The courtroom is full. I feel weak in body but happy at seeing my brothers and sisters, Kenneth, and a few other people from Limuru. I still don’t know what I will be charged with, but I assume that it will have something to do with taxes. I have never been inside a courtroom before. Very quickly the accused are called out, one by one. Most of those held for taxes plead guilty. They are fined and leave the room to pay for their freedom. Other minor offenses are dealt with in a similar fashion: charge, guilty plea, fine, freedom. I am surprised at their pleas because throughout our days and nights together they all stressed their innocence. The court adjourns for a ten o’clock break. My name has not been called. The others tell me they pleaded guilty simply to avoid another night in jail. One or two don’t have the money, and they ask me for a loan. I oblige where I can without depleting myself.
71
I don’t know how, but during the break, while still guarded, Messrs. Rifleman and Machine Gun approach me. They are incredibly friendly, even sympathetic. They offer advice. All my friends, as they call my fellow inmates, had pleaded guilty. They were released after paying only a slight fine. I have a choice: accept guilt and be free, or refuse and face a prolonged trial and almost certainly a term in prison, which would ruin my college plans. Their advice, completely disinterested, is that I should opt for freedom. I am young, I have dreams to pursue. The police are going to help me. If I say yes, they will give testimony about my good behavior. That will be the end of my tribulations. The judges might even set me free without a fine. But if I don’t cooperate, I should not blame them for whatever befalls me.
It is impossible to believe that people who have been so cruel to me could now be so completely sympathetic, so ready to help me achieve my freedom. They have presented themselves as if they were the only genuine friends I have in the world. I don’t say anything, not wanting to argue. I am completely isolated from the company of family and friends whom I see around, which deepens my loneliness. The nightmare I used to have in my early days at Alliance about bloodhounds at the gate comes back in a different form: they still pursue me, but when I shout for help, people don’t hear me, passing by without a glance in my direction.
The court resumes. It is full again. Even those already discharged have come back to hear my case. I am in the dock, alone, guarded. Everything is a first time for me. Messrs. Rifleman and Machine Gun, my recently self-avowed friends, are in the courtroom. There is a glint of evil in the eyes of the lead officer, Mr. Rifleman, reminding me that if I don’t accept guilt, I should be ready to face the consequences. I am still expecting to be charged with not paying taxes. I begin to wonder if I should follow in the footsteps of the others. It is not a matter of law and justice; it is a choice between prison and college.
But when the charge is read, I am flabbergasted. I cannot believe my ears: there is absolutely no mention of taxes. Instead I am charged with resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer on duty. There is a gasp in the audience: they all know that under the state of emergency, it would be suicidal to resist arrest, let alone actually assault a police officer. I am asked to enter a plea, but instead I stand up and try to explain my innocence. No, all I am needed to say is yes or no to the charge. I want to explain, to tell the truth of what happened, but the presiding judge is saying no, no, just say yes or no, you’ll have a chance to explain later. I am on the verge of tears. I see conspiracy all around me. Why won’t they let me explain that the charge itself is a pack of lies? They can see that I am completely innocent of court procedures. In the end, they write down that I have pleaded not guilty. I sit down. The trial begins.
The judge-chairman asks if the prosecutor is ready to proceed with the witnesses. Yes, he says, consulting Mr. Rifleman, who goes out, followed quickly by Mr. Machine Gun. Mr. Rifleman comes back fairly quickly and whispers something. The prosecutor apologizes to the court. His key witness has just been called on urgent duty and will not be available that day. I don’t need an expert to tell me that this will mean postponing proceedings and my return to the remand prison for an undefined length of time. The council of judges confers. Then the verdict: the officer must produce his witnesses the following morning when the court resumes.
72
They take me back to the remand prison. It is all a conspiracy. How could the presiding council of elders give any credence to barefaced lies? Even now I am not allowed to confer with my relatives and friends. My worsted woolen trousers have still not lost their creases, but I know that they must be stinking.
