sadly lacked. His thoughts were focused only on what had been said in the bar.
Until that night, Munyasya had not known why Mbuvu was such a well-respected man in the community. As their long argument in the bar had developed, the old man began to realise that the townspeople’s respect for the man was borne of nothing but fear, fear of his vicious tongue. There was nothing in the town that did not receive Mbuvu’s attention, nothing about which he did not have an opinion, and those opinions, when publicly voiced, were not noted for the gentility of their expression.
Munyasya had taken the full force of his attack that night, and the words they exchanged rang through his head even now. And then, whilst he tried to answer a conscience that demanded to be noticed, the inevitable happened. He tripped over an exposed tree root and fell, crashing to the ground by the base of the great acacia in the corner of the market place. There he lay, not fifty yards from the bar, dazed by beer and stunned by shock, half awake, half asleep, only partially conscious. It might have been possible for daylight to re-form everything he could only partially see into shapes he could again understand, but he would never be allowed to judge that for himself. This was to be as far as the old life of Munyasya would go.
The argument with Mbuvu, however, continued to ring through his head. He felt as if during the night he had been plucked from his body, as if in his dreamlike agility, it had sprung away from the useless limbs that constrained it. Thus the meeting had been strange, but no less real for that. When the figure appeared out of the night, Munyasya stood to greet him, but the greeting handshake was withdrawn, when shock saw it being offered over his own still prostrate body.
It will be better when my eyes are accustomed to the dark. There are stars tonight. They will help me to see my way. Not that I need to see where I am going. I could get home from here with my eyes closed. I often do. If I stayed here I could have another beer. There’s more beer at home... Ah, that man! It’s all his fault. If he weren’t so stupid I would stay in the town, as I have stayed here so many times before. It’s easier than trying to walk all the way home. Easier to go home in the morning... But I will not be under the same roof as that imbecile! Who does he think he is? He has no education, no wealth, and yet he speaks as if the world is his, as if all men are his cattle.
Good evening, my friend. How are you?
Me? I am fine. A little tired and perhaps a little weary of the world. What brings you here at this late hour? Or perhaps I should say so early in the morning!
You, Munyasya. Just you.
The man was much younger than Munyasya, barely sixty, he thought.
You are troubled by something, my child?
The man’s smile was broad and his face was lit with a knowledge he was sure Munyasya desired.
Ah, you are playing with me. And who might you be to call me ‘child’? If I am troubled, be sure that my worries are only those of an old man and are caused by the sins of the young, such as you. You should beware of talking down to your elders, young man!
The other simply laughed, ever harder, slapping his bare legs with his hands. Munyasya felt himself stiffen with rage. His eyes were surely now glaring at the other. How dare this stranger insult an officer of the King’s African Rifles?
Munyasya, let us not fool ourselves. If you think for a moment; that is, if you can rid yourself of the effects of my family’s beer just for a moment, you will see who I am and you will see that you have known me for many years. Let me come closer.
The man began to move towards Munyasya, but simultaneously and involuntarily, Munyasya felt himself move as well, to maintain the distance between them. It was as if the two of them were stalking each other around an imaginary circle, like two frightened goats about to lock horns. Munyasya looked hard at the other seeking the promised recognition, but he found nothing to spur his memory. The face did seem familiar, and yet it was unknown to him. And why was the man’s dress so strange? Not for many years had he seen someone dressed in unfinished skins. His own stepfather had worn them, like every man of his generation, and saw it as his right to strike out at any woman who passed him by on the open side of the garment.
Still the man stalked him and still Munyasya kept his distance. The other’s naked legs strode strongly and firmly, but still he came no nearer.
So you have not yet remembered me?
The man stopped moving and so did Munyasya.
I will not tell you who I am. A dead man cannot talk about the dead. And I will not say what it is I want with you until you have remembered and spoken my name.
I am an old man, older than you. I have told you my name. I order you to introduce yourself to me now. You are my junior, so it is not you, but I who have the right to make demands. If you have lived to your age without learning that, then you are a fool, so choose your words carefully.
