by Dave Eggers
Tabitha was a friend to Abuk, the oldest of Gop’s daughters, so even outside of classes such as home ec and history, I had been able to observe her, and knew certain things about her. I knew first of all that she was permitted to join the group because her mother had been an actress herself, and was an enlightened woman who wanted Tabitha to take advantage of any opportunities in the camp. I also knew that she had a face unsettling in its perfection. When I first knew Maria, I had feelings for her, but looking at her, speaking to her, was not a challenge for me. She seemed as much a sibling as anything else, and I felt when standing before her that she was a young person like me, that we were both refugees, that nothing about her intimidated me.
But Tabitha was not like this. I was not alone in knowing that Tabitha’s face was unparalleled in its symmetry. Her skin was without blemish, the lashes on her eyes of a length that defied any precedent. I knew all this from far away, and after observing her more closely I knew that when she walked she walked slowly and deliberately, no part of her body moving with any effort whatsoever. From a distance, it seemed that she floated, her head never bobbing, the movement of her legs barely detectable under her skirts. I knew this and I knew that she touched the forearms of her friends as she spoke. She did this frequently, and when she laughed she would grip the forearm and then pat it twice.
I knew all this, and I knew that I was for some time utterly hoarse and dim-witted in her presence. She was younger than I by a few years at least, and I was far taller than her, and yet near her I felt that I was a child, a child who should be playing with dolls in the shade of her skirt. I alternately wanted to be close to her, to have her always within sight, and then, a moment later, to exist in a world where she did not. It seemed the only way that I might be able to concentrate again.
The first few times she attended the meetings of the drama group, she, like everyone else, was captivated only by the antics of the humorous Dominic. She laughed at everything he said, placing her hand on his forearm repeatedly, even squeezing once or twice. I knew that Dominic’s affections were committed elsewhere, but still, it was difficult to watch. If she ever took the hand of another young man, I was sure I would not recover. The only solace I had was in knowing that I would see her every week, in close quarters, as we wrote and produced our plays—whether or not she ever looked directly at me, or spoke to me. She had done neither.
The drama group was thriving, in part due to the efforts of Tabitha and the Dominics and our libidinous teacher, but also due to the generous funding we began to enjoy. Our Youth and Culture Program began to receive direct aid from an organization called the Wakachiai Project, a Tokyo nonprofit. Their goal was to instruct the youth of Kakuma in sports, drama, first aid, and disaster management, but they also found a way to outfit a full refugee marching band with clothes and instruments and a part-time instructor specializing in woodwinds. When the project began, they sent one of their own to Kakuma, a young man of twenty-four named Noriyaki Takamura, who would become one of the most important men I would ever know, and from whom I would learn about trying to love someone who was fragile and very far away.
Soon after the project started, I was chosen as Noriyaki’s right-hand man. I had been working for the Youth and Culture Project for two years and was well-known among the Sudanese youth and the NGO workers. It did not seem controversial that I would be given such a position, but my appointment did not sit well then or later with the Kenyans, who, we presumed, wanted every job for themselves. I did not care, and happily accepted the job, which brought higher pay and even an office. For a Sudanese to work in an office! We were given a small office in the UN compound, and in it we had a satellite phone and two computers, one that Noriyaki had brought with him and one that he ordered for me. He did it the first day we worked together.
—So here we are, Dominic, he said.
As I said, the name Dominic had overtaken us all.
—Yes sir, I said.
—I’m not sir. I’m Noriyaki.
—Yes. I am sorry.
—So are you excited?
—Yes I am, sir.
—Noriyaki.
—Yes. I know this.
—So we need a computer for you. Have you used a computer?
—No. I have seen people work on them.
—Can you type?
—Yes, I lied. I don’t know why I chose to lie.
—Where did you learn to type? On a typewriter?
—No, I’m sorry. I misunderstood. I cannot type.
—You can’t type?
—No sir.
Noriyaki exhaled enough for three lungs.
—No, but I will try.
—We need to get you a computer.
