Petals of Blood

  He did not know what it was. He just knew that tonight he, Abdulla, would kill Kimeria, that he could never face Wanja or Karega or Munira or Joseph or himself unless Kimeria was dead. Not tomorrow . . . not the day after . . . but tonight. He was so certain, and it was so clear and simple and logical. He did not tremble with rage or anything. He did not even feel that moral outrage he used to experience as a substitute for action. Call it justice or fairness or jealousy or vengeance. But he had made a decision: the time, the day and the place was not of his making, but to act was his freedom. He had not yet thought what he would use or how, but he knew that he could throw a knife to the heart, even from several yards away. He had killed many enemies and even animals with his famous knife-throw. Or he could burn up the house, cleanse the whole mess. Yes, he could that. It did not matter how: he would do it.

  He went back to the streets, now that he had regained his strength and a sense of purpose. Ilmorog as it used to be passed through his mind in a series of motion pictures. He saw himself arrive in a donkey-cart twelve years ago. Then Munira, Karega and his youthful inquisitive innocence. Every picture – of Wanja, Nyakinyua, the drought, the aeroplane, the new road, New Ilmorog – was very sharp in outline. He joined a crowd of workers who waited for news of any decision arrived at by the Board of Directors. If their pay was not raised, they all would come out on strike – in eight days time. Reporters were waiting around with their cameras – for a snap of the directors. He now had time to marvel at Karega. So calm. So involved. It’s in the blood, he muttered to himself, remembering Nding’uri in his youth. Yet standing there he felt odd, and recalled his arguments and disagreement with Karega. Now he thought: these same workers led by Karega could as likely have been gathering there against him and Wanja. It surprised him that only a few years back he too had been an employer of labour, though on a small scale. Would Karega have fought them too with the same ferocity? He was tired of waiting, after all an increase in their pay would not make much difference to the sales of his oranges. Well, they might spend more on oranges, but he was also sure that they would spend even more on Theng’eta. The Directors were fools not to increase the pay, he thought, feeling generous to both the workers and employers. After all, the workers would return the money to the factory. He started walking toward Ilmorog Bar and Restaurant. He knew that after the meeting, they would surely call at the bar. He walked along the main street and passed by the junkyard near the market-place where dirt and paper and bits of oranges and other remains of rotten food were thrown. He stood and watched hordes of half-naked children with bloated stomachs as they fought it out, asserting their different claims to territories of rot and discarded rubbish. He shook his head. This eternal interminable cycle of destitution and deprivation amidst plenty! He resumed his walk toward his chosen destiny.

  And indeed at about seven, they all came to the place. They looked a bit too self-consciously triumphant. It was Chui, looking at his watch, who was the first to excuse himself, Then, after a good interval, Mzigo did the same. An irresistible devil now seized Abdulla. He felt he wanted to speak to Kimeria. He felt this power and authority in himself because he had already sentenced him to death. Kimeria was surrounded by other local dignitaries. Abdulla moved a step along the counter and then loudly called out.

  ‘Kimeria wa Kamia Nja!’

  There was immediate silence in the whole bar. Kimeria was taken aback because he did not like his father’s name. He had used various names in various places: at Blue Hills for instance, he was only Mr Hawkins. Who in Ilmorog could know his past?

  ‘Kimeria: it’s me. How are you?’

  ‘Oh, it’s you . . . Abdulla . . . I’m fine,’ he answered uncertainly.

  ‘Do you remember me?’ People laughed, thinking it was one of Abdulla’s drunken antics of a ruined man.

  ‘Of course . . . Abdulla . . . Get a drink. Waiter! Give Abdulla, my friend, a drink.’

  ‘I am not your friend: I don’t want your drink. Do you remember . . . the people you once arrested in your place at Blue Hills? People from Ilmorog?’

  Aah! Kimeria sighed with relief: so that’s where he had seen the man . . . maybe that’s how he had come to know his father’s name! Nevertheless he did not want any awkward embarrassing exposure.

  ‘That? It was only a joke – between men! Ha! ha! ha!’

  ‘Ha! ha!’ Abdulla joined in the laughter so that both were laughing. People in the bar also started laughing – although they did not know what the joke between men was – because they were all relieved that nothing unpleasant had occurred. But then Abdulla continued:

  ‘You are rather fond of jokes, Bwana Kimeria. Jokes between men. Do you remember another joke you once played on Nding’uri . . . your sister’s lover . . . sold him bullets . . . jokes between men can be costly.’

  Kimeria was trembling inside. He wanted to bolt right out but somehow he forced himself to stick glued to the chair. He ostentatiously searched for a handkerchief, took one out together with a pistol – a small pistol – cleared his nose and returned both to the pocket. He ordered another drink. It was so coolly done. But nobody missed the point. They waited for Abdulla’s next move. But Abdulla only laughed and started moving away, a voice inside him saying: Look at me carefully, so that even after your death you can remember me.

