Weep Not Child (14 page)

‘Sit down, Jacobo.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’

‘What did you want to see me for?’

‘Well, Sir, it’s a long affair.’

‘Make it short.’

‘Yes, Sir. As I was telling you the other day, I keep an eye on everybody in the village. Now this man Ngotho, as you know, is a bad man. A very terrible man. He has taken many oaths.’ It looked as if Howlands was not attending so Jacobo paused for a while. Then he beamed. ‘You know he is the one who led the strike.’

‘I know,’ Howlands cut in. ‘What has he done?’

‘Well, as I was telling you, it is a long affair. You know this
man has sons. These sons of his had been away from the village for quite a long time. I think they are bringing trouble in the village…I am very suspicious about Boro, the eldest son. Now this man, Sir, had been to war and I think, Sir, he was connected with the strike–’

‘Yes! yes! What have they done?’

‘I, well, Sir, nothing, but you see these people work in secret. I was just thinking that we should sort of remove them from the village…send them to one of the detention camps…Now, if we leave them alone, there’ll flare up big, big trouble in the village. Their detention would make it easier to keep an eye on this Ngotho because as I was telling you he may be the real leader of Mau Mau.’

‘All right. Just keep an eye on the sons. Arrest them for anything – curfew, tax, you know what.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Nothing, Sir.’

‘All right. You can go.’

‘Thank you, Sir, thank you. I think this Mau Mau will be beaten.’

Howlands did not answer.

‘Good-bye, Sir.’

‘All right,’ Howlands said roughly as he stood up as if to show the chief out.

Mr Howlands watched him go out. Then he banged the door and stood by the small window. He had never forgotten Ngotho.

Ngotho and his family sat in Nyokabi’s hut. These days people sat late only in families. Two were missing from the family group. Kamau was in the African market. He preferred staying and even sleeping there. He felt it safer that way. Boro was not in. He would probably be late. They sat in darkness. Lights had to be put out early. And they spoke in whispers, although they did not speak much. They had little to say except make irrelevant remarks here and a joke there at which nobody
laughed. They knew the dark night would be long. Boro and Kori kept their beds in Njeri’s hut. Her hut was a few yards away from Nyokabi’s. Njeri and Kori waited for Boro to turn up but when he failed they rose up to go. Perhaps Boro would come later in the night or he could sleep wherever he was. Who would dare to go home on such a night, and there being curfew order for everyone to be in by six o’clock? They went out. No good night. The others remained. All of a sudden there was a shout that split the night–

‘
Halt!
’

Njoroge trembled. He would not go to the door where his father and mother stood looking at whatever was happening outside. He remained rooted to the seat. His father came back from the door and sat heavily on the stool he had quickly vacated when he had heard the order for Njeri, his wife, and Kori, his son, to stop. Nyokabi later came in. She lit the lantern and seeing the face of Ngotho put it out again. Silence reigned.

‘They have taken them away,’ Nyokabi sobbed.

Njoroge felt as if there were some invisible dark shapes in the hut.

At last Ngotho said, ‘Yeees…’ His voice was unsteady. He felt like crying, but the humiliation and pain he felt had a stunning effect. Was he a man any longer, he who had watched his wife and son taken away because of breaking the curfew without a word of protest? Was this cowardice? It was cowardice, cowardice of the worst sort. He stood up and rushed to the door like a madman. It was too late. He came back to his seat, a defeated man, a man who cursed himself for being a man with a lost manhood. He now knew that even that waiting had been a form of cowardice, putting off of action.

He now quietly said, ‘I know it is Jacobo.’

Again Njoroge held on to a stool to keep himself steady. It was the first time that any member of his family had been caught by the new laws, although Boro, Kori, and Kamau had always had narrow escapes, especially during the police operations. What was now happening to his father and what would happen to Kori and Njeri?

‘Jacobo wants to ruin me. He wants to destroy this house. He will do it.’

It was a kind of defiant lamentation that was worse than a violent outburst of anger.

At that minute Boro entered. Again silence reigned till Boro broke it by asking what was wrong.

‘They have taken your mother and brother away,’ Ngotho said, his head still bowed.

‘They have taken my mother and brother away!’ Boro slowly repeated.

‘Yes. Curfew,’ Nyokabi said. She hastily stole a glance at Boro. She was glad that the hut was dark.

‘Curfew…Curfew…’ And then turning his voice to Ngotho, ‘And
you
again did nothing?’

Ngotho felt this like a pin pressed into his flesh. He was ready to accept everything, but not this.

‘Listen, my son.’

But Boro had gone out. Ngotho had nobody to whom he could explain. For a long time they were not to see Boro’s face.

Breaking the curfew order was not a very serious crime. It meant a fixed fine for everyone – young and old alike. But in this case when the money for the fine had been taken, only Njeri was released. Kori would be sent to a detention camp, without trial. Ngotho’s prophecy was materialising. But there in the homeguard post, the chief was disappointed because the one he was really after had not been caught. But he did not lose hope.

