Petals of Blood (56 page)

‘Why have you retained the hut?’ he asked, just to say something.

‘I don’t want to forget the Old Ilmorog. I never shall forget how we lived before the Trans-Africa Road cleaved Ilmorog into two halves.’

‘What’s the point?’

‘It is remarkable how you have changed. You used to argue that the past was important for today, things like that.’

‘True . . . but only as a living lesson to the present. I mean we must not preserve our past as a museum: rather, we must study it critically, without illusions, and see what lessons we can draw from it in today’s battlefield of the future and the present. But to worship it – no. Maybe I used to do it: but I don’t want to continue worshipping in the temples of a past without tarmac roads, without electric cookers, a world dominated by slavery to nature.’

‘You are too – you sound like a preacher to me, so earnest! And yet you used to sit at the feet of my grandmother and other older folks and you would keep on asking: and what happened, what happened? And you would be so rapt in thought . . . lost in the power of her voice and narrative . . .’

‘She was a great woman. I was really very sorry to hear how they drove her to her death. There is your system of eat or you are eaten.’

She poured tea into cups – the same old cups – and sat down.

‘She always said that you would return . . . even on her deathbed . . . strange . . . She called me and for two days we really talked: or rather she talked, making me relive my childhood afresh, and so many things. At one time, she put her hand on my head, and said, without looking at me, there’s so much sorrow and sadness on your eyes and in your heart . . . I know why you grieve . . . but he will return, he will return, only I fear that you may not be
there
to receive him . . . I told her: I’ll never leave Ilmorog. She did not answer. I waited for her to continue – but she did not say any more about it . . . Otherwise she did not discuss the future or the present. Instead she kept on talking about my grandfather. And now I asked her the question I had once asked her: “Tell me how my grandfather met his death!”

‘“He was a man – he belonged to a race of men such as will never be. I know it: didn’t he take me under the millet growth and I felt his power making a woman out of me, a girl? Didn’t we make Theng’eta
together? Not this concoction you and Abdulla are cheating people with. But he was always troubled by memories of the past and fears for the future. It is, he told me, because of what as a boy – a young man on the verge of manhood – he had seen and witnessed with his own eyes. He had heard of what once had happened in Ilmorog market. He had also heard of other deeds but only about lands afar. This was a time when pitched battles against the strangers were fought – you know the whole of that side of Dagoretti was then dominated by Itungati led by Waiyaki: walk on through Wangigi, leaving the ridges of Koinange to your right, and you come to Githiga, the clan of Muniu, where your mother came from. All this he had heard but thought it would never happen in Ilmorog. And then it did. The women and children were hidden in caves and in the forests. The young men of Ilmorog were determined that they would never again be taken asleep; that they would always defend their goats and land in obedience to the curse of Ndemi. Your grandfather . . . he hid in a barn . . . he refused to run away with the women and the other boys. He wept because he was not yet circumcised to join in the defence of this soil. He told me how he saw a thousand spearblades of our warriors catch the afternoon sun and turn red like names from a burning house . . . marching against the enemy. A thousand brave men walking to their death, mowed down by fire and noise from those sticks . . . but they fell on the enemy, screaming defiance, until the enemy was forced to flee . . . but on the ground lay the flower of Ilmorog manhood . . . He had wept . . . at his own inability to help . . . and he swore . . . next time . . . next time . . . But next time he was already an elder . . . and it was only to be a porter . . . It was there that he heard it whispered how in a land called Russia, peasants had taken spears and seized guns and drove out the enemy. Were they black like him? Was it Europeans that they drove out? In one camp . . . he stole something . . . He swore next time . . . but next time – it was his sons who were taken. But he kept the secret hidden, even from me . . . He was growing old . . . and dreams troubled him . . . the animal of the earth . . . he thought your father would be interested, seeing that he had been to the Big War . . . and other young men were talking of another war like in India, like in China. But your father
ran away . . . and it hurt him . . . and for him it seemed there would be no next time and his dreams kept him awake so that he would groan . . . He had given up . . . he told me the secret . . . Forget your foolishness, I told him. I thought he had forgotten. And then the fat Waitina mzungu – you know – the one who would ask people to dig their own graves – came here . . . wanted to know who was helping the group led by Ole Masai . . . we were all in the Baraza. Then he said he would set an example and selected two young men: they would be killed. He said two old men would dig graves for the youth. He asked for volunteers . . . and it was – we all thought him mad – your grandfather volunteered. And I was so ashamed: I was so ashamed I wept: so my man was a woman after all? To go and get a jembe to dig a grave for the young? So all those dreams were because of urine and shit in his bones? We all watched him go to the hut . . . into the barn . . . and came out, a jembe on his shoulders . . . And women were going to scream at him . . . I knew they would and I wanted to stop him from doing the traitorous thing . . . then . . . I’ll never forget the hour . . . he dropped the jembe and pulled the secret from under his blanket and pointed it at Waitina . . . and Waitina trembled, we saw a white man tremble, and we all waited for the bang . . . You should have been there . . . I was so proud, so proud, I would now lift my head among other women . . . Well . . . It did not fire . . . It was too old . . . He pulled and pulled . . . well they caught him and hanged him . . . but he never uttered a word of ‘sorry’ or cry for forgiveness . . . He was a man, my man . . . he was a man!”

