The Big Chiefs
 | |  | |  | |  |
| (c) Copyright 2007 by HM Inc. + Meja Mwangi |
The Butcher
Before the militia finally climbed on the roof of the Holy Family church
and ripped off the roof, the Boy had looked out of the window one last
time. The church windows, like the doors, had impregnable, steel bars
on them. It heartened the victims a little and raised their hopes again,
to know that the militia could not easily get into the church to kill them.
But the attackers had only given up trying to break into the church with
hammers and mattocks and were waiting for a bulldozer from the army
to do the job for them.
Then, looking out of the window, the Boy saw hope run away from
them, as the parish priest, the man who had done such a good job of
keeping the militia at bay, and the man they had all placed their last
hopes on, sneaked away from behind the besieged church, dressed in
his fear-stained, white cassock and carrying only his Bible and a small
cardboard suitcase.
Feeling their eyes on his back, the white priest had stopped and
looked back. His grey hair was a mess, his face haggard and streaked
with dirt and fear. His shocked eyes had looked into the Boy’s eyes
and, in that brief moment, before the man who had baptised them all,
married most of them and buried their relatives, the man who had
worked so hard to keep their commune close to God, turned and
walked away, the Boy had suddenly understood why Father Clémént
had to abandon them to their fate. Then the militia had torn off the
roof and started raining bullets and grenades down on the terrified
people below.
“How much tobacco did you want?” the Boy asked the Thief.
“Just enough for one night,” said the Thief. “I never ask for more.”
“Take some then,” said the Boy.
The Thief came back, walking a little livelier, and, making use of the last
light of a dying moon, picked two of the largest, ripest leaves from the
old tree.
“I thank you,” he said, carefully rolling them up.
“Is that enough?”
“I’m not greedy,” said the Thief.
“Take more,” the Boy told him. “Take all you want, but do leave some
for the other thieves.”
The Thief took four more leaves, picking them delicately with the tips of
his fingers, and with the gentleness of one used to scarcity.
“These will last me a while,” he said.
“Go well then,” said the Boy.
“Stay well,” he said turning to leave. Then he stopped and asked, “Is
the Old Man really asleep?”
“He is.”
The man hesitated. He wanted to talk to the Old Man, he said, about
things that had happened long ago. Things he felt had been beyond
anyone’s control, but for which he had recently began to experience
great pangs of remorse and shame. He had discussed it with his wife,
who was very sick and about to die, and she had agreed with him that
all should seek forgiveness for their deeds and misdeeds, and though
no one, not even God, may pardon them, it was good that all should
seek peace with one another for the sake of the nation, and so that
they may find a little peace in their own hearts.
“What about the dead?” the Boy asked. “How do you make peace
with those you butchered? How can they ever forgive you?”
“Those too have their revenge,” he said. “In so many terrible ways,
they too have their revenge.”
They were silent again. He touched the bandage on his head and
winced.
“There are many policemen in the City,” he said. “Are you so brave you
will face guns with placards?”
“I’m not alone,” said the Boy.
“With whom will you be?”
“With the boys.”
“Just the boys?”
“Just the boys.”
“No one else?”
“They are enough.”
“What about the Student?” asked the Thief. “Does he come too?”
“He comes too,” said the Boy. “The Student has always been one of
us.”
“He is a good one, the Student,” said the Thief. “He would have been
a good doctor too, had they not chased him from university.”
Many were the good people whose lives and careers had been
derailed by brutality and terminated by genocide.
“Will there be soldiers?” the Thief asked.
“You can be sure of that.”
“Will they have guns?”
“Soldiers always have guns.”
The Thief was quiet, thinking.
I shall come with you,” he decided.
The Boy was so startled he did not know what to say.
“There will be dying,” he reminded.
“Let there be."
“And you will still come?”
“I have decided.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think that people should suffer and die because they are poor
or different,” said the Thief. “It is not right and it is not just. I’m tired
of living in the Devil’s hole. Who knows when the Devil will decide that
I too don’t deserve to live?”
READ ON ...
Before the militia finally climbed on the roof of the Holy Family church
and ripped off the roof, the Boy had looked out of the window one last
time. The church windows, like the doors, had impregnable, steel bars
on them. It heartened the victims a little and raised their hopes again,
to know that the militia could not easily get into the church to kill them.
But the attackers had only given up trying to break into the church with
hammers and mattocks and were waiting for a bulldozer from the army
to do the job for them.
