Weep Not, Child

  ‘Lord, do you think the strike will be a success?’

  He wanted an assurance. He wanted a foretaste of the future before it came. In the Old Testament, God spoke to His people. Surely He could do the same thing now. So Njoroge listened, seriously and quietly. He was still listening when he fell asleep.

  7

  It was at the beginning of the new year. The room was packed, for the whole class had come to know whether they had passed or not. Njoroge sat in a corner, silent. Mwihaki too was there. She was growing into quite a big girl; certainly she was not the same person who five years back had taken Njoroge to school. The two had shared each other’s hopes and fears, and he felt akin to her. He always wished she had been his sister. A boy chattered and shouted in a corner, but his friend did not want to play. The boy sat down again while the two others regarded him coldly. One or two others laughed. But the laughter was rather subdued. Though they sat in groups, each was alone. That was all.

  Teacher Isaka came in with a long sheet of paper. Everybody kept quiet. Njoroge had prepared himself for this moment. He had many times told himself that he would not change even if he failed. He had tried his best. But now when the teacher began to look at the long white sheet, he wanted to go and hide under the desk. And then he heard his name. It was topping the list. Mwihaki too had passed.

  Together they ran homewards linking their hands. They did not talk. Each wanted to reach home and tell their parents the good news. Njoroge wanted his mother to know that her son had not failed. He would now go to an intermediate school. They came near Mwihaki’s house and there stood for a moment holding each other’s hands. Then they let go of the hands and each now ran on a different path towards home.

  Mwihaki reached home earlier. She found her mother and all the other children of the family crowded together. She did not see anything strange in this because she was very excited.

  ‘Mother! Mother!’

  ‘What is it?’ She stopped. The voice of her mother was cold, sad, and distant; Juliana looked past Mwihaki and then, almost in a hostile and impatient manner continued, ‘What else has happened? Speak! Or why do you come home rushing so?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Mwihaki said quietly, ‘only that I have passed.’ There was no pride of achievement in her voice.

  ‘Is that all? Is your sister Lucia at school?’

  Then Juliana burst out sobbing, speaking to herself. ‘I have always said that such Ahoi were dangerous. But a man will never heed the voice of a woman until it is too late. I told him not to go. But he would not listen!’

  ‘What has happened, mother?’ Mwihaki asked anxiously.

  ‘O, well may you ask. I’ve always said that your father will end up by being murdered!’

  ‘Is he dead?’ Mwihaki burst out crying.

  Nobody reassured her.

  Meanwhile Njoroge had reached home. A group of men and women and children were standing in the courtyard. Some eyes were turned to his father’s hut. The others were turned towards the marketplace. But where was his mother? He found her inside her hut. She sat on a low stool and two women of the village sat close to her. They kept dumb. Their eyes were turned to the courtyard. Nyokabi’s face was dark, and now and then sobs shook her. Njoroge’s joy of a victorious homecoming faded.

  ‘What is it, Mother?’ He feared that someone had died.

  His mother looked up and saw him. Njoroge trembled. Outside more men and women streamed into the courtyard. Some spoke in low voices.

  ‘It’s the strike!’ A woman told him. And then, of course, Njoroge remembered. Today was the great day of the strike – the strike that was meant to paralyse the whole country.

  Many people had gone to the meeting that was being held on the first day of the strike. They had streamed into the meeting ground like safari ants. All knew that this was a great day for the black people. Ngotho too had gone to the meeting. Who could tell but that the meeting might open the door to better things? And would it have paid to have been in Howlands’ employment when the time for the settlement of things came? That was how he comforted himself because Nyokabi’s words were still in his mind. The barber came and sat next to him. All the time, the barber kept up an incessant chatter that made people laugh. The speakers had come from Nairobi and among them were Boro and Kiarie. Boro had not found a permanent job in Nairobi but had gone into politics. Ngotho felt a certain pride in seeing his son sitting with such big folk. He was now glad that he had come.

