Devil on the Cross

by Ngũgĩ Wa Thiong'o

  At that point a lump of pain blocked his throat, and Fathog Marura wa Kimeengemeenge could only bite his lips and fingers helplessly in rage as he sat down. The cave now became a beehive of angry noise. Much of the anger was directed at Kĩhaahu wa Gatheeca.

  And then Kĩhaahu wa Gatheeca stood up and began to defend himself.

  “Mr. Chairman, I have been abused and insulted by those who have just spoken, and I have listened to their insults patiently. But now I seek and demand protection from the chair. I too am going to speak frankly, come what may. Each man here should go home right now and secure his wife’s cunt with a padlock, and then take all the keys to a bank safe, which will keep the keys safe until he is ready to retrieve them, primed by an erection. I’m not the one who has instructed their wives to become sugar mommies, or to join the club of the Ready-to-Yield. But a woman like yours,” and here Kĩhaahu pointed a finger directly at Marura wa Kĩmeengemeenge, “I swear by the name of truth that I would never touch such a woman, even were I to find her thighs spread in the middle of the road, or if she and I were shut in a house together with all the lights turned out. I cannot bring myself to compete for it with schoolboys and tourists. . . .

  “I should also make the point that nobody here should brag about guns. In my house I have three rifles and two machine guns, and in the car I keep a patchet. And if you think that this coat pocket bulges a little, I’ll have you know that it is not for nothing. Wherever I go, I am always armed from head to toe. If anybody wants to come up here and try to disarm me, he’ll see stars in daylight. . . .

  “Mr. Chairman, Gĩtutu wa Gataangũrũ has also insulted me. We came here so that each competitor could boast, in any way he chose, about his capacity for theft and robbery. I was only telling the truth, and I wasn’t trying to insult anyone. What I said was that robbing the masses by means of speculation in land (the very land they fought for) was a stage through which I too passed before going on to higher things. I no longer deal with land-buying companies and societies. One does not steal and squat to eat the loot in the same place all the time, for the owner will sooner or later catch up with one.

  “The only thing I deny with my heart and my life is what Gĩtutu wa Gataangũrũ said about the possibility that I might be the cause of the emergence of Chinese-style communism in this country. What, me, accept being ruled by a party of the workers and peasants? Me, accept being ruled by a party dedicated to eradicating the system of theft and robbery on Earth? Me, go back to working with my hands? Eat only what has been produced by my sweat alone, without having access to the products of other people’s sweat? Find myself facing duster and chalk again? Forget that, Mr. Gĩtutu. . . .

  “On the contrary, I would say that it is your plan for grabbing all the soil and all the air in the universe that’s the dangerous one and the one that could spread the disease of Chinese-style communism more quickly. The reason is this: if you prevented people from breathing, what would prevent them from taking up clubs and swords and guns? Isn’t that tantamount to showing how much you despise the masses? Better meanness that is covert: better a system of theft that is disguised by lies. Or why do you think that our imperialist friends brought us the Bible? Do you think that they were being foolish when they urged workers and peasants to close their eyes in prayer and told them that earthly things were vain? Why do you think I go to all the church fund-raising Haraambe meetings?

  “Gĩtutu, leave me alone. But if you still want to challenge me to a pistol duel, I would be only too happy to oblige, because your belly would make a perfect target and I’d like to find out if I can deflate it with a bullet or two. But should you prefer a war between our mercenaries, that would also give us a chance to find out which group, yours or mine, smokes the strongest bhang. I too have been circumcised. If you inquire carefully among the women, they will testify that there is no foreskin attached to my cock!

  “And lastly I would like to answer the charge of Ithe wa Mbooi, who complained that I rob members of my own class. To him I say this: what kind of thief and robber are you? What is he doing in this competition if he has never learned the elementary truth that there is steel which can easily drill through steel? Let me say this to Ithe wa Mbooi: there are thieves who can out-steal other thieves; there are robbers who can out-rob other robbers; there are kings who can out-rule other kings. If Ithe wa Mbooi doesn’t know this, he should pack up at once and go home to help Nyina wa Mbooi peel potatoes by the fireside and chat about ashes and embers. A piece of steel that can drill through steel itself—doesn’t that indicate that the steel is of special quality and toughness? What else do you people want? The crown is mine. Let’s not waste time. Give me the crown of victory!”

