Weep Not Child (10 page)

Njoroge came to place faith in the Bible and with his vision of an educated life in the future was blended a belief in the righteousness of God. Equity and justice were there in the world. If you did well and remained faithful to your God, the Kingdom of Heaven would be yours. A good man would get a reward from God; a bad man would harvest bad fruits. The tribal stories told to him by his mother had strengthened this belief in the virtue of toil and perseverance.

His belief in a future for his family and the village rested then not only on a hope for sound education but also on a belief in a God of love and mercy, who long ago walked on this earth with Gikuyu and Mumbi, or Adam and Eve. It did not make much difference that he had come to identify Gikuyu with Adam and Mumbi with Eve. To this God, all men and women were united by one strong bond of brotherhood. And with all this, there was growing up in his heart a feeling that the Gikuyu people, whose land had been taken by white men, were no other than the children of Israel about whom he read in the Bible. So although all men were brothers, the black people had a special mission to the world because they were the chosen people of God. This explained his brother’s remark that Jomo was the black Moses. Whenever he was with Mwihaki, he longed to impart some of these things to her. Yet when he tried to define them in words, he failed. So he kept them all to himself, walking alone in the fields and sometimes finding companionship with the nights.

Sometimes men came to see his father. Ever since Njoroge was a child, he had seen Ngotho as the centre of everything. As long as he lived, nothing could go wrong. And so Njoroge grew up, fearing his father, and yet putting implicit faith in him.

The men who came to see Ngotho usually went to his
Thingira.
But sometimes they went to Nyokabi’s or Njeri’s hut. This pleased Njoroge, for he loved to listen to the mature talk of men. These men were the elders of the village. They talked about affairs of the land. Kori and Boro too brought men at weekends, but these men were different from the young men of the village. The young men of the village usually allowed the elders to lead talks while they listened. But these others who came with Kori and Boro from the big city seemed to know a lot of things. They usually dominated the talks. And because most of them had been to the war, they were able to compare the affairs of the land with the lands to which they had been. They did not joke and laugh as young men usually did, but their faces were grave, as they talked of the foreign lands, the war, their country, the big unemployment, and the stolen lands.

Njoroge listened keenly as they talked of Jomo. Already he felt intimate with this man. For Njoroge was sure that he had read about him in the Old Testament. Moses had led the children of Israel from Misri to the Promised Land. And because black people were really the children of Israel, Moses was no other than Jomo himself. It was obvious.

The men also talked of the strike. All men who worked for
white men and the
serikali
(the government) would come out on strike. The government and the settlers had to be shown that black people were not cowards and slaves. They too had children to feed and to educate. How could people go on sweating for the children of the white men to be well-fed, well-clothed, and well-educated? Kiarie, a short man with a black beard, was a good, compelling speaker. He usually walked together with Boro. His words stirred Njoroge strangely.

A man asked, ‘But do you think it will succeed?’

‘Yes! Everybody will go on strike. Every black man everywhere. Even those in the police and the army will sit down too.’

‘Shall we really get the same pay as Indians and Europeans?’

‘Yes!’ Kiarie explained with a confident nod of his head. ‘All the black people will stop working. All business in the country will come to a standstill because all the country depends on our sweat. The government and the settlers will call us back. But we shall say, No, no. Give us more money first. Our sweat and blood are not so cheap. We too are human beings. We cannot live on fifteen shillings a month…’

The old men and village folk listened with deep interest. They did not know much about strikes, but if this meant more money, then it was a good idea. The solemn voice of Kiarie had conviction and quiet assurance that, Njoroge felt, gave courage and faith to all those around.

‘What about those employed by black people?’

‘We must concentrate on the government and the white people. We black people are brothers.’

Ngotho knew of one or two who were certainly
not
brothers. But he did not say so.

When Njoroge went to bed, he prayed that the strike be a success. He hoped it would come soon. If his father had much money, he could buy a lorry like that one of Jacobo. He slept and dreamed of the happy moment of wealth and pleasure after the strike.

Mr Howlands called all his men. This was unusual. But he had not much to say because he did not want to waste time.
He just warned them that if any man went on strike he would instantly lose his job. How could he allow a damned strike to interfere with any part of his farm? Even the government could not interfere with this. The blacks could ask and agitate for anything. Such things were clearly affairs of the government that stood outside his
shamba
. And yet paradoxically, as the strike approached, he wanted a strong government action – an action that would teach these labourers their rightful places.

Ngotho listened to the warning without apparent emotion. His face did not change and so you could not tell what he was really thinking.

He could not quite make up his mind about the strike. He doubted if the strike would be a success. If it failed, then he would lose a job and that would keep him away from the lands of his ancestors. This was wrong, for the land was his. None could tend it as he could.

Ngotho went home unsure. He went through the African shops. The barber was still at his job. These days he mostly talked about the strike. Ngotho did not go there. He went straight home.

