Come one and all!
“That must be Mũturi and his crowd,” Gatuĩria remarked.
“Let’s hurry then,” Warĩĩnga replied, and she started running toward the voices. And the voices came nearer and nearer, still singing:
Come one and all,
And behold the wonderful sight
Of us chasing away the Devil
And all his disciples!
Come one and all!
After a few minutes, Warĩĩnga and Gatuĩria were standing by the side of the road that ran through Ilmorog, astonished at the strange sight before them.
A long procession of women, men and children met their eyes. The procession was winding along the road toward the cave. Many of the children were running along beside the column, some prancing about and others joining in the singing.
“What a long procession!” Gatuĩria said.
“It looks as if Mũturi has collected the whole of Njeruca together!” Warĩĩnga replied.
“I don’t know if we’ll be able to find Mũturi,” Gatuĩria said.
“Let’s just stand here and hope that if he sees us, Mũturi will come over to us,” said Warĩĩnga.
“Even if we tell him about the police, it won’t make any difference,” Gatuĩria said.
“Why?” Warĩĩnga asked.
“Because I can’t see this crowd retreating!” Gatuĩria replied.
They stood there by the roadside, watching the long procession, waiting for Mũturi. And the people still came on, some singing, some whistling, some blowing penny whistles and horns, but all in time to the song. Their footsteps and their gestures matched the rhythm of the song. Many had rags for clothes. Many more had no shoes. But there was a small group in the procession that was better dressed, with clean shirts, coats and trousers.
Suddenly Warĩĩnga felt her heart miss a beat. She did not know whether to believe the evidence of her eyes. It was as if she had gone back to a dream that had no beginning and no end.
“Look! Look!” she shouted at Gatuĩria. “Look at him!”
“Who? What is it?” Gatuĩria asked quickly. “Mũturi?”
“Look at the man I told you about last night! Look at the man I saw yesterday!” Warĩĩnga said, as if she were chanting a song.
“But who?”
“The man who gave me the fake invitation card at the Kaka Hotel bus stop! Can you see him?”
“Where?”
“Over there, among the group that seems to be slightly better dressed. The one with a goatee beard.”
“Wait a minute!” Gatuĩria said. “I know him!”
“Who is he?” Warĩĩnga asked.
“He is a student at the university!”
“A student?”
“Yes. He’s the leader of the Ilmorog University Students’ Association, ILUSA.”
“And what’s he doing in the procession?” Warĩĩnga asked.
“He’s probably one of them,” Gatuĩria replied.
“So Mwĩreri wa Mũkiraaĩ’s claim that the fake cards that called this a Devil’s feast came from the students was true after all?” Warĩĩnga asked.
And then and there, she opened her handbag and took out the card given her by the student and the card given her by Mwĩreri wa Mũkiraaĩ. She compared them quickly, as if she were seeing them for the first time, and then returned them to the bag.
“I know now, without a doubt, who the people were who put the fake card into my pigeon hole at the university!” Gatuĩria said, nodding as if everything had just dawned on him.
They watched the procession, their minds preoccupied with questions.
Some people carried placards bearing different slogans: WE REJECT THE SYSTEM OF THEFT AND ROBBERY; OUR POVERTY IS THEIR WEALTH; THE THIEF AND THE WITCH ARE TWINS—THEIR MOTHER IS EXPLOITATION; THE BEEHIVE IN WHICH WE WILL ROLL THIEVES AND ROBBERS DOWN THE SLOPES OF THE HILL OF DEATH HAS ALREADY BEEN BUILT BY THE WORKERS; WHAT’S THE BIGGEST THEFT? THE THEFT OF THE SWEAT AND THE BLOOD OF THE WORKERS! WHAT IS THE BIGGEST ROBBERY? THE ROBBERY OF THE BLOOD OF THE MASSES! and many others not easily discernible to a person on the roadside. Those who did not have placards carried sticks on their shoulders as if they were guns.
“This is really an army!” said Gatuĩria.
