The One Who Wrote Destiny

by Nikesh Shukla

  Raks is bewildered by Lamu. He doesn’t really remember much from when he came here as a child. The landscape is meaningless. I can see that on his face.

  It’s an island operated by donkeys. There is no other transportation – it’s either foot or saddle.

  We met hours before, in a bar. He was sitting with a beer, watching people get on and off the island in the harbour and he was worrying about money. He left a suitcase of things at the hotel where he’s staying in Mombasa, things he wouldn’t need on a weekend trip to Lamu. He left his passport. Kenyan bureaucracy, liking an element of authority, makes it very difficult to withdraw any money without a passport. There are no ATMs. He would have had to go into the branch, show two pieces of ID to the bank manager along with his bank card, and sign three pieces of paper. But it’s the weekend, so they’re shut.

  I sat at the bar, sipping on a tropical fruit punch, trying to think about the evening. Some days, I just want to watch a film, but with the time I have left, it feels wasteful to waste hours on television.

  I lit a cigarette and he approached me, asking for one. I lit it for him.

  He lingered.

  ‘I don’t usually smoke,’ he said.

  ‘What changed?’ I asked, wondering if he could see me rolling my eyes through my Ray-Bans at the corny line. I could see him looking intently at my face, probably admiring, I would hope, the Jackson Pollock of freckles covering my cheeks.

  ‘It’s a good conversation starter,’ he said.

  I sighed, expressing my annoyance.

  ‘Sorry, I just haven’t spoken to anyone for a while. You’re the only one in here and it felt like a thing you do when you’re travelling – bum a fag, make friends for life, wonder in seven years’ time why you’re still connected on Facebook. Thanks for the fag.’

  ‘Pleasure,’ I replied.

  ‘German?’ Raks asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, pulling out my book from my bag. It’s usually a good way of signifying the end of a conversation.

  He persisted. ‘I’m English,’ Raks said. ‘But don’t hold that against me.’

  ‘You don’t look English,’ I replied. Which surprised me as I said it. I meant to say something else, something bland.

  ‘I’m Raks.’

  ‘You sound Indian.’

  ‘I am. What’s your name?’

  ‘Ingrid,’ I said, sighing, looking around for help. I angled my body and head away from him, meaning I’d have to turn around uncomfortably to answer further questions.

  ‘Like the Bride of Dracula,’ he said.

  I grinned, then turned back to face him.

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact. I’m named after Ingrid Pitt. My father was a fan of Hammer Horror films.’ I laughed. ‘People always say Bergman. Not Pitt. I’m impressed. What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Raks,’ he said. ‘I’m not named after anyone famous.’

  He reached out his hand to shake mine. It was dry and small. ‘Maybe a Bollywood star you’ve never heard of . . .’

  ‘Rakesh Roshan, maybe?’ I said.

  They love Bollywood films in Kenya. I’ve seen my fair share in recent weeks.

  Raks laughed.

  ‘Touché,’ he said.

  His laugh, shrill and contagious, involved him clapping and letting out this high-pitched squeal from the back of his throat. It was lovely to see. The most happiness I had experienced in weeks.

  I asked him to join me.

  ‘What brought you to Lamu?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s the opposite of technology,’ he said. ‘I thought I could disconnect from the world.’

  ‘They have free wi-fi at this bar.’

  ‘Yes,’ Raks said. ‘Thank God.’

  ‘What do you think of the donkeys?’ I asked.

  Raks thought for a moment, almost as though he needed to have a big symbolic opinion about them. Only later, when he told me he was a stand-up comedian, did I understand that his slow responses were him trying to formulate jokes.

  ‘A man without a donkey is a donkey,’ he said. ‘I saw that on the wall of a donkey sanctuary I visited earlier.’

  I nodded.

  ‘I know,’ I replied. ‘Those of us who face our burdens alone, we’re doomed to a life of misery.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Raks described for me how he took a donation cheque to the donkey sanctuary this afternoon, causing chaos by arriving with unsolicited money.

