A Grain of Wheat (15 page)

He crossed Government Road to Victoria Street and his business mind started to work again. He started wondering, he often did whenever crossing the two streets, why there was not a single African shop in the whole of the central and business area of Nairobi. In fact, Nairobi, unlike Kampala (at least, so Kariuki said) was never an African city. The Indians and Europeans controlled the commercial and the social life of the city. The African only came there to sweep the streets, drive the buses, shop and then go home to the outskirts before nightfall. Gikonyo had a vision of African businessmen like himself taking over all those premises!

A crowd of people waited outside the office of the MP because he was not in. But people were used to broken appointments and broken promises. Sometimes they would keep on coming, day after day, without seeing their representative.

‘It is like trying to meet God,’ one woman complained.

‘Why, what do you want to ask him?’

‘My son wants a scholarship to America. And you?’

‘It’s just troubles at home. Last Saturday, they came and arrested my man because he has not paid taxes. But how does he pay poll tax? He has no job. Our two children have had to leave school because no money …’

Some people had come for land problems, others for advice in their marriage problems, and yet others were a delegation to seek the support of the MP in applying for a secondary school in their ridge.

‘Our children have nowhere to go after their primary schools,’ one of the elders was explaining.

After an hour or so, the MP arrived; he was dressed in a dark suit and carried a leather portfolio. He smoked a pipe. He greeted all the people like a father or a headmaster his children. He went into the office without apologizing. People went in one by one.

Gikonyo’s heart was beating with hope. If only they could get this loan! A vision of a new future unrolled before him. They would work the farm on a co-operative basis – keep grade cows, grow pyrethrum, tea, maize – everything. Later the co-operative might be broadened to take in more people. A new black brotherhood in business! At long last, his turn came. The MP seemed surprised to see him.

‘Sit down, sit down, Mr Gikonyo,’ he said generously pointing to a chair with his left hand while his right hand supported the pipe in his mouth. He took out a file from the drawer, opened it, and for a few minutes seemed really absorbed. Gikonyo waited in suspense. The MP raised his face from the file and leaned back against the chair. He removed the pipe from his mouth.

‘Now, about these loans. They are difficult to get. But I am trying my best. Within a few days I may have good news for you. You see, these banks are still controlled by whites and Indians. But some are already realizing that they cannot do without
help
from us politicians. Gikonyo, my brother, they
need
us!’

‘When can I come back?’ Gikonyo asked, unable to hide his disappointment.

‘Aah! Let us see. Today is …’ He fumbled through his diary and then looked up at Gikonyo.

‘Let us leave it like this: suppose I come to see you, or even write to you, when I’ve got results? You have a shop in Rung’ei, haven’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘That will save you a lot of trouble. Shall we leave it like that?’

‘All right,’ Gikonyo said as he rose to go. At the door, Gikonyo turned round.

‘Do you think it possible to get the loan, or should we go ahead and find other means of getting the money?’

Gikonyo thought he detected alarm on the other’s face.

‘Oh, no, no,’ he said, and stood up. He walked with measured steps
to where Gikonyo was standing. ‘There is no real difficulty about that. The loans are there. It is just a question of knowing the ways. I have told you: the whites cannot do without us! … just leave it with me. All right?’

‘All right!’ Gikonyo said, resolved to go and see Mr Burton tomorrow. If Mr Burton could accept half the money now, they could surely give him the rest when the loan came or else raise the money by some other means. Before Gikonyo had gone a few yards, he heard people whistling behind him. He turned his head and saw people beckon to him. The MP wanted him back. So he again ascended the steps into the office.

‘It’s about these Uhuru celebrations at Rung’ei. Please thank the branch and the elders for inviting me. But on that day all the Members of Parliament have been invited to various functions here in the
capital
. You see, we have so many foreign guests to look after. So apologize to the people for me and say I can’t come.

‘Uhuru!’

‘Uhuru.’

Two days later, people were to talk about Mugo in the eight ridges around Thabai: they told with varying degrees of exaggeration how he organized the hunger-strike in Rira, an action which made Fenna Brokowi raise questions in the British House of Commons. His solitary habits and eccentric behaviour at meetings marked him as a chosen man. Remember also that the years in detention and suffering had enhanced rather than diminished his powerful build. He was tall with large dark eyes; the lines of his face were straight, clearly marked, almost carved in stone – one of those people who induce hope and trust on the evidence of their looks.

