Memory of Departure

by Abdulrazak Gurnah

  ‘Go to your room!’ he screamed. ‘Go!’

  He turned away from the sight of her, rubbing his face with his hands to wipe away what he had seen. She stood where she was, sobbing while the blood ran from her mouth. He turned back to her. She clasped her hand over her mouth to silence the sobs. ‘Go!’ he pleaded.

  He watched her hurry towards the living-room door, then turned to me. His face was vicious with hate. He raised a fist and shook it at me. He turned on his heels and walked to the living-room, calling over his shoulder, ‘Come.’

  ‘Sit down,’ he said, pacing up and down by the windows. I ignored the instruction. He glared at me, swelled to the point of bursting and screamed, ‘Sit down!’

  I sat down. He resumed his pacing for a few minutes more. To hell with him, I thought, and stood up. He stopped in the middle of the room, his hands clasped behind his back.

  ‘You’re an animal,’ he said, gritting his teeth as he tried to control himself.

  My legs were trembling. I told myself that I was not really frightened, that I had been through this before, that I was just primed to defend myself. Oh God, I thought, wait till they hear about this.

  ‘What kind of a disgusting animal are you?’ he shouted, shaking with rage. He resumed his pacing. Now and again he glanced at me, as if I was a slug that was crawling across his floor. At last he stopped, shook his head with bewildered anger. ‘I was wrong, I will admit. I should not have asked you here. It was wrong of me. I tried my best. I welcomed you . . . like . . . like one of our own. I was wrong to ask you here, but I tried to . . . I offered you a job. I can’t help you. I should not have asked you. Did you have to do this? Was this your way of paying us back for the way we treated you? I opened my house to you. I welcomed you. I welcomed you . . . and you take advantage. You abuse my daughter. You abuse my blood, my name. I watched you, and I should have stopped you. But I didn’t think you were capable of this. Didn’t they teach you anything? Didn’t they teach you any manners where you came from? You stay in a man’s house and then you abuse his daughter. Oh God, I’ve never learnt.’

  I sensed that there would be no attempt at a beating. I would have to keep quiet and swallow his anger, and then perhaps attempt to explain. He glared at me as if daring me to speak. ‘You’re an animal,’ he said, and took a deep breath to calm himself down. ‘You’re an animal! Why will I never learn? Please pack your things and get out. Now, please, now! I must go and see to my daughter.’ Suddenly he began to shout again. ‘Can’t you think of anything else you’d like to do? Don’t you want to get a knife and stab me as well? Oh get out of my house. Get out!’ His fists were clenched by his side, his arms were shaking. His face was twisted with pain. I wanted to stop him, roughly shake him up and shove him against the wall. I wanted to tell him that because he felt pain did not mean that he understood what he had done, or that he had any right to beat people. That his petty bullying was creating more waste than should be in the power of one stupid man.

  ‘I haven’t done anything,’ I started.

  ‘I don’t want to hear a word from you,’ he shouted.

  ‘And your daughter hasn’t done anything.’

  ‘Shut your mouth. Just pack your things and get out. Now! I don’t want to hear any explanations or any apologies from you. I’ll be getting in touch with your father. He’ll know all about this. He’ll be a very proud man when he hears from me.’ He glared at me over a long silence. He did not need to say more but I knew he would. We both understood what he meant about my father. The son of such a man could not be expected to behave too differently.

  ‘You hurt people for no reason,’ I said. ‘There is no need for any of this. There was no need to hit Salma.’

  He growled and stepped forward. ‘If you had not been my sister’s son I would’ve killed you and faced the consequences.’

  ‘Kill me. Don’t let your sister stop you from doing what is right. There is not one thing about you that frightens me. I haven’t dishonoured you. You’ve dishonoured yourself.’

  ‘Aaah, go away,’ he said, pushing me aside with a swipe of the hand. ‘Go back to that criminal father of yours. He’ll understand what you’ve done, the filthy man.’ He spat on the floor and pushed me towards the door.

