Devil on the Cross

by Ngũgĩ Wa Thiong'o

  “When are they going to start?” Warĩĩnga asked Gatuĩria.

  “They are getting ready,” Gatuĩria replied.

  Wangarĩ was turning many things over in her mind: I’m very lucky. Only yesterday I was released after telling the police that I would search out the lairs of all the thieves and robbers so that I could play my part in serving the public at large. It was as if I knew all about this feast. What luck! Only twenty-four hours later I’ve found their lair. Aren’t these people the villains, the ones who are gathered here in the cave with their friends from abroad? If all of them were to be arrested by the police and thrown into jail, wouldn’t theft and robbery in Ilmorog come to an end, and the whole country be rid of man-eaters? I’ll wait until I’ve heard what they’ve got to say. I’ll find out what their plans are, so that when I go to fetch Inspector Gakono and his police force, I’ll have plenty of evidence. I see that Mũturi is watching everything and listening to every word, as if he didn’t want to miss a thing. I wonder if perhaps he’d help me in giving evidence?

  She thought of asking him for help, then she paused. Her heart started beating to the rhythm of the song she had sung in Mwaũra’s matatũ the night before:

  Come one and all,

  And behold the wonderful sight

  Of us chasing away the Devil

  And all his disciples!

  Come one and all!

  The band started to play a Congolese tune:

  Babanda nanga bakimi na mobali

  Mobali oyo boto ya matema

  Nakei koluka mobali nangae. . . .

  A thought suddenly seized Mũturi, he turned to Mwaũra and asked him in a whisper: “Mwaũra, what is your connection with the killers who call themselves the Devil’s Angels?”

  Mwaũra started as if he had been pierced with a red-hot needle. “How do you know? How do you know?” he demanded, his eyes full of fear.

  But at that moment the band suddenly stopped playing. All noise ceased. There was total silence in the cave. Everybody turned their eyes to the platform.

  The competition was about to begin.

  4

  The first competitor strode forward and sprang on to the platform. All the other thieves looked at one another in dismay.

  The suit that this competitor was wearing was the kind that had been baptized Napier-Grass-Son-of-Trembling. It showed no sign of ever having been pressed. He was tall and lanky. But his eyes were big. They were like two electric bulbs hanging from a tall, thin eucalyptus tree. His arms were long, and he swung them this and that way as if he did not know what to do with them—whether to put them in his pockets, to hold them stiff, like a soldier standing to attention, or to fold them, like a man in defiant mood. He tried all these postures in turn. He scratched his head. He cracked his fingers. In the end he settled for folding his arms across his chest and gave a little laugh to drive away his stage fright as he began his story.

  “My name is Ndaaya wa Kahuria. If I seem ill at ease and awkward, it’s only because I’m not used to standing up before such a large audience. But these hands you are looking at . . .” and he stretched out his hands to show the audience his palms and fingers, “. . . these hands you see are used to dipping into other people’s pockets. If these long fingers were to slide into your pockets, I assure you that you wouldn’t feel them. I don’t think that in all of this area there is a single thief who could tell me to step aside so that he could teach me how to snatch purses from women in marketplaces or in buses, or how to trap people’s chickens in villages.

  “But by the truth of God in Heaven—yes, I swear by the Truth of Truths—I only steal because I’m hungry, because I need clothes, because I have no job and because I have nowhere to lay this small head of mine at night.

  “All the same, to prove that I have a talent for stealing, let me give you a little demonstration of how I steal chickens in the villages. . . .” Ndaaya wa Kahuria’s stage fright appeared to have worn off, and now he narrated how he would bore holes in grains of corn, string them together on a nylon string and throw the grains to the chickens while holding the string at one end and singing to encourage them, thus: “Kurukurukuru . . . Kurukurukuru . . . kurukurukuru. . . .” And there and then, bending low on the platform, Ndaaya wa Kahuria began swinging his arms this way and that, as if he could see real chickens in front of him, and shouting at them: “Kurukurukuru . . . kurukurukuru. . . .” But before he could finish his story, some of the guests started complaining and shouting, while others whistled to show their disgust at Ndaaya’s demonstration on the platform. Others angrily tapped the floor with their shoes and yelled: “How was such a wretched thief, with his dreary tales, allowed in here?”

