* * *
Early-morning mists filtered the new light.
“Allahu Akbar…”
The beckon of another day, this soft-voiced summons. Experience had mellowed the old muezzin’s voice, vesting it with heart.
Elsewhere, and between them, a good silence.
* * *
—
Homecoming.
* * *
—
They retreated to their different shelters before the day’s fishermen could discover them.
Breakfast. Wash. Rest. Work.
Later, with Fundi Mehdi, they listened to the tide news, working near each other, brushing skin. They were building a ship for an Omani merchant. Mehdi would teasingly dare Jamal to recite a sea journey from memory. Mehdi said, “Let us go from Cape Town to Malacca in March.” And Ayaana and Mehdi heard lyrics imagined for such a water passage. Mehdi intervened to remind Jamal of a rocky headland and a seasonal swell he had neglected to mention.
A convergence of echoes in Kipate.
Mwendo dahari hauishi.
The infinite road never ends.
[ 114 ]
It would take a little more time. First Ayaana had to forgive the sea for swallowing the father she loved. She would also need to find the courage to surrender to the truth that life made of its own meaning. She then returned to blending flowers and herbs and spices in the ways she had learned from her mother, so that she could propose ways of fragrant wholeness to those who now whispered their suffering to her, as they once had to her father, Muhidin. It would take a few more months, and a red moon that melted time, before Pate Island was able to bear witness to the nuptials of the seawoman Ayaana to the seaman Jamal.
The event was hastened by a most unexpected happening:
One midday in March, Ayaana had secured a fishing boat she had borrowed from Mehdi in order to traverse the morning waters. The fish she had caught floundered in a reed basket as she hurried along a trail. At a bend, beneath the old neem tree, Mama Suleiman, in a broad lemon-green sun hat, sat on an idling purple Vespa that she had had shipped in from Dubai and launched in Pate Town the previous November.
“Shikamoo,” Ayaana said at once, still inclined to curtsy.
Mama Suleiman said, “Come close, girl.”
Ayaana did, wary, perspiring, sunburnt and stinking of salt and fish. Mama Suleiman considered her and pursed her lips. “Swimming, young lady, is one thing. Fishing”—she paused—“from a scooped-out log is quite another. However, you are not to blame. You have not benefited from access to a somo. That is over now.” She gestured expansively. “I shall be she. Now, tell your mother I will accept eight lesos and three bottles of her halwaridi as payment. A token, really…given how much”—she considered Ayaana again, and a pained twitch passed as a ripple across her face—“we must undo.” She peered at Ayaana, pinched her cheeks, assessing the quality of her pores. “You may call me Shangazi”—Auntie. “You will move into my home. We have so little time. I have informed Bi Mwadime and only the worthiest of women to work with me to prepare you.” Ayaana was goggle-eyed; her mind was blank. “You shall be a model bride, a template for women everywhere. Now you may kiss my hand.” She extended her limb. Ayaana kissed it. Amina Mahmoud revved the engine of her scooter. As she puttered away, she announced, “At my house. Tomorrow. Nine a.m. I do not tolerate lateness.”
It took time. But Ayaana was at last inducted into the arcane society of women who also lived in, with, and through their senses. She was invited into the art of purification, of cleansing, of perfuming, of being and inhabiting and sharing her body; of color and allure; of using the potent forces in coconut oil, rose, jasmine, langilangi, patchouli, sandalwood, and cloves to the gut-twisting tempo of seductive cadences and intimate invocations, of turning life into an enchantment. Ayaana was layered and rubbed down as invocations were made, and memory shared: how to beguile the beloved, how to receive what is desired, how to hope when life’s winds changed, how to love with the soul anyway. Mama Suleiman insisted that she smear the singo on the bride. Ayaana could not move as fine essences seeped into her bones and transmuted the past. Munira would arrive from Pemba just in time to adorn her daughter’s body with henna, her finest work. Weeks later, a delicately made-up and bejeweled Ayaana emerged in a flowing gown of ivory silk and lace. She floated across infinite thresholds, this rose-scented Ayaana, Jamal’s betrothed.
“Our girl is a true dolly,” Mama Suleiman sighed to Munira. They had stared at each other before bursting into a profound cackle that vaporized the stench of a long and almost-fatal quarrel.
