Devil on the Cross

  Njeruca too had expanded. Cardboard shelters, trenches filled with foul water, detritus from the foreign-owned factories, shit and urine had expanded Njeruca slightly. Even the villages that used to be on the outskirts of Njeruca—like Ngaindeithia Village, where Warĩĩnga’s parents lived—had been swallowed up by Njeruca. Workers, the unemployed, the very poor, sellers of illegal brews and sellers of oranges and Mandazi, traders in their own bodies were all crammed into the vast Njeruca slumyard. Njeruca also had several tiny shops that sold meat, eggs, sukuma wiki vegetables, salt, beer, pepper, onions and flour.

  The owners of these shops and slum shelters were the Golden Heights residents. Some visited Njeruca to collect their rent and profit, but most of them employed thugs to collect rent for them. Even the Devil’s Angels had established a branch in Ilmorog.

  Warĩĩnga’s parents lived in Njeruca. But they still referred to their section as Ngaindeithia Village. Their house was slightly larger than most, for when Warĩĩnga worked as a secretary, she had helped them to extend it. With the little money she had been earning at the garage, she had also helped them to pay school fees and to buy food.

  It was in Ngaindeithia Village, in Njeruca, Ilmorog, that Gatuĩria and Warĩĩnga made their first stop.

  2

  It is Saturday, about five in the evening. Warĩĩnga’s father is out. Wambũi, Warĩĩnga’s daughter, and the other children have gone for a walk in Njeruca. But all is well. Warĩĩnga’s mother is in.

  Warĩĩnga and Gatuĩria tell Warĩĩnga’s mother of their intention to marry, so they can start a home of their own like other people. Warĩĩnga’s mother clears her throat. She is elderly, but she is one of those people who never seem to age. Her white-and-black flowered frock, though it is a little faded, fits her well. She showers her breast with saliva, by way of blessing, but she has a question to ask, just one question.

  “I’m going to put my question to you, Warĩĩnga. And I am going to ask you the question in front of this young man so that he can hear the answer too, because you modern girls are difficult to fathom. Have you told this young man that you have a daughter old enough to be initiated into womanhood—that is, if girls were still circumcised, as they used to be?”

  “Is my little Wambũi the girl you’re calling a woman?” Warĩĩnga asks, laughing. “She’s not something I’ve covered up. I’ve told Gatuĩria everything. Besides, he met her when he was last here, during the feast two years ago. But nobody will ever be able to tell that Wambũi and Gatuĩria are not related by blood. Don’t you think they look alike? They could be twins—only Gatuĩria’s an old man!”

  “You’re quite right,” Warĩĩnga’s mother agrees, without hesitation. “They really do look alike.”

  “What is a blood relation?” Gatuĩria asks, slightly irritated. “What does it matter if people are alike or not? A child is a child. We all come from the same womb, the common womb of one Kenya. The blood shed for our freedom has washed away the differences between that clan and this one, this nationality and that one. Today there is no Luo, Gĩkũyũ, Kamba, Giriama, Luhya, Maasai, Meru, Kallenjin or Turkana. We are all children of one mother. Our mother is Kenya, the mother of all Kenyan people.”

  “You’ve spoken up well, young man!” Warĩĩnga’s mother replies. “May God help you always to cultivate fertile fields. Today our girls think only of throwing their babies into latrines or leaving them in rubbish bins so that they won’t be rejected by their young men.”

  “I almost killed myself,” Warĩĩnga says, “and all because of being rejected by a Rich Old Man. Really! Fancy throwing myself in front of a train on account of the clan that consigned Mũturi and the others to detention!”

  “Only a fool sucks at the tits of his mother’s corpse,” Warĩĩnga’s mother says. “Youth is nothing but foolishness at times.”

  “Forget it!” Gatuĩria tries to restrain Warĩĩnga from reviving the issue. “What’s past is past.”

  “I don’t any longer lose sleep over what I lost,” Warĩĩnga says, laughing. “If I’d married my hairy-chested Waigoko, where would I ever have found a young man like you? But I was told by someone that modern Waigokos have their chests shaved smooth by money. Money is the modern youth.”