In the prison yard, Mr. Rifleman and Mr. Machine Gun, the officer supposedly called on duty, come back to me. They pull me aside. Were these not the witnesses said to be unavailable? I ask myself bitterly. They return to the same story and the same theme: surrender to save yourself. The charge is very serious; it will mean a long prison term, and I may as well say goodbye to my dreams of college. When the court resumes tomorrow, I should ask to change my plea: the police will vouch for my behavior. Their demeanor, tone, gesture, everything, exudes sympathy and a genuine desire to help. They explain that they did not produce the witnesses because they wanted to give me more time to consider. So even the lie to the judge was to help me? I don’t say anything. But when they leave, I feel completely abandoned.
The old inmates have all gone, even Mr. Bank Robber and Mr. Body Parts. All the friends I knew have been replaced by a new lot of frightened inmates. But the stories, the walls, the toilets, the stink, and the blankets are all familiar. There are lice in my hair, but even the incessant itching cannot distract me from my sense of isolation.
Throughout the night, shadows of doubt visit me. Suppose Mr. Rifleman is right? Suppose … suppose this and that … the future becomes bleaker by the minute. The sweet persuasive voice to do what is easy increases in volume. It’s so easy to plead guilty, pay a fine, and then continue with life. But in pleading guilty, I would be telling a lie, ensuring that their lies become a permanent truth about me. I am still wrestling with doubts and indecision as dawn comes and they take me back to the courtroom.
73
WEDNESDAY
Word has spread; the court is even more packed than yesterday. At the door, John, the teacher from Kahũgũinĩ, hands me an envelope, then disappears among the crowd. I put it in my pocket. The Limurian faces of yesterday have returned, and more. John of the Envelope must have spread the word.
Eventually, the judges enter. They ask if the prosecutor has his witnesses. The officers are still in the field, he tells the court. It will take a couple of days to produce them. He is asking for another postponement, ready to proceed with other cases, equally pressing. Again there’s an adjournment for them to consider his request. The wheels of justice are slow. I am still under armed guard, still isolated from relatives and friends I can see but cannot touch.
Suddenly I remember the envelope. Something to distract my mind. I open it. I had lived with doubts. You answered my doubts. You helped me see the Lord. Jesus will help you. Say a prayer. I’m doing the same for you. Signed Lady Teacher, your Sister in Christ. Is it a hoax, a joke, a mockery? Then the irony, or the absurdity, dawns on me. In all my Balokole days, inside and outside Alliance, I had failed to convert a single soul. Now this note is telling me that in my fall I have succeeded. Was it because I had been addressing my own doubts, and my voice carried sincerity and conviction? I close my eyes and pray. I still don’t hear any voice speaking back to me.
How could Carey Francis have lived a life of such complete acceptance and obedience to an invisible master? How does he know whether he is obeying the commands of a higher being? How does he believe? Doubt has always pursued me, even during the height of our three-person cabal. For there are things I cannot believe in, no matter how hard I try to convince myself: virgin births; God literally born as an ordinary human child; physical resurrection and ascension to Heaven. Gaitho and his marriage of history and eschatology make more sense to me than all the revival meetings I attended. Except now I am thinking of
survival not revival. But what if revival guarantees survival? God works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform. I murmur a prayer for the strength to do what I have to do, and for forgiveness in advance of my doing it. Is it an illusion, or do I hear a voice saying, yes, heed what the police advise, they may be the instruments of God’s will. They have arrested me and now have offered a clear way out, the way that has been followed by the majority of the other inmates, who have all been set free for the simple act of pleading guilty and begging for clemency from the court.
