He too got a big ovation, and the women’s ululations were like the trumpets of war.
The third to speak was the Ilmorog workers’ leader. He had on a large overcoat and a cone-shaped hat. Before he spoke, he took off his hat. He had a few gray hairs.
“First, I would like to pay tribute to the courage of the students from the university and the schools around here. If our youth were to hang up its arms, what would happen to the defense of the land? Where would the nation be? A word of gratitude is also due to all those, from Nairobi to Ilmorog, who hearkened to our cry. Now, I’m going to say only one word and to ask only one question. We have two types of unity: the unity of workers and the unity of the rich. Which side are you on? Which principles do you uphold, for each side has its own doctrine?
“The Beatitudes of the rich and the imperialists go like this:
Blessed is he who bites and soothes,
Because he will never be found out.
Blessed is the man who burns down another man’s house
And in the morning joins him in grief,
For he shall be called merciful.
Blessed is the man who robs another of five shillings
And then gives him back half a shilling for salt,
For he shall be called generous.
As for the man who bites and doesn’t know how to soothe,
And the one who steals from the masses
And does not attempt to deceive them with honeyed words,
Woe unto him!
For should the masses ever awaken,
Such people will see through their arses,
And may even pass on their disease to us,
Who have been able to disguise our wicked deeds
With the religious robes of hypocrisy.
“The workers’ catechism goes like this:
I believe that we, the workers, are of one clan,
And hence we should not allow ourselves
To be divided by religion, color or tribe.
I believe that in the organization of the workers
Lies our strength,
For those who are organized never lose their way,
And those who are not organized are scattered by the sound of one bullet.
I therefore believe in the unity of the workers,
Because unity is our strength.
I believe that imperialism and its local representatives are the enemies of the progress of the workers and peasants and of the whole nation.
I therefore vow always to struggle against neocolonialism,
For neocolonialism is the last vicious kick of a dying imperialism.
“Let us now all sing together the worker’s anthem!”
He then started singing, and all the others joined in, their voices raised in unison making the ground tremble where Warĩĩnga stood. While the song was going on, Warĩĩnga felt somebody tug at her dress from behind. She turned quickly and found that Mũturi was trying to attract her attention. She followed him, and they retreated to a hidden place behind the cave.
“Listen,” Mũturi started immediately, his eyes fixed on Warĩĩnga’s face and eyes, as if he could read all the hidden corners in her heart, “can I trust you with a small burden until tomorrow?”
“What kind of burden?” Warĩĩnga asked.
“A piece of metal pipe that emits fatal fire and smoke,” Mũturi said, still watching Warĩĩnga.
Why not? Warĩĩnga asked herself.
“Yes, if you promise you’ll collect it tomorrow,” Warĩĩnga said.
“There’s no time to lose,” Mũturi urged. “I observed you last night in the matatũ, and I’ve watched you throughout the day in the cave, and I’ve decided that you can be trusted with a worker’s secret. As soon as I left Gatuĩria and you standing by the roadside, I went and joined the people in their battle with the thieves. Did you see the power of a people united? Those thieves were armed, but none was able to use his gun because they were terrified by the eyes and the massive roar of the crowd. Kĩhaahu wa Gatheeca was the only one who tried to shoot at me. I had chased him round to this side, where we are now. But I was too quick for him, and I hit his arm before he could fire. Kĩhaahu cried out in pain, dropped the pistol, took to his heels and flew like an arrow. I picked up this iron pipe with which he intended to kill me. Here it is. It’s so tiny that it will fit in the palm of your hand or in a shirt pocket. See how beautifully it gleams! This is the product of a worker’s hands! But, you know, it doesn’t go to defend the worker. We, the workers, have always made things that end up oppressing us! But now look at the product of a worker’s hands back in his own hands. It was iron pipes like this one, in the hands of the workers, that saved Kenya from the old colonialism. Even today guns like this should really be in the hands of the workers so that they can defend the unity and wealth and freedom of their country. But let me stop . . . preaching. Tonight there’s bound to be more trouble. Take this pistol. Put it in your handbag. Let’s meet tomorrow morning at ten o’clock at the Nairobi bus stop. And don’t show this to anyone or tell anybody about it, not even Gatuĩria. Those educated people are often not sure whose side they are on. They sway from this side to that like water on a leaf. Go now. Take care. This gun is an invitation to the workers’ feast to be held some time in the future.”
