Wizard of the Crow (86 page)

One night, as he was walking out of his favorite bar, he noticed a poster on the wall and something about it made him stop in his tracks. It bore a vague resemblance to him, at least to how he looked before alcohol had taken over his mind and body. No, it was not his face, then or now, because he had never grown his hair long, and the beard made him look like some kind of black Jesus. As he went nearer and touched the poster, the face depicted now slightly suggested Sikiokuu. The writing declared
THE WIZARD OF THE CROW, WANTED
FOR A PRIZE. He rubbed his eyes and looked at it again. There was a number to call. Why a prize? For what? Was the prize for him, or for whomever turned him in? He was completely at a loss to know what to do, especially when in the days that followed he found other posters with conflicting messages.

One afternoon he went to his bar, Sell-Me-Death, and although he was already totally drunk he still hoped for one more glass. He saw a riderless red motorcycle against the wall where one of the posters of the beard of Jesus Christ on Sikiokuu’s face hung, but this did not bother him; in fact, the war of posters no longer worried him.

What made him envious, even in his drunken state, was the sight of people crowded around a storyteller whose tales and manner of telling them captured the imagination of the audience so much so that some of them had even forgotten that they had come here to drink. The climax came when the storyteller lowered his voice and made hints about knowing something about the pregnancy of a president. People whistled. Then silence, waiting for more. A pregnant president?

“It’s true!
Haki ya Mungu!”
said the storyteller in a raised voice.

Kamltl could not see the face of the storyteller clearly. But the phrase
True, Haki ya Mungu
jolted him out of a slumberous languor. When and where did he last hear that phraser

“Even the white doctors were baffled by the strange happening,” the storyteller continued. “But the Wizard of the Crow? Oh, no, not him. I was in the plane when the letter was read and I heard everything. Mr. President, the letter said, you are pregnant and nobody knows what you will bear.”

Who is this man who is mouthing my words? thought Kamltl. And why is he distorting them? Why is he turning them into lies? He felt that he could not let the storymonger go on twisting the meaning of his words. He felt like a writer whose work has been lifted by another only to skew its form and content. Despite being drunk, he felt a need to insist on his writing integrity.

“Hapana!
That was not how it went!” he heard himself speaking out, to the consternation of the audience.

They turned toward Kamltl. Those who knew him from this or other bars simply dismissed him as the same drunk who was always trying to spoil a good story. The storyteller was both intrigued and bemused by the intervention. Who was this who had questioned his story in a way that no other listener had done in all the places he had told his tale?
“Hapana!
It is not how it was. Machokali is my witness. I left him a note there, at the reception, yes, of the, I mean at the reception of the hotel—uh, what did they call it? VIP. New York, yes, Very Important People Hotel, New York, with so many yellow taxis and black garbage bags. Why yellow? Why black? Don’t ask me. Now, what was I saying? My note was addressed to one person and one person only, Machokali, the Minister for Foreigners, I mean, Affairs. And I just wanted to tell him one thing only. One thing.
Take care of yourself.
Why? I will say it again. This country is pregnant, and what it will bear, nobody knows. That was all. I cannot take this war on my words anymore. I am leaving …”

Kamltl staggered toward the door. But even before he reached it, a
few listeners had blurted, This drunk has spoken the truth. There is something not right about this country. Then they suddenly ceased to speak, so mesmerized were they by what was unfolding before them. The storyteller, shaking with terror, was running, trying to catch up to the drunk.

“Wizard of the Crow,” the storyteller called out. “Don’t you remember me? I am Arigaigai Gathere, alias A.G.”

Still more wonders were to come. A man who had just arrived at the bar called out: “Wizard of the Crow! I am Elijah Njoya, the one who took you to the airport, remember?”

Kamltl showed no sign of recognition.

The roar of a motorcycle outside was heard, and within seconds its rider was standing at the door, panting. “Wizard of the Crow,” he said, “I am Peter Kahiga. You remember me, don’t you?”

Kamltl did not so much as open his mouth.

The three men, A.G., Kahiga, and Njoya, now said in unison: You are wanted at the State House!

