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The spider's Web 1
Inside the coffin, his body had become rigid. He tried to turn
and only felt the prick of the nail. It had been hammered
carelessly through the lid, just falling short of his shoulder.
There was no pain but he felt irretrievable and alone, hemmed
within the mean, stuffy box, knowing that outside was air. As
dust to dust ... the pious preacher intoned out there, not
without an edge of triumph. This suicide, brethren ...! They
had no right, these people had no right at all. They sang so
mournfully over him, almost as if it would disappoint them to
see him come back. But he would jump out yet, he would send
the rusty nails flying back at them and teach that cheap-jack of
an undertaker how to convert old trunks. He was not a third
class citizen. Let me out! But he could not find the energy to cry
out or even turn a little from the nail on his shoulder, as the
people out there hastened to cash in another tune, for the
padre might at any moment cry Amen! and commit the flesh
deep into the belly of the earth whence it came. Somebody was
weeping righteously in between the pauses. He thought it was Mrs Njogu. Then in the dead silence that followed he was
being posted into the hole and felt himself burning up already
as his mean little trunk creaked at the joints and nudged its
darkness in on him like a load of sins. Careful, careful, he is not a
heap of rubbish... That was Mr Njogu. Down, slowly down,
the careless rope issued in snappy mean measures like a
spider's web and knocked his little trunk against the sides to
warn the loud gates that he was coming to whoever would
receive him. It caved in slowly, the earth, he could feel, and for
the first time he felt important. He seemed to matter now, as all
eyes no doubt narrowed into the dark hole at this moment,
with everybody hissing poor soul; gently, gently. Then snap! The
rope gave way -- one portion of the dangling thing preferring to recoil into the tight-fisted hands out there
-- and he felt shot
towards the bottom head-downwards, exploding into the
gates of hell with a loud, unceremonious Bang!
Ngotho woke up with a jump. He mopped the sweat on the
tail of his sheet. This kind of thing would bring him no good.
Before, he had been dreaming of beer parties or women or
fights with bees as he tried to smoke them out for honey. Now,
lately, it seemed that when he wasn't being smoked out of this
city where he so very much belonged and yet never belonged,
he was either pleading his case at the White Gates or being
condemned to hell in cheap coffins. This kind of thing just isn't
healthy...
But he was in top form.. He flung the blanket away. He bent
his arms at the elbow for exercise. He shot them up and held
them there like a surrender. No that will not do. He bent them
again and pressed his fingers on his shoulders. They gathered
strength, knitting into a ball so that his knuckles sharpened.
Then he shot a dangerous fist to the left and held it there,
tightly, not yielding a step, until he felt all stiff and blood
pumped at his forehead. Dizziness overpowered him and his
hand fell dead on the bed. Then a spasm uncoiled his right
which came heavily on the wall and, pained, cowered. Was he
still a stranger to the small dimensions of his only room even
after eight years?
But it wasn't the first time anyhow. So, undaunted, he
sprang twice on the bed for more exercise. Avoiding the spring
that had fetched his thigh yesterday morning between the
bulges in the old mattress, he hummed Africa nchi yetu and
shot his leg down the bed. Swa-ah! That would be three
shillings for another sheet through the back doors of the Koya
Mosque. Ngotho dragged himself out of bed.
It was a beautiful Sunday morning. He had nothing to worry
about so long as he did not make the mistake of going to
church. Churches depressed him. But that dream still
bothered him. (At least they could have used a less precipitate rope).
And those nails, didn't he have enough things pricking him
since Mrs Knight gave him a five-pound handshake saying
Meet you in England and Mrs Njogu came buzzing in as his
new memsahib borrowing two shillings from him?
Ngotho his arms at his chest and yawned. He took his moustache thoughtfully between his fingers and curled it
sharp like horns. At least she could have returned it. It was not
as if the cost of living had risen the way employers took things
for granted these days. He stood at the door of the two-room
house which he shared with the other servant who, unlike
him, didn't cook for memsahib. Instead, Kago went on
errands, trimmed the grass and swept the compound, taking
care to trace well the dog's mess for the night. Already Ngotho
could see the early riser as good as sniffing and scanning the
compound after the erratic manner of Wambui last night.
(Wambui was the brown Alsatian dragged from the village and
surprised into civilisation, a dog-collar and tinned bones by
Mrs Njogu. A friend of hers, Elsie Bloom, kept one and they
took their bitches for a walk together.) Ngotho cleared his
throat.
'Hei, Kago!'
Kago who was getting frostbite rubbed his thumb between
the toes and turned round.
'How is the dog's breakfast?'
'Nyukwa!'
Nogotho laughed.
'You don't have to insult my mother,' he said. 'Tinned bones
for Wambui and cornflakes for memsahib are the same thing.
We both hang if we don't get them.'
Kago leant on his broom, scratched the top of his head
dull-wittedly, and at last saw that Ngotho had a point there.
He was a good soul, Kago was, and subservient as a child.
There was no doubt about his ready aggressiveness where
men of his class were concerned it was true, but when it came
to Mrs Njogu he wound tail between his legs and stammered.
This morning he was feeling at peace with the world.
'Perhaps you are right,' he said, to Ngotho. Then diving his
thumb between the toes he asked if there was a small thing
going on that afternoon-like a beer party.
'The Queen!'
At the mention of the name, Kago forgot everything about
drinking, swerved round and felt a thousand confused things
beat into his head simultaneously. Should he go on sweeping
and sniffing or should he get the Bob's Tinned? Should he
un-tin the Bob's Tinned or should he run for the Sunday
To be continued |
