| The Big Chiefs - Meja Mwangi |
The Thief
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.”
The Thief was quiet, thinking.
"I shall come with you,” he decided.
The Boy was so startled he did not know what to say.
“Why?” he asked.
“I don’t think that people should suffer or 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.”
The Thief was quiet, thinking.
"I shall come with you,” he decided.
The Boy was so startled he did not know what to say.
“Why?” he asked.
“I don’t think that people should suffer or 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 ...
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| The Big Chiefs hm books, 2007 248 pgs ISBN 978-0-9796476-3-5 |
| After a successful career as a government Minister, the Old Man breaks ranks with the Big Chiefs and is banished to a remote outpost in the Northern Frontier. In an emotional recollection to the Boy, the Old Man reveals how the Big Chiefs used the colonial labels of tall and short to set their subjects against one another. Although he is caught up in the genocide that ensues, the Old Man lives to tell his story, albeit with bitterness. The mind-boggling question to the Boy is why a people who fasted and feasted together, birthed and buried together, lived and reasoned together; intermarried and integrated, should suddenly rise against kith and kin. Yet, like the Old Man who had made it to the top, romanced with power and wealth and came tumbling down to the Pit, the young generation is only but searching for a spark of light to illuminate the inherent evil so evident in the hearts of men who believe in the right of might. The Big Chiefs is the story of greed for power and wealth at the expense of the sacred pillars of humanity. 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. |
| "... i find this novel (The Big Chiefs) 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 |
| The Old Man |
| THE BIG CHIEFS |
The Big Chiefs