Wizard of the crow pdf

Ethnology Of Africa

Kenya

from WIZARD OF THE CROW

Bearded Daemons

Now EVERYBODY IN the country knew something or other about the

Ruler’s Birthday because, before it was firmly set in the national calen- dar, the date of his birth and the manner of its celebration had been the

subject of a heated debate in Parliament that went on for seven months,

seven days, seven hours, and seven minutes, and even then the honor- able members could not arrive at a consensus mainly because nobody knew for sure the actual date of the Ruler’s birth and when they failed

to break the impasse, the honorable members sent a formal delegation to the very seat of power to seek wise guidance after which they passed a motion of gratitude to the Ruler for helping the chamber find a solu-

tion to a problem that had completely defeated their combined knowl- edge and experience. The birthday celebrations would always start at

the seventh hour of the seventh day of the’ seventh month, seven being the Ruler’s sacred number, and precisely because in Aburiria the Ruler

controlled how the months followed each other—January for instance trading places with July—he therefore had the power to declare any

month in the year the seventh month, and any day within that seventh

month the seventh day and therefore the Ruler’s Birthday. The same applied to time, and any hour, depending on the wishes of the Ruler,

could be the seventh hour. The attendance at these annual assemblies always varied, but that

particular year the stadium was almost full because the curiosity of the

citizens had been aroused by a special announcement, repeated over and

over in the media, that there would be a special birthday cake, which

the entire country had made for the Ruler and which he might make

multiply and feed the multitude the way Jesus Christ once did with just

five loaves and two fishes. The prospect of cakes for the multitude may explain the more than usual presence of victims of kwashiorkor.

The celebration started at noon, and late in the afternoon it was still going strong. The sun dried people’s throats. The Ruler, his minis- ters, and the leaders of the Ruler’s Party, all under a shade, kept cooling

their tongues with cold water. The citizens without shade or water dis- tracted themselves from the hot darts of the sun by observing and com-

menting on what was happening on the platform: the clothes the dignitaries wore, the way they walked, or even where each sat relative to the seat of might.

Immediately behind the Ruler was a man who held a pen the width of an inch water pipe in his right hand and a huge leather-bound book in his left, and since he was always writing people assumed that he was a member of the press, although there were some who wondered why he

was not at the press gallery. Beside him sat the four sons of the Ruler-

Kucera, Moya, Soi, and Runyenje—studiously drinking from bottles labeled Diet.

Near the sons sat Dr. Wilfred Kaboca, the Ruler’s personal physi- cian, and next to him, the only woman on the platform, who was also

conspicuous in her silence. Some assumed that she was one of the Rul-

er’s daughters, but then, they wondered, why was she not speaking to

her brothers? Others thought that she was Dr. Kaboca’s wife, but then why this silence between them?

To the Ruler’s right sat the Minister of Foreign Affairs in a dark striped suit and a red tie with a picture of the Ruler, the emblem of the Ruler’s Party.

The story goes that Markus used to be an ordinary member of Par-

liament. Then one day he flew to England, where under the glare of

publicity he entered a major London hospital not because he was ill but because he wanted to have his eyes enlarged, to make them ferociously sharp, or as he put it in Kiswahili, Yawe Macho Kali, so that they would be able to spot the enemies of the Ruler no matter how far their hiding

places. Enlarged to the size of electric bulbs, his eyes were now the most

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prominent feature of his face, dwarfing his nose, cheeks, and forehead. The Ruler was so touched by his devotion and public expression of

loyalty that even before the MP returned home from England the Ruler

had given him the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, an important Cabinet post, so that Machokali would be his representative eye wherever, in

whatever corner of the globe lay the Ruler’s interests. And so Machokali

he became, and later he even forgot the name given at his birth.