  The master of ceremonies leaped on to the platform and called for silence. He addressed the audience and told them that this was a competition for thieves and robbers, real ones—that is, those who had reached international standards. Stories of people breaking padlocks in village huts or snatching purses from poor market women were shameful in the eyes of real experts in theft and robbery, and more so when such stories were narrated in front of international thieves and robbers. The foreigners had not traveled all this way to meet people who stole just because they were hungry or needed clothes and jobs. Such petty thieves and robbers were criminals. “Here, in this cave, we are interested only in people who steal because their bellies are full,” the master of ceremonies said, patting his stomach.

  Ndaaya wa Kahuria lost all shame and fear, and he started to harangue the master of ceremonies: “A thief is a thief. There should be no thieves with special privileges. A thief is a thief, and motive is not important. We should all be allowed to enter the competition and to compete freely. A robber is a robber. . . .”

  From every corner of the cave, the congregation of thieves and robbers raised their voices in dissent, some shouting angrily, “Tell him to get that cheap suit of his off a platform that belongs to men who know their trade! Ndaaya wa Kahuria, we don’t want to look at Napier-Grass-Son-of-Trembling—let it tremble in the wind outside! Throw him out! He can take his special talent for stealing chicken to Njeruca! Master of ceremonies, do your job. If you can’t, say so, and we’ll soon find a replacement who can handle the situation.”

  The master of ceremonies beckoned to the guards at the door. They ran forward, swinging their clubs in the air, and they hustled Ndaaya wa Kahuria toward the door, despite his loud protests about discrimination. Ndaaya wa Kahuria was expelled from the feast. The other thieves and robbers laughed and whistled with pleasure. The master of ceremonies again gestured for silence, and then he spoke.

  “This is a competition for Thieves and Robbers International, yaani, thieves and robbers who have attained international status. So we don’t want any novices or amateurs to come here and waste our time. Time is money, and every time is robbing time.

  “So let’s agree about the rules that will govern this competition from now on. Our reason for gathering here today is not as simple as some of you make out. And neither is it a laughing matter. I say this: nobody who steals only in hundreds or even thousands should bother to come up to the platform, for he will be taxing our patience for nothing.”

  This was greeted with loud applause.

  “That is the first rule. Your applause, which is obviously spontaneous and sincere, is a sign that we all approve of it. Here we want to see and hear only thieves and robbers who have sat down at least once to count and pocket their millions.

  “The second rule is this: no one without a big belly and fat cheeks should bother to come up here to waste our time. Who could possibly argue the size of a man’s belly and cheeks is not the true measure of his wealth?”

  Those thieves who boasted large paunches gave him a big ovation. The slim ones shouted him down. The crowd in the cave split into two, and heated arguments developed between the clan of the fatties and the clan of the skinnies.


  One man who was particularly thin jumped to his feet to disassociate himself completely from the second rule. He was so angry that his Adam’s apple danced up and down at tremendous speed as he talked. He argued that although it was true that many thieves and robbers had great paunches and fat cheeks that were nourished by property, there were others whose stomachs were sunken and whose cheeks were hollow because they were always thinking about the problems raised by the extent of their wealth. “Yes, the problems associated with its very size!” the man said, and added: “But that doesn’t mean that they aren’t experts in theft and robbery. A man shouldn’t be discriminated against because he is thin. He can’t graft an extra stomach on to himself or borrow the swollen belly of his pregnant wife so as to be allowed to take part in the competition. To be slim is not the same as being sliced thin by misfortune . . . and you don’t judge a hero by the size of his calves.” The man finished and sat down. The clan of skinnies clapped him vigorously, and the clan of fatties shouted him down.

