| The Big Chiefs |
| HM Books |
| HM Productions Intl. All Rights Reserved |
| copyright 2008 by HM Entertainment Inc. |
The Big Chiefs have plunged the country into political and economic mayhem to serve their own interests. Rumour has it that another genocide is imminent. One Old Man has seen it all before and tells this cautionary tale of misplaced trust in leadership to whoever cares to listen. Will history repeat itself? Is there no end to the power of the Big Chiefs? In this apocalyptic novel, Meja Mwangi, spins a moral tale of courage in the face of overwhelming odds, and tells a story that is full of love and compassion, and one that is as heart-warming as it is disturbing. |
The Butcher
Before the militia finally climbed on the roof of the Holy Family church and ripped
off the roof, the Boy had looked out of the window one last time. The church
windows, like the doors, had impregnable, steel bars on them. It heartened
the victims a little and raised their hopes again, to know that the militia could
not easily get into the church to kill them. But the attackers had only given up
trying to break into the church with hammers and mattocks and were waiting
for a bulldozer from the army to do the job for them.
Then, looking out of the window, the Boy saw hope run away from them, as the
parish priest, the man who had done such a good job of keeping the militia at
bay, and the man they had all placed their last hopes on, sneaked away from
behind the besieged church, dressed in his fear-stained, white cassock and
carrying only his Bible and a small cardboard suitcase.
Feeling their eyes on his back, the white priest had stopped and looked back.
His grey hair was a mess, his face haggard and streaked with dirt and fear. His
shocked eyes had looked into the Boy’s eyes and, in that brief moment, before
the man who had baptised them all, married most of them and buried their
relatives, the man who had worked so hard to keep their commune close to
God, turned and walked away, the Boy had suddenly understood why Father
Clémént had to abandon them to their fate. Then the militia had torn off the
roof and started raining bullets and grenades down on the terrified people
below.
“How much tobacco did you want?” the Boy asked the Thief.
“Just enough for one night,” said the Thief. “I never ask for more.”
“Take some then,” said the Boy.
The Thief came back, walking a little livelier, and, making use of the last light of
a dying moon, picked two of the largest, ripest leaves from the old tree.
“I thank you,” he said, carefully rolling them up.
“Is that enough?”
“I’m not greedy,” said the Thief.
“Take more,” the Boy told him. “Take all you want, but do leave some for the
other thieves.”
The Thief took four more leaves, picking them delicately with the tips of his
fingers, and with the gentleness of one used to scarcity.
“These will last me a while,” he said.
“Go well then,” said the Boy.
“Stay well,” he said turning to leave. Then he stopped and asked, “Is the
Old Man really asleep?”
“He is.”
The man hesitated. He wanted to talk to the Old Man, he said, about things
that had happened long ago. Things he felt had been beyond anyone’s
control, but for which he had recently began to experience great pangs of
remorse and shame. He had discussed it with his wife, who was very sick and
about to die, and she had agreed with him that all should seek forgiveness for
their deeds and misdeeds, and though no one, not even God, may pardon
them, it was good that all should seek peace with one another for the sake of
the nation, and so that they may find a little peace in their own hearts.
“What about the dead?” the Boy asked. “How do you make peace with those
you butchered? How can they ever forgive you?”
“Those too have their revenge,” he said. “In so many terrible ways, they too
have their revenge.”
They were silent again. He touched the bandage on his head and winced.
“There are many policemen in the City,” he said. “Are you so brave you will
face guns with placards?”
“I’m not alone,” said the Boy.
“With whom will you be?”
“With the boys.”
“Just the boys?”
“Just the boys.”
The Thief was quiet, thinking.
"I shall come with you,” he decided.
The Boy was so startled he did not know what to say.
“Why?” he asked.
“I don’t think that people should suffer or die because they are poor or
different,” said the Thief. “It is not right and it is not just. I’m tired of living in
the Devil’s hole. Who knows when the Devil will decide that I too don’t deserve
to live?”
READ ON ...
Before the militia finally climbed on the roof of the Holy Family church and ripped
off the roof, the Boy had looked out of the window one last time. The church
windows, like the doors, had impregnable, steel bars on them. It heartened
the victims a little and raised their hopes again, to know that the militia could
not easily get into the church to kill them. But the attackers had only given up
trying to break into the church with hammers and mattocks and were waiting
for a bulldozer from the army to do the job for them.
Then, looking out of the window, the Boy saw hope run away from them, as the
parish priest, the man who had done such a good job of keeping the militia at
bay, and the man they had all placed their last hopes on, sneaked away from
behind the besieged church, dressed in his fear-stained, white cassock and
carrying only his Bible and a small cardboard suitcase.
Feeling their eyes on his back, the white priest had stopped and looked back.