  His last speech appeared to have created even more enemies. Several people jumped up at the same time and started shouting at one another, some in support of Kĩhaahu or Gĩtutu or Ithe wa Mbooi, others on the side of Fathog Marura wa Kĩmeengemeenge. It was as if the cave had become the site of seven markets combined.

  And then suddenly silence fell in the cave. Kĩhaahu, Gĩtutu and Ithe wa Mbooi had pulled out their guns.

  People silently pushed back their chairs and stood up, each trying to keep out of the way of the bullets. For a minute or so nobody coughed or sneezed; the only noise was the scraping of tables and chairs as the occupants moved away, waiting for the whistling of bullets.

  The whole feast would have broken up in disarray had the master of ceremonies not jumped on to the platform before the shoot-out could begin and yelled with all his might until people returned to their seats. Still glaring at one another, Kĩhaahu wa Gatheeca, Gĩtutu wa Gataangũrũ and Ithe wa Mbooi also resumed their seats. And again, quite suddenly, noise returned to the cave. The master of ceremonies tried to silence the people with a wave of his hand. Then he spoke to them in a soothing, conciliatory tone.

  “Put those guns away in your pockets. I ask you with due respect to remember what has brought us together here today. We didn’t come here for a duel. We came here with the sole purpose of taking part in a competition in modern theft and robbery. I would also like to remind you that we have guests, seven emissaries from International Thieves and Robbers, who are here to monitor all that we say and do. Do you want to strip each other naked in front of our foreign guests? What do you imagine they think of us now, after witnessing this chaos and a threatened shoot-out in broad daylight? Our actions may make them lose faith in us and rethink their position. They must be wondering: Can these people really look after the products of our theft and robbery in their country? Are they really capable of looking after our finance houses and stores and all the industries underwritten by these? Imagine what we would lose if they were to take their leftovers to another village? What a loss for Ilmorog! Who would be to blame except ourselves? Let me be frank with you, for as the saying goes, one man can smear another out of love: too fierce a flame can cheat the fire of its meat. . . .

  “I beg you, I beseech you, tafadhali, please, be patient. Every competitor will get his chance to give his testimony on this platform and to brag about his artistry in theft and robbery. Let us not look down upon one another. Testimony is testimony. We should not let testimony testify against testimony. There is no hawk too small when it comes to hunting in the modern style.

  “But to restore peace to our souls and bodies, I suggest a small break to entertain our bellies, for the belly of a thief and a robber is not so foolish as to keep quiet when there is plenty of food, and it is not easily bribed into silence with a bite or two. You can all buy lunch here in the cave—we have a special international dish—or you can go elsewhere in Ilmorog. But I plead with you to hurry up over the eating and drinking so that we can all reassemble here at 2.30. There are plenty of testimonies to come.

  “Before we break for lunch, I would like to remind the women here, whether they are wives, mistresses or girlfriends, that after the competition there will be a fashion parade, a chance for you
to show off your jewelry, your gold, diamonds, silver, rubies, tanzanites, pearls. We must develop our culture, and you know very well that it is the way that women dress and the kind of jewelry they wear that indicates the heights a culture has reached. So when you come back, have ready your necklaces, earrings, rings and brooches, so that we can impress our foreign guests and show them that we too are on the way to modern civilization. So remember, 2.30 sharp! For now, namtakieni, bon appetit, mes amis!”

  The master of ceremonies was given a standing ovation. People were now satisfied, and they started talking lightheartedly. The Hell’s Angels band started playing some Congolese tunes:

  Babanda nanga bakimi na mobali

  Mobali oyo toto ya matema

  Nakei koluko mobali nangae. . . .

  A few people stayed where they were, drinking and discussing the threatened shoot-out. Others moved toward the door.

  Kyrie, kyrie eleison

  Kyrie, kyrie eleison. . . .

  Gatuĩria took Warĩĩnga by the hand and said: “We should go outside. Let’s get out, or this air will suffocate me!”