When the panel of judges comes back, they deny the prosecutor his request for another postponement. Unless they have witnesses, the court has no alternative … No, your honors, please wait for me to check. Whispers. A police officer goes out and comes back, followed by Mr. Rifleman. Suddenly, miraculously, one witness has materialized. If the panel is surprised, they don’t show it by word or gesture. Mr. Rifleman is sworn on the Bible to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. But the moment he opens his mouth, he spews lie after lie. He puts on a flawless performance. He even puts on an air of humility: it pains him to have to testify about these awful deeds against a youth with so much promise. But law is law, and as a police officer, he must uphold it. Your honor, this youth thinks he is above the law, just because he has been to Alliance High School and was taught by Carey Francis.
His narrative is seamless. He obviously assumes that lies smoothly delivered can smother truth. At Alliance, though not said in so many words, there was an assumption that we should always give credence, or the benefit of the doubt, to authority. At home my mother was always adamant that we not call an adult a liar to his face. But how does one give the benefit of the doubt to fiction dressed as fact? Or not call out an adult who lies brazenly?
A lunch break. The court is back in the afternoon. It is now my turn. Surrender. End it all. One word, yes, and it is all over. God’s will. Freedom bought with a lie. Why not? Betrayal brought about Christian salvation, I remind myself. The court clerk reads the charge to me. I hesitate. Then I recall the words my mother sent through my brother Wallace on day one of my incarceration: Truth never dies. It directly translates as truth never lies. She is not in the courtroom, but I see the pain on her face, feel it in her voice: is that the best you can do? Ũguo no guo wona ũngĩhota? They repeat the charge. I am trembling. But when finally I find my voice, it is loud and clear: I am not guilty.
74
With those words, I have fought back. The relief I feel is tremendous. I am at peace, not thinking about the consequences anymore. I simply want to get my side of the story out. I try to trace it back to when I got my salary with arrears and how I was anxious to get home to my mother. They stop me and tell me to ask Mr. Rifleman questions. The conspiracy again. Why should I ask him questions instead of telling my story? It is hopeless. I don’t know what to say, what to ask.
And then, out of nowhere, I recall my days with the Alliance debating society, the parliamentary format, in which you asked questions and, in the process, brought out inconsistencies in the opponent’s position. I decide that Mr. Rifleman is the mover of the government motion, and I am the opposition. I am back in my Alliance element. Do you remember that I was on the bus from Nairobi to Limuru? Yes. Do you remember that you entered the bus? Yes. And that you had a gun, a rifle, and your partner, a machine gun? He hesitates. The elders ask him to answer: Were you armed? Yes. What weapon? A rifle. And your partner? A machine gun. Continue with your questions. And you remember I was not armed, in any way? Well, but you had a parcel. What kind of parcel? The court forces him to admit that a parcel is not a weapon. Question after question, I go through the entire story, how he asked me for tax papers, and what I told him. Do you remember telling me that even Kiano, Mboya, and Oginga Odinga pay taxes? No. And from there onward, he responds to my every question with no, which of course makes him contradict himself over and over again. I am relentless. I feel a new power, the power of telling the truth. I can be consistent; he cannot. Through questions, my story unfolds up to and including their attempts to ask me to plead guilty. No, no, they were simply asking me to tell the truth. The court is so silent that one can hear a pin drop. When I finish, there is applause, which is met with a stern rebuke from the court.
One of the elders asks me if I have the Makerere and Alliance papers over which I claimed the police officer mocked me. I pass them to the court. The court adjourns. But people do not leave the room for fear of losing their seats.
I am still under guard. The way people look at me in the room makes me feel that something I don’t quite understand has happened. I am not relaxed. I still smart at the fact that I was not allowed to tell my narrative in my own way. But I feel good that I did not succumb to the temptation to say yes to a lie.
By the time the court resumes, a crowd of those not able to get inside has gathered all around the building. The hour of judgment has come. It is simple: the court will not stand in the way of a young man who has just graduated from Alliance with such grades. Police officers must not let jealousy cloud their judgment in the execution of their duties. This court will not stand between you and Makerere, the judge says. You are free to go.
