Petals of Blood (53 page)

Suddenly, after six months, people realized that something was happening in this factory. Workers would argue and discuss in groups of two and threes. Every pamphlet was the subject of heated discussion and it would secretly pass from hand to hand in the factory. Except for the few in the inner circle nobody knew the source. But what the pamphlets said was true and so to the workers its origins and source did not worry them. As a first step the workers decided to form a union. The directors and the management were taken by surprise: whence this whizzing noise from those who only the other day were docile and obedient and spent their salaries on Theng’eta and fighting amongst themselves?

The first contest came over the recognition and registration of the Theng’eta Breweries Workers’ Union. The workers stood together. They went on strike. The Board of Directors gave way: after all, other unions in the country had been effectively neutralized by employers. But they had to look for a scapegoat. Karega was dismissed, even though on paper he was only a committee member. The management had somehow dug up his past. But the dismissal gained him popularity and he was immediately elected full-time paid Secretary-General of the Union.

The victory of the Breweries Workers’ Union had a very traumatic effect on the hitherto docile workers of Ilmorog. Suddenly even barmaids wanted their own union. The women dancers formed themselves into a Tourist Dancers’ Union and demanded more money for their art. The agricultural workers followed suit. Something big was happening in Ilmorog and the employers were shaken and worried.

And then Karega’s real problems started. The employers went out of their way to sow discord. They encouraged national and regional
chauvinism. When this did not work, they promoted some workers, especially the more outspoken, and labelled them management. By law these were not allowed to go on strike. Other workers were encouraged to buy one or two shares so that they would feel that the company was theirs. Despite this, or because of the increase in discussions, study groups and pamphlets, the workers’ union remained strong.

But the biggest threat came from a new charismatic religious movement which sprang up and spoke in very egalitarian terms. It opposed the hypocrisy of the organized church. For them, there was no difference between the poor and the rich, the employer and the employed . . . the only thing was acceptance of Christ. Jesus saves. Love was the only law that they needed to obey. They were to avoid the strife and struggles of this world. This world was a distorted image of the other world. Distorted by Satan. Therefore the only meaningful struggle was a spiritual battle with Satan. They held rallies in which girls claimed they could speak in tongues, communicate with Jesus and heal by faith. Lillian led them.

For a time this wave carried off many workers. Some even resigned from the union, believing that the Kingdom of God was near at hand.

Karega knew that this too was to be fought. He would often quote the verse ‘Give unto Caesar’ to show the separation between the secular and the religious struggles, that one need not exclude the other. But inwardly he knew that religion, any religion, was a weapon against the workers!

Munira especially annoyed him. He would not leave Karega alone but would seize every opportunity to ask him to give up the path of earthly struggle and first change people’s hearts. If all employers were converted and turned to Christ, then selfishness would end. Karega was very impatient, and with him he would use strong words. Once or twice he bluntly asked him to leave him alone, but Munira would not hear. He persisted all the more until Karega began to wonder if Munira was employed to trail him. Later Karega learnt that the whole movement was financed by some churches in America which made a lot of money by insisting on the followers giving a tenth of their salaries as tithe. A bit of this would later be given back as the American
parent movement’s contribution to Harambee church-building efforts. The kinds of books the followers were encouraged to read were interesting:
Tortured by Christ
by Wurmbrand;
World Aflame
by Billy Graham, and other tracts published in America and speaking of communism as the Devil: they also warned of the immediate second coming of Christ to root out all the enemies of freedom.

One night Wanja sent for him. The note simply asked him to meet her in the old hut: he was not to fail. He wondered why she should call him. For two years they had not spoken much . . . and now she had called for him . . .

That was almost a week before the fatal accident . . .

As Karega waited in the cell he wondered what had happened to her, whether for instance she had recovered from the fire.

Three days after the arrest, the officer started questioning him. He seemed well informed. What Karega did not know was that Inspector Godfrey was using Munira’s notes. And it was immediately obvious to Karega that the Inspector wanted to connect him with the arson. For a start he seemed particularly interested in certain incidents in Karega’s past. How, for instance, did he lose his elder brother? He explained that he did not know the circumstances, that it was Abdulla who had told him what had really happened.

‘Did it make you perhaps a little bitter?’

‘It happened so long ago. Besides, in a struggle one has to be on a particular side. Nobody can stand on the fence. A struggle is a form of war. One side wins or loses. But even the side that wins has to lose individuals.’