The man’s constant smile broadened again. Was he laughing at Munyasya? Then, bending forward to look at the ground before him, he made a sweeping gesture with his arm, inviting Munyasya to share the sight. The old man’s eyes obeyed the unspoken command and, on looking down, he coldly surveyed his own body, prostrate in the dust. The other sucked a sharp intake of breath, thus making his histrionic shivers of fear audible.
It must be very cold there on the ground, Munyasya. Tell me how cold i
t feels. Why do you not get up and walk home to your fireside? You have a comfortable bed at home. Why do you not get up and go to it?
But I am standing here! I am on my feet looking you in the eye.
The man gestured again towards the earth.
You are not, Munyasya.
His voice was no more than a whisper.
You are here on the ground, too drunk to stand. You fell over some time ago as you crossed the market place on your way home.
He paused again here to stare for some moments in complete silence, a silence that Munyasya now dare not break.
Are you asleep? Or perhaps unconscious from your fall? Or are you dead?
Dead? What a fool you must be! Am I not standing here in front of you?
How can you be sure? Is that not also you, lying there on the ground?
For a long time no more was said. Munyasya stared at his own body before him. He was seeing himself in a way he had never done before. He could see himself in his entirety. He could see his own eyes. They were blank and staring. He could see the side of his face, an angle on himself he had never seen before. Here lay a stranger who was himself.
If you doubt me, my friend, then shout to your friends in the bar for help. Or run to them. Look, they are all still there in the bar, in the same place where you left them so angrily only a few minutes ago. The door is open. The lamp is still lit. There they are. Can you still see them? They could easily hear your call from here. Go on. Call them.
Munyasya turned to look as instructed. No more than fifty yards away, through the narrow doorway, he could see Mbuvu and Mutua still talking as they sat at the bar. Unwittingly he felt himself enact the other’s commands.
Mbuvu! Mutua! Come quickly! I need help! Mbuvu! Mutua! I have fallen here in the market place by the tree. I can’t get up!
The louder he shouted, the more the other laughed at him. He tried to move but could not, and suddenly he was afraid. He turned to face the other again and found that he was still laughing. Munyasya lunged forward to strike, but the hand that held the stick did not respond. The body on the ground was still there, motionless.
Now, Munyasya, what do you think? You have no voice to shout, no legs to walk and no arm to strike. Over there in the bar they cannot hear you. They think you have gone home. By now in their thoughts you are already asleep in your bed. They have not the slightest suspicion that you might have fallen here. Only I know that. Now look closer and tell me my name. You know me as I know you, make no mistake about that. I am not trying to trick you. If you think that, look down again and see yourself lying on the ground to remind yourself that this is no ordinary meeting.
The other’s smile dissolved into an expression of concern. His unblinking eyes followed Munyasya’s as they sought every detail of the face, but still found no recognition.
Keep looking, my friend. I am closer to you than you think. Do not be afraid. I have come as a friend, as one who means well and wants to help you. I have never been your enemy and never will be. You would know me in a second had you not drunk too much beer. You never did listen to me, did you? How many times, Kathui, did I tell you that beer was for men and not for boys?
Kathui... Your beer? ...Nzoka!
The other gave out a long triumphant cheer. He laughed and clapped his hands in pure delight.
So you have found me and I you, Kathui.
Nzoka… Nzoka... Nzoka…
So you are my elder, Munyasya? Is that what you think now? You have grown very old, Kathui, but you can never be my elder.
No. You are still playing with me. Nzoka is dead. He was my father’s brother. He was old when I was young. You cannot be him. I mourned his death as a child. He was a father to me. He married my mother when my own father died. You cannot be him.
Then why do I call you Kathui, a name you have not heard since you were a boy? Who else could call you that name? Look more closely, old man. I am he.
Kathui...
The man’s face confronted Munyasya. It was closer now and unsmiling. It was almost a young man’s face. When he himself had been a boy, he had seen that same face as that of an old man, wrinkled, sagged and worn. But now he looked young, though the lines and shadows on his skin were all the same. Slowly Munyasya realised that all the other said was true. It was Nzoka. He knew this face he could no longer remember. Something within him had stirred, something he had forgotten long ago, but which, deep in his sub-conscious mind, had clung to him. Now the past was alive and he, himself, was part of it.
