Petals of Blood (8 page)

But their laughter concealed their new anxieties about a possible failure of the crops and the harvest. When a good crop was expected it was known through a rhythmic balanced alternation of rain and sunshine. A bad crop was preceded by sporadic rains or by a continuous heavy downpour which suddenly gave way to sunshine for the rest of the season. The latter was what had happened this year.

Indeed they could now see that the pods of beans and peas were short: the maize plants were thin and the cobs looked a little stunted.

Still they all waited for their ripeness and harvest believing that God was the Giver and also the one who took away.

*

Between Wanja and Munira there gradually grew an understanding without demands: nothing deep, nothing to wreck the heart. It was only, so he at first told himself, that her company gave him pleasure. For a time he felt reassured, protected even. She seemed to accept his constant attention with a playful gratitude. It was as if she would have been surprised if he had done otherwise. She often mentioned the coast, the white kanzus worn by men, the milky mnazi beer, the hairy coconut shells strewn along the Sunday beaches, the low cliffs at the water-edges of Kilindini harbour, and the wide blue waters with steamers from lands far away. She talked about the narrow Arab streets in old Mombasa town above which stood Fort Jesus — ‘It’s funny, imagine them calling it by the name of Jesus’ — and when Abdulla asked her if it was true that some Arabs could change themselves into women or cats she only laughed and asked him: but what kind of Mswahili are you to believe such things? Mswahili Mwislamu wa Bara, eh? She talked feelingly about all these things as if in every place she had been she had immersed herself in the life there: otherwise she rarely discussed her personal life, or talked about herself. Which of course Munira did not mind, for he was not one to want to tear the veils round another’s past. But he was not immune to her fatal glances and the boldness alternating with studied shyness which she bestowed on him and on Abdulla. He was, though he did not want to admit it, a little troubled by that waitingness on her face, by that pained curiosity and knowledge in her eyes. She was of course not bound to him, this he knew, and it accorded well with his spirit: he was scared of more than a casual link with another.

Still he felt that by telling his story, so frivolous, so childish, he had surrendered a part of himself to others and this he felt gave them power over him. He went to his classes with an eye to the end of the day so he could meet her at Abdulla’s place. A beer together . . . a laugh together . . . and in the course of the evening’s chatter he would carefully edge toward the night he told the Siriana story, circling round it without actually mentioning it: but their unresponsive faces did not tell him what they had really thought of his failure. She was always near and yet far, and he found that he was getting more and more pained that she talked to Abdulla with the same intimacy:
perhaps, weighing him against Abdulla, she found him wanting? He started thinking about Abdulla: how had he lost his leg? Why had he come to Ilmorog? He was surprised how little he knew about Abdulla, about anybody.

An aeroplane flew low over Ilmorog. Children streamed out of their classrooms and all strained their eyes and raised their voices to the sky, trying hard to follow the movement of the plane and also its shadow that so swiftly crossed over many fields, over Ilmorog ridges and into the plains. Abdulla’s donkey hee-hawed, frightened, and its voice jarred against the sound of the small plane. Peasants emerged from the fields of maize and grouped in twos or threes in the open paths to look at the aeroplane and gossip about it: what did it want with Ilmorog that it kept on coming back? Wanja walked across to the school and asked Munira the same question. What did it want? Munira did not know but he felt it good that she had come over to seek his opinion. Maybe sightseeing, he pronounced, as the plane now flew straight across and disappeared into the white-blue cloudy distance. It was the first time that she had called on him at school since their first encounter and as she now walked away, he watched, entranced by her slightly swaying buttocks. He felt irresistibly drawn toward her.

And then she started appearing to him in dreams: breasts would beat on breasts, body frames would become taut with unspoken desire, eyes would hold onto eyes as they both stood on Ilmorog hill, hideaway from school, away from Cambridge Fraudsham who had fumed, frowned and ground his teeth with anger because of the perfumed garden that was her body. They would start wrestling, but instead of falling on the ground they would tumble into fleecy clouds, waltzing in slow motion over Ilmorog hills and valleys, thighs to thighs, warm bloodpower surging for release and suddenly he could not hold himself. In the morning he saw dry pools on the bed and he felt immeasurable sadness. He was now in danger. What is happening to me, a spectator? he moaned. For a day or two he would hold himself stiff and aloof in her presence. He walked about Ilmorog hill in the twilight, puzzling out the meaning of this new emotion: where
was his man’s courage? Was he to go through life trembling on the brink because he was afraid of the chaos in the abyss?