“An army of workers?” Warĩĩnga asked.
“Yes, and peasants, and petty traders, and students. . . .”
“. . . led by the workers. . . .”
“And taking the battle to the cave!” Gatuĩria added.
Warĩĩnga laughed as she contemplated the battle that would be fought out in the cave between the forces of the workers and the forces of the thieves and the robbers.
By now many of those at the front of the procession had passed Warĩĩnga and Gatuĩria. Warĩĩnga said to Gatuĩria: “Maybe Mũturi isn’t among them?”
2
As if in answer to Warĩĩnga’s question, Mũturi caught sight of them at that moment, left the procession, and came over to where they were standing. Mũturi spoke quickly, without a pause, as if the river of his words had flooded and burst its banks.
“Are you leaving so soon, when the struggle has only just started? Do you want to miss the extraordinary spectacle of us chasing away the class of exploiters from their den in the cave? Look at our people stamping firmly and proudly on the ground as if they were hearkening to the call of the masses! I found that most of the preparatory work had been done by the Ilmorog workers themselves. I just helped a bit. You see that small group that seems well dressed? Those are Ilmorog students from the schools around here and the university. This is really wonderful! Future generations will sing about this day from the rooftops and treetops and mountaintops, from Kenya to Elgon, from Elgon to Kilimanjaaro, from Ngong Hills to Nyandaarwa. I, Mũturi wa Kahonia Maithori, found the students and the workers already forming a procession, urging all those who live in Njeruca to join them to attack the local thieves and robbers and their foreign friends. I passed on the information I had already collected, and I was asked to put in a word. We toured every corner of Njeruca. Whenever anybody learned that I had actually heard the thieves and robbers bragging, he would immediately go for a stick and come back to join the procession and the singing. What more can I tell you? Bring your horns so that we can trumpet the glory of this great day. Come, and let’s rejoice together. Come, and let’s stride about in pride, for some of our educated youth have opened their ears, and they have started listening to the cry of the people! They have opened their eyes, and they have started seeing the light that shines from the great organization of the workers and peasants! Has Wangarĩ come back?”
“We’ve come to meet you!” Gatuĩria said as soon as he found a chance to slip in a word.
“Why? Where is Wangarĩ?”
“Wangarĩ was arrested by the police,” Warĩĩnga told him.
“Arrested?”
“Yes, for spreading rumors that might start violence and endanger peace and stability in the land!” Gatuĩria said.
“Where was she arrested? In the cave?”
“Yes,” Warĩĩnga replied.
And now Mũturi spoke with pain and bitterness: “As a worker, I know very well that the forces of law and order are on the side of those who rob the workers of the products of their sweat, of those who steal food and land from the peasants. The peace and the order and the stability they defend with armored cars is the peace and the order and the stability of the rich, who feast on bread and wine snatched from the mouths of the poor—yes, they protect the eaters from the wrath of the thirsty and the hungry. Have you ever seen employers being attacked by the armed forces for refusing to increase the salaries of their workers? What about when the workers go on strike? And they have the audacity to talk about violence! Who plants the seeds of violence in this country? That’s why I wanted Wangarĩ to fetch them and see for hers
elf, so that all her lingering doubts would vanish, and she would ask herself: Have I ever seen the police being sent to silence the rich?”
“Listen,” Gatuĩria said hurriedly, “we came to warn you that you might be arrested as well. The Ilmorog police chief is at the cave.”
“I’m glad you came to warn us,” Mũturi replied slowly, obviously moved by the gesture. “Your action is a source of great joy to me. You and I met in a matatũ only last night and yet you’ve come to save me from danger. But I will not run away. We shall not run away. For us workers, there’s no turning back—where could we run? Let me tell you, I’m sure that the system of theft and robbery will never end in this country as long as people are scared of guns and clubs. We must struggle and fight against the culture of fear. And there is only one cure: a strong organization of the workers and peasants of the land, together with those whose eyes and ears are now open and alert. These brave students have shown which side education should serve. My friends, you should come and join us too. Bring your education to us, and don’t turn your backs on the people. That’s the only way.”
