Weep Not Child (4 page)

The barber’s shop was a famous place. The barber himself was a short brown man with hair very carefully brushed. He was very funny and he could tell stories that made people laugh. The barber knew everybody and everybody knew him. He was not called by any other name except the barber. If you said that you did not know who the barber was, or where his shop was, people at once knew that you were either a stranger or a fool. A fool, in the town’s vocabulary, meant a man who had a wife who would not let him leave her lap even for a second. How could anyone afford not to call on the barber who knew how to sing and dance and could speak English?

‘I learnt it during the big war.’

‘And it was all that big?’

(The barber lets his clippers go flick – lick – lick – lick. Everyone stands expectantly by waiting to hear about the big war. The barber takes his time.)

‘My man, you would not ask that if you had been there. What with bombs and machine guns that went boom-crunch! Boom-crunch! Troo! Troo! And grenades and people crying and dying! Aha, I wish you had been there.’

‘Maybe it was like the first war?’

‘Ha! ha! ha! That was a baby’s war. It was only fought here. Those Africans who went to that one were only porters. But this one…(Turn your head this way. No, this way. Yes, that’s it.) this one, we carried guns and we shot white men.’

‘White men?’

‘Y-e-e-e-s. They are not the gods we had thought them to be. We even slept with their women.’

‘Ha! How are they–?’

‘Not different. Not different. I like a good fleshy black body with sweat. But they are…you know…so thin…without flesh…nothing.’

‘But it was wonderful to…’

‘Well! Before you started…you thought…it was eh – eh wonderful. But after…it was nothing. And you had to pay some money?’

‘Are there–?’

‘Many! Many who were willing to sell. And that was in Jerusalem of all places.’

People around became amazed.

‘You don’t mean to say that there’s such a place as Jerusalem?’

‘Ha, ha, ha! You don’t know. You don’t know. We have seen things and places. There now, you’re ready. No! Wait a minute (flick – lick). That’s all right now. You look smart. Had you been to Jerusalem–’

‘It is getting late!’

‘I must go. I must buy something for those at home.’

‘Me too. Told my women that I would come and buy meat for them. Now it’s almost dark.’

‘These women!’

‘O yes, women!’

And with these words, Ngotho made his way through the crowd into the open. He always loved to listen to the barber. Somehow the talk reminded him of his own travels and troubles in the First World War. As a boy he had been conscripted and made to carry things for the fighting white men. He also had to clear dark bush and make roads. Then, he and the others were not allowed to use guns. But in the barber’s war! Ah, that was something. His own two sons had also gone to this one. Only one had returned. And the one who had returned never talked much about the actual war, except to say that it had been a terrible waste of life.

Ngotho bought four pounds of meat. But they were bound into two bundles each of two pounds. One bundle was for his first wife, Njeri, and the other for Nyokabi, his second wife. A husband had to be wise in these affairs, otherwise a small flaw or apparent bias could easily generate a civil war in the family. Not that Ngotho feared this very much. He knew that his two wives liked each other and were good companions and friends.
But you could not quite trust women. They were fickle and very jealous. When a woman was angry, no amount of beating would pacify her. Ngotho did not beat his wives much. On the contrary, his home was well known for being a place of peace. All the same, one had to be careful.

He went across the fields. He did not want to follow the big road or the valley because these two were long. He wondered what Nyokabi and Njeri would say. He had not kept his word to be back soon. But then, he had not intended to come home soon. His wives were good women. It was not easy to get such women these days. It was quite true what the barber had said about a fleshy, black body with sweat. Look at that Memsahib in whose husband’s employment he was. She was so thin that Ngotho at times wondered if the woman had flesh at all. What did a man want such a wife for? A man wanted a fat woman. Such a woman he had in Njeri and Nyokabi, especially when he married them. But time had changed them…He wondered if the barber had quite told the truth – that bit about going with a white woman. Who could believe that a white woman like Mrs Howlands could make herself cheap enough to go with black men for money? Yet one could believe anything these days. He wondered if his son Boro had done such a thing. Of course, it was something to have a son who had – but the thought of buying was not at all nice. And if they had nothing extra, well, it was better to have a black woman.

‘How quick you’ve been!’ Nyokabi welcomed him.

‘You know men are always v-e-r-y quick,’ added Njeri in the same sarcastic tone. The two women usually stayed together to ‘hasten’ or ‘shorten’ the night. Ngotho was inwardly pleased. He knew that when they adopted that tone they meant to be friendly.

‘I went to the barber.’

‘As if we could not have used a razor blade to clear off your hair.’

