In the House of the Interpreter (25 page)

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.

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.

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.

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.