  “Yes, I feel sick, “Warĩĩnga replied, standing up. “Let’s go outside where we can breathe free air before it is turned into a commodity by Kĩhaahu and Gĩtutu,” she added, as they left the cave.

  Kyrie, kyrie eleison

  Kyrie, kyrie eleison. . . .

  Mwaũra turned toward Mũturi and said: “How come you know about the Devil’s Angels? What’s your connection with them?”

  Mũturi took out the piece of paper which had been handed to Warĩĩnga by the thugs who had ejected her from her house in Nairobi.

  “Look at this,” Mũturi said, as he gave the piece of paper to Mwaũra. “I think it belongs to you.”

  Mwaũra read it and frowned. “Where did you get it from?” he asked.

  “It was in your car last night,” Mũturi replied.

  Mwaũra looked at Mũturi with eyes filled with bitter questions: What’s Mũturi doing here? Who is he hunting down with his restless eyes? Could it be me? Why did he write this, only to pretend that he found it in the car? Or did he want to gauge the expression on my face? Who is Mũturi? Who is Wangarĩ? Mũturi could not see the bitterness in Mwaũra’s eyes, for he had, at that moment, turned toward Wangarĩ.

  “We should go outside too,” Mũturi told Wangarĩ.

  The Hell’s Angels band went on playing the same Congolese tune:

  Nakai Koluka banganga

  Po ya Kosongisa mobali nangai. . . .

  Mwaũra suddenly decided to ask Mũturi and Wangarĩ who had sent them to Ilmorog. I must show them that I know about their secret mission, he thought. I must show them that I wasn’t fooled by their tall stories last night.

  “I say!” he started, and then he suppressed what was in his mind and tried to cover it up with a different question. “Wangarĩ, are you going to deck yourself out with gold and diamonds and pearls and other stones?”

  Wangarĩ, Mũturi and Mwaũra laughed. They left the cave, still laughing. Mwaũra felt relieved: what had he been worrying about?

  “I would rather put on earrings made of dry maize stems,” Wangarĩ answered. “The only problem is that I missed my chance to have my ears pierced.”

  “Why?” Mũturi and Mwaũra asked.

  “Because ours was not a time for adorning out bodies with flowers and necklaces. Ours was a time for decorating ourselves with bullets in the fight for Kenya’s freedom!” Wangarĩ said with pride, because she knew that the deeds of her youth had changed Kenya’s history.

  Mwaũra suddenly stopped laughing. He was troubled. His face darkened. His heart beat as if it were asking him: Could it be that in your matatũ you were carrying a threat to your own life, like the louse one carries around on one’s body?

  But Mũturi looked at Wangarĩ, his heart overflowing with sudden pride and happiness. Wangarĩ, heroine of our country—all Wangarĩs, heroines of our land! Should I reveal to her the task that has brought me here today, so that she and I can help each other? No, the time is not yet ripe. I’ll observe her a little longer, he muttered to himself, still gazing at Wangarĩ. But afterward . . . afterward . . . , he whispered to himself. And then he recalled the braggarts in the cave, and Mũturi felt like weeping. “Let’s get out of here,” he urged Wangarĩ and Mwaũra. “Let’s leave this place!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  1

  When Warĩĩnga and Gatuĩria walked out of the cave, they stood for a while on a parapet. The sun shone brightly on the Ilmorog ridges and plains. The land lay quiet. No cold, no wind. “Although I have just been in the full glare of electric lights, I feel as if I have lived in darkness all my life,” Warĩĩnga sighed, and then she added in a sing-song voice: “Praise the sun of God! Hail the light of God!”

  “You should be singing praises to the light of our country,” Gatuĩria told her.

  “The light we have left behind us in the cave or another kind of light?” Warĩĩnga asked, in a slightly ironic tone.

  “No. The light that is about to be put out by those we have left behind,” Gatuĩria replied.

  They walked slowly and silently toward the main road. Then they began to talk. It was not really a conversation. It was more a kind of incantation, as if they were both taking part in a verse-chanting competition, citing verses remembered in dreams.

  Gatuĩria: Hail, our land!

  Hail, Mount Kenya!

  Hail, our land,

  Never without water or food or green fields!

