‘Do you think it’s true what Father says, that all the land belongs to black people?’
‘Yes. Black people have their land in the country of black people. White men have their land in their own country. It is simple. I think it was God’s plan.’
‘Are there black people in England?’
‘No. England is for white people only.’
‘And they all left their country to come and rob us of acres of what we have?’
‘Yes. They are robbers.’
‘All of them?’
‘Yes. Even Mr Howlands.’
‘Mr Howlands…I don’t like him. I did not like the way his son followed me once.’
‘A lamb takes after its mother.’
Something occurred to him.
‘Jacobo is a bad man. Do you think Mwi–’ He stopped. Then he quickly changed the subject and asked, ‘Who is Jomo?’
‘Boro called him the black Moses.’
‘In the Bible?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I think I’ve heard about that in the Bible.’
Njeri’s voice rang through the darkness. There was no more talk.
That night Njoroge stayed in bed for a little while before sleeping.
Njoroge did not want to be like his father working for a white man or, worse, for an Indian. Father had said that the work was hard and had asked him to escape from the same conditions. Yes, he would. He would be different. And he would help all his brothers. Before he went to sleep he prayed, ‘Lord, let me get learning. I want to help my father and mothers. And Kamau and all my other brothers. I ask you all this through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.’
He remembered something else.
‘…And help me God so that Mwihaki may not beat me in class. And God…’
He fell asleep and dreamed of education in England.
Mwihaki was always pleased with Njoroge. She felt more secure with him than she felt with her brothers who did not care much about her. She confided in him and liked walking home with him. She was quite clever and held her own even among boys. And now that Njoroge was in her class she could ask him questions about classwork. It was in Standard IV that they began to learn English.
Lucia, Mwihaki’s sister, taught them. They all sat expectantly at their desk with eyes on the board. A knowledge of English was the criterion of a man’s learning.
Stand = Rugama.
Teacher I am standing. What am I doing?
Class You are standing up.
Teacher Again.
Class You are standing up.
Teacher (pointing with a finger) You – no – you – yes. What’s your name?
Pupil Njoroge.
Teacher Njoroge, stand up.
He stood up. Learning English was all right but not when he stood up for all eyes to watch and maybe make faces at him.
Teacher What are you doing?
Njoroge (thinly) You are standing up.
Teacher (slightly cross) What are you doing?
Njoroge (clears his throat, voice thinner still) You are standing up.
Teacher No, no! (to the class) Come on. What are you, you doing?
Njoroge was very confused. Hands were raised up all around him. He felt more and more foolish so that in the end he gave up the very attempt to answer.
Teacher (pointing to Mwihaki) Stand up. What are you doing?
Mwihaki (head bent onto one shoulder) I am standing up.
Teacher Good. Now, Njoroge. What is she doing?
Njoroge I am standing up.
The class giggled.
Teacher (very annoyed) Class, what is she doing?
Class (singing) You are standing up.
Teacher (still more angry) I am asking you…What is she doing?
Class (afraid, quietly singing) You are standing up.
Teacher Look here you stupid and lazy fools. How long do you take to catch things? Didn’t we go over all this yesterday? If I come tomorrow and find that you make a single mistake, I’ll punish you all severely.
With this sharply delivered threat, she walked out. Njoroge, annoyed with himself at his poor showing, could now be heard trying to reestablish himself by telling them what they ought to have answered. ‘She is standing up.’ But one boy (the most stupid in the class) rebuked him. ‘Why didn’t you speak up when she was here, if you’re so clever?’
After some more weeks of anger and threats the children managed to learn something of which they were very proud. Njoroge could now sing,
I am standing up.
You are standing up.
She is standing up.
We are standing up.
You are standing up.
They are standing up.
Where are you going?
I am going to the door.
We are going to the door.
Point to the blackboard. What are you doing?
I am pointing to the blackboard.
When a teacher came into the class, he greeted them in English.
Teacher Good morning, children.
Class (standing up, singing the answer) Good morning, Sir.
One day a European woman came to the school. As she was expected, the school had been cleaned up and put in good order. The children had been told and shown how to behave. Njoroge had not seen many Europeans at very close quarters. He was now quite overawed by the whiteness and tenderness of this woman’s skin. He wondered, what would I feel if I touched her skin? When she entered, the whole class stood up at attention. Some had already opened their mouths to answer the expected greeting.
‘Good afternoon, children.’
‘Good morning, Sir.’
Lucia felt like crying. Had she not taught them the correct thing over and over again? She had been let down. The visitor was explaining that since it was after lunch, after twelve o’clock, they should talk of ‘afternoon’, and since she was a woman they should call her ‘Madam’.
‘All right?’
‘Yes, Sir!’
‘Madam!’ shouted Lucia almost hysterically. She could have killed someone.
‘Yes, Madam.’
‘Good afternoon.’
‘Good afternoon, Madam.’
But some still clung to ‘Sir’. It had come to be part of their way of greeting. Even when one pupil greeted another, ‘Sir’ accompanied the answer.
