Petals of Blood by Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, Moses Isegawa

prospect.
    But in their hearts they did not believe that such things could be. Nderi wa Riera had after all promised water which never came.
    Munira was puzzled about Wanja’s absence. Was she avoiding him? He now ached for her and he decided to force the issue.
    The following night after the departure of the road team, he went to her place, determined that this time he would take the plunge. Pleading eyes, fingers warm with bold bloodness, aah, that this cup would soon be over. He called Hodi and stood at the door leaning on the frame of the hut, rubbing his stomach a little to clear the bitter pool of frustration and disappointment. The light brilliantly lit Abdulla, seated quite comfortably on a stool, his body against the bedframe.
    ‘Mwalimu . . . come in . . . I am so happy,’ she called.
    His heart sank even further as he sat down: the light seemed to emphasize the happy face of Abdulla beaming at him a smile welcoming him to his carefully hidden lair.
    ‘You should have brought us beer to celebrate this day,’ she continued, sitting next to Abdulla facing him.
    ‘How are you, Mwalimu?’ Abdulla asked. ‘I wish I had known you were coming over here. I would have waited for you. As it is, I had to beat all the evening dew by myself and I have only just arrived . . .’
    ‘I am fine . . .’ Munira said, suddenly feeling better at the news. ‘What are we celebrating?’
    ‘Guess.’
    ‘I can’t.’
    ‘Today Abdulla offered me a job. Do you think I should take it?’
    ‘What job?’
    ‘A barmaid. Imagine that. A barmaid in Ilmorog. Do you think I should take it?’
    ‘It depends on the work. But there are very few customers in Ilmorog.’
    ‘Aah, but that
is
the job of a barmaid. Really, Mwalimu! A barmaid is employed to get more customers. Or to make the few regulars drink more.’
    ‘Well, if you like it . . . have you worked as a barmaid before?’
    ‘But how do you think I came to know all the places that I have been talking about?’ and she suddenly jumped up from her seat. ‘Oh, I should make tea: let’s celebrate with tea without milk . . .’
    She was very light on her feet. She started washing a sufuria and Munira’s eyes moved in rhythm with the motion of her full body and of her breasts. He was still puzzled: why was she so happy about such a job in Ilmorog when she could easily work in any of the cities she talked about? Even Ruwa-ini was much bigger and better for that kind of work. And why had she acted so oddly yesterday? But he could not help but be affected by the light, gay mood she generated. As they drank tea she once again changed from the childlike happiness to a sombre, quieter, composed self.
    ‘I feel I want to cry. I really feel so happy because Abdulla has bought Joseph clothes and a slate and books and now he can start school.’
    ‘That is good, Abdulla. At long last. Joseph looks a bright boy and I am sure he will do well.’
    ‘He should thank Wanja. It was her who made it possible.’
    ‘It was Munira’s story. It was so moving . . . really so moving,’ she said.
    The Siriana incident had touched a chord in her past.
    Munira was suddenly happy with himself. He turned to her:
    ‘You yourself . . . when you laugh . . . you look so young, you should be in school instead of working for Abdulla as a barmaid.’ She thought a little. She sipped some tea. She fingered her cup.
    ‘It is strange how one thing can lead to another. You yourself: maybe you are here because of that strike in your school. As for Abdulla – anyway I don’t know why you are here in Ilmorog. Maybe it is an accident that we are all here. Or an act of God. I don’t know . . . I don’t know . . . Do you remember the men who came to survey the road?’ she asked. ‘Do you remember the Engineer?’
    She had started haltingly, but now she suddenly felt the need to tell of this one knot in her life. And they waited also, sensing this in the air. She stood