  “Money isn’t life,” Warĩĩnga’s mother says. “Whether it’s an old man or a young man, what’s important is the happiness that springs from a person’s deeds on Earth. Warĩĩnga, why don’t you take Gatuĩria for a walk around Ilmorog, while I cook something? Go away and by the time you come back, you’ll find your father in, and then you can tell him all about your plans.”

  “That’s a good idea, mother,” Gatuĩria says, standing up. “I haven’t walked around Ilmorog since that feast. . . .”

  3

  Once again Warĩĩnga and Gatuĩria are heading toward the Golden Heights for a breath of cool, fresh air. It is evening. The grass in Ilmorog Park is soft and green. The trees there spread their branches and leaves like umbrellas.

  Gatuĩria stops the Toyota at the side of the road, as they both want to walk on the green grass and through the trees. They climb to the top of the ridge to look at the plains lying below, with their wheat and barley plantations, the property of Theng’eta Breweries.

  This is joy: when the blood of youth flows in harmony down the valley of love. Warĩĩnga and Gatuĩria are standing together, their shoulders touching, looking at the plains below and at the distant hills.

  “I’m always glad when I hear you say what you said when we were at home,” Warĩĩnga begins.

  “What did I say?” Gatuĩria asks. “I said lots of things.”

  “That there’s nothing shameful about a girl becoming pregnant. That a baby born out of wedlock is not a disease,” Warĩĩnga replies promptly.

  “Didn’t I tell you to forget the past?” Gatuĩria asks her. “Let’s be happy today and tomorrow. We have jumped one hurdle on our journey: your mother has blessed us. My heart is bubbling over with joy. Who could claim to be luckier than me? I have composed the music that it has always been my ambition to compose. And now I have a special gift—a beauty to beat all beauties.”

  “You are giving the same kind of testimony as those thieves and robbers offered us in Ilmorog!” Warĩĩnga tells him, laughing. “You should wait for someone else to sing your praises!”

  “But I’m telling the truth. I’m singing the praises of joy. What do you think is the one thing that I need to make my joy burst its banks?”

  “I can’t read a letter that’s sealed in the envelope of your heart,” Warĩĩnga says, holding back her laughter as she remembers Boss Kĩhara’s words in the office. “Tell me what you’re waiting for, so that when I see your joy in flood, I can jump to one side so that I’m not carried away.”

  “I’m waiting for the blessing of my parents at Nakuru tomorrow,” Gatuĩria answers.

  “What do your parents look like?” Warĩĩnga asks suddenly. “Do you look like your father or your mother?”

  Gatuĩria has never heard Warĩĩnga ask that kind of question before. He does not know how to answer her. In his heart of hearts, Gatuĩria has always felt ashamed of his parents because of the way they cover themselves in the robes of foreign customs at all times, equating European culture with the culture of God. Even now Gatuĩria is not quite sure how his parents will receive Warĩĩnga tomorrow, especially when they learn that she has had a child by another man. But he has made up his mind about one thing: no matter how they receive her, Warĩĩnga is his chosen bride. More to the point, he does not know whether Warĩĩnga herself will accept his parents. Will she despise them when she sees their behavior tomorrow? Will she change her mind about him after discovering that the foreign customs that she and Gatuĩria have often discussed and condemned are entrenched in his parents’ home?

  These are the doubts that have prevented Gatuĩria from showing Warĩĩnga the invitation card that his parents have
sent out to friends, asking them to attend a tea party to welcome Gatuĩria and his fiancée. To begin with, Gatuĩria would not like Warĩĩnga to see the names that his father has assumed. The card is printed in letters of gold and decorated at the edges with golden flowers. But what makes Gatuĩria even more ashamed than the fact that the card advises the guests how to dress for the occasion is that on the card are listed the names of the shops from which the guests may buy gifts.

  A Feast! A Feast!

