The River Between (7 page)

Muthoni's words seemed to be opening a new world to Waiyaki. Yet he could not see it clearly. He was being carried by her voice as it vibrated.

“I want to be a woman made beautiful in the tribe: a husband for my bed; children to play around the hearth.” It was a dream in which he was being carried, forgetting himself and the place where he stood. He remembered such another dream, long ago. But this was of a different nature, stirring violent and contradictory forces in him: “Yes—I want to be a woman made beautiful in the manner of the tribe. . . .”

And she moved away in the dream with the dream and the darkness. Waiyaki remained where he was standing, feeling slightly dizzy and numb. Gradually he woke from his numbness. He was troubled. He walked back to the crowd. But he now knew that they would not catch him again for he was apart from it all. That night a feeling that he lacked something, that he yearned for something beyond him, came in low waves of sadness that would not let him sleep.

There was mist everywhere. It covered Kameno, Makuyu and the other ridges in its thin white grayness. It was chilling, chilling the skin. But Honia river flowed on as if defying the mist. The water, however, was cold.

To Waiyaki, bathing so early in the morning, the water seemed to cut his skin like a sharp knife. He shivered a little as he sat, naked, near the banks of the river. The cold water had gone through the skin, numbing the muscles. His arms, bent at the elbow, rested on the knees. The palms were folded tightly into a fist, so that the knuckles of the fingers appeared like little swellings. The thumbs passed between the first and second fingers and pointed upward. His penis had shrunk in size and, as Waiyaki looked at it, he wondered if it really belonged to him. Waiyaki was not alone. All along the banks the other initiates sat, waiting for the “surgeon.”

All his life Waiyaki had waited for this day, for this very opportunity to reveal his courage like a man. This had been the secret ambition of his youth. Yet, now that the time had come, he felt afraid. He did not, however, show it. He just stared into space, fear giving him courage. His eyes never moved. He was actually seeing nothing. The knife produced a thin sharp pain as it cut through the flesh. The surgeon had done his work. Blood trickled freely on to the ground, sinking into the soil. Henceforth a religious bond linked Waiyaki to the earth, as if his blood was an offering. Around him women were shouting and praising him. The son of Chege had proved himself. Such praises were lavished only on the brave.

Waiyaki sat still after the surgeon had left him. He was now covered with a white sheet. All was well. Yet the pain came and shook him to the roots. What was Muthoni feeling, he wondered. He thought that if he had been in her position he would never have brought himself into such pain. Immediately he hated himself for holding such sentiments. He was of the tribe. He had to endure its ways and be inside the secrets of the hills.

His childhood days came and fleeted by. Many things clouded his mind; his early adventure; the years at school. He thought of Livingstone. What would he now think if he found Waiyaki sitting there facing the river, holding his penis with blood dripping on to his fingers, falling to the ground, while a white calico sheet covered him? Waiyaki wanted to laugh at the monstrous idea of Livingstone standing and watching all . . . a-a-a- . . . the numbness was wearing away . . . the skin alive again . . . pain . . . Waiyaki could not move. The pain was eating through him. That was the gate to the mystery of the hills. And that day when Chege took him to the sacred grove appeared vividly for a second. Then the experience lost its clear edges . . . most . . . strange how that old man defied time . . . had Waiyaki understood him? Something always held Chege aloof from everything around him. Livingstone in his way was like Chege . . . standing for the other side . . . no . . . confusing the two . . . the pain again, biting like ants eating into the flesh . . . oh . . . two strong waves . . . his mind was wandering. Steel yourself, Waiyaki. Keep still. . . .

A shout and cry mixing with suppressed groans of pain! Women were shouting and singing their bravery. All was over. The new generation had proved itself. Without a single blemish.

The hospital was a small shed a little distance from the village. The floor was hard with bumps. A thin covering of grass and banana leaves was their bed. After two days Waiyaki's wound had swollen so much that he began to doubt if he would ever be well again. Perhaps he would lose his manhood. He shuddered. The other initiates were like him. And whenever the attendants came to treat them, a few initiates screamed with pain as soon as the swollen part was pressed. Food was plentiful but who had any taste for it? They were forced to eat with teasing threats that their “thing” would be cut. A more serious threat was that a woman might be brought into the shed and one of the attendants would make love to her in their presence. The initiates were horrified and the attendants laughed. Everybody knew how painful the whole thing would be at the slightest provocation of that kind.

The only relief was when the attendants told them stories of men and the inner secrets. At first such stories were intolerable to Waiyaki, especially as he had to listen to them. It was part of their education. But after a few days, when his wound became better, he found that he could listen to the stories with relish and enjoyment. He had a lot to learn.

 • • • 

“They are all out now?”