For a few seconds, I am not able to take it in. I feel tears, and I don’t know if they are of joy or horror at how closely I came to damning my soul forever by lying out of fear. The audience is restrained. Everybody leaves the courtroom except for Messrs. Rifleman and Machine Gun. Even their fellow officers seem to have abandoned them. Outside, people are talking animatedly, laughing, cheering.
The crowd from Kahũgũinĩ The crowd from Kamĩrĩthũ. I don’t feel a stranger to my village anymore. It has taken a long time. But the gain of the new makes up for the loss of the old. Good Wallace embraces me. My younger brother, Njinju, clings to my hand, making it clear to all that I am his hero. I feel overwhelmed with relief. I will not let this ordeal mar my memories of my four-year sojourn in the House of the Interpreter or my expectations of the future.
Little did I know that this ordeal would turn out to be a rehearsal for others ahead. That’s another story, another place, another time. Nothing will ever dim the glory of the hour when I became free, or diminish my longing and quest for freedom, whose value I have come to cherish even more.
75
In July 1959 I was back in Limuru railway station, boarding a passenger train bound for Kampala, Uganda. In the second-class section, no longer reserved for Asians only, were many Alliance graduates, old and new, going to Makerere University College. As the train picked up speed, the children’s song we used to attribute to the Kampala train played in my mind: Ndathiĩ, Uganda. To-U-Ganda, To-U-Ganda, To-U-Ganda.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank all who helped me recover this memory, particularly: my wife, Njeeri wa Ngũgĩ, for commenting on the various versions of the story; the principal of Alliance, Mr. D. G. Kariuki, and the head of English at Alliance, Mr. M. Muchiri, for receiving me at the school and providing me with the Carey Francis log, a precious mine of information on dates and events; Joe Kihara Munugu, Gatua wa Mbũgua, Eliud Kihara, Allan Ngũgĩ, Kimani Nyoike, Archibald Githinji, Philip Ochieng, Kĩmunya Ngũgĩ, Kenneth King, Gordon C. Mwangi, Albert Kariuki Ng’ang’a, Kamau Kĩariĩ, and Emilia Ilieva, for their help in collecting material for this memoir; Mũkoma wa Ngũgĩ, Mũmbi W. Ngũgĩ, Thiongo K. Ngũgĩ, and Bjorn Lanno for debating various titles; and Barbara Caldwell for research. Gloria Loomis and Henry Chakava read the initial drafts and made useful suggestions; Erroll McDonald edited it with care and respect for the spirit. Bits and pieces of the memoir have been published in the following magazines: 10 TAL, Istanbul Review, Über Lebenskunst, Index on Censorship. The first public reading of selections from the memoir was at the annual end-and-beginning-of-the-year performance festival at Professor Gaby Schwab’s house in University Hills at the University of California, Irvine.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o has taught at Nairo
bi University, Northwestern University, Amherst College, Yale University, and New York University. He is Distinguished Professor of English and Comparative Literature at the University of California, Irvine. His many books include Wizard of the Crow, Dreams in a Time of War, Devil on the Cross, Decolonising the Mind, and Petals of Blood, for which he was imprisoned by the Kenyan government in 1977.
ALSO IN EBOOK FORMAT FROM NGŨGĨ WA THIONG’O
Dreams in a Time of War • 978-0-307-37895-8
Wizard of the Crow • 978-0-307-49331-6
Visit Pantheon Books: http://www.pantheonbooks.com
Also by Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o
FICTION
Wizard of the Crow
Petals of Blood
Weep Not, Child
The River Between
A Grain of Wheat
Devil on the Cross
Matigari
SHORT STORIES
Secret Lives
PLAYS
The Black Hermit
This Time Tomorrow
The Trial of Dedan Kimathi (with Micere Mugo)
I Will Marry When I Want (with Ngũgĩ wa Mĩriĩ)
In the House of the Interpreter: A Memoir Page 18