Weep Not, Child

  ‘I think I’ve seen you before,’ Njoroge at last said as he took the boy round.

  ‘Have you?’ The boy looked up at Njoroge full in the eyes. At first he seemed puzzled. Then his face brightened up. He said, ‘Oh, do you come from Kipanga?’

  ‘Yes. That’s where I’ve seen you before.’

  ‘I remember. You are the son of Ngotho who–’ The boy suddenly stopped. ‘My name is Stephen. Stephen Howlands.’

  ‘I am Njoroge.’

  They walked on in silence. Njoroge saw he was not afraid of Stephen. Here in school Stephen was a boy. Njoroge could not be afraid of a boy.

  ‘When did you come here?’

  ‘At the beginning of this year. And you?’

  ‘Been in Hill School for two years.’

  ‘Which school did you go to before you came here?’

  ‘Nairobi. What about you?’

  ‘I went to Kamahou Intermediate School.’

  ‘Is that the school you went to when you passed near our home?’

  ‘No. That one was Kamae Primary School and went up to Standard IV. Did you see me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Stephen could easily recall the many times he had hidden in the hedge near his home with the object of speaking to Njoroge or any other of the children. Yet whenever they came near, he felt afraid.

  ‘We didn’t see you.’

  ‘I used to hide near the road. I wanted to speak with some of you.’ Stephen was losing his shyness.

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘I was afraid.’

  ‘Afraid?’

  ‘Yes. I was afraid that you might not speak to me or you might not need my company.’

  ‘Was it all that bad?’

  ‘Not so much.’ He did not want sympathy.

  ‘I am sorry I ran away from you. I too was afraid.’

  ‘Afraid?’ It was Stephen’s turn to wonder.

  ‘Yes. I too was afraid of you.’

  ‘But I meant no harm.’

  ‘All the same, I was. How could I tell what you meant to do?’

  ‘Strange.’

  ‘Yes. It’s strange. It’s strange how you do fear something because your heart is already prepared to fear because maybe you were brought up to fear that something, or simply because you found others fearing…That’s how it’s with me. When my brothers went to Nairobi and walked in the streets, they came home and said that they didn’t like the way Europeans looked at them.’

  ‘I suppose it’s the same everywhere. I have heard many friends say they didn’t like the way Africans looked at them. And when you are walking in Nairobi or in the country, though the sky may be clear and the sun is smiling, you are still not free to enjoy the friendliness of the sky because you are aware of an electric tension in the air…You cannot touch it…you cannot see it…but you are aware of it all the time.’

  ‘Yes. Till sometimes it can be maddening. You are afraid of it, and if you try to run away from it, you know it’s all futile because wherever you go it’s there before you.’

  ‘It’s bad.’

  ‘It’s bad,’ agreed Njoroge.

  They felt close together, united by a common experience of insecurity and fear no one could escape.

  ‘Yes the country is so cool and so absorbing…’

  ‘It’s a land of sunshine and rain and wind, mountains and valleys and plains. Oh – but the sunshine–’

  ‘But so dark now.’

  ‘Yes – so dark, but things will be all right.’

  Njoroge still believed in the future. Hope of a better day was the only comfort he could give to a weeping child. He did not know that this faith in the future could be a form of escape from the reality of the present.

  The two had moved away from the crowd and were standing together under a black wattle tree.

  ‘I’ll be away from home soon.’

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘To England.’

  ‘But that’s your home?’

  ‘No. It isn’t. I was born here and I have never been to England. I don’t even want to go there.’

  ‘Do you have to go?’

  ‘Yes. Father did not want to, but my mother wanted us to go.’

  ‘When will you go.’

  ‘Next month.’

  ‘I hope you’ll come back.’

  A wave of pity for this young man who had to do what he did not want to do filled Njoroge. At least he, Njoroge, would rise and fall with his country. He had nowhere else to go.

  ‘I want to come back.’

  ‘Is your father going with you?’

  ‘No. He’ll remain here. But – but – you sometimes get a feeling that you’re going away from someone forever…That’s how I feel, and that’s what makes it all so awful.’

  Again silence settled between them. Njoroge wanted to change the subject.

  ‘They have changed sides.’

  ‘Let’s go and cheer.’

  The two moved back to the field, again shy with each other. They moved into two different directions as if they were afraid of another contact.

  Mwihaki wrote frequently. Njoroge could remember her first letter just before she went to the teacher training school.

  Dear Njoroge,

  You don’t know how much I miss you. For the last few days I have been thinking of nothing but you. The knowledge that you’re so far from me makes the thoughts very painful. But I know what you are doing there. I know you’ll do well because you’ve got determination. I trust you.

  I am going to the training school next week. Living here has been hell for me. Father has changed much. He seems to be fearing something. Every day there have been some new arrests and some houses burnt down by Mau Mau. Yesterday I found some people being beaten and they were crying, oh so horribly, begging for mercy. I don’t know what’s happening. Fear in the air. Not a fear of death – it’s a fear of living.