“Yes. We are happy. The boys have been a credit to the hills.” Pride, indeed, could be detected in Chege's voice. He had a reason for this. Everywhere he went, he received compliments on the way his son had emerged from the whole experience. People were amazed that the white man's education had not softened him; he could stand the traditional ordeal without flinching.

“And the girls?” the elder from Gathanjo asked.

“All . . . all . . .”

“Yes?” the elder queried. He saw that Chege was hesitant.

“There is a girl . . . she is not well.”

“Who is she?”

“Muthoni.”

“Oh, Joshua's daughter? We heard about her. Strange case for a girl. . . .”

“It is strange,” agreed Chege. A little silence fell between them. The sun was high up in the sky and the two men had taken shelter under a tree.

“Yes . . . it is strange,” repeated Chege. “All the other girls have left, their wounds nearly dry scars.”

“And she? Left in the . . .”

“Oh, no. She stays with her aunt. Her wound, we hear, is getting bigger and worse.”

“A father's curse.”

“Maybe.”

“These Christians. They will never come to any good,” the elder commented slowly, shaking his head.

“I have always said so. You see what discord in the family does. If Joshua had not sold his heart to these people, it would have been a simple case. Why! A black ram without blemish under the Mugumo tree—simple sacrifice. And all would have ended well.”

“Yes. But now he won't agree. So obstinate has he become, I hear, encouraged by those white people. . . .” The elder stood up and took his staff. He sneezed and pulled two leaves he was carrying. He rubbed his nose. “Well, I will go now when it is day.”

“Go in peace. These hills from the ancient times have seen strange things.”

“Stay well. Remain in peace.”

The elder went away. Chege watched him disappear. Then he stood up and looked across the valley. Through an opening in the forest, he could see the various huts that lay scattered on the opposite ridge. One side of the roof of Joshua's house could just be seen. Chege let out a small, enigmatic sigh and then murmured, “Not well. Not well.” He took the staff and began trudging back to his home. He was glad that Waiyaki was now a man. But still he feared for the country.

 • • • 

Waiyaki watched her: she was breathing hard. It was now a week since the others resumed their normal life. But Muthoni was still suffering. Waiyaki had come to see her.

“How are you now?” he forced himself to say.

“I am all right,” she replied with difficulty. Her face was much darker than it had been before initiation. She was bearing it well. Waiyaki admired her courage, a courage that never deserted her. They talked little. At one time she turned her eyes away from Waiyaki and said, “I wish Nyambura could come to me.” It was not a complaint. It was just a wish, a longing that she hoped might be fulfilled.

“Why does she not come?”

“I think my father would not allow her.”

“It is cruel,” Waiyaki said, having nothing else to say.

“I disobeyed him. I chose my way and when he called me back, I refused to go.”

Waiyaki let his eyes roll around the darkened walls of the hut. Black soot hung from the roof in strings, as if ready to fall. Muthoni's bed was made of bamboo poles tied together to make a frame. Other sticks were tied across. The bedding was grass mixed with a few pieces of sacking and banana leaves. The bed was low, against the wall, just near the door. Waiyaki thought: “Is she paying for the disobedience?” He shrank to think of this. Was everyone to pay with suffering for choosing his way, for being a rebel?

“And your mother—?”

“She too would not come. He would not allow her.” She paused a little. “And I would not want her to come. She would only cry and become sad and I would rather bear the pain alone.”

When Waiyaki left the hut, his mind was made up. He must see Nyambura. And that day he went to Makuyu and strolled about; hovered around Joshua's household, hoping to meet her. There was something in Muthoni that somehow called forth all his sympathy and admiration. Was he himself capable of such a rebellion? But he reflected that it was only proper to obey one's father. Perhaps Muthoni had been wrong to disobey. His did not see Nyambura that day.

The following morning he found her drawing water from Honia river. He did not know her very well; but he was struck by the resemblance between the two girls. Even her eyes had that restless but clear look noticeable in Muthoni. Waiyaki did not waste words with her. After greetings, he told her about Muthoni and the condition in which she was. Nyambura was shocked and wept with bitterness. This was embarrassing for Waiyaki and he quickly excused himself, after warning her not to tell Muthoni that it was he who had been to call Nyambura. Nyambura did not wait but immediately left her waterpot and went to see Muthoni.

And after that first visit, she came more often. She avoided the vigilance of her father and would come and stay with Muthoni for as long as possible, chatting about a number of irrelevant things. Sometimes tears suddenly gushed from her eyes and she could not hold them back.

“Why did you do it? Why did you—?” she would ask, her love for her sister mingling with bitterness. Muthoni would try to smile and say, “I wanted to be a woman. One day, Nyambura, you will know.”

“Let me never know, let me . . .”

“You too will have to make a choice one day.”

“Oh, Muthoni. Why did you—?” And she would not proceed.