To the left of the Ruler sat another Cabinet minister, the Minister

of State in the Ruler’s office, dressed in a white silk suit, a red handker- chief in his breast pocket, and of course the Party tie. He too had started

as a not particularly distinguished member of Parliament, and he prob- ably would have remained thus, except that when he heard of the good

fortune that had befallen Machokali he decided to follow suit. He did

not have much money -so he secretly sold his father’s plot and borrowed

the rest to buy himself a flight to France and a hospital bed in Paris, where he had his ears enlarged so that, as he also put it in a press state-

ment, he would be able to hear better and therefore be privy to the most private of conversations between husband and wife, children and their

parents, students and teachers, priests and their flock, psychiatrists and

their patients—all in the service of the Ruler. His ears were larger than a rabbit’s and always primed to detect danger at any time and from any

direction. His devotion did not go unnoticed, and he was made Minis- ter of State in charge of spying on the citizenry. The secret police ma-

chine known as M5 was now under his direction. And so Silver Sikiokuu

he became, jettisoning his earlier names. The success of the two erstwhile members of Parliament was, iron-

ically, the beginning of their rivalry: one considered himself the Ruler’s

Eye and the other his Ear. People at the stadium kept comparing their

different expressions, particularly the movements of their eyes and ears,

for it had long been known that the two were always in a mortal strug- gle to establish which organ was more powerful: the Eye or the Ear of

the Ruler. Machokali always swore by his eyes: May these turn against

me if I am not telling the truth. Sikiokuu invoked his ears: May these be my witness that what I am saying is true—and in mentioning

them, he would tug at the earlobes. The gesture, rehearsed and per-

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fected over time, gave him a slight edge in their rivalry for attention,

because Machokaji could never match it by tugging at his eyelids and he

was reduced to doing the second best thing, pointing at his eyes for emphasis.

Other members of Parliament would have followed suit and had their bodies altered depending on what services they wanted to render the Ruler except for what befell Benjamin Mambo. As a young man

Mambo had failed to get into the army because he was small, but the fire for a military life never died, and now, with the new avenues of

power opened by Machokalj and Sikiokuu, he thought this his best chance to realize his dream, and he agonized over the best bodily change

to land him the Defense Minister portfolio. He chose to have his tongue elongated so that in echoing the Ruler’s command his words would

reach every soldier in the country and his threats to his enemies before they could reach the Aburirian borders. He first emulated Sikiokuu and

went to Paris, but there was some misunderstanding about the required size, and the tongue, like a dog’s, now hung out way beyond his lips,

rendering speech impossible. Machokali came to his aid by arranging for him to go to a clinic in Berlin, where the lips were pulled and elon-

gated to cover the tongue, but even then not completely and the tongue

protruded now just a little. But the Ruler misread the signified and gave

him the Ministry of Information. This was not bad, and Mambo marked his elevation to a Cabinet post by changing his forenames and called

himself Big Ben, inspired by the clock at the British Houses of Parlia-

ment. His full name was now Big Ben Mambo. He did not forget the

help that Machokali had rendered him, and in the political struggle between Markus and Silver, he often took Machokajj’s side.

The idea of a special national gift had come from Machokali-

though of course he had gotten strong hints from high above—and it

was with the pride of the inventor that he signaled the military, the police, and the prison brass bands to get themselves ready to strike the birthday tune. The moment had come.

There was great curiosity among the crowd as Machokali, aided by members of the Birthday Committee and some police officers, dramat-

ically unfolded and held aloft a huge cloth! Shoving one another aside,

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people tried to position themselves to see, and they were puzzled when they saw, on the cloth, a huge drawing of something that looked like a

building. A drawing on a white cloth for the Ruler’s birthday gift? Taking full advantage of the curiosity and raised expectations, Ma-

chokali first appealed to the people to calm themselves because not only

was he going to describe everything that was on that cloth, but he was

going to make sure that copies of what the English call an artist impres-

sion would be distributed to the entire country. He would in fact take

that opportunity to thank the teacher who had volunteered his services to do the impression, but regretted that he could not reveal the teacher’s

name because the artist had forbidden him. Teaching was a noble profession and its practitioners were modest,

driven not by self-glory but selfless service, an ideal for all citizens.

At the far end ofihe congregation a man raised his hand and waved

it frantically while shouting a contradiction, Its okay, you can mention

MY name, and even when told to shut up by those around him, he con-

tinued, Jam here—you can reveal my identity. He was too far back to be

heard on the platform but he was near some policemen, and one of

them asked him, What is your name? Kaniürü, John Kaniflrü, the man

said, and I am the teacher the speaker is referring to. Turn your pockets

inside out, the police officer ordered him. After he had made sure that Kaniürü was not carrying a weapon, the police officer, pointing at his

own gun, asked him, Do you see this? If you continue disrupting the meeting, as sure as my name is Askari Arigaigai Gathere and my boss