  I am caught in it and if this goes on I feel as if I could go mad…I’m telling all this to show you how glad I am at the prospects of escaping away from it all…

  Njoroge wondered what changes he would find at home when the end of the year came. Did he really want to go home? If he went, misery would gnaw at his peace of mind. He did not want to go back. He thought it would be a more worthwhile homecoming if he stayed here till he had equipped himself with learning.

  15

  It was a cold Monday morning. Njoroge had gone through the first two terms and now was in his third. It would soon end. He woke up as usual, said his prayers and prepared himself for the morning parade. It was such a pleasant morning in spite of the cold. After the roll call he went to the chapel for a communion with God and then to the dining hall for breakfast; that was always the daily routine. He ate his breakfast quickly for he had not yet finished the preparation for the previous night.

  The first class was English. Njoroge loved English literature.

  ‘Why, you look happy today,’ a boy teased him.

  ‘But I’m always happy,’ he said.

  ‘Not when we’re doing maths,’ another boy put in.

  They laughed. Njoroge’s laughter rang in the class. The first boy who had spoken said, ‘See, see how he’s laughing. He is happy because this is an English class.’

  ‘Do you want me to cry?’ Njoroge asked. He felt buoyant.

  ‘No. It’s only that my mother tells me that a man should not be too happy in the morning. It’s an ill omen.’

  ‘Don’t be superstitious.’

  Yet Njoroge did not like the last observation. All through the week that had passed he had been assailed by bad dreams. The dreams had affected him so much that he had been unable to write to Mwihaki. Tonight, however, he would write to her. He wanted to tell her that Stephen had gone back to England and his sister had accompanied them. She would however come back to continue her missionary work. When he first met Stephen he had written to her, telling her about his own impression of Stephen. ‘He looked lonely and sad’ he had finished.

 
There was a lot of shouting in the room. Then one boy whispered: ‘Teacher. Hush!’ There was silence in the room. The teacher came in. He was always on time. Njoroge was often surprised by these missionaries’ apparent devotion to their work. One might have thought that teaching was to them life and death. Yet they were white men. They never talked of colour; they never talked down to Africans; and they could work closely, joke, and laugh with their black colleagues who came from different tribes. Njoroge at times wished the whole country was like this. This seemed a little like paradise, a paradise where children from all walks of life and of different religious faiths could work together without any consciousness.

  Many people believed the harmony in the school came because the headmaster was a strange man who was severe with everyone, black and white alike. If he was quick to praise what was good, he was equally quick to suppress what he thought was evil. He tried to bring out the good qualities in all, making them work for the good name of the school. But he believed that the best, the really excellent, could come only from the white man. He brought up his boys to copy and cherish the white man’s civilisation as the only hope of mankind and especially of the black races. He was automatically against all black politicians who in any way made people feel discontented with the white man’s rule and civilising mission.

  Njoroge was in the middle of answering a question when the headmaster came to the door. The teacher went out to see what the headmaster wanted. When he came back, he looked at Njoroge and told him that he was wanted outside.

  His heart beat hard. He did not know what the headmaster could have to say to him. A black car stood outside the office. But it was only when Njoroge entered the office and saw two police officers that he knew that the car outside had something to do with him. Njoroge’s heart pounded with fear.

  The headmaster said something to the two officers who immediately withdrew.

  ‘Sit down, my boy.’

  Njoroge, whose knees had already failed him, gladly sank into the chair.

  The headmaster looked at him with compassionate eyes. He continued, ‘I’m sorry to hear this about your family.’

  Njoroge watched the missionary’s face and lips. His own face did not change, but Njoroge listened keenly with clenched teeth.

  ‘You’re wanted at home. It’s a sad business…but whatever your family may have made you do or vow in the past, remember Christ is there at the door, knocking, waiting to be admitted. That’s the path we’ve tried to make you follow. We hope you’ll not disappoint us.’ The headmaster sounded as if he would cry.

  But when Njoroge went to the car, he realised that the headmaster had not given him a clue as to what his family had done. His words of comfort had served only to increase Njoroge’s torment.

  He would never forget his experience in the post. That particular homeguard post was popularly known as the House of Pain. The day following his arrival in the post he was called into a small room. Two European officers were present. One had a red beard.

  ‘What’s your name?’ the red beard asked, while the grey eyes looked at him ferociously.

  ‘Njo-ro-ge.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘I think nineteen or thereabouts.’

  ‘Sema affande!’ one of the homeguards outside the small room shouted.

  ‘Affande.’

  ‘Have you taken the oath?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Sema affende!’ barked the same homeguard.

  ‘No. Affendi.’

  ‘How many have you taken?’

  ‘I said none affendi!’

  The blow was swift. It blinded him so that he saw darkness. He had not seen the grey eyes rise.

  ‘Have you taken the oath?’

  ‘I-am-a-schoolboy-affendi,’ he said, automatically lifting his hands to his face.

  ‘How many oaths have you taken?’

  ‘None, Sir.’

  Another blow. Tears rolled down his cheeks in spite of himself. He remembered the serenity of his school. It was a lost paradise.

  ‘Do you know Boro?’

