A Grain of Wheat (21 page)

Six years later, it was the image of the thread that still appealed most to Gikonyo’s imagination as he walked along a dusty road back to Thabai. He pulled down his hat (he had picked it up from the side of the road) to hide the tufts of hair sprouting over the otherwise bare convict’s head, an impotent gesture, since the hat itself was so badly torn. His heavily patched coat, once white – daily use had now turned it yellow and brown – hung loosely from the slouching shoulders. His face, which six years before glowed with youth, had developed tiny lines creating, around the mouth when shut, the effect of a permanent scowl as if Gikonyo would flare up into violence at the slightest provocation.

The bumpy battered land sloped on either side; sickly crops just recovering from a recent drought, one more scourge which had afflicted the country in this period leaving the anxious faces of mothers dry and cracked, were scattered on the strips of shamba on either side of the road. Gikonyo, however, did not notice the sickliness around as he pressed on, the image of the Mumbi he had left behind leading the way. The image beckoned him, awakening in him emotions almost cracked by physical hardships and pains of waiting. Bare, disillusioned
in his hope for early Independence, he clung to Mumbi and Wangari as the only unchanging reality.

Soon he would meet them. The thought seemed to give strength to his tired limbs, noticeable in the way he tried to walk faster, the hurrying steps leaving a thin train of dust behind him. Gikonyo had longed for this moment with increasing despair as each day came and went. The longing was bearable in the first few months of detention. Then the detainees used to sing defiantly at night and in the day, and laughed scornfully into the face of the whiteman. Some detainees were beaten, all of them were rigorously questioned by the government agents whose might lay in the very mystery of their title – Special Branch. The detainees had agreed not to confess the oath, or give any details about Mau Mau: how could anybody reveal the binding force of the Agikuyu in their call for African freedom? They bore all the ills of the whiteman, believing somehow that he who would endure unto the end would receive leaves of victory.

For Gikonyo, these would be given to him by Mumbi, whose trembling hands, as she held the green leaves he could so clearly picture. His reunion with Mumbi would see the birth of a new Kenya.

Despite this optimism, or perhaps because of it, the first setback had violently shocked Gikonyo. He went to his own cell and tried to puzzle out the implications of what had happened. Failing, he joined the other detainees for a collective attempt at reaching the depth of this devil’s trickery. Jomo had lost the case at Kapenguria. The whiteman would silence the father and the orphans would be left without a helper.

At first, of course, they did not believe it. The Camp Superintendent, a fat man with a skin that looked bloodstained in the sun, had called them out of their tiny rooms into the compound and gave them a radio, their first contact with the outside world. The Superintendent, hands in his pockets (he was fond of khaki shorts), stood at a distance and with a satisfied smile studied the shocked faces.

‘I will tell you something. Believe it or not, but the whiteman just wants to break us with lies,’ declared Gatu, a detainee from Nyeri, who always instilled them with strength and hope. Gatu had a way of telling jokes and stories which compelled everyone to listen. The
corners of his mouth were set in a satiric smile which tickled many detainees from sadness to laughter and warmth. Even the way he ordinarily walked could be irrepressibly comical, as he nearly always mimed the gait and mannerisms of the white officers and camp warders. His jokes and stories carried a moral. His laughing face and eyes had certain lines of unmistakable wisdom. But on that day his voice was broken and carried little conviction. Nevertheless, the detainees of Yala hung on to his words, and countered the silent taunts of the whiteman with open disbelief, ill-carried by their half-hearted grins and jarred laughter.

Each detainee slunk into his bed on the floor. In the day they avoided talking about Jomo or speculating about the outcome of the case in Kapenguria. They refused to look into one another’s eyes in order not to read what the other was thinking. Long ago, Young Harry had also been detained, and sentenced to live alone on an island in the Indian Ocean for seven years. He had come back a broken man, who promised eternal co-operation with his oppressors, denouncing the Party he had helped to build. What happened yesterday could happen today. The same thing, over and over again, through history.