Inspector Wonderful Tumbo, I will relieve you of that nose. The man Kaniürü sat back. Not many people noticed this little commotion be-

cause all their eyes and ears were riveted on the bigger drama on the

platform. The whole country, the Minister for Foreign Affairs was saying, the

entire Aburirian populace, had decided unanimously to erect a building such as had never been attempted in history except once by the children

of Israel, and even they had failed miserably to complete the House of Babel. Aburiria would now do what the Israelites could not do: raise a

building to the very gates of Heaven so that the Ruler could call on God daily to say good morning or good evening or simply how was your day

today, God? The Ruler would be the daily recipient of God’s advice,

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resulting in a rapid growth of Aburiria to heights never before dreamt

by humans. The entire project, Heavenscrape or simply Marching to

Heaven, would be run by a National Building Committee, the chair of which would be announced in good time.

As these wonderful ideas had come from the Birthday Gift Com-

mittee, Machokali went on to say, he would like to acknowledge their

good work by introducing each of them to the Ruler. The committee members were mostly parliamentarians but there were two or three pri-

vate citizens, one of whom, Titus Tajirika, almost fell to the ground as

he jumped up when his name was called out. Tajirika had never shaken hands with the Ruler, and the thought that this was actually happening

in front of thousands was so overwhelming that his whole body trem-

bled in sheer wonderment at his good fortune. Even when he returned to his seat, Tajirika kept on looking at his hands in disbelief, wondering

what he could do to avoid using his right hand to shake hands with oth-

ers or to avoid washing it for some time. He detested gloves but now he

wished he had some in his pockets. He would certainly rectify this, but in the meantime he would wrap the lucky hand with his handkerchief

so that when he shook hands with his left, people would assume that it

was because of an injury to the other. Tajirika was so absorbed in ban- daging his right hand that he missed some of the story of Marching to Heaven, but now he tried to catch up with Machokali’s narrative.

Minister Machokali was waxing ecstatic about how the benefits of the project could trickle down to all citizens. Once the project was com- pleted, no historian would ever again talk about any other wonders in

the world, for the fame of this Modern House of Babel would dwarf the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Egyptian pyramids, the Aztecan

TenochtitjÆn, or the Great Wall of China. And who would ever talk of

the Taj Mahal? Our project will be the first and only superwonder in the history of the world. In short, Machokajj declared, Marching to Heaven

was the special birthday cake the citizens had decided to bake for their

one and only leader, the eternal Ruler of the Free Republic of Aburiria.

Here Machokali paused dramatically to allow time for an ovation. Except for members of Parliament, Cabinet ministers, officials of

the Ruler’s Party, and representatives of the armed forces, nobody

clapped, but nevertheless Machokalj thanked the entire assembly for

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their overwhelming support and he invited any citizen eager to say a

word in praise of Marching to Heaven to step forward. People stared at

one another and at the platform in stony silence. The only hands raised

were those of the ministers, members of Parliament, and officials of the Ruler’s Party, but the minister ignored them and appealed to the citi- zenry. Are you so overwhelmed by happiness that you are lost for words?

Is there no one able to express his joy in words? A man raised his hand and Machokali quickly beckoned him to

come over to the microphone. The man, clearly advanced in years,

leaned on a walking stick as he pushed through the crowd. Two police

officers ran to him and helped him toward the microphone near the platform. Age was still revered in Aburiria, and the multitude waited for

his words as if from an oracle. But when the old man began to speak it

was clear that he hd difficulty in pronouncing Swahili words for the

Ruler, Mtukufu Rais, calling out instead, Mtukutu Rahisi. Horrified at

the Ruler’s being called a Cheap Excellency, one of the policemen

quickly whispered in the old man’s ear that the phrase was Mtukufu Rats

or Rais Mtukufu, which confused him even more. Coughing and clear-

ing his throat to still himself, he called out into the microphone, Rahisi

Mkundu. Oh, no, it is not Cheap Arsehole, the other policeman whis-

pered in the other ear, no, no, it is His Holy Mightiness, Mtukujls

Mtakat, which did not help matters because the old man now said,

with what the old man thought was confidence, Mkundu Takatifu. At

the mention of "His Holy Arsehole," the multitude broke out in hilari- ous laughter, which made the old man forget what he had wanted to

say, and he stuck religiously to the phrase Rahisi Mkundu, which made

Machokali quickly signal that he be removed from the microphone. The old man did not understand why he was not being allowed to

speak, and, as he was led back into the crowd, he let out a stream of

Rahisi Mkundu, Mtukutu Takatifu Mkundu, Mtukutu, any combination

of cheap and holy arseholes he thought might work, gesturing toward

the Ruler as if begging for his divine intervention. In order to distract people from the embarrassing scene, Machokali

took the microphone and thanked the old man for saying that the entire enterprise was easy and cheap if only the people put their minds and

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pockets to it. But no matter what spin he put on it, the words cheap and holy arsehole remained in the air, an embarrassment that clearly left the minister lost in a quandary of inarticulateness.

