It makes his life more interesting to himself. He invents a meaning for his life, you see. Don’t we all do that? And to die fighting for freedom soun… - Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o

But, somehow, in time, I began to connect a few threads, and things became clearer as if I was emerging from a mist. I learned that our land was not quite our land; that our compound was part of a property owned by an African landlord, Lord Reverend Stanley Kahahu, or Bwana Stanley, as we called him; that we were now the ahoi, tenants at will. How did we come to be ahoi on our own land? Had we lost our traditional land to Europeans? The mist had not cleared entirely.

Stories, like food, lose their flavor if cooked in a hurry.

He was caught red-handed,’ some were saying.
‘Imagine, bullets in his hands. In broad daylight.’
Everybody, even we children, knew that for an African to be caught with bullets or empty shells was treason; he would be dubbed a terrorist, and his hanging by the rope was the only outcome.
‘We could hear gunfire,’ some were saying.
‘I saw them shoot at him with my own eyes.’
‘But he didn’t die!’
‘Die? Hmm! Bullets flew at those who were shooting.’
‘No, he flew into the sky and disappeared into the clouds.’”