  ‘Listen to me’ I said, stopping and turning to face him. ‘You’re a stupid man, and I hope your God will forgive you for what you’re doing. You can try to build a prison for your daughter, but I’ll be back for her.’

  He made no reply, standing there quite still, staring at me. My lower lip was trembling, and I prayed to God that I would not burst into tears. He followed me as I walked down the corridor to the bedroom. Salma’s door was shut, and I passed it without pausing. I gathered up my few things and rammed them into the bag. There was a note on the bed. I picked it up and put it in my pocket. Bwana Ahmed bin Khalifa was standing by the door, watching me. He pointed with his finger for me to go. He stayed with me all the time to prevent me seeing her. I walked past him, my neck tingling with anticipation of a blow. He followed me to the front door, and stood there until I had reached the road. No one ran after me, but the thought of the note gave me comfort.

  I did not want to wait for a bus. I wanted to walk and think and mortify myself. I wanted to struggle on in the dark, hungry and tiring, chased by angry dogs. Perhaps I would have to sleep in the open, to be attacked by thugs and robbed and beaten. Two cars passed me, on each occasion accelerating to speed past. Something wailed in the distance, stretching out for long seconds in the night. With a gentle patter it began to rain. It quickly changed character, becoming hard, fast-falling drops of water that exploded in my face. What would Picasso have done? Would he have gone back? I felt in my pocket for the note. I stopped in the road and yelled out for more rain, feeling a desolate figure in the infinite landscape of the night. The rain beat down harder, approving this anguish, egging me on. Perhaps I could get a job in Nairobi, selling trinkets on the pavement. Perhaps Moses would take me on as a junior partner. Anything would be better than returning like this. I yelled out Salma’s name in the night, wondering if it would make me feel worse. It did, so I yelled it again, with more feeling.

  There was no choice but to go back to my people. And when I returned to them, they would tell me of their ancestors, God’s chosen race, on whom rain had beaten down in their wanderings, cruel wayfarers deplenishing the land. They would tell me of their ancestral glories, their kingdoms and their conquests. I had come back empty-handed when I could have returned with columns in stocks. I had come back with nothing when they had returned with ivory and aphrodisiac horns. What little could be done I had failed to do.

  No one asked what happened to the women they left behind in their parched peninsula, these people of the chosen race. No doubt they languished in their grim certitudes, knowing that God had given them the black pagan to enslave and make their husbands prosperous. They made sons on watering days, when their husbands came back with tales and booty from the black lands. For years on end they ate salads with the goats, left behind to scratch life from barren rock and dust, dressed in mourning black rags, calling to their children with shrill cries of warning. God’s people had sprung from that barren rock and dust to save the world from a heresy. They sent their grown sons to us, to ravish and herd us in blood. Of my own line, there are merely salt-sellers, sailors and masseurs, with a reluctantly acknowledged share of black blood in their veins. Glory, glory, there was not even a painter who carried our name.

  A car stopped in the rain, its engine throbbing beside me. A European sat behind the wheel. He motioned for me to jump in but I shook my head and waved him on. I had heard enough about the perversions people were offered by kindly Europeans who had stopped to give them a lift. He shrugged, raised a hand in farewell and drove off.

  I searched for the note. The rain had now become a nuisance. The darkness was denying me word from my beloved. Beloved! After so much talk of death and pain! I would have to learn from nothing the words I h
ad never said. I saw a light in the distance, such a long way away. It was suddenly important to read the note. I ran in the rain, yelling back at the yard dogs that barked at my passage. A police car drew up alongside me as I reached the light. I stopped to watch, old fears rising.

  ‘I’m just going to the railway station,’ I volunteered, lifting up my bag as evidence. As I held it up to the light, it resembled nothing so much as a burglar’s kit of tools. The policemen did not seem to be interested. ‘We’re not going that way,’ one of them said. They exchanged a few words and drove off, afraid that I would ask them for a lift.

