Ngũgĩ Thiong - Wizard of the Crow

It was then that the American and French ambassadors paid a second visit to the State House. As usual Ambassador Gemstone was all business and to the point; he did not mind letting the Ruler know that his position was shared by the major Western democracies and that was why he was accompanied by Monsieur Jean Pierre Sartre, not to be confused with the existential philosopher of the same name, he joked, as M. Sartre nodded. The West had invested a lot in the future of Aburiria and was quite naturally anxious about developments that might jeopardize its interests. The Ruler had to come up with peaceful measures to end the unrest in the country.

The Ruler raised his voice in anger. He was tired of the arrogance of the West. He was tired of these lectures about what to do in his own home. He never would presume to tell the American president what to do with those wild demonstrations he himself saw when he was last in Washington for a prayer breakfast. He was tired of being pushed around. They had told him to come up with measures to end the so-called crisis, and yet when he threatened to use the only language his own people understood, they had told him not to. It is your people who say that you cannot have your cake and eat it, he told Ambassador Gemstone. When in the past he had used force and silenced a few thousand forever with the West’s full knowledge and blessing, did the West babble about using peaceful means? Why now?

“That is precisely the point, Your Excellency,” replied Ambassador Gemstone. “Circumstances have changed, and we believe that alternative measures exist. Give your people something to make them happy. Don’t you have a proverb that says that if you throw peanuts to a monkey you will distract it long enough to be able to snatch its baby?”

“What kind of peanuts do you suggest I throw at these monkeys?” the Ruler asked sarcastically.

“For one, go talk to them…”

And tell them what?”

Address the issue of the missing minister, Machokali. Their speeches have all been about him.”

And say what about him? That I know where he is?”

“That is up to you. But I can tell you that intelligence services all over the world are telling us that your minister is not seeking asylum anywhere, as your statement seemed to indicate.”

The French ambassador nodded in agreement.

“Why are you so interested in the fate of a minister charged with plotting to overthrow my government?”

“Your Excellency, we have no evidence suggesting as much.”

“So you don’t believe the official report released by my government?”

“Your Excellency, why should we believe it when it was put together by his political rival Sikiokuu?”

“How do you know that it is he who wrote the report?”

“Your Excellency, we have ways of knowing things,” Gemstone said.

The Ruler had not forgotten the humiliation he felt in New York when Global Bank emissaries had told him of rumors of new and better-organized queues in his country long before his own intelligence service had been able to piece together what was happening. And now here comes this ambassador boasting of how well informed he is, even about other people’s state secrets!

“So you spy on your friends?” the Ruler asked icily.

It is said that their conversation ended abruptly, with the Ruler telling Gemstone that the next time he had something to say to him it would be better to pick up the telephone, write him a letter, or send the French ambassador. Is that all you have to say? asked Gemstone. He stood up and, with the French ambassador in tow, walked out without waiting for an answer.

The arrogance of white power, muttered the Ruler under his breath. Why are they so keen for me to expose myself in my condition before the crowd?

For some reason the silence of the French ambassador began to bother him. During the cold war, France used to front for the West in military interference in African affairs and often assured him that she would help him with troops should there be an uprising against him. Did she have a candidate in mind now that the American and British minion was missing? Who?

He recalled Gemstone hastening to say that M. Sartre had no connection with philosophy. Where had the Ruler recently heard something about France, philosophy, and the Aburlrian State, he asked himself, and, remembering the occasion, summoned Governor Fajirika.

“Tell me, which philosopher did you mention to me in this very room some time ago?”

“Philosopher? Me?” asked Tajirika, a little taken aback because he had thought that he was being summoned to be questioned about the dramatic escape of the Limping Witch and the Wizard of the Crow, or about the crowds occupying the grounds around Parliament and the law courts.

“A Frenchman?” said the Ruler to jog his memory.

“Oh, it is not me, I swear,” said Tajirika as if defending himself against an accusation. “It was Sikiokuu who was trying to tell me about him. But I told him clearly that I did not want to have anything to do with the crazy fanatic of doubts.”

“That’s what I am trying to find out. Who is he? What is his name?”

“Oh, Des Cartes or Descartes.”

“And you are sure, very sure, that his name is not Sartre? Jean Pierre Sartre?”

“I am very sure. The name is definitely Descartes. Perhaps there is a Thomas in it-I don’t know. Apparently the French people love the deity and talk about him a lot. Sikiokuu told me that he had first heard about the deity and its religion of doubt at a special dinner party in his honor at the house of the French ambassador.”

“In his honor? Why honor him?”

“Because long before he became a minister he had already shown his faith in French technology by choosing Paris rather than London for the elongation of his ears.”

For a while the Ruler was silent, as if contemplating a dawning thought.

“Does he go there alone, secretly perhaps?”

“I don’t know.”

“Thank you, Titus,” he said, almost affectionately. “You can now go back to your work.”

Soon the Ruler started getting reports that some army officers had received invitations for cocktails and dinners at Western embassies. Coming on the heels of his encounter with the diplomats, he decided that enough was enough; he must find a way to remind these Westerners that in Aburlria he was still the man, regardless of the loans for Marching to Heaven, and there was nothing these arrogant bastards could do about his slaughter of his own people.

He issued an ultimatum followed by an order for the armored division to clear the People’s Assembly.

The sight of armored cars on television, their long guns poised to murder, relentlessly moving down the streets of Eldares made him feel manlier. The media swarming around the columns excited him. Let them see blood, the Ruler whispered to himself, pointing at the television screen. Let them see that I am still in charge.

Suddenly his finger became limp and his hand fell to his side. For the first time since his ascension, he was terrified. For instead of tanks running over the dissidents, there, on the television screen, were army boys and young civilians greeting one another with high fives for the entire world to see, to his embarrassment. Here was the sunset of his reign. But who had choreographed it?

The Ruler was anything but naive and foolish when it came to matters of his own survival. He recalled the visit of Ambassador Gem-stone and their heated exchange.

He went over Gemstone’s words very carefully, and what now stood out in his mind was the ambassador’s call on him to give the insurgents something to hold on to, and he decided to do just that. Given his condition, he would relay a few words to them through the Minister of Information.