Noriyaki began to make phone calls. An hour later he had reached his project’s office in Nairobi and had ordered a laptop computer for me. I did not believe that the computer would come to Kakuma or to me but I appreciated Noriyaki’s gesture.
—Thank you, I said.
—Of course, he said.
And that day we did very little outside of talking about his girlfriend at home, a picture of whom was set on his desk. Noriyaki had just unveiled the photo, in which she was wearing a white shirt and white shorts while holding a tennis racket. Her smile was small and brave, as if in defiance of tears she had just dried from her face.
—Her name is Wakana, he said.
—She looks like a very nice girl, I said.
—We’re engaged.
—Oh good, I said. I had recently been told, in one of my English texts, that it was rude to say Congratulations in such a situation.
—It’s not official yet, he said.
—Oh. Will you elope?
—No, we’ll get married in a proper wedding. But I have to propose in person.
I did not know exactly how things worked in Japan, and was only vaguely familiar with the workings of marriage in the Western world.
—When will you do this? I asked.
I was not sure how many questions I was allowed along these lines, but there seemed to be nothing that offended Noriyaki in any way.
—When I go home, I guess. I can’t get her to visit me here. We sat together for a moment, staring at the picture, at the young woman’s sad smile.
Already I missed Noriyaki, on that first day. I had not pondered the idea that he would leave Kakuma someday, even though I knew well that no one stayed at Kakuma but the Kenyans, and even they didn’t stay for more than a few years. Noriyaki became my good friend on that first day, but he was not only my friend; Noriyaki was loved by all. He was far shorter than any Sudanese men I knew, but he was athletic, very quick, and quite competent at any sport that was played at Kakuma. He joined pick·up games in soccer, volleyball, basketball. He seemed to replace the basketball net once a week; he always had new white nylon nets. And because he kept replacing the net, it was fairly clear to all that the nets were disappearing, to be sold at Kakuma Town, with the knowledge that they would quickly be replaced by the stocky Japanese man whose name everyone knew, or at least attempted.
—Noyakee!
—Noki!
From the start, Noriyaki was always with the Sudanese people, in the camp, walking the paths, asking what we needed. He ate with the refugees, moved among them. When he drove his car, he would stop and pick up anyone who asked. Any person who was going to the compound he would carry, until his truck was overfull with smiling riders who all loved Noriyaki, or however one interpreted his name.
—Nakayaki!
—Norakaka!
None of it mattered to Noriyaki, who walked through Kakuma with a shy grin, happy because he was doing essential work and because, I imagined, he knew that in Kyoto there was a very beautiful young woman waiting for him.
One week after Noriyaki arrived and ordered the computer for me, something interesting happened: the computer arrived. There was an air shipment that day from Nairobi, primarily emergency medical supplies, but on the plane there was also a box, its corners per
fectly square, and in that box, there was a laptop that had been ordered for me. It was rare in Kakuma to find a box that well-formed, with corners so crisp, but there it was, on the floor of the office, and Noriyaki grinned at me and I smiled back. I always smiled when I looked at Noriyaki; it was difficult not to.
The box arrived when we were both in the office, eating our lunches, and when Noriyaki opened it for me—I did not trust myself not to damage it—I wanted to hug Noriyaki or at least shake his hand, which I did, with a good deal of enthusiasm.
Noriyaki opened two orange Fantas, and we toasted the arrival of the computer. Toasting with Fanta became a tradition between us, and that day we drank our Fantas slowly, looking down on the box and its extraordinary contents, wrapped in plastic and encased in black foam. The laptop computer was worth perhaps ten times the value of all of my possessions and those of my Kakuma siblings combined. To entrust me with such a thing gave me a feeling of competence that I had not known since I was perhaps six years old, allowed to hold my father’s Chinese rifle. I thanked Noriyaki again, and then pretended to know how to operate the computer.
—Take it home and practice, Noriyaki said finally.
—Take it where?
—Take it home and practice.
