Ngũgĩ Thiong - Wizard of the Crow

This was confirmed when the Ruler turned toward the protocol officer and asked him where he thought the chairman of the Board of

Directors of the Global Bank should sit. But, of course, since he is coming here in his capacity as the Bank’s messenger, maybe he should simply stand at the door or else kneel down or even crawl, or what do you think? They all laughed. Since the drama of the women at Eldares, they had not seen the Buler so fancy-free. Everybody could see that the chair between him and Machokali was empty, confirming that the Buler had not the slightest doubt that the chairman of the Global Bank was really coming, and there was no way such a dignitary would come in person unless he was bringing good news about the long-awaited loan for Marching to Heaven.

Just then the police guard announced that there was a messenger from the Global Bank at the door. Let him in, the Buler himself said. When they turned their eyes to the entrance, they saw a man holding an envelope in his hands. Before he uttered a word, they all concluded that whatever else he was, he was not the chief of the Bank. Or maybe it was all a mistake. For though the reception desk and the hotel security had been instructed to let through anybody from the Global Bank, they may have let in the wrong person. But the man did not keep them in doubt for long. He was from the Global Courier Service, Manhattan, and the letter he brought was from the Global Bank. Would somebody sign for it, pleaser

The Buler nodded toward Machokali. Machokali handed the letter to the Buler, who was about to take the envelope when he realized that his hand was trembling in anticipation. To avoid exposing this to everybody, he asked Machokali to open it and read its contents aloud for all at the table to hear. What was important, after all, was the message and not the messenger.

“So you understand that even then the Buler and all of us were expecting good news,” Minister Machokali told the Wizard of the Crow. “But on glancing at the letter, I felt something cold in my belly.”

The letter was about ten lines. After reviewing the entire project, the Global Bank did not see any economic benefits to Marching to Heaven. To argue that the project would create jobs, as the Aburirian government had claimed, was a case of outdated Keynesian economics. Neither old-fashioned nor neo-Keynesianism had any place in the modern global economy. The Global Bank cannot release funds on the basis of the current representation. If Aburiria wanted to pursue the matter further, it would have to make a better case. Money was not the problem. But the Global Bank cannot pour money into a project in which the sky was literally the limit. Aburlria was given seven days to come up with better facts and arguments for the Global Bank to reconsider funding Marching to Heaven.

Everyone in the room was stunned. They did not know where to look-down, up, away, sideways, or what! All they knew was that they did not want to look at the face of the Buler.

It was worse for Machokali, and even now, as he told the Wizard of the Crow the story of that day, the minister could feel the chill in the room after he had read the letter. His lips trembled. He felt paralyzed. Should he hand the letter over to the Buler? Should he opine that at least the Global Bank had not closed the door? The sepulchral silence seemed to intensify by the second. The Buler stretched out his hand as if to see the letter for himself. Machokali handed it to him and quickly sat down.

The Buler rose to make a speech, completely unaware that the letter in his hand was now shaking. They sat glued to their seats, anticipating his every word. But when the Buler opened his mouth, no word came out. The Buler stood there, trying pointlessly to speak. What? The Buler, lost for words? Terror struck them all: here was the Buler, his mouth open, attempting to say something but producing only hot air and bronchial wheezing. The true horror was only a few seconds away.

Suddenly his cheeks and stomach began to expand. No, not just the cheeks and the tummy but the whole body. They looked at one another in dismay. They had never seen anything like this. The Buler gestured with his hands that he wanted pen and paper, but he could not even hold the pen properly, his fingers fattening by the second. The official biographer tried to give him his thick pen, but the Buler waved him away. Then the Buler indicated that the gathering was over.

Even now as Machokali narrated the events of that day, his heart was beating wildly, as if the whole scene was unfolding afresh before his very eyes.

“Let me sum up what you just told me,” the Wizard of the Crow said. “The Global Bank denies a loan for Marching to Heaven. The Buler’s body begins to swell. He loses the power of speech.”

“Something like that, although it was more complex than you are making it seem,” Machokali said.

“I am trying to understand. Was the Ruler’s food checked for poison?” the Wizard of the Crow asked.

“We entertained similar thoughts,” Machokali replied, “but no food had yet been ordered. We left the tables with the champagne unopened. And since then… well, you know the rest.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“We have lost count of the days. Perhaps weeks, but it is only a guess. Maybe I can ask his biographer, who records all his deeds and sayings.”

“That won’t be necessary. At least not now. And you say that he has not spoken a word since?”

“Furyk claims he heard him try to say coral, or crawl, or cruel. You had better ask Din Furyk, though I think he was hallucinating. But if in the light of my narrative you have now decided that it is not necessary to see Din Furyk or Clement Clarkwell, I can ask them myself. Or get Dr. Wilfred Kaboca to meet them and try to get the exact words and even tape their answers for you.”

“This is what I need from you,” the Wizard of the Crow said, ignoring Machokali’s hints and offers. “Two things. Get me a big wall mirror that two or three people can look into at the same time without crowding one another. The mirror should be put against the wall facing the bedroom or the seat of the patient.”

“There is a mirror on the wall.”

“Then ask Din Furyk to come in.”

“Who? A doctor?” asked an astonished Furyk after Machokali had summoned him. Machokali allowed that the man was some kind of specialist or spiritualist; only after many probing questions did he admit that he was talking about a witch doctor.

“What? A sorcerer in New York?” an astounded Furyk asked.

“I looked at Machokali to reassure myself of my sanity,” he wrote in his diary, “and I found his big eyes begging me not to reject the summons. So instead of giving a resounding no as I had intended, I found myself telling him not to worry. He is a doctor of the mind and I of the body, so between us we should be a dream team. I was simply trying to calm him down even as I grew curious. I looked forward to meeting the man who seemed to have a hold on this Western-educated high-ranking government minister. As I was about to enter the man’s room, I wondered how we would communicate. With hand gestures?

“Imagine my surprise when I encountered a witch doctor who spoke English as if he had been educated at Harvard! I said to him: You speak excellent English. Where did you learn the language so well? He said: At the University of Treetops. I had never heard of that university or seen it cited anywhere. He asked me: What about your You speak excellent English. Where did you go to school? I was a little irritated by both the question and the tone, for could he not see that I was white? What else did he expect me to speak? Harvard, of course, I said curtly, and I asked him: So in your country they teach sorcery and witchcraft at the university level? He replied: Oh, yes, the art and science of witchcraft are the core of the university system of Tree-tops. We have both teaching and research departments that specialize in magic. Don’t you? Of course not, I said. We have departments of medicine and psychiatry and pharmacology.