Who else could possibly call you Kathui? Who else could have claimed to be the brewer of the beer you drink? Oh now, my poor old friend, there is no need to be so frightened. I am, after all, only a member of your own family. What need is there to fear your own flesh and blood, especially the kind old uncle you learned to call your father? Now I know that lasted only a short time. I’m afraid that having to look after so young a child as you after some years of relative laziness proved to be too much of a strain for my poor old body. Don’t misunderstand me, though. I am not saying that you were the death of me, but when I took your mother into my home, I must admit that I had forgotten how exhausting a new wife and a new baby can be. Anyway, enough of the past for the moment. How are you, my child?
Despite the fear that seemed to make his eyes shake, Munyasya answered on command.
I am very well, thank you.
A little too much beer, perhaps?
Nzoka spoke in the avuncular admonitory manner in which an adopted father speaks to his son, the overt concern not quite backed by real interest, caring without loving.
Yes. Tonight I am very drunk, but you can blame that on Mbuvu, not on me. He has kept me here much longer than usual by saying stupid things designed to make me mad. I am afraid he succeeded and I got so mad I just drank and drank and never noticed how drunk I was becoming. Not until I got up to leave and tried to walk across the market place did I realise, and by then I couldn’t even get back to the bar. It would have confirmed everything Mbuvu had been saying.
Could it be that Mbuvu’s opinions are true, and that you just don’t want to admit it?
Never. Let me tell you what I think. The man is sick with envy. I have money. I have education and I have respect. There are many things to be done, nowadays. Now that the British Governors have been chased away by the Kikuyu swine, now that we have won our ‘freedom’, behold we have suddenly been forced to realise that it is not easy to organise these people, that it is not easy to administer this land. People like me are in great demand to arbitrate, to sit on councils and committees and the like. My years of experience in the army make me an obvious choice for such work...
Munyasya, you speak of ‘these people’. Are you not one of them?
Ah, Nzoka, things are very different now from what you would remember. There are so many people who just do not understand how things should be done. I never used to believe what Major Cunningham...
Ah yes, Cunningham. That was the man who owned you when you were a slave?
Slave? I was never anyone’s slave and certainly not his. He was...
I know, Munyasya. I know what Cunningham was and I know what you became. I was with you all the time. Hyenas always stay with their friends.
Munyasya’s confusion was immediate and obvious.
But surely you know, my child that I have been with you all your life, as I have been with all other members of my family? I have never left your side, not for a moment. I know everything there is to know about Major Cunningham, and all the others you have served. I have seen the world as you have seen it, through your eyes. But I have also seen it, at the same time, from my advantageous position. I have also seen your place in it, something you have never known. You will understand before too long, my child. You will remember that the one who makes the spell cannot be the one who breaks it and then you will understand my words. But don�
��t let me interrupt. Continue with your story.
Munyasya fixed his gaze upon the other’s face for a moment. Why should he trust this man? How could he know he was telling the truth? He began to scold himself for being so drunk, thinking again that this conversation, this entire meeting must be some kind of illusion, simply a drunken hallucination. A hint of a smile from the other convinced him.
Ah, you are playing with me again. I don’t believe you are whom you claim to be. If I could think more clearly, I could end this dream. Nzoka is dead. He died when I was still a child. You cannot be him. Anyway, if you have seen my life already, you should know everything that happened in that bar without being told. Why should I have to repeat it?
The other’s expression hardened immediately. Again the hand gestured towards the ground. Munyasya’s gaze followed and the body, his own body, still lay there in front of him, eyes staring at the dust.
This is no dream, my friend. This is no ordinary meeting. And I am not asking you to tell me: I am ordering you. Now an old military man like yourself surely does not need me to explain the difference between ‘asking’ and ‘ordering’. It is still an old man’s duty to keep the young out of mischief. I do already know all of what happened in there, but I want to hear it from your own mouth.
Involuntarily, Munyasya continued. He now seemed to have no control over the words that flowed from the very depths of his mind. The other seemed to be reading him.
Mbuvu is envious. He was saying that I have no right to the respect that I receive in this community.
And the reasons?
They are not reasons, they are excuses; excuses for himself. Anyway there are too many to list...
The reasons?
He says that, because I helped the British and spent most of my life working for them, I am a traitor to my own people and that rather than receiving respect, I should be vilified and punished.
Mission Page 45