‘You seem to be fairly knowledgeable about struggles.’

‘It’s common sense.’

‘Tell me: why did you leave Siriana?’

‘I was . . . I was asked to leave.’

‘Why?’

‘I was involved in some sort of strike.’

‘I see. Who was the headmaster?’

‘Chui.’

‘The same one as the late Director of Theng’eta Breweries?’

‘The same.’

‘I see. And did it make you a little bitter perhaps?’

‘Listen. Why are you asking me all these questions?’

‘Sit down, Mr Karega. I’ll not hide it from you. Look at it this way. Three Managing Directors are burnt to death in the house of a woman who was known to have been rather partial to you. You are the General of . . . I mean . . . General Secretary of a union that had called for higher wages. The directors meet to decide on your demands. They come to the conclusion that your demands are too high; that should you declare a strike all your people would be expelled and new workers engaged. On the same night, the directors are all burnt. I am a police officer. Unlike a judge, I start with the assumption that anybody could be guilty, even myself.’

‘But I’ve told you that I was at an all-night executive meeting to decide on tactics for the strike we had called.’

‘I know. I know. I am not saying, I am not alleging anything. I work – like a doctor – on the principle of elimination. Let me ask you another: you once were a teacher in this school?’

‘True!’

‘Why did you suddenly give up teaching?’

‘I was asked to leave.’

‘By whom?’

‘Mzigo!’

‘The same as the late . . .’

‘You know. Why ask me?’

‘I must be sure that we are talking about the same thing. Tell me about your relationship with Wanja!’

‘I knew her. In the past.’

‘Did you resume your cordial relationship after your rather unexpected return?’

‘No. We lived in two different worlds.’

‘You never met?’

Karega hesitated.

‘No. For two years we never really met.’

‘I see. Let me now play you something.’

He walked to the wall and pressed a button. A tape or a record started playing. Karega heard his own voice during the last meeting
of the Executive Meeting of the Union saying: We can lay the basis of a New World.

‘How . . . how dare . . .’ He was really staggered by this and wondered who the traitor could be. The officer waved him to silence. He switched it off.

‘You see, Mr Karega, we have our own way of working.’ Suddenly Godfrey banged the table and stared at Karega as if he would hypnotize him. ‘Tell me: who killed Kimeria, Mzigo and Chui? Who gave the orders?’

‘I thought you had your own ways of working,’ Karega said acidly, sensing the man’s uncertainty.

For the next eight days they played that game. Sometimes he was kept awake for two days. Then suddenly Inspector Godfrey would spring questions at him. He would needle him with sharp-pointed comments: sometimes he would sneer at Karega’s involvement in trade unionism; and at times he would issue direct threats. On the tenth day the officer came to his cell wearing a cruel, triumphant smile.

‘Mr Karega . . .’

‘Listen. I am tired. I’ve been kept here for I don’t know how long, answering the same stupid questions. I have told you, I know nothing about the arson. I’ll not pretend that I am angry, sad or anything, except that the incident gives all of you and the employers a chance to kill the union. But I had nothing to do with it. I don’t believe in the elimination of individuals. There are many Kimerias and Chuis in the country. They are the products of a system, just as workers are products of a system. It’s the system that needs to be changed . . . and only the workers of Kenya and the peasants can do that.’

‘Oh, that’s a good one, Mr Karega. But we shall see by the time I finish with you. I’ll now ask you only two or three questions. Answer me truthfully and I’ll leave you alone. I promise you that. You have been telling me that for two years you never really met with Wanja.’

‘True, except on the night of my return.’

‘Did you know – between us we don’t have to hide these things – did you know that she used to have an affair with all the three gentlemen?’

‘It was common knowledge.’

‘You say you never met her again?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not even secretly?’

‘No.’

‘At Njuguna’s once . . . after the lawyer’s death?’

‘Yes. But it was not really a meeting.’

‘Did you know the lawyer?’

‘Yes.’

‘Worked with him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you a little bit – but it does not matter. Now, Mr Karega, I want you to refresh your mind. Did you meet Wanja a week before this fire?’

Karega hesitated. Then he said,

‘Yes.’

‘I see. Why did you hide this?’

‘It’s not important.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s personal.’

‘Mr Karega: what did you discuss that night?’

‘That I can’t tell you. It’s personal.’

‘Did you hold any other secret meetings?’

‘No.’

‘How should I believe you now?’

‘You choose what to believe and what not to believe.’