Mũturi gave Warĩĩnga the gun and turned away. Warĩĩnga felt a strange sensation come over her. Her heart trembled. Then she felt courage course through her whole body. She thought that there was not a single danger in the world that she could not now look in the face. All her doubts and fears had been expelled by the secret with which Mũturi had entrusted her. She thought of asking him about the occasion when he rescued her from death under the train long ago, in Nakuru. But another thought seized her, and she called out to Mũturi. Mũturi stopped.
“Tell me something that I’d like to know before you leave,” Warĩĩnga began. “Who are you?”
“Me?” Mũturi replied. “I’m a delegate from a secret workers’ organization in Nairobi. But don’t ask any more questions. Wherever I am, I am working for that organization. Look after yourself—and remember, you’re not alone.”
They parted company.
Warĩĩnga returned to Gatuĩria, carrying with her Mũturi’s secret. And then she decided that it would be better for her to take the secret home immediately.
The workers were still singing.
Warĩĩnga told Gatuĩria that she wanted to go home before darkness fell, as she was very tired.
Gatuĩria’s heart sank. His face darkened. He was disappointed because he had thought he would be able to take Warĩĩnga home, but he could not think of a way of suggesting himself as her escort. He said: “I’d like to stay here to see the end of this drama. But how can I see you tomorrow?”
They agreed to meet at the Sunshine Hotel at twelve o’clock the following day. Warĩĩnga wanted to sing Gatuĩria a song that she used to hear on the eve of initiation into a new life:
Now you see me!
Now you see me!
Dawn is breaking!
Death and life are the same to me
Dawn is breaking!
As she walked along the road, Warĩĩnga’s heart acquired new wings, ready to fly. She thought of waiting for a matatũ. Then she suddenly remembered Mwaũra and his Matatũ Matata Matamu and the fate awaiting Mwĩreri wa Mũkiraaĩ. She decided to go first to the Green Rainbow Hotel to see if she could prevent Mwĩreri wa Mũkiraaĩ from going to Nairobi tonight.
Warĩĩnga could not tell what was urging her on to do this. But she felt that she owed a debt of some kind because she herself had been rescued from death by strangers on two occasions. She recalled her recent dream. Had it really been a dream or a revelation? Warĩĩnga put the same question again: Had the voice been real or had it been an illusion?
No
. It had been the voice of Satan, the voice of temptation. For although the voice had painted a true picture of what was going on in the country, and it had made pertinent observations about neocolonial Kenya, the way that the voice had shown her as the escape route from the prison of neocolonial life was misleading and would have cost Warĩĩnga her life. It had tempted her to walk along a broad highway carpeted with the flowers of self-seeking individualism. It had tempted her to sell her body for money again! Was she going to consider selling the Devil her soul and being left a shell, like Nding’uri wa Kahahami? For mere money? God, no! One fall was enough for her, Warĩĩnga resolved firmly, as if the secret she was carrying for Mũturi had given her indomitable courage to fight and defeat the Devil with all his tempting propositions designed to persuade patriots to sell their country down the river.
Just before she reached the Green Rainbow Hotel Warĩĩnga saw two army lorries, filled with soldiers armed to the teeth, driving toward the cave. Behind the two lorries were three armored cars. Oh, God, there’ll be death at the cave now, Warĩĩnga said to herself. She thought about the workers gathered outside the cave. She thought about Gatuĩria, about Mũturi, about the lives of the people.
Warĩĩnga remembered the secret she was carrying. She hurried on. The sun had set, but it was not yet dark. . . .
