Weep Not, Child (Penguin African Writers Series Book 3)

by Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o

But whatever Ngotho had been prepared to do to redeem himself in the eyes of his children, he would not be ordered by a son to take the oath. Not that he objected to it in principle. After all, oath-taking as a means of binding a person to a promise was a normal feature of tribal life. But to be given by a son! That would have undermined his standing as a father.

That gave him no right to reverse the custom and tradition for which he and those of his generation stood. And yet he felt the loss of the land even more keenly than Boro, for to him it was a spiritual loss.

There was only one god for him – and that was the farm he had created, the land he had tamed. And who were these Mau Mau who were now claiming that land, his god? Ha, ha! He could have laughed at the whole ludicrous idea but for the fact that they had forced him into the other life, the life he had tried to avoid. He had been called upon to take up a temporary appointment as a district officer.

Who were black men and Mau Mau anyway, he asked for the thousandth time. Mere savages! A nice word – savages.

The Mau Mau had come to symbolise all that which he had tried to put aside in life. To conquer it would give him a spiritual satisfaction, the same sort of satisfaction he had got from the conquest of his land.

Mr Howlands despised Jacobo because he was a savage. But he would use him. The very ability to set these people fighting among themselves instead of fighting with the white men gave him an amused satisfaction.

‘Curfew…Curfew…’ And then turning his voice to Ngotho, ‘And you again did nothing?’ Ngotho felt this like a pin pressed into his flesh. He was ready to accept everything, but not this.

‘The letter said that the head of the headmaster plus the heads of forty children would be cut off if the school did not instantly close down. It was signed with Kimathi’s name.’

Njoroge did not leave school.

‘Haven’t you heard that the barber and – and –? Six in all were taken from their houses three nights ago. They have been discovered dead in the forest.’

This was the worldly teacher they used to call Uuu. His moustache was not there. Teacher Isaka had gone to Nyeri the year Njoroge finished the first school. Since then, Njoroge had not heard of him. Isaka now looked distinctly holy. This was what it meant to be a Revivalist.

It was to him painfully unbelievable that he would see Isaka, the worldly teacher they used to call Uuu, no more.

Boro had always told himself that the real reason for his flight to the forest was a desire to fight for freedom. But this fervour had soon worn off. His mission became a mission of revenge. This was the only thing that could now give him fire and boldness. If he killed a single white man, he was exacting a vengeance for a brother killed.

But enough. Chief Jacobo must die.’

He was to learn later that he had been the only boy in all that area who would go to high school.

When the time for Njoroge to leave came near, many people contributed money so that he could go. He was no longer the son of Ngotho but the son of the land.

He made friends and worked with Nandi, Luo, Wakamba, and Giriama.

He did not know that this faith in the future could be a form of escape from the reality of the present.

They never talked of colour; they never talked down to Africans; and they could work closely, joke, and laugh with their black colleagues who came from different tribes. Njoroge at times wished the whole country was like this. This seemed a little like paradise, a paradise where children from all walks of life and of different religious faiths could work together without any consciousness.

He brought up his boys to copy and cherish the white man’s civilisation as the only hope of mankind and especially of the black races.

Njoroge was not touched again, and when he became well a few days later, he and his two mothers were released.

For the first time Njoroge was face to face with a problem to which ‘tomorrow’ was no answer. It was this realisation that made him feel weak and see the emergency in a new light.

He ran quickly out, away from the light into the night. It was only when they turned their eyes to Ngotho that they knew that he too would never return.

Five months and people still talked about it. It was as if the death of Mr Howlands on the same night that Ngotho had died was of a greater consequence than all the deaths of those who had gone before.

At first Mr Howlands had been unable to understand. But gradually he realised that Ngotho had been telling a lie in order to shield Boro. But Boro was in the forest? Slowly he arrived at the truth. Ngotho too had thought that it was Kamau who had done the murder. He had taken on the guilt to save a son.

‘Mwihaki, I don’t want to pretend that I would have warned you if I had known about it. But I assure you that I am deeply sorry. Please accept what I am telling you, for I love you.’

Kamau would be in prison for life. Njoroge did not know what would happen to Kori in detention. He might be killed like those who had been beaten to death at Hola Camp.

For Njoroge had now lost faith in all the things he had earlier believed in, like wealth, power, education, religion. Even love, his last hope, had fled from him.

The only thing that had restrained him was the hope that he might find an anchor in Mwihaki…He had prepared the rope.

You are a coward. You have always been a coward. Why didn’t you do it? And loudly he said, ‘Why didn’t I do it?’ The voice said: Because you are a coward. ‘Yes,’ he whispered to himself, ‘I am a coward.’ And he ran home and opened the door for his two mothers.