His grey hair was a mess, his face haggard and streaked with dirt and fear. His
shocked eyes had looked into the Boy’s eyes and, in that brief moment, before
the man who had baptised them all, married most of them and buried their
relatives, the man who had worked so hard to keep their commune close to
God, turned and walked away, the Boy had suddenly understood why Father
Clémént had to abandon them to their fate. Then the militia had torn off the
roof and started raining bullets and grenades down on the terrified people
below.
“How much tobacco did you want?” the Boy asked the Thief.
“Just enough for one night,” said the Thief. “I never ask for more.”
“Take some then,” said the Boy.
The Thief came back, walking a little livelier, and, making use of the last light of
a dying moon, picked two of the largest, ripest leaves from the old tree.
“I thank you,” he said, carefully rolling them up.
“Is that enough?”
“I’m not greedy,” said the Thief.
“Take more,” the Boy told him. “Take all you want, but do leave some for the
other thieves.”
The Thief took four more leaves, picking them delicately with the tips of his
fingers, and with the gentleness of one used to scarcity.
“These will last me a while,” he said.
“Go well then,” said the Boy.
“Stay well,” he said turning to leave. Then he stopped and asked, “Is the
Old Man really asleep?”
“He is.”
The man hesitated. He wanted to talk to the Old Man, he said, about things
that had happened long ago. Things he felt had been beyond anyone’s
control, but for which he had recently began to experience great pangs of
remorse and shame. He had discussed it with his wife, who was very sick and
about to die, and she had agreed with him that all should seek forgiveness for
their deeds and misdeeds, and though no one, not even God, may pardon
them, it was good that all should seek peace with one another for the sake of
the nation, and so that they may find a little peace in their own hearts.
“What about the dead?” the Boy asked. “How do you make peace with those
you butchered? How can they ever forgive you?”
“Those too have their revenge,” he said. “In so many terrible ways, they too
have their revenge.”
They were silent again. He touched the bandage on his head and winced.
“There are many policemen in the City,” he said. “Are you so brave you will
face guns with placards?”
“I’m not alone,” said the Boy.
“With whom will you be?”
“With the boys.”
“Just the boys?”
“Just the boys.”
The Thief was quiet, thinking.
"I shall come with you,” he decided.
The Boy was so startled he did not know what to say.
“Why?” he asked.
“I don’t think that people should suffer or die because they are poor or
different,” said the Thief. “It is not right and it is not just. I’m tired of living in
the Devil’s hole. Who knows when the Devil will decide that I too don’t deserve
to live?”
READ ON ...
| The Big Chiefs hm books, 2007 252 pgs ISBN 978-0-9796476-3-5 |
| The Big Chiefs |
| "... i find this novel a great piece of literature, impressive and despairingly reflecting the realities, despite its ending. I actually virtually saw it as a piece of theatre and could very well imagine it performed on stage. It has a power reminding me of Waiting for Godot". ruedi küng Schweizer Radio DRS |
| LATEST RELEASE |
| by Meja Mwangi |
| THIS SITE |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
 | |  | |  | |  | |  |
After a successful career as a government
Minister, the Old Man breaks ranks with the
Big Chiefs and is banished to a remote
outpost in the Northern Frontier. In an
emotional recollection to the Boy, the Old
Man reveals how the Big Chiefs used the
colonial labels of tall and short to set their
subjects against one another. Although he is
caught up in the genocide that ensues, the
Old Man lives to tell his story, albeit with
bitterness. The mind-boggling question to the
Boy is why a people who fasted and feasted
together, birthed and buried together, lived
and reasoned together; intermarried and
integrated, should suddenly rise against kith
and kin. Yet, like the Old Man who had made
it to the top, romanced with power and wealth
and came tumbling down to the Pit, the young
generation is only but searching for a spark of
light to illuminate the inherent evil so evident
in the hearts of men who believe in the right of
might.
The Big Chiefs is the story of greed for
power and wealth at the expense of the
sacred pillars of humanity.
Minister, the Old Man breaks ranks with the
Big Chiefs and is banished to a remote
outpost in the Northern Frontier. In an
emotional recollection to the Boy, the Old
Man reveals how the Big Chiefs used the
colonial labels of tall and short to set their
subjects against one another. Although he is
caught up in the genocide that ensues, the
Old Man lives to tell his story, albeit with
bitterness. The mind-boggling question to the
Boy is why a people who fasted and feasted
together, birthed and buried together, lived
and reasoned together; intermarried and
integrated, should suddenly rise against kith
and kin. Yet, like the Old Man who had made
it to the top, romanced with power and wealth
and came tumbling down to the Pit, the young
generation is only but searching for a spark of
light to illuminate the inherent evil so evident
in the hearts of men who believe in the right of
might.
The Big Chiefs is the story of greed for
power and wealth at the expense of the
sacred pillars of humanity.