But Kamltl wa Karlmlri, alias the Wizard of the Crow, did not seem to hear the trio but continued staggering toward the door, followed by the three police, who were in turn followed by the bar crowd. He went outside, stumbled a bit along the road, stopped, and threw up on the grass by the roadside. He fell and lay in the vomit; almost immediately he started snoring.

A.G., Njoya, and Kahiga, who had trooped behind the Wizard of the Crow, now fell into sharp disagreement, each claiming to have been first to apprehend the wizard and that it was his right to take the sorcerer back to the boss who had ordered their mission. Those who watched from a safe distance say that the bickering among the three got so bad that they took out their guns and would have shot one another had they not reached a compromise. They would bypass Sikiokuu, Machokali, and Kaniürü and take the Wizard of the Crow directly to the Ruler at the State House, and they agreed that on account of A.G.’s seniority—he was SS while they were ASSes—A.G. should call the State House to alert the Ruler of his prized trophy. When they reached the State House, they would call their respective bosses on mobile phones and inform them of the
fait
that was about to become
accompli.
That way none of the three bosses would have the advantage of prior knowledge over the others and the three officers themselves would get all the credit for handing over the wizard.

For his part, the Wizard of the Crow heard none of this. He showed no sign of consciousness, not even when tied to the backseat of A.G.’s motorcycle. With Njoya in front and Kahiga at the rear, the three motorcyclists zoomed triumphantly toward the State House.

Those left behind at the bar fell into a heated dispute as to what had just happened, each trying to impose his version on others, all except one, who hid behind the door, clutching a cross-shaped walking stick as if to defend himself, his mind absorbed by the drama outside. He was Mr. Walking Stick, a wanderer from bar to bar after he had heard Kamltl teil how he had once floated in the sky while his body reposed on a dumpsite. Now the very apparition he had tried to avoid had found him. Stricken with terror, as soon as he saw the motorcycles vanish in the distance, he quietly left the bar, clutching his walking stick, not quite believing his own luck. Once on the road he started running in the opposite direction.

He ran for seven days and nights without resting until he reached his destination, the Santalucia headquarters of the Soldiers of Christ. Exhausted, he collapsed at the feet of the Christian soldiers, and it took them a while to decipher what he was trying to tell them.

“I am one of the three garbage collectors that Satan once ambushed at a dumpsite in the prairie a couple of years ago. You remember me? Much has happened since. We three took different measures to protect ourselves from the Evil One. One joined your group, armed as you always are with the Bible and the cross and the word of the Lord on high. Another, the driver, sought protection from the Mighty s Youth, with their guns and whips and the mandate from the Ruler. But I did a foolish thing. I tried to hide wherever people gather to drink. With my walking stick I would defend myself against any sudden Satanic mischief, I thought. What can I say? I first saw and heard him boasting where I used to drink regularly, and I said, You will never see me again, for from now on I shall be on the move all the time, never drinking at the same place twice. Well, I was wrong,
because, lost to alcohol, I did not know that Satan would follow me from bar to bar; no matter where I hid, he would find me. He finally caught up with me. Well, let me tell you. I had a narrow escape. Had it not been for this cross-shaped walking stick, he would have seen me and I would not now be here to bear witness that I have seen with my own eyes the very Satan who appeared before us at the dumpsite in the prairie. I am here to say that I have converted. All these years past, I have foolishly sought solace in booze. Now I need the support of Jesus. I want to become a Soldier of Christ.”

As they were not so sure about this man, they sent for Sweeper-of-Souls, who was overjoyed at seeing his former workmate. They embraced, and this touching scene confirmed to the others what had already been revealed to them: that the newcomer was a messenger from Christ sent to lead them to Satan’s hiding place. They received him as one of them and baptized him Soul’s Walking Stick.

“Where is he?” the Soldiers of Christ asked him after the baptism. “Where did he go? Where can we find him?”

“You will never believe this,” said Soul’s Walking Stick. “Three hell riders on red, black, and golden motorbikes took him to the Ruler at the State House.”

“Does he think he can hide in there?” one of them asked.