On the fifth day, the wedding festivities acquired new life when a jahazi showed up from Tumbatu, carrying a merry troupe of fishermen that included a seagoing bard. Three men pounded on a giant drum. Its reverberations stirred the bowels of the island. It was matlai season. An itinerant photographer who specialized in weddings was losing his voice, cajoling another generation of sea-formed souls to hold their poses as he tried to compose a family portrait. Months later, the bride would choose one of his photographs and carefully insert it into a fraying green-gold album. After the photo session, an inquisitive little girl wandered away from the revelries to chase after the season’s first golden skimmers. When she reached a wild-rose bush perched at the thresholds between sea and time, she was distracted by a mewling sound. She crawled to look, and discovered a shivering ginger kitten with big green eyes hiding beneath a beached mtepe. The stowaway had traveled from Vanga to Pate by mistake. As the girl reached for it, it purr-meowed. The echo of her mother’s voice drifted to the shoreline.
In rhythm, the sea ebbed.
“Ua langu silioni nani alolichukuwa?”—My flower, I do not see you; who has plucked you?
As she lifted the kitten to her shoulders, a sudden stab of yearning for her father’s presence caused her to crane her neck and scan the seas for him.
“Ua langu lileteni moyo upate kupowa”—My flower, bring your heart to me and find wholeness.
Munira sang.
“Ua langu la zamani ua lililo muruwa”—My flower, from of old, a gracious flower.
In rhythm, the sea flowed.
No mar estava escrita uma cidade.
In the sea there was a city written out.
—Carlos Drummond de Andrade
Acknowledgments
For the development of this story, I am especially indebted to the University of Queensland, Australia, and its UQ Centennial Scholarship, the UQIPS, and the School of English, Media Studies, and Art History. In particular, I thank Dr. Venero Armanno, who first offered this story and me a season and space to learn and grow in the rich humus that Australia was for me. Your wisdom, sense of story, advice, and encouragement pushed me into making daring choices. To dear Professor Gillian Whitlock, thank you for the inspiration, questions, questions, questions, and motivation.
* * *
Although inspired by actual events and historical texts, in constructing this tale I took inspiration from many other sources: Shukraan to the exquisite old man of the sea, seafarer, minstrel, poet, living library, and world treasure, Mzee Haji Gora Haji, who is the sonorous voice for the Swahili Seas, and from whom the character of Muhidin materialized; to the filmmaker Sippy Chanda, who long ago celebrated her vision of a bold little girl ocean swimmer of Lamu (lyrically illustrated in her film Subira); to Ed Pavlić (But Here Are Small Clear Refractions, Kwani, 2013), who “sees” Pate Island; to Dr. George Abungu, a marine archaeologist involved in excavating the China–Eastern Africa buried histories; to the staff at the Zanzibar International Film Festival (2003–2005) and other Zanzibari, who made of me a Swahili sea citizen; to friends from the 2010 Pilgrimages project, who watched the premise of the story spring up at the banks of the great River Congo. Kiswahili aphorisms applied in the tale are drawn from common use and acquired from a great resource, a compilation by Albert Scheven (o
f the University of Illinois) that is accessible through the Internet; others have been suggested by individuals listed below, and borrowed from assorted lesos (kanga).
* * *
Mea culpa! I took all sorts of creative liberties with geographies, languages, and topographies. I even borrowed little bits of this and that from the other “Ziwa Kuu” islands and transported these into the Pate Island of the story. The muse made me do it!
* * *
Thank you to the Wylie Agency and Sarah Chalfant, wonderfully supportive in all ways, and especially to Jacqueline Ko, who has so lovingly and fiercely journeyed with this story from its inception; you are a treasure. To Alba Ziegler-Bailey, Charles Buchan, and Sarah Watling, enthusiastic cheerleaders, who show up with floodlights when dark clouds obscure confidence. To the Knopf team, including Vanessa Haughton, Kathleen Fridella, Zachary Lutz, Soonyoung Kwon, and Linda Huang, and especially my luminous, so-patient editor, Diana Miller; you are a writer’s gift, a blessing; every story adventure shared with you is a lesson in becoming better. From my soul, thank you. Thank you, dear Angela Tsakiris and the Dumont family, for calling into being new worlds in another tale.
