Petals of Blood by Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, Moses Isegawa Page B

the sight of women scratching the earth because they seemed at one with the green land. He would always remember that period when the rains came and everybody was in the muddy fields, sacks on their heads – not to protect them really from rain but to cushion its fall on the body – and they were all busy putting seeds in the soil, and he had watched them from the safety of his classroom or of Abdulla’s shop! There was a cruel side: this he had to admit. A few roads and a reliable water system would have improved their lives. A dispensary might have been a useful addition.
    The children especially were often a nauseating sight: flies swarming around the sore eyes and mucus-blocked noses. Most had only tattered calicoes for clothing.
    But transcending this absurdity was the care they had for one another. He would often meet them, a handsome trio: one rocked a crying baby strapped on the back; the third would pat-pat the crying baby to the rhythm with a rocking lullaby:
    Do not cry, our little one.
    Whoever dares beat our little one,
    May he be cursed with thorns in his flesh.
    If you stop crying, child of our mother,
    She will soon come home from the fields
    And bring you gitete-calabash of milk.
    Their voices – two, three or more – raised in unison emphasized the solitude he associated with his rural cloister. It reminded him of similar scenes of rocking, lullaby-singing children on his father’s pyrethrum fields before the Mau Mau violence.
    Otherwise the village never intruded into his life: why should he – stranger-watchman at the gate – interfere in theirs?
    Today as he walked to Abdulla’s place he felt slightly uncomfortable at the elusive shadow that had earlier crossed his path. Yet Ilmorog ridge was quiet, serene: let it be, let it be, world without end, he murmured.
    As he was about to knock at the back door to Abdulla’s shop, he felt blood rush to his head: for a second he felt as if his brain was drugged . . . perhaps . . . not too old . . . oh hell . . . yes . . . hell is woman . . . heaven is woman. He steeled himself and entered:
    ‘This is your other hiding-place, Mwalimu,’ she said. ‘You see, I am finding out all about your secrets.’
    ‘This . . . no secret . . .’ he said as he sat. ‘I only come to wet my throat.’
    ‘Your tea chased away my thirst. It was really good—’
    ‘But beer is better than tea. Ask Abdulla. He tells me:
Baada ya kazi, jiburudishe na Tusker
. Won’t you have another?’
    ‘That I’ll not refuse,’ she said, laughing, throwing back her head, breasts thrust out in a fatal challenge. She turned to Abdulla. ‘They say that if you don’t drink your share on earth, in heaven you will have too much in stock.’
    Abdulla shouted at Joseph to bring in more beer. He himself hobbled about and brought a paraffin lamp, cleaned the glass and lit the lamp, and sat down to drink.
    ‘What is your name?’ Munira was asking the woman.
    ‘Wanja.’
    ‘Wanja Kahii?’ Abdulla joined in.
    ‘How did you know that? It is what they used to call me at school. I often wrestled with the boys. I also did some drills only done by boys. Freewheeling. Walking on my hands. Wheelbarrow. I would tuck in my skirt and hold it tight between my legs. I also climbed up trees.’
    ‘Wanja . . . Wanja . . .’ repeated Munira. ‘And you don’t have another?’
    ‘I have never asked: maybe I should. Why not? My grandmother here would know.’
    ‘Who is your grandmother?’ Abdulla asked.
    ‘Nyakinyua . . . don’t you know her? She it is who told me about you two: that you are strangers to Ilmorog.’
    ‘She is well known,’ Munira said uncertainly.
    ‘We know her,’ Abdulla responded.
    ‘I suppose you have come to visit her?’ added Munira.
    ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, almost inaudibly. There followed a silence. Abdulla coughed, cleared his throat and turned to Munira . . . beginning to lean toward him, putting on that