One day Njoroge went to school early. He knew that something had happened to Ngotho, who no longer looked anybody straight in the face; not even his wives. Njoroge was sure that if a child hit Ngotho, he would probably submit. He was no longer the man whose ability to keep home together had resounded from ridge to ridge. But Njoroge still believed in him and felt secure when Ngotho was near.

Ngotho’s home now was a place where stories were no longer told, a place where no young men and women from the village gathered.

Through all this, Njoroge was still sustained by his love for and belief in education and his own role when the time came. And the difficulties of home seemed to have sharpened this appetite. Only education could make something out of this wreckage. He became more faithful to his studies. He would one day use all his learning to fight the white man, for he would continue the work that his father had started. When these moments caught him, he actually saw himself as a possible saviour of the whole God’s country. Just let him get learning. Let that time come when he…

When Njoroge reached school, he found the other boys in a state of excitement. A small crowd of boys had gathered around the wall of the church. They were reading a letter to the headmaster, fixed to the wall. Every boy who came rushed there shouting and then would come out of the crowd quiet with a changed expression. Njoroge made his way through the crowd. He read the letter. His vision vanished at once. The fear that had caught the whole group attacked him too. For a time there was tension in the atmosphere.

One boy said, ‘They have done the same in Nyeri.’

‘And Fort Hall.’

‘Yes. I must not come back to this school.’

The headmaster came. He was shown the letter. At first he smiled carelessly and reassuringly to the boys. But as he read the letter his lips fell. Gingerly, he took out a razor and removed it, holding it only at the edges. His hands betrayed him.

‘Has any of you touched it?’

‘Nobody, Sir,’ the headboy said.

‘Who came here the earliest?’

‘It is I, Sir.’ A small boy came out from the crowd.

‘Did you find the letter here?’

‘I did not, Sir. I did not look. It’s Kamau who saw it.’

‘Kamau, did you come after Njuguna?’

‘Yes, Sir. You see, Sir, I was going to put my panga against the wall. Then I looked up. I saw the letter. At first I did not–’

‘All right, Kamau. Njuguna, did you meet anybody on the way as you were coming to school?’

‘No, Sir.’

The question in the minds of most boys was: How had Kimathi come to their school? And that day there was an unusual air of gravity in the school.

In the evening, Njoroge related the whole incident to his mother.

‘The letter said that the head of the headmaster plus the heads of forty children would be cut off if the school did not instantly close down. It was signed with Kimathi’s name.’

‘My son, you’ll not go to that school anymore. Education is not life.’

Njoroge felt a hurt comfort.

‘I thought Mau Mau was on the side of the black people.’

‘Sh! Sh!’ Nyokabi cautioned him. ‘Don’t you mention that tonight. Walls have ears.’

But Kamau told him a different thing.

‘You’ll be foolish to leave school. The letter may not be genuine. Besides do you really think you’ll be safer at home? I tell you there’s no safety anywhere. There’s no hiding in this naked land.’

Njoroge did not leave school.

Conditions went from bad to worse. No one could tell when he might be arrested for breaking the curfew. You could not even move across the courtyard at night. Fires were put out early for fear that any light would attract the attention of those who might be lurking outside. It was said that some European soldiers were catching people at night, and having taken them to the forest would release them and ask them to find their way back home. But when their backs were turned they would be shot dead in cold blood. The next day this would be announced as a victory over Mau Mau.

The boys too lived in fear. They did not know when the school would be attacked. Most of them had not heeded the warning of the letter. Like Njoroge, they had continued going to school. Njoroge was now a big boy, almost a young man. The full force of the chaos that had come over the land was just beginning to be clear in his mind. All his brothers, except the lonely Kamau, were no longer at home. When the time for circumcision came, it was Kamau who met the cost. It was he who kept the home together, buying food and clothes and paying fees for Njoroge. But he rarely came to sleep at home.

Njoroge still had a father, a brother, and two mothers, and so he clung to his vision of boyhood. With only a year to go before his examination for entrance to a secondary school, he worked hard at his books and his lessons.

Njoroge had not met Mwihaki since she went to the boarding school for girls. This was not an accident. Even before the
emergency he had tried to avoid her. How could he have met her when her father and his were enemies in public? He almost felt the pain she must have felt when she had heard that her father had been attacked. Although Njoroge could not bring himself to condemn his father, yet he felt guilty and wished Mwihaki had been his own sister and not the daughter of Jacobo. Their last happy moment, when they had stood holding hands before they went to hear all, still lingered in Njoroge’s mind. It hurt him. Throughout the emergency, the fact that her father was a chief and a leader of the homeguards had made him feel even more acutely the need for a total separation. Yet at times he hungered for her company, for her delicate brown hands and clear innocent eyes.