  He hobbled out slowly. Noise returned to the bar. But he knew that people were watching him. He deliberately walked toward his place. He still retained that clarity of certainty of a victory to come. How was it, how could it be that he was not afraid of the consequences? Kimeria would be at Wanja’s place. Again he was sure of that. Kimeria was the kind of person who would rather be caught swallowing all, than leave out a few nuts for another to pick. He took out a knife and a box of matches. Then he hobbled slowly toward Wanja’s place, for an encounter with his chosen destiny. He stood and listened to the news by a neighbour’s hovel. It was nine o’clock. The workers’ pay would not be altered because of inflation. This was followed by an item on a meeting of the Oil and Petroleum Exporting Countries to increase prices of crude oil. Yet another small item on the increased profits made by oil companies. This world! He moved on. He could now see Wanja’s place. A Mercedes car moved away. It was probably Kimeria’s car. But once again, he was not worried. It was normal in Wanja’s place. Big shots were driven in by their chauffeurs. The chauffeur would be sent away and given a time at which to return for the boss. Whatever the case he did not worry. An invisible hand of destiny guided him. He would walk into Wanja’s place, knife in hand, or maybe it would be better . . . better . . .

  He could not at first believe the evidence of his eyes. Was it happening in his mind? Was he under another stroke of heat in the brain so that what he was seeing was only an illusion? Red flames of fire issued from Wanja’s place. He remained rooted to the ground. But only for a second. For suddenly he heard a chilling scream issue from the house. He started moving, cursing his inability to run. He hobble-hobbled, as fast as he could. In no time, however, people had come out of their places and rushed past Abdulla. But he found them only standing and arguing about the best course of action. He was Abdulla, in the forests of Longonot and Mount Kenya, making decisions in death-and-life tight corners. With his walking-stick he broke the glass window to the sitting-room. He put his hand through, pulled the latch and then lifted himself up and fell into the room. He searched with hands and feet, groping, until he touched a body near the door. He again groped in the choking, smoking heat, found the door-knob, and opened it, at the same time dragging the body along through fire and smoke. He did not stop to wonder whose body it was: it could even be Kimeria or one of the other girls. He did not care. He dragged it through, crawling on his hands, just managing to escape the tongues of fire as he collapsed outside. But the crowd, which was throwing water in a futile gesture of putting out the fire, saw this heap of two human bodies and pulled them to safety.

  On the tenth day after his arrest, Abdulla saw the officer burst into his
cell, and knew that the man was in a hostile mood. But Abdulla still had this clarity in the heart and he felt calmly ready for any eventuality. He had answered all the previous questions without hiding any but the most intimate events. The officer did not stand on ceremony but went straight to the business:

  ‘Mr Abdulla. You have so far been most truthful in your answers. You have even volunteered information. You have not hidden your hatred of Kimeria and your intention to kill him. You have shown me the knife and the box of matches. I will be candid with you. I have a feeling that you might be shielding somebody else, for reasons best known to yourself. Now I want to ask you a few more questions.’

  ‘I have nothing to hide and I am not shielding anybody. I have told you everything.’

  ‘I want you to cast your mind back a little. Did you ever hold secret meetings with Karega in Wanja’s hut?’

  ‘No. Not there, not anywhere. Karega and I did not always agree, especially after he came back from his five-year exile.’

  ‘Why? What were the differences?’

  ‘I thought he was going too far in overstretching the importance of workers’ solidarity aided by small farmers. What about the unemployed? The small traders? I believed, and I told him so, that land should be available to everybody; that loans should be readily available to the small man; that nobody should have too many businesses under him – in a word, fair distribution of opportunities. But he always argued that loans would only hasten the ruin of the small businessman and the alienation of the small farmer . . . that workers as a force were on the increase and were the people of the future and that—’

  ‘Interesting . . . but I think we can have that lecture when we have more time on our hands. Just now I want you to cast your mind back to a week before the arson. Did you or did you not visit Wanja?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘In her whorehouse?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In her hut.’

  ‘Was Karega there?’

  ‘No . . . I don’t know . . . somehow I never asked.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well – I wanted to see Wanja for reasons that – anyway I wanted to see her. But on my way to her place, I met Karega. We greeted one another. He asked me where I was going at night. I told him. He told me she was in the hut, but somehow it never occurred to me to ask how he knew it.’

  ‘I see. What did you discuss?’

  ‘Well, it is . . . It is personal.’

  ‘Interesting. Very interesting. Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

  ‘I didn’t think it was important. Besides, it was rather personal.’

  ‘Personal! Personal! Personal!’ he almost shouted, walking round the tiny cell. Then he abruptly stopped and faced Abdulla.

  ‘Why are you shielding Karega?’

  ‘I am not . . . There is nothing to shield.’

  ‘Nothing to shield? We shall see. Warders! Warders! Give him medicine . . .’ He walked out toward the red chamber.