‘Well, times are changing. As Bwana Howlands says–’

‘You want to be a modern white man.’

‘You are two troublesome women. Take this meat first.’

Nyokabi took her share, and Njeri hers.

‘Now it’s time for me to go and disturb the young people,’ said Njeri. All the sons of Ngotho with other young men and women from Mahua ridge were in Njeri’s hut. They usually went there to shorten the night. At such times Njeri would leave the young people and she would go to sit with Nyokabi. When they went to Nyokabi’s hut she too would do likewise, leave them, and go to visit Njeri. But some nights, the young people wanted to hear stories from Ngotho or from the women. At such times they all would be in the same place.

‘Tell Njoroge to come and show his new clothes to his father, Nyokabi told Njeri as the latter left.

Ngotho was proud that his son would start learning. When anybody now asked him whether he had taken any of his sons to school, he would proudly say, ‘
Yes!
’ It made him feel almost equal to Jacobo.

‘When is he beginning?’

‘On Monday.’

‘Does he like the idea?’

‘He looked happy.’

She was right. Njoroge’s heart had felt like bursting with happiness and gratitude when he had known that he, like Mwihaki, the daughter of Jacobo, would start learning how to read and write.

On Monday, Njoroge went to school. He did not quite know where it was. He had never gone there, though he knew the direction to it. Mwihaki took him and showed him the way. Mwihaki was a young girl. Njoroge had always admired her. Once some herd-boys had quarrelled with Mwihaki’s brothers. They had thrown stones and one had struck her. Then the boys had run away followed by her brothers. She had been left alone crying. Njoroge, who had been watching the scene from a distance, had approached and felt like soothing the weeping child. Now she, the more experienced, was taking him to school.

Mwihaki was a daughter of Jacobo. Jacobo owned the land on which Ngotho lived. Ngotho was a
Muhoi
. Njoroge had never come to understand how his father had become a
Muhoi
. Maybe a child did not know such matters. They were too deep for him. Jacobo had small boys and one big son and big daughter. The big daughter was a teacher. Her name was Lucia. Njoroge always thought Lucia a nice name. All his sisters had ugly names. Not like Lucia.

The other boys were rough. They laughed at him and made coarse jokes that shocked him. His former high regard of schoolboys was shaken. He thought that he would never like to make such jokes. Nyokabi, his mother, would be angry if he did.

One boy told him, ‘You are a
Njuka
.’

‘No! I am not a
Nju-u-ka
,’ he said.

‘What are you?’

‘I am Njoroge.’

They laughed heartily. He felt annoyed. Had he said anything funny?

Another boy commanded him, ‘Carry this bag. You’re a
Njuka
.’

He was going to take it. But Mwihaki came to his rescue.

‘He is my
Njuka
. You cannot touch him.’

Some laughed.

Others sneered.

‘Leave Mwihaki’s
Njuka
alone.’

‘He is Mwihaki’s boy.’

‘He’ll make a good husband. A
Njuka
to be a husband of Mwihaki.’

‘A
Njuka
is a
Njuka
. He must carry my bag for me.’

All this talk embarrassed and confused Njoroge. He did not know what to do.

Mwihaki was annoyed. She burst out, ‘Yes, he is my
Njuka
. Let any of you touch him.’

Silence followed. Njoroge was grateful. Apparently the boys feared her because her sister was a teacher and Mwihaki might report them.

The school looked a strange place. But fascinating. The church huge and hollow, attracted him. It looked haunted. He knew it was the House of God. But some boys shouted while they were in there. This too shocked him. He had been brought up to respect all holy places, like graveyards and the bush around fig trees.

The teacher wore a white blouse and a green skirt. Njoroge liked the white and green because it was like a blooming white flower on a green plant. Grass in this country was green in wet weather and flowers bloomed white all over the land, especially in Njahi season. Njoroge, however, feared her when two days later she beat a boy, whack! whack! (‘Bring the other hand’) whack! whack! whack! The stick broke into bits. Njoroge could almost feel the pain. It was as if it was being communicated to him without physical contact. The teacher looked ugly while she punished. Njoroge hated seeing anybody being thrashed
and he was sorry for the boy. But he should not have bullied a
Njuka
. It was on that day that Njoroge learnt that
Njuka
was the name given to a newcomer.

Njoroge usually kept alone. And he always reached home earlier than the other boys of the village. He did not want to reach home in the dark. Bad boys walked slowly after school, for if they reached home early they would be asked to help in the evening chores. When they reached home they said, ‘Teacher Lucia (or Isaac) kept us late.’