Petals of Blood

  ‘Oh, that’s a good one, Mr Karega. But we shall see by the time I finish with you. I’ll now ask you only two or three questions. Answer me truthfully and I’ll leave you alone. I promise you that. You have been telling me that for two years you never really met with Wanja.’

  ‘True, except on the night of my return.’

  ‘Did you know – between us we don’t have to hide these things – did you know that she used to have an affair with all the three gentlemen?’

  ‘It was common knowledge.’

  ‘You say you never met her again?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not even secretly?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘At Njuguna’s once . . . after the lawyer’s death?’

  ‘Yes. But it was not really a meeting.’

  ‘Did you know the lawyer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Worked with him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you a little bit – but it does not matter. Now, Mr Karega, I want you to refresh your mind. Did you meet Wanja a week before this fire?’

  Karega hesitated. Then he said,

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see. Why did you hide this?’

  ‘It’s not important.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s personal.’

  ‘Mr Karega: what did you discuss that night?’

  ‘That I can’t tell you. It’s personal.’

  ‘Did you hold any other secret meetings?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How should I believe you now?’

  ‘You choose what to believe and what not to believe.’

  ‘I see. Mr Karega, was Abdulla by any chance part of these secret personal meetings?’

  ‘I’ve told you it was only once. And Abdulla was not there.’

  ‘Mr Karega, you are a liar.’ With sudden rage, he struck Karega twice on the face. Blood came out between his teeth. Godfrey shouted at the policeman.

  ‘Take him below – to the red chamber. Give him a little medicine, a taste of what he will get from me. Have you ever heard of the famous whip of seven straps? Leader of the workers! I will myself work on you, drop by drop of salted medicine from a cowhide whip, until you talk, until you wish you had never travelled on any Trans-Africa Road to any factory in Ilmorog. Out with him.’

  3 ~ Abdulla sat huddled in a corner. He still felt surprisingly light and calm inside, despite nine days of questioning, being made to record one statement after another and occasionally being roughly handled. He felt in his present position the guiding hand of God, who had suddenly lifted – or so it seemed to him – a load of many years: somebody had clearly acted out Abdulla’s own wishes and fantasies and intentions and so in a sense had saved him in more ways than one. His only disturbing thoughts were of Wanja: had she recovered fully from the shock? Had she, anyway, come out of her coma, or out of the hospital? Otherwise he felt sober and able to look at his life without the bitter feelings which had earlier always clouded his vision and his appraisal of the past and the present. What had he really expected from the struggle? His expectation had always taken the form of a beautiful dream, a hazy softness of promises, a kind of call to something higher, nobler, holier, something for which he could have given his life over and over again. It had fizzled out now and toward the end, in Ilmorog, the bright flames of his dreams had died and only ashes had remained. With his donkey as his other leg, in the old Ilmorog, he had only wanted a restoration – a little restoration – a shop, even, like the one his father had had in old Limuru-Rongai Market, before the punitive closure of the shops after Ragae – a notorious collaborator with the enemy – was shot dead in Kiambu Hospital. There was a time in Old Ilmorog – a brief period, true – when Karega, with his talk of the past deeds of African heroes in their four hundred years of resistance to European domination, had stirred the ashes, and he felt as if the embers had not really died, that a little flame flickered. Even this died with Karega’s sudden departure from Ilmorog. Abdulla had resumed his search for a restoration, sorely missing his donkey as if it truly had been his own child. The one thing which had continued to give him increasing pleasure was Joseph’s progress in school. When the results of the school’s first attempt at CPE came out Joseph was top – and he had found a place in Siriana! Kenya, he could not help thinking, after this turn of events – this strange coincidence and repetition of history – Kenya was a small world!