  4 ~ It was only on the tenth day that Wanja recovered sufficiently to talk without that animal terror in her eyes which would suddenly plunge her into visions of fire and smoke and make her scream: See, see, put it out, put it ooooout . . . !The shock, the burns on the hands, the lack of sleep had weakened her. On the twelfth day, the police officer was allowed to see her. He was convinced that somewhere between the three of them was the answer, and he was determined to get it. He had found out a number of things: that Wanja, for instance, had specifically invited Mzigo, Kimeria and Chui for that night: that she had given her watchman and the girls a free day and a free night; and now Abdulla had claimed that she had asked him to come! But why should she want to burn herself and her house? For he could see, anybody could tell, that her trembling was real, the terror that even now lingered in her eyes could not have been faked. He spoke to her gently.

  ‘You will soon get over it. Don’t worry too much about the matter. We shall get to the bottom of the whole thing. We shall definitely apprehend the culprits. We are not doing too badly. One or two links are missing. Perhaps you might help us.’

  ‘I would rather not talk about that night. But if I must, please, you must give me time to recover – inside.’

  ‘I am really sorry to have to open old wounds – but – you understand that this is a very serious matter. It is arson. It is murder. You should see the papers. There is a lot of tension in the country. And we suspect some political motivation. You understand then that much as I would like to, I can’t spare you the memory. I must be able to record a statement from you about two nights in particular.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘First – do you suspect anybody at all?’

  ‘No . . . nobody . . . It has always been so.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I suppose it does not matter. But fire is a nightmare in our family. My aunt died of arson. I left Bolibo Bar because a room I rented there was burnt. So you see I have been running away from one fire into greater flames.’

  ‘I see. A week before this fire: did Karega come to see you?’

  ‘Yes. I had wanted to see him.’

  ‘In your place—’

  ‘In my hut.’

  ‘And Abdulla: he too was there.’

  ‘Yes, and no.’

  ‘Meaning—?’

  ‘—that Karega came first. Then later Abdulla. It was a – a strange coincidence.’

  ‘Perhaps you might care to explain. Both Karega and Abdulla have flatly refused to answer questions about that Friday. They say it is personal. But you must understand that there’s nothing so personal that it should stand in the way of the truth about arson and murder.’

  ‘Have they? I suppose – it was personal, but really there’s nothing to hide.’

  And yet as she tried to tell him about that Friday she found that there was quite a lot to conceal. She tried to tell him the main facts, leaving out only intimate details. In her youth she had moved with a few policemen and she knew some of their fixations and suspicions even about the most minute details, especially where they had already constructed a theory however erroneous. She also knew that Abdulla and Karega could be obstinate and lead themselves into trouble over nothing. So she edited the story as she went on. After all, a coherent narrative depended on knowing what details to tell and what to leave out.

  But even to herself she could not tell why she had decided to call Karega that night rather than another, or why she had chosen the hut, in particular. Maybe it was the warm memory of their past intimacy. Or respect for his feelings about her whorehouse. She had removed her lipstick and her wig, and she had only her beads and a few bangles round her hands. As she waited for him, she found her heart beating in a kind of vague expectation. She was surprised that she could still feel this way: she had been so used to a heart-beat because of the money sliding into her hands, at her cleverness in manipulating situations, at her abilities to read a man’s face like an open book, knowing precisely what illusions he wanted flattered, what frustrations he wanted to work out, and the excitement of being proved right: so used to this kind of thrill, that she had imagined her body and heart now dead to other possibilities.

  When he came and stood at the door, it had all the illusions of old times. Only now he was big and hardened in body and famous in the area and, she imagined, in the whole country. It pained her, this purity of pleasure she felt at his arrival – something struggling to be born and reach out to the light against the debris, rust, and squalor of a junkyard.

  Karega, too, felt this illusion of a return to the past. He noticed that it was the same bed; the same sheets; the same lamp and furniture. She had preserved it exactly as he had known it: a moment trapped in frozen space. Ilmorog had changed: everybody had changed; new forces had been born and the lines of battle were more clearly marked. Nevertheless, looking at her, he could not help marvelling at how Wanja could be different people in different times and places and situatio
ns. That, he supposed, was the secret of her continuing success: that she could appeal to so many different people at different times, as if each could find reflected in her the condition of his being. He could not help sighing at such a wasted talent.

  ‘It reminds me so much of Nyakinyua and the night of our first Theng’eta drinking,’ he said as he sat on what had once been his favourite folding chair.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Shall I make you tea?’

  ‘A cup. That would be fine.’

  He watched her, haunched, on knees, putting pressure in the stove, her bangles and beads making a noise to the rhythm of her movement. She was completely absorbed in the act – and really, she was beautiful. How could such a woman have thrown a child, a life, into a latrine? How could such a woman be trading on the bodies of other girls? It was not for him to judge her, nevertheless the intrusion of these unpleasant thoughts broke his admiration.