They would keep watch on all the roads to the State House with a view to capturing him as he came out, no doubt having led the Ruler astray like that time when Satan had forced the Ruler to go to the All Saints Cathedral riding a donkey in imitation of Christ. But they must take care not to draw hostile curiosity that could abort their plans. They were as adamant as ever: arrest Satan, drag him through the streets of Eldares, and then put him on trial.

A.C. tells a slightly different version of what happened at the bar they called Sell-Me-Death. According to him, the Wizard of the Crow was not drunk with alcohol; he was simply overwhelmed by a vision of all the evils he saw before the land; his throwing up on the grass by the
roadside was his way of saying that the land needed cleansing. Otherwise, in his narrative A.G. is short on details about the episode, and there are things he is not able to explain. When pressed by some spoilsports who do not know a good story when they hear one—what was the Wizard of the Crow doing in a cheap bar that served poison? they wanted to know—he would answer rather cryptically: Remember Jesus? Muhammed? They dwelled among the poor.

What he tells with more clarity and authority was how the three motorcyclists, of whom he had been one, stopped at the graveyard of All Saints Cathedral before reaching the State House to call their respective bosses on their mobile phones, simultaneously informing them that the wizard was in tow.

At the agreed-upon time, A.C. had quickly dialed Machokali’s number to tell him the news. A.C. emphasizes how happy the minister sounded, that A.C. had never heard him exude such joy.

“True!
Haki ya Mungu.
I knew the minister quite well, nearly all his moods. He and I were in America together, remember? He and I used to share meals, and it was he and I who went to receive the Wizard of the Crow at the AIA, the American International Airport. So when I tell you that he was unusually happy on hearing that I had successfully completed the task assigned to me, you’d better believe me. Imagine that even when I told him that Njoya and Kahiga had unfairly claimed a share of the credit, harvesting where they never planted, Machokali did not seem upset that his rivals, Sikiokuu and Kaniürü, would partake of the glory”

According to A.C., Machokali cared most about the fact that the Ruler’s wishes had been met. I have fulfilled my duty to my Lord, he told A.C., and then revealed that the Ruler had already summoned him. He assured A.C. that he would never forget the diligence and commitment displayed by SS Arigaigai Gathere.

A.C. then goes on to tell how, upon reaching the State House, they were shown a room where they put the Wizard of the Crow who, still passed out, continued snoring. After securing their captive, they were taken to the Ruler.

They found Machokali, Sikiokuu, Kaniürü, and Tajirika already there, as on the day the two ministers and Kaniürü were charged with their missions. The reception of the three police heroes, A.C. noted with amusement, was tense with rivalry. Each boss greeted his own
policeman as if he alone had captured the Wizard of the Crow, lauding him with congratulations for his heroism. Each shook hands with the other two policemen, thanking them particularly for their assistance.

The Ruler was in a jolly mood, and he immediately promoted Kahiga and Njoya to Senior Superintendents of Police. A.G. was made Assistant Commissioner of Police. The Ruler then told them to go home for a much-needed rest, but that they should report for duty at the State House the following morning and that henceforth they would be reporting directly to him. The three police heroes were in a world all their own as they headed toward the door.

“I don’t know why, but when I reached the door I turned my head and looked back and I saw Machokali wave at me slowly, a kind of personal farewell to me. True!
Haki ya Mungu,
and I must say that his big eyes lit up as I had never seen them before, but I did not then try to make too much of it because I, too, was very happy, and doubly so for knowing that my work, despite my travels and endless storytelling, had brought a little happiness to everybody, and of course I was also happy with my new rank, and, as if to add a little of what the English call
icing on the cake,
I would now be reporting for duty at the State House and be answerable to only the Ruler.”

When Kamltl woke up the following morning he thought that he was in a hotel, so luxurious the room seemed to be. He thought he was dreaming and when this dream ended he would find himself atop the charred remains of the shrine, the cat again snuggling by his side. But his splitting headache convinced him that he was fully awake. He sat on the edge of the bed and rested his chin in cupped hands. How had he gotten herer