  I opened the note carefully, lest in my excitement I should crush the soggy folds into pulp. She had scrawled: Don’t forget to write. S. Underneath that she had written Mariam’s full name and her University address. Was that all? No passionate words of promise? No blood-stained vows? Still, it was enough, my poor wounded Salma. I had not lost her. I threw the note in a puddle under the lamp-post. It suited the drama of the moment. I looked for a landmark so I could remember the place. I made it a shrine, to return to on a pilgrimage when I came back to claim her. I picked up my bag and strolled towards the lights of the city.

  I arrived at the station in the middle of the night. The gates were shut but passengers for the early morning train to Jinja and Kampala were sleeping in the yard. They told me that the coast train left in the early evening. I stretched out to sleep on the comfortless ground, but the two men who had told me about the train started to bother me. They wanted money first, but then they just became threatening. I left them and moved nearer the gates where there were more people. I found space near a family and tried to sleep.

  As soon as it was light enough, I left to find the University. I waited at the University gates until I saw people moving around. Mariam was still in bed when I knocked on her door. She opened the door a fraction and peeped out.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she asked, squeezing her eyes to press the sleep out. ‘I only went to bed an hour ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to talk to you. I’ll come back later.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked, suddenly attentive.

  ‘I’ve been thrown out,’ I said, smiling at my own absurdity.

  ‘Oh God,’ she groaned. ‘Give me a few minutes.’

  We went to the cafe for breakfast, and I told her what had happened. ‘That stupid man,’ she said. ‘You don’t know what that man has done. I daren’t even tell Salma. You write to me and I’ll pass the letters on. Don’t let him frighten you.’

  ‘What do you mean? What has he done?’

  She told me about Salma’s mother and what happened to her. She was reluctant to speak at first, but the more she said the more involved she became in her own story. ‘A friend of theirs, I don’t know his name, was staying with them. He came from Uganda too. They knew each other as children. Something went wrong, his business had failed or something. I think he may even have had to go to prison. Anyway, they took him in. He lived with them for months. Then Uncle Ahmed found out that they were sleeping together. Well, he said they were sleeping together. He went into a rage and fought this friend. I think he hurt him very badly, a knife or something. Then he locked Salma’s mother in a room. People knew about it because the friend told everybody and insisted on his innocence. Ami Ahmed never went out. He didn’t even go to work. He just stayed at home, standing guard over his wife. My mother told me that some people tried to go and see him, to talk him out of his madness, but he refused to see anyone. Somebody saw Salma’s mother at a window. She looked like a mad woman, filthy hair and rags. In the end the police came and took her to hospital. By the time they let her out, Uncle Ahmed had calmed down, but it was too late for her. She was terrified of everything. He would not let her go anywhere on her own. In the end she poisoned herself. I think she was already mad by then. Mother said they had to have a keeper for her, like a lunatic. She saw her once, soon before she died. It was Idd, and my mother and father had gone to greet the family. Mother had to go to the toilet, and while she was in there she heard somebody outside the door. When she came out she saw it was Salma’s mother. She said she looked a little neglected but did not seem unhappy. You know how we keep mad relatives locked up in our houses, and she just assumed that Salma’s mother had become one of them. Then she poisoned herself. I didn’t know any of this, until my mother told me. I didn’t know how to tell Salma, but someone will have to. He won’t do it. I think he’ll kill himself one of these days.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m just saying it,’ she said. ‘I don’t know anything. But he can’t live with that. One day Salma will find out, and then he won’t be able to bear the way she’ll see him. He lives for her now. He’s been trying to make amends through her. One day she’ll find out. And now he hits her. How that stupid man must be hurting.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know . . . I think I’ve made things worse,’ I said.

  ‘No you didn’t,’ she said smiling. ‘But you’re very fortunate to get away with your life. You’re a lucky man, Picasso. It was a good thing you happened to her. I don’t know why yet, but I think it is. She’ll have to know. They’ll have to sort it out.’

  ‘Will you tell her?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and see her tomorrow, talk to her. I’ll tell her I saw you.’

  ‘Tell her I’ll write,’ I said.