‘I see. Mr Karega, was Abdulla by any chance part of these secret personal meetings?’

‘I’ve told you it was only once. And Abdulla was not there.’

‘Mr Karega, you are a liar.’ With sudden rage, he struck Karega twice on the face. Blood came out between his teeth. Godfrey shouted at the policeman.

‘Take him below – to the red chamber. Give him a little medicine, a taste of what he will get from me. Have you ever heard of the famous whip of seven straps? Leader of the workers! I will myself work on you, drop by drop of salted medicine from a cowhide
whip, until you talk, until you wish you had never travelled on any Trans-Africa Road to any factory in Ilmorog. Out with him.’

3 ~ Abdulla sat huddled in a corner. He still felt surprisingly light and calm inside, despite nine days of questioning, being made to record one statement after another and occasionally being roughly handled. He felt in his present position the guiding hand of God, who had suddenly lifted – or so it seemed to him – a load of many years: somebody had clearly acted out Abdulla’s own wishes and fantasies and intentions and so in a sense had saved him in more ways than one. His only disturbing thoughts were of Wanja: had she recovered fully from the shock? Had she, anyway, come out of her coma, or out of the hospital? Otherwise he felt sober and able to look at his life without the bitter feelings which had earlier always clouded his vision and his appraisal of the past and the present. What had he really expected from the struggle? His expectation had always taken the form of a beautiful dream, a hazy softness of promises, a kind of call to something higher, nobler, holier, something for which he could have given his life over and over again. It had fizzled out now and toward the end, in Ilmorog, the bright flames of his dreams had died and only ashes had remained. With his donkey as his other leg, in the old Ilmorog, he had only wanted a restoration – a little restoration – a shop, even, like the one his father had had in old Limuru-Rongai Market, before the punitive closure of the shops after Ragae – a notorious collaborator with the enemy – was shot dead in Kiambu Hospital. There was a time in Old Ilmorog – a brief period, true – when Karega, with his talk of the past deeds of African heroes in their four hundred years of resistance to European domination, had stirred the ashes, and he felt as if the embers had not really died, that a little flame flickered. Even this died with Karega’s sudden departure from Ilmorog. Abdulla had resumed his search for a restoration, sorely missing his donkey as if it truly had been his own child. The one thing which had continued to give him increasing pleasure was Joseph’s progress in school. When the results of the school’s first attempt at CPE came out Joseph was top – and he had found a place in Siriana! Kenya, he could not help thinking, after this turn of events – this
strange coincidence and repetition of history – Kenya was a small world!

Wanja had been his other source of joy in the wilderness of his bitterness, of his consciousness of broken promises, of the wider betrayal of the collective blood of the Kenyan fighters for land and freedom. Since her arrival in Old Ilmorog she had always accepted him without qualification, without the concessions of pity which with many were evidence of subtle rejection. She had made it easier to live, to look forward to the dawn of the next day. Working together with her on the Theng’eta project, he had felt: maybe things are all right . . . maybe with a little money . . . here and there . . . maybe . . . the memory would not hurt. Money could act as a soft feather-filled cushion for any fall. Maybe . . . maybe . . . this was what they had all really fought for . . . chance . . . opportunities . . . what else could a human being want? Only a break . . . the rest would be determined by his capacity for hard work and by his native wit. So he had rationalized it to himself and he had worked hard, completely trusting in Wanja’s practical sense and puritan control. Under her firm guidance, Ilmorog suddenly seemed to expand: new roads, influx of workers, banks, experts, dancers and numerous small trades and crafts. He saw the changes as something being brought about by Wanja’s magic. What a woman! One in a thousand! For she seemed, to him anyway, the true centre of all the numerous activities that were working in obedience to an invisible law. Then disaster had once again come into his life just when success and victory seemed so near, within his grasp. He applauded her selfless act of honour in redeeming her family land. But he feared the effect of this on her. For suddenly it was as if she had lost that firm grasp, that harmony with the invisible law. He had hoped that after the sale of the building they would still be able to make more money on their old premises and buy or build yet another place. Why! They could even move further up the Trans-Africa Road. He always felt something personal about the road, not only because it had for him eased his problems of moving, but also because he felt as if his donkey had been a sacrificial offering to its new coming. Wherever he could set up new business premises near the road, he would always feel it was home. But fate decided
otherwise. The opening up of the New Ilmorog was the ruin of the Old Ilmorog and now, once again, Kimeria’s shadow had crossed his path.