His wife spent her money mostly on food and clothes. She would not trust him with any of it because she feared he might spend it on the troublesome relatives. But he had to keep up with the others. Could he shame her in front of the other wives? The glory of their days at college came back. He was grateful and stopped even the four visits to his parents because he had no money and she would not go with him. And because his salary was now too small – house rent, a Mercedes Benz and the shopping basket, all to be paid for – he began to ‘borrow’ the company’s money that came his way. Of course I shall return it, he told himself. Still he learnt to play with the company’s cheques. When at last he was caught, the amount he had consumed was more than he could pay.
Waruhiu left one street and quickly crossed to the next. Though he hated the locations, it was easier to hide there, in the crowd until darkness came. He did not want to meet any of his tribesmen while his body exuded the stench. At night he would take a bus which would take him to the only place he would get welcome. He loved Ruth. She loved him. Her love would wash away the stench – even the shame. After all, had he not done those things for her? As for his village, he would not show his face there. How could he look all those people in the eyes? As he waited for the bus, the last scene in the courtroom came back.
The case had attracted much attention. The village priest and people from his home had come. The press with their cameras. First offender. Six months with a warning to all educated to set an example. This was a new Kenya. As he was led out of the crowded courtroom, he saw tears on his mother’s face. Many of the villagers had grave, averted faces. Hand-cuffed hour of shame. He put on a brave, haughty front. But within, he wept. His one consolation was that Ruth was not in the court. He would have died to see her pain and public shame.
The bus came. And the darkness. He looked forward to seeing Ruth. Had she changed much? She was a tall slim woman, not beautiful, but she had grace and power. He would take her in his arms, breaking her fragrant grace on his broad breast. Perhaps the stench would go. That was all he now wanted. He was sure she would understand. In bed, she had always been able to still his doubts and he always discovered faith in the power of renewed love. Ruth. He would not seek work in this city. He would go to one of the neighbouring countries. He would begin all over. He now knew wisdom. He would live faithfully by her side. He had failed the village. He had failed his mother and father. He would never fail Ruth. Never.
He came out of the bus. He knew this place. The smell of roses and bougainvillea. The fresh, crisp air. The wide spaces between houses. What a difference from the locations. Here, he was the only person with strong stench. But he already felt purified as he walked to his house and Ruth. He could not bear the mounting excitement.
Near the door, and he heard a new voice, a deep round voice. He felt utter despair. So his wife had moved! How was he to find her new house.
He gathered courage and knocked at the door. At least he would try to find out if she had left her new address. He stepped aside, into the shadows. The sound of high-heeled shoes; how that sound would have pleased him; the turning of the key; how he would have danced with joy. A woman stood there. For a moment he lost his voice. His legs were heavy. Desire suddenly seized him. Ruth, he whispered. It’s me. Oh, she groaned. Ruth, he whispered again, don’t be afraid, he continued emerging from the shadows, arms wide open to receive her. Don’t, don’t, she cried, after an awkward silence, and moved a step back. But it’s me, he now pleaded. Go away, she sobbed, I don’t know you, I don’t. Please – he hesitated. Then came a hard gritty voice he had never heard in her: I’ll call the police, if you don’t clear off my premises: and she shut the door in his face.
He was numb all over. The stench from his body was too much even for his nostrils. All around him people drunkenly drove past. Music and forced laughter and high-pitched voices – laughter so familiar, reached him with a vengeance. Suddenly he started laughing, a hoarse ugly laughter. He laughed as he walked away; he laughed until his ribs pained; and the music and high-pitched voices still issued from the houses in this very cosmopolitan suburban estate, to compete with laughter that had turned to tears of self-hatred and bitterness.
Acknowledgements
Many of these stories have been published in various magazines including Penpoint, Kenya Weekly News, Transition, The New African, Zuka, Ghala, Joe, and some Russian and German journals. Some have appeared in anthologies too numerous to mention. And the Rain Came Down!, Minutes of Glory, Wedding at the Cross, A Mercedes Funeral and The Black Bird are appearing in book form for the first time. The Mubenzi Tribesman and Goodbye Africa are being published for the first time.
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Copyright © Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o 1975
Cover illustration © Nate Williams
Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
First published in the African Writers Series in 1975
This edition published by Vintage Classics in 2018
penguin.co.uk/vintage
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Gone with the Drought
fn1 Kenya Broadcasting Service
Ngũgĩ Wa Thiong'o, Secret Lives and Other Stories
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