  A fight almost broke out when one fatty said loudly that the man who had just spoken was as lanky as Ndaaya wa Kahuria. The man who had been insulted stood up and demanded bitterly: “Who called me Ndaaya wa Kahuria? Who called me a wretch? Who insulted me by comparing me with a thief who deals in just a few hundreds and thousands? Let him come forward! Let him come forward, and we’ll fight it out with our fists, so I can teach him that I steal in millions.”

  Then a man stood up who was neither fat nor slim. He settled the dispute by saying: “Let us not concern ourselves with thinness or fatness, whiteness or blackness, tallness or shortness. There is no bird of prey that is too small when it comes to hunting. Anyone who feels he has what it takes should be allowed to come forward and compete with other eaters. An eater and an eater should meet in the battlefield to settle all doubt about who calls the tune in eating other people’s property. Just look at our foreign guests. Some are fat; others are slim. Some have red hair; others have hair which is not so red. One comes from Japan in Asia; others come from Europe; and their leader comes from the USA. What makes them of one age-group, one house, one clan, one umbilical cord, one kind is not slimness or fatness or language. No, what binds them together, uniting them as members of one clan, is theft, which has permitted them to spread their tentacles over the whole of the Earth, like the creeping plant that crawls into all corners of the field. Therefore we, their local watchdogs, are also of one umbilical cord, one age-group, one house, one clan, one kind. We who have gathered here today, whether Luo, or Kallenjin, or Mkamba, or Mswahili, or Mmaasai, or Mkikuyu, or Mbaluhya, are brothers in theft and robbery, related to one another through our links with these foreign experts. Master of ceremonies! We all belong to one organization. Let us always remain united. It is only among the people from whom we steal that we should create divisions of tribe and religion, so that they will never develop their own strong, united organizations to oppose us. . . . You people, a fire that blazes fiercely may destroy the meat whose fat made it jump into the flames!”

  As he ended his speech, the man was greeted with applause that almost brought the walls and the ceiling of the cave tumbling down. “Toboa! Toboa! A Daniel come to judgment!” some of them shouted, so delighted were they with the man’s words.

  After a brief discussion it was agreed that a man’s size, weight, religion, tribe and skin color would have no bearing on his participation in the competition, that everybody should be allowed to fight on the basis of his cunning and skills in theft and robbery. But because of the need to exclude amateurs and novices, the following rules were agreed upon:

  Rule 1 Every competitor must give his name.

  Rule 2 Every competitor must give his address.

  Rule 3 Every competitor must reveal the number of women he has—wives and/or mistresses.

  Rule 4 Every competitor must provide information about the car he drives, the model his wife drives and the model driven by his girlfriend(s).

  Rule 5 Every competitor must give a brief account of his career in theft and robbery.

  Rule 6 Every competitor must show how theft and robbery can be increased in the country.

  Rule 7 Every competitor must show how we can strengthen the ties between us and foreigners.

  When the master of ceremonies had finished reading the rules, he sat down, amidst more thunderous applause.

  “I would like to enter the competition,” Mwaũra told Mũturi.

  “Are you a robber?” Mũturi asked Mwaũra. “Where do you think my profit comes from?” Mwaũra retorted, and then he started to laugh as if he had only been joking. But suddenly he recalled the question that Mũturi had asked him earlier about the Devil’s Angels. His laughter died. He turned toward Wangarĩ, and he asked himself: Does she too know what Mũturi knows about me?

  Wangarĩ sat still, torn between courage and bitter distaste. She wanted to stand up and silence the whole cave with accusations and abuse. But she remembered her resolution to endure the feast patiently, so that she could gather as much evidence as possible before going for the Ilmorog police. For about two minutes she blocked her ears to shut out the self-congratulation and mutual admiration of the thieves and robbers as they greeted the master of ceremonies with delirious applause.

