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Authors: Charles Larson

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My bed was flooded in yellow moonlight, and it was pleasant to feel my naked skin quiver with its cold caress. For some unknown reason the warm sensation of Sartina's body flowed through my senses. I managed to cling to her almost physical presence for a few minutes, and I wanted to fall asleep with her so as not to dream of dogs and snakes.
 
—1969
(BORN 1938) KENYA
Ngugi wa Thiong'o is known as East Africa's most significant and popular literary figure. Born to a large family in Limuru, a short distance north of Nairobi, Ngugi had twenty-seven siblings—many of them half brothers and sisters. His university education began at Makerere University in Uganda and continued at Leeds in England. During his Makerere days, he began writing fiction. His first published novel,
Weep Not, Child
(1964), is his most widely read work. Njoroge, the hero of the story, goes through childhood and adolescence trying to establish his own personal loyalties to family, country, and friends. Much of the story is devoted to tracing Njoroge's education in the classroom (and his desire to acquire the white man's skills), but in the nearby forests the Mau Mau revolt has begun—the struggle that in time will lead to Kenya's independence.
Revolution and, to a lesser extent, education are two important themes of much of Ngugi's writing: these topics are of special importance in his novels
The River Between (1965)
,
A Grain of Wheat (1967), Petals of Blood (1977)
, and
Devil on the Cross
(1980), all written in English. The latter novel was formulated and sketched out on toilet paper during the author's yearlong detention in prison in Kenya after a 1978 performance of
Ngaahika Ndeenda (I Will Marry When I Want
), by workers and peasants. The drama marked Ngugi's shift to Gikuyu, the oral language of his people, the Kikuyu, and his language of choice for all subsequent creative works.
At the time of his detention, Ngugi was head of the Department of
Literature at Nairobi University, a position he lost after his release. He has remained a vocal critic of the abuse of power. Ngugi's initial writing attacked colonialism; when the colonial era ended, he continued his identification with workers and peasants, attacking neocolonialism, capitalism, and multinationalism. His remarks have not been ignored by his country's leaders, who have attempted to silence him by forcing him into exile. Since 1979, he has lived in England, the United States, and Sweden, holding a series of academic appointments.
Ngugi's beliefs about cultural nationalism can be found in
Homecoming
(1972) and
Detained: A Writer's Prison Diary
(1981), but they are also reflected in distilled form in a conversation between two characters in
Devil on the
Cross:
“Let us now look about us. Where are our national languages now? Where are the books written in the alphabets of our national languages? Where is our own literature now? Where is the wisdom and knowledge of our fathers now? Where is the philosophy of our fathers now? The centers of wisdom that used to guard the entrance to our national homestead have been demolished; the fire of wisdom has been allowed to die; the seats around the fireside have been thrown onto a rubbish heap; the guard posts have been destroyed; and the youth of the nation has hung up its shields and spears. It is a tragedy that there is nowhere we can go to learn the history of our own country. A child without parents to counsel him—what is to prevent him from mistaking foreign shit for a delicious national dish?”
His mother used to tell him stories. “Once upon a time there was a young girl who lived with her father and mother in a lonely house that was hidden by a hill. The house was old but strong. When the rains came and the winds blew, the house remained firm. Her father and mother liked her, but they quarreled sometimes and she would cry. Otherwise, she was happy. Nobody knew of the house. So nobody came to see them. Then one day a stranger came. He was tall and handsome. He had milk-white teeth. Her mother gave him food. Then he told them of a beautiful country beyond the hill. The girl wanted to go there. Secretly, she followed the man. They had not gone very far when the stranger turned into an Irimu. He became ugly and he had another mouth at the back which was hidden by his long hair. Occasionally, the hair was blown by the wind. Flies were taken in and the mouth would be shut. The girl ran back. The bad Irimu followed her. She ran hard, hard, and the Irimu could not catch her. But he was getting nearer her all the time. When she came close to her home, she found the Irimu had stopped running. But the house was no longer there. She had no home to go to and she could not go forward to the beautiful land, to see all the good things, because the Irimu was in the way.”
How did the story end? John wondered. He thought: “I wish I were young again in our old home, then I would ask my mother about it.” But now he was not young; not young anymore. And he was not a man yet!
He stood at the door of the hut and saw his old, frail, but energetic father
coming along the village street, with a rather dirty bag made out of strong calico swinging by his side. His father always carried this bag. John knew what it contained: a Bible, a hymn book, and probably a notebook and a pen. His father was a preacher. It must have been he who had stopped his mother from telling him stories. His mother had stopped telling him stories long ago. She would say, “Now, don't ask for any more stories. Your father may come.” So he feared his father. John went in and warned his mother of his father's coming. Then his father came in. John stood aside, then walked toward the door. He lingered there doubtfully; then he went out.