  Warĩĩnga: Hail, the splendor of this land!

  Hail, the land ringed round with deep lakes,

  Turkana to Naivasha,

  Nam-Lolwe to Mombasa!

  Hail, this necklace of blue waters!

  Gatuĩria: Hail, hail, the shields of the land,

  From Kenya to the Mbirũirũ mountains,

  From Kĩanjahi to the Nyandarũa ridges,

  From Wairera to Mount Elgon!

  Hail, nature’s defense of our land!

  Warĩĩnga: And hearken to the call of the land!

  The rivers flowing to the east,

  Rũirũ, Cania, Sagana,

  Tana River, Athi River, Kerio River,

  They now flow east, calling out:

  Come! Come! Hurry! Hurry, and hail the land!

  Gatuĩria: For this land was dearly bought,

  Redeemed with the blood and tears . . .

  Warĩĩnga: . . . of women and men,

  of parents and children.

  Gatuĩria was the first to wake up from the dream-like incatations. He spoke in a voice full of bitterness: “And this is the land that is now being auctioned to foreigners!”

  Instead of answering back, Warĩĩnga began to sing the song Wangarĩ and Mũturi had sung during the ride in Mwaũra’s matatũ:

  Kenya does not belong to you, imperialists!

  Pack up your bags and go!

  The owner of the homestead is on his way!

  “But when the owner arrives, he’ll find that the entire house has been sold!” Gatuĩria said. “So it’s true that such acts of vandalism take place in broad daylight?”

  “Yes, as readily as their perpetrators raise their glasses to drink!”

  “Yes, as readily as they play golf.”

  “And go for sauna baths in expensive hotels.”

  “And dance in exclusive night clubs.”

  “And sing boastful songs in their caves and dens,” Warĩĩnga said. “God help Kenya, my love. What is the matter with me? My heart is so full that I feel like crying. I’ve never thought about these things in this way. . . .”

  “Maybe it’s the effect of the whisky you’ve drunk,” Gatuĩria replied. “Let’s go and look for somewhere where we can get roasted goat’s meat.”

  “Here in Golden Heights?” Wa
rĩĩnga asked.

  “No. Aren’t there other places apart from here where they want to sell air in tiny calabashes?” Gatuĩria asked.

  “Buy good air, fresh from Europe!” Warĩĩnga shouted, as if she were calling out to buyers of white air.

  Gatuĩria and Warĩĩnga looked at each another. Their eyes spoke to each other. They laughed together. Warĩĩnga felt her heart lighten.

  “Let’s go to Njeruca!” Warĩĩnga suggested.

  “Is there a restaurant there?” Gatuĩria asked. “Njeruca . . . where have I heard that name before?”

  Warĩĩnga laughed. She began to tell him more about Ilmorog as they walked slowly down the road.

  “Ilmorog is several villages in one. Let me start with the outer edges of the town, where the peasants live and those whose strips of land have not yet been sold off by the banks or swallowed by the wealthy and the powerful. There is also the shopping area, where there are draperies, grocers, hardware stores, shops of all kinds. This part of town also houses the banks. Another area is the industrial area. That’s where you’ll find the big brewery, Theng’eta Breweries.

  “The residential area is divided into two parts. The first is the Ilmorog Golden Heights residential area. In the past it used to be called Cape Town, but today it’s known as Golden Heights or simply the Heights. The air there is good and clean, and that’s where anyone who is anyone lives in Ilmorog. It contains the homes of the wealthy and the powerful. But do you call them homes or residences! Homes or sheer magnificence? The walls are made of stones from Njirũ. The roofs are made of red brick. The windows are of dark blue glass, like the waters of the lakes or the heavens on a cloudless day. They are decorated with iron bars shaped like different kinds of flower. The doors are made of thick wood, carved into all sorts of wonderful shapes. The floor is lined with wood, so polished, so smooth and shiny, that you can see your own reflection in it, and you can even use it as a mirror to do your hair. The residents of Golden Heights are always competing with each other. If one man builds a ten-room house with ten chimneys, the next man will build a twenty-room house with twenty chimneys. If this one imports carpets from India, the other will import his from Iran, and so on. . . .