Minister Sikiokuu seized the moment to deepen the confusion. Claiming that he was actually speaking on behalf of all the others who had raised their hands but had been ignored in favor of the old man, who Machokali was still showering with praise, Sikiokuu asked, Did

"brother" Machokaji and his committee not realize that the Ruler would

get very tired climbing up the staircase to Heaven’s gate on foot or rid- ing in a modern elevator, no matter how swift?

He suggested that another committee under his chairmanship be set up to explore possibilities for the construction of a space luxury liner

called the Ruler’s Angel, and with it a land vehicle, something slightly bigger than the one the Americans had once launched to Mars, to be

called Star Rover or simply Rock Rover in Heaven. Armed with the personal spaceship, the only leader in the world to possess one, the

Ruler would make pleasure trips wherever and whenever he fancied,

hopping from planet to planet, and once on the surface of each star he would simply use the Rock Rover in Heaven to move and pick up gold

and diamonds in the sky. As Sikiokuu concluded, he dramatically tugged at his two earlobes as witness and sat down, shouting: A space luxury liner!

Having reclaimed the microphone, Machokali, after thanking his fellow minister for his support of the chosen gift and for his brilliant idea about the Ruler’s travel needs in Heaven, quickly pointed out that

if the minister had bothered to look at the drawing on the cloth he would have seen that the existing committee had already thought

through the problem of heavenly travel. At the very top of Marching to Heaven was a spaceport where such a vehicle could land and take off on

Journeys to other stars. Machokali now swore a couple of times, point- ing at his own eyes as a confirmation of his claim that the committee had been very farsighted.

But it was also obvious from the smile that hovered around the edges of his mouth as he countered Sikiokuu’s challenge that he had

something else up his sleeve, and when Machokali announced it, it took

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even the other ministers by surprise. The Global Bank would soon send a mission to the country to discuss Marching to Heaven and see if the

bank could loan Aburiria the money for its completion. After a dramatic pause to let the news sink in properly, Machokali

now called upon the Ruler to accept Marching to Heaven as the gift of

a grateful nation to its Ruler. The brass bands struck up the tune:

Happy Birthday to You

Happy Birthday to You

Happy Birthday, Dear Ruler Happy Birthday to You

The Ruler, a staff and a fly whisk in his left hand, stood up. His

dark suit was almost identical to that worn by Machokali, but on careful examination one could see that the stripes were made of tiny letters that read MIGHT IS RIGHT. Rumor had it that all his clothes were made to

measure in Europe, that his London, Paris, and Rome tailors did noth- ing else but make his clothes. ’What distinguished his clothes from all imitations by all political fawns were the patches on the shoulders and elbows of his jackets, because they were made from skins of the big cats,

mainly leopards, tigers, and lions. In short, no politician was allowed to

wear clothes with patches made from the skin of His Mighty Cats. This

special feature had inspired the children to sing how their Lord:

Walks the earth like a leopard Lights the path with the eyes of a tiger

And roars with a lion’s fury

With his height and his custom suits, the Ruler cut quite an impos-

ing figure, and that is why the holders of the fifth theory keep going

back to how he looked that day. He had been the very picture of good

health as he cleared his throat and declaimed, "I am deeply moved by the tremendous love that you have shown me today. . ." adding that

before speaking further, he would like to show his appreciation of their love with an act of mercy by announcing the release of hundreds of

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political prisoners, among them a few authors and journalists all held without trial including one historian who had been in prison for ten years for crimes that included writing a book called People Make History, Then a Ruler Makes It His Story. The alleged literary sins of the historian still consumed the Ruler, because even now he came back to the case of

the historian. Professor Materu, he called him, sarcastically referring to the fact that on his arrival in prison the professor’s long beard had

been the first thing to go under a blunt knife. This terrorist of the intel-

lect has spent ten years in jail, said the Ruler, but because of this historic occasion, I have let him out early. But Professor Materu would not be

allowed to grow his beard a length more than half an inch, and if he

transgressed, he would be reimprisoned. He was to report once a month

to a police station to have the length of his beard measured. All the other dissidents had to swear that never again would they collect and pass on rumors as history, literature, or journalism. If they mended their

ways, they would know him as Lord Generosity who rewarded the truly repentant, he said, before turning to the sole woman on the platform.

