The Outsider(S)

by Caroline Adhiambo Jakob

  I parked the car farther down the street from Mother’s house. I was careful to park it where no one could block me from making my escape. There was only one thing to do after arriving at Mother’s. Make an escape. I had polished it to the level of a science.

  “You’re here!” Mother said when she saw me. It was one of those statements that left one wondering whether it was a question or just a simple observation.

  “Yes,” I said tentatively. Mother had that effect on me. The most straightforward things always seemed complicated when Mother was involved. The table was set.

  I could see that the big dining table that could be adjusted to accommodate sixteen people hadn’t been lengthened. There were only chairs for eight.

  “It is very dangerous on the Autobahn. A woman crashed into a truck this morning,” Mother said absently.

  “Oh really?” I responded but only for conversation’s sake. I knew what was going to follow.

  “She looked just like you,” Mother said solemnly.

  I watched her and wondered if she really believed that all dead people looked like me.

  “I have been promoted to senior vice president,” I said, bursting with excitement. I was finally as good as Ramona.

  “Get me the scissors on the kitchen table!” Mother responded. I swallowed hard. Maybe she didn’t understand, I thought silently. I walked into the kitchen and came back with the scissors.

  “When is Ramona coming?” I asked finally, not able to hide the alarm that was slowly gripping my stomach. I liked seeing Ramona even though I couldn’t quite remember the last time we had had a proper conversation. There always seemed to be this child or that child trying to get her attention.

  Mother was busy setting the table. She examined the golden spoons she was holding in her hands. I moved closer, suspecting that age was catching up with her and that she hadn’t heard my question. I cleared my throat.

  “When will Ramona arrive?” I asked while moving closer to her and pretending to touch some book so as to give the impression that I didn’t care about the answer. I was dying to see Ramona’s reaction when I finally tabled the evidence that I was just as good as her. Senior vice president.

  “Ramona is a married woman with a family,” Mother responded in a way only she could. It was her passive aggressive way of showing her disapproval that, at thirty-nine, I was still unmarried.

  I felt anger gripping me. “Mother, I do know that she is married. But when is she and her family coming?”

  She raised her eyes without quite raising her head but didn’t say anything. The doorbell rang. I walked to the front and opened it.

  “Hello!” Herr Helmut Eickelschaft, my uncle and Mother’s only brother, was standing at the door. Next to him stood a young woman in a tight, pink jacket and too much makeup. She wore shiny silver boots that reached up to her thighs. To top it all off, she wore a beige, pleated miniskirt. I felt myself smiling. Justice.

  I walked them into the sitting room. Mother raised her head from lighting the candles. She opened her mouth to say something but no sound came. For a few seconds, we stood there as if struck by lightning.

  “Don’t I just love being here?” my uncle was saying with a chuckle.

  “I have spent the most of my Christmases in this house. Irmtraut, have I hugged you yet?” Before I could say anything, he grabbed me and gave me a tight bear hug.

  “Helmut, you are not invited. I have guests coming.” Mother said firmly without acknowledging the young woman. She grabbed her spectacles from the top of the big bookshelf and put them on. She then lowered them to her nose and continued to the door. She opened it and stood by it. No one moved.

  “I am feeling cold,” the young woman said in broken German. I watched Mother. I had never seen her in a vulnerable position. She was always the one who knew how everything had to be done.

  “Get out!” Mother snapped back in response. “You are not invited to my house!” I noticed that she used the du form, the one used to address kids or adults of inferior stature.

  “Don’t you dare…” my uncle started while unbuttoning his long black jacket. In a sadistic kind of way, I felt pure pleasure engulfing my soul.

  There were voices outside, and I saw a well-dressed couple walking up to our house. Mother closed the door quickly and in what can only be described as a pleading tone said, “No trouble!”

  Six more people came. They were all friends of Mother. I noted that I didn’t know any of them. Mother’s idea of friendship was befriending whoever had something that she wanted. Anyone who wasn’t of value to her didn’t last long. Every season she had new friends. Those who remained friends with her all had a special characteristic. They had no backbone or had such low self-esteem that they were grateful for her friendship.

  While waiting for the meal, I stood next to Uncle Helmut and his girlfriend. I had learned that her name was Olga and she was an au pair from the Ukraine. Her visa was about to expire, and she and Uncle Helmut were contemplating what to do. Marriage, Uncle Helmut had said with a chuckle, was the only viable option. I attempted to make polite conversation with Olga but it didn’t amount to much. She was too busy chewing gum and gazing around restlessly.

  I walked slowly into the kitchen. When I saw Mother remove the duck from the oven, I was glad I had made the trip. It was golden brown. Mother always served roasted duck and red cabbage cooked with apples.

  “Can I help with anything?” I asked and felt my mouth watering.

  “Nooo,” Mother and one of her friends, Silke, responded simultaneously. They both turned to look at me and smiled brightly. My heart sank. I made a mental note to leave as soon as I had eaten.

