Weep Not Child (20 page)

‘You come from school–’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘To see me–’

‘Yes,’ he lied.

‘Did they beat you there?’

‘No, Father.’

‘Then – you – come to laugh at me. To laugh at your own father. I’ll go home, don’t worry.’

‘Don’t say that, Father. We owe you everything. O, Father, what could we do without you?’ Njoroge bit his lower lip.

Ngotho went on, ‘Your brothers are all away?’

‘They’ll come back, Father.’

‘Ha! At my death. To bury me. Where’s Kamau?’

Njoroge hesitated. Ngotho continued, ‘Perhaps they’ll kill him. Didn’t they take him to the homeguard post? But why do – they don’t want an old man’s blood. Now, don’t ask, Did I kill Jacobo? Did I shoot him? I don’t know. A man doesn’t know when he kills. I judged him a long time ago and executed him. Ha! Let him come again. Let him dare…Oh, yes, I know – Oh! They – want – the – young – blood. Look there, there – ah, they have taken Mwangi – Was he not young?’

Ngotho rambled on. All the time his eyes were fixed on Njoroge.

‘I am glad you are acquiring learning. Get all of it. They dare not touch you. Yet I wish all my sons were here…I meant, ha, ha, ha! to do something. Ha! What happened? Who’s knocking at the door? I know. It’s Mr Howlands. He wants to get at my heart…’

Ngotho’s laughter was cold. It left something tight and tense in the air. By now darkness had crept into the hut. Nyokabi lit the lantern as if to fight it away. Grotesque shadows mocked her as they flitted on the walls. What was a man’s life if he could be reduced to this? And Njoroge thought: Could this be
the father he had secretly adored and feared? Njoroge’s mind reeled. The world had turned upside down. Ngotho was speaking. Except for his laughter, his words were surprisingly clear.

‘Boro went away. He found me out – a useless father. But I always knew that they would change him. He didn’t know me when he came…You see…’

Njoroge turned his head. He was aware of another presence in the room. Boro was standing at the door. Njoroge had seen him enter. His hair was long and unkempt. Njoroge instinctively shrank from him. Boro went nearer, falteringly, as if he would turn away from the light. The women remained rooted to their place. They saw Boro kneel by the bed where Ngotho lay. And at once, long before Boro began to speak, the truth came to Njoroge. He could only hold his breath.

Ngotho could not at first recognise Boro. He seemed to hesitate. Then his eyes seemed to come alive again.

‘Forgive me, Father – I didn’t know – oh, I thought–’ Boro turned his head.

The words came out flatly, falteringly. ‘It’s nothing. Ha, ha, ha! You too have come back – to laugh at me? Would you laugh at your father? No. Ha! I meant only good for you all. I didn’t want you to go away–’

‘I had to fight.’

‘Oh, there – Now – Don’t you ever go away again.’

‘I can’t stay. I can’t,’ Boro cried in a hollow voice.

A change came over Ngotho. For a time he looked like the man he had been, firm, commanding – the centre of his household.

‘You must.’

‘No, Father. Just forgive me.’

Ngotho exerted himself and sat up in bed. He lifted his hand with an effort and put it on Boro’s head. Boro looked like a child.

‘All right. Fight well. Turn your eyes to Murungu and Ruriri. Peace to you all – Ha! What? Njoroge look…look to – your – moth–’

His eyes were still aglow as he sank back into the bed. For a
moment there was silence in the hut. Then Boro stood up and whispered, ‘I should have come earlier…’

He ran quickly out, away from the light into the night. It was only when they turned their eyes to Ngotho that they knew that he too would never return. Nobody cried.

The one road that ran across the land passed near the Indian shops. A few human voices mingled with an occasional hooting of a passing lorry or a car. The women came to the shops, saw him and suddenly stopped conversation.

‘I want that dress.’

‘And that bright one.’

‘Aren’t you selling?’

They talked at once, shouting across the counter as if they were talking to someone who was far away, someone who would never come back. One woman whispered to her neighbour, ‘Don’t be hard on the boy! You know what he has gone through…’

But her companion shouted all the more.

‘Don’t you hear?’

Njoroge roused himself. His voice was weary. His eyes were dull. He dragged his feet to a corner and brought the dress the women wanted. He did not want to look at them in the face because he thought they would see the dreams of his boyhood and laugh at him. The Indian sat in his own corner munching some green beans or groundnuts. Njoroge was disgusted with the munching sound…
O, I wish he could stop
.

‘How much?’

‘Three a yard.’

‘I’ll give you two.’

He hated being driven on like this. He had lost the will to fight even in a bargain, and he was tired of this game. Life too seemed like a big lie where people bargained with forces that one could not see.

‘There is no other price.’

‘Don’t lie!’ the same woman shouted with real indignation. ‘Why do you treat us as if you were an Indian?’

Njoroge flinched under this attack. As he watched them go out, he groaned inside. He had been made to work for the Indian by sheer necessity.

The Indian left his corner and called the women back. He quickly sold them another dress of the same quality for four shillings a yard. Njoroge did not stir.

As the women finally left, two of them stopped a little and turned their eyes as if to sympathise with him. Njoroge wanted to hide. For he knew that they – the ones he had thought he would come to save – would go on discussing him and his family.

