Is for the rich and their friends.
“When we were fighting for independence, Haraambe—or let’s call it organized unity—took two forms. There was the organization of home guards and imperialists, and there was the organization of patriots under Mau Mau. The organization of patriots used to sing these words:
Great love I found there
Among women and children.
A bean fell to the ground—
We split it among ourselves.
“The organization of home guards and imperialists used to sing the song like this:
Self-love and the love of selling out
Among the traitors of the land.
The bean we steal from the people—
We struggle to see who can grab it all.
“You people, the Haraambe of home guards and imperialists was an organization designed to encourage bestiality: a man would throw children and the disabled into the fire as he rushed for the debris and leftovers of the imperialists. The Mau Mau’s Haraambe was an organization designed to spread humanitarianism, for its members used to offer their own lives in defense of children and the disabled. The home guards’ organization aimed to sell our country to foreigners: the Mau Mau’s aim was to protect our country. You, young man! I told you, I’ll not talk about modern Haraambe. The modern Haraambe has its owners.”
Mũturi stopped abruptly. He swatted a fly that was crawling across his overalls. In the car complete silence reigned again. Mwaũra negotiated the bends and the corners of the slopes of Kĩneeniĩ as he drove toward the bed of the Rift Valley. The darkness had now started to deepen, and Mwaũra switched on the headlights.
Wangarĩ clicked her tongue, cleared her throat and started talking in a voice full of bitterness. “You say that if a bean falls to the ground, we split it among ourselves? That we shed blood because of the great movement that belonged to us, the people of Kenya, Mau Mau, the people’s movement, so that our children might eat until they were full, might wear clothes that kept out the cold, might sleep in beds free from bedbugs? That our children should learn the art of producing wealth for our people? Tell me this: who but a fool or a traitor would not have sacrificed his own blood for those glorious aims? I, the Wangarĩ you see before you, was a small girl then. But these legs have carried many bullets and many guns to our fighters in the forest . . . and I was never afraid, even when I slipped through the lines of the enemy and their home guard allies. Our people, today when I recall those things, my heart weakens and I want to cry! Mũturi, what did you say? That the modern Haraambe is for the rich and their friends?
You have said well.
You have said well.
If I had milk,
I would wash you in it.
“It doesn’t matter. . . . It doesn’t matter. . . . But, our people, I keep asking myself: this money, thousands and thousands of shillings donated day after day—from what depths of the sea does it come? The man who is able to give away hundreds of thousands day after day—how much is he leaving behind in the store for himself and his children? This garden of endless harvests—what kind of garden is it? This spring whose water never dries up—what kind of spring is it? And the friends of this man; the friends who never come out in the open to be seen—who are they? These friends whose names are never disclosed in public—who are they? These people who like to give only under cover of darkness—who are they? But every secret act will one day be exposed on a mountaintop, in full view of the people. I say this: when we fought for independence, it was not money that did the fighting: it was love. Love for Kenya, our country, was what gave our young men courage to face the prospect of being moved down by enemy bullets—and they would not let go of the soil. When we fought for independence, we did not look at the way a person dressed and say: ‘This one is dressed in rags. Let him be thrown into jail.’ In fact, the man in rags was the one in the front line, and he did not know the word retreat. But the man in the tie would run to pick up the hat of the imperialist felled by the bullets from our front line and reserve forces! And when you hear me talk like this, our people, don’t think that I’ve been drinking alcohol or smoking bhang. No. I’m speaking in this way because of what I have gone through in the Nairobi we have left behind. Modern Haraambe . . . I don’t know where it is leading us, the Kenyan people. . . .”
Wangarĩ paused. Mũturi, Warĩĩnga and Gatuĩria felt compassion because of the sorrow and the bitterness in Wangarĩ’s voice. The man in dark glasses shrank further into his corner. Mwaũra stepped on the accelerator, hoping that the car would whisk them all away from Wangarĩ’s story.
“Tell us, what has Nairobi done to you to make your heart so heavy?” Mũturi asked her.