As days went by, Muthoni became worse. Waiyaki, who was a frequent visitor, grew more troubled. Muthoni was wasting away so fast. Now only her eyes seemed to have any life. Something had to be done. He was now convinced that the herbs which the aunt gave to Muthoni would not cure her. He consulted Nyambura and she agreed with him. The two then approached the aunt and Waiyaki gathered enough courage to say:

“Muthoni should go to hospital.”

“Where?” the aunt asked rather hopefully.

“Siriana Mission hospital.”

For a few days Muthoni's aunt resisted the suggestion. Nyambura beseeched her, hatred seething in her heart. She blamed her aunt for this trouble. The aunt began to give way.

“Who will take her?” she asked Waiyaki at last. Waiyaki thought a little.

“If there is nobody to take her, I shall. I can get some helpers and I know the way. It is long but we can go.”

“Come tomorrow.”

Muthoni was in a bad state. Only the day before, she had fallen into a delirium. Laughing and crying she would say, “I am a woman now.”

On the day Muthoni was taken to the hospital Nyambura broke the news to Miriamu. She and Muthoni had agreed to keep their mother ignorant for fear of bringing misery to her. But the case had reached a crisis. Miriamu broke down weeping and cried, “Why didn't you tell me before? Oh, Muthoni!”

Waiyaki emerged from the smoke-clouded hut and walked away slowly, dragging his feet and shambling over things like a drunken man. The hut belonged to Njeri, the aunt of Muthoni. She had no husband for her man had died years back after an attack of strange illness. She was now a middle-aged woman for whom life had lost much of its attraction. Having no children of her own, she readily welcomed into her house any young people and children. A little while before her life had been illuminated by Muthoni, who had turned to her for refuge.

But life was not kind to her. Muthoni was now dead. As Waiyaki walked aimlessly along the ridge, he wondered what Njeri would do. For she would no doubt be blamed for the death of Muthoni. Waiyaki could see her face, which had become all at once wrinkled when she heard the sad news. It had been unbearable; that simple act of hiding her face in her hands and standing still, without tears.

Nyambura and her mother wept without speaking, without a sigh even. Only tears flowed down continuously. They had come to await the return of Waiyaki and the ten young men who had taken Muthoni to Siriana. Waiyaki was unable to look at Nyambura or her mother. He had just told the news and then after a while stumbled out of the house. It was three days since they left Kameno.

Waiyaki did not go straight home. The sun seemed to have set early. The country was dull pale orange; everything seemed strangely quiet. The cattle, returning home, did not make much noise and there were no children prancing about. Wherever Waiyaki went, the silent face of Muthoni would come and bar the way. Then he would turn away in another direction; still she was there, everywhere. Livingstone had been at the hospital. And the white women too. Muthoni remained calm and her eyes had an intense glow that had been with her all along the difficult journey. She had not been able to walk but the young men had made a stretcher and carried her on it. She had not talked much. But at times she spoke of Nyambura.

Waiyaki knew Muthoni loved her sister. He remembered a day soon after Nyambura had begun to visit Muthoni. He had entered the hut and found the two girls arguing.

“I am still a Christian, see, a Christian in the tribe. Look. I am a woman and will grow big and healthy in the tribe.”

Even after he had entered, she rambled on. She had not known how fast she was wasting away.

She did not last many hours after they arrived in Siriana. Waiyaki could still remember her last words as they approached the hospital. “Waiyaki,” she turned to him, “tell Nyambura I see Jesus. And I am a woman, beautiful in the tribe. . . .”

She had died clinging to that image, to that obsession which had led her from Makuyu to Kameno. Who knew what it was? The only question which people had asked was “Why did she do it . . . ? Why? Why?” And even for Waiyaki the question remained “Why?”

Darkness came and found Waiyaki wandering like a lost spirit. Had he too been taken by that dream? It was her secret . . . and she had died for it. He reached his own hut, recently built for him, lit the lamp and went to bed. He could not sleep and all through the night he kept on asking why. He did not know whom he was asking.

 • • • 

Joshua heard of the death of Muthoni without a sign of emotion on the face. A slight tremor in the voice when he spoke was the only thing that betrayed him. He did not ask Miriamu when she died or how Miriamu had learned of the facts. Miriamu wept even more when she saw the impassive face. To him, Muthoni had ceased to exist on the very day that she had sold herself to the devil. Muthoni had turned her head and longed for the cursed land. Lot's wife had done the same thing and she had been turned to stone, a rock of salt, to be forever a stern warning to others. The journey to the new Jerusalem with God was not easy. It was beset with temptation. But Joshua was determined to triumph, to walk with a brisk step, his eyes on the cross. Muthoni had been an outcast. Anything cursed here on earth would also be cursed in heaven. Let that be a warning to those who rebelled against their parents and the laws of God.