  Wanja had been his other source of joy in the wilderness of his bitterness, of his consciousness of broken promises, of the wider betrayal of the collective blood of the Kenyan fighters for land and freedom. Since her arrival in Old Ilmorog she had always accepted him without qualification, without the concessions of pity which with many were evidence of subtle rejection. She had made it easier to live, to look forward to the dawn of the next day. Working together with her on the Theng’eta project, he had felt: maybe things are all right . . . maybe with a little money . . . here and there . . . maybe . . . the memory would not hurt. Money could act as a soft feather-filled cushion for any fall. Maybe . . . maybe . . . this was what they had all really fought for . . . chance . . . opportunities . . . what else could a human being want? Only a break . . . the rest would be determined by his capacity for hard work and by his native wit. So he had rationalized it to himself and he had worked hard, completely trusting in Wanja’s practical sense and puritan control. Under her firm guidance, Ilmorog suddenly seemed to expand: new roads, influx of workers, banks, experts, dancers and numerous small trades and crafts. He saw the changes as something being brought about by Wanja’s magic. What a woman! One in a thousand! For she seemed, to him anyway, the true centre of all the numerous activities that were working in obedience to an invisible law. Then disaster had once again come into his life just when success and victory seemed so near, within his grasp. He applauded her selfless act of honour in redeeming her family land. But he feared the effect of this on her. For suddenly it was as if she had lost that firm grasp, that harmony with the invisible law. He had hoped that after the sale of the building they would still be able to make more money on their old premises and buy or build yet another place. Why! They could even move further up the Trans-Africa Road. He always felt something personal about the road, not only because it had for him eased his problems of moving, but also because he felt as if his donkey had been a sacrificial offering to its new coming. Wherever he could set up new business premises near the road, he would always feel it was home. But fate decided otherwise. The opening up of the New Ilmorog was the ruin of the Old Ilmorog and now, once again, Kimeria’s shadow had crossed his path.

  For a week after the order to close their dirty premises, Abdulla had stayed in his shop, Dharamashah’s shop, and thought hard without anything definite and coherent forming in his mind. Maybe it was Nding’uri cursing him from the nether world for not keeping his word to avenge his death and betrayal. If during that and the following week Kimeria had come to Ilmorog, Abdulla would have killed him. He was sure of that. But Kimeria was already such a tycoon that his many negotiations for business takeovers and property deals were handled by the banks, insurance companies and estate agents. After one week, Abdulla had gone over to Wanja’s place, her whorehouse. He knew the changes that had come over her. He felt somehow personally humiliated by what seemed her irrevocable and final entry into whoredom. It hurt him, but he understood. He stood at the door, then sat down and went straight into business. He stammered, slightly confused, but he went on. ‘Listen. Please. Stop this business. I have a little money. I still have my share of what we got from the recent sale. Marry me. I may not be much to look at: but it was fate.’ He finished, almost swallowing the last sentence in his embarrassment. She stood up, turned away and walked into an inner room. Then she came back. She was calm. ‘My heart is tearless about what I have committed myself to. You know I have tried. Where was I to throw these girls that were part of the old Theng’eta premises? To others who too would profit from their bodies? No,
I am not doing this for their sakes. From now onwards it will always be: Wanja First. I have valued your friendship. And I hope we can remain friends. But this is my cup. I must drink it.’ He had expected this but it did not make it any easier.

  He tried various businesses on his own. He went into illegal brewing of Chang’aa and Theng’eta. But a new police station had been built in the area and he was arrested several times, buying his way out of conviction with wads of notes. He next tried to rent a building in the New Ilmorog. He put in almost all the capital that he had accumulated during his prosperous partnership with Wanja. But many workers took things on credit and they were not always prompt in paying so that his stock was decreasing rather than expanding. A supermarket was opened nearby: he could not match the rigorous competition. He closed the shop and he was back in the streets, almost a beggar. He watched the new Theng’eta complex go up, and he felt it was fate mocking at him and his kind. He had only enough to buy oranges and sell them to passing motorists. Oranges and occasionally sheepskins: how Karega would laugh at me, he kept on thinking, contemplating this new twist of fate.