Njoroge had never seen his father quarrelling with his wives. Whenever there was a quarrel the children were never allowed to know about it. So when Njoroge came from school and found Nyokabi crying, he was shocked. He could remember vaguely only one time when his mother cried. It was probably during the famine of cassava or earlier. That was now a dream. But this was not a dream. Njoroge stood stock-still, too frightened to enter the house. Ngotho, tall, masculine in spite of age, stood in front of her. Njoroge could not see his face. But he could see the tear-washed face of Nyokabi. Fear gripped him as he witnessed real discord in the home that had hitherto been so secure.

‘I must be a man in my own house.’

‘Yes – be a man and lose a job.’

‘I shall do whatever I like. I have never taken orders from a woman.’

‘We shall starve…’

‘You starve! This strike is important for the black people. We shall get bigger salaries.’

‘What’s black people to us when we starve?’

‘Shut that mouth. How long do you think I can endure this drudgery for the sake of a white man and his children?’

‘But he’s paying you money. What if the strike fails?’

‘Don’t woman me!’ he shouted hysterically. This possibility was what he feared most.

She sensed this note of uncertainty and fear and seized upon it.

‘What if the strike fails, tell me that!’

Ngotho could bear it no longer. She was driving him mad. He slapped her on the face and raised his hand again.

But Njoroge now found his voice. He ran forward and cried frantically, ‘Please, Father.’

Ngotho stopped. He looked at his son. He ran towards him and grabbed him by the shoulder. Njoroge felt the grip and winced with fear. Ngotho growled something inaudible. Then he suddenly released the boy and turned his eyes away. He walked out.

‘Mother!’ Njoroge whispered to Nyokabi.

‘Why have they bewitched him? My man is changed…’

‘Please, Mother!’

But she went on sobbing.

Njoroge felt lonely. Something heavy and cold oppressed him in the stomach. Even the stars that later shone in the night gave him no comfort. He walked across the courtyard, not afraid of the darkness. He wished that Mwihaki was with him. Then he might have confided in her. In the distance, the gleaming lights of the city where the call for the strike had been born beckoned to him. He did not respond. He just wanted to be lost in the darkness, for he could not judge between a father and mother.

In his bed, he knelt down and prayed. ‘God forgive me, for I am wicked. Perhaps it is me who has brought uncleanliness into our home. Forgive me my sins. Help my father and mother. O, God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, help Thy children. Forgive us all. Amen.

‘Lord, do you think the strike will be a success?’

He wanted an assurance. He wanted a foretaste of the future before it came. In the Old Testament, God spoke to His people. Surely He could do the same thing now. So Njoroge listened, seriously and quietly. He was still listening when he fell asleep.

It was at the beginning of the new year. The room was packed, for the whole class had come to know whether they had passed or not. Njoroge sat in a corner, silent. Mwihaki too was there. She was growing into quite a big girl; certainly she was not the same person who five years back had taken Njoroge to school. The two had shared each other’s hopes and fears, and he felt akin to her. He always wished she had been his sister. A boy chattered and shouted in a corner, but his friend did not want to play. The boy sat down again while the two others regarded him coldly. One or two others laughed. But the laughter was rather subdued. Though they sat in groups, each was alone. That was all.

Teacher Isaka came in with a long sheet of paper. Everybody kept quiet. Njoroge had prepared himself for this moment. He had many times told himself that he would not change even if he failed. He had tried his best. But now when the teacher began to look at the long white sheet, he wanted to go and hide under the desk. And then he heard his name. It was topping the list. Mwihaki too had passed.

Together they ran homewards linking their hands. They did not talk. Each wanted to reach home and tell their parents the good news. Njoroge wanted his mother to know that her son had not failed. He would now go to an intermediate school. They came near Mwihaki’s house and there stood for a moment holding each other’s hands. Then they let go of the hands and each now ran on a different path towards home.

Mwihaki reached home earlier. She found her mother and
all the other children of the family crowded together. She did not see anything strange in this because she was very excited.

‘Mother! Mother!’

‘What is it?’ She stopped. The voice of her mother was cold, sad, and distant; Juliana looked past Mwihaki and then, almost in a hostile and impatient manner continued, ‘What else has happened? Speak! Or why do you come home rushing so?’

‘Nothing,’ Mwihaki said quietly, ‘only that I have passed.’ There was no pride of achievement in her voice.

‘Is that all? Is your sister Lucia at school?’

Then Juliana burst out sobbing, speaking to herself. ‘I have always said that such
Ahoi
were dangerous. But a man will never heed the voice of a woman until it is too late. I told him not to go. But he would not listen!’

‘What has happened, mother?’ Mwihaki asked anxiously.

‘O, well may you ask. I’ve always said that your father will end up by being murdered!’

‘Is he dead?’ Mwihaki burst out crying.

Nobody reassured her.

Meanwhile Njoroge had reached home. A group of men and women and children were standing in the courtyard. Some eyes were turned to his father’s hut. The others were turned towards the marketplace. But where was his mother? He found her inside her hut. She sat on a low stool and two women of the village sat close to her. They kept dumb. Their eyes were turned to the courtyard. Nyokabi’s face was dark, and now and then sobs shook her. Njoroge’s joy of a victorious homecoming faded.

‘What is it, Mother?’ He feared that someone had died.