Ngũgĩ wa Thiongʼo - Petals of Blood

Ngg wa Thiongo is one of the leading writers and scholars at work in the world today. His books include the novels Petals of Blood, for which he was imprisoned by the Kenyan government in 1977, A Grain of Wheat and Wizard of the Crow; the memoirs, Dreams in a Time of War, In the House of the Interpreter and Birth of a Dream Weaver; and the essays, Decolonizing the Mind, Something Torn and New and Globalectics. Recipient of many honours, among them ten honorary doctorates, he is currently Distinguished Professor of English and Comparative Literature at the University of California, Irvine.

After decades of British rule Kenya has declared its independence, but drought and poor harvests still govern the village of Ilmorog. Undeterred by nature, Munira, Karega, Wanja, and Abdulla, move to Ilmorog in search of a more provincial life, only to find themselves suspects in a crime that signals a dark turning of the times.

A a classic of modern African literature, Ngugi wa Thiongos damning satire of politics and corruption in Kenya would prove the catalyst for his imprisonment by the Kenyan government.

Fiction

Wizard of the Crow

Weep Not, Child

The River Between

A Grain of Wheat

Devil on the Cross

Matigari

Short Stories

Secret Lives and Other Stories

Plays

The Black Hermit

This Time Tomorrow

The Trial of Dedan Kimathi (with Micere Mugo)

I Will Marry When I Want (with Ngg wa Mri)

Memoirs

Detained: A Writers Prison Diary
Dreams in a Time of War: A Childhood Memoir
In the House of the Interpreter: A Memoir
Birth of a Dream Weaver: A Writers Awakening

Essays

Globalectics

Something Torn and New

Decolonising the Mind

Penpoints, Gunpoints, and Dreams

Moving the Centre

Writers in Politics

Homecoming

For my mother and Nyambura
In memory of Njinju wa Thiongo who died on 6.4.74

Fearful, original sinuosities! Each mangrove sapling

Serpentlike, its roots obscene

As a six-fingered hand,

Conceals within its clutch the mossbacked toad,

Toadstools, the potent ginger-lily,

Petals of blood,

The speckled vulva of the tiger-orchid;

Outlandish phalloi

Haunting the travellers of its one road.

Derek Walcott, from The Swamp

1 ~ They came for him that Sunday. He had just returned from a nights vigil on the mountain. He was resting on his bed, Bible open at the Book of Revelation, when two police constables, one tall, the other short, knocked at the door.

Are you Mr Munira? the short one asked. He had a star-shaped scar above the left brow.

Yes.

You teach at the New Ilmorog Primary School?

And where do you think you are now standing?

Ah, yes. We try to be very sure. Murder, after all, is not irio or ugali.

What are you talking about?

You are wanted at the New Ilmorog Police Station.

About?

Murder, of course murder in Ilmorog.

The tall one who so far had not spoken hastened to add: It is nothing much, Mr Munira. Just routine questioning.

Dont explain. You are only doing your duty in this world. But let me put on my coat.

They looked at one another, surprised at his cool reception of the news. He came back carrying the Holy Book in one hand.

You never leave the Book behind, Mr Munira, said the short one, impressed, and a little fearful of the Books power.

We must always be ready to plant the seed in these last days before His second coming. All the signs strife, killing, wars, blood are prophesied here.

How long have you been in Ilmorog? asked the tall one, to change the subject from this talk of the end of the world and Christs second coming. He was a regular churchgoer and did not want to be caught on the wrong side.

You have already started your routine questions, eh?

No, no, this is off the record, Mr Munira. It is just conversation. We have nothing against you.

Twelve years! he told them.

Twelve years! both echoed.

Yes, twelve years in this wasteland.

Well, that was you must have been here before New Ilmorog was built

2 ~ Abdulla sat on a chair outside his hovel in the section of Ilmorog called the New Jerusalem. He looked at his bandaged left hand. He had not been kept long at the hospital. He felt strangely calm after the nights ordeal. But he still could not understand what had really happened. Maybe in time, he thought but would he ever be able to explain this fulfilment of what had only been a wish, an intention? How far had he willed it? He raised his head and saw a police constable looking at him.

Abdulla?

Yes.

I am a policeman on duty. You are wanted at the station.

Now?

Yes.

Will it take long?

I dont know. They want you to record a statement and to answer a few questions.

Thats all right. Let me put this chair back inside the house.

But at the station they locked him up in a cell. Abdulla protested against the deception. A policeman slapped him on the face. One day, one day, he tried to say in sudden resurgence of old anger and new bitterness at the latest provocation.

3 ~ A police officer went to the hospital where Wanja had been admitted.

I am afraid you cannot see her, said the doctor. She is not in a position to answer questions. She is still in a delirium and keeps on shouting: Fire Fire My mothers sister my dear aunt put out the fire, put out the fire! and such things.

Record her words. It might give us a clue in case

No, she is not in a critical condition just shock and hallucinations. In ten days time

4 ~ Karega was fast asleep. He had come late from an all-night executive meeting of Ilmorog Thengeta Breweries Union. He heard a knock at the door. He leapt out of bed in his pyjamas. He found a heavily armed police contingent at the door. An officer in khaki clothes stepped forward.