karenika - books - the last time they met

The Last Time They Met

His eyes adjusting , he could now make out dark circles around Mary Ndegwa's eyes that spoke of fatigue. He half expected the record player to begin at any minute with another country-and-western theme.

- Have they told you where Ndegwa is? Thomas asked.
- They are keeping him at Thika.
- Will you be allowed to visit him?

She made a face as if to say, Of course not. Our government will not release my husband. They will not tell us the charges or set a date for trial.

Thomas nodded slowly.

- This is a fact that should be spoken of in many places, is it not?

A tiny hitch inside his chest, a moment of enlightenment. Understanding now, as he had not before, why he had been granted an audience, why Ndegwa had sat with him yesterday at the Thorn Tree. Had the man been trolling for journalists? For Americans? Had Ndegwa choreographed his own detention?

- This is a violation of human rights, Mary Ndegwa said.

Thomas was hot beneath his blue sports coat, misshapen now from having been washed by mistake in the bathtub. He, the least political of men, even when there had been marches against the Vietnam War. He had gone simply to be there, to watch the people around him. That the marches might be means to an end, he hadn't much credited.

- My government can detain my husband for years. this is not right.
- No, of course not, Thomas said.I am happy to help in any way I can.
- You and my husband spoke of these things?
- Yesterday, we talked briefly about the fact that he might be detained. Normally, we spoke of literature. And poetry. Words.

Mary Ndegwa sat forward on the sofa. They have arrested demonstrators at the university. There are now fifty being detained along with my husband. Why have they been arrested? I will tell you, Mr. Thomas. To silence them. To keep them from uttering words.

Thomas ran his fingers back and forth over his forehead.

- Dissidence is only words, she added.

It was kind of catechism, he thought. I must confess I'm not much of a political man, he said.

- What is a political man? she asked sharply, a sudden spark, noticeably absent before, in her voice. Do you recognize suffering?

- I hope I do.
- Injustice?
- Again, I hope I would.
- Then you are a political man.

My friend Amy told me about The Last Time They Met. I had read Anita Shreve's A Pilot's Wife before and somewhat enjoyed it. Amy said she was too tired to read anything too deep and had enjoyed this novel so I picked it up. To be totally honest, I hated it all the way through and contemplated putting it down pretty much every day. The incredibly twisted ending, however, was a complete shocker and made me confused, surprised and angry all in one.