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.”
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.”
READ ON ...
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| 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 (Meja Mwangi - 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 Big Chiefs |
The Big Chiefs