“I wonder if I should describe it as astonishing, or horrifying enough to make the heart and body tremble,” Wangarĩ replied quickly.
Wangarĩ told them then of the unspeakable horrors she had experienced in Nairobi, the capital city of Kenya.
“That Nairobi—even now I don’t know what spirit transported me from Ilmorog to Nairobi. For today is there a single corner, even in the most far-flung reaches of Kenya, where a poor man can run to escape poverty? Ilmorog, Mombasa, Nairobi, Nakuru, Kisumu—the water in all these places has become bitter for us peasants and workers. . . .
“My small piece of land, two acres, had just been auctioned by the Kenya Economic Progress Bank, as I had failed to pay back a loan I had burdened myself with so that I could keep grade cows. It was a loan of 5000 shillings. I bought posts and fence wire. I bought a cow that was six months pregnant. Then I used some of the money to pay my son’s school fees. The cow gave birth to a bull. The milk brought in only enough money to cover the monthly interest payments to the bank. My cow caught gall fever. The vet did not arrive until after the cow had died and had been buried. I had not even paid a quarter of the debt.
“So when the piece of land was sold, and I saw that I had no land to cultivate and that I would not get a job in Ilmorog, I thought I should go to the capital city of Kenya to look for work. Why? Because when money is borrowed from foreign lands, it goes to build Nairobi and the other big towns. When peasants grow food, it goes to Nairobi and to the other big towns. As far as we peasants are concerned, all our labor goes to fatten Nairobi and the big towns. So, alone in my hut, I told myself this: I can’t fail to find a job in Nairobi. At least I could sweep out offices or wipe children’s bottoms. I don’t mind what job I do, for he who is given a piece of meat does not expect fat as well. And perhaps in Nairobi there won’t be any thieves and robbers like the ones who have been disturbing and harassing Ilmorog workers and peasants night and day.
“So I tied a few cents in my cloth and set out.
“Really! I’ve never seen so many cars flowing on the tarmac road like floods in the plains—and buildings taller than the legendary Cain, who could touch the clouds, it is said. Nairobi is like a big garden of stones, tar and cars. When I saw the shops, hotels and cars, I said to myself: Our Kenya has certainly made progress. Surely I will find a job here. So I went into the first shop I came across. The clothes in the shop shone with all the colors of the rainbow. I found an Indian in charge. I asked him if I could work for him, sweeping out the shop. He told me that he didn’t need anyone to do that in his shop. I begged him to let me clean up after his children. He said that he couldn’t offer me that job either. I went out into the streets again, looking only for tall, tall buildings. It was then that I entered a hotel. It was a big hotel, the size of Mount Kenya. There, at the tables, sat no one but Europeans. I went into an office. I found a European there. He told me that there were no jobs. I told him that I didn’t mind dusting the shoes of these whites, numerous as locusts though they were. He laughed and told me that it was impossible. What about cleaning out toilets for the whites? No. There I was, still jobless.
“Then I wandered into shop after shop, looking for one that employed black men. One’
s own family and age-group are never disowned: and we black people, aren’t we all of one kin, one clan? I entered a shop which looked like a store for household goods and garden tools. Hoes, matchets, garden forks, kettles and saucepans were crammed on to the shelves. A black man. There was a black man in the shop. My heart lifted with hope. I told him all my troubles. Can you believe it? He collapsed with laughter! He told me that the only job he could offer me was that of spreading my legs, that women with mature bodies were experts at that job. I felt a tear drop to the ground.
“I roamed the streets, not knowing what to do or where to turn. Then I saw another hotel. I went straight in. I asked for the office. I found a black man. I asked him for work. He said to me: ‘You, woman, weren’t you here a little while ago? And weren’t you told by the European owner that there were no jobs here for the likes of you?’ I was very shocked and frightened. I had walked in a circle, back to the very hotel that I had tried before. I was about to leave when the man called me back. He asked me to sit down on a chair while he rang up a place that he knew was never short of jobs for people like us. My heart beat with joy. Independence had truly come to our land. I waited for my good fortune with the patience of a fisherman.