  He started drinking – to get drunk. He did not want to know anything or remember anything or to think or feel much about whatever was happening around him. He sold oranges and with whatever little profit that he made he would buy himself a drink. He would, on weekends, go to the New Ilmorog Bar and Restaurant because that was where Kimeria and his group went for a drink and roasted goat’s meat on their occasional visits to Ilmorog. The bar was owned by a former administrative officer and he employed juicy barmaids which was always an attraction. Abdulla did not now want to kill Kimeria or to curse him. He only wanted to feed his eyes on a man so beloved of fate. What was the point of any other attitude or posture? Kimeria had been right. He had chosen wisely. Abdulla once again became a well-known character – but this time, as a drunk and seller of oranges and sheepskins. He was so well known that even Kimeria would once or twice nod an acknowledgement in his direction – without of course knowing who he really was. The only thing Abdulla never did was to let anybody treat him to a drink. Reaching his hovel late at night, he would lie on the bed, and in the solitude and the darkness he would start mocking, sneering and making contemptuous faces at Nding’uri: So you thought that I would avenge you. Ha! ha! ha! You were even more foolish than I was. What right had you to die? Die! Die! Die again and again, die alone and don’t you even expect a burial from me or from anybody. I, Abdulla, will live and live it up with Theng’eta. Theng’a Theng’a with Theng’eta. See now. We rejected Munira’s advertisement and now it is a national slogan. Munira – a fool but not a bad chap. No, not bad at all. We now drink together and tell jokes and he does not mind my reminding him of that mountain of shit in the schoolyard. You laugh? Laugh. But now I know it’s better to shit all over people’s heads and live. I will enjoy the fruits of freedom: Theng’eta, Chang’aa. My torn, dirty clothes? What does it matter, provided I can drink and pay for my allotted share? Let Kimeria and Mzigo and Chui enjoy my shop. They didn’t steal it. It’s only that they were wise – at least Kimeria was wise. I will not blame him for his wisdom. No, not I, not Abdulla. Let him too eat his share, fruits of his freedom, including Wanja. Wanjaaaaa! Can you in your grave, could you have ever imagined that she would take him on again? After all she claims he had done to her? She too is wise. Because of money . . . Because of money . . . Nding’uri . . . Give me money and I shall avenge you a thousand times. Without coins in my pocket, no action. Then he would beat his breast . . . No, don’t take it too badly. I too was foolish enough to lose a leg for a national cause. I say: what right had mothers to send their children to the battlefield when it would have been wiser to make them run putrid errands for the European butchers? Fools all. Let them take a leaf from Wanja.

  He rarely saw her, but now and then he would run into her – a lady. But she never acted the lady in front of him – in fact she always greeted him warmly. Once she tried to offer him money to buy clothes. It was in a street. He tried to stand firm on his leg, took the first note and tore it to pieces and hobbled away. He would have been a dog to dress with money probably given her by Kimeria. But later he felt ashamed of the action. He knew very well that it was her who was now paying school fees for Joseph. In any case, he did not blame her: she was turning the way the world was tilting.

  Once he saw her at one of her rare public appearances and he had to admit that in the game she had chosen few women could beat her. It was at a party thrown at the premises of a new golf club to celebrate the completion of the course and also to welcome Sir Swallow Bloodall, the General Manager of the parent Anglo-American Gin Company that had invested money in the Theng’eta project. It had turned out to be one of their most successful ventures in partnership with the locals. There were many dignitaries: European, Asian, African, including the MP, Nderi wa Riera and his KCO henchmen; Fat Stomach and Insect. The Ilmorog public was allowed to peep in through a loose fence of double ropes. Wanja was there in a long cocktail dress, a big Afro-wig on her head, her fingers studded with rings and cheap stones. She had a way of keeping everybody on tenterhooks, now whispering to this one, brushing lightly, carelessly against another, smiling at that one while resting her moon-eyes on yet another. Everybody clapped when Sir Swallow Bloodall talked about golf and cricket as creating a climate of stability and mutual goodwill so necessary for investment. They all clapped and stood up to drink to the health and the future of more joint ventures between foreign capital and technical know-how and local businessmen with their acute knowledge of the market and the political situation.

  Abdulla walked away.

  In those days his best companion was Munira. Together they would drink and occasionally Abdulla would burst into a song in praise of Wanja, detailing how New Ilmorog came to be.

  And then Karega returned and Munira became a fanatic. Abdulla was now alone. Munira would follow him and talk about new worlds with Christ. Once, arguing with Karega about the Mau Mau war – whether it was only for the return of the white highlands to black owners and the end of the colour bar in big buildings and in business or whether it was something more – Karega himself had talked of new worlds. Fools both. There were no other worlds. There was only this one, and he, Abdulla, would continue drinking cheap Theng’eta and singing in this one and only world.

