I re-entered the clearing from the opposite end, by the Adusi Restaurant. It was bathed in light. The sign-post above the entrance was covered with insects that whirred frantically for a touch of the lamps. Outside the restaurant a man was standing behind an aluminium-topped table making chapatis. Round the corner from the restaurant was a long, narrow alleyway, where customers went to relieve swollen bladders. At the end of the alleyway was the branch office of our People’s Progressive Party. Daubed in black paint above the doorway were the words FREEDOM NOW. The lettering was inelegant, done in the heat of the struggle. It was faded now, a leftover from a time when such slogans had meaning.
The office was crowded with people playing card games and draughts. In the inner office, the chairman of the branch was holding court, sipping coffee out of a tiny cup and listening to the animated sycophancy around him. He was one of the new men. He represented us at the councils of the notables and the powerful. We had already learnt not to choose one of ourselves for such tasks, not one of those who had for centuries, and against all visible evidence, persisted in calling themselves Arabs. Independence had taught us enough of the violent hatred that the rest of the country felt for the history that we had been part of. We had strutted our miscegenated way through the centuries, making monkeys out of our half-brothers and half-sisters, while those that we claimed to be part of, where they knew of us, disclaimed and despised us as some bastard offspring of energetic and uncouth sons. So now we chose a chairman who did not speak like us, and magnanimously, did not speak too often against us. He was the only person who could persuade the hospital to send an ambulance if somebody was seriously ill. He could, with a few whispered words, persuade a policeman from an excess of zeal. He could put in the decisive word for the student who looks to have failed his exams, or for the business man who seems certain to lose his licence. So he was paid court, and languidly accepted the homage. The walls of his office were covered with slogans, and photographs of the party notables. There was a large photograph of our Leader, embarrassingly fat and with eyes hooded with malice and booze, standing next to the Queen of England.
It had been different during the struggle to rid ourselves of the British. We had then revelled in our oneness, speaking words of tolerance for past wrongs, forgiving ourselves for the horrors of our history and fooling only ourselves. We had stormed the streets in excitement and delight, yelling the pleasure of our approaching freedom. We became frantic with patriotic joy in the days leading up to independence. I remember a man wandering the streets playing a saxophone, and all the children followed him round the town singing his tune. Voti mpeni jogoo. There were torch-lit school demonstrations, athletics meetings, sports tournaments . . . and the whole nation was on the march. It was like nothing we had ever seen before. The new riot-police, brought into being by the preindependence caretaker government, was rehearsing for the parade. Fishermen were cleaning and painting their boats, making ready for the boat race. PWD workers were making floats for the costume parade. Neighbourhoods were putting the final touches to their carnival acts. Boy Scouts were out camping, refining the skills they would display, practising their battle-cries: kaliba kaliba yahoo! And at school we were asked to write an essay entitled: What Independence Means To Me. A jamboree!
Now we are free. Our leader stands next to the Queen of England with no loss of face. He is obese, filled to bursting with the rotten fruit of his power: corrupt, debauched and obscene. He is protected by the riot-police, which has now grown into an army with tanks and machine-guns, and which only has one enemy. Soldiers don’t have to knock any more before they enter a house.
I stopped at the cinema to look at the stills. My Fair Lady had been retained for the third consecutive week, playing to full houses. I took a step back to get a better view and bumped into a man standing behind me. I turned to look, words of apology leaping to my mouth. I could not speak. The man looked calmly back at me. I mumbled something and walked away, surprised by the fear I had felt. I turned to look, and the man was still standing there, looking after me.
I heard the muadhin calling people to prayers. I followed, impelled by a need for communion. I washed at the water tanks, glancing into the concrete trough to see if the frayed tooth-brush was still there. The water ran off my hands and fell in a torrent into the slimy gutter. The latrine was at one end of the wash-room, and a man was coughing vigorously in there, covering up the noise of his ablutions.