“Oh, our people, what can I tell you? Before I could sneeze twice, I saw policemen enter the office. The black man gave me up to the police, who were black like me, and told them that I had been keeping a watch on the hotel. And when the European owner was called, he said the same thing: that I had spent the whole day going round and round the hotel in a way that clearly indicated my intention to steal. He patted the black man on the shoulder and said to him, in a voice that seemed to come through his nose: ‘Good work, Mr. Mũgwate, good work,’ or something similar. And the police inspector kept saying: ‘Yes, yes, it is women like this one who are now employed by thieves and robbers to spy on shops, hotels and banks.’
“I was then pushed into a police vehicle and taken to a cell. But was it a cell, or rather a lair for mosquitoes, lice, fleas and bedbugs? I slept in that cell for three nights. I, Wangarĩ, who have never stolen so much as a single potato from anybody! I, Wangarĩ, who offered my life for my country! I, the Wangarĩ you now see before you dressed in a kitenge garment and carrying a basket, spent three nights suffocated by the stench of shit and urine!
“I was taken to court this very morning, charged with intending to steal and with roaming about Nairobi without being a resident of the city, without a job, without a house and without a permit. Vagrancy or something like that, that is what they called it. But, our people, think: I, Wangarĩ, a Kenyan by birth—how can I be a vagrant in my own country? How can I be charged with vagrancy in my own country as if I were a foreigner? I denied both charges: to look for work is not a crime.
“The judge was a European, with a skin that was red like a pig’s. His nose was peeling, like a lizard’s body. He wore glasses with big arms.
“The European owner of the hotel acted as a witness. Mr. Mũgwate, that slave of foreigners, was also a witness.
“The judge asked me: ‘Have you anything you want to tell this court before I sentence you?’
“Even now, I can’t say where I found the courage that suddenly gripped me. (Was it courage or pain?) I told the judge: ‘Look at me properly. I am not a foreigner here like you. And I am not a vagrant here in Kenya, and I will never be a foreigner or a vagrant here in Kenya. Kenya is our country. We were born here. We were given this land by God, and we redeemed it from the hands of our enemies with our own blood. Today you see us clothed in rags, but we, the peasants and the workers, are the same people who were around at the time of Kĩmaathi. Now, look at me closely again. I am not a thief. I am not a robber. If you want to know who the real thieves and robbers are, follow me and I will show you their lairs and caves in Ilmorog. Give me a few policemen, and we’ll go right now to arrest the thieves and robbers who have always troubled us. I don’t know about Nairobi or other places, but in Ilmorog, our Ilmorog, thieves and robbers don’t even bother to hide.’
“I sat down.
“The judge took off his glasses. He wiped them with a red handkerchief. Then he put them back on his peeling nose. He eyed me again. And I kept saying in my heart: Yes, look at me properly if you have never heard the tongue of a Wangarĩ, the tiller. If we were still living at that other time, you would be looking down the barrel of a gun, you devil. He asked me to repeat what I had said about Ilmorog thieves and robbers. I told him: ‘Really! Why should I lie to you? Who would be happier, you or I, to hear that those thieves and robbers were gnashing their teeth in jail? Give me some policemen, and I will show them where the thieves hang out.’
“The judge said that because I had offered to cooperate with the police in rooting out theft and robbery in the country, the court would not jail me. I would only have to pay a fine because I had been wandering about Nairobi without a permit and hence breaking the vagrancy laws.
“Can you believe it? I ask you to turn over the matter in your minds. Is it right that I should need a permit to enter Nairobi, just like in the days of the Emergency, when our European tormentors used to make us carry pass books?
“The judge told the police chief to make arrangements to catch all the thieves and robbers in Ilmorog. My ready co-operation was what had saved me from six months in jail.
“From the courtroom I was taken first to the police station. Mark you, now I was being soothed with tongues of honey. I was flattered. I was told that if all the citizens were like me and joined hands with the police like the yam and its supporting tree, the whole country would be cleansed of theft, robbery and similar crimes and those who had would be able to enjoy their wealth in peace and sleep soundly without any worries.