  ‘He’s my – brother–’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I – don’t – know–’

  Njoroge lay on the dusty floor. The face of the grey eyes had turned red. He never once spoke except to call him Bloody Mau Mau. A few seconds later Njoroge was taken out by the two homeguards at the door. He was senseless. He was covered with blood where the hobnailed shoes of the grey eyes had done their work.

  He woke up from the coma late in the night. He heard a woman screaming in a hut not far from the one in which he lay. Could it be Njeri? Or Nyokabi? He shuddered to think about it. He longed to see them all once again before he died. For he thought this was the end. Perhaps death was not bad at all. It sent you into a big sleep from which you never awoke to the living fears, the dying hopes, the lost visions.

  They had not finished with him. He was in the room the next day. What would he do if they asked him the same questions again? Tell a lie? Would they leave him alone if he said yes to every question? He doubted it. His body was swollen all over. But the worst thing for him was the fact he was still in the dark about all this affair.

  ‘You are Njoroge?’

  ‘y-e-e-e-s.’

  ‘Have you taken the oath?’ All eyes turned to him. Njoroge hesitated for a moment. He noticed that Mr Howlands was also present. The grey eyes took the momentary hesitation and said, ‘Mark, you tell us the truth. If you tell the truth, we shall let you go.’

  The pain in his body came and asked him to say Yes. But he instinctively said No, withdrawing a few steps to the door. Nobody touched him.

  ‘Who murdered Jacobo?’ Mr Howlands asked for the first time.

  For a time, Njoroge was shaken all over. He thought he was going to be sick.

  ‘Murdered?’ he hoarsely whispered in utter disbelief. And all of a sudden a strong desire to know if Mwihaki was safe caught him. He for a moment forgot that he was addressing his enemies.

  The white men closely watched him.

  ‘Yes. Murdered.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘You’ll tell us that.’

  ‘Me, Sir? But–’

  ‘Yes. You’ll tell us.’

  Mr Howlands rose and came to Njoroge. He was terrible to look at. He said, ‘I’ll show you.’ He held Njoroge’s private parts with a pair of pincers and started to press tentatively.

  ‘You’ll be castrated like your father.’

  Njoroge screamed.

  ‘Tell us. Who really sent you to collect information in Jacobo’s house about…?’

  Njoroge could not hear; the pain was so bad. And yet the man was speaking. And whenever he asked a question, he pressed harder.

  ‘You know your father says he murdered Jacobo.’

  He still screamed. Mr Howlands watched him. Then he saw the boy raise his eyes and arms as if in supplication before he became limp and collapsed on the ground. Mr Howlands looked down on the boy and then at the officers and walked out. The red beard and the grey eyes laughed derisively.

  Njoroge was not touched again, and when he became well a few days later, he and his two mothers were released.

  The hut in which he had been put was dark. Ngotho could not tell day or night. For him, darkness and light were the same thing and time was a succession of nothingness. He tried to sleep on his sides but only his buttocks were safe. So from day to day he remained in the same sitting posture. But then sleep would not come to relieve him. He wanted to forget his life. For behind him, he was conscious only of failure.

  The awareness that he had failed his children had always shadowed him. Even before this calamity befell him, life for him had become meaningless, divorced as he had been from what he valued.

  In spite of his pain, however, he never regretted the death of Jacobo. In fact, immediately after Jacobo’s death, Ngotho felt grateful. This was an act of divine justice. For a day or two he had walked upright only later to hear that his son
Kamau was arrested in connection with the murder. For a day and a half he had remained irresolute. But at night he knew what to do. The Gikuyus say, ‘We shall not give the hyena twice.’ Now since the white man had reversed the tribal law and cried, ‘A tooth for a tooth’, it was better for Ngotho to offer his old tooth that had failed to bite deep into anything. But Ngotho could never tell where he had found courage to walk into the DO’s office and admit that he had killed Jacobo. It was a confession that had shocked the whole village.

  And Ngotho had now for days been tortured in all manner of ways, yet would tell nothing beyond the fact that he had killed Jacobo.

  Mr Howlands had, as was the usual practice with government agents and white men, taken the law into his own hands. He was determined to elicit all the information from the man. So he had Ngotho beaten from day to day. For Mr Howlands was determined to conquer and reduce Ngotho to submission.

  Ngotho, who had worked for him and had thwarted his will, would not now escape from him. For Ngotho had become for him a symbol of evil that now stood in his path.

  And indeed he became mad where Ngotho was concerned. Even the homeguards who worked with him feared to be present when the DO was eliciting information from this man.

  But Ngotho had stuck to his story.

  Njoroge had always been a dreamer, a visionary who consoled himself faced by the difficulties of the moment by a look at a better day to come. Before he started school, he had once been lent to his distant uncle to help him in looking after cattle. The cattle had troubled him much. But instead of crying like other children, he had sat on a tree and wished he had been at school. For that would end such troubles. And for an hour he had seen himself grown up and at school. Meanwhile the cattle had eaten a good portion of a shamba and his uncle had to send him home immediately.

  But all these experiences now came to Njoroge as shocks that showed him a different world from that he had believed himself living in. For these troubles seemed to have no end, to have no cure. At first these had a numbing effect so that he did not seem to feel. All he knew was that his father and his now only brother were in trouble and he himself was not at school.