  ‘Yeah, it was a weird vibe. A faceless figure, standing on the balcony, threw the cap of a beer bottle at me as I opened the gate of the small sanctuary and fought the donkeys to get into the courtyard.’

  ‘Why a bottle top?’

  ‘No idea, but I told them I was in possession of a sizeable donation. So I was pointed to a woman wearing a lab coat, tending to a donkey. You can always trust a person in a lab coat, right? She smiled at me as she pulled out a mobile phone and sent a text without breaking her smile or her eye contact with me.’

  ‘What happened next?’ I asked.

  ‘Moments later, someone called Mrs Bridge arrived and made me sign the cheque directly over to her. She showed me around the donkey stables and asked some questions about where the money had come from. It’s a donation in my sister’s name. She died recently. Cancer.’

  My cheeks flush hot. I smile sympathetically.

  ‘I was telling her all this stuff about my sister, like how amazing she was. But I ended up self-editing. ’Cause death is the best reset. Dying gives you the Wikipedia page you want. No one wants to remember anything bad about you. So be the biggest arsehole you can and do one nice thing. When you die, that is what people will remember.’

  ‘What did Mrs Bridge do next?’ I ask, almost knowing the answer, hoping he hasn’t been played for a fool.

  ‘Aaaah, you know her then?’ I did. All the mzungus know each other here. He continued, ‘Mrs Bridge, interesting lady. She took my cheque, then showed me into an enclosure to meet another donkey, called Mala. She told me to pet it and I did, and it blinked. Mala had a dribbling nose. One eyelid was half-closed. She was panting. I blew on her nose like I was told, to show I was friendly. I approached her from the side as instructed. As I blew, she shuddered and walked forward till my eye and nose line were square with her bottom. Mrs Bridge shrugged and told me she’s having a difficult day. I asked if she meant her or the donkey.’

  ‘She’s an interesting lady for sure,’ I said, laughing.

  ‘I know. I’ve just handed her a cheque for a heap of money and without realizing it, I spent two thousand more shillings on a T-shirt and a water bottle. I’m skint. I have enough money to pay for a dhow trip I need to take. But that’s it.’

  I laughed. ‘Sounds like you are also having a difficult day.’

  ‘I can’t get any money out,’ he said. ‘I went to the cash machine and they wouldn’t give me any cash. There’s only one cash machine on the island . . . And it’s a bank manager.’

  ‘Everything is through cash,’ I said, smiling: I’ve been stung by this myself. ‘What are you going to do? Unless this is you asking me for money. Which would be uncool. Slick, but uncool.’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to anyone, really, since I left the UK. As I said. I feel weird.’

  ‘I am your entertainment.’

  ‘Is that a question or a request?’

  I laughed and leaned back in my chair.

  ‘Seriously,’ he said, ruffling his hair. ‘Don’t feel like you have to talk to me or hang out with me. I’m just passing the time with a beautiful woman. Terrible way to spend an evening.’

  We talked for another hour, before the subject of his sister came up. He held back tears as he told me about his mission, to scatter her ashes off the coast of Lamu, where she felt she’d been most happy in her life. I’m similarly here, to live out my days. The story resonated.

  When he told me that she died of lung cancer, I knew that something more than synchronicity was in place. We had come together for a reason.
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br />   He cried, finally, when it came time to head out on the dhow. I told him I would accompany him.

  *

  When we disembark from the small boat, I feel tired and hot and bothered.

  ‘Let’s go swimming,’ I suggest.

  ‘Sure,’ Raks says. ‘I have time to kill.’

  ‘I want to show you a secret spot on the island, where paradise lives.’

  We walk along the promenade, away from the boats. I am silent, reflective, giving space to Raks to confess the things that are clouding his mind.

  He talks, in jagged stories, about his sister, about his family, things he did and should not have done.

  There is no point to him telling me these things other than that he needs to externalize them. I listen without judgement. Having lived with my own thoughts for so many weeks, it is nice to hear someone else’s.