  A little while later, dinner was underway. Mother raised her glass for a toast. “You all know my daughter Irmtraut,” she started, looking at me approvingly.

  “She has been promoted in her company to the post of senior vice president!” There were claps and glasses clinking. Uncle Helmut added a whistle. Mother threw him a dirty glance but quickly fixed her stare on me.

  “I am very proud of you, Irmtraut,” she said. I recalled our one-sided conversation earlier and wondered whether it had been a figment of my imagination. I looked up at everyone and smiled politely. Silke, eager to say something to please Mother, quickly grabbed the moment.

  “I want to tell you, Irmtraut, that you have very lovely blond hair!”

  I smiled at her uncertainly. For a woman in her fifties she was overly dumb.

  “She isn’t blond!” mother responded and the whole room fell silent.

  “She hasn’t been blond since she was five. It is Ramona who is blond!” I looked around the room and hoped that none of Mother’s new friends understood our history.

  Silke looked at me and then at Mother. She knew where her loyalties lay.

  “Now that you mention it, I have just realized that it is a bit too ashy. Definitely colored.”

  I sat there chewing the piece of duck intensely. I was thinking of standing up and screaming something at Silke. Wasn’t there a limit to sucking up to other people?

  “Irmtraut, you know how your mother swindled me out of this house?” Uncle Helmut started with a chuckle. I raised my glass in his direction to signal that I was very interested in what he was saying. Silke cleared her throat, but before she could say anything, Uncle Helmut threw her an aggressive glance. “She came here every single day of her life,” he started, and turned to face Mother.

  “I don’t have to listen to this bullshit!” Mother started and attempted to move her chair and get up.

  “That is OK. I will just tell your guests the rest.”

  Mother stopped and looked around at the guests. There were uneasy glances exchanged among the guests. But no one moved.

  “It was a process,” Uncle Helmut continued. The room was silent, and even
Olga was for the first time looking very attentive.

  “She poisoned them against me,” he said while looking threateningly at Mother. Again she attempted to say something, but nothing came out.

  “She pushed me out.”

  I looked at Mother and saw that she had a defiant expression on her face. Pathetic, I thought. But Helmut wasn’t finished.

  “And then she got you and your sister,” he said in my direction.

  “You were the nails in my coffin.” He burst out laughing and sipped the vodka that he had generously served himself prior to the meal.

  “Who names their children after their own father and not the kids’ father?” The whole table was now totally into it. Uncle Helmut was enjoying himself.

  “I’ll tell you who. A manipulator!” He looked at Mother, and the contempt in his eyes could literally be cut by a knife.

  “That settled it. They transferred everything to her, including this house.” I looked at Mother. All my life I had hated my names. She had not only given me an old ugly first name that had made me the subject of bullying but had even gone a step farther and named me Eickelschaft. I felt cheated. I wondered then as I often did how differently my life would have turned out if she had named me differently.

  “Olga, she is the reason I am poor. She destroyed me.” He put his hand around the au pair protectively, and I saw her pinch his hand, a gesture I interpreted to mean that she agreed with him. He retrieved a cigarette from his pocket and made as if to get up, but then he changed his mind and took a long sip from his glass. There is a way conflict simmers through, however much one tries to cover it. I had hardly seen Helmut for the most of my life, but he seemed to be quite aware of the conflict between Mother and me. I looked at Mother, and of all the things felt pity for her. I wanted to neutralize the moment so I thought of something to say.

  “I am going to Africa,” I said slowly, and felt my voice cracking. There were gasps all around.

  Uncle Helmut, who had been stretching his arms to grab a toothpick, stopped midair.

  “Good for you!” he said cheerily. “That is where the future lies.”

  Olga elbowed him. “Ukraine and Russia, that is where the future is!” she said in broken German. The room fell silent again. For one evening, there seemed to be a tad too many things going wrong. Mother and Silke, and one of Mother’s new friends whose name I didn’t know, stood up simultaneously and began clearing the table. A spoon fell on Olga’s foot. She stood up and straightened herself.

  “Let’s go. This woman catastrophe! Catastrophe!” she wailed while pulling Uncle Helmut’s sleeve. Uncle Helmut stood up and they both walked out into the corridor. They put their jackets on, but then he came back. I walked up to him. I was torn between being nice to him and humiliating Mother in the process and giving him a cold shoulder and seeming like Mother’s accomplice. He hugged me lightly and in the direction of Mother said:

  “Irmtraut, good luck!” And just like that, he and his chewing-gum girlfriend were gone. I locked the door silently and came back to my seat. Mother didn’t say anything. For what seemed like an eternity a kind of deathly silence engulfed the room.

  Eventually one of Mother’s sidekicks brought the dessert. It was ice cream with chunks of deep red strawberries. Mother went to the cabinet and brought new glasses for wine. She seemed to have regained her composure. I should have left at that point.

