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Minutes of Glory 4
house chores. But imagine: for the past six years she had led a
life with a different rhythm from that of her parents. Life in the
village was dull. She would often go to Karatina and to Nyeri
in search of work. In every office, they would ask her the same
questions: what work do you want? What do you know? Can
you type? Can you take shorthand? She was desperate. It was
in Nyeri, drinking Fanta in a shop, tears in her eyes, that she
met a young man in a dark suit and sun-glasses. He saw her
plight and talked to her. He came from Nairobi. Looking for
work? That's easy; in a big city there would be no difficulty
with jobs. He would certainly help. Transport? He had a
car -- a cream-white Peugeot. Heaven. It was a beautiful ride,
with the promise of dawn. Nairobi. He drove her to Terrace
Bar. They drank beer and talked about Nairobi. Through the
window she could see the neon-lit city and knew that here was
hope. That night she gave herself to him, with the promise of
dawn making her feel light and gay. She had a very deep sleep.
When she woke in the morning, the man in the cream-white
Peugeot was not there. She never saw him again. That's how
she had started the life of a barmaid. And for one and a half
years now she had not been once to see her parents. Beatrice
started weeping. Huge sobs of self-pity. Her humiliation and
constant flight were fresh in her mind. She had never been
able to take to bar culture, she always thought that something
better would come her way. But she was trapped, it was the
only life she now knew, although she had never really learnt
all its laws and norms. Again she heaved out and in, tears
tossing out with every sob. Then suddenly she froze. Her
sobbing was arrested in the air. The man had long covered
himself. His snores were huge and unmistakable.
She felt a strange hollowness. Then a bile of bitterness spilt
inside her. She wanted to cry at her new failure. She had met
several men who had treated her cruelly, who had laughed at
her scruples, at what they thought was an ill-disguised
attempt at innocence. She had accepted. But not this, Lord,
not this. Was this man not a fellow victim? Had he not,
Saturday after Saturday, unburdened himself to her? He had
paid for her human services; he had paid away his responsibility with his bottle of Tuskers and hard cash in the morning.
Her innermost turmoil had been his lullaby. And suddenly something in her snapped. All the anger of a year and a half, all
the bitterness against her humiliation were now directed at
this man.
What she did later had the mechanical precision of an
experienced hand.
She touched his eyes. He was sound asleep. She raised his
head. She let it fall. Her tearless eyes were now cold and set.
She removed the pillow from under him. She rummaged
through it. She took out his money. She counted five crisp
pink notes. She put the money inside her brassiere.
She went out of room no. 7. Outside it was still raining. She
did not want to go to her usual place. She could not now stand
the tiny cupboard room or the superior chatter of her roommate. She walked through mud and rain. She found herself
walking towards Nyaguthii's room. She knocked at the door.
At first she had no response. Then she heard Nyaguthii's
sleepy voice above the drumming rain.
.
'Who is that?'
'It is me. Please open.'
'Who?'
'Beatrice.'
'At this hour of the night?'
'Please.'
Lights were put on. Bolts unfastened. The door opened.
Beatrice stepped inside. She and Nyaguthii stood there face
to face. Nyaguthii was in a see-through nightdress: on her
shoulders she had a green pullover.
'Beatrice, is there anything wrong?' She at last asked, a note
of concern in her voice.
'Can I rest here for a while? I am tired. And I want to talk to
you.' Beatrice's voice carried assurance and power.
'But what has happened?'
'I only want to ask you a question, Nyaguthii'
They were still standing. Then, without a word, they both
sat on the bed.
'Why did you leave home, Nyaguthii?' Beatrice asked.
Another silent moment. Nyaguthii seemed to be thinking
about the question. Beatrice waited. Nyaguthii's voice when at
last it came was slightly tremulous, unsteady.
'It is a long story, Beatrice. My father and mother were fairly
To be continued |
