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

Forgive me my sins. Help my father and mother. O, God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, help Thy children. Forgive us all. Amen.
    ‘Lord, do you think the strike will be a success?’
    He wanted an assurance. He wanted a foretaste of the future before it came. In the Old Testament, God spoke to His people. Surely He could do the same thing now. So Njoroge listened, seriously and quietly. He was still listening when he fell asleep.

7
    It was at the beginning of the new year. The room was packed, for the whole class had come to know whether they had passed or not. Njoroge sat in a corner, silent. Mwihaki too was there. She was growing into quite a big girl; certainly she was not the same person who five years back had taken Njoroge to school. The two had shared each other’s hopes and fears, and he felt akin to her. He always wished she had been his sister. A boy chattered and shouted in a corner, but his friend did not want to play. The boy sat down again while the two others regarded him coldly. One or two others laughed. But the laughter was rather subdued. Though they sat in groups, each was alone. That was all.
    Teacher Isaka came in with a long sheet of paper. Everybody kept quiet. Njoroge had prepared himself for this moment. He had many times told himself that he would not change even if he failed. He had tried his best. But now when the teacher began to look at the long white sheet, he wanted to go and hide under the desk. And then he heard his name. It was topping the list. Mwihaki too had passed.
    Together they ran homewards linking their hands. They did not talk. Each wanted to reach home and tell their parents the good news. Njoroge wanted his mother to know that her son had not failed. He would now go to an intermediate school. They came near Mwihaki’s house and there stood for a moment holding each other’s hands. Then they let go of the hands and each now ran on a different path towards home.
    Mwihaki reached home earlier. She found her mother andall the other children of the family crowded together. She did not see anything strange in this because she was very excited.
    ‘Mother! Mother!’
    ‘What is it?’ She stopped. The voice of her mother was cold, sad, and distant; Juliana looked past Mwihaki and then, almost in a hostile and impatient manner continued, ‘What else has happened? Speak! Or why do you come home rushing so?’
    ‘Nothing,’ Mwihaki said quietly, ‘only that I have passed.’ There was no pride of achievement in her voice.
    ‘Is that all? Is your sister Lucia at school?’
    Then Juliana burst out sobbing, speaking to herself. ‘I have always said that such
Ahoi
were dangerous. But a man will never heed the voice of a woman until it is too late. I told him not to go. But he would not listen!’
    ‘What has happened, mother?’ Mwihaki asked anxiously.
    ‘O, well may you ask. I’ve always said that your father will end up by being murdered!’
    ‘Is he dead?’ Mwihaki burst out crying.
    Nobody reassured her.

    Meanwhile Njoroge had reached home. A group of men and women and children were standing in the courtyard. Some eyes were turned to his father’s hut. The others were turned towards the marketplace. But where was his mother? He found her inside her hut. She sat on a low stool and two women of the village sat close to her. They kept dumb. Their eyes were turned to the courtyard. Nyokabi’s face was dark, and now and then sobs shook her. Njoroge’s joy of a victorious homecoming faded.
    ‘What is it, Mother?’ He feared that someone had died.
    His mother looked up and saw him. Njoroge trembled. Outside more men and women streamed into the courtyard. Some spoke in low voices.
    ‘It’s the strike!’ A woman told him. And then, of course, Njoroge remembered. Today was the great day of the strike – the strike that was meant to paralyse the whole country.
    Many people had gone to the meeting that was being heldon the first day of the strike. They had streamed into the