When the European went away, the children regretted the incident. Lucia beat them to cool her rage and shame. In the future they were to know the difference between ‘a morning’ and ‘an afternoon’ and that between ‘a Sir’ and ‘a Madam’.
‘Yes, Madam.’
As they went home, Njoroge said to Mwihaki, ‘You know, I had a feeling that I’ve seen that woman somewhere.’
‘Have you? Where?’
‘I don’t know. It was just a feeling.’
They came to the place where Ngotho worked. She said, ‘Do you still see the boy?’
‘No! I think he has gone to school.’
‘Did he ever try to speak to you again?’
‘No. I’ve always avoided him. But he is always so alone.’
‘Perhaps he has no brothers and sisters.’
‘He can go and play with other children.’
‘Where?’
They had gone only a few yards when Njoroge exclaimed, ‘I know.’
‘What?’
‘Where I have seen that woman. I have seen her once or twice in Mr Howlands’ place. I think it’s their daughter. Father says she is a mission woman.’
‘Oh, yes. I’ve heard Father say the same thing.’
‘I wonder why she turned missionary. She is a settler’s daughter.’
‘Perhaps she’s different.’
‘A lamb takes after its mother.’ Kamau’s proverb had just come into his mind. He felt clever.
Kamau left Nganga and took a job with another carpenter at the African shops. He did not go to Nairobi or the settled area as he had intimated. Njoroge had won. But he saw t
hat Kamau was growing into a big Kihii, now ready for circumcision. Njoroge watched him with fear. When Kamau was initiated, he would probably walk with men of his Rika. But this was not just what he feared. After all, even now they were not very much together. What he feared was that one day Kamau might be drawn into the city. The other brothers had been called. Though they came home quite regularly, they were changing. This was especially true of Kori. Kamau’s going would lead to a final family breakup and ruin the cosy security that one felt in thinking of home. Kamau was the man of home. He seemed to carry the family dumbly on his shoulders. Njoroge sometimes went to the African shops to see him. The place was always the same; men of all sorts hanging around the tea shops and slaughterhouses, idling away the hours. The drudgery of such a life made him fear a future that held in store such purposeless living and weariness. He clung to books and whatever the school had to offer. Njoroge was now fairly tall, black-haired, and brown-skinned, with clear large eyes. His features were clear and well defined – but perhaps too set for a boy of his age.
Education for him, as for many boys of his generation, held the key to the future. As he could not find companionship with Jacobo’s children (except Mwihaki), for these belonged to the middle class that was rising and beginning to be conscious of itself as such, he turned to reading. He read anything that came his way. The Bible was his favourite book. He liked the stories in the Old Testament. He loved and admired David, often identifying himself with this hero. The Book of Job attracted him though it often gave rise to a painful stirring in his heart. In the New Testament, he liked the story of the young Jesus and the Sermon on the Mount.
Njoroge came to place faith in the Bible and with his vision of an educated life in the future was blended a belief in the righteousness of God. Equity and justice were there in the world. If you did well and remained faithful to your God, the Kingdom of Heaven would be yours. A good man would get a reward from God; a bad man would harvest bad fruits. The tribal stories told to him by his mother had strengthened this belief in the virtue of toil and perseverance.
His belief in a future for his family and the village rested then not only on a hope for sound education but also on a belief in a God of love and mercy, who long ago walked on this earth with Gikuyu and Mumbi, or Adam and Eve. It did not make much difference that he had come to identify Gikuyu with Adam and Mumbi with Eve. To this God, all men and women were united by one strong bond of brotherhood. And with all this, there was growing up in his heart a feeling that the Gikuyu people, whose land had been taken by white men, were no other than the children of Israel about whom he read in the Bible. So although all men were brothers, the black people had a special mission to the world because they were the chosen people of God. This explained his brother’s remark that Jomo was the black Moses. Whenever he was with Mwihaki, he longed to impart some of these things to her. Yet when he tried to define them in words, he failed. So he kept them all to himself, walking alone in the fields and sometimes finding companionship with the nights.
6
Sometimes men came to see his father. Ever since Njoroge was a child, he had seen Ngotho as the centre of everything. As long as he lived, nothing could go wrong. And so Njoroge grew up, fearing his father, and yet putting implicit faith in him.
The men who came to see Ngotho usually went to his Thingira. But sometimes they went to Nyokabi’s or Njeri’s hut. This pleased Njoroge, for he loved to listen to the mature talk of men. These men were the elders of the village. They talked about affairs of the land. Kori and Boro too brought men at weekends, but these men were different from the young men of the village. The young men of the village usually allowed the elders to lead talks while they listened. But these others who came with Kori and Boro from the big city seemed to know a lot of things. They usually dominated the talks. And because most of them had been to the war, they were able to compare the affairs of the land with the lands to which they had been. They did not joke and laugh as young men usually did, but their faces were grave, as they talked of the foreign lands, the war, their country, the big unemployment, and the stolen lands.