Because of the conflicting thoughts that were seething in Warĩĩnga’s mind, she did not realize that she had already reached the Green Rainbow Hotel, where Mwĩreri wa Mũkiraaĩ was staying, until she suddenly saw its neon-lit sign.
“Mwĩreri wa Mũkiraaĩ?” the receptionist asked Warĩĩnga, as if he had not heard her question clearly.
“Yes.”
“He has just left. He checked out of the hotel not five minutes ago.”
“How did he go?” Warĩĩnga asked.
“By Matatũ Matata Matamu Model T Ford, registration number MMM 333. I have never seen a matatũ covered with so many grotesque slogans. ‘If you want true rumors, ride in Matatũ Matata Matamu,’ ‘If you want true gossip. . . .’”
Warĩĩnga left the receptionist, who was beside himself with laughter.
What’s all this about? What’s all this about? Warĩĩnga was asking herself.
Suddenly Warĩĩnga’s blood froze in her veins. Throughout Ilmorog, the whole of Ilmorog, nothing could be heard but gun shots and the blood-curdling cries of the people.
6
The following day Warĩĩnga went to the bus stop to meet Mũturi.
Mũturi was not there.
Then Warĩĩnga went to see Gatuĩria at the Sunshine Hotel. Her heart was heavy because in Njeruca and in Ilmorog as a whole, the only topic was the feast at the cave and how it had all ended in many deaths. Some said twenty people had died; others claimed fifty; yet others set the figure at a hundred. But what was common to all their claims was the fact that some people had been killed by the military and the police, and others had been arrested by Superintendent Gakono.
It was Gatuĩria who told Warĩĩnga the exact position.
“Five workers were killed by the forces of bourgeois law and order. And the workers killed two soldiers. But there were lots of injured on both sides.”
“And Mũturi?” Warĩĩnga asked anxiously.
“Mũturi? Mũturi was arrested, together with the students’ leader. They couldn’t arrest the workers’ leader because he was hidden by the others. He has gone underground, but they are still looking for him.”
Gatuĩria and Warĩĩnga fell silent, like bereaved parents. They sat outside, at a table in one of the hotel gardens filled with green grass and flowers. The tea that they had ordered grew cold in their cups.
Before Warĩĩnga could say anything, Gatuĩria added, slowly: “But what made me very bitter was this. This morning the Ilmorog radio station didn’t even mention the death of the five workers and the many fatal injuries. But the same radio station found time to tell listeners about the death of the two soldiers and the death of Mwĩreri wa Mũkiraaĩ.”
“Mwĩreri wa Mũkiraaĩ?”
“Yes. It said that he was involved in a car accident at Kĩneeniĩ on his way to Nairobi last night.”
“And Mwaũra? Robin Mwaũra?” Warĩĩnga asked, stunned.
“He’s alive. He had a narrow escape.”
CHAPTER TEN
1
Another Saturday. It is two years since Warĩĩnga rejected the temptations of Satan at the Ilmorog golf course: two whole years since the Devil’s feast at the thieves’ and robbers’ den gave birth to the sorrow of jail and death: two years of great change in the lives of Warĩĩnga and Gatuĩria.
Two years. . . .
Where shall I begin? Or should I stop involving myself in other people’s lives?
He who judges knows not how he himself will be judged.
The antelope hates the man who sees it less than him who betrays its presence.
But I too was present at Nakuru. I saw with my eyes and heard with my ears.
How can I deny the evidence of my eyes and ears? How can I run away from the truth?
It was revealed to me.
It was revealed to me.
Where shall I pick up the broken thread of my narrative?
Listen. Two years had passed. . . .
No, I shall not proceed at the same pace as before. The seeds in the gourd are not all of one kind, so I will change the pace and manner of my narrative.
So, come, my friend. Come, my friend, come with me so I can take you along the paths that Warĩĩnga walked. Come, let us retrace her footsteps, seeing with the eyes of our hearts what she saw, and hearing with the ears of our hearts what she heard, so that we shall not be hasty in passing judgment on the basis of rumor and malice.