 • • • 

Chege beheld this in silence. No longer would the voice be heard; no longer would he give the warning. He had done his work. Had he not foreseen this drama? Had he not seen the estrangement between father and daughter, son and father, because of the new faith? This was a punishment to Joshua. It was also a punishment to the hills. It was a warning to all, to stick to the ways of the ridges, to the ancient wisdom of the land, to its ritual and song.

Would Joshua listen? Would Kabonyi hearken to the voice of angry Murungu? Chege feared for them. He feared for those who had embraced strange gods. Would the ridges listen and rise up together? Makuyu and Kameno still antagonized each other. Makuyu was now the home of the Christians while Kameno remained the home of all that was beautiful in the tribe. Who would ever bring them together?

The death of Muthoni did not augur well for the future; it might bring further strife. Chege did not like the way his son had become involved in the affair. He feared for him. But he admired Waiyaki; his figure and his youth. He could not say anything to him. Already he found that he could not really understand his son. Would he be corrupted by Siriana? Again he felt his bones creak. He touched his gray hairs with a sigh and meditatively watched the dying day as he sat on his threelegged stool in front of his hut. He questioned the wisdom of having sent his son to the Mission place. Would he, Chege, be punished like Joshua? What of the prophecy? He thought of going to seek a man of his generation with whom he could talk things over.

He stood up. The cold evening wind made him shake a little. He was old, old. He sighed again, but his sigh was not due to age or to the realization that his time was gone. It was the sigh of many who that night and weeks after talked of Muthoni's death. The fact was that nobody knew for sure what the death portended.

 • • • 

Far away in Siriana, it was a sigh with a different meaning. The death of Muthoni forever confirmed the barbarity of Gikuyu customs.

Livingstone, the head of the Mission, had always shown reluctance in penetrating the ridges. He had always liked the idea of training some Mission boys who could then be sent out to spread the good news. He was now an old man, bald-headed, and with a double chin. He had a large pith helmet of which he was very fond. He rarely removed it from his head, but when he did, the almost sheet-white bald head made a big contrast to the freckled face, hands and feet. Whenever he moved, his knees shook a little, while his tired voice and habit of speech was characterized by a tendency to pronounce “r” even where some of the other men and women at the Mission would not. His knowledge of Gikuyu language was tolerably good. Twenty-five years' stay at the Mission was not such a short period.

When he came to the Mission, he was full of vigor and certainly full of great expectations. He always looked to a time when his efforts would produce fruits. But as years went on he realized that he was not making as much progress as he had expected he would. This was a disappointment to a man who had left home for a wild country, fired by a dream of heroism and the vision of many new souls won for Christ through his own efforts. His call and his mission had not met with the response he had once hoped for. True, the school and the hospital had expanded a great deal. But these people seemed only interested in education, while they paid lip service to salvation.

They were entrenched in their blind customs. Children became ill. People believed that they were bewitched. A man died. His body was abandoned without burial. And then this circumcision—it was barbarous. Livingstone was one of those missionaries who thought themselves enlightened. They were determined to learn the customs of the natives and not repeat the mistake of the missionaries of the earlier generation who had caused tribal warfare and civil strife because they could not appreciate the importance of tribal customs.

In this spirit he had attended some of the dances on the eve of circumcision. But he was horrified beyond measure. The songs he heard and the actions he saw convinced him beyond any doubt that these people were immoral through and through. He was thoroughly nauseated and he never went to such another dance. Circumcision had to be rooted out if there was to be any hope of salvation for these people. Livingstone was a man of moderation and advocated gradual methods of eradicating the custom. In spite of pressure by some great enthusiasts, he refused to adopt rash and desperate measures. This was during his early years. But when he saw that this policy of letting things happen gradually had not had the hoped-for results, he began to preach against the custom vigorously. Even then the full war was not on. Would he eventually give way to pressure? He was growing old. New blood had joined him in Siriana.

And then Muthoni died after circumcision—after this brutal mutilation of her body. People would accuse him. He felt cheated by fate. Circumstances were laughing at his old age. But he would show them that the spirit of the Lord still burned in him. Age did not matter. It was Christ who would be fighting the Prince of Darkness through him, yes, Christ working in him, making him young in action. Circumcision had now to be fought by all means in their hands. He could count on Joshua and Kabonyi to help him.

And then a woman came to him. He was in his office and was startled to see her. Martha was one of the staunchest critics of his policy.

“Excuse me, Reverend.”

“Yes?”

“Do you know the girl who died?”

“Muthoni? She was brought by Waiyaki and some other Mission boys.”

“You don't know her father.”

“Eh . . . no.”

“She is the daughter of—of—”

“Yes?”

“Joshua!” she said rather triumphantly. There was a twinkle in her eyes. There was a short space of total silence. And then—

“Oh!” It was a small groan. Almost pathetic. The war was now on.