  NGORIKA HEAVENLY ORCHARDS

  Mr. and Mrs. Hispaniora Greenway Ghitahy have the

  Pleasure of inviting Mr. and Mrs./Miss/Dr./Prof./

  The Hon. MP/ ..............................

  to a tea party to welcome home their son,

  Master Gatuĩria Ghitahy, and his fiancée,

  on Sunday ..................... at exactly two o’clock.

  Dress:

  Men—Dark suits

  Ladies—Long dresses, hats, gloves.

  If you care to bring a gift, you can get one from the following VIP shops:

  Men’s and Ladies’ London Shop, Ilmorog;

  The Shop with the Parisian Look, Nairobi;

  The Woman of Rome VIP Shop, Nakuru.

  RSVP: Mr. and Mrs. H. G. Ghitahy,

  Ngorika Heavenly Orchards,

  Private Bag,

  Nakuru, Kenya, EA

  Tel. HCOV 10000 000

  I look up unto the hills from whence cometh my help.

  PSALM OF DAVID.

  As he thinks about the card, Gatuĩria feels like weeping. There is nothing as terrible as a people who have swallowed foreign customs whole, without even chewing them, for such people become mere parrots. The doubts that have prevented Gatuĩria from showing Warĩĩnga the card are those that are now making him hesitate over replying to Warĩĩnga’s question.

  “Have you forgotten what your parents look like? Why are you so quiet in response to my question?” Warĩĩnga prompts him.

  “Shut your eyes until two tomorrow afternoon,” Gatuĩria replies, trying to adopt a light-hearted tone. “And when you open them, guess who you’ll see! Gatuĩria’s parents. And lo, it will come to pass that all Warĩĩnga’s doubts shall be washed away.”

  As Gatuĩria talks, his arm is around Warĩĩnga’s waist, and Warĩĩnga leans her head on Gatuĩria’s shoulder.

  “Ah . . . tomorrow. Let it dawn soon so that we can share the fresh water with the early bird,” Warĩĩnga sighs. Her voice seems to come from far away.

  Two tears run down her cheeks, like dew drops forming on the smooth skin of ripened fruit when the sun is rising. Only now the sun is setting over the Golden Heights.

  “What is it? What’s the matter, my love?” Gatuĩria asks, worried. “What has burdened your heart so suddenly? Are you angry? Because I was only joking.”

  4

  “It’s not that,” Warĩĩnga replies. “Don’t take any notice of my tears. I sometimes find myself crying for no particular reason. Did I tell you that today we were informed that we have to quit our Mwĩhotori garage premises?”

  “Leave your site? Move? And abandon the site to whom?”

  “To Boss Kĩhara and his new company, the Tourists’ Paradise Development Company.”

  “The man who sacked you for refusing to sleep with him?”

  “Yes, he and his foreign friends have stripped us in broad daylight,” Warĩĩnga says, and then, remembering the parable told them by Mwĩreri wa Mũkiraaĩ, she adds in the tone of a priest, “so that the words of the Prophet will be fulfilled, when he told us: Unto every one that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance. . . .”

  “. . . but from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath,” Gatuĩria finishes the sentence, adopting the same priestly tone.

  Warĩĩnga and Gatuĩria laugh together. Then, at the same moment, they stop laughing. For a minute each is alone with his separate thoughts. Warĩĩnga sighs.

  “Do you remember that I told you once, in Njeruca, about a dream I used to have when I was a student at the Nakuru Day Secondary?”

  “About the Devil being crucified on the Cross by people in tattered clothes?”

  “Yes. And on the third day he would be lifted down from the Cross by people in dark suits and ties.”

  “And they would then kneel down before him, and cry ‘Hosanna! Hosanna!’ Yes, I can remember you telling me something of the sort. But remember what I told you. Many churches have paintings and engravings on their walls and windows. Pictures like those can give a person nightmares. But why do you ask?” Gatuĩria says, looking Warĩĩnga in the face.

  “Because I had the same dream last night. And you know, these days I hardly ever go into a church. But last night’s dream was a little different from the usual one. In last night’s dream, the tie-wearing tribe didn’t even wait for three days to elapse. And they didn’t approach the Cross stealthily. Last night the men in ties came as soon as the Devil was on the Cross. They were led by armored cars with big guns. They lifted him down and started singing his praises, guarded on every side by the armored cars.”

