‘You like all this?’ Mr Howlands asked absentmindedly. He was absorbed in admiring the land before him.
‘It is the best land in all the country,’ Ngotho said emphatically. He meant it.
Mr Howlands sighed. He was wondering if Stephen would ever manage it after him.
‘I don’t know who will manage it after me…’
Ngotho’s heart jumped. He too was thinking of his children. Would the prophecy be fulfilled soon?
‘Kwa nini Bwana. Are you going back to–?’
‘No,’ Mr Howlands said, unnecessarily loudly.
‘…Your home, home…’
‘My home is here!’
Ngotho was puzzled. Would these people never go? But had not the old Gikuyu seer said that they would eventually return the way they had come?
And Mr Howlands was thinking, would Stephen really do? He was not like the other one. He felt the hurt and the pain of loss.
‘The war took him away.’
Ngotho had never known where the other son had gone to. Now he understood. He wanted to tell of his own son: he longed to say, ‘You took him away from me’. But he kept quiet. Only he thought Mr Howlands should not complain. It had been his war.
4
At school Njoroge proved good at reading. He always remembered his first lesson. The teacher had stood in front. He was a short man with a small moustache that he was fond of touching and fondling. They called him Isaka. This was his Christian name, a corruption of Isaac. The children rarely knew a teacher’s surname. Many stories went around about Isaka. Some said that he was not a good Christian. This meant that he drank and smoked and went about with women, a thing that no teacher in their school was expected to do. But Isaka was a jovial man and children loved him. Njoroge admired his moustache. It was claimed that Isaka folded his moustache mischievously whenever he was talking with the women teachers. It was a source of constant gossip to the boys whenever they were alone in groups.
When the teacher had come in he made a strange mark on the board.
‘A’. This was meaningless to Njoroge and others.
Teacher Say Ah.
Class Aaaaa.
Teacher Again.
Class Aaaaa.
One felt the corrugated iron roof would crack.
Teacher (making another mark on the board) Say Eee.
Class Eeeeeeee.
That sounded nice and familiar. When a child cried he said, Eeeee, Eeeee.
Teacher I.
Class Iiiiiii.
Teacher Again.
Class Iiiiiii.
Teacher That’s the old Gikuyu way of saying ‘Hodi’, ‘may I come in?’
The children laughed. It was so funny the way he said this. He made yet another mark on the board. Njoroge’s heart beat fast. To know that he was actually learning! He would have a lot to tell his mother.
Teacher Oh.
Class Ooooo.
Teacher Again.
Class Ooooo.
Another letter:
Teacher U.
Class Uuu.
Teacher What does a woman say when she sees danger?
Class (the boys looking triumphantly at the girls) Uuuuuuu.
There was laughter.
Teacher Say U-u-u-u-u.
Class U-u-u-u-u-u-u-u.
Teacher What animal says this?
A boy shot up his arm. But before he could answer, the class had burst out ‘a dog’. Again there was laughter and a little confused murmuring.
Teacher What does a dog do?
Here there was disagreement. Some shouted that it said, U-u-u-u-u, while others simply declared that a dog barked.
Teacher A dog barks.
Class A dog barks.
Teacher What does a dog say when it barks?
Class U-u-u-u-u-u.
From that day the teacher’s name had become U-u.
Njoroge loved these reading practices, especially the part of blabbering and laughing and shouting as one liked. At first when he reached home, he had tried to teach Kamau. But Kamau resented this, and Njoroge had to give up the idea.
Mwihaki said to him, ‘Why do you keep alone – to avoid me?’
Njoroge felt ashamed. He still remembered that day his mother met them both playing on the hill. She had not rebuked him. But a mother’s silence is the worst form of punishment for it is left to one’s imagination to conjure up what is in her mind. Njoroge, however, wanted to appear respectable and dignified in the eyes of Mwihaki.
‘You always come out late,’ he at last said, rather timidly. They went on together. School was just over for the day. As they walked, they saw birds flying across the fields. She broke the silence.
‘No, I don’t come out late. It’s you. You try to avoid me.’
‘Do your parents beat you?’ she asked after another silence.
‘No. Not often, only when I do wrong.’
Mwihaki wondered how this boy could do wrong. Njoroge appeared so docile, withdrawn, and always went home in time.
‘Why do you ask?’ Njoroge continued.
‘Well, I was thinking that if they don’t beat you, that would explain why you are not afraid of them.’
‘Do yours beat you?’ he asked sympathetically. She looked soft, small, and delicate. Perhaps all girls were naughty.
‘Yes – sometimes. And when mother does not beat me, she uses bad language that hurts me more than beating. I fear her.’
‘I too fear my parents.’ He did not want to criticise them in front of her. He always remembered an Indian boy who once gave him a sweet, wanting to be friendly. Njoroge had then been with his mother. He was surprised by this act of kindness from an Indian boy because he had never thought that an Indian was capable of such. He took the sweet. He was going to put it into his mouth when his mother turned on him and shouted, ‘Is it that you have not eaten anything for a whole year? Are you to be greedily taking anything you’re given by anyone, even by a dirty little Indian?’