‘She died the same night . . . and I shall never forget her words of pride and joy . . . “I am coming to join you, my warrior . . .” and she closed her eyes.’

Karega felt as if he had been present amongst those who watched Wanja’s grandfather walk to a heroic death, keeping honour to a promise made in his youth way back in the last century.

‘It was then I understood why my father never came back and why he and mother always quarrelled and passed the burden of their tension on to us children . . . Tell me, Karega, tell me, how could I have let this land go to the African Economic Bank, after that? Even if I had to sell myself over and over again,’ she ended bitterly.

He felt the old fire flicker . . . he reached out to touch her . . . she waited suspended . . . but in mid-air, he felt the futility of the action and scratched his head as if searching for fitting words.

‘That is the kind of lesson we can learn from our past . . . as a guide to action . . . but also learn from your grandfather’s tendency to act alone—’

The magic string between them was finally broken.

He wished he could swallow back the words. He had hurt her less by the didactic triteness than by a combination of tone and gesture.

Wanja suddenly let him go: she too felt and knew that this was the end: she was not there when he returned and she would not cry over it. Let him go and preach to his workers and the crowds. She had treasured a dream: it was gone. She became businesslike:

‘You are once again wondering why I called you. I wanted to ask you to be very careful. They have sworn to kill you – to eliminate you . . . the way they did the lawyer. All those who are against KCO must be eliminated. Just like the lawyer.’

‘Who?’

‘Kimeria . . . Chui . . . Mzigo . . . all . . . I know it. Don’t ask me how. It’s part of a big plan. They want to encourage the formation of various tribal organizations. Each tribal union would have its oaths binding its members, on point of death, to an absolute loyalty to the group. Then the leaders from all the unions would form a National Front with KCO as the main power. It would be the duty of each union to eliminate disloyal elements under the pretext that such elements were betraying the tribe and its culture and its wealth to other tribes.’

‘And how does one qualify for leadership?’

‘Property . . . but I don’t think they have worked out all the details. But KCO is a good model. It’s led by those with property.’

Karega was quiet for some time. Then he said, more to himself:

‘They are bound to fail. Can’t you see: we, the workers, the poor peasants, ordinary people, the masses are now too awake to be deceived about tribal loyalties, regional assemblies, glorious pasts, utamaduni wa zamani, all that – when we are starving and we are jobless, or else living on miserable pay. Do you think we shall let
foreign companies, banks, insurances – all that – and the local rich with their Theng’eta companies, the new black landlords with their massive land-holdings and numerous houses – do you think people will let a combination of these two classes and their spokesmen in parliament, at universities, in schools, in churches and with all their armies and police to guard their interests – do you think that we shall let these owners of stolen property continue lording it over us for ever? No . . . it is too late, Wanja . . . we shall no longer let others reap where they never planted, harvest where they never cultivated, take to their banks from where they never sweated . . . Tell them this: There are a million Karegas for every ten Kimerias. They can kill the lawyer or ten such lawyers. But the poor, the dispossessed, the working millions and the poor peasants are their own lawyers. With guns and swords and organization, they can and will change the conditions of their oppression. They’ll seize the wealth which rightly belongs to them. Why – it’s happening all around us – Mozambique, Angola, Zimbabwe. Just now you thought I was not touched by your grandfather’s story. I would choose your grandfather ten times . . . not your father . . . Never! The workers and the peasant farmers of Kenya are awake.’