Noriyaki had noticed, in the days since the laptop came, that I had no idea what I was doing. I spent an hour one day attempting to turn the machine on. When I did turn it on, typing took me an extraordinary amount of time, and my work was made more difficult because the nervous sweat coming from my forehead and arms and fingers was drenching the laptop’s keys. This made any kind of training, much less work, impossible.
—We’ll send you to train, he said.—You can take computer classes.
—Where?
—Nairobi. We’ll write it into the budget.
Noriyaki was a magician. Nairobi! Write it into the budget! I did not understand why Noriyaki would come to Kakuma, and why he stayed in Kakuma, especially when he had a family and a ladyfriend in Japan. For a very long time, I tried to figure out what exactly was wrong with him, what might have prevented him from getting an actual job in Japan. What would have caused him to travel so far for such a poor-paying and difficult position as he had here, with us? But I knew that Noriyaki did everything well, so it did not follow that he would be forced to take a job in a refugee camp. He was skilled on the computer, was personable, and got along famously with the Kenyans, the Europeans, the British and Americans, and especially the Sudanese, who seemed uniformly to adore him. He had no physical deformities that I could discern. I discussed Noriyaki with Gop’s family one night over dinner. I had brought the laptop home, and Gop had insisted on having it within view as we ate dinner together. It was indeed a strange object to see in the sort of place we lived. It was like a bar of solid gold resting in a mountain of dung.
—He could be some sort of criminal in Japan, Ayen offered.
—Japan is very competitive, Gop mused.—Maybe he got tired of that life.
But they did not want to spoil it and I did not want to spoil it. It was an odd thing: there were few jobs for adult Sudanese with the UNHCR and NGOs, but they needed someone young who would understand the needs of the youth, so I was getting one of the best NGO salaries of any refugee at Kakuma. The project purportedly only had funding for a certain amount of time, but Noriyaki always talked about extending it.
—The Japanese government has plenty of money, he said.
He said that he and I would have to make sure to use the existing funding well, though, to involve refugees in the planning and stretch every dollar.
I asked him why he came to Kenya in the first place. Why the Sudanese? I asked.
—When I was growing up, my teacher had us do a report on a country in Africa. He was very interested in the continent, so he spent probably too much time on Africa. I wasn’t this teacher’s favorite student, I have to say. So he went around the room, asking everyone which country they wanted to research, and he called on me last. By then, only Sudan was left.
I would have suspected as much, but still, this fact hurt my heart. I thought of it many times over the next years, that Sudan was not wanted by any of these Japanese schoolchildren.
—There wasn’t too much information about your country, I have to say. It was a very short report, he said.
He laughed, and I managed to laugh. It was a goal of his, it seemed. He walked in the office every day, I am sure, determined to get me to laugh, no matter the subject matter. He talked about his family and about his girlfriend—his fiancée. Wakana he missed with an agony that was tangible. Many days I arrived at work to find him under his desk, on the phone. I am not sure why he chose to talk to her under his desk, but usually he did. After he was finished, I often found notes on the floor, as if he were consulting lists of things to say to her. When he would pine for her, I would listen until I could not listen any more.
—Your girlfriend? I would say.—You’re complaining about missing your girlfriend? I don’t have a family!
He would laugh and say,—Yeah, but you’re used to it.
We found this very funny, and it became a refrain between us:—Yes, but you’re used to it. And though I laughed about it, it also caused me to wonder whether this was a truth. It did seem to be true, that he missed his fiancée more than I missed my family, because he was certain she was alive. My feelings for my own family were more distant and vague, for I could not picture them, and did not know if they were alive or dead, in Sudan or elsewhere. Noriyaki, though, had his mother and father and two siblings, and he knew every day where they were.
—My family is your family now, he said one day.
They knew all about me, he said, and wanted very much to meet me. He added a picture of his parents and younger sister to the desktop, and he insisted I think of them as mine. It was a strange thing that his plan worked; I did grow to think of his family as people who were watching over me, expecting good things from me. I stared at the picture of his parents—his mother and father both in black, their hands clasped before them, standing before a giant statue of a charging soldier—and I believed that some day we would meet in their home, perhaps just before Noriyaki married Wakana, when I visited Japan as a prosperous man. I was not confident this day would come, but it pleased me to think about it.