3
As soon as he had said this, Mũturi left Gatuĩria and Warĩĩnga and ran to rejoin the workers’ procession.
Warĩĩnga and Gatuĩria looked at one another. Both were shaken by Mũturi’s call to arms.
A while before, as they were eating meat and drinking beer in Njeruca, they would never have thought that they could possibly join a procession of ragged, barefooted workers on their way to attack the cave with sticks and placards. But now the voice of a worker was calling upon them to choose the side on which they would use their education.
A while before, though both were nauseated by the talk in the cave, they were inclined to view those things as happening in a world quite unrelated to their own lives. But now the voice of a worker was calling to them, telling them that nobody could walk along two roads at the same time.
A while ago, they regarded themselves as spectators of a dance danced by others. But now the voice of a worker was urging them to enter the arena, not to stand on the edge and watch now that the dance of the people was being danced.
Gatuĩria asked himself: We, the intellectuals among the workers, which side are we on? Are we on the side of the producers or the side of those who live on the products of others? Are we on the side of the workers and peasants or the side of exploiters? Or are we like the hyena which tried to walk along two different roads at the same time?
Warĩĩnga was experiencing similar emotions and was pursuing similar thoughts: We who work as clerks, copy typists and secretaries, which side are we on? We who type and take dictation from Boss Kĩhara and his kind, whose side are we on in this dance? Are we on the side of the workers, or on the side of the rich? Who are we? Who are we? Many a time I’ve heard women say: “Our firm does this and that,” “In our firm we employ so many workers, who earn this much,” “Our company made this much profit,” and as they speak, they may not have a cent for their bus fare in the evening. Yes, I’ve often heard girls bragging about their bosses, and when you check carefully to see what they’re bragging about, you can’t find a thing. A few hundred shillings a month for a woman with children to feed, and we proudly call that a salary? And in exchange for so little we have sacrificed four things.
First, our arms. Yes, for it is we who type all their documents and all their letters. Our hands become their hands; our power becomes their power.
Second, our brains. Yes, because there is no boss who wants a girl with independent thoughts and an independent stand; no boss is happy with a secretary who questions things, or who opens her eyes wide to see what is being done to her by Boss Kĩhara! The Boss is always right: hang your brain from your fingers or your thighs!
Third, our humanity. Yes, because Boss Kĩhara and his kind work out their frustrations on us. When they quarrel with their wives at home, they bring their anger to the office; when something goes wrong with their business, they bring all their fury to the office. We are insulted, but we keep quiet because we are supposed to have hearts that are not easily moved to tears.
Fourth, our thighs. Yes, because except for the lucky few, most of us can get jobs or keep them only by allowing the likes of Boss Kĩhara to paw our thighs. We’re their real wives . . . but, of course, not their legal wives! Yes, we are wives installed in a BMW for a weekend drive to an abattoir! After all, there’s a difference between a goat for slaughter and one for grazing.
Who are we? Who are we? Who are we? Warĩĩnga’s heart beat in time to her question, raising problems to which nobody could provide her with solutions because they concerned the decision she would have to make herself about the side she would choose in life’s struggle.
4
Warĩĩnga and Gatuĩria found the whole cave reeking of burned debris and smoke. The whole place had been completely surrounded by the Njeruca crowd, which was still singing:
Come one and all,
And behold the wonderful sight
Of us chasing away the Devil
And all his disciples!
Come one and all!
The drama at the door to the cave, as several thieves and robbers attempted to squeeze their fat bellies through it at the same time, was both comic and sad. Any thief who managed to squeeze through would lumber across to his car like a hippo and, after a second, would raise dust as he speeded away, saying his prayers with all his soul. Those who did not have fat bellies—the clan of the skinnies—would jump through the windows and, touching the ground, would dart away like arrows. And the workers would run after them shouting: “There he is! There he is! Hunt him down! Hunt him down! Catch thief! Catch thief!”
