Ngũgĩ Thiong - Wizard of the Crow

He felt, as he often did many a day, that he had wronged his parents terribly. They were peasants, really, at least his mother was; they had sold their parcel of land to see him through schools and colleges. Ever since he left home for Eldares, Kamltl had not been back to KTambugi, his village, not even once, and had even stopped writing to his parents. Write to them and tell them stories of the number of times he had been thrown out of offices like a stray dog? Tell them that all those degrees for which they had paid with years of toil and frugal living could not secure him even bus fare? Oh, why did he not allow the garbage collectors to bury his body? Were he to say goodbye to this earth, his parents would hardly miss him, for surely to them he must be as good as dead by now. A solution, simple and attractive, suddenly presented itself, but just when he was about to carry it out he smelled the scent of flowers behind him. He raised his head briefly. It was the secretary. Was she coming to add her own insults to her boss’s?

Kamltl did not want to look at her in the face or even talk to her: he did not want her to become the object of his vengeful thoughts. So he turned his head away and looked down. The woman ignored this and tried to strike up a conversation.

“May I sit down?” she asked.

Kamltl did not respond. The woman sat down beside him anyway; for a few seconds there was nothing but silence between them. Then Kamltl heard the sound of sobbing, a whimper, coming from the woman. He did not want to shoulder anyone else’s burden-he had enough of his own-but he was sensitive to suffering.

“What is the matter?” Kamltl asked.

“Why could he not tell you there were no vacancies and leave it at that? Why the calculated insult?” she said.

“It is all right,” Kamltl said, struck by the way her words echoed his own.

“These are really the ogres said to have two mouths, in front and at the back,” she said.

“In stories?” Kamltl said in a tired, almost indifferent tone.

He was unaccustomed to making connections between his woes and those of the community at large.

“Yes,” the woman said. “But those in stories are more human by comparison.”

“Why?” he asked in the same tone.

“Because those in stories sometimes get tired of human flesh and swallow fried flies for a change. But the modern ones live on people all the time and they never stop.”

“It’s all right,” said Kamltl.

“What do you mean, it’s all right?”

“It is the way of the world,” Kamltl said in the same indifferent tone, wishing that the talk would end and she would go away.

“I don’t understand.”

“The world has no soul.”

“Then change the world. Give it a soul.”

He said nothing for a while. Is she one of those who talk of revolution? To Kamltl, damaged souls produced damaged policies, not the other way around. Some people have a sickness of the heart. Cure them of the sickness and good will follow. For him the human soul inherited badness or goodness and there was nothing anybody could do about that. Yet it was clear that he had not given his position much thought; he was just mouthing it.

“Listen to me. The world will always be what it has always been. Luck rules our lives.”

“The way luck has lately been ruling my life?” she said, suddenly laughing. He raised his head and looked at her. Hers was not forced laughter; it seemed to come right from the belly. The laughter of a contented person, Kamltl thought. Who would not laugh as well, knowing he or she had a secure job!

“Why are you laughing?”

“Please, just ignore it. I laugh quite often. In all the days and months I spent on the road looking for jobs I used to seek relief in laughter. Even when I got We regret that we have no vacancy, I would sometimes laugh about it. Laughter is my secret weapon against adversity. The job I now hold is, well, not quite a job-it’s temporary, so to speak,” she added and paused, then she lowered her voice as if talking to herself. “There came a time when I asked myself: what is the point of the BA that I struggled to get? It’s as useless as dog shit, I would say in frustration. Even holders of PhDs are unemployed. They walk the streets till their soles wear out, looking for work. Quite often, these PhDs have to bribe their way into a job. And others are told to get a delegation of elders from their village to take them to the State House so that the elders can plead with the Ruler on their behalf-just to get a job. Whom to blame? Degree certificates? This made me laugh. The certificates are not to blame. What did you just say? The world is the way it is and will always be so? The world is upside down, and it should be put to right by those who on earth do dwell, to borrow a phrase from the hymn.”

Still absorbed with his recent humiliation, Kamltl was at first oblivious to what the woman was saying. But when it registered, he was startled from his engagement with his injured self.

“You are a university graduate? I would never have guessed…”

“Why? I don’t have a mark on my forehead?” the woman said rather sharply before laughing and extending her hand. “My name is Nyawlra. Grace Nyawlra, but I prefer Nyawlra by itself.”

“I am Kamltl wa Karlmlri. But there was a time I used to be called Comet Kamltl.”

“Comet? That is a new one.”

When I was a kid I read somewhere about stars and something about comets streaking across the sky, and I said: That is my Christian name.”

“Comet? A Christian name?”

Why not? It is as European as your Grace.”

When I was in Brilliant Girls High School I was in charge of saying grace before meals. We thank you Jesus for the food we are about to eat, etcetera. The other students started calling me Grace, and soon after I adopted it as my own, replacing Engenethi.”

‘Engenethi? A version of Ingrid?”

“I believe it’s derived from Agnes.”

“Engenethi? Ingrid or Agnes? A Christian name?” It was his turn to wonder aloud.

Well, it sounded European,” she said. “All European names are Christian, African ones are satanic,” she added with a wry smile.

“Is that what you got from that novel you were reading, Shetani Msalabani, Satan on the Cross -or is it Devil on the Cross}”

When did your eyes steal away to what I was reading?” Nyawlra asked as she touched her handbag to indicate that the book was still in there.

They both laughed and for the first time in a while Kamltl felt the heaviness inside him lighten, and he was now attentive to her story.

Grace Nyawlra had gone to Eldares University, graduating with a degree in English, history, and theater arts. She could not find a job for a long time. She sustained herself with all manner of temporary ones. Even so, what helped her to get these tempas, as they are called, was not her degree but a computer course she took at the Ruler’s Polytechnic in Eldares.

“You and I could be called Twins in Trouble,” Kamltl said with a light tone.

“Twins on the Beat,” they said in unison, and stared at each other, laughing again.

“All the same, you have crossed the river of tribulations, haven’t you, for you now have a job!” Kamltl said.

“It’s hardly that. I’m simply passing time in this tempa, waiting for good luck.”

“When did you start working?”

“Not long ago. Let me see. Soon after the nation presented the Ruler with the special birthday cake. When was that?”

“I don’t remember,” said Kamltl. “I don’t keep up with politics.”

“You mean to tell me you were not there when the plans for Marching to Heaven were first announced?” Nyawlra asked.

Kamltl thought of telling her about his odd sense of smell. He did not like being in crowds, foul smells galore assailing his nostrils. But he did not talk about his curious sensitivity. He had not attended the ceremony because he had gone into the forest to pick wild berries.