Njoroge listened keenly as they talked of Jomo. Already he felt intimate with this man. For Njoroge was sure that he had read about him in the Old Testament. Moses had led the children of Israel from Misri to the Promised Land. And because black people were really the children of Israel, Moses was no other than Jomo himself. It was obvious.
The men also talked of the strike. All men who worked for white men and the serikali (the government) would come out on strike. The government and the settlers had to be shown that black people were not cowards and slaves. They too had children to feed and to educate. How could people go on sweating for the children of the white men to be well-fed, well-clothed, and well-educated? Kiarie, a short man with a black beard, was a good, compelling speaker. He usually walked together with Boro. His words stirred Njoroge strangely.
A man asked, ‘But do you think it will succeed?’
‘Yes! Everybody will go on strike. Every black man everywhere. Even those in the police and the army will sit down too.’
‘Shall we really get the same pay as Indians and Europeans?’
‘Yes!’ Kiarie explained with a confident nod of his head. ‘All the black people will stop working. All business in the country will come to a standstill because all the country depends on our sweat. The government and the settlers will call us back. But we shall say, No, no. Give us more money first. Our sweat and blood are not so cheap. We too are human beings. We cannot live on fifteen shillings a month…’
The old men and village folk listened with deep interest. They did not know much about strikes, but if this meant more money, then it was a good idea. The solemn voice of Kiarie had conviction and quiet assurance that, Njoroge felt, gave courage and faith to all those around.
‘What about those employed by black people?’
‘We must concentrate on the government and the white people. We black people are brothers.’
Ngotho knew of one or two who were certainly not brothers. But he did not say so.
When Njoroge went to bed, he prayed that the strike be a success. He hoped it would come soon. If his father had much money, he could buy a lorry like that one of Jacobo. He slept and dreamed of the happy moment of wealth and pleasure after the strike.
Mr Howlands called all his men. This was unusual. But he had not much to say because he did not want to waste time. He just warned them that if any man went on strike he would instantly lose his job. How could he allow a damned strike to interfere with any part of his farm? Even the government could not interfere with this. The blacks could ask and agitate for anything. Such things were clearly affairs of the government that stood outside his shamba. And yet paradoxically, as the strike approached, he wanted a strong government action – an action that would teach these labourers their rightful places.
Ngotho listened to the warning without apparent emotion. His face did not change and so you could not tell what he was really thinking.
He could not quite make up his mind about the strike. He doubted if the strike would be a success. If it failed, then he would lose a job and that would keep him away from the lands of his ancestors. This was wrong, for the land was his. None could tend it as he could.
Ngotho went home unsure. He went through the African shops. The barber was still at his job. These days he mostly talked about the strike. Ngotho did not go there. He went straight home.
Njoroge had never seen his father quarrelling with his wives. Whenever there was a quarrel the children were never allowed to know about it. So when Njoroge came from school and found Nyokabi crying, he was shocked. He could remember vaguely only one time when his mother cried. It was probably during the famine of cassava or earlier. That was now a dream. But this was not a dream. Njoroge stood stock-still, too frightened to enter the house. Ngotho, tall, masculine in spite of age, stood in front of her. Njoroge could not see his face. But he could see the tear-washed
face of Nyokabi. Fear gripped him as he witnessed real discord in the home that had hitherto been so secure.
‘I must be a man in my own house.’
‘Yes – be a man and lose a job.’
‘I shall do whatever I like. I have never taken orders from a woman.’
‘We shall starve…’
‘You starve! This strike is important for the black people. We shall get bigger salaries.’
‘What’s black people to us when we starve?’
‘Shut that mouth. How long do you think I can endure this drudgery for the sake of a white man and his children?’
‘But he’s paying you money. What if the strike fails?’
‘Don’t woman me!’ he shouted hysterically. This possibility was what he feared most.
She sensed this note of uncertainty and fear and seized upon it.
‘What if the strike fails, tell me that!’
Ngotho could bear it no longer. She was driving him mad. He slapped her on the face and raised his hand again.
But Njoroge now found his voice. He ran forward and cried frantically, ‘Please, Father.’
Ngotho stopped. He looked at his son. He ran towards him and grabbed him by the shoulder. Njoroge felt the grip and winced with fear. Ngotho growled something inaudible. Then he suddenly released the boy and turned his eyes away. He walked out.
‘Mother!’ Njoroge whispered to Nyokabi.
‘Why have they bewitched him? My man is changed…’
‘Please, Mother!’
But she went on sobbing.
Njoroge felt lonely. Something heavy and cold oppressed him in the stomach. Even the stars that later shone in the night gave him no comfort. He walked across the courtyard, not afraid of the darkness. He wished that Mwihaki was with him. Then he might have confided in her. In the distance, the gleaming lights of the city where the call for the strike had been born beckoned to him. He did not respond. He just wanted to be lost in the darkness, for he could not judge between a father and mother.
In his bed, he knelt down and prayed. ‘God forgive me, for I am wicked. Perhaps it is me who has brought uncleanliness into our home. Forgive me my sins. Help my father and mother. O, God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, help Thy children. Forgive us all. Amen.
Weep Not Child Page 6