Njoroge threw it away. But it had hurt him because the boy saw him do this. He both ached and feared to go back and tell him something. But he did not then go. Days later he went to the same place. The boy was not there.
‘Do you think parents are always right?’
‘I think so. I don’t know. But you sometimes feel you know something inside here…Don’t you feel that way sometimes?’
‘I do!’ he said, not wishing to appear ignorant.
They soon forgot their parents and laughed. Sometimes they played. Njoroge was rather reserved. But Mwihaki was more playful. She picked flowers and threw them at him. He liked this and wanted to retaliate but he did not like plucking a flower in bloom because it lost colour. He said, ‘Let’s not play with flowers.’
‘Oh, but I love flowers.’
They passed near Mr Howlands’ house. It was huge and imposing. It was more grand than that which belonged to Mwihaki’s father.
‘My father works here.’
‘This place belongs to Mr Howlands.’
‘You know him?’
‘No. But my father talks about him. My father visits him and says that he is the best farmer in all the land.’
‘Are they friends?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. Europeans cannot be friends with black people. They are so high.’
‘Have you been here to his farm?’
‘No!’
‘I have often come here to see Father. There is a boy about my height. His skin is so very white. I think he is the son of Mr Howlands. I did not like the way he clung to his mother’s skirt, a frightened thing. Yet his eyes were fixed on me. A bit curious. The second time he was alone. When he saw me, he rose and walked in my direction. I was frightened because I did not know what he wanted. I ran. He stood still and watched me. Then he walked back. Whenever I go there I make sure I am near my father.’
‘Did he want to speak to you?’
‘Well, I don’t know. He may have wanted to quarrel with me. He is l
ike his father. And you know–’
Njoroge remembered the story Ngotho had told them. He could not tell Mwihaki of this. This was to be his own secret.
‘All this land belongs to black people.’
‘Y-e-e-s. I’ve heard Father say so. He says that if people had had education, the white man would not have taken all the land. I wonder why our old folk, the dead old folk, had no learning when the white man came?’
‘There was nobody to teach them English.’
‘Y-e-s. That could be it,’ she said doubtfully.
‘Is your class taught English?’
‘Oh, no. It is only Standard IV that is taught English.’
‘Does your father know how to speak English?’
‘I think so.’
‘Where did he learn it?’
‘In the mission place…Siriana.’
‘You’ll learn English before me.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re a class ahead of me.’
She considered this for a few minutes. Then she suddenly brightened up and said, ‘I’ll be teaching you…’
Njoroge did not like this. But he did not say so.
At the beginning of next year he was promoted to the third class. It was called Standard I, for the other two were just preparatory – beginners’ classes. The second beginners’ class was found unnecessary for him. Standard I was the class that Mwihaki too would attend. Njoroge had caught up with her. He was glad. Before the school opened for the new year, Njoroge went to a forest with Kamau.
After a fruitless search for antelopes, he asked, ‘Why don’t you really start school?’
‘You are always asking this.’ Kamau laughed. But Njoroge remained serious. He always thought that schooling was the very best that a boy could have. It was the end of all living. And he wanted everyone to go to school.
‘No!’ Kamau continued, as he shook his head.
‘Why?’
‘Now, don’t you pretend that you don’t know the answer. Can’t you see home? A man without land must learn to trade. Father has nothing. So what I am doing is important. If Nganga was not selfish, I would soon make a good carpenter. I could be rich and then we could all help you in school. Your learning is for all of us. Father says the same thing. He is anxious that you go on, so you might bring light to our home. Education is the light of Kenya. That’s what Jomo says.’
Njoroge had heard of Jomo. When he came from across the sea, many people had gone to meet him in Nairobi. Njoroge thought that he would like to learn like Jomo and eventually cross the sea to the land of the white man. Mwihaki’s brother was to go there soon.
In the evening, Ngotho glanced up at Njoroge.
‘When will you start school?’
‘On Monday.’
‘Aaaaa,’ Ngotho sighed. He now looked past his son. Nyokabi was preparing Irio. ‘Education is everything,’ Ngotho said. Yet he doubted this because he knew deep inside his heart that land was everything. Education was good only because it would lead to the recovery of the lost lands.
‘You must learn to escape the conditions under which we live. It is a hard way. It is not much that a man can do without a piece of land.’
Ngotho rarely complained. He had all his life lived under the belief that something big would happen. That was why he did not want to be away from the land that belonged to his ancestors. That was really why he had faithfully worked for Mr Howlands, tending the soil carefully and everything that was in it. His son had come and with one stroke had made him doubt that very allegiance to Mr Howlands and the soil. And with this doubt had now come an old man’s fear of his son. Boro had changed. This was all because of the war. Ngotho felt the war had dealt ill with him. It had killed one son! And the other was accusing him.
‘The way Howlands looks at the farm!’ he said slowly to himself. Ngotho could not quite understand Mr Howlands’ devotion to the soil. At times he looked so lost in it as if in escape from something else.