Not so many days after the plane visit, other men in khaki clothes came to Ilmorog in a Land Rover. They walked through the fields, pulling a chain on the ground, and planting red sticks. They were besieged by the whole community who wanted to know who they were and what they were doing trespassing on other people’s lands. But they were also fascinated by the men’s instruments of chains and theodolite and the telescope hanging from one of the men’s neck and through which he constantly peered. People argued that the telescope could see from where they were to the end of the world. Munira stood at a distance from the group. Wanja came over and stood by him but her eyes were on the officer-in-charge of the team. The officer walked to Munira and asked for water. Munira sent one of the children to the school to fetch water and glasses . . . Munira asked him: What was that all about?

‘I am an engineer,’ he said. ‘We are making a preliminary survey for a proposed road across Africa.’

‘To?’

‘Zaire, Nigeria, Ghana, Morocco – all over Africa,’ he explained and went back to his workmates.

When Munira turned to Wanja he saw her hurrying away, almost running away as if she had been stung by a bee. Later at Abdulla’s place almost the whole countryside came to ask Munira what the man had talked about and whether it was the long promised waterway they had come to measure. But Wanja was not among them. Strange, he thought, as he tried to concentrate on the chatter and speculation.

‘I hope they will not take our lands away,’ Njuguna voiced their fear after Munira had talked about the road.

‘They would only take a small piece,’ Abdulla suggested, ‘and they would pay compensation.’

‘A lot of money and other lands,’ somebody else added.

‘And it is good to have a proper road. It will make our travel easy and we can send our goods to markets far away instead of giving it to
these scorpions who visit us from the city,’ Njuguna now enthused over the prospect.

But in their hearts they did not believe that such things could be. Nderi wa Riera had after all promised water which never came.

Munira was puzzled about Wanja’s absence. Was she avoiding him? He now ached for her and he decided to force the issue.

The following night after the departure of the road team, he went to her place, determined that this time he would take the plunge. Pleading eyes, fingers warm with bold bloodness, aah, that this cup would soon be over. He called Hodi and stood at the door leaning on the frame of the hut, rubbing his stomach a little to clear the bitter pool of frustration and disappointment. The light brilliantly lit Abdulla, seated quite comfortably on a stool, his body against the bedframe.

‘Mwalimu . . . come in . . . I am so happy,’ she called.

His heart sank even further as he sat down: the light seemed to emphasize the happy face of Abdulla beaming at him a smile welcoming him to his carefully hidden lair.

‘You should have brought us beer to celebrate this day,’ she continued, sitting next to Abdulla facing him.

‘How are you, Mwalimu?’ Abdulla asked. ‘I wish I had known you were coming over here. I would have waited for you. As it is, I had to beat all the evening dew by myself and I have only just arrived . . .’

‘I am fine . . .’ Munira said, suddenly feeling better at the news. ‘What are we celebrating?’

‘Guess.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Today Abdulla offered me a job. Do you think I should take it?’

‘What job?’

‘A barmaid. Imagine that. A barmaid in Ilmorog. Do you think I should take it?’

‘It depends on the work. But there are very few customers in Ilmorog.’

‘Aah, but that
is
the job of a barmaid. Really, Mwalimu! A barmaid is employed to get more customers. Or to make the few regulars drink more.’

‘Well, if you like it . . . have you worked as a barmaid before?’

‘But how do you think I came to know all the places that I have been talking about?’ and she suddenly jumped up from her seat. ‘Oh, I should make tea: let’s celebrate with tea without milk . . .’

She was very light on her feet. She started washing a sufuria and Munira’s eyes moved in rhythm with the motion of her full body and of her breasts. He was still puzzled: why was she so happy about such a job in Ilmorog when she could easily work in any of the cities she talked about? Even Ruwa-ini was much bigger and better for that kind of work. And why had she acted so oddly yesterday? But he could not help but be affected by the light, gay mood she generated. As they drank tea she once again changed from the childlike happiness to a sombre, quieter, composed self.

‘I feel I want to cry. I really feel so happy because Abdulla has bought Joseph clothes and a slate and books and now he can start school.’

‘That is good, Abdulla. At long last. Joseph looks a bright boy and I am sure he will do well.’

‘He should thank Wanja. It was her who made it possible.’

‘It was Munira’s story. It was so moving . . . really so moving,’ she said.

The Siriana incident had touched a chord in her past.

