And why should he be respected rather than you?
Because he is a trader and a father. He believes he demands respect because he has a large family and much wealth, because he has never accepted the Europeans’ teaching, values, religions or culture, and because he is now, as a trader, actively trying to construct the modern Kenya which we all desire.
So you have no family, Munyasya?
No.
No one? No one to watch over after you are dead?
No one at all. They are all dead.
And you never married?
No.
Why not? Only a woman can preserve a man’s memory. Why did you never marry, Munyasya?
There are many reasons...
Why, Munyasya? An unmarried man’s words are worth no more than a boy’s. Why did you choose that path, my child?
I was rejected.
Ah! You were rejected once, Munyasya, because you couldn’t pay the dowry and then you never tried again? Does one empty trap mean there is nothing to catch? Why did your white friends not offer to lend you the dowry? They could have easily afforded it.
They did not approve of the custom.
I know, but tell me why.
I was baptised a Christian. A Christian should not pay dowries to buy a wife, because it is merely a pagan custom. I could not ask a fellow Christian to help me to do such a thing. I would be leading him into sin.
So the way in which your father married and his father married before him and all of your people marry is wrong, is sinful?
Yes.
Why?
Because the Christian religion says so. It demands better behaviour than that which applies to pagans.
Because you were taught to look upon your own customs as evil and wrong.
It is the same thing.
It is not Munyasya. There are many people here who are Christians now, but all of them still pay a dowry whenever they take a wife. But enough of this. Why does Mbuvu not respect you because you have no family? Surely he ought rather to pity you?
He pities me, but he also despises me.
Why?
It is not important.
Why, Munyasya? Does he say that a man should look for a wife in his own village before he goes elsewhere? But it is not marriage that concerns him, is it, Munyasya? Come, my child, you must say it!
The command forced Munyasya to speak, but no words would come this time. It was all too complicated. When he remained silent, the other urged him yet more strongly, but still the old man could offer no explanation. There were simply no words to explain the problem. It was all too complicated. And then things might have worked out differently if we had been luckier.
Say it, Munyasya! Say it!
I cannot.
Say it!
Whether it was his assailant’s words or the vice-like grip that suddenly seemed to squash his eyes, he did not remember. His only memory was one of pain, an intense pain, stabbing in his head and down the length of his back. It was dark, deathly dark, and he was alone again. Where was Nzoka? He called out the name, but there was no answer. He felt a sudden panic that he might have let from his grasp some great privilege that he alone had been offered. But he could see nothing, nothing at all. He called again, but still there was no answer. The pain grew harsher, causing him to move his hand towards his head in search of the comfort of touch, but any movement only made the pain worse. He tried to call out, to scream for help, but his mouth seemed to fill with dust as he breathed ever harder and he merely coughed and retched as a result. As he gasped for air, the dust stuck in his throat and dried his mouth. He tried to call again, but no sound came and his tongue seemed to stick to his gums. Only curdling vomit swelled in his throat and suddenly he sat bolt upright, instinct moving the body with ease where consciousness had utterly failed, and threw up the contents of his stomach onto the ground at his side. As nausea began to subside, the pain returned, harsher and deeper than before. A hand touched his shoulder, causing him to cower with both fear and pain.
Nzoka, he cried. Help me! Nzoka, is that you? Come back! I will tell you everything you want to hear...
His words dissolved into silence, the sound falling like a stone to earth.
***
When Munyasya awoke, his vision was blurred. The pain behind his eyes, which caused him to squint, confirmed only that he was in a very brightly lit room, but little else. Certainly this was not his own house. Was he still living his dream? His sightless eyes sought confirmation of a solid world around him, but all they saw was a blinding light that hurt. He tried to move, but he could not. He tried to shout, but the sound stuck in his throat, now parched and swollen, infected by his mouthfuls of dust. His limbs seemed lifeless meat, useless to him, unable to respond to his commands to move. His entire body felt like iron, stiff, cold, too heavy to lift. Still dazzled by the light, his eyes closed again, but they still saw the same brilliant dancing blur behind their lids. Squares of light flashed behind his eyes. Red to green to yellow to blue, constantly moving, floating like reflections on water, darting randomly like a hunted antelope. The images taunted him, inviting him to look and then moving whenever his closed eyes sought them. Slowly they began to fade, overcome by an all-pervading but flashing red, a redness that covered everything, a constant colour of all sensation.
Then a hand gently encircled his wrist and began to lift his arm. Nzoka, he screamed at the top of his voice, but no sound or movement came. Where have you brought me? And then the pain of this movement came to the fore and he groaned and stiffened against it.
And when his eyes opened again, they could see. Four people stood by him, staring, their faces showing concern. Concern for him? Again he tried to move, fighting against himself to raise his head and chest, but his back was solid and stiff, like stone. The four still watched. Three women, two dressed in blue and one, a white woman, dressed in white, and one man, a white man with a red face, stared down at him in silence. The white woman was holding his wrist. When they spoke, he was surprised to find that he could hear.