  All this he told truthfully, trying to show the officer that he had lost all thoughts of vengeance. Except on the fatal day when all those feelings rushed back and became an irresistible force. But he somehow could not tell him that this was because he too had, only a week before, discovered his own world, a new world.

  A Friday it was when he received a letter and put it in his pocket and only read it in the evening just as he was about to go to bed. It was from Joseph. The results of mock EAACE were out and he was leading with six points. Abdulla did not know what ‘mock’ was or what six points meant. But he knew that Joseph was tops in Siriana and he felt a sudden warmth and joy at this turn of events in the gloom that was his life. He wanted to share this with somebody and Wanja came to his mind. He remembered the day he had torn her money and here was a chance to show that he appreciated her timely rescue. He went toward her wooden whorehouse but on the way he met Karega who greeted him and told him that Wanja was in the hut. He found her crying. But when he told her the news, she suddenly stopped, laughed, amidst her tears. They talked late into the night like in the old days. But this time he took her and she did not resist, and it was his turn to feel the old world roll away.

  That was why on the fatal Saturday he had woken up feeling great, vibrations of joy in the air. He had been like that for a whole week. He had not even drunk anything. Wanja had given him back his life and he did not see why he should now waste it in Theng’eta. And to crown it, she wanted him back tonight. It would not be in the hut, but he did not mind her other house. In time, he might even persuade her to give up the whore business, seeing that she was now wealthy – she could even burn the hou
se – and put up a stone building. He whistled and sang: how could he ever have mocked Munira’s talk of another world? Only that for him now, a woman was truly the other world: with its own contours, valleys, rivers, streams, hills, ridges, mountains, sharp turns, steep and slow climbs and descents, and above all, movement of secret springs of life. Which explorer, despite the boasts of men, could claim to have touched every corner of that world and drunk of every stream in her? Let others stay with their own worlds: flat, grey, without contours, unexpected turns, or surprises – so predictable. A woman was a world, the world. He shaved and tried on various clothes to see which were less dirty, torn and ragged. He did not know what he would do with himself before night-time, before commencing on a second journey of exploration. At noon, he went for a stroll in the streets. He climbed up to New Ilmorog Bar and Restaurant to play a few records. And then, looking down, he saw Kimeria’s Mercedes with a waiting chauffeur. Then he saw the other cars that belonged to Mzigo and Chui. Today was the day the Board of Directors was meeting to decide on the demands put forward by Theng’eta Workers’ Union. A thought flashed across his mind like a sudden wave of heat: if it had assumed the form of words it would have been something like: and Kimeria might go to Wanja’s place tonight.

  He felt dizzy. His head went round and round and a world of chaos and injustice whirled about him. He thought he would fall, and he clung to the balcony. For a few seconds images followed on images as if he was not in control, as if he was nothing, a shell of a man. No. He was a dog panting, wet nose, and saliva flowing from a tongue thrust out. He was now yapping at the call of the master. No. He was not a dog. He was Mobutu being embraced by Nixon, and looking so happy on his mission of seeking aid, while Nixon made faces at American businessmen and paratroopers to hurry up and clear oil and gold and copper and uranium from Zaire. He was Amin being received by the Queen after overthrowing Obote. No, he was his own donkey hee-hoo-hee-hooing and dutifully carrying any quantity of load for the master. He was so many things, so many different people, but himself. At the same time he felt weak, as if he was losing the last shred of his manhood. He fought hard, clinging to himself, clinging to the balcony, trying to master those images, bring them under his control and into some perspective, instead of their looming so large and threatening. A barmaid passed by and asked him: What is it, Abdulla? He did not answer, he could not answer. Gradually, strength returned to his one leg, the sun-heatwave melting the brain went away. He hobbled down the stairs, past the waiting cars, and onto his place. He sat down on a box. He took out the letter he had received from Joseph the other Friday and read it again. Then he put it back. A tear, a single tear, ran down his face. He rubbed it off, rather impatiently. He poured water, cold water from a cup, into one hand, and washed his face. He was suddenly very lucid, calm inside. A sixteen-year mist had cleared. He was not jealous or anything. It was only that deep inside he knew that tonight, this Saturday, Kimeria would die. Only then would he regain the right to call himself a man.