  “And the people in rags?” Gatuĩria asks. “What did they do when they were caught in the act?”

  “I couldn’t see clearly. But I think they scattered and went to the forests and to the mountains, singing songs that I had not heard before. I woke before the nightmare was over.”

  “Don’t let the nightmares worry you.” Gatuĩria tries to Warĩĩnga’s spirits. “Don’t forget that two years ago you saw armored cars chasing away workers and peasants and students who had come to the court during the hearing of the case of Mũturi and company. You had the dream about armored cars because your brain knew that today you were coming to Ilmorog. Q.E.D.”

  “That seems to be the case,” Warĩĩnga says, with a lighter heart. “You’d make a good Yahya Hussein! Why don’t you set up in business and interpret people’s dreams? You could earn a bit from the trade.”

  “I could call myself Prof. Gatuĩria, interpreter of dreams and nightmares. ‘If you need a herb to cure all ailments, come to Prof. Gatuĩria! If you need love potions, come to me! Past achievements . . . I was the first to predict that a day would come when the sun would rise in the morning and set in the evening!’”

  Warĩĩnga and Gatuĩria laugh together.

  5

  It is true that love has no fear. It is true that love knows no pain or trouble or bad dreams. Love knows not yesterday or the day before; it knows only tomorrow and the day after tomorrow, the beginning of eternal happiness. Gatuĩria’s and Warĩĩnga’s future will begin tomorrow. . . .

  “But it’s not those two things—being thrown off our site and having nightmares—that are making me cry,” Warĩĩnga explains to Gatuĩria.

  “Then wipe away your tears,” Gatuĩria replies.

  “These tears can’t be wiped away today,” Warĩĩnga says, “for they are born of a mixture of sorrow and joy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have never been back to Nakuru since I tried to take my own life. I have been telling myself: Nakuru was the beginning of my sorrow. Tomorrow the same Nakuru will mark the beginning of my joy.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Gatuĩria asks. “The Nakuru of tomorrow will avenge the Nakuru of yesterday.” Gatuĩria tries to smooth away the weight in Warĩĩnga’s heart.

  “Yes, that’s it. Nakuru is to become the source of both tears and laughter.”

  “Amen,” Gatuĩria says. “So wipe away your tears, for Nakuru is a source of miracles. It produces joy out of sorrow. Why don’t you wipe away your tears? Let me wipe them away with love.”

  “You, professor of lies!” Warĩĩnga cries, pushing Gatuĩria away with a hand that does not quite mean it. “Where did you learn this foreign habit of kissing? Confess that you’ve never given up foreign habi
ts!”

  “Confess that you want black people’s kisses!” Gatuĩria retorts, smiling and moving closer to Warĩĩnga. Warĩĩnga leans away from him, but they are talking all the time. “Kisses and whispers in a bed of love,” Gatuĩria says, and he starts to sing a Mũthũũngũũci verse:

  Gatuĩria: Where I now hold you,

  Where I now hold you,

  Do you feel I am pressing too hard?

  Warĩĩnga: Where you now hold me,

  Where you now hold me,

  It is good so.

  Man, hold, and don’t let go.

  Gatuĩria: Dance, and we’ll go home together.

  Dance, and we’ll go home together,

  My love.

  For I won’t let you leave me out in the cold.

  As he sings the last line, he grabs and embraces Warĩĩnga.

  “And who taught you Mũthũũngũũci songs and dances?” Warĩĩnga asks.

  “The old man I told you about, the one from Bahati, Nakuru, who told me the tale about Nging’uri, who sold his soul to an evil spirit and was left an empty shell,” Gatuĩria replies.

  “But he didn’t tell you to use the song for wicked ends, on a hill over which darkness is falling.”

  “Haven’t you heard that darkness makes even a poor dancer to dance with confidence?

  I’ll dance here on the surface,

  I’ll dance here on the surface,