He stood up to go. ‘But thank you for warning me. I really mean it. It touches me . . . and I am only sorry, really sorry, that you are on their side. KCO and Imperialism stand for the rich against the poor. They take from the poor and that’s why they hate to see the poor organize and you are helping them.’

She stood up and faced him, hatred in her eyes, anger in her voice, proud in her bearing.

‘No . . . It is not true, it’s not true, I’ve tried to fight them, the only way I can. What about you? What I am, you made me. You went away, you went away. I pleaded with you, shed tears, but you went away and now you dare blame me.’

Then as suddenly her voice changed and she spoke softly.

‘I have been so lonely . . . so lonely. This wealth feels so heavy on my head. Please stay tonight . . . just tonight, like in the old times . . .’

Yet again she changed and this time she cried out to beyond Karega, beyond, a savage cry of protest:

‘Oh, it’s not true. It’s not true. I have loved life! life! life! Karega, give me life . . . I am dying . . . dying . . . and no child . . . No child!’

He did not look at her. He felt callous but it was also, for him, the only way. He was firm and sure!

‘Whatever you are, you have chosen sides. I don’t hate you, I don’t judge you . . . but I know that we cannot fight Kimerias by being them . . . by joining them . . . we can’t beat them at that game . . . No, we want a world, we must struggle for a world in which there are no Kimerias and Chuis, a world in which the wealth of our land shall belong to us all, in which there will not be parasites dictating our lives, in which we shall all be workers for one another’s happiness and well-being.’

He left her standing by the door where later Abdulla found her.

For the next few days Wanja thought about what had happened. It seemed that it had all been inevitable: her final break with Karega and her union with Abdulla. Abdulla’s news about Joseph’s success in Siriana coming so soon after Karega’s censure had given her a measure of pride and a little hope. It seemed to her that it was the only good thing she had ever done, at least the only thing she had initiated without adverse repercussions on her own life. And what a life! She had carried dreams in a broken vessel. Looking back now she could not even see a trail of the vanished dreams and expectations. It was Kimeria who had bored a hole into the vessel. That was true. But she had let him. She had chosen. This she could not now hide from herself. Karega was right. She had chosen, and she could not blame it on her parents and on Kimeria. At least she could have chosen to fight differently. Her grandfather had chosen. Her father had chosen. Karega had chosen. Everybody chose to accept or not to accept. The choice put one on this or that side of the line-up in the battlefield. She had been, it seemed to her, the warrior in the story who came home to tell and catalogue his defeats, not in shame but in pride, as if defeat was itself an achievement. She, Wanja, had chosen to murder her own child. In doing so she had murdered her own life and now she took her final burial in property and degradation as a glorious achievement. She tried to look at this coolly, without this time shifting the blame onto others.

She could not now return to a previous state of innocence. But she could do something about her present circumstances. She did not know what she would do: she only felt the need to do something. For a start she could end her relationship with Kimeria. Yes. She must end it. But this second time it would be on her own terms. She would choose the hour, place and atmosphere. She would have her vengeance. The more she thought about it the more she liked the idea, which soon became an obsession. It was as if the manner of ending it was more important than the act. She did not see any contradiction in her choice of Abdulla as her instrument of vengeance. It seemed only natural now that she had accepted him into her life. The idea was simple. She would invite Mzigo, Chui and Kimeria: she would then introduce Abdulla, in his rags, as her rightful man. She would then expose Kimeria. She worked out the plan. She would send all the girls away, and the watchman, for she really was determined to end her present life-style and means of earning a living. She would later work out ways of employing the girls in her other ventures. But for the night of her vengeance, they had to be away. Her plan was to keep Mzigo, Kimeria and Chui in different rooms until Abdulla’s arrival. She trusted her long experience and her tongue to manage separate but simultaneous entertainment. It would be a kind of grand finale to a career of always being trodden upon, a career of endless shame and degradation.