  Kiarie spoke first, in a low, sad voice, and recounted history. All the land belonged to the people – black people. They had been given it by God. For every race had their country. The Indians had India. Europeans had Europe. And Africans had Africa, the land of the black people. (Applause) Who did not know that all the soil in this part of the country had been given to Gikuyu and Mumbi and their posterity? (More applause) He told them how the land had been taken away, through the Bible and the sword. ‘Yes, that’s how your land was taken away. The Bible paved the way for the sword.’ For this, he blamed the foolish generosity of their forefathers who pitied the stranger and welcomed him with open arms into their fold.

  ‘Later, our fathers were taken captive in the first big war to help in a war whose cause they never knew. And when they came back? Their land had been taken away for a settlement of the white soldiers. Was that fair? (No!) Our people were taken and forced to work for these settlers. How could they have done otherwise when their land had been taken and they and their wives were required to pay heavy taxes to a government that was not theirs? When people rose to demand their rights, they were shot down. But still the serikali and settlers were not satisfied. When the second big war came we were taken to fight Hitler – Hitler who had not wronged us. We were killed, we shed blood to save the British Empire from defeat and collapse.’

  God had now heard their cries and tribulations. There was a man sent from God whose name was Jomo. He was the black Moses empowered by God to tell the white Pharaoh ‘Let my people go!’

  ‘And that’s what we have gathered here to tell the British. Today, we, with one voice, must rise and shout: “The time has come. Let my People go. Let my People go! We want back our land! Now!”’ (Hysterical applause)

  Ngotho had felt a hollow strife in his stomach. It fixed him to the ground so that he could not applaud. He looked from the ground and saw the shouting and applauding figures. But he saw everything in a mist. He saw blurred images. Was he crying? The images around transformed themselves from something grey to blue and then to total black. They were black sweaters. He cleared his eyes. The black sweaters remained there, now approaching. And then he saw. He was not in a dream. The police had surrounded the whole meeting.

  Kiarie was now speaking in a loud voice –

  ‘Remember, this must be a peaceful strike. We must get more pay. Because right is on our side we shall triumph. If today, you’re hit, don’t hit back…’

  A white police inspector had got up onto the platform. And with him – Jacobo! At first Ngotho could not understand. It was all strange. It was only when Jacobo had begun to speak and was urging people to go back to work and not listen to some people from Nairobi who had nothing to lose if people lost their jobs that Ngotho understood. Jacobo, the richest man in all the land around, had been brought to pacify the people. Everyone listened to him in silence. But something unusual happened to Ngotho. For one single moment Jacobo crystallised into a concrete betrayal of the people. He became the physical personification of the long years of waiting and suffering – Jacobo was a traitor. Ngotho rose. He made his way towards the platform while everyone watched, wondering what was happening. He was now near Jacobo. The battle was now between these two – Jacobo on the side of the white people, and he on the side of the black people.

  All this happened quickly and took the people by surprise. And then all of a sudden, as if led by Ngotho, the crowd rose and rushed towards Jacobo. At once the police acted, throwing tear-gas bombs and firing into the crowd, and two men fell as
the panic-stricken mob scattered. Ngotho’s courage now failed him. He was lost in the crowd. So he ran blindly, not knowing whither. He wanted only to save his life. A policeman struck at his face with a baton and drew blood. But he did not stop. He was not really aware of the blood, he felt it only as something warm. Frantically he ran until he was in the clear, then stumbled forward and fell, losing consciousness. That was where people from his village found him, the hero of the hour, and took him home.

  ‘Is he going to die?’ Njoroge asked Kamau after hearing the story.

  ‘No! It is not very serious. But I think he lost much blood.’

  ‘Why did he do it, I mean, attack Jacobo?’

  ‘I don’t know. We just saw him rise and when near Jacobo, he turned round and shouted to all of us “Arise”. I think he was mad with emotion. But then so were we all. I didn’t know that Father could have such a voice.’

  A small silence fell between them. Kamau seemed to be re-collecting the scene. Some men and women were beginning to move from the courtyard.

  ‘Why did Jacobo do that?’