And one night, suddenly, they believed the news, all of the detainees to a man. They did not say their belief to one another, it was only that they gathered together in their compounds and sang:

The day of deliverance had receded into a distant future. The Camp Superintendent came with a megaphone and surrounded with armed guards ordered them back to their cells. They dispersed without murmur (except the sound of their feet), and without laughter.

They were abandoned in a desert where not even a straying voice from the world of men could reach them. This frightened Gikonyo, for who, then, would come to rescue them? The sun would scorch them dead and they would be buried in the hot sand where the traces of their graves would be lost for ever. This thought brought more
despair to Gikonyo, remembering Mumbi and Wangari: that his identity even in death would be wiped from the surface of the earth was a recurring thought that often brought him into a cold sweat on cold nights. At such times, words formed in prayers would not leave his throat.

In spite of this, the detainees of Yala held on to their vows. They would not say anything about the oath. Gatu remained their good spirit. He had joined the Movement early in his life and was active in the fever for Independent schools in Nyeri. His faith lay in the Movement; only through it could he see any prospect of Independence and the return of the lost lands. He was a great oath administrator in Nyeri and travelled from village to village on foot. Gatu knew about political parties and freedom movements in other countries. He often delighted the other detainees with stories of India and the trials of Nehru and Gandhi. He also told them about the American War of Independence and how Abraham Lincoln had been executed by the British for leading the black folk in America into a revolt. Napoleon had been a warrior, in fact one of the biggest warriors in history. His voice alone made the British urinate and shit on their calves inside their houses. These stories cheered them. They felt Gandhi, Napoleon, Lincoln were watching the black folk of Kenya in their struggle to be free. Even the African warders were impressed with Gatu’s stories; they listened, their delight mixed with fear, and putting an unconcerned look on their faces, they taunted Gatu for his wild tongue. But their hearts were not in the rebuke and they did not stop him.

The men drew out plans of action after detention. They discussed education, agriculture, government, and Gatu had elaborate stories for all these subjects. For instance, he told them a wonderful story of what once happened in Russia where the ordinary man, even without a knowledge of how to read, write or speak a word of English, was actually running the government. And now all the nations of the earth feared Russia. No amount of beating could silence Gatu. He would come back to the others and re-enact the recent drama in the office, mimicking the English voices and miming their features. In the end, they confined him in a cell, all by himself. For days he was not allowed to see the sun or speak to anyone. He was given food once a day,
which he ate in the dark. Later they let him out and he joined the men in his compound.

‘What happened?’ the detainees asked him eagerly, a confession that they had missed him.

‘Forget these people. They are thick, thick like darkness. Instead I’ll tell you the full story of my life. I was born in a valley. The grass in the valley – man, it was big and green-rich. The sun shone daily. And the rain also fell and fruit trees sprung from the earth. I often lay in the sun on the grass, a piece of fruit in my hand, and listened to the running stream and the wild animals. Nobody knew of this valley and I knew no fears. Then one day I was surprised to get an unexpected visitor. Can you guess who? Anyway, you can imagine my surprise when I saw the famous Queen – Queen of England. She said (mimicks her voice): “Why are you living in this dark place? It is like a cold, dark cell in prison.” I lay there on the grass. I could see she was quite surprised, naturally, because I was not impressed with her blood-stained lips. “I like it where I am,” I told her and went on lying on the ground. She said (mimicks her): “If you sell me your valley, I’ll let you … once.” Women are women you know. “In my country,” I told her, “we do not buy that thing from our women. We get it free.” But man, my own thing troubled me. I had not seen a woman for many years. However, before I could even say anything more, she had called in her soldiers who bound my hands and feet and drew me out of the valley. I have just come from there, and that’s why, gentlemen, I am back with you here in case you are surprised.’

‘Man,’ he said after the laughter. ‘I wish I had agreed at once to satisfy my thing which troubles me to this day.’

They went on laughing. ‘Show us how she walked,’ one of the men called out. Gatu stood up and mimed the whole drama amid appreciative murmurs and comments.

The Camp Commandant warned him, ‘We shall get you!’ Gatu had become the symbol of their collective resistance.

Gikonyo could never understand how Gatu remained so strong despite being singled out for torture. Was it his fantasies? Or was the man made of iron?