From where she was standing, Warĩĩnga did not have a clear view of what was happening on every side. The yard was a chaos of running feet as the owners of the palaces and mansions in Ilmorog’s Golden Heights were chased by the Njeruca shanty dwellers. But Warĩĩnga was able to witness the wonderful spectacle of Gĩtutu wa Gataangũrũ and Nditika wa Ngũũnji, trying to run away, like two spiders with eggs, while their buttocks were lashed by their pursuers with sticks. By the time they reached their cars, they were panting, and the sweat of pain and fatigue and fear fell to the ground in drops like rain during a heavy downpour.
Warĩĩnga was not alone as she smiled. The air was full of the noise of the good-humored laughter of the Njeruca people as they mocked the Heights dwellers in flight, trying to remove jackets, ties, shoes, belts, anything that would make them lighter.
But when the crowd saw the foreign thieves about to leave the cave, their laughter turned into menacing roar. The people roared like a thousand angry lions whose cubs had been taken away from them, and they seized their sticks and clubs and iron rods and pressed forward toward the foreign thieves, who were surrounded by their local home guards. One local thief took out his gun to shoot, but the angry hiss of the crowd made his hand shake, and the bullet flew up harmlessly into the air. The crowd halted. Then it surged forward again, the footsteps of the people running together making the ground shake.
The seven foreign robbers from Western Europe, the USA and Japan were saved from being torn to pieces only by the fact that their cars were nearby, and their drivers had the engines revving, ready for a quick get-away.
There were two thieves who forgot that they had cars and fled on foot. The cars were set alight. After a while, not a single thief or robber was left in the area of the cave. All of them had managed to flee, as if they had suddenly grown wings of fear.
5
The people now gathered outside the cave, expecting speeches and guidance from their leaders. Mũturi wa Kahonia Maithori was the first to speak.
“Friends—or perhaps I should call you clansmen, for we who are gathered here now belong to one clan: the clan of workers—I think all of us saw the incredible spectacle of those who have bellies that never bear children come to scorn us. Those b
ellies are not swollen by disease. They have been fattened by the fruit of our sweat and blood. Those bellies are barren, and their owners are barren. What about us, the workers? We build houses; others occupy them; and we, the builders, are left out in the rain. We make clothes; others take them, and dress well; and we the tailors go naked. We grow food; others eat it; and we, the farmers, sleep with our stomachs growling through the night. Look here. We build good schools; other people’s children find places in them, and ours go looking for food in rubbish heaps and in dustbins. Today we are taking a stand. Today, here, we refuse to go on being the pot that cooks but never tastes the food.”
Mũturi stepped aside. The crowd gave him a big ovation. The women ululated.
The Ilmorog students’ leader was the next to speak.
Seeing him, Warĩĩnga felt a strange sensation. How could this be? How could it be that Mũturi, who had once rescued her from death under a train in Nakuru, was being followed on the platform by the man who rescued her from death under a bus in Nairobi yesterday? Warĩĩnga watched his goatee beard move in time to his words.
“We, the mass of students in Ilmorog, whether in primary or secondary schools or at the university, support the workers fully in their just struggle against the system of modern theft and robbery. The workers are at the forefront of the fight against neocolonialism, the last stage of imperialism. When the organization of Ilmorog workers got wind of the gathering of local and international thieves, they informed us, as a student organization. And we, the students, sat down and asked ourselves: What can we do to show our solidarity with the workers? It was then that we printed cards to indicate to people the nature of the feast, to show them that it was going to be like a Devil’s feast organized by Satan, the king of devils. Let us all now join hands with the working people in their just war against the drinking of human blood, the eating of human flesh, and the many other crimes perpetrated by imperialism in its neocolonial stage. Let us join hands with the workers as they struggle to build a house that will benefit all the builders. What greater thing can our education do for our nation? That’s why we, the students, said that we would not be left behind, that we must join hands in this wonderful drama in which we, the people, were to throw out the Devil and all his followers!”