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The plane touched down at roughly 2:30. The temperature somewhere in the high seventies, it was relatively cool for the last day of July in 2004. When Njeeri turned to look at Ngugi, she could see his excitement, despite the tiredness and exhaustion. She looked to her children, only ten and nine years old, and saw how happy they were that their Daddy was with them, finally taking that family trip they had all dreamed of for so long. Even before they got off the plane, before they greeted anyone, Thiong’o was talking about the creek. He wanted to show his Daddy the creek where he had played. Njeeri was proud that they accomplished this after so many years. She would never have to feel guilty again about leaving Ngugi at home and hopping on a plane to Kenya. He was here, standing – standing! – next to her, not in a box as she had dreaded. Kiragu Chege, Ngugi’s first wife’s nephew, who headed the welcoming committee, was one of the first to greet them. He slipped his arm under Ngugi’s and helped him walk over to the room where he would conduct his first order of business back in Kenya, a press conference. As soon as the KANU government fell in 2002 and Mwai Kibaki was elected president, when Ngugi was officially no longer in exile, Kiragu had started sending Ngugi emails asking when he would return to Kenya. It was a little odd, Njeeri thought, that he was communicating with them. Yes he was family by marriage, but not very close. She didn’t think much of it, and besides Ngugi had helped educate Kiragu, who was a well-off engineer; maybe he wanted to thank the man he thought of as his uncle. As they stepped in the pressroom, they were hit by the concentrated heat of dozens of bodies cooking under the brilliant camera lights. The Assistant Minister of Justice greeted them and introduced the family to the reporters. Mumbi and Thiong’o sat on a couch to the side, while Njeeri and Ngugi sat front and center. Ngugi began speaking as reporters silenced cell phones. “I am very moved by the welcome I and my family have received. Indeed the atmosphere is very different from when I had to go away.” He continued listing the family’s statistics, speaking slowly and clearly, so the eager press would get it all right. Njeeri put her hand on his shoulder and watched the sweat bead on Ngugi’s nape. “This is the first time we are traveling together, as a family, in Africa.” Njeeri sat, quietly listening, hands clasped in her lap. First time traveling as a family, yes. The year she had enrolled Mumbi and Thiong’o in a dusty school in Mang’u, her hometown, was before Moi was gone, before Ngugi could come out of exile. But the two spent a year there and learned Kikuyu. While they had made certain arrangements for their safety, the guards were soon abandoned as the kids wanted to go to school on their own. But with Moi out of power, a new, friendlier government in place now, certain dangers seemed all but things of the past. “Let me tell you, I am so glad to be back on Kenyan soil.” The tiny room was getting hotter. Njeeri toyed with the handkerchief around her fingers and waited for an opportunity to wipe Ngugi’s brow. “I left Kenya on June 5, 1982, for London, to help with the launching of my books: Devil on the Cross, I Will Marry When I Want, and Detained: A Writer’s Prison Diary, with a confirmed return flight of July 31 on that same year. Despite the government’s ban on my return to the classroom at the University of Nairobi where I used to work, I said I would never go into exile. But on the verge of my return, I received information that a ‘red carpet’ awaited me at this very airport. I did not like the word red, for in those despotic times, it had more than one meaning. Given my relationship with the regime, I did not come back to find out the real meaning of the word.” Ngugi didn’t return once during those twenty-two years. Not when his mother died, nor his first wife. Even though Kikuyu tradition demanded his presence, as a sign of respect towards his late wife and her family, he couldn’t endanger his new family by returning. Njeeri knew those were the hardest times for Ngugi in his exile. Kiragu, sitting just out of view of the television cameras, periodically leaned behind Ngugi and tapped Njeeri on the shoulder to ask questions. Ngugi talked on. “Living in exile, especially for a writer, has its toll. While one may have a broad picture of what is going on inside, one loses the feel of the everyday. I return to link with that feel of the everyday. I have come back with an open mind, an open heart and open arms. I have come to touch base. I have come to learn.” “Are you back to stay, or are you just visiting?” “I’m visiting for a month, because as I said in my statement, I’m still working for the University of California, Irvine. But I hope this will be the beginning of my more regular interactions with Kenya.” Njeeri nodded her head as he spoke the words “more regular interaction.” “What if the government gives you a position at a Kenyan university?” “They have not offered me! I don’t know how I would respond to that, but I will wait and see if they offer.” She smiled, then