  ‘Is that the best you can do? I’m sure Picasso would’ve thought of a more interesting message than that. Never mind, I’ll make it up,’ she said.

  She took me back to her room. I tried to sleep while she went to the library to work. Later in the afternoon she came with me to the station to see me off. She barged confidently through the crowds and came all the way into the train with me. She helped me find a free bunk and sat with me while we waited for the time of departure.

  ‘What will you do now?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Everything seems so difficult. I have to go and explain all this to my parents for a start. I know how they’ll take it. Then I’ll have to sort something out for myself. Perhaps I’ll get a job in the Post Office or in the docks . . . ’

  She slapped me on the thigh. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself,’ she said. ‘Go back there, young Picasso, and tell them what needs to be told. Then go and conquer the world. Only don’t forget to write.’

  She kissed me on the cheek when it was time to go. She stood on the platform waving the train away, plump and plain and full of courage, grinning at the discovery of a new friend.

  5

  She grinned when she looked up and saw me standing in front of her in the yard. She made to get up and I bent down and kissed her on the top of her head. She said my name as if remonstrating with me, but with pleased surprise. When she looked again at me her eyes were wide with enquiry.

  ‘I’m back,’ I said, throwing my arms open.

  ‘I can see that,’ she said, and waited momentarily for me to continue. She did not ask any questions. She knew that my news could not be good. She bustled to get me some food and warm some water for a wash. She did not seem as tired as I remembered her, and she smiled as she rebuked me for not warning her of my return.

  ‘I left in a hurry,’ I said, unable to suppress a smile.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked, wiping her hands on her dress as she came nearer. She peered at me while I tried to look unconcerned. ‘Why did you leave in a hurry?’

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you everything.’

  ‘Yes, you have a wash and have something to eat first,’ she said quickly, rebuking herself for rushing me. ‘Then we can talk. Are you well? Are you feeling well?’

  ‘Headache,’ I said, touching my head. ‘It’s the train. All that noise.’

  She smiled and then reached to touch me on the temple as if afraid to hurt me. Saida appeared at the back door, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

/>   ‘Oh it’s you,’ she said. ‘You’re back.’

  ‘And it’s nice to see you too,’ I said, lunging for her. She squealed with fright and jumped back into the house.

  ‘Don’t make so much noise,’ my mother said, dropping her voice to a whisper. ‘Bi Mkubwa is ill. She fell out of bed and hurt herself. She won’t go to hospital. She says she wants that Indian doctor to come. Do you remember him? Dr Mehta. I told her he’s dead, but she still won’t go to the hospital. She says she’s all right, but she’s not. She groans all night.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Is Ba at home?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Zakiya?’

  She made a noise between a groan and a grunt. ‘I don’t know what we’re going to do about her. She won’t listen to me any more. Perhaps you can talk to her. Some nights she doesn’t come home at all. I don’t know what we can do,’ she said in a voice that seemed on the verge of breaking on every word. ‘She became worse when you left. You talk to her. Perhaps you can make her see some sense.’

  ‘I will,’ I said. ‘I’ll talk to her. Don’t make yourself miserable. She’s not a child any more.’

  ‘How can you say that!’ she cried. ‘She’s like somebody who’s gone mad.’

  ‘Mama, I didn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt. Only that if she’s determined to destroy herself, then we can’t talk her out of it.’

  ‘I won’t listen to that,’ she said. She bristled at me with a look of such bitterness that I wished I could take my words back. She closed her eyes and sighed. ‘I’m sorry, this is not the way to greet you back. But we must not give her up like that.’

  ‘We won’t,’ I said. ‘I’ll talk to her . . . ’

  ‘Yes,’ she said urgently, keen to put the subject to one side. ‘Go and wash, now. I’ll get your room ready and then we can talk.’

  ‘What room?’ I asked. ‘Since when have I had a room?’

  ‘Well, you’re a big man now,’ she said, grinning. ‘And I’m getting tired of coming out in the morning to see you lying there with your kikoi open and your things dangling all over the place. So you can have the little guest room.’