Read Online A Grain of Wheat by Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o
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chatted with her houseboy or with her shamba-boy. At times she quarrelled with them and her raised voice could be heard from theroad. Both boys had now left and it was during these few days that she had come to realize how they had been an important part of the house.
Karanja was surprised because he had never, before, been invited inside the house. He sat at the edge of the chair, his unsteady hands on his knees, and idly stared at the ceiling and at the walls to avoid looking at her breasts.
Margery felt a sensual power at the fear and discomfiture she inflicted on Karanja. Why did he not look at her? She had often seen him, but never thought of him as a man. Now she was suddenly curious to know what thoughts lay inside his head: what did he think of the house? Of Uhuru? Of her? She let her fancy flow. She warmed all over and stood up, slightly irritated by the thrill.
‘Would you like some tea, coffee or anything?’
‘I – I must go!’ Karanja stammered out his thoughts.
‘Sure you don’t want some coffee? Never mind Mrs Dickinson,’ she said, smiling, feeling indulgent, almost glad of a conspiracy.
‘All right,’ he said edging deeper into the seat with eyes longing for the door and the hedge beyond. Even now he had no courage to lean back and be comfortable. At the same time, he desperately wished one of the workers was present to see him entertained to coffee by a white woman, the wife of the Administrative Secretary.
In the kitchen, Margery played with pots and cups. Although she was still ashamed of the thrill, she would not let it go. She could only remember once before when she had experienced a similar flame. That was the day she danced with Dr Van Dyke at Githima hostel. This was soon after the Rira disaster. She was attracted, at the same time disgusted, by his drunken breath. When later in the evening he took her for a drive, she submitted to his power. She let him make love to her, and experienced, for the first time, the terrible beauty of a rebellion.
Waiting in the room, Karanja found his nervous unease replaced by a different desire. Should he ask her, he wondered. Maybe she would give him what he really wanted: to hear her contradict rumours that the Thompsons would be flying back to England. Many times Karanja had walked towards Thompson determined to ask him adirect question. Cold water lumped in his belly, his heart would thunder violently when he came near the whiteman. His determination always ended in the same way: he would salute John Thompson and then walk past as if his business lay further ahead. What Karanja feared more than the rumours was their possible confirmation. As long as he did not know the truth, he could interpret the story in the only way that gave him hope: the coming of black rule would not mean, could never mean the end of white power. Thompson as a DO and now as an Administrative Secretary, had always seemed to Karanja the invincible expression of that power. How, then, could Thompson go?
Margery came back with two cups of coffee.
‘Do you take sugar in your coffee?’
‘No,’ he said automatically, and knew, at the same time, he lacked the courage to ask her about the rumours. Karanja loathed coffee or tea without lots of sugar.
Margery sat opposite Karanja and crossed her legs. She put her cup on the arm of the chair. Karanja held his in both hands afraid of spilling a drop on the carpet. He winced every time he brought the cup near his lips and nostrils.
‘How many wives have you?’ she asked. This was her favourite question to Africans; it began the day she discovered her latest cook had three wives. Karanja started as if Margery had tickled a wound that had only healed at the surface.
Mumbi
.
‘I am not married.’
‘Not married? I thought you people— Are you going to buy a wife?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Have you a friend, a woman?’ She pursued, her curiosity mounting; her voice was timbred with warmth. Something in the quality of her
Karanja was surprised because he had never, before, been invited inside the house. He sat at the edge of the chair, his unsteady hands on his knees, and idly stared at the ceiling and at the walls to avoid looking at her breasts.
Margery felt a sensual power at the fear and discomfiture she inflicted on Karanja. Why did he not look at her? She had often seen him, but never thought of him as a man. Now she was suddenly curious to know what thoughts lay inside his head: what did he think of the house? Of Uhuru? Of her? She let her fancy flow. She warmed all over and stood up, slightly irritated by the thrill.
‘Would you like some tea, coffee or anything?’
‘I – I must go!’ Karanja stammered out his thoughts.
‘Sure you don’t want some coffee? Never mind Mrs Dickinson,’ she said, smiling, feeling indulgent, almost glad of a conspiracy.
‘All right,’ he said edging deeper into the seat with eyes longing for the door and the hedge beyond. Even now he had no courage to lean back and be comfortable. At the same time, he desperately wished one of the workers was present to see him entertained to coffee by a white woman, the wife of the Administrative Secretary.
In the kitchen, Margery played with pots and cups. Although she was still ashamed of the thrill, she would not let it go. She could only remember once before when she had experienced a similar flame. That was the day she danced with Dr Van Dyke at Githima hostel. This was soon after the Rira disaster. She was attracted, at the same time disgusted, by his drunken breath. When later in the evening he took her for a drive, she submitted to his power. She let him make love to her, and experienced, for the first time, the terrible beauty of a rebellion.
Waiting in the room, Karanja found his nervous unease replaced by a different desire. Should he ask her, he wondered. Maybe she would give him what he really wanted: to hear her contradict rumours that the Thompsons would be flying back to England. Many times Karanja had walked towards Thompson determined to ask him adirect question. Cold water lumped in his belly, his heart would thunder violently when he came near the whiteman. His determination always ended in the same way: he would salute John Thompson and then walk past as if his business lay further ahead. What Karanja feared more than the rumours was their possible confirmation. As long as he did not know the truth, he could interpret the story in the only way that gave him hope: the coming of black rule would not mean, could never mean the end of white power. Thompson as a DO and now as an Administrative Secretary, had always seemed to Karanja the invincible expression of that power. How, then, could Thompson go?
Margery came back with two cups of coffee.
‘Do you take sugar in your coffee?’
‘No,’ he said automatically, and knew, at the same time, he lacked the courage to ask her about the rumours. Karanja loathed coffee or tea without lots of sugar.
Margery sat opposite Karanja and crossed her legs. She put her cup on the arm of the chair. Karanja held his in both hands afraid of spilling a drop on the carpet. He winced every time he brought the cup near his lips and nostrils.
‘How many wives have you?’ she asked. This was her favourite question to Africans; it began the day she discovered her latest cook had three wives. Karanja started as if Margery had tickled a wound that had only healed at the surface.
Mumbi
.
‘I am not married.’
‘Not married? I thought you people— Are you going to buy a wife?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Have you a friend, a woman?’ She pursued, her curiosity mounting; her voice was timbred with warmth. Something in the quality of her
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