But neither on Sunday nor on Monday had Mugo any premonition that general worship was coming his way. In fact, the sudden proposal from the Party threw him off his balance. He woke up in the morning hoping that last night’s experience was another dream. But the sight of the stools on which the delegates had sat dispelled such illusions. The words spoken passed through his head with a nightmarish urgency. Why did they want him to lead the Uhuru celebrations?
Why not Gikonyo, Warui, or one of the forest fighters? Why Mugo? Why? Why?

He thought of going to the shamba. No, he could not do any work. Besides he did not want to walk through the village. He did not want to meet Warui, Wambui, Githua or the old woman. A walk to Rung’ei would be better. It was another hot day; the sand burnt his bare feet; dust collected and stuck to his sweating toes. The heat accentuated the feverish excitement and confusion in his head. Yes … they want me … me … to make a speech … praise Kihika and … and all that … God … I have never made a speech … oh, yes! … I have … they said so … said it was a good one … Ha! ha! ha! … told them lies upon lies … they believed … Anybody … why me … me … me … want to trap me … Gikonyo – Kihika’s brother-in-law … General R…. Lt Koina … Oh yes … a speech … speak … words …

Mugo had made only one real speech in his life. That was at a meeting which took place outside the Kabui shops near Thabai. The Movement convened the meeting to introduce returning detainees to the public. Mugo agreed to attend because, then, he had thought he could settle down to a normal life in the village: why draw attention to himself by refusing to attend? Many people from Thabai attended the meeting because, as you’ll remember, we had only just been allowed to hold political meetings; other people came, hoping to be diverted with escape stories and other heroic deeds. The situation in Kenya was then like this: the state of emergency had officially ended (almost a year before) but Jomo Kenyatta and his five compatriots of the Kapenguria trial were still detained in prison. Also the many wounds which our people had suffered were too fresh for the eye to look at, or the hand to touch.

Party leaders from the district were the first to speak. They said Jomo Kenyatta had to be released to lead Kenya to Uhuru. People would not accept any other person for the Chief Minister. They asked everyone to vote for party candidates in the coming elections: a vote for the candidate was a vote for Kenyatta. A vote for Kenyatta was a vote for the Party. A vote for the Party was a vote for the Movement. A vote for the Movement was a vote for the People. Kenyatta was the People! The meeting had, however, really been called to introduce
the men whose sacrifice and loyalty to the country had made these elections possible.

The rhetoric tone was seized by the detainees who rose to speak. They talked of suffering under the whiteman and illustrated this with episodes which revealed their deep love of Kenya. In between each speaker, people would sing: Kenya is the country of black people. These speeches were summed up by one detainee who said: ‘What thing is greater than love for one’s country? The love that I have for Kenya kept me alive and made me endure everything. Therefore it is true, Kenya is black people’s country.’

It was at this stage in the proceedings that a few detainees who had heard of Mugo’s case in Rira pushed him forward. Among these was Nyamu (later to be elected the secretary of the local branch of the Party) who had also been at Rira the week the eleven detainees were beaten to death. Mugo stood before the crowd. His voice, colourless, rusty, startled him. He spoke in a dry monotone, tired, almost as if telling of scenes he did not want to remember.

‘They took us to the roads and to the quarries even those who had never done anything. They called us criminals. But not because we had stolen anything or killed anyone. We had only asked for the thing that belonged to us from the time of Agu and Agu. Day and night, they made us dig. We were stricken ill, we often slept with empty stomachs, and our clothes were just rags and tatters so that the rain and the wind and the sun knew our nakedness. In those days we did not stay alive because we thought our cause strong. It was not even because we loved the country. If that had been all, who would not have perished?

‘We only thought of home.

‘We longed for the day when we would see our women laugh, or even see our children fight and cry. When we thought that one day we would return home to see the faces and hear the voices of our mothers and our wives and our children we became strong. Yes. We became strong even in days when the cause for which blood was spilt seemed – seemed—’

At first Mugo enjoyed the distance he had established between himself and the voice. But soon the voice disgusted him. He wanted
to shout: that is not it at all; I did not want to come back; I did not long to join my mother, or wife or child because I did not have any. Tell me, then, whom could I have loved? He stopped in the middle of a sentence and walked down the platform towards his hut.