“John, hei, John!”
“Baba!”
“Come back.”
He stood doubtfully in front of his father. His heart beat faster and an agitated voice within him seemed to ask: Does he know?
“Sit down. Where are you going?”
“For a walk, Father,” he answered evasively.
“To the village?”
“Well—yes—no. I mean, nowhere in particular.” John saw his father look at him hard, seeming to read his face. John sighed a very slow sigh. He did not like the way his father eyed him. He always looked at him as though John was a sinner, one who had to be watched all the time. “I am,” his heart told him. John guiltily refused to meet the old man's gaze and looked past him and appealingly to his mother, who was quietly peeling potatoes. But she seemed to be oblivious of everything around her.
“Why do you look away? What have you done?”
John shrank within himself with fear. But his face remained expressionless. However, he could hear the loud beats of his heart. It was like an engine pumping water. He felt no doubt his father knew all about it. He thought: “Why does he torture me? Why does he not at once say he knows?” Then another voice told him: “No, he doesn't know, otherwise he would already have jumped at you.” A consolation. He faced his thoughtful father with courage.
“When is the journey?”
Again John thought—why does he ask? I have told him many times.
Aloud, he said, “Next week, Tuesday.”
“Right. Tomorrow we go to the shops, hear?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Then be prepared.”
“Yes, Father.”
“You can go.”
“Thank you, Father.” He began to move.
“John!”
“Yes?” John's heart almost stopped beating. That second, before his father's next words, was an age.
“You seem to be in a hurry. I don't want to hear of you loitering in the village. I know you young men, going to show off just because you are going away! I don't want to hear of trouble in the village.”
Much relieved, John went out. He could guess what his father meant by not wanting trouble in the village. How did the story end? Funny, but he could not remember how his mother had ended it. It had been so long ago. Her home was not there. Where did she go? What did she do?
“Why do you persecute the boy so much?” Susan spoke for the first time. Apparently she had carefully listened to the whole drama without a word. Now was her time to speak. She looked at her tough old preacher who had been a companion for life. She had married him a long time ago. She could not tell the number of years. They had been happy. Then the man became a convert. And everything in the home put on a religious tone. He even made her stop telling stories to the child. “Tell him of Jesus. Jesus died for you. Jesus died for the child. He must know the Lord.” She too had been converted. But she was never blind to the moral torture he inflicted on the boy (that's what she always called John), so that the boy had grown up mortally afraid of him. She always wondered if it was love for the son. Or could it be a resentment because, well, they two had “sinned” before marriage? John had been the result of that sin. But that had not been John's fault. It was the boy who ought to complain. She often wondered if the boy had … but no. The boy had been very small when they left Fort Hall. She looked at her husband. He remained mute, though his left hand did, rather irritably, feel about his face.
“It is as if he was not your son. Or do you …”
“Hm, sister.” The voice was pleading. She was seeking a quarrel but he did not feel equal to one. Really, women could never understand. Women were women, whether saved or not. Their son had to be protected against all evil influences. He must be made to grow in the footsteps of the Lord. He looked at her, frowning a little. She had made him sin but that had been a long time ago. And he had been saved. John must not follow the same road.
“You ought to tell us to leave. You know I can go away. Go back to Fort Hall. And then everybody …”
“Look, sister.” He hastily interrupted. He always called her sister. Sister-in-the-Lord, in full. But he sometimes wondered if she had been truly saved. In his heart, he prayed: Lord, be with our sister Susan. Aloud, he continued, “You know I want the boy to grow in the Lord.”
“But you torture him so! You make him fear you!”
“Why! He should not fear me. I have really nothing against him.”
“It is you. You. You have always been cruel to him …” She stood up. The peelings dropped from her dress and fell in a heap on the floor.
“Stanley!”
“Sister.” He was startled by the vehemence in her voice. He had never seen her like this. Lord, take the devil out of her. Save her this minute. She did not say what she wanted to say. Stanley looked away from her. It was a surprise, but it seemed he feared his wife. If you had told people in the village about this, they would not have believed you. He took his Bible and began to read. On Sunday he would preach to a congregation of brethren and sisters.
Susan, a rather tall, thin woman who had once been beautiful, sat down again and went on with her work. She did not know what was troubling her son. Was it the coming journey?
Outside, John strolled aimlessly along the path that led from his home. He stood near the wattle tree which was a little way from his father's house, and surveyed the whole village. They lay before his eyes—crammed—rows and rows of mud and grass huts, ending in sharp sticks that pointed to heaven. Smoke was coming out of various huts, an indication that many women had already come from the
shambas.