  ‘He is an enemy of the black people. He doesn’t want others to be as rich as he is.’

  How had Jacobo become involved? That was a question that few could answer with much certainty. Few knew that to the government and the settlers around, Jacobo, being a rich man, had a lot of influence on the people. Jacobo had of course impressed this on the local white community, including Mr Howlands, who had not taken him seriously until the hour of need. Jacobo was a convenient man. The police had called him to their aid and Jacobo could not have refused. For a time he had thought himself successful. Then this damned Ngotho had come and spoilt everything.

  Jacobo was not seriously hurt. The police had acted in time. Otherwise he would have been torn to pieces. While it lasted, it had been like death itself. He wished he had listened to the voice of his wife.

  At the barber’s shop was a large crowd of people. The barber who had sat next to Ngotho was retelling the whole incident. This was a few days after the affair.

  ‘The old man is brave.’

  ‘He is that, to be sure.’

  ‘Was he badly hurt?’

  ‘No, except that much blood came out.’

  ‘Why did he do it? His action caused the death of two men.’

  ‘Ah, who could not have done as he did! I sat next to him, and I would have done the same thing. It would have been all right if it had been a white man, but a black man – like you and me! It shows that we black people will never be united. There must always be a traitor in our midst.’

  ‘That’s true, that’s true!’ several voices agreed.

  ‘There be some people everywhere who don’t want to see others rise–’ the young man who was being trimmed put in.

  Then the barber took up, ‘You have said the truth, Jacobo is rich. You all know that he was the first black man to be allowed to grow pyrethrum. Do you think he would like to see another one near him? And how, anyway, do you think he was allowed what had been denied the rest?’ No one could answer. Then the barber stopped the machine for a while. In a wise manner, he declared, ‘It’s because he promised them to sell us.’

  ‘Yes! Yes!’ Again several voices agreed.

  A middle-aged man with a bald head sadly shook his head and said, ‘All the same, it’s sad what has happened to Ngotho. He has been told to leave Jacobo’s land.’

  ‘Leave Jacobo’s land?’

  ‘Y-e-e-s!’

  ‘But Jacobo found him there when he bought the land from the previous owner.’

  ‘It is his land. He can do what he likes with it.’

  The man who said this was a modern young man who had just joined the group. People turned on him angrily.

  ‘But is it not against the custom? Besides, the previous owner never actually sold the sites to Jacobo…’

  A policeman was seen in the distance. The crowd quickly dispersed. The barber was left alone. By now many people knew that the strike had failed.

  Ngotho was given a place to build by Nganga. It was then that Njoroge realised that the man’s rough exterior and apparent lack of scruple concealed a warm heart. His old hatred of Nganga vanished. Even Kamau could now speak of him with enthusiasm.

  But all this was a hard period for Njoroge. New huts meant more money being spent and Ngotho had lost his job in the settled area. Fees had risen for those who went to Standard V in the new school. Besides, there was the building fund to be paid. The new school would soon be built with stone. Njoroge had no money. Mwihaki had gone to a boarding school for girls far away. She would go on with learning, but he, Njoroge, would stop. This hurt him. Day by day, he prayed. What would he do to realise his vision? On the Monday of the third week, he was sent home. On the way he cried.

  God heard his prayers. Kamau’s wages had been raised to thirty shillings. This he gave to Njoroge. The rest was made up by Kori. Njoroge was glad. He would go on with learning.

  INTERLUDE

  Exactly two and a half years later, on a certain hill overlooking Nairobi, there stood a disillusioned government official. He was all alone, looking at the country he would soon be leaving.

  Why do you stand there amazed?

  I did not know that this would come to be.

  But you saw the signs?

  No. I didn’t.

  You did.

  I didn’t!

  But–

  I tell you I didn’t. We tried our best.

  He walked away, stamping his feet angrily on the ground.

  ‘And to think of all we did for them,’ he said. The dumb city he and others of his kind had helped to create looked at him. There was no comfort from that corner, the very centre of the trouble.