“Well, Father, he’s alive,” said the white woman, laying down his arm, “but I think he must have suffered a stroke when he fell.” The man nodded. The two black girls remained silent, but nodded their agreement. The white woman bent low over his face and spoke loudly, mouthing each syllable as if it needed chewing. “Can you hear me? Try to move your arm if you can hear me.” But Munyasya could not move. “What’s his name?” she said, turning to the priest at her side.
“Munyasya,” said the white man.
“Munyasya, try to move your arm. Can you hear me? Can you move your arm?” She bent forward as she spoke so that her face filled the entirety of his fixed vision, presenting a dark shadow, devoid of detail, back-lit by a brilliant halo of sunlight from the open window behind her. The breath was heavy and hot, and bore the sickly smell of rotting food. Instinctively, he threw his head on one side away from her mouth.
“Well that’s something at least,” she said with satisfaction, as she again stood upright. “Have you any pain?” she asked. She was shouting without knowing it.
He managed to nod this time. His head moved just noticeably, but inside he felt as if he had contorted his entire frame.
The sister’s voice was quicker this time, as she addressed the nurse, on her left. “We’d better give him another pain killer. Fetch me a hypodermic and the same dose as we gave him last time.” The nurse went silently away, and again sister-doctor spoke to the priest. “You say he was out all night?”
“As far as I know,” replied the man, without averting his gaze from old Munyasya as he lay in his hospital bed. He stood in a direct line between the bed and the window in the opposite wall through which flooded the direct brilliant sunlight of early morning. From Munyasya’s viewpoint, the man’s entire frame was dark and haloed with golden yellow light. “They told me h
e left the bar at about 2 a.m. He was on his way home, but he certainly didn’t get very far. I found him in the market place just before dawn, so he must have been there for four hours or so.”
“Had he bled much?”
“No. There were a few drops around, and a smear on a stone. He must have gone over and hit his head on it as he fell.”
“The wound isn’t actually all that bad.” Again she looked down at him, pensively, biting her lip as she thought. “I still think he’s had a stroke as well. I know he was horribly drunk, but he seems to be paralysed to me. And he seems to have lost his speech... Can you move your arm? Your head? Anything?” she shouted at the old man.
He obeyed. He strained to move like he had never strained his muscles before, but his limbs were inert and iron-heavy. But the effort hurt and he gave out a deep groan.
“You see, Father. He is trying.”
“Sister.” The nurse had returned with a small white tray.
“I’ll give him something to make him sleep for a while and then we’ll see how he is when he has sobered up. We’ll give him a drip as well, which should help.” The white woman assembled the hypodermic and filled it from a small brown bottle. Munyasya watched her lean over his body and push the needle firmly into the top of his leg. He felt nothing. He saw her push the piston up the tube and the liquid therein disappear as if by magic.
“There you are,” she said as she withdrew the needle. “Cup of tea, Father?” The white man nodded eagerly and moved away with her. Again blinded by the sunlight that streamed through the open window opposite, Munyasya closed his eyes and the dancing lights in his head began to fade.
A moment later he was awake again. The room was in total darkness, but he could see clearly now that it was a hospital ward. Two rows of beds faced each other across the floor, but they were all empty; all empty, that is, except for one, the one closest to him. He was standing next to it, and was thus able to look down and see himself lying in the bed, alone in the room. His left arm was protruding from beneath the sheet and he had to look closely to see exactly what had been done to him. A long tube, attached at one end to a bottle of liquid, snaked its way down and into his arm. Fascinated, he traced its path with an invisible finger and then stared closely at the bottle that hung upside down on a metal stand. He felt afraid. What are they doing to me? He decided to disconnect it, to pull the tube away from the bottle, but with what? I cannot touch because my arms are down there in the bed. My body is there and my mind is here.
The door catch clicked. He looked across the room but saw nothing.
You were always slow, my child. Even a little stupid, but a stupid man’s cows can still buy a wise bride.
He looked back at the bed. Nzoka was bending over the body but looking directly into the eyes that saw him.
Where am I?
Nzoka gave a cynical laugh. Are you trying to tell me that you don’t know?
The last thing I can remember is you touching me. I fell. You knew I was hurt, but you still touched me. The pain was too much.
It was not I who touched you, my child. It was one of your white friends. He drove me away. There is great evil in that man. Did you not feel it? And who is he, Munyasya? Do you know him?
Where am I now?
He brought you here. Left you in the care of that bull of a woman. She carries more meat than any cow. This is what they have done to you. He gestured with his hand, leading Munyasya’s eyes over his own body. It looked dead, this body. They have pricked you with needles, put pipes in your arm. I don’t understand what it all means. Lie down with dogs, get up with fleas.
I don’t remember undressing!
Nzoka laughed at him again. Ah but I can remember that, Munyasya. It was very funny indeed.
Why?
I watched it all, Munyasya. It was very funny, quite the funniest thing I have seen in years. You have not entertained me very much in your life, but you certainly made up for it this morning. There were three of them, Munyasya. Three of them! Women! Now I have heard of a man having three wives, but not all at once! Nzoka’s words were broken by laughter. Was this man serious? Two young girls undid your clothes and removed them one by one. He mimed the actions. And the big white cow stood back and watched, mooing. And then, when they pulled down your trousers and your limp little penis fell out, she completely ignored it! She ignored it on the outside, at least. But I can see more than that Munyasya. Inside she went as hard as stone. They covered you up, of course. They didn’t leave you there to discuss your manhood. Anyway they probably knew that its life deserted you some time ago...