I said the proper words out of habit, marvelling none the less at the sense of cleansing I felt. There was a calmness in the mosque that made the heart feel that here all its rackings could come to rest. The congregation buzzed gently as it murmured private prayers. Then one man near the front stood up and walked towards the alcove that faced Makka. He raised his hands in the air, spoke the nua and led the rest of us in prayer. At the end we all shook hands with our neighbours. I moved from my place in the line and went to sit at the back of the mosque, relishing the gloom and the congregation’s measured chants of praise to the prophet.
I walked to the junction of Kisa Street, and wondered whether I should continue or turn homewards. A man came out of one of the houses. He looked at me cautiously and then smiled as if he had recognised me. He was a short man, tubby and genial, his trousers well down his belly.
‘Are you lost?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m just on my way home.’
‘Don’t hang around the streets then,’ he said, a subtle unease behind his genial voice. ‘Aren’t you afraid? Are you mad?’
When I walked back past the Adusi Restaurant, the old man himself was at the table by the door. Juma Adusi worked in the kitchens at the busiest hours, and then came out later in the evening to count the money. He had a reputation for meanness and his appearance did nothing but enhance it. He was thin and always dressed in rags. His hands were disfigured by taut patches of skin that were hideously pink and raw. His customers endlessly speculated on the hoard he had hidden somewhere.
The benches outside the restaurant were crowded with people listening to the news on the radio. Among them were the serious students of world affairs. They had left their homes to come and listen to the news in this nightly observance. They sipped their coffee in silence and exchanged glances as conspiracies revealed themselves in the newscaster’s words. When the bulletin ended, they unfurled their theories on the true state of affairs. Soon enough, the point at issue became one of the few things they really cared about: the Arab–Israeli wars.
It was agreed to be beyond argument that Israel did not win the Six-Day War on her own. One man claimed to know that Adolf Hitler was the rais of Israel, and that King Hussein had sold him the battle plans. The general opinion was that the Egyptians were winning in Sinai. They had the Israelis caught in a pincer movement, and were drawing them farther and farther in before slamming the door and annihilating them. With victory in the grasp of the Arabs, the Americans intervened. The Russians, who had promised to help the Arabs, did nothing. Instead of dropping an atomic bomb on America, they made speeches at the United Nations. The subject was full of variations, and some very strong views were held, but on the whole the view prevailed that it was these bombs that were responsible for giving little girls big breasts.
I found my mother stretched-out on the mat in the yard. The lamplight softened the contours of her face, fleshing the bones to fullness. As I approached, my movements disturbed her and she jerked suddenly awake.
‘It’s all right,’ I said, crouching down beside her. ‘It’s all right . . . but you’d better go inside. I think it’ll rain at last.’
She sat up slowly, grimacing with pain. She massaged the shoulder she had been lying on, tried to stifle a yawn and failed. The lamplight threw ugly shadows on her face as her mouth yawed for air. I sat behind her and kneaded her shoulders, pressing with the palm of the hand as she had taught me. She shook her shoulders to dismiss me and smiled as I came to sit opposite her. ‘Where have you been?’ she asked. ‘You shou
ld be revising for your examinations. And you haven’t even eaten your supper yet.’
‘Was the meat all right? You said it smelt a bit bad.’
‘If you buy cheap meat you can always smell the saving that you’ve made. Ask your father about it, not me.’
‘I talked to him about leaving,’ I said. ‘After the examinations . . .’
She waited for me, then nodded.
‘I have to think about that,’ I said. ‘He told me about the prison . . . why they sent him.’
She hissed in alarm and put her finger across her lips. ‘Not so loud!’
‘How old was he?’ I asked in a whisper.
She did not reply for a while. When she looked up there was guilt and fear in her eyes. ‘It wasn’t his fault. They just wanted somebody to accuse. He would not have done that. You must believe me.’
She looked at me as if she had wronged me. Yes, I said to comfort her. ‘You could have been a better son to him,’ she said. ‘You could have helped him more.’