laughed; they were already trying to wrest Ngugi away! But what if he was offered a position at a Kenyan university? Would she come to Kenya and find a job as she had done when Ngugi was offered the position of Director of UCI’s International Center for Writing and Translation? She had left New Jersey, then boarded a plane to Irvine and found herself a job. She had wanted Ngugi to be able to make a decision based on what he wanted, knowing that his family would be secure either way. As the questions continued, she saw Ngugi tire. It had barely been two weeks since the surgery to unblock an artery in his neck. The heat in the room would not let up and beads of sweat turned into rivulets. Finally she wiped his brow and neck with the white handkerchief. She tucked the cloth behind her and thought nothing of it. The press noticed and announced, “Mother Njeeri does her duty.” They asked Ngugi if he would run for office. She immediately perked up and answered for him “No, no, no, no, no!” Would Njeeri like to speak to the press? “Oh no, no, no.” This kind of work was Ngugi’s field. She understood she had married a writer and the public lifestyle that came with it, but she preferred to stay out of the glare of the lights. Outside the conference room walls, Jomo Kenyatta airport pulsed with the energy of the people. They came to be able to say they were the ones who welcomed him back to Kenya that first time. Hundreds and hundreds came in chartered buses, private cars and taxis down the airport road with the fiberglass elephants, to the busiest port in Kenya. More than a thousand people packed the terminal and overflowed outside its automated glass doors. Squeezed tight, with just enough room to raise their arms and express their welcome. A large group huddled in the center. The men wore goldenrod-yellow tunics mottled with black spots and draped over their shoulders and hung black-and-white animal pelts and sheepskins around their necks and strapped to their shins. They carried slender sticks towering a foot or two over their heads. They tapped the stick down with the beat of their song, shifting their weight in a steady rhythm. Some wore sunglasses, some slacks and collared shirts. The women stood separately, dressed in white, their hair wrapped up in radiant cloths, dancing as the men did. They all sang the same song, the old Mau Mau one they would chant when their fighters returned home; they now sang it for Ngugi and his family. They all danced the same dance and beamed the same smiles, laughter and joy. When Ngugi and his family finally left the conference room, they met more blinding flashes and the muffled whirl of tape spinning in television cameras. Ngugi walked cautiously, carrying a wooden cane and answering questions. They continued down the long hallway and finally reached the stairway that would lead them to the people waiting below. Mumbi and Thiong’o bounded ahead while Ngugi took his time. Njeeri watched Ngugi with concern. Just as she thought he wouldn’t be able to make it down the stairs, just as those with them were urging Ngugi to get in front of the group for pictures, Thiong’o became aware of his father’s difficulty. He turned around, extended his hand to his father and helped him down the remaining steps. Njeeri could see the huge group of people as she came down the stairs. Their chanting, singing and yelling, all combined into one celebratory vibration that filled the terminal. She spotted students, the Kamirithu theater troupe, and occasionally a familiar face pushing to get through to them. But where was the security? Nothing was organized; there was no stage to allow Ngugi to address the crowds who craved to hear his voice. This wasn’t how it was in South Africa where Ngugi had just received an honorary doctorate alongside Nelson Mandela. They began to push their way through the crowd, circled by a few airport security guards who widely waved their walkie-talkies around. Perhaps it would be less intense outside the terminal doors. They were greeted by a wall of noise as they stepped out. “Thaai! Thaithaiya Ngai, Thaai witu wa Kirinyaga ni gutuchokeria Ngugi!” The Mau Mau song sung for the detainees who made it home alive. Peace! Thanks be to the God of Kirinyaga for bringing Ngugi home. Outside, it was cooler, but impossible to notice when the people were packed so closely together. The crowds generated intense heat, noise and anxiety. Every few moments Njeeri took note of where her children were. “NGUGI FOR CHANCELLOR! NGUGI FOR CHANCELLOR!” Njeeri noticed Mumbi’s eyes welling up as she kept getting pushed and shoved by the jubilant crowd and the guards who were trying to rush them into the waiting car. Thiong’o – he was out of sight. Where is my baby? “Ul-ul-ul-ul-ul-ul-ul-uluuu.” Traditional ululation, a good sign. Njeeri frantically scanned around until she spotted him. Come, she mouthed and pulled him close. “NGUGI FOR CHANCELLOR!” "THAAI!" “Ul-ul-ul-ul-ul-ul-ul-uluu” "NGUGI FOR THAAI! UL-UL-UL CHANCELLOR NGU-” With a slap of the car door, the noise appreciably decreased. But the crowd remained fervent. (continued on page 4) |
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