Devil on the Cross Page 4

  “How did you know that I was far away?” Warĩĩnga asked.

  “From your face, your eyes, your lips,” the young man replied.

  “I’m very relieved to get my handbag back,” Warĩĩnga said. “I didn’t even realize that I’d dropped it. And I haven’t got as much as half a cent in my pocket.”

  “Open it and check that all your things are there, especially the money,” the young man told her.

  “There wasn’t much money in it,” she said ruefully.

  “Even so, you’d better check. Don’t you know that it is the thief who steals twenty-five cents who is usually hanged?”

  Warĩĩnga opened the handbag, looked inside without much interest and then said: “Everything’s there.” A question was troubling her. Was this the man whose voice had intervened when she was about to throw herself into the road? How had he fathomed her thoughts? How had he known that this was not the first time she had attempted to kill herself? She asked: “Are you the person who spoke to me just before I fainted?”

  He shook his head. “I arrived as you were about to fall. Are you ill?”

  “No,” Warĩĩnga answered quickly. “Just weary, body and soul, of Nairobi.”

  “You are right to be weary,” the young man said. “Nairobi is large, soulless and corrupt.” He moved nearer to Warĩĩnga, leaned against the wall and went on: “But it is not Nairobi alone that is afflicted in this way. The same is true of all the cities in every country that has recently slipped the noose of colonialism. These countries are finding it difficult to stave off poverty for the simple reason that they have taken it upon themselves to learn how to run their economies from American experts. So they have been taught the principle and system of self-interest and have been told to forget the ancient songs that glorify the notion of collective good. They have been taught new songs, new hymns that celebrate the acquisition of money. That’s why today Nairobi teaches:

  Crookedness to the upright,

  Meanness to the kind,

  Hatred to the loving,

  Evil to the good.

  “Today’s dance-song proclaims:

  That which pecks never pecks for another.

  That which pinches never pinches for another.

  That which journeys never journeys for another.

  Where is the seeker who searches for another?

  “Turn these matters over in your mind, and ask yourself: That kind of song—where is it leading us? What kind of heart is it nurturing in us? The kind that prompts us to double up with laughter when we watch our children fighting it out with cats and dogs for leftovers in rubbish bins?

  The wise can also be taught wisdom,

  So let me tell you:

  Gĩkũyũ said that talking is the way to loving.

  Today is tomorrow’s treasury.

  Tomorrow is the harvest of what we plant today.

  So let us ask ourselves:

  Moaning and groaning—who has ever gained from it?

  Change seeds, for the gourd contains seeds of more than one kind!

  Change steps, for the song has more than one rhythm!

  Today’s Muomboko dance is two steps and a turn!”

  The young man suddenly fell silent, but his voice and his words rang in Warĩĩnga’s ears.

  She did not understand all the things that were hinted at in the arcane language of the young man. But here and there she could sense that his words approached thoughts that she herself had had at one time. She sighed and said: “Your words have hidden meanings. But what you say is true. These troubles have now passed beyond the limit of endurance. Who would not welcome change in order to escape from them?”

  As she spoke, Warĩĩnga felt her tongue loosen. She began to talk as if she were lifting a heavy burden from her heart. She spoke in a level voice, neither strident nor muted, neither breathless nor halting. It was a voice, however, laden with pain, sorrow and tears.

  2

  “Take a girl like me,” Warĩĩnga said, gazing down at one spot as if she were talking to herself. “Or take any other girl in Nairobi. Let’s call her Mahũa Kareendi. Let’s assume that she was born in a village or in the heart of the countryside. Her education is limited. Or let’s say, perhaps, that she has passed CPE and has gone to a high school. Let’s even assume that it is a good school and not like those Haraambe schools where the poor pay good money even when the classrooms boast no teachers.

  “Before she reaches Form Two, Kareendi has had it. She is pregnant.”

  “Who is responsible?”

  “A student, say. The student doesn’t have a cent to his name. Their friendship has been a matter of lending each other novels by James Hadley Chase, Charles Mangua or David Maillu. It has been a question of singing songs from the records of Jim Reeves or of D. K. or of Lawrence Nduru. Kareendi, where can you turn now?

