Wednesday morning found Petrus Mata hurrying towards the bus stop at the Mozroz shopping centre to catch a 30-minute bus ride to Nairobi.

At the bus stop, he could feel people staring at him. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face, in case he had the remains of his breakfast on his goatee and moustache.

In the bus, he noticed that whenever he looked up, those staring at him would avoid eye contact. But he refused to dwell on this odd behaviour, preferring to think about the third and final interview at the Ministry of Education headquarters for the position of Provincial Education Officer. This last session, he was sure, was to negotiate terms and conditions.

“Mr Mata,” said the chairman of the interviewing panel when Petrus came into the boardroom, with horror written on his face. The other two members of the panel, a harassed-looking woman and a clean-shaven man, quickly looked down at their writing pads.
Petrus realised that the stares at the Mozroz bus stop, in the bus and the streets, and the secretary’s uncharacteristic demeanour when he entered the office, had a more specific cause — himself.

He panicked a little when it occurred to him that perhaps he was exuding an obnoxious body odour that he could not smell. But he had sprayed on some cologne in the morning, and besides, he didn’t have such a condition.

He sat in a chair facing the panel across a huge mahogany table, watching in bewilderment as people he had interacted with in a friendly and professional manner in the previous two encounters, doodled, coughed into their fists, contemplated the ceiling, and shifted in their seats as if they wanted to disappear into them.

“…The 8 o’clock news on national radio last night… Decree 257?” The chairman stated rather than asked.

“Decree 257?” Asked Petrus, shaking his head, his eyes wide open.

“His Excellency Mtukufu Rais announced Decree No 257…” The chairman glanced towards the door and lowered his voice.

“All men, from the time of the announcement, must be clean-shaven at all times.” He rubbed his clean-shaven head nervously.

“I left the office late,” Petrus said, his jaw falling, “… and I was out before dawn…” He searched the faces for understanding, but seeing nothing but horror, added, “… And my wife is in the hospital… and the newspapers… they had not hit the streets…”

“You must realise, Mr Mata,” the chairman cut in, “that we cannot go on with the interview.”

Petrus felt hopelessness and despair growing inside. For many years since graduating from university, he had worked as a teacher and for the past five as the headmaster of Mozroz High School.

He loved his job, it was fulfilling being able to guide young lives and see them succeed. Still, he had applied for the Provincial Education Officer position, out of a need — on turning forty — for a change. Besides, his second child was on the way, and more money would come in handy. However, his chance of getting the job was slipping between his fingers.

“I will go straight to a barber from here…” he pleaded. But the chairman and his team were gathering their things.

“Look, Mr Mata,” said the chairman, “we don’t know who saw you coming into this office and who will see you going out. We may be already tainted with this sedition.”

Sedition, thought Petrus when he was out in the streets again. The city hustle and bustle was now in full swing. He now noticed that every man had a clean-shaven face and head. Movie extras, he thought incongruously. He hurried along, nursing a dull anxiety in the pit of his stomach, ignoring the stares and the newspaper headlines reminding him that he was a subversive hiding in plain sight.

Out of nowhere two burly men in dark suits accosted him, flashing badges in his face, and escorted him to a car with darkened windows and no number plates.

“I’m rushing to a barbershop,” said a terrified Petrus.

“They also shave people where we are taking you,” said one of the men.

At Nyayo House, he was put in a room where he sat facing a panel of three grim-faced people across a huge table. The goons who had arrested him hovered menacingly behind him.

“Mr, er…” began the cruel-looking man in the middle who seemed to be the one in charge.

“My name is Petrus Mata,” he said.

“You know why you are here?”

“Yes, but I came home late and missed the announcement.” The chief gestured towards the members of his panel — a thuggish-looking man and a stern looking woman.

“We’ll just ask you a few questions to make sure that this is an innocent mistake, not subversion.”

They asked him about his work, his business in the city, his college days and his past associates.

“Are you a member of the party?” Petrus said he was, pointing at the party badge on the right lapel of his jacket and a pin with the face of the president on the other.

“Do you contribute to the president’s harambees?”

Petrus said he had receipts to prove that he did. Then the phone rang and the chief talked for a while.

“Mr Mata, our colleagues in Mozroz have found two books of some concern in your house,” said the chief while glaring at Petrus.

“Would you agree, Mr Mata that the theme of A Grain of Wheat is betrayal of the Independence struggle by leaders?” Petrus hesitated.

“It is also about personal betrayal, love, friendship…” he answered.

“And Not Yet Uhuru… what’s its message?”

“Look, I have never acted nor ever intend to act on views presented in books.”

“Let me put it another way,” continued the chief, “are these authors justified in their falsehoods about our great leader?”

“They write what they think and people agree or disagree with it,” said Petrus unconvincingly.

“Do you agree with their views?”

Petrus was going to say “no” when mental and emotional exhaustion overwhelmed him. They were now probing his thoughts, not his actions. For all these years, he had kept his thoughts to himself, even as the regime stole, tortured and murdered people.

He now realised that silence was never a guarantee of one’s safety. It had been a costly silence, each refusal to speak out scarring his conscience.

“Look,” he said, ignoring the fluttering in his belly, “I have never done or said anything against this regime although it belongs in hell.” With those words, he knew he had sealed his fate.