They came calling deep in the dead
of the night, their boots sliding on the grass.
I was in Wanja’s hut and next to
me was Murathe, the little boy who had been born to me at the height of my
youth. Wanja was sound asleep. On such a night, she would sleep till the cock
crowed. Then she would make her way to the shed to squeeze whatever came out of ngunu. Spending nights with Wanja took my mind off the horrors
of the war. I cannot say I was not afraid. Every meeting was an opportunity to
be reminded that we of the nine clans now belonged to Mwene-Nyaga. We would rub our hands upon the earth and generate the
warmth we needed to withstand the gathano.
I reached out for my spear. Wanja
did not stir. This woman whose hut
would be torched while she slept because her husband was home restored my
confidence. I rose and stood behind the door. I heard a familiar whisper
calling out to my sister Nyawira. Nyawira’s hut was at the periphery of the
farm. She was divorced and had been pointed to the place upon which to erect
her hut by Gicaru, her father. It was Njihia looking for a place to pull some
warmth. I stepped outside and walked to where he stood. He hesitated and moved
as if to run. But I had drawn to where he stood. He held out his be-speared hand. I
recognised the spear. It belonged to Maina, the head of his
village and the elder of his age-set. Maina had asserted his honour upon Njihia’s
household for the night and left his spear firmly placed outside. According to
the language of honour among brothers of the same age-set, Njihia could not
interrupt. I looked at him and recognised the look, the longing in his eyes to
have some company before dawn but I could tell that he was afraid of me. He was
right to be afraid because I thought him a coward who could not defend the
honour of his household because tradition commanded it. I scorned upon his self
pity.
I thought of the day I had come
home to find Kimani about to place his spear outside Wanja’s hut. The village awoke
to the story that I had killed Kimani and fed his body to the dogs. But the
ordeal between Kimani and I remained as cold as only that night could narrate. Kimani
and others like him understood that Wanja’s hut bore the shelter of only one
spear. Njihia had failed his clan. He had failed his sons who would never know
the honour of defending the shelters of their spears. He now stood outside Nyawira's hut whining like a wet animal.
Happy 50th Kenya.
