The road was long.Whenever he took a step forward, little clouds of dust rose, whirled angrily behind him, and then settled slowly again. He walked on,however, without noticing the dust and the ground under his feet. Yet with every step he seemed more and more conscious of the hardness and apparent unfriendliness of the road. Not that he looked down; on the contrary, he looked straight ahead as if he would, any time now, see a familiar object that would hail him as a friend and tell him that he was near home.
A path branched to the left. He hestitated for a moment and then seemed to make up his mind. For the first time, his eyes brightened a little as he went along the path that would take him down the valley and then to the village. At last home was near and, with that realisation, the faraway look of a weary traveller seemed to desert him for a while. The valley and the vegetation a long it were in deep contrast with the surrounding country. For here green bush and trees thrived. This could mean one thing: the Honia river still flowed. He quickened his steps as if he could scarcely believe that this was true till he had actually set his eyes on the river. It was there; it still flowed. Honia, where so often he had taken a bath, plunging stark naked into its cool living water, warmed his heart as he watched its serpentine movement round the rocks and heard its slight murmurs.
A group of women were drawing water. He felt excited, for he could recognise one or two from his village. There was the middle-aged Wanjiku, whose deaf son had been killed by the security Forces just before he himself was arrested. She had always been a darling of the village, having a smile for everyone and food for all. Would they recognise him? Would they give him a ‘ hero’s welcome’? He though so. Had he not always been a favourite of all? And had he not fought for the land? He wanted to run and shout: Here I am. I have come back to you.’ But he did not. He was a man.
‘ Is it well with you?’ A few voices responded. The other woman, with tired and won out features, looked at him silently as if his greeting was of no importance. Why ! Had he been so long in the camp? His spirits were damped as he weakly asked: Do you not remember me?’ Again they looked at him. They started at him with cold, hard looks; they seemed to be deliberately refusing to know or own him. At last Wanjiku recognized him. But there was neither warmth nor enthusiasm in her voice as she said, ‘ o, is it you, Kamau? We thought you-‘ she did not continue. Only now he noticed something else-surprise? fear? He could not tell. He saw their quick glances dart at him and he knew for certain that a secret from which he was excluded bound them together.
‘ Perhaps I am no longer one of them!’ he bitterly reflected. But they told him of the new Village. The old village of scattered huts spread thinly over the ridge was no more.
He left them feeling embittered and cheated. The old village had not even waited for him. And suddenly he felt a strong longing for his old home, friends and surroundings. He thought of his father, mother and – and – He dared not think about her. But for all that, Muthoni, just as she had in the old days, came back to his mind. His heart beat faster. He quickened his step. He forgot the village woman as he remembered his wife. For he had stayed with her a mere two weeks; then he had been swept away by the forces. Like many others, he had been taken to detention- without trial. And all that time he had thought of nothing but the village and his beautiful woman.
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