  “On the other hand, we could imagine that the man responsible for the pregnancy is a loafer from the village. The loafer is jobless. He hasn’t even a place to lay his head. Their love affair has been sustained by guitar playing and evening dances in the village. It has been conducted in borrowed huts or in the open fields after dark. Little Kareendi, where will you turn? The baby will need food and clothes.

  “Perhaps the loafer has a job in the city, but his salary is five shillings a month. Their love has been nourished by Bruce Lee and James Bond films—by five minutes in a cheap hotel on their way home by matatũ. Who will wipe away Kareendi’s tears now?

  “Or let’s say that a rich man is the father of the child. Isn’t that kind of affair the fashion these days? The rich man has a wife. The affair has been a question of a rendez-vous in a Mercedes Benz on a Sunday. It has been fueled by small amounts of cash that Kareendi has received as pocket money before returning to school. It has been lubricated by hard liquor drunk in hotels far away from the village.

  “Student, loafer, rich man—their response is the same when Kareendi tells them about her condition: ‘What! Kareendi, who are you claiming is responsible for the pregnancy? Me? How have you worked that out? Go on and pester someone else with your delusions, Kareendi of the easy thighs, ten-cent Kareendi. You can cry until your tears have filled oil drums—it will make no difference. . . . Kareendi, you can’t collect pregnancies wherever you may and then lay them at my door just because one day I happened to tease you!’

  “Say Kareendi needs no borrowed tongue. She stands there, arms akimbo, and lashes out at yesterday’s sweetheart. ‘You think you are sugar itself? I’d rather drink tea without sugar. You imagine that you’re a bus? I’d rather walk. You think you are a house? I’d prefer to sleep in the open air. Or the bed itself, perhaps? I choose the floor. I’ve lost my faith in silken-tongued gigolos.’ But Kareendi is only trying to put a brave face on things. Inside, her heart is dancing with rage.

  “Let’s say Kareendi refuses to take drugs. It is appalling that babies should emerge from their mothers’ wombs as corpses. Kareendi has the baby. And she doesn’t throw it into a latrine pit, nor does she abandon it at the roadside or in a bus. Nor does she leave it in the forest or on a rubbish tip. Kareendi places on the shoulders of her mother or her grandmother the burden of bringing up this baby, who has come into this world in spite of the fact that her parents have neither welcomed nor prepared for her arrival. But Kareendi’s mother and grandmother warn the girl not to make a habit of this: ‘Be on your guard from now on, Kareendi. Do not forget that men have stings, vicious and corrosive, the poison of which never leaves the flesh of their victims.’

  “And Kareendi now knows only too well that no one repents on account of another’s sins. There is no one who regrets the going as much as the returning. To be smiled at is not to be loved. So Kareendi bites her lips decisively and goes back to school. She makes steady progress and reaches Form Four. She sits the Cambridge or School Certificate and she gets her EACE, a ce
rtificate to indicate that she has passed in English, Swahili and Religion.

  “So far so good.

  “But problems don’t have wings to bear them away. Once again Kareendi’s parents have to dig into their pockets. They pull out the cents that they have been saving, the stick put by in reserve in case they should meet a rat unexpectedly—and now just such a rat has appeared. They speedily enroll Kareendi at the Nairobi Secretarial College so that she can learn typing and shorthand. At the end of nine months Kareendi can pound a typewriter, thirty-five words a minute, and she is now an expert at shorthand—she has reached the speed of eighty words a minute. The language of the eye is not the language of the ear. Typing and shorthand: Pitman’s certificates for the two skills are in Kareendi’s pocket.

