Petals of Blood (38 page)

But suddenly they were caught by the slight tremor in her voice. She was singing their recent history. She sang of two years of failing rains; of the arrival of daughters and teachers; of the exodus to the city. She talked of how she had earlier imagined the city as containing only wealth. But she found poverty; she found crippled beggars; she saw men, many men, sons of women, vomited out of a smoking tunnel – a big, big house – and she was afraid. Who had swallowed all the wealth of the land? Who?

And now it was no longer the drought of a year ago that she was singing about. It was all the droughts of the centuries and the journey was the many journeys travelled by people even in the mythical lands of two-mouthed Marimus and struggling humans. She sang of other struggles, of other wars – the arrival of colonialism and the fierce struggles waged against it by newly circumcised youth. Yes, it was always the duty of youth to drive out foreigners and enemies lodged amongst the people: it was always the duty of youth to fight all the Marimus, all the two-mouthed Ogres, and that was the meaning of the blood shed at circumcision.

She stopped at the dramatic call and challenge. Then the women applauded with four ululations. Nyakinyua had made them relive their history.

And so it went on to the small hours. It was really very beautiful. But at the end of the evening Karega felt very sad. It was like beholding a relic of beauty that had suddenly surfaced, or like listening to a solitary beautiful tune straying, for a time, from a dying world.

Later after the ceremony of the Ilmorog river, Karega and Munira went to Abdulla’s place to wait for Wanja and the old woman and for the mysterious plant. Wanja came for them late in the afternoon. They all went to Nyakinyua’s place.

‘We looked for it all over and at last we found out where it grew abundantly,’ Wanja was explaining.

‘Didn’t you go to the ceremony?’ Abdulla asked.

‘We went. They all bravely went through it. None showed cowardice and so we didn’t get a chance of beating anyone.’

The plant was very small with a pattern of four tiny red petals. It had no scent.

Theng’eta. The spirit.

Nyakinyua dismantled the distillery. The pot-jar was full of a clear white liquid.

‘This is only . . . this is nothing yet.’ Nyakinyua explained. ‘This can only poison your heads and intestines. Squeeze Theng’eta into it and you get your spirit. Theng’eta. It is a dream. It is a wish. It gives you sight, and for those favoured by God it can make them cross the river of time and talk with their ancestors. It has given seers their tongues; poets and Gichandi players their words; and it has made barren women mothers of many children. Only you must take it with faith and purity in your hearts.’

They crowded around as she squeezed drops of a greenish liquid into the jar. There was a small hiss, then the whole thing became a very clear light green.

‘We can try it later in the evening. Wanja will call a few elders, for this is not a stuff for children.’

They came back later in the evening. Under the mood of the frank atmosphere of the circumcision ceremony, they all felt together – a community sharing a secret. They sat in a circle according to their ages. Munira found himself sitting next to Njuguna. Wanja sat between Abdulla and Karega. They all removed their ties, their shoes, anything which might prevent their bodies from being loose and at ease. She commanded them to remove all the money in the pockets, the metal bug that split up homes and drove men to the city. She took all the money and put it away on the floor outside the ritual circle. She sat down.

Millet, power of God.

She poured a few drops on the floor and chanted: for those that went before us and those coming after us, tene na tene, tene wa tene.

Then she put some in a small horn, and continued her admonitions, looking at them, fixing them with her eyes.

‘And now, my children,’ she intoned, holding the tiny horn in her
hands, ‘you must always drink from the common measure. Always the correct measure, starting with the eldest amongst you. You may then dream your wishes and wish your dreams. Who knows? If you are the lucky one, the one most ready to receive, it may be given to you. Not for me today. But I will sniff a little.’

She brought it to her nose and seemed to inhale something. Then she tasted a drop or two.

‘Aaaaah. I am old. I have no more dreams. And what are my wishes? There is only one. To join my man in the other world. Do you know we wooed in a millet field while chasing away birds? He was good with herbs, my man was. He showed me how to make this holy water as we lay wakeful to the noise and movement of the birds. Every night of our watch, we would sniff and sip a drop and there was peace around us. The millet fingers caressed our bodies and – and – here, Njuguna, why don’t you take this and start the round?’