Don’t mock me, Nzoka. Stop it! Why have you come here? To torment me?
Nzoka’s laughter switched off and he remained silent for a while, his piercing eyes once more questioning Munyasya. My child you have not yet understood and it is high time that you did. You should have realised by now that I own you. I am you. Last night I came to claim you and you escaped... Or should I say that you were stolen from me by your friends, just like last time.
What do you mean, to claim me? And when on earth was this last time?
Ah, you cannot be so stupid. He strode forward from the bedside towards the eyes that watched him. You were dead last night, my friend. I came to say goodbye to you and to give you the instructions that everyone must receive. That which is not confirmed is not yet decided, and the task of confirmation fell to me.
Nzoka stood disturbingly close. He didn’t breathe. There was no sound whatever, either from him or from Munyasya. He stared with blank, unblinking eyes.
Why should I believe you? Munyasya courageously confronted the other with firmness. Why should he be afraid? If I was dead last night then why do I live now? Is that not me, over there in the bed, breathing, alive, if not well? You are wrong, Nzoka, and you know it. You are trying to trick me.
Oh no, my friend. It is you who are wrong and I will prove it. If it were not for this... this witchcraft... He pointed now to the bed, the drip feed and tube. ...I would now be free of you and you would be relieved of me. You must try to remember our conversation of last night. We had reached a crucial point when that white man interrupted us. Think, Munyasya. Think!
I remember it perfectly, Nzoka, but I am not drunk tonight. It won’t be as easy to trick me into the same corner.
Ha ha, my child, you are perhaps not as stupid as you used to be, but only just! You may not be drunk from drinking beer tonight, but you are certainly intoxicated. I have no idea what it is these Europeans put into their little glass tubes, but there is some powerful medicine running in your veins tonight, far more powerful than any beer I ever brewed! I will ask you later to tell me how they brew it. An old man must learn new things from the young. But still, you are correct in the strict sense. You are not drunk tonight, for once; but the truth is unavoidable, even when a man in your position is sober. So think back. Think back to where we were last night. We were about to discuss Mbuvu’s argument, the one that sent you fleeing so crest-fallen from the bar.
Ah, Mbuvu again. Why bring him up? He is no more than a fool!
You dismiss him too quickly, Munyasya. He paused for a moment waiting for Munyasya to offer a beginning. When none came, he continued. Now you are acting like a boy who has been caught stealing, and what you have stolen now tastes bad. As your elder, it falls to me to keep you from this mischief. You will have to admit it, Munyasya. He is right. Tell me what you think.
Nzoka was certainly in control. Munyasya spoke and his argument was this. If a man is to command respect in a society, he must command it for very clear reasons. His age is certainly one thing that determines the respect he both deserves and is granted. This has always been so. But there are other reasons too. The most important consideration for Mbuvu is the man’s achievements in life within and on behalf of his community. Here we are agreed. Where we differ is how we measure those achievements.
; Now, Munyasya, we are making progress. Continue, please, continue.
My opinion is this. Mbuvu is an uneducated man. He has seen nothing except Migwani and a few other places nearby. He is not yet an old man, himself, and has therefore little experience of life. Yet he desires not only to pass opinions about our pressing needs in the locality, he actually wants to see his wishes carried out to the letter. He believes that, as a trader, he is of vast importance to the life of the town. He argues that because he controls the buying and selling of maize, beans, skins and meat in the town - he is now the only trader with a wholesale licence - he therefore controls the success or failure - and therefore the destiny - of the agriculture and thus all the people. On the other hand, I am old, Mbuvu’s senior by many years. I have had an education. Not the best education, but certainly one worth having. I am experienced in the ways of our former rulers and therefore better placed than him to see through the good plans that they made. I have seen many other parts of the world. I have seen other peoples’ successes and failures. The knowledge, the wisdom, I possess is borne of this experience, so my advice is not just desired, it is essential.
Nzoka listened intently, but with growing impatience. Munyasya has not yet reached the point. The raising of his hand stopped the flow of Munyasya’s words. Enough. You are not doing as I asked. I know all this, Munyasya. Do you think I ask for your opinions? Do I not know them already? A young man might know new things, but he can never educate one wiser than himself. Of course I know what you think. What I command you to repeat are Mbuvu’s opinions, not your own.
Then you yourself must also know them. You claimed to have lived my life for me. Why should I have to relive anything for you?
Yes. I do know them. But what I want to ensure is that you know them. That is why I want to hear you repeat what he said about you. True wisdom is always remembered. Have you remembered? Speak what you now know, Munyasya!
Munyasya’s involuntary reply caused him much pain. It was as if he had been given a drug, which compelled him to speak, but the revelation of these memories hurt him. He does not argue that he is a man worthy of great respect, but it is his opinion that I am worthy of none. His voice faltered and his gaze drifted down, as if under the weight of guilt.
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