  Raks left his home town the day after his sister’s funeral, to go and attend a festival for a month. He hasn’t spoken to his family, except for his dad, since the funeral. He is upset that no one, not his cousins, aunties or uncles, has thought to check in with him.

  Raks wore a bow tie to his sister’s funeral because he wanted to stand out. Not that he’d admit it, but he wanted his family to look at him and think, wow, that Raks is one stylish dude.

  He had the eulogy in his pocket. He was going to read Puff Daddy’s verse from ‘I’ll Be Missing You’ and say some things about Neha’s genius. Standing in front of his family, being the conspicuous one in a bow tie, the one who had organized everything, he didn’t account for the flurry of emotion that came with realizing everyone was looking at him and the room was silent for the first time in days.

  This was not like doing a tight five above a West End pub, he said to me.

  He read the first line of the rap and sat down, crying.

  His cousin Veena had to read his speech out and she missed all the inflections, emphases and jokes, speaking in a dreary monotone. Raks sat in a foul mood, upset he hadn’t been able to deliver the memorable set he’d planned.

  When it was over, Neha was committed to the fire and they all went back to Raks’s dad’s house for some food. At some point, Raks suddenly disappeared.

  People assumed he’d gone to do some stand-up.

  The day after the funeral, he woke up with a hangover. He’d left the wake to spend the night at his sister’s, going through her things and drinking his way through old bottles of Neha’s wine-club delivery he’d found next to her bed, which stank of old cigarettes. No one had been in the flat since she’d had an accident and been moved to the family home – it was musty and smelled of death. He managed half a bottle of white on an empty stomach before he was blotto and had to lie down on the sofa. The particulars of Neha’s will dictated that everything be given to charity unless Raks wanted anything.

  He kept reading the message she had written just for him. A message from beyond the grave. Alongside a handshake at the funeral. It was just bizarre.

  Raks took the books, mostly programming textbooks he didn’t understand, to the charity shop. Neha’s clothes went to a clothes bank and he was left with an impressive amount of alcohol, an empty functioning Smeg fridge, DVD box-sets and computer equipment.

  In the flat by himself, he looked around at all the things Neha surrounded herself with in order not to feel lonely. The toys, the box-sets, the wine. Everything in the flat pointed to the computer and the space where a plasma screen mounted on the wall used to be. When Neha wanted to watch things, she’d load them up on the computer, turn the plasma on and lie back on that uncomfortable sofa that only seated two people.

  Raks thought about his own place, and the independence he had. He performed most nights, so used his flat as a place to sleep and iron clothes before going out for meals and waiting for the rushing call of the stage. He never cooked in the kitchen. He had two acoustic guitars and that unread series of Game of Thrones books and his Sky box, recording things he’d never watch.

  She had told him, just before she died, to find their maternal grandmother. He planned this trip to do just that, as well as dispose of the ashes.

  He came up against endless Kenyan bureaucracy in his attempts to trace his maternal grandmother at the central records office in Mombasa.

  She did not exist, according to the government. He had the address of her house, where they had sent letters, but a visit in a tuk-tuk brought him to a new building, where you could change currency.

  His trail at a dead end, frustrated, he decided to come to Lamu.

  He is exhausted after his confession. We slip into silence.

  The promenade is bright. The sun reflects off the clothing of most of the passers-by. People wear white on this island. It’s hot.

  The white also makes things a lot brighter for Raks, who has no sunglasses. He squints as I lead him along the waterfront, the high street that runs the length of the island. We walk past donkeys and tourists and beach boys. The water flares with silver reflections of the sun.

  ‘Thank you for listening to me,’ Raks says quietly. ‘It was like as soon as I started talking, I couldn’t stop. I’ve been travelling a lot, learning a lot, thinking a lot.’

  ‘Your sister’s died,’ I say. ‘It’s okay. You have a whole heap to think about.’

  ‘It’s more than that,’ he assures me, pointing out to the water. ‘I’ve spent my adult life with my sole focus being my career, becoming a legend. But the last few months, I’ve come back home.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ I ask, looking at my hands, freckled and pink and dry. I sidestep a donkey and hold on to Raks to steady myself. I feel him flinch so I let go.