After the meeting, Mugo took refuge in reticence. People went on with their daily work, reconstructing that which had been broken. Elections came. People voted the Party into power and resumed their toil. Mugo thought Thabai had forgotten him. But legends have thrived on less fertile ground. People in the meeting said the man was so moved he could not speak any more. And whenever Warui commented on this meeting he never forgot to say: ‘Those were words from no ordinary heart.’

Mugo walked determinedly, as if intent on reaching his destination early. His mind would suddenly see his whole past in a flash – like when lightning cuts the night in two. His whole life would be compressed into the flash. Then he would single out events trying to skip over the ones that brought him pain. He remembered that meeting – then his mind reverted to last night’s gathering. ‘He shall judge the poor of the people, he shall save the children of the needy, and shall break down in pieces the oppressor.’ The words thrilled him; a flicker once more danced within him. He stood, transfixed. Then, as suddenly, other thoughts rushed in and blew out the flicker. Unless they had suspected him could General R. have asked those pointed questions? Meeting somebody after a week? Karanja? Yes, could they really have asked him to carve his place in society by singing tributes to the man he had so treacherously betrayed?

Mugo was weighed down with these fears, hopes and doubts when in the evening Gikonyo said ‘hodi’ at the door and entered. For a time they stood, each embarrassed by the other’s presence.

‘Take a seat.’ Mugo offered him a stool near the fire.

‘I’m sure you did not expect me,’ Gikonyo started awkwardly after he had sat down.

‘It is nothing. I suppose you have come to hear my decision.’

‘No. It is not that which brought me here tonight.’ He told Mugo about his visit to Nairobi and his meeting with the MP.

Mugo, who sat on the bed opposite Gikonyo, waited for him to continue. The fire contained in the hearthplace by three stones glowed between them.

‘But it is not that which brought me here. It is my troubles, troubles of the heart.’ Gikonyo smiled and tried to sound casual. ‘I was really coming to ask you a question,’ he finished with a dramatic pause.

Mugo’s heart sagged between fear and curiosity.

‘Do you know that you and I were once in the same detention camp?’ Gikonyo said, feeling his way into a talk.

‘Were we? I can’t remember.’ Though slightly relieved, Mugo was still suspicious. ‘There were so many people,’ he added quickly.

‘It was at Muhia camp. We knew you were to be brought there. We had, of course, heard about you in connection with the hunger-strike at Rira. The authorities did not tell us. It was supposed to be a secret, but we knew.’

Mugo vividly remembered Rira and Thompson, who beat him. Of Muhia, he could only recall the barbed-wire and the flat dry country. But then most camps were in such areas.

‘Why do you tell me all this? I don’t like to remember.’

‘Do you ever forget?’

‘I try to. The government says we should bury the past.’

‘I can’t forget … I will never forget,’ Gikonyo cried.

‘Did you suffer much?’ Mugo asked with sympathy.

‘No, I did not. I mean … Do you know I was never beaten, not once. Does that surprise you?’

‘There were some who were not beaten, I know.’

‘Were you?’

‘Yes. Many times.’

‘You were brave not to confess. We admired your courage, and hid our heads in shame.’

‘There was nothing to confess.’

‘We confessed. I would have done anything to come back home.’

‘You had a wife. And a mother.’

‘Yes. You understand.’

‘No, I don’t understand, I don’t understand anything,’ Mugo declared in a raised voice.

‘Why did you speak like that, then?’

‘When?’

‘At that meeting! Remember? Many of us talked like that because we wanted to deceive ourselves. It lessens your shame. We talked of loyalty to the Movement and the love of our country. You know a time came when I did not care about Uhuru for the country any more. I just wanted to come home. And I would have sold Kenya to the whiteman to buy my own freedom. I admire people like Kihika. They are strong enough to die for the truth. I have no such strength. That’s why in detention, we were proud of you, resented you and hated you – all in the same breath. You see, people like you, who refused to betray your beliefs, showed us what we ought to be like – but we lacked true bones in the flesh. We were cowards.’