"Dr. Yunice Immaculate Mgenzi," he called out.

Slowly and deliberately, the silent woman stood up; she was truly striking in poise and general appearance.

"Do you see this woman?" he continued. "In the days of the cold war this one you now see was a revolutionary. Very radical. Her name said it all. Dr. Yunity Mgeuzi-Bila-Shaka. You see? A revolutionary without a doubt. Maoist. Alikuwa mtuya Beijing. But in the final days of the cold war, she gave up this revolutionary foolishness, repented, and pledged faithful service to me. Did I jail her? No. I even asked Big

Ben Mambo to give her a job as an information officer, and now I am happy to announce that I have appointed Dr. Yunice Immaculate Mgenzi as the next deputy to my ambassador in Washington. The first woman in the history ofAburiria to hold such a post."

Dr. Mgenzi acknowledged the thunderous applause from the crowd with a bow and a wave of the hand, and then sat down.

"And now," continued the Ruler when the applause subsided, "I want to talk about another radical who used to breathe fire and brimstone at imperialism, capitalism, colonialism, neocolonialism, the whole lot. He

used to go by the name of Dr. Luminous Karamu-Mbuya-Ituika. You see,

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calling on luminous pens to scrawl revolution? An agitator. A Moscow man. Educated in East Germany’s Institute of Marxist Revolutionary

Journalism. There was even a time when some of our neighbors, drunk

with the foolishness of African socialism, had hired his services to write

radical articles calling for class struggle in Africa. As soon as it was clear that communism was a spent force, he too wisely repented and has-

tened to remove the word revolution from his name. ’What did I do? Jail

him? No. I forgave him. And he has proven himself worthy of my for-

giveness with his work. In the Eternal Patriot, the underground leaflet

he used to edit, he used to denounce me as a creator of a nation of

sheep. Now in the Daily Parrot he helps me shepherd the sheep with his

literary lashes." To protect the country against malicious rumormongers, so-called

historians, and novelisjs, and to counter their lies and distortions, the Ruler appointed him to be his official biographer, and as everyone

knows his biography was really the story of the country, and the true

history. "My Devoted and Trusted Historian," roared the Ruler, "I want

you to stand up that they may behold you and learn." The biographer obliged, and it was then that everybody realized

that the man with the leather-bound notebook and a pen the size of a water pipe was the Ruler’s official biographer. My beloved children, the

Ruler now called out, turning to the multitude, I want to say, may you

all be blessed for your superwonder gift to me. Not least of what made

it so endearing, he said, was that it came as a complete surprise: not in his wildest dreams had he thought that Aburiria would show its grati-

tude by attempting something that had never been done in the history

of the world. He had never expected any rewards; doing what he had done had been its own reward, and he would continue to do so out of a

fatherly love. He stopped, for suddenly near the center of the multitude issued a bloodcurdling scream. A snake! A snake! came the cry taken up

by others. Soon there was pandemonium. People shoved and shouted in every direction to escape a snake unseen by many. It was enough that

others had; the cry was now not about one but several snakes. Unable to believe what was happening and with none wanting to be first to show fear, the Cabinet ministers cast surreptitious glances at one another,

waiting for someone to make the first move.

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Part of the crowd started pushing its way toward the platform,

shouting, Snake! Snake! Some police officers and soldiers were about to run away but when they saw the Ruler’s guard ready their guns to shoot into the crowd, they stood their ground. The chaos continued un- abated.

To calm things down, the police chief shot his gun into the air, but this only made matters worse and the melee turned into a riot of self- preservation as people took to their heels in every direction ; after a few minutes, only the Ruler and his entourage of ministers, soldiers, and policemen were left in the park. The head of the secret police woke up

from a stupor and whispered to the Ruler, This might be the beginnin g of a coup d’etat, and within seconds the Ruler was on his way to the State House.