One day a man came to Noriyaki. The man was a Sudanese elder, an educated man, respected among the Dinka. He had finished three years at the University of Khartoum, and his opinion was sought on any number of matters, political matters in particular. Today, though, he was agitated, and asked to speak to Noriyaki immediately. Noriyaki asked him inside, and gave him a seat.
—I would like to stand, he said.
—Okay, Noriyaki said.
—I need to stand because what I have to say is very important and upsetting.
—Okay. I’m listening.
—You need to talk to your people, your government, Mr. Noriyaki. It is the Chinese and the Malaysians who are making this war worse. These two countries alone own 60 percent of the oil interests in Sudan. You know how much oil they take? Millions of barrels a year, and it’s growing! China plans to get half its oil from Sudan by 2010!
—But sir…
—And we all know that the oil is what is driving the war. Bashir wants only to keep the south in chaos and the SPLA away from the oil fields. He does this with weapons from where? From China, Mr. Noriyaki. China wants the south insecure, because this keeps out other countries who don’t want their hands dirty with the human-rights abuses around this oil extraction! Your government is providing arms that are used against civilians, and they are also buying the oil that is ill-gotten and is the reason hundreds of thousands have died. I have come here to appeal to you, as a representative of your government, to speak out against these injustices!
When Noriyaki finally had a chance to speak, he told the man he was not Chinese. The man spent five minutes digesting this information.
—I do not mean to be rude, b
ut you have the look of a Chinese.
—No sir. I’m Japanese. We’re not such great friends of the Chinese, either.
The man left, confused and disappointed.
There was blame everywhere for what was happening to the Sudanese. And the more we understood how we were connected to so many of the problems of the world, the more we understood the web of money and power and oil that made our suffering possible, the more we felt sure that something would be done to save southern Sudan. And a series of bombings brought us, we thought, to the forefront of the world’s mind.
I was refereeing a youth soccer game when I heard the news from a pair of boys passing on a bicycle.—They bombed Nairobi! And Dar es Salaam!
Someone had bombed the U.S. embassies in Kenya and Tanzania. The camp ceased all activity. The Kenyans stopped working. Wherever there were televisions or radios, and there were not many of the former, they were surrounded. Hundreds dead, the reports said, five thousand injured. We watched for days as bodies were pulled from the rubble. The Kenyans at Kakuma raged for answers. When it was learned that it was the work of Islamic fundamentalists, there was trouble at Kakuma. It was not a good time to be a Somali or an Ethiopian. The Muslims of any nation kept themselves hidden those days, and made sure to be clear about their opposition to the work of these terrorists, to Osama bin Laden. This was the first I had heard his name, but soon everyone knew of him, and knew that he was living in Sudan. Gop spent every moment next to the radio, and lectured me at dinner.
—This is bin Laden’s work. And it’s Sudan that will pay for this crime. They helped him, and they will pay. And it’s about time they did.
Gop seemed almost happy about this development. He was sure that bin Laden’s bombings would turn the world’s attention to Sudan, and that this could only be good for us.
—Finally they’ll get this man! He’s been everywhere. He was at the center of the Islamist revolution, Achak! He provided so much money to Sudan! This man funded everything—machinery, planes, roads. He was involved in agriculture, business, banking, everything. And he brought thousands of al Qaeda operatives to Sudan, to train and plan. The companies he set up in Sudan were used to get money to all the other terrorist cells all over the world. This was all because of the cooperation of Khartoum! Without a government sponsoring these things, it’s much more difficult for someone like bin Laden, who is not satisfied with blowing up travel offices. So he owns a construction company in Sudan, and so he can buy explosives from anyone he wants, in whatever quantities he needs. It seems legitimate, right? And then with Khartoum’s help, he can ship these explosives to Yemen or Jordan or anywhere else.