Her voice had stilled their hearts and they already felt a oneness even as each waited his turn. When it came to Munira, he sniffed and the slightly acid fumes raced up his nose to his head. You must also sip, he heard some voice say. He felt its burning down his throat – something like the eucalyptus leaves that cured Joseph – right down to the seat of his stomach. For a few seconds he felt only this burning in his belly and in his head. But gradually the fire became less and less as his body and mind relaxed, becoming warmer and warmer, lighter and lighter. Oh, the twilight stillness within. His eyes were a little heavy and drowsy but he could see clearly to the smallest detail. Oh, the clarity of the light. Oh, Lord, the colour of thy light. Changing colours of a rainbow dream. He was now a bird and he flew up and up in the air, and at the same time he saw heaven and earth, past and present open out to him. The old woman, strong sinews forged by earth and sun and rain, was the link binding past and present and future. And he saw her in black robes of celebration-in-work, saw her way, way back in the past and in the future, one continuous sweep of time, how immense, saw her beside Ndemi felling the forests, harnessing the elements and secrets of nature for use by her children. He longed to be there. There past – present – future were one and his children were schooling to some national purpose, also felling trees,
clearing virgin grounds, new horizons for the glory of man and his creative genius. Gradually he heard a distant voice calling: tell us your dreams and wishes. He halted, in his flight: what did he wish for in life? What did he want? His parents had always played it safe and he, Munira, had always stood at the shore and watched streams and brooks flow over pebbles and rocks. He was an outsider, he had always been an outsider, a spectator of life, history. He wanted to say: Wanja! give me another night of the big moon in a hut and through you, buried in you, I will be reborn into history, a player, an actor, a creator, not this, this disconnection. But when he spoke, his voice was strangely calm: I don’t really know my wishes and my dreams are few. But this thing I now see – what is it? What is the meaning of this motion about me? I seem to see Nyakinyua yesterday and tomorrow! I see her beside Ndemi, but how can this be since he lived a long time ago? I also see her beside these people marching to war: tell us, Nyakinyua, tell us, since you started it during our journey to the city. What did they see? What did they see that seems suddenly hidden from my sight?

Why, my children . . . you ask too many questions, even after I have told you that there is nothing more to tell. You have been to school. You and this small one here are the teachers of our children. What do you tell them? That we were always like this, will always be like this? And you, my daughter, have you not seen more than you dare tell? What about Abdulla here? What other secrets does he hide in that stump of a leg? Going-away generation . . . but they will one day return to a knowledge of themselves and then the kingdom of God and of man will be theirs. Ndemi left a curse. His children were never to abandon this land: they were to defend it with blood, it and all that it produces. Not that I understand the meaning of it all, why despite the spear, despite our numbers they beat us and scattered us to the four corners of the wind . . . how can I understand this alternation of fertility and barrenness, drought and rain, night and day, destruction and creation, birth and death? No, there are many things that I too do not understand.

There was my man too, remember. He was among the batch that carried food and guns for the white people to fight it out amongst
themselves. He did not choose to be a slave like Munoru. The chief who had been appointed watchman for the colonialist demanded the fat of ten sheep and goats. My man was proud. He refused and spat his contempt for a slave. So he was listed together with the poor who in their poverty could not also produce the required fat. My man was wealthy: but proud. Some were taken to work on European farms while the white men went to war. Imagine that: taken to keep the white man’s shambas alive while theirs fell into neglect and waste! For a woman alone can never do all the work on the farm. How could she grow sugar cane, yams, sweet potatoes which used to be man’s domain? How break new ground? And how could she smith, make chains, pull wires, make beehives, wicker work for barns? All that and do her own share of the work? The others in single file, loads on their heads, went toward the coast, cutting paths in the forest, sometimes following the tracks made earlier by Swahili and Arab raiders from the coast. And then – it was before they reached Kibwezi – they saw this animal of the earth. It was so long, they had never seen anything like it before, it was a sight more terrifying than the Ndamathia of the sea from whom we all get our shadows. Its eyes spat out light, its forked tongue fire and hisses, and they, circumcised though they were, stood witch-rooted to the ground. A voice said to them: don’t touch this strange creature that walks on its belly. Study it carefully and learn the gifts of God to all his children, world without end. They were tired. They had walked miles, day in, day out, fighting sleep and even desire for the more permanent sleep. And now the animal was blocking the way. A man took a stone and hit it. It raised its head once, briefly, it vomited out a fire and light tenfold more intense than lightning, and with one huge hiss that shook the ground it moved away, belly on the earth. Blood-lust caught some of the others. They hurled stones and curses at it and even laughed at their easy deliverance! Listen, my children, listen, and fear the ways of the Lord. None who touched that animal ever returned. Some fell to the German fire, others to malaria, yet others to strange and violent vomiting. Only a few of all those who went returned from the war.