  “Kareendi now tramps all over Nairobi looking for a job. Armed with her Pitman’s skills, she enters one office after another. In one she finds Mr. Boss, who leans back in his chair for greater comfort. He eyes Kareendi from top to toe. ‘What do you want? A job? I see. I’m very busy right now. Let’s meet at five.’ Kareendi waits impatiently for the hour to come. She rushes back to the office, panting. Now Mr. Boss smiles at her, and he offers her a chair, and he asks her what her names are, the one she was given at birth and her acquired English one, and he inquires into the things that are troubling her, and he listens with attentive patience. Then Mr. Boss taps the desk top with his finger or with a pen, saying, ‘Ah, Kareendi, jobs are very hard to come by these days. But a girl like you . . . it shouldn’t be too difficult to find something for you to do. But, Kareendi, a matter like this can’t be finalized in the office. Let’s go across to the Modern Love Bar and Lodging to discuss the question more fully.’ But Kareendi recalls the venomous stings of her early years: he who has seen once knows thereafter, and he who has drunk from a calabash can gauge its size. So Kareendi declines all invitations to meetings at hotels designed for love, old-fashioned or modern. The next day she is still combing the city for a job.

  “She enters another office. She finds there another Mr. Boss. The smiles are the same, the questions are the same, the rendez-vous is the same—and the target is still Kareendi’s thighs. The Modern Love Bar and Lodging has become the main employment bureau for girls, and women’s thighs are the tables on which contracts are signed. A maiden once drowned in a sea of sweetness. Our new Kenya, however, sings only one song to Kareendi: Sister Kareendi, the case of a fool takes a long time to settle. Sister Kareendi, every court session opens with feasting. Sister Kareendi, no man licks an empty hand. Take care of me, and I will take care of you. Modern problems are resolved with the aid of things. He who wishes to sleep is the one who is anxious to make the bed.

  “Kareendi is determined to make no beds: she would rather leave her case unsettled. And because God is truly no ugali eater, one morning Kareendi lands a job without having to visit any hotel for modern love. Mr. Boss Kĩhara is the managing director of the firm. He is middle-aged. He has a wife and several children. On top of that, he is a member of the committee that runs the Church of Heaven. Kareendi carries out her office duties meticulously.

  “Before a month is up, Kareendi finds herself a Kamoongonye.* The young man is a university student. He holds modern, progressive views. When Kareendi confesses to him that she has a child at home, Kamoongonye silences her with kisses of love. He tells Kareendi: ‘A child is not a leopard, capable of wounding people. Besides, giving birth is proof that you’re not a mule!’ Hearing this, Kareendi weeps tears of happiness. Then and there, she swears loyalty, with all her heart: ‘Because I am very lucky, and I have looked for and found a Kamoongonye, a young man with modern views, I, Kareendi, will never anger him or argue with him over any issue. If he shouts at me, I will remain silent. I will simply look down like the shy leopard or like a lamb cropping grass. I will help him with his keep so that he can finish his education without trouble or delay and so that together we can make a home that has solid roots. I will never look at another.’

  “The other girls, Kareendi’s friends, envy her, and they offer her bits and pieces of advice: ‘Kareendi, you’d better change your ways: the seeds in the gourd are not all of the same type,’ they tell her. Kareendi replies: ‘A restless child leaves home in search of meat just as a goat is about to be slaughtered.’ But the girls tell her: ‘Friend, this is a new Kenya. Everyone should set something aside to meet tomorrow’s needs. He who saves a little food will never suffer from hunger.’ She replies: ‘Too much eating ruins the stomach.’ They taunt her: ‘A restricted diet is monotonous.’ Kareendi rejects this and tells them: ‘A borrowed necklace may lead to the loss of one’s own.’

  “Now, just as Kareendi is thinking that her life is running very smoothly, Mr. Boss Kĩhara begins to sound her out with carefully chosen words. One day he comes into her office. He stands by her typewriter, and he pretends to examine the sheets of paper that Kareendi has typed. He says: ‘By the way, Miss Kareendi, what are your plans for this weekend? I would like you to accompany me on a small safari—what do you say to that?’ Kareendi declines politely. Rejection wrapped in civility arouses no ill feelings. Boss Kĩhara waits, hoping that Kareendi will eventually yield. Too much haste splits the yam. One month later, he again accosts Kareendi in the office. ‘Miss Kareendi, this evening there’s a cocktail party at the Paradise Club.’ Once again Kareendi disguises her refusal with polite phrases.