  ‘Have you heard, brother?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘But you have not asked me what.’

  ‘My children cry for food.’

  ‘But don’t you want to hear what happened in Murang’a?’

  ‘Oh, Murang’a. That’s far away…’

  ‘A chief has been killed.’

  ‘Oh! Is that all? My wife is waiting for me.’

  ‘But it’s all interesting–’

  ‘I’ll come, then, in the evening for the story.’

  ‘All right. Do. Other people are coming. I have a wireless set.’

  ‘My wife calls. Stay in peace.’

  ‘Go in peace.’

  ‘He was a big chief.’

  ‘Like Jacobo?’

  ‘No. Bigger. He used to eat with the governor.’

  ‘Was he actually killed in daylight?’

  ‘Yes. The men were very daring.’

  ‘Tell us it all again.’

  ‘Woman, add more wood to the fire and light the lantern, for darkness falls…Now, the chief was a big man with much land. The governor had given it all to him, so he might sell out the black people. The men were in a car. The chief was also in a car. The two men followed him all the way from Nairobi. When they reached the countryside, the men drove ahead and waved the chief to stop. He stopped. “Who’s the chief?” “I am.” “Then take that and that. And that too.” They shot him dead and drove away–’

  ‘In daylight?’

  ‘In daylight. The man on the wireless said so.’

  ‘This generation.’

  ‘Very daring. They have learnt the trick from the white man.’

  ‘It’s almost time for news. Let’s hear what the man will say–’

  ‘Hush!’

  One night people heard that Jomo and all the leaders of the land were arrested. A state of emergency had been declared.

  ‘But they cannot arrest Jomo,’ said the barber.

  ‘They cannot.’

  ‘They want to leave the people without a leader.’

  ‘Yes. They are after oppressing us,’ said the barber. He did not speak with the usual lively tone.

  ‘What’s a state of emergency?’ a man asked.

  ‘Oh, don’t ask a foolish question. Ha
ven’t you heard about Malaya?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘There was a state of emergency.’

  Njoroge was a little annoyed when he heard about Jomo’s arrest. He had cherished the idea of seeing this man who had become famous all over Kenya. He could still remember a meeting arranged in the marketplace by Kenya African Union (KAU). It was many months after the strike that failed. KAU was the society of black people who wanted Wiyathi and the return of the stolen lands. The society also wanted bigger salaries for black people and the abolition of colour bar. Njoroge had heard about the colour bar from his brothers in Nairobi. He did not know what it was really. But he knew that the strike had failed because of the colour bar. Black people had no land because of colour bar, and they could not eat in hotels because of colour bar. Colour bar was everywhere. Rich Africans could also practise colour bar on the poorer Africans…

  Njoroge had gone early to the marketplace. But he had found that many people had already reached the place and blocked his view. All right, he would see him next time.

  But now Jomo had been arrested.

  PART 2

  DARKNESS FALLS

  8

  One heard stories about what was happening in Nyeri and Murang’a. Nyeri and Murang’a were far from Njoroge’s home. The stories that he heard were interesting and some boys could tell them well. Njoroge listened carefully and wondered how boys like Karanja had come to know so many stories.

  ‘Tell us more.’

  ‘Yes. What happened next?’

  ‘You see, he had written a letter to the police station at Nyeri. “I, Dedan Kimathi, Leader of the African Freedom Army, will come to visit you at 10.30 a.m. on Sunday.” Many more police were called from Nairobi to strengthen the force at Nyeri. Curfew was extended to daytime so that no one could leave his home. Every soldier was on the alert so that when Dedan came he could easily be arrested. At 10.30 then, on that very Sunday, a white police inspector on a big old motorbike came to the police post. He was tall, smartly dressed, but very fierce-looking. Every policeman stood at attention. He inspected them all and wished them good luck in catching Dedan. After he had finished, he told them that his motorbike was not working well. Could they give him another one as he was in a hurry to get down to Nairobi? They did. He rode away on a new motorbike. The police still waited for Dedan.’