That accusation caused me pain. I remembered the time of Said’s funeral, and how my father had tearfully accused me of Said’s death. Somebody had picked me up and whisked me away, and spoke kindly to me and made me ashamed of my father. Who could think to blame him for the death of his first-born?
‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘But perhaps there was nothing I could do to help him.’
‘Don’t say that,’ she said, looking down.
‘Was that when he started drinking? When he came out?’
‘You don’t know the things that happened,’ she said finally. ‘The things they did to him . . . When he came out he was different. You and Said were just little babies. It was then he started drinking. It wasn’t his fault. They hurt him. I mean they beat him. They broke his heart.’
‘He goes out to women . . . and he beats you.’
She shut her eyes and then sighed. She bent down to adjust the lamp, lowering her head towards the light so that her face seemed burnished with a metallic hardness.
‘You want your father to be a monster, don’t you? Don’t you understand? He finds things very hard. It was all too much for him . . . the prison and Said.’
‘He still beats you,’ I said.
‘What do you want me to do?’ she shouted. ‘Why are you like this?’ She glared at me for a moment. She sighed, then smiled. ‘Playing the hero now. You shouldn’t take any notice of the things I say. I thank God for a son like you. Just ignore the old woman.’
‘You’re not old.’
‘I feel old,’ she said.
‘It’s the grey hair,’ I said. ‘I’ll buy you some dye and show you how young you look.’
‘Don’t you dare,’ she said, grinning. ‘People will think I’ve got a man after me.’ She hauled herself to her feet, groaning and muttering about children who wandered the streets until all hours of the night as if they did not have a home. I did not like the sound of that children but I let it pass. She went into the tiny shed that served as our pantry and came out with the cooking pot that contained the remains of the bananas.
‘They’re making a lot of noise,’ she said. Sounds of drunken revelry came from the old man’s brothel. Somebody was laughing hysterically to the sound of bagpipe music. I nodded, addressing myself to a stodgy lump of congealed banana. She watched me struggle for a while, looking at me with increasing astonishment. ‘Get a glass of water before you choke,’ she said.
I went to the tap and cupped my hands under it, pouring the water into my mouth. I felt the heaviness sink lower into my stomach. Dutifully I went back to the pot. A strong breeze suddenly picked up and the lamp guttered. I sensed her looking up as well.
‘There’ll be rain tonight,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘God has mercy.’
She took the pot from me when I could eat no more. She ran some water into it and left it to soak overnight. ‘So what will you do?’ she asked when she came back.
‘I want to study . . . but the problem is money.’ There was a sudden yelp in the darkness, and a dog scurried across the yard, disappearing into the shadows. ‘Maybe I should just try to get a job.’
‘I think we can find the money,’ she said. ‘If you know what you want to do.’
Yes mummy. I smiled at her, determined to be tolerant of her maternal optimism. Where there is a will there is a way and all that crap. She grinned as she divined my thought, and for a moment looked really happy.
‘Your uncle Ahmed in Nairobi, my brother,’ she said. ‘We’ll go to him. He’s a rich man now. You’re his family. He must help you.’
‘Very funny. You’re making a joke.’ Although I had not really expected her to come up with anything astonishing, I was still disappointed that uncle Ahmed was all that she could think of.
‘Who’s joking?’ she asked, laughing. ‘He owes me money. When our father died, your uncle Ahmed sold the shop and the business and kept everything. He told me if I ever needed money I could go to him. He robbed me to make himself rich, so now we’ll take it back.’
‘And how are you going to get it back? Steal it?’
‘We could,’ she said, still laughing. ‘Well, we can try anyway. What’s the matter with you? It’s a chance.’
‘Ma, what kind of chance. He doesn’t even know you exist any more. He doesn’t write to you, he doesn’t even send word to you.’
