Read Online A Grain of Wheat by Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o
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voice touched Karanja. Would she understand? Would she?
‘I had a woman. I – I loved her,’ he said boldly. He closed his eyes and with sudden, huge effort, gulped down the bitter coffee.
‘Why didn’t you marry her? Is she dead or—’
‘She refused me,’ he said.
‘I am sorry,’ she said with feeling. Karanja remembered himself and where he was.
‘Can I go now, Memsahib? Any message for Bwana?’
She had forgotten why Karanja had come into the house. She re-read the note from her husband.
‘No, thank you very much,’ she said at the door.
It was almost twelve o’clock when Karanja left Thompson’s house. The wound that Margery had tickled smarted for a while. Then gradually he became exhilarated, he wished Mwaura had seen him at the house. He also wished that the houseboy had been present, for then news of his visit would have spread. As it was, he himself would have to do the telling: this would carry less weight and power. Being nearly time for lunch-break, he went straight to the eating-house at the African quarters, thinking about his visit and the bitter cup of coffee.
The eating-house was called
Your Friend Unto Death
, in short,
Friend
. The stony walls were covered with grease, a fertile ground for flies. They buzzed around the customers, jumped on top of the cups and plates and at times even made love on food brought on the table. Plastic roses in tins decorated each creaking table. The motto of the house was painted in capitals across the wall: COME UNTO ME ALL YE THAT ARE HUNGRY AND THIRSTY AND I WILL GIVE YOU REST . On another part of the wall near the cashier’s desk hung a carefully framed poem.
Since man to man has been unjust,
Show me the man that I can trust.
I have trusted many to my sorrow,
So for credit, my friend, come tomorrow.
Friend
was the only licensed eating-house at Githima.
There Karanja found Mwaura. It was not good to create enemies, Karanja always told himself after alienating any of the other workers.
‘I am sorry about the incident,’ Karanja quickly said, an affability that didn’t come off. ‘I hope you’ll take it as a little shauri between friends. You see, some people don’t understand that the work we do, you know, writing labels for all those books of science, requires concentration. If somebody flings the door open without warning, it upsets you and you ruin the letters. I tell you, if you knew thatLibrarian woman as well as I do – you think she separated from her husband for nothing – Waiter, two cups of tea, quick … Now, what news from Rung’ei?’
John Thompson – tall, a leathery skin that stuck to the bone – did not go to Nairobi, but remained at Githima during the lunch-hour going through the motions of working: that is, he would stand, go to the cabinet by the wall, pull out a file, and return to the table, his face weather-beaten into permanent abstraction, almost as if his mind dwelt on things far away and long ago. His thin hands and light eyes went through each file carefully before returning it to the cabinet. Once or twice he sat up and his finger played with a few creases crowded around the corner of his mouth.
In turn, Thompson contemplated the clean blotting-paper on the table, the pen and pencil rack, the ink-bottle, the white-washed office walls and the ceiling as if seeking a pattern that held the things in the room together: but his mind only hopped from one thought to another. He then took the day’s – Monday’s – issue of the
East African Standard
, the oldest daily in Kenya, and leaned back on the chair. Glancing through reports on Uhuru preparations for Thursday, Thompson winced with a vague sense of betrayal. He could not tell what it was in the paper which since internal self-government in June, caused this feeling – whether it was in the Uhuru news, which he already knew, or in the tone, a too-ready acceptance of things. Once he saw the picture of the Prime Minister on the front page: he could not
‘I had a woman. I – I loved her,’ he said boldly. He closed his eyes and with sudden, huge effort, gulped down the bitter coffee.
‘Why didn’t you marry her? Is she dead or—’
‘She refused me,’ he said.
‘I am sorry,’ she said with feeling. Karanja remembered himself and where he was.
‘Can I go now, Memsahib? Any message for Bwana?’
She had forgotten why Karanja had come into the house. She re-read the note from her husband.
‘No, thank you very much,’ she said at the door.
It was almost twelve o’clock when Karanja left Thompson’s house. The wound that Margery had tickled smarted for a while. Then gradually he became exhilarated, he wished Mwaura had seen him at the house. He also wished that the houseboy had been present, for then news of his visit would have spread. As it was, he himself would have to do the telling: this would carry less weight and power. Being nearly time for lunch-break, he went straight to the eating-house at the African quarters, thinking about his visit and the bitter cup of coffee.
The eating-house was called
Your Friend Unto Death
, in short,
Friend
. The stony walls were covered with grease, a fertile ground for flies. They buzzed around the customers, jumped on top of the cups and plates and at times even made love on food brought on the table. Plastic roses in tins decorated each creaking table. The motto of the house was painted in capitals across the wall: COME UNTO ME ALL YE THAT ARE HUNGRY AND THIRSTY AND I WILL GIVE YOU REST . On another part of the wall near the cashier’s desk hung a carefully framed poem.
Since man to man has been unjust,
Show me the man that I can trust.
I have trusted many to my sorrow,
So for credit, my friend, come tomorrow.
Friend
was the only licensed eating-house at Githima.
There Karanja found Mwaura. It was not good to create enemies, Karanja always told himself after alienating any of the other workers.
‘I am sorry about the incident,’ Karanja quickly said, an affability that didn’t come off. ‘I hope you’ll take it as a little shauri between friends. You see, some people don’t understand that the work we do, you know, writing labels for all those books of science, requires concentration. If somebody flings the door open without warning, it upsets you and you ruin the letters. I tell you, if you knew thatLibrarian woman as well as I do – you think she separated from her husband for nothing – Waiter, two cups of tea, quick … Now, what news from Rung’ei?’
John Thompson – tall, a leathery skin that stuck to the bone – did not go to Nairobi, but remained at Githima during the lunch-hour going through the motions of working: that is, he would stand, go to the cabinet by the wall, pull out a file, and return to the table, his face weather-beaten into permanent abstraction, almost as if his mind dwelt on things far away and long ago. His thin hands and light eyes went through each file carefully before returning it to the cabinet. Once or twice he sat up and his finger played with a few creases crowded around the corner of his mouth.
In turn, Thompson contemplated the clean blotting-paper on the table, the pen and pencil rack, the ink-bottle, the white-washed office walls and the ceiling as if seeking a pattern that held the things in the room together: but his mind only hopped from one thought to another. He then took the day’s – Monday’s – issue of the
East African Standard
, the oldest daily in Kenya, and leaned back on the chair. Glancing through reports on Uhuru preparations for Thursday, Thompson winced with a vague sense of betrayal. He could not tell what it was in the paper which since internal self-government in June, caused this feeling – whether it was in the Uhuru news, which he already knew, or in the tone, a too-ready acceptance of things. Once he saw the picture of the Prime Minister on the front page: he could not
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