The Big Chiefs is the story of greed for
power and wealth at the expense of

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
Phil Bright -The Black Street
The Big Chiefs
hm books, 2007
252 pgs
The Big Chiefs
HM Productions Intl.                                        All Rights Reserved
copyright 2008 by HM Entertainment Inc.
"... 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".

Schweizer Radio DRS
They were assembled in a large hut, next to a crumbling,
schoolhouse to which no children came any more,
all of them hard
and ruthless men who had seen woeful days and never forgotten about
them.  They were all former formers and united by having been formerly
something that they could no longer be.  They were labourers and lawyers,
doctors and drivers, mechanics and muggers, students and smugglers and
men from all walks of a former life; people condemned to the Pit for any
number of reasons including their ethnic heritage and their political thought,
or simply for being on the wrong side of the fence when the call was sounded
and the gates slammed shut; for reasons none of which mattered now.
     Some of them had taken part in the creation of the laws that now classed
them less than human.  Others had built the fortifications and the barricades
that now kept them out of the City.  Still others had enforced the evacuation
and ostracised their kin before they too were kicked out of the City.  They
were indignant and intractable men, outraged men with a massive axe to
grind, men who would do anything to be let back in human society.  And they
were united in their fear and loathing of the system which had so publicly
rejected and humiliated them.
     The Boy, however, knew them for what they were - men so desperate to
get out of hell that they would sign another pact with the Devil.  Men who
argued too much about what they could do, what they should do and what
was necessary to do.  Though they spoke the same language, their meetings
were always a cacophony of ideas, ideologies, purposes and egos.  Among
them was a new face, a man with a bandage on his head, and a pained
expression on his face.
     They stopped arguing, when the Boy entered the meeting place, and
turned on him like a pack that had found a new prey.
     “You are late,” one of them said.
     “Where have you been?” asked another.
     “How can you keep us waiting?”
     “You are always late,” said another.  “Where did you go?”
     The Boy, feeling the air of cold desperation that permeated the room,
said, “I missed the house.”
     “This house?” exclaimed the Lawyer.  “You missed this house?”
     “I was angry,” said the Boy,  “I didn’t look where I was going.”
     “Have you been listening to that old fool again?” the Smuggler asked him.
     Irrational anger surged through the Boy’s heart.  He fought to control it
as he stood by the doorway looking round the room at the men gathered
there.  They sat on the floor and on wooden crates, on upturned buckets
and on the two unmade beds and on anything that could be sat on.  They
leaned on the sooty walls, making them sag outwards.  They were not only
angry but also tired of waiting.  They were tired of waiting for the Boy, weary
of waiting for something to happen to end to their perpetual limbo.  And they
were tired, as the Smuggler often said, of living in the Devil’s anus.  But they
could not reach the Devil so they blamed it on each other and the Boy.
     “The Old Man is not a fool,” he said.