‘It’s a chance,’ she repeated stubbornly. ‘You must go and see him in Nairobi. I’ll tell your father to write to him and explain. He’ll be difficult, your father I mean, but he’ll do it. Then you go to Nairobi . . . ’
‘And uncle Ahmed will find me irresistible.’
She pealed with laughter. ‘He’ll like you. I know Ahmed . . . he likes people to look him in the face and tell him what they want.’
‘I’ve come for my mother’s money,’ I offered.
She slapped me on the knee. ‘Go to sleep now. I’ll talk to your father tomorrow. And you must revise hard and pass your examinations. Every night you disappear, when I ask where you’ve been you say you’ve been for a walk. You’ll bring a pregnant girl home one of these days.’
Yes mummy . . . me big bush-goat. In the gloom I sensed her settling herself back on the mat, waiting for my father to return.
I slept on a mattress in the corridor. During the day the bundle of kapok was stuffed into the space under the food cupboard. At night I drew it out, complete with the rag that served for bedding, and stretched out on it. I turned myself round to try and read by the light of the electric bulb in the corridor. Three of the rooms in the house had been electrified, but we were only allowed weak bulbs, unless we had visitors.
Around me were signs of ruin. The floor was pockmarked, the concrete perished. The whitewashed walls were smeared with grease. The food cupboard was infested with cockroaches, and at night they came out foraging, roaming the house and the yard at will. My nightmare was being woken up by the feel of their rasping claws on my face. For years I had lived with this filth, but now it was difficult to do the simplest thing without worrying about it. I had to work myself up into a state to enter the bathroom, where a green slime grew all over the floor. The walls in the pantry were covered with the spores of black fungus, and filthy skeins of old spider webs trailed across the ceiling beams. Zakiya complained bitterly about the filth but always declined my mother’s invitation to do something about it. None of us did anything about it.
Every night the mosquitoes came. With unerring cruelty they came for the tender skin of the ear. Even though I slept with the sheet over my head, I could not escape the feeling that their long-stemmed mouths were puncturing the sheet and drinking my blood.
Those last days before the exams were filled with anxieties about failure and with dreams of uncle Ahmed’s largesse. There had already been casualties among the students, some of whom would go down in legend as having worked too hard or taken too many stimulants to keep themselves awake. On the eve of the exams I could not sleep.
I could hear my mother out in the yard. My father was still out.
There was a moment when I thought I was still dreaming, but the blows on my shoulder were real enough. It was a slow process to drag myself from the clarity of the dream to the confusion lowering over me.
‘Come outside,’ whispered my mother.
I followed her out, anticipating something to do with my father. The street-lamp threw a diffused glow across the yard, not enough to illuminate anything but sufficient to scatter the pitch-darkness of the night. A man coughed in the darkness and panic leaped through my mind. My mother was fumbling with the lamp. Eventually she struck a match, and the flame lit up her cowering body and flooded the space around her with light.
‘Who’s there?’ I asked. I tried to remove any challenge from my voice because I was certain it was my father looming in the shadows. A prolonged giggle was the only answer I received.
‘Step into the light,’ my mother said, her voice trembling.
The man sighed but did not move. As my mother moved the lamp nearer to him, I saw that it was Khamis, one of my father’s friends. He was leaning against the corner of the house, one foot in the yard, the other in the alley. He made an effort to lever himself off the wall but gave up with a sigh. ‘You must come,’ he said.
He closed his eyes and did not seem inclined to elaborate. I went back for my clothes and hurried out half-dressed. Khamis was on the ground, his head hidden by the corner of the house.
‘Did he say where he is?’ I asked my mother.
She shrugged and pointed at Khamis. Ask him. His eyes were closed but he was smiling contentedly. He was only a slight man and it was quite easy to drag him up. He responded limply, and I understood the temptation to hit and hurt people in such a state. He smelt of something rotten, something abandoned. He growled cheerfully when he recognised me. He swayed in front of me, eyes closed again.
‘Where is he?’ I asked.
Memory of Departure Page 5