“We agreed that I should return to Ilmorog first, on my own, to find out exactly when and where the thieves and robbers normally gather. When I’d gleaned that information, I would go and report to Ilmorog police station. The Nairobi police, for their part, would inform the chief of Ilmorog police station, a Superintendent Gakono, about what was going on and would give him my name, so that my report would be acted on promptly.
“That’s how we parted. But they never even gave me half a cent for the fare!
“I tell you, all my money—200 shillings in all—was left at the court. And I was turned out to foot it to Ilmorog. Now, but for the fact that you were blown by God’s wind in my direction, where would I have slept tonight? What would I have eaten?
“Today, this very day, as you and I are sitting here together, if someone were to drop from the skies and ask me to sing the praises of the Haraambe of money, I would offer him two or three words he would never forget. . . .”
Wangarĩ stopped abruptly, as if her thoughts were still lingering on police cells and courtrooms, judges and policemen.
Warĩĩnga made as if to open her handbag to take out the card she had been given at the Kaka bus stop. Did Wangarĩ know about the Devil’s feast in honor of theft and robbery in Ilmorog? The question made Warĩĩnga pause. She looked at Wangarĩ and asked her in a slightly tremulous voice: “Tell me . . . would you honestly say that there are lairs and caves for thieves and robbers in Ilmorog?”
“What? And you claim that you come from Njeruca in Ilmorog! Which part?” Wangarĩ replied with a question.
“It is . . . I honestly did not know. . . .” Warĩĩnga replied, hesitantly.
“Now you know the truth,” Wangarĩ told Warĩĩnga and fell silent.
5
The other passengers also remained silent, as if they had nothing to add to Wangarĩ’s story or to Warĩĩnga’s question. But after they had traveled in silence for a short distance, Mũturi started up a conversation.
“This country, our country, is pregnant. What it will give birth to, God only knows. . . . Imagine! The children of us workers are fated to stay out in the sun, thirsty, hungry, naked, gazing at fruit ripening on trees which they can’t pick ev
en to quieten a demanding belly! Fated to see food steaming in the pantry, but unable to dip a calabash into the pot to scoop out even a tiny portion! Fated to lie awake all night telling each another stories about tears and sorrow, asking one another to guess the same riddle day after day: ‘Oh, for a piece of one of those!’”
“Ripe bananas!” Wangarĩ replied, as if Mũturi had asked her a real riddle.
“Oh, for some of that!” Mĩturi said.
“Fresh, cool water in a cave that belongs to another,” Wangarĩ replied again.
“Wangarĩ, your story shows that this country, our country, should have given birth to its offspring long ago.” Mũturi was repeating what he had said earlier. “What it lacks now is a midwife,” he added. “The question is this: who is responsible for the pregnancy?”
“It’s the Devil doing his work.” Robin Mwaũra suddenly plunged into the discussion.
Mwaũra had been a little embarrassed by the ill-will he had shown at Kĩneeniĩ. Since the moment Mũturi, Warĩĩnga and Gatuĩria had agreed to pay Wangarĩ’s fare, Mwaũra had been trying to find an opening to change the subject, to steer it away from Wangarĩ and her problems. Now he started singing:
I shall knock-a-knock the Devil.
I shall knock-a-knock the Devil.
I shall tell him: Leave me alone
I do not belong to demons!
Warĩĩnga felt her whole body heat up as she recalled all the things that had occurred that day. She asked herself: Why is it that today events seem to be repeating themselves? Or is all this mere talk?
Gatuĩria glanced at the driver as if he would have liked Mwaũra to continue with the song. Gatuĩria was very disturbed by Wangarĩ’s story, and it had made him ask himself over and over again: Is it really possible that such things happen in Kenya today? Then, remembering that there were indeed vagrancy laws in Kenya, he believed Wangarĩ’s story. But what made him hope Mwaũra would continue with the song had something to do with the load he himself was carrying inside him and another he was carrying in his suitcase.
Devil on the Cross Page 7