Truth can break a bow poised to shoot!
That is good, my friend.
Let it be.
Oh, let it be. Come, peace of God!
Hurry up, my friend. And you too, lover of justice, hurry up. Run faster, for one should get to the market early, before the vegetables begin to wilt in the sun. . . .
2
Here is Warĩĩnga!
She now lives in the Ngara area of Nairobi, in a single room on the fourth floor of a seven-story building. The whole building is called Maraaro House.
The first story has been partitioned off into several residential rooms for anybody who can afford the rent. Each single room is kitchen, sitting room and bedroom combined. Even so, every room is taken. A bird exhausted by flight lands on the nearest tree.
Outside the building there are quite a number of service stations owned by foreign oil companies: Esso, Shell, BP, Caltex, Mobil Oil, Agip, Total. A few yards away, near the Mũrang’a Road, are several kiosks selling raw and cooked food.
Maraaro House is situated at a road junction. So the noise of cars makes it very difficult to get enough sleep, especially if you happen to be a visitor.
But Warĩĩnga doesn’t mind the noise.
She is used to it now, for the noise of cars is her livelihood.
Oh, Warĩĩnga, work harder to develop our land!
This Warĩĩnga is not the one we met two years ago. This Warĩĩnga is not the one who used to think that there was nothing she could do except type for others; the one who used to burn her body with Ambi and Snowfire to change the color of her skin to please the eyes of others, to satisfy their lust for white skins; the one who used to think that there was only one way of avoiding the pitfalls of life: suicide.
No, this Warĩĩnga is not that other Warĩĩnga.
Today’s Warĩĩnga has decided that she’ll never again allow herself to be a mere flower, whose purpose is to decorate the doors and windows and tables of other people’s lives, waiting to be thrown on to a rubbish heap the moment the splendor of her body withers. The Warĩĩnga of today has decided to be self-reliant all the time, to plunge into the midd
le of the arena of life’s struggles in order to discover her real strength and to realize her true humanity.
Cleanliness is bathing. A hero is known only on the battlefield. A good dancer is known only in the dance arena.
Warĩĩnga, heroine of toil, the heroism of life can be discovered only in the battle of life. . . .
This Saturday, for instance, Warĩĩnga wakes up very early, pumps pressure into the primus stove, lights it and puts on a pot of water to make tea. And before the water has boiled, Warĩĩnga has washed her face and gone to do her hair in front of a mirror, gathering it into four plaited knots. Her hair is long and black and soft. What did I tell you? The present Warĩĩnga stopped singeing her hair with hot iron combs long ago. There, now she is tying a scarf over her hair. She puts on her blue weather-beaten jeans and a khaki shirt. Look at her! Her clothes fit her so perfectly, it’s as if she was created in them.
Warĩĩnga goes to a cupboard. She chooses the dress she will wear later, after work, and another that she will wear tomorrow, Sunday. She puts them in a small safari suitcase. For today, after work, Warĩĩnga intends to go to Ilmorog to see her parents. And tomorrow she is going on another journey, to Nakuru, to see Gatuĩria’s parents.
But the two journeys do not prevent Warĩĩnga from concentrating on her job. Today she is changing the engine of a car, and she must finish that task before one o’clock.
Warĩĩnga, our engineering hero!
She has drunk her tea. Now she is rummaging through her handbag to make sure that everything she needs is there, a comb, some cream, a hand mirror, a handkerchief . . . and a small spanner. How did she come to put the spanner in her bag? She must have done that by mistake. Yes, the gun she was given by Mũturi to keep is also there. Warĩĩnga never leaves the gun behind. It is so small that someone who knew nothing about guns might take it for a child’s toy. She is ready to go. At the door she suddenly remembers that she has left a phase tester on the windowsill. She goes back for it. She normally hangs it from one of her shirt pockets, like a pen. She never leaves it behind, not even at her workplace with the rest of the tools. It is as if the phase tester and the pistol were her two most important shields.