  And quite suddenly Wangarĩ felt as if she had been transported to Mwaũra’s matatũ, where she had sat the night before, heading toward Ilmorog. She heard the voice of Mwĩreri wa Mũkiraaĩ soothing them to sleep with the story of the man who was about to travel to a far country and who called his servants and delivered unto them five talents, two talents, one talent. . . . Then he that had received the five talents went and traded with the same, and made five talents more. And likewise he that had received two, he also gained another two. But he that received one went and dug in the earth and hid his lord’s money. After a long time, the lord of those servants returned, and reckoned with them, and he that had received . . . talents. . . .

  The Testimony of Gĩtutu wa Gataangũrũ

  The following are things that were revealed by Gĩtutu wa Gataangũrũ concerning modern theft and robbery. Gĩtutu had a belly that protruded so far that it would have touched the ground had it not been supported by the braces that held up his trousers. It seemed as if his belly had absorbed all his limbs and all the other organs of his body. Gĩtutu had no neck—at least, his neck was not visible. His arms and legs were short stumps. His head had shrunk to the size of a fist.

  That day Gĩtutu wa Gataangũrũ was sporting a dark suit and a white shirt with frills. A black bow tie, which looked as if it had been stuck to his chin, stood where his neck should have been. His walking stick was decorated with pure gold. While he talked, Gĩtutu stroked the side of his belly with his left hand and swung his walking stick with his right hand. He panted as he talked, like a person carrying a heavy load.

  Gĩtutu wa Gataangũrũ gave his testimony as follows.

  “As for my name, I am Gĩtutu wa Gataangũrũ. That is my traditional name. But my European name—or perhaps I should say my Christian name, which is also my baptismal name—is Rottenborough Groundflesh Shitland Narrow Isthmus Joint Stock Brown. When Europeans hear my full name, they are taken aback at first, then they look at me again and again rather strangely. Some of them shake their heads, and others laugh outright. Why? Because even they have never heard of such an unusual name! You people, Europeans really fear me.

  “As for matters of the flesh, I am an elder with one wife and five children—three boys and two girls. One of the boys has finished his education at all the universities in Africa, and he has now gone abroad to accomplish a similar feat there. The next boy has just secured a place at the university. My third son and my daughters are still at school, struggling with pens and books. I always say that they must get all the learning that I myself would have got if my father had had the type of cunning that I now possess. All of them go to very expensive schools, the kind that used to be for Eu
ropeans. Even today the schools they attend have only European teachers.

  “But before I leave such matters, I would like to mention that besides my wife—we were joined together as man and wife at Thogoto Mission Church—I have two mistresses, for you know the saying that he who keeps something in reserve never goes hungry, and when a European gets old, he likes to eat veal.

  “Some of you may be looking at this little belly of mine, and when you see how it droops and when you hear me panting, you may be asking yourselves: How can Gĩtutu, son of Gataangũrũ, manage one wife and two young things? Our people, I would like to ask such skeptics the following question: why have you forgotten our proverbs? As the dancer prepares himself for the arena, it’s he who knows how he is going to dance. The elephant is able to carry his tusks, however huge. And again, whoever is able to resist money today is beyond human help.

  “As for my address, my real home is here at the Golden Heights, Ilmorog. I call it my ‘real’ home because it’s where my wife and children live. It’s like my HQ. But I’ve got many other houses in Nairobi, Nakuru and Mombasa. I’m never happy staying in hotels. When I am on a smuggling mission I like to spend the night in a house that bears the name of Gĩtutu wa Gataangũrũ. Of course, those are the houses known to the mother of my children. But I have a few other private lairs in Nairobi. Those are for me and my sugar girls.

  “And as for my car, I normally go about in a chauffeur-driven Mercedes Benz 280. But in addition I have a Peugeot 604 and a Range Rover. Those are for my personal use. The mother of my children drives a Toyota Carina. That’s just a little shopping basket for carrying goods from the market. There are other vehicles—lorries and tractors—that I need for my business activities. I won’t waste your time counting those. Oh! I was about to forget about my young girlfriends. I gave one sugar girl a Christmas gift of a Toyota Corolla, and I bought the other one a birthday present, a Datsun 1600 SS. Modern love is inconsistent with a tight fist!