Free Weep Not Child by Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o Page A

father had much money, he could buy a lorry like that one of Jacobo. He slept and dreamed of the happy moment of wealth and pleasure after the strike.

    Mr Howlands called all his men. This was unusual. But he had not much to say because he did not want to waste time.He just warned them that if any man went on strike he would instantly lose his job. How could he allow a damned strike to interfere with any part of his farm? Even the government could not interfere with this. The blacks could ask and agitate for anything. Such things were clearly affairs of the government that stood outside his
shamba
. And yet paradoxically, as the strike approached, he wanted a strong government action – an action that would teach these labourers their rightful places.
    Ngotho listened to the warning without apparent emotion. His face did not change and so you could not tell what he was really thinking.
    He could not quite make up his mind about the strike. He doubted if the strike would be a success. If it failed, then he would lose a job and that would keep him away from the lands of his ancestors. This was wrong, for the land was his. None could tend it as he could.
    Ngotho went home unsure. He went through the African shops. The barber was still at his job. These days he mostly talked about the strike. Ngotho did not go there. He went straight home.
    Njoroge had never seen his father quarrelling with his wives. Whenever there was a quarrel the children were never allowed to know about it. So when Njoroge came from school and found Nyokabi crying, he was shocked. He could remember vaguely only one time when his mother cried. It was probably during the famine of cassava or earlier. That was now a dream. But this was not a dream. Njoroge stood stock-still, too frightened to enter the house. Ngotho, tall, masculine in spite of age, stood in front of her. Njoroge could not see his face. But he could see the tear-washed face of Nyokabi. Fear gripped him as he witnessed real discord in the home that had hitherto been so secure.
    ‘I must be a man in my own house.’
    ‘Yes – be a man and lose a job.’
    ‘I shall do whatever I like. I have never taken orders from a woman.’
    ‘We shall starve…’
    ‘You starve! This strike is important for the black people. We shall get bigger salaries.’
    ‘What’s black people to us when we starve?’
    ‘Shut that mouth. How long do you think I can endure this drudgery for the sake of a white man and his children?’
    ‘But he’s paying you money. What if the strike fails?’
    ‘Don’t woman me!’ he shouted hysterically. This possibility was what he feared most.
    She sensed this note of uncertainty and fear and seized upon it.
    ‘What if the strike fails, tell me that!’
    Ngotho could bear it no longer. She was driving him mad. He slapped her on the face and raised his hand again.
    But Njoroge now found his voice. He ran forward and cried frantically, ‘Please, Father.’
    Ngotho stopped. He looked at his son. He ran towards him and grabbed him by the shoulder. Njoroge felt the grip and winced with fear. Ngotho growled something inaudible. Then he suddenly released the boy and turned his eyes away. He walked out.
    ‘Mother!’ Njoroge whispered to Nyokabi.
    ‘Why have they bewitched him? My man is changed…’
    ‘Please, Mother!’
    But she went on sobbing.
    Njoroge felt lonely. Something heavy and cold oppressed him in the stomach. Even the stars that later shone in the night gave him no comfort. He walked across the courtyard, not afraid of the darkness. He wished that Mwihaki was with him. Then he might have confided in her. In the distance, the gleaming lights of the city where the call for the strike had been born beckoned to him. He did not respond. He just wanted to be lost in the darkness, for he could not judge between a father and mother.
    In his bed, he knelt down and prayed. ‘God forgive me, for I am wicked. Perhaps it is me who has brought uncleanliness into our home.