And your man, somebody asked?

He came back. He came back all right, but not the same man with
whom I had earlier coiled together thighs and bodies made smooth by mbariki oil and sweat.

She was again silent. She stirred the Theng’eta pot once then let her hand just touch the stirring stick. She was not with them now, she had, just as when she had told them the story in the plains, descended into a private gloom of memories and uncertainties. She remained thus, hand on the stirring stick, head inclined to one side, eyes on the floor, answering none of the questions on their silent faces.

Karega glanced at her figure, bent so, and repeated to himself: no longer the same. He turned the phrase over and over again in his mind as if this alone explained all the agony, all the hidden meanings in her unfinished – well, in their unfinished – story. It was how he had felt after Mukami’s departure: it was how he had felt on leaving Siriana; it was how he felt after the recent journey. Indeed, he thought now, things could never really be the same even in viewing that past of his people, the past he had tried to grapple with in Siriana, and at Ilmorog school. Which past was one talking about? Of Ndemi and the creators from Malindi to Songhai; from the cape of storms, to the Mediterranean Sea? The past of a broken civilization, retarded growth, black people scattered over the globe to feed the ever-demanding god of profit that the lawyer talked about? The past of houses and crops burnt and destroyed and diseases pumped into a continent? Or was it the past of L’Ouverture, Turner, Chaka, Abdulla, Koitalel, Ole Masai, Kimathi, Mathenge and others? Was it of chiefs who sold the others, of the ones who carried Livingstone and Stanley on their backs, deluded into believing that a service to a white man was really a service to God? The past of Kinyanjui, Mumia, Lenana, Chui, Jerrod, Nderi wa Riera? Africa, after all, did not have one but several pasts which were in perpetual struggle. Images pressed on images. He tried to wrestle with each, fix it, study it, make it yield the secret that had thus far eluded him. And suddenly as the past unfolded before him, he saw, or he imagined he saw, the face of his brother! But how could this be, seeing that he had never met him? Still the face was there, it persisted in its elusive suggestion of many seasons! He remembered the story Abdulla had told them in the plains and he wondered if
Abdulla could have known him. Abdulla, after all, came from Limuru. Then he thought of Munira: he had known him, and he wondered why he had not asked him more about Nding’uri. But then, despite their almost two years together, sharing the same compound, it was surprising how little they knew of each other’s lives. Thinking of Munira brought back the face of Mukami. Was it Theng’eta in his head? But then Mukami’s face had haunted him all his life.

Many a time had he tried to give what he felt a captive form in words – cupped hands raised to the heart in prayer. Under the power of Theng’eta, he seemed to feel the words. But suddenly, and despite the face that now stood vividly before him – had he crossed the river of time? – he wanted to laugh. He had just remembered Fraudsham telling them that writing was akin to religion: ‘My boys, a sublime act, a cleansing rite,’ and Jesus and Shakespeare had changed the English language. Before they did an essay, he would lecture them, so serious: My boys, it is what you truly feel that you must put down on paper. Not that they believed him and his talk of writing as an act of confession of heated passions and anguish. He, Karega, for instance, would often weave incredible heroic deeds and tuck in a little Christian message around the simplest topics. Like that visit to his aunt. That imaginary aunt, he now thought: she had followed him in every class in every school and he could never understand why teachers, black, white, red, or yellow, were always obsessed with people’s aunts, people’s last holidays, people’s first visits to a city. Anguish and passion. What nonsense, he thought. Anything he truly felt, anything that had really happened to him in life was banned from his pen. There were things that one could not say on paper, there were things that belonged to oneself alone: how then could he have spoken his heart to another, to a teacher, for the award of a mark or two? And would they have believed him if he had written that he had not gone to visit any aunts or any cities, that with every sunset he would simply walk up the hill overlooking Manguo and wait for her, hoping that she would come his way? And he would pray, Karega would truly pray, that Christ, God, Lord, anybody in that high sky should let her come out of the big house for just a little walk across the fields or command her to walk up the mountain or go to Manguo to wash clothes or something, anything!