  ‘I don’t know yet. I’ve come home. I don’t know what that means. I finally don’t have an answer for everything. It’s strangely comforting.’

  We walk in silence. Raks is close to me. His arm brushes mine. It’s funny – he hasn’t talked properly to anyone in days but I realize, as our arms touch, I have not had any human contact either. I talk to an unknown force in my room every night. It is benevolent and formless, there only to make me feel as though I am not facing the future alone.

  Someone offers us a romantic boat ride. I hold up a firm hand to say, no thanks.

  ‘How long have you been in Lamu?’ he asks.

  ‘Two weeks,’ I say. ‘I have been here for two weeks.’

  ‘Local expert.’

  ‘Somewhat. I’m on autopilot.’

  ‘Are you travelling?’

  ‘Not any more,’ I say. ‘I’m happy here.’

  ‘Me too,’ Raks says. ‘I’m not sure I could live here, though. I worry I’d get bored.’

  ‘It’s nice not having to work, isn’t it? I haven’t had to work in three weeks now. Not since I left for Kenya. I mean, the beauty of this country is majestic. Everything in its right place at its own speed with its own wings of flight,’ I say. ‘Pole-pole.’

  ‘You’re talking about us, right? As tourists?’

  I stop and look at him.

  ‘We’re not tourists,’ I say, pointing at his chest.

  I can see the change in his squinting eyes. He’s thinking, oh no, I’ve befriended one of those hippy-traveller types who eats, prays and loves around the world, in order to find some spiritual respite.

  ‘Look at everyone,’ I say. ‘They seem so happy with the nothing they have. That’s why they smile. They don’t care about wi-fi.’

  Raks keeps smiling but I know inside he wants to call me an eat-pray-lover.

  I burst out laughing.

  ‘What?’ he says.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m one of those problematic white tourists who comes to an exotic place to find herself before going back to her grotesquely privileged life.’

  ‘I did, for a second.’

  ‘First-World problems . . .’

  ‘Just because we’re out here in this traveller bubble and we see everyone smiling because they want us to buy something from them, doesn�
�t mean they don’t have connectivity issues. That’s the trouble with the idea of First-World problems,’ Raks says. ‘The First World thinks they are its own particular problem. People are complex enough to want money for food and medicine, and have a strong wi-fi signal as well.’

  ‘It’s just a saying.’

  I turn away from Raks and look to the houses we are passing. He walks ahead of me. He has dark circles under his eyes and his beard is unruly. He looks sad and bloated, as though he has travelled so far in such a short space of time that he needs a moment of rest. This is what happened to me when I arrived. It took me so long to get here, took so much of the little energy I have, but that first moment, in the water, everything was washed away. I was between worlds. Between the living and the dead. Between my old and my new life. Between the things that weighed on me and the things that could set me free. I want to strip all of that away for him in the same way it was stripped away for me.

  ‘Come on, then,’ I say.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ he asks, smiling nervously.

  ‘That is definitely a secret.’ I pause. ‘Are you with anyone?’

  ‘How do you mean? A girlfriend? No. Not me. No time. You?’

  ‘No. I mean, are you travelling alone?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘My dad is joining me in Mombasa in a few days. He wants to show me where he grew up. He’s very excited about coming home. When I told him I was doing this, he said that the expectation was that he would come back to live out his retirement. That is the immigrant dream. To go to England, make his fortune, and come back to die near the sea. But for the longest time, this hasn’t been the plan – he’s wanted to be British. After my sister died, though, he thought maybe he should come home. He’s considering it, anyway.’

  We take a right off the main strip on to a side street. The houses here are close together. It feels European with its higgledy-piggledy white-and-beige building fronts.

  I see him shudder and look around furtively. I wonder if he’s feeling he should have exercised caution when going off with a strange woman, maybe paid a little attention to the direction she has led him in. But she seemed so benevolent and kind. He doesn’t need to be paranoid.