Night would soon fall. To the west, the sun was hurrying home behind the misty hills. Again, John looked at the crammed rows and rows of huts that formed Makeno Village, one of the new mushroom “towns” that grew up all over the country during the Mau Mau War. It looked so ugly. A pang of pain rose in his heart and he felt like crying—I hate you, I hate you. You trapped me alive. Away from you, it would never have happened. He did not shout. He just watched.
A woman was coming toward where he stood. A path into the village was just near there. She was carrying a big load of
kuni,
which bent her into an Akamba-bow shape. She greeted him.
“Is it well with you, Njooni?”
“It is well with me, mother.” There was no trace of bitterness in his
voice. John was by nature polite. Everyone knew this. He was quite unlike the other proud, educated sons of the tribe—sons who came back from the other side of the waters with white or Negro wives who spoke English. And they behaved just like Europeans! John was a favorite, a model of humility and moral perfection. Everyone knew that, though a clergyman's son, John would never betray the tribe.
“When are you going to—to—”
“Makerere?”
“Makelele.” She laughed. The way she pronounced the name was funny. And the way she laughed, too. She enjoyed it. But John felt hurt. So everyone knew of this.
“Next week.”
“I wish you well.”
“Thank you, mother.”
She said quiedy—as if trying to pronounce it better—“Makelele.” She laughed at herself again but she was tired. The load was heavy.
“Stay well, son.”
“Go well and in peace, mother.”
And the woman, who all the time had stood, moved on, panting like a donkey, but obviously pleased with John's kindness.
John remained long looking at her. What made such a woman live on day to day, working hard, yet happy? Had she much faith in life? Or was her faith in the tribe? She and her kind, who had never been touched by the ways of the white man, looked as though they had something to cling to. As he watched her disappear, he felt proud that they should think well of him. He felt proud that he had a place in their esteem. And then came the pang.
Father will know. They will know.
He did not know what he feared most: the action his father would take when he knew, or the loss of the little faith the simple villagers had placed in him, when they knew.
He went down to the small local tea shop. He met many people who wished him well at the college. All of them knew that the Pastor's son had finished all the white man's learning in Kenya. He would now go to Uganda; they had read this in the
Baraza,
a Swahili weekly paper. John did not stay long at the shop. The sun had already gone to rest and now darkness was coming. The evening meal was ready. His tough father was still at the table reading his Bible. He did not look up when John entered. Strange silence settled in the hut.
“You look unhappy.” His mother broke the silence first. John laughed. It was a nervous little laugh.
“No, Mother,” he hastily replied, nervously looking at his father. He secretly hoped that Wamuhu had not blabbed.
“Then I am glad.”
She did not know. He ate his dinner and went out to his hut. A man's hut. Every young man had his own hut. John was never allowed to bring any girl visitor in there. He did not want trouble. Even to be seen standing with one was a crime. His father could easily thrash him. He wished he had rebelled earlier, like all the other young educated men. He lit the lantern. He took it in his hand. The yellow light flickered dangerously and then went out. He knew his hands were shaking. He lit it again and hurriedly took his big coat and a huge
Kofia,
which were lying on the unmade bed. He left the lantern burning, so that his father would see it and think him in. John bit his lower lip spitefully. He hated himself for being so girlish. It was unnatural for a boy of his age.
Like a shadow, he stealthily crossed the courtyard and went on to the village street.
He met young men and women lining the streets. They were laughing, talking, whispering. They were obviously enjoying themselves. John thought, They are more free than I am. He envied their exuberance. They clearly stood outside or above the strict morality that the educated ones had to be judged by. Would he have gladly changed places with them? He wondered. At last, he came to the hut. It stood at the very heart of the village. How well he knew it—to his sorrow. He wondered what he would do! Wait for her outside? What if her mother came out instead? He decided to enter.
“Hodi!”
“Enter. We are in.”
John pulled down his hat before he entered. Indeed, they were all there—all except she whom he wanted. The fire in the hearth was dying. Only a small flame from a lighted lantern vaguely illuminated the whole hut. The flame and the giant shadow created on the wall seemed to be mocking him. He prayed that Wamuhu's parents would not recognize him. He tried to be “thin,” and to disguise his voice as he greeted them. They recognized him and made themselves busy on his account. To be visited by such an educated one who knew all about the white man's world and knowledge, and who would now go to another land beyond, was not such a frequent occurrence
that it could be taken lightly. Who knew but he might be interested in their daughter? Stranger things had happened. After all, learning was not the only thing. Though Wamuhu had no learning, yet charms she had and she could be trusted to captivate any young man's heart with her looks and smiles.

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