Weep Not Child (11 page)

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.

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.