Ngũgĩ Thiong - Wizard of the Crow

Vinjinia would now and then call to see if her husband was feeling any better, but there was no comfort from the homefront, and as the afternoon wore on Vinjinia became depressed, which did not help the atmosphere in the room.

All day long the two women had been on their feet, but now Nyawlra pulled up a chair, and, as she continued looking through the window, found herself wondering what could be ailing her boss so much as to force him to stay away from easy money, but not serious enough to make him see a doctor. Maybe it was a bad case of flu. But why would Vinjinia have been so reticent about that? And if Tajirika did not feel better soon, what was she to do about the queue? As if reading Nyawlra’s thoughts, Vinjinia herself pulled up a chair next to Nyawlra. When she spoke, her voice sounded teary

“I know what you are asking yourself,” she started. “Believe me, I am as much in the dark as you. Where shall I begin? He came back last night with three sacks full of Burl notes. Throughout the evening he kept muttering things to himself, calculating I don’t know what. Even when he eventually heeded my call to come to bed, he did not fall asleep but continued working things out in his mind. From the few words that I could make out, he seemed to be calculating the impact of Marching to Heaven on our lives. I fell asleep and left him wide awake.

“The illness itself seized him this morning. It started when he went to the bathroom: suddenly it was as if he stood frozen in front of the mirror. And every time he looked at the mirror, he could say nothing save If. If only. He would remain there, gazing hard at the mirror as if trying to talk to his shadow. Now tell me, how would I report these symptoms to a hospital or doctor? What could I tell them without sounding ridiculous? That my husband, the chairman of Marching to Heaven…? But if he does not get better tonight, what shall we do tomorrow when we wake up to this or another queue?” Vinjinia asked, echoing Nyawlra’s concern.

Nyawlra recalled how at the close of the previous business day Tajirika had pulled a gun on her, fearing that she might be a robber. Maybe he was terrified of being robbed.

“It was unusual for someone to have so much money in his house,” Nyawlra said. “Maybe he was paralyzed by the prospect of robbers. His train of thought must have been something like this: If they find me with all this money, they will kill me. If! If only I had left the money in the office or put it in a bank?”

The sudden entrance of one of the three police officers now guarding the grounds interrupted their conversation. He wanted to know what to do next: it was getting late, the queue was still there, and the police motorcycle rider had not yet returned.

Vinjinia paid him and his cohorts off to guard the premises for the night and to wait for the return of the missing rider.

The two women then closed up the office and left through the back door. The queue of job seekers was still intact. Maybe the darkness would drive them away. Maybe tomorrow would be another day. Vinjinia left in her black Mercedes-Benz without offering Nyawlra a lift. “See you tomorrow” were her last words.

What a day! Nyawlra thought as she walked down the road to the bus stop. She suspected that there was a lot more to her boss’s illness than Vinjinia was letting on. If the police officer had not interrupted their tete-ä-tete, maybe…

She had just crossed the road when she felt a hand on her right shoulder. She turned around quickly, clutching her handbag firmly. There were so many stories of daylight robbery in the streets that it had now become second nature to hold one’s bag tighter at the slightest friction with another person.

She did not know whether to laugh in relief or shout in anger.

It was the ubiquitous Kaniürü.

Nyawlra thought of pretending that she had not seen him, but a voice within told her, Let’s hear what he has to say, we might glean a thing or two about what’s going on in the higher reaches of government.

At the Mars Cafe, they again sat across from each other in barely veiled hostility. Kaniürü ordered coffee, Nyawlra a chicken and vegetable sandwich, which she proceeded to eat with gusto, as if it had been the best meal she had ever had.

From where they sat, they could see a section of the endless queue.

“What’s this all about?” Kaniürü asked.

“Is that what brings you to this side of the city?”

“No, you!”

“Stop stalking me!”

“It is not me. My heart!”

“I didn’t know that you had a heart.”

“Stop that sarcasm. I just wanted to tell you that since we last met I have now done a little arithmetic, and some of the answers might interest you.”

“You have now taken up math? What happened to the painter’s easel and brush?”

“You know what? I have come to agree with your father. Were I in his shoes, I would not let my daughter marry an artist. Art is for women and children. There is something effeminate about it. That’s why you dumped me, right?”

“Dumped you? On which heap?”

“Let’s be serious. Now, about the man we discussed the other night… When I went home I thought a great deal about him. I concluded that the man in the suit who went into the public toilets was the one who left in rags. Nyawlra, I must tell you this: he was one of the beggars outside Paradise, and we now know that the real force behind the beggars’ gathering is the so-called Movement for the Voice of the People. He must be a member, as are all these people in the queue outside your office. How do I know that? The queue begins where I first saw the man standing, which could mean that while he was talking to you he was actually casing the joint. These people all want to smear the Ruler’s good name by exaggerating the severity of unemployment, by dramatizing the plight of the unemployed. That man, your friend, is a threat to the stability and security of the country.”

“You’re out of your mind. You seem to have acquired the art of spinning tales! Yesterday he was a djinn; today he is provocateur, inciting anti-government activity!”

“There is no reason he cannot be both. You wait and see. The government has engaged an expert in djinns and djinn warfare. My own view is that those djinns are fake, mortals pretending to be djinns. And the policeman-what is his name? Gathere, Ariga, or something-is just a storyteller.”

“And you, of course, are not.”

“A human or a djinn, the man is a member of the Movement for the Voice of the People. He and you were together. Therefore you too could be a member. QED.”

He knows nothing, she said to herself. Still, she was not amused by his logic, however warped. She sought to distract and confuse him.

“So Grace is talking to John. John is a youthwinger. Therefore Grace is a youthwinger. QED. Your logic is impeccable, worthy of Aristotle.”

“It’s not only white people who know logic. We too have logic, black logic found in our proverbs. You know the saying that he who keeps the company of lepers becomes a leper?”

“Well said,” Nyawlra responded, laughing. “Preacherman, whose company do you keep? Crooks and looters. Therefore…”

“Listen to me. I am now the only one who can save you. Surely you’ve heard or read that the Ruler has banned the Movement for the Voice of the People?”

“An old song. Why don’t you sing a new one through His Master’s voice? Since when are you a spokes-youth for His Mightiness? Yet I have not seen you driving a Mercedes-Benz, the hallmark of arrival.”

“That’s only a matter of time. Nyawlra, you don’t seem to understand what I am trying to tell you. Let me be more blunt. Do you know what the dissidents have been doing lately? Scattering plastic snakes and anti-government leaflets all over the country. The Ruler has given Sikiokuu special powers to crush this movement: its entire leadership, membership, supporters, and misguided fellow travelers. The minister intends to mobilize the entire secret security system, including us, the youthwings of the Ruler’s Party. You see where I am coming from? I am giving you one last friendly warning. Come back to me or else…”