Ngũgĩ Thiong - Wizard of the Crow

This would revive all their interest and quest for certainty: What happened? people would ask, all eyes on A.G.

When Kamltl, the Wizard of the Crow, came back to Aburiria from America, he wanted to go straight home and be with Nyawlra. He was homesick and felt as if he had been away for years. Still, he could not help recalling the nightmare that had become his life even before he had left for America. He had been arrested, forced to share a prison cell with Tajirika, released from prison, and put on a plane for the USA, where he had been unable to rejoin the Ruler’s entourage. And in New York he had seen and experienced things that he had never dreamed. Now that I am back, he asked himself, will I be able to resume my life and not be drawn into the mess of the Ruler and his ilk? Will the Sikiokuus and the Machokalis leave me alone? He just wanted to be with Nyawlra and continue to heal those in need. That was the vision that Kamltl had in mind as he rode a bus from the airport to the center of Eldares, where he took a matatu to Santalucia.

Some passengers were talking about the visit of the Ruler to America and how well it was going. How would they react, he wondered, were he to tell them that the Ruler was suffering from some kind of self-induced expansion? What if I were to tell them that I have just come back from America, that I have just left the Ruler and his entourage at the VIP Hotel between Fifth and Sixth avenues in Manhattan, near Washington Square and New York University?

It was early in the morning when he got to Santalucia. The bliss of a future with Nyawlra possessed him, and now, at the nearness of their reunion, he wondered how he would react on seeing her and how things had gone at the shrine. Should he run and embrace her, or should he hide behind the hedge and then walk stealthily behind her and put his hands over her eyes?

About two hundred yards away, he suddenly stopped and rubbed his eyes. Was he not seeing properly? He looked again. Did I take the wrong turn? But surely even if he were blind he would still know the way home. He hurried along. But the closer he got to the site, the more he felt strength draining from his legs and arms. He now stood dead in his tracks.

The site where once stood the house that he and Nyawlra had built together, his home, his shrine, was a mass of burnt black debris.

A cat stood some yards away, staring at him with green eyes as he walked about listlessly, picking up one thing and another and then letting them drop. Where do I begin the search for her? he asked himself as he sat down again to work out what he would do next. And what if the fire had not been an accident?

He would ask his neighbors what had happened, but the nearest were some distance away. He had to approach them circumspectly so as not to raise suspicions about who he was and his interest in the matter.

The reactions of the neighbors he approached were all disconcerting. He would start with greetings, which were met with friendly responses, but the moment he mentioned the shrine of the Wizard of the Crow, their faces and demeanors would change-friendly eyes would assume the look of fear. I don’t know what you are talking about, they would say as they scampered away or reverted to their chores or shut the door in his face. He stopped knocking at people’s doors and took to the streets.

He met an old man carrying a parcel dangling from one end of a stick over his shoulder. Kamltl dispensed with politeness and asked him about the burned-down shrine. The old man took to his heels, shouting as if he wanted the whole world to know that he was running: My heels are smoking; witness my heels smoking from the swiftness of my running! In happier times, Kamltl would have burst out laughing.

He sat down on a mound of earth and covered his face with his hands as if to hold back tears. He felt defeated. He had called her from America but had found the line dead, not unusual for telephones in Aburlria. He had thought nothing of it. Now he wished he and Nyawlra had taken advantage of mobile phones.

Suddenly he became aware of a presence near him. He opened his eyes and was startled to see the old man standing there; he had heard no footsteps.

“Why did you ask me about that house?” the old man asked.

“I just wanted to know what happened,” Kamltl answered.

“Why? Can’t you see that the house is burnt down?”

“Who burned it?”

“Do you believe in God?” the old man asked.

Kamltl was about to say something rude, but he restrained himself.

“Yes, I do.”

“And you believe that he is the Lord, Ruler of Heaven and Earth?”

“I am not into religions, but that’s correct.”

“Praise the Lord,” the old man said, raising his voice as if he wanted passersby to hear him.

“Was it an accident or arson?” Kamltl asked irritably.

“Accident? Praise the Lord,” the old man repeated.

“Were there any casualties?” Kamltl asked, thinking that the man was crazed.

But instead of answering him the old man bent forward a little, looked Kamltl in the eye, and spoke in whispers.

“Didn’t you just now say that you believe in God, the Lord above?”

“Why? How many Gods are there?” Kamltl asked impatiently.

“That’s the question. There is only one God. But there are many Lords. Have you ever thought about that?”

“Please don’t speak to me in riddles. Say directly what you are trying to tell me.”

“I just wanted to assure you that the God above is just and wise.”

“And therefore?”

“He works in mysterious ways.”

“So what?” Kamltl asked desperately.

“Praise the Lord and thank the Almighty that dwells high above us,” he mumbled, and started walking away, shouting, “Praise the Lord!” He soon disappeared.

What was the man trying to tell him? The Lord could be heavenly or earthly. The people who had burned the shrine down had some connection to the Ruler. Praise the Lord. There had been no casualties: so Praise the Lord. This interpretation was a relief. Nyawlra was very much alive. But where was she? Was she hurt or not? Was she in the hospital, or had she been captured? How would he find out? Where would he begin his search? But if Nyawlra had been captured, the story would have been in the newspapers. He combed through the archives of the Eldares Times in vain: no recent references to Nyawlra, the Movement for the Voice of the People, or arson. He went to the police headquarters under the guise of a reporter from the Eldares Times to learn of recent arrests or accidents in the different regions of the country, but again he came up empty. He visited hospitals only to learn nothing.

As the days and weeks of his search went by, he grew thin and began to look a far different person from the one who had come back home from America. Because his search had yielded no bad news, there were times when he was certain that Nyawlra was alive and free. At other times, he wondered whether she was in the custody of the secret police controlled by Minister Sikiokuu. When he had divined for Sikiokuu he always saw Nyawlra as ending up in a crowd, and so he started looking for her wherever people gathered to do good.

He visited Catholic, Protestant, and Orthodox churches; Muslim mosques; and Hindu, Sikh, Jain, and Jewish temples throughout the country: there were no signs of Nyawlra in these places of worship.

It was then that he came across some queues, slow, inexorable processions, and he did not know if they were new or a continuation of the old ones. But whether old or new, it did not matter to him: he saw only a gathering of people where the spirit of Nyawlra might dwell and so started looking for her among them. He himself did not fall in line. He ran beside each queue, his face turned to the right or left depending on which side of the line he ran along. Since every day and everywhere the queues were multiplying, this severely strained his neck.