They went to break stones in a quarry five miles from Yala. The stones were for building houses for new officers and warders. Yala camp was expanding. More detainees arrived, the only contact with the outside world. Gikonyo and the others walked through hot sand in a flat land spotted with cactus bush and tiny thorny trees without leaves. Gikonyo raised and lowered the huge hammer until he entered into a mechanical rhythm. It was hot. Sweat rolled down, his shirt stuck to his clammy body. The unbroken flat land stretched wide from the hill towards the coast, fading into a grey shimmering. Suddenly Gikonyo found himself dwelling on a subject that transported his heart and mind to a world different from the one of the quarry and the Yala country. Soon after marrying Mumbi he had wanted to give her a gift, a creation of his own hands. He had thought of many things he could make for her but could not decide on any. Then one day he had overheard Mumbi and Wangari discussing traditional Gikuyu stools. ‘These days there are no wood-carvers left,’ Wangeri was saying. ‘So you only get chairs and seats joined together with nails.’ And immediately Gikonyo had itched to carve a stool. He wanted to carve one which would be different from any others. And for a whole year the desire often possessed him at odd times and places. He would become very excited but could never think of a motif. Now in the quarry he found himself thinking about the stool, dwelling on all sorts of motifs. He was still in this mood when their few minutes of rest came, and Gikonyo sat next to Gatu. Gatu’s face was weary.

‘What is it, man?’ Gikonyo asked him.

‘It’s nothing.’ His gaze went beyond the quarry to a land far away.

‘You seem to be thinking of something,’ Gikonyo pursued, dwelling on a motif which had just occurred to him.

‘What’s there to think about now?’

‘Freedom!’ Gikonyo said triumphantly.

‘Freedom! Yes, freedom,’ Gatu said slowly, in a subdued voice that sounded like a suppressed cry. The tone destroyed the motif and Gikonyo was depressed inside. Suddenly Gatu turned his eyes on Gikonyo. Gikonyo felt the terrible bond being established between them. He struggled against this but in the end gave up, so that it was
he who first opened his heart to Gatu. He told him of Thabai, of Wangari, of Mumbi. He told him of his physical and spiritual union with Mumbi. And finally Gikonyo told Gatu of his one desire to see Mumbi just once.

‘Why, I did not even say farewell to her when the soldiers carried me away.’

For a time, it was as if a load had been lifted from his heart; but immediately Gikonyo felt slightly ashamed at letting himself go. Gatu’s silence following his own gush of words and feeling was like a rebuke. Gatu then turned his eyes from Gikonyo, and as he gazed into the shimmering distance, spoke in a voice clear, colourless, and not raised above a whisper.

‘A certain man, the only son of his parents, once wanted a woman. And the woman also wanted to marry him and have children. But the man kept on putting off the marriage because he wanted to build a new hut so that children would be born in a different hut. “We can build it together,” she often told him. In the end, she was tired of waiting and letting life dry in her. She married another man. The first man went on trying to build the hut. It was never finished. Our people say that building a house is a life-long process. As a result the man never had a woman or children to continue his family fire.’ He then rested his eyes on Gikonyo and continued as if he was talking straight into Gikonyo’s heart. ‘So, you see, we all have our separate losses … for the cause. We have to, we must remain strong together!’

As soon as he had finished his story, Gatu stood up, and walked away from Gikonyo. ‘Weak, weak like any of us,’ Gikonyo at first murmured inside, filled with pity. Gatu had seemed so sure, so secure, so able to laugh at himself and others. Then suddenly Gikonyo’s pity changed into hatred, so strong he could not understand it. ‘So that’s why he’s so strong. He has no woman like Mumbi. How dare he talk to me about collective strength?’

The soldiers came for Gatu in the quarry. That very evening the others found his body hanging against the wall of his cell. ‘Hanged himself …’ the commandant told them, laughing. ‘Guilt, you see! Unless you confess, you’ll end up like him.’ Gloom fell on Yala. They could not agree on a common united response to Gatu’s murder. The
event shook Gikonyo. ‘I should have known it was coming,’ he told himself, scared of his own weakness.