* * *
Others who informed/influenced the shape of this story (it takes a village) include Hildegaard Kiel (thank you for the shelter), Abdul Sheriff, Khadija Musa (you will recognize adaptations of your hilarious China adventures), Angela Köckritz, Ngari Gituku, Abubakar Zein Abubakar, Bettina Ngweno, Samson Opundo, Anya Pala, Aaron Bady, Garnette Oluoch-Olunya, Sheila Ochugboju, Achieng Onyango, Salvina Kelly, Barbara Flynn, Kay and Paul Bertini, Michael Onyango, Clarissa Vierke, Nancy Karanja, Andrea Moraa, Paul Ostwald, Phoebe Boswell, Ken Oloo, Pierre-Emmanuel Maubert, Doreen Strauhs, Margaretta wa Gacheru, Stephanie Wanga, Maryanne Wachira, Ann Gakere, James Ogude, Uni Dyer, Ezekiel ole Katato, Michael Karinga, Lucy Mulli, Taiye Selasi, Oyunga Pala, Pete Tidemann, John Githongo, Rebecca Yeong Ae Corey, Agiso and David Odhuno, Wangechi Gitobu, Raphael Omondi, Pinkie Mekgwe, Subraj Singh, Sharlene Teo, Deirdre Prins-Solani, Wambui Mwangi, Eunice Githae, Hamza Aussiy, Captain Ali (Lamu), Gabeba Baderoon, Marie Kruger, Klaus and Iris Schneider, Farouk Topan, Joe Kobuthi, Emmanuel Iduma, George Wen, Bernd Harbug for the unconditional support and photographs, Abdulatif Abdalla, Françoise Pertat, Munira Humoud, Muhidin Kutenga, dear Binyavanga Wainaina, my truth-teller, and the late irrepressible raconteur, Emerson “Babu” Skeens, who first told me about the Admiral.
* * *
Family! Thank you for the strength, encouragement, and love offered when these are most needed. Mary Sero Owuor, your faith fires my heart, and keeps life sweet. This book is especially for you, woman of heart. Remembering you, Daddy; there is so much of you in Muhidin the father, you know. Beloved siblings—Vivian Awiti, Caroline Alango, Rob de Vries, Genevieve Audi, Joseph Alaro, Chris Ganda Owuor (gifted brother, mapmaker for this story, protector, transcendent artist and renaissance man. You rock! You are a rock), Joanne Achieng, Frank Laroque, Alison Ojany, John Primrose, Patrick Laja—and the beacons that are the new generation, inspiration, informants on the nature of a child striving for magic and light—Karla, Angie, Gabriella, Taya, Thomas, Nyla, and Tahera—you are my sunshine.
* * *
I am most grateful to the Rockefeller Center in Bellagio, Italy, for the residency that was a space of encounter with a tribe of exquisite souls who provided fresh impetus for the evolution of the story; Pilar Palacia and your wonderful team, thank you. Andreas Delsett and the House of Literature (Oslo), thank you for the gift of space and silence to complete the writing of this book. Thank you also to the IWP 2017 cohort, and in a very special way the wand-(correcting pen-)wielding, no-nonsense, fiercely gifted Audrey Chin; also to the Grinnell College autumn writing class, who taught me again—not in words—why story.
* * *
I enlisted the help of the front line: “story darling assassins.” They are a formidable, brilliant, focused, story-loving band of friends who give no quarter. They were exposed to various drafts of the book and took time and energy to critique, question, refine, remove, and channel a semblance of flow leading to the version of the story in your hands. Any enduring errors are entirely mine. To these the truly brave and beautiful, I am in your debt. Not enough words to thank you: Keguro Macharia, Leila Sheikh Rutteman (and Naël), Annette Majanja, Mshai Mwangola, Anja Bengelstorff, Ashminder Kaur (and Sahiba), Tina Steiner, and Gregor Muischeek.
* * *
To the inspiring community of friends and fans, Kenya’s reading groups, and those random readers who stop me on streets, in restaurants, in public transport, atop mountains, under the sea (no escape for the procrastinating) with that look in their eye, to ask, “Is it done yet?” You scared me into delivering this one on time (relatively speaking)! Thank you. To “the fellowship”—Alfajri: the Content Creators Collective and the Chimurenga Chronic, who affirm and egg on my Swahili Sea follies, thank you; and to all readers and friends I am unable to thank individually, my gratitude and affection.
* * *
Pate Island, the Lamu Archipelago, its souls and ghouls, and the many lives of its seas: thank you for the inspiration, my love, my love.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Yvonne Adhiambo Owuor was born in Kenya. She is the author of the novel Dust, which was shortlisted for the Folio Prize. Winner of the 2003 Caine Prize for African Writing, she has twice received an Iowa International Writer’s Program Fellowship. Her work has appeared in McSweeney’s and other publications, and she has most recently been a fellow at both the Stellenbosch Institute of Advanced Study in South Africa and the Wissenschaftskolleg zu Berlin.
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The Dragonfly Sea Page 50