Munira was suddenly happy with himself. He turned to her:

‘You yourself . . . when you laugh . . . you look so young, you should be in school instead of working for Abdulla as a barmaid.’ She thought a little. She sipped some tea. She fingered her cup.

‘It is strange how one thing can lead to another. You yourself: maybe you are here because of that strike in your school. As for Abdulla – anyway I don’t know why you are here in Ilmorog. Maybe it is an accident that we are all here. Or an act of God. I don’t know . . . I don’t know . . . Do you remember the men who came to survey the road?’ she asked. ‘Do you remember the Engineer?’

She had started haltingly, but now she suddenly felt the need to tell of this one knot in her life. And they waited also, sensing this in the air. She stood up, pumped more pressure into the lamp to add to the light.

‘Do . . . you . . . know . . . him?’ Munira faltered.

‘No,’ she said and then added slowly, ‘but he reminded me of my past . . .’ She paused again and sat down hitting the empty cup with her foot. She picked it up and put it aside. ‘Yes, take me, for instance,’ she started again in an introspective tone, which was very captivating. ‘I sometimes ask myself: why should a silly happening . . . a boy’s visit . . . a girl’s and boy’s school affair . . . why should such a thing affect one’s life? You know such affairs — Abdulla talked about it the other night – a gift of a pencil, a stolen sweet, love-letters copied from books . . . all ending in the same way . . . 
maingi ni Thumu: manyinyi ni cukari
 . . . tear drops on paper circled with x x - kisses.’ She raised her head and laughed. ‘Maybe they are right: a lot of words is poison: a few words are sugar. Later I was to see cases of sugar words turning out to be poison. Now this boy. His name was Ritho. He and I were in the same class at Kinoo Primary School. Girls can be cruel. I used to read his letters to the other girls. We would giggle and laugh at him, all the way from Kinoo to Rungiri. But his gifts of pencils and sweets – these I did not tell to anybody. It was all childish and a game that amused us. And then we were late in school one Friday. We were watching a football match between our school and Rungiri. We called them KADU and we called ourselves KANU, which they resented. KANU lost to KADU. Ritho walked me home and we talked about the game. Then he talked about Uhuru. He said there would be increased chances, especially for poor people. Therefore he was going to work very hard: go to a secondary school . . . university . . . engineering. Yes, he was going to be an engineer . . . his ambition was to design and build a bridge over a road or over a river. Can you imagine this . . . at that age, then? It felt good. But boys were always more confident about the future than us girls. They seemed to know what they wanted to become later in life: whereas with us girls the future seemed vague . . . It was as if we knew that no matter what efforts we put into our studies, our road led to the kitchen and to the bedroom. That evening it felt so good to be with one who was so confident in his heart’s desires that I seemed to share in his ambitions. I thought I also could see a light and I swore to work harder. He did not appear so funny and clumsy and ridiculous any more and we held hands in the dark. A man coughed as he passed by: I thought he was
shaped like my father – but I did not care. I ran home and hung my deerskin bag in its place on the wall and sat down: my mother asked me: why have you not changed into ordinary clothes? I said it was Friday and I would anyway be washing the school uniform the following day. And is that why you have come home late? I kept quiet. I recalled Ritho’s letters . . . my love is as uncountable as the sands of the sea, the trees in the forest, or the stars in the sky or the cells of my body . . . and his ambitions and now I wanted to laugh and tell my mother about Ritho and his dreams of becoming an engineer. I said: I was late watching a football match at school. We were supposed to stay and cheer our side — And with whom were you just now? My boy friend, I said just like that and now I laughed. Mother, he — I started. But the look in her eyes killed the words. My father said: She is now a woman, she even talks to her mother as equals. They locked me in my room and they both beat me, my father with his belt and my mother with a cowhide strap we used for tying and carrying things. This will teach you to come home holding hands with boys! This will teach you to be talking like equals to your mother. It was so unfair and I was determined not to cry. This seemed to add to their anger. They were now beating to make me cry. At last I screamed for help. I cried: you are people of God: have you no mercy? They now stopped. I continued crying bitterly. I silently cursed at this world. I could not see that I had done anything wrong. I did not feel guilty. When they warned me never to be seen with pagan boys — I don’t know — I felt then that they were beating me not just because I was with a boy but because he came from a family even poorer than ours. I also felt that the way they beat me – it was as if they were working out something between them. I had known that my father and mother were drifting apart because of something else that had happened almost at the beginning of the emergency. I also knew that my father was facing hard times. But I resented that they should use me as a path for their coming together. That time, they whispered long into the night.