Njoroge listened to his father. He instinctively knew that an indefinable demand was being made on him, even though he was so young. He knew that for him education would be the fulfilment of a wider and more significant vision – a vision that embraced the demand made on him, not only by his father, but also by his mother, his brothers, and even the village. He saw himself destined for something big, and this made his heart glow.
5
A fairly large ‘hill’ stood outside Ngotho’s household. Years of accumulating rubbish had brought this into being. If you stood there in the daytime, you could more or less see the whole of the land of Jacobo. It was very big – as big as a settler’s farm. The land was full of pyrethrum flowers and forests of black wattle trees. Jacobo was lucky because he had for many years been the only African allowed to grow pyrethrum. It was said that he had stood in the way of similar permits being given to other people. White farmers who planted it also did not want many Africans to be allowed to grow any cash crop like pyrethrum because this would lower the standards and quality of production.
Njoroge usually stood on this hill whenever he wanted to see his mother or brother coming from a distance. If he saw any of them he ran and helped them carry whatever they had. It did not matter if it was Njeri or any of her sons. The feeling of oneness was a thing that most distinguished Ngotho’s household from many other polygamous families. Njeri and Nyokabi went to the shamba or market together. Sometimes they agreed among themselves that while one did that job the other would do this one. This was attributed to Ngotho, the centre of the home. For if you have a stable centre, then the family will hold.
It was a dark night. Njoroge and Kamau stood on the ‘hill’. A few stars twinkled above. They looked like human eyes. Nyokabi had once told Njoroge that those were small holes through which one saw the lighted fire of God. He had not quite believed it.
‘Do you see those distant lights?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s Nairobi, isn’t it?’ Njoroge’s voice trembled slightly.
‘Yes,’ Kamau answered dreamily.
Njoroge peered through the darkness and looked beyond. Far away a multitude of lights could be seen. Above the host of lights was the grey haze of the sky. Njoroge let his eyes dwell on the scene. Nairobi, the big city, was a place of mystery that had at last called away his brothers from the family circle. The attraction of this strange city that was near and yet far weakened him. He sighed. He could not yet understand why his brothers had just decided to go. Like that.
‘Do you think that they’ve found jobs?’
‘Kori said that jobs there are plenty.’
‘I see.’
‘It is a big city…’
‘Yes – it – is – a – big – city.’
‘Mr Howlands often goes there.’
‘And Jacobo too…Do you think they’ll forget home?’
‘I’m sure they won’t. None can forget home.’
‘Why couldn’t they work here?’
‘Do you think they didn’t want to? You know this place. Even there where they go, they will learn that mere salary without a piece of land to cultivate is nothing. Look at Howlands. He is not employed by anybody. Yet he is very rich and happy. It’s because he has land. Or look at Jacobo. He’s like that because he has land…Boro has no land. He could not get employment. You know how bitter he is with Father because he says that it was through the stupidity of our fathers that the land had been taken. Do you think he could stay here? Boro is not of this place.’
Njoroge pondered this and wished he had been in a position to right the situation. Perhaps education…
‘Yes. Boro was strange.’
‘He was often angry.’
‘With Father?’
‘And all the old generation. And yet they tried.’
‘To get the land?’
‘Yes. Father said that people began pressing for their rights a long while back. Some went in a procession to Nairobi soon after the end of the first war to demand the release of t
heir leader who had been arrested. People were shot and three of them died. You see, people had thought that the young leader was the one who would make the white man go.’
‘Father said this?’
‘Yes. I found him telling Boro. You know Father sort of fears Boro.’
‘What did Boro say?’
‘Nothing. He just sat there thinking or brooding over something. Boro is queer. Our elder mother says that it was the war that changed him. Some people say however that it is something to do with our other brother, the dead one.’
‘Mwangi?’
‘Yes. They say it is the British who killed him. But whether it was the British or not, it was a white man who did it.’
‘Yes.’
They still peered through the darkness to the city that now held Boro and Kori. Kamau and Njoroge feared that the other two might be lost there. This would end the evening gathering of young men and women. But Kori had clearly said that they would be coming home from time to time.
‘I too would like to leave this place!’
‘Why?’ Njoroge quickly asked. Njoroge’s train of thought of what he would do for his family when he had money and learning was interrupted.
‘Just a feeling. But first I must stop working for Nganga.’
‘You have not finished the course.’
‘I think I know enough carpentry to keep me going. I can now make a chair, a bed, and things like that.’
‘And where will you go?’
‘To the settled area. Or to Nairobi.’
Njoroge felt a strong desire to detain Kamau. He would miss him greatly.
‘You may not get a job.’
‘I will.’
‘But have you forgotten about the strike?’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes. You know the intended strike that Father is always talking about.’
‘I don’t know. I think strikes are for people like my father.’
‘But Father says that the strike is for all people who want the freedom of the black people.’
‘Maybe. I cannot tell.’
They heard Njeri calling. They went down the ‘hill’. As they went along, Njoroge remembered something he had wanted to ask about land.