Then, looking out of the window, the Boy saw hope run away from
them, as the parish priest, the man who had done such a good job of
keeping the militia at bay, and the man they had all placed their last
hopes on, sneaked away from behind the besieged church, dressed in
his fear-stained, white cassock and carrying only his Bible and a small
cardboard suitcase.
Feeling their eyes on his back, the white priest had stopped and
looked back. His grey hair was a mess, his face haggard and streaked
with dirt and fear. His shocked eyes had looked into the Boy’s eyes
and, in that brief moment, before the man who had baptised them all,
married most of them and buried their relatives, the man who had
worked so hard to keep their commune close to God, turned and
walked away, the Boy had suddenly understood why Father Clémént
had to abandon them to their fate. Then the militia had torn off the
roof and started raining bullets and grenades down on the terrified
people below.
“How much tobacco did you want?” the Boy asked the Thief.
“Just enough for one night,” said the Thief. “I never ask for more.”
“Take some then,” said the Boy.
The Thief came back, walking a little livelier, and, making use of the last
light of a dying moon, picked two of the largest, ripest leaves from the
old tree.
“I thank you,” he said, carefully rolling them up.
“Is that enough?”
“I’m not greedy,” said the Thief.
“Take more,” the Boy told him. “Take all you want, but do leave some
for the other thieves.”
The Thief took four more leaves, picking them delicately with the tips of
his fingers, and with the gentleness of one used to scarcity.
“These will last me a while,” he said.
“Go well then,” said the Boy.
“Stay well,” he said turning to leave. Then he stopped and asked, “Is
the Old Man really asleep?”
“He is.”
The man hesitated. He wanted to talk to the Old Man, he said, about
things that had happened long ago. Things he felt had been beyond
anyone’s control, but for which he had recently began to experience
great pangs of remorse and shame. He had discussed it with his wife,
who was very sick and about to die, and she had agreed with him that
all should seek forgiveness for their deeds and misdeeds, and though
no one, not even God, may pardon them, it was good that all should
seek peace with one another for the sake of the nation, and so that
they may find a little peace in their own hearts.
“What about the dead?” the Boy asked. “How do you make peace
with those you butchered? How can they ever forgive you?”
“Those too have their revenge,” he said. “In so many terrible ways,
they too have their revenge.”
They were silent again. He touched the bandage on his head and
winced.
“There are many policemen in the City,” he said. “Are you so brave you
will face guns with placards?”
“I’m not alone,” said the Boy.
“With whom will you be?”
“With the boys.”
“Just the boys?”
“Just the boys.”
“No one else?”
“They are enough.”
“What about the Student?” asked the Thief. “Does he come too?”
“He comes too,” said the Boy. “The Student has always been one of
us.”
“He is a good one, the Student,” said the Thief. “He would have been
a good doctor too, had they not chased him from university.”
Many were the good people whose lives and careers had been
derailed by brutality and terminated by genocide.
“Will there be soldiers?” the Thief asked.
“You can be sure of that.”
“Will they have guns?”
“Soldiers always have guns.”
The Thief was quiet, thinking.
I shall come with you,” he decided.
The Boy was so startled he did not know what to say.
“There will be dying,” he reminded.
“Let there be."
“And you will still come?”
“I have decided.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think that people should suffer and die because they are poor
or different,” said the Thief. “It is not right and it is not just. I’m tired
of living in the Devil’s hole. Who knows when the Devil will decide that
I too don’t deserve to live?”
READ ON ...
| Meja Mwangi -The Big Chiefs |
| The Big Chiefs have plunged the country into political and economic mayhem to serve their own interests. Rumour has it that another genocide is imminent. One Old Man has seen it all before and tells this cautionary tale of misplaced trust in leadership to whoever cares to listen. Will history repeat itself? Is there no end to the power of the Big Chiefs? In this apocalyptic novel, Meja Mwangi, spins a moral tale of courage in the face of overwhelming odds, and tells a story that is full of love and compassion, and one that is as heart-warming as it is disturbing. |
| The Big Chiefs hm books, 2007 248 pgs ISBN 978-0-9796476-3-5 |
| "... i find this novel a great piece of literature, impressive and despairingly reflecting the realities, despite its ending. I actually virtually saw it as a piece of theatre and could very well imagine it performed on stage. It has a power reminding me of Waiting for Godot". ruedi küng Schweizer Radio DRS |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |