In the House of the Interpreter (24 page)

It turns out that Monday is a public holiday. The morning porridge is tasteless. I feel as cheated as I did on Saturday, when I was rearrested minutes after being set free. I don’t know how I can face the entire Monday watching my fellow inmates playing checkers over and over again with sticks for pieces and holes dug in the ground for a checkerboard. Two who try to play without spectators stop after a few moves. Everybody seems listless. I can feel their disappointment. I just hope they don’t blame me for being the unwitting conduit of false hope.

I sit down, apart, then stand up and walk about, then sit down again to mull over my fate. I should not have put all my hope in a court appearance today, and I certainly should not have passed on what my brother told me.

Don’t feel bad, a voice says. I look up and find Mr. Body Parts standing above me. I tense up, hoping it doesn’t show.
Shauri ya Mungu
, he says, sitting beside me without invitation. God works in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform. Shall I tell you a story?

I don’t feel like conversation, and I certainly hope it is not about the burial of body parts. But instead he tells me
a tale of Hyena, who has fallen into a pit. He cannot climb out. He stays there, day and night, without food or water. Luckily for him, Antelope passes by and, hearing the cries of the trapped animal, stops. Hyena pleads with Antelope to get him out. Antelope stretches out his hand and helps Hyena out. Thank you very much, says Hyena, but you know what, I am very hungry, and I have to eat you. Along comes Hare, who offers to settle the dispute. They tell him what happened, and there seems to be no disagreement over the facts of the story. Hare says that he cannot believe that Hyena, so big an animal, could have fallen into such a pit. Hyena is angry at not being believed. Show me how, says Hare. When Hyena is back in the pit, Hare tells Antelope, case closed. Go your way.

He deserves it, the stupid Hyena, some voices say, and I realize that the story has attracted other listeners. There is animated talk about Hare and his cunning ways. But Hare is no match for Chameleon, another person chimes in. Without an invitation, he too tells a story.

As far as I can tell, it is a retelling of the Tortoise and the Hare, except instead of Tortoise, it is Chameleon who challenges Hare to a race. They agree to meet by a certain bush where Chameleon lives. When Hare turns up at the bush, he does not see Chameleon and waits for a few minutes. That Chameleon has chickened out, says Hare, whereupon he hears Chameleon’s voice tell him, Let’s start. Hare dashes ahead, and then stops, looks back. Chameleon is nowhere in sight. Even if I give him a day, he will never catch up with me, Hare says, and enters a restaurant. Our
storyteller describes the food, which in variety, color, richness, and quantity is the exact opposite of the porridge we have been given. Hare’s other stops include a night in a whorehouse, where the room, the bed, and the bedding are the exact opposite of ours at the remand prison. After days of self-indulgence, Hare arrives at the agreed-upon spot. As he sits down, he hears Chameleon’s voice: Don’t sit on me, I have been waiting for you for a day and a half. What happened? asks one listener. He is asking for the sake of saying something, because they all know the answer: Chameleon climbed onto Hare’s tail, and wherever Hare went, Chameleon changed colors accordingly and hung on, waiting for his chance.

Did you know that it was the same two animals that brought death to the world? asks another listener. By this time, nearly all the inmates have become a participatory audience, in what has turned out to be a storytelling session. When all attention is turned to the new voice, he coughs and tells his story of how death came to the world.

When God first created humans, he had not made up his mind whether to make them immortal. One day he decides that humans, because they are made in his image, will never die. He sends Chameleon to take the good news to the human race. It takes Chameleon many days to reach the humans, and when he gets to them, he starts delivering the message. Go-Go-God sa-sa-says tha-tha-that … In the meantime, God has changed his mind. Because man is made in his image, there has to be something that differentiates the gods from the humans. Immortality for gods; mortality
for humans. He dispatches Hare to tell the human race that they are mortal. Hare has to deliver his message before Chameleon’s because God does not break his word. Hare arrives just as Chameleon is saying that … that … and Hare completes the sentence: humans must die.

Arguments erupt about the advantages and disadvantages of immortality. The debate shifts to qualities of different animals. More stories and anecdotes are told in support of one position or another. Even Messrs. Bank Robber and Body Parts tell more stories without flaring tempers. The stories have calmed our nerves and brought us closer together. The day passes very quickly. I recall what my mother told me about stories under the Mugumo tree.

In my corner at night, I now cling to hope. At Alliance, Carey Francis used to talk of treating triumph and disaster as impostors. Be prepared, I tell myself. The words have a familiar ring. They are the scout motto. But the dread of what will happen tomorrow is deadweight on my nerves, and I don’t know if my scouting skills can lift it.

When on Tuesday morning I wake to my imprisonment, I again feel dread, but I console myself that today, at the very least, there will be some kind of movement. And indeed, after a breakfast of porridge, armed guards take us to court.
Somebody from Kahũgũinĩ recognizes me: John, a teacher, but not at Kahũgũinĩ proper. He taught with Lady Teacher, in the same school. We last met on the day of my Fall from Grace, not so long ago. He walks toward me, asking loudly,
Mwalimu
, what is the matter, but he is not allowed to shake hands with me. Quickly I tell him that I have been in this situation since Friday. He has come to sort out matters with the education office. He will come to the court as soon as he is through.

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.

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.

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.

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.