Five months and people still talked about it. It was as if the death of Mr Howlands on the same night that Ngotho had died was of a greater consequence than all the deaths of those who had gone before. But this case was more striking because all of one family was involved. Boro and Kamau were facing murder charges.

It had all happened on the day that Ngotho died. Mr Howlands had been in his sitting room, all alone. Occasionally he looked at the ceiling and then tapped the table. A bottle of beer stood empty at a corner with a half-full glass in front. Mr Howlands had defiantly returned and stuck to his home in the dying farm. He could never get away from it. For the farm was the woman whom he had wooed and conquered. He had to keep an eye on her lest she should be possessed by someone else.

That night he was angry. He did not know what had happened to him since he saw something in the eyes of Ngotho’s son. He had remembered himself as a boy, that day so long ago when he had sat outside his parents’ home and dreamed of a world that needed him, only to be brought face to face with the harsh reality of life in the First World War…Mr Howlands could now remember drinking only to make himself forget. He cursed horribly.

And this Ngotho. He had let him go home more dead than
alive. But still he had let him go. Mr Howlands had not got the satisfaction he had hoped for. The only thing left to him was hatred. What had made him release Ngotho was a notebook that had been found behind the lavatory from where apparently Jacobo had been shot. The notebook had Boro’s name. At first Mr Howlands had been unable to understand. But gradually he realised that Ngotho had been telling a lie in order to shield Boro. But Boro was in the forest? Slowly he arrived at the truth. Ngotho too had thought that it was Kamau who had done the murder. He had taken on the guilt to save a son. At this Mr Howlands’ hatred of Ngotho had been so great that he had trembled the whole night. He had drunk, itching to get at Ngotho but in the morning realised that he could not do what he had contemplated.

He looked at the door. He was expecting some policemen and homeguards with whom he went on night patrols. At last he stood up and began to walk across the room. He did not know why he now missed his wife. He wondered if he would go and get the black woman he had taken the night before. He had discovered that black women could be a good relief.

The nightly patrols had always been a special pleasure for Mr Howlands. They gave him a feeling of power and strength.

The door opened. Mr Howlands had not bolted the door. He glanced at his watch and then turned round. A pistol was aimed at his head.

‘You move – you are dead.’

Mr Howlands looked like a caged animal.

‘Put up your hands.’

He obeyed. Where was his habitual guardedness? He had let a moment of reflection unarm him.

‘I killed Jacobo.’

‘I know.’

‘He betrayed black people. Together, you killed many sons of the land. You raped our women. And finally, you killed my father. Have you anything to say in your defence?’

Boro’s voice was flat. No colour of hatred, anger, or triumph. No sympathy.

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing. Now you say nothing. But when you took our ancestral lands–’

‘This is my land.’ Mr Howlands said this as a man would say, This is my woman.

‘
Your
land! Then, you white dog, you’ll die on your land.’

Mr Howlands thought him mad. Fear overwhelmed him and he tried to cling to life with all his might. But before he could reach Boro, the gun went off. Boro had learnt to be a good marksman during the Second World War.

The white man’s trunk stood defiant for a few seconds. Then it fell down. Boro rushed out. He felt nothing – no triumph. He had done his duty. Outside, he fired desperately at the police homeguards who barred his way. But at last he gave up. Now for the first time he felt exultant.

‘He’s dead,’ he told them.

Children came to the shop. They were coming from school. Njoroge saw their hopeful faces. He too had once been like this when he had seen the world as a place where a man with learning would rise to power and glory. Then he would never have thought that he would even work for an Indian. And suddenly Njoroge saw himself as an old man – an old man of twenty.

The children were frightened by his blank stare. They scampered away before he could arouse himself to do anything. The Indian left his corner.

‘You are fired,’ he shouted.

Njoroge had worked for less than a month. Money was badly needed at home.

‘All right,’ he said as he wearily walked to the road wondering how he would break the news to Njeri and Nyokabi. And he all at once wished that he had been a child and Mwihaki was near him so he could pour out all his troubles to her. And he knew that he had to see her.

Saturda
y. Mwihaki sat outside her new home in the homeguard post. Her face had a strained look. She stood up and went behind the house. She took out the small note and read again. The strong appeal was there all right. But now that she had accepted to meet him she felt hesitant and guilty. She wondered what it was that he so much wanted to tell her. She had promised herself that she would not meet Njoroge again, when she had learnt about the painful murder of her father. For she felt betrayed by Njoroge. If what her mother had told her was true, she would never have anything to do with the boy.

She had learnt about her father’s death while at school. The headmistress had broken the news to her. For a short time she had been unable to believe that what the teacher was telling her could have anything to do with her father. Even when she had known without any doubt that he was dead, she had been unable to cry. At night she thought about it. But she did not feel anything. No pain. It was only when she was on her way home that the full meaning of what had occurred broke upon her like a revelation. The horror of the calamity that had befallen Kenya came home to her in a new light. She had wept as she had never done before.

And now that she had agreed to go and meet a member of the family that had deprived her of a father, she was surprised at herself. But she wanted to meet him because at the very height of the crisis in her family the words that had most comforted were those that Njoroge had spoken to her. She had
repeated them to her mother, saying firmly, ‘The sun will rise tomorrow.’ So, far from losing faith in God, she had put all her trust in Him, hoping that in heaven she would maybe meet her father again.