  “The day comes when Boss Kĩhara reasons with himself in this way: The hunter who stalks his prey too stealthily may frighten it off in the end. Begging calls for constantly changing tactics. Bathing involves removing all one’s clothes. So he confronts Kareendi boldly. ‘By the way, Miss Kareendi, I’ve got a lot of work to do today. There is a pile of letters to be answered, all very important and very urgent. I would like you to stay behind in the office after five o’clock. The firm will pay you overtime.’

  Kareendi waits. Five o’clock. Boss Kĩhara is in his office, drafting the letters, perhaps. Six o’clock. Everyone else has gone home. Boss Kĩhara calls for Kareendi. He asks her to take a seat so that they can talk. After a minute or two, Boss Kĩhara stands up and sits on the edge of his desk. He smiles slyly. Kareendi now finds her tongue. “Please, Mr. Boss, do dictate the letters to me now. I was planning to go out this evening, and it’s getting dark.”

  “‘Don’t worry, Kareendi. If it gets late, I will give you a lift home in my car.’

  “‘Thank you, but I really don’t want to inconvenience you,’ Kareendi answers levelly, to hide her irritation.

  “‘Oh, it will be no trouble at all. I could even ring home to instruct my personal chauffeur to collect you and drive you to your place.’

  “‘I enjoy traveling by bus. Please—where are the letters?

  “Boss Kĩhara leans slightly toward Kareendi. A certain light is shining in his eyes. He drops his voice.

  “‘Kareendi, darling, mine are letters dictated by the heart.’

  “‘By the heart, did you say?’ Kareendi asks quickly, pretending not to understand the implication of his words. ‘Is it wise for you to dictate such letters to an employee? Wouldn’t it be better for you to type them yourself, so that the secrets of your heart will not be read by someone for whom they are not intended?’

  “‘Beautiful Kareendi, flower of my heart. No one but you can type them. For I want to send them care of the address of your heart, by the post of your heart, to be read by the eyes of your heart, thereafter to be kept within your heart, sealed there forever and ever. And you when you receive the letters, I beg you, don’t write Return to sender. Darling, flower of my heart, see how my love for you has weakened me?’

  “‘Mr. Boss, sir, please . . . !’ Kareendi tries to slip in a word. One part of her is scared as she sees how Boss Kĩhara is panting. But another part of her feels like laughing when she contrasts the words that are tumbling from the Boss’s mouth with the bright, shinning bald patch on his head. Kareendi is searching
for words that will put this old man to shame: ‘Suppose your wife heard you saying such things! What would you do?’

  “‘She doesn’t count. One doesn’t use scentless perfume when going to a dance. Please, Kareendi, little fruit of my heart, listen to me carefully so that I may tell you beautiful things. I will rent a house for you on Furaha Leo Estate, or in the city center, Kenyatta Avenue, or any other part of the city. Choose any flat or house you like. I will have the place decorated with furniture, carpets, mattresses, curtains from Paris, London, Berlin, Rome, New York, Tokyo, Stockholm or Hong Kong. Imported furniture and household goods. I will buy you clothes, for I want you in the latest fashions from Oxford Street, London, or from the haute couture houses of Paris. High heels and platform shoes will come from Rome, Italy. When you step out in those shoes which you people have nicknamed “no-destination-why-should-I-hurry?” I want everyone in Nairobi to turn round and whistle with envy, saying: That is Boss Kĩhara’s sugar girl. If these pleasures last, if you keep me happy with all earthly delights, I will buy you a small basket for the market, for shopping, or for jaunts on a Sunday—I think an Alfa Romeo is the kind of car that would be fitting for a bride. Kareendi, my little fruit, my little orange, flower of my heart, come to me and say bye-bye to poverty. . . .’

  “Kareendi is now holding back her laughter with great difficulty. She says to him: “‘Mr. Boss, please may I ask you one question?’

  “‘Ask a thousand and one!’

  “‘Are you saying that you want to marry me?’

  “‘Ah! Why are you pretending not to understand the way things are? Can’t you see that. . . . My little fruit, be mine now, be my girl.’

  “‘No. I have never wanted affairs with my bosses!’