  “You are going to Spain?” asked a woman with dark wiry hair and deep red lipstick seated at the corner. I watched her carefully. After the chaos that Uncle Helmut and his bride had unleashed, I was in a very harmonious mood.

  “Spain isn’t Africa.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked with an attentive expression on her face. “Are you going to Greece then?” she persisted.

  I clenched my teeth but remembered that this wasn’t the right time to feel upset. “No. I am going to Africa. Spain and Greece are part of Europe.”

  I turned and was met by Silvana’s gaze. Of all of Mother’s new friends, she was the only one I had seen before. Silvana, according to Mother, was a thief who couldn’t keep a job.

  “No, no, no…” Silvana started, shaking her head. “They are part of Africa. That is why people go there on holidays. I read in the Bildzeitung21 that they don’t work. They sleep half of the day and have sex the rest of the day.”

  Everyone burst out laughing. Elke, a plump woman with long, ash-blond hair, was the first to speak.

  “They are very good at it. I once had an Italian during holiday. He was very good.” She giggled.

  Mother sneered. “At least you had the common sense to leave it at that.” There were murmurs of agreement before the tiny woman in the corner spoke.

  “Heidi Klum is married to a black man,” she said awkwardly. I could see that it embarrassed her to say it loudly.

  “Is she fat and ugly?” Marita, a short woman with a low-hanging butt and a protruding stomach asked. There were bellows of laughter.

  “No, she is a model. A super-model!” Silke retorted. “And she is a real blond,” she added and threw me a glance. There were gasps of shock in the air. “Oh gott! Oh gott!”

  I got up and went to the toilet. I couldn’t take the crap anymore. That level of ignorance was totally unacceptable. I came back dressed in my jacket.

  “This will soon be a part of Africa. They come every day. Do you see any Germans any more? We have become exotic in our own country!” Mother was saying in her know-it-all way. There were nods of approval.

  “Even our national football team is no longer ours.” Harald, Silke’s husband said slowly. He looked thoughtful.

  “Good-bye,” I said abruptly.

  “Wait, I have a present for you,” Mother said, getting up. I realized that she was a bit tipsy. I pretended to go to the toilet again and made my escape. Every Christmas, she dutifully gave me a nicely wrapped present. It was always the same. A bunch of knives. They only differed in their lengths and widths. The previous year she had decided to lower her already low standards. I had not believed that that was possible until I saw the old, ugly, German shepherd dog. A lot of things had gone through my mind thereafter. I had contemplated dropping the dog transport box somewhere on the Autobahn. But I didn’t have the courage. In the end, I drove to a dog rescue center and gladly got rid of my Christmas “gift”. I wasn’t going to allow a repeat.

  I drove home with the sole purpose of trying to find out as much as I could about Africa. I switched the TV on and sat down. The American sitcom Two and a Half Men was on, but I barely paid attention. Charlie Sheen’s cocky attitude, which I had always found hilarious, suddenly seemed drab and forced. My relationship with black people up to that point had been… I tried to remember a word that could appropriately describe it and realized to my amazement that there was none. I had practically nothing to do with black people. In fact, I avoided them like the plague. And this was not without good reason. My childhood was dominated with stories of scary black men. I could still vividly hear the song “Wer hat Angst vorm Schwarzen Mann”22 ringing in my head. Up to that point, I had only ever had one encounter with a black person. A black man had once sat next to me on the train to Hamburg. Dragging his big red suitcase, he had come and sat next to me. I sat rigidly looking outside the whole way. He proceeded at some point to produce a comb and start combing his hair. White dandruff flew off and landed on my blouse. I was, however, too terrified to move or protest. By the time we reached Hamburg, my bladder was on the verge of bursting. That was the last time I set foot on a train. I can’t say it was the main reason, but it certainly played a part. Thereafter I made sure never to look a black person in the face. And this wasn’t difficult at all. I hardly ever encountered black people in my daily life. Of course, there were those on TV, but I didn’t think of them as black people. Will Smith was, as a matter of fact, my absolute favorite actor.
But this didn’t lessen the terror that I was feeling. I had absolutely no idea how black people, who were not on screen, were. Of course, I knew about the hunger and all the catastrophes that bedeviled Africa. But all that was at a theoretical level.

  In that instant, I made a decision. I was going to do a crash course on Africa and its inhabitants. I wasn’t going to go to Africa without basic information about the continent. I thought about Mother and her bunch of ignorant friends. That level of ignorance was unacceptable. I turned the TV off and picked up the magazine that was lying under the coffee table. It was a Newsworld that I had been handed out on one of my many flights around Europe. On the cover was a story about African dictators. I was going to prepare my mind in the best way possible by reading as much as possible about Africa and its inhabitants.

  I flipped through it. There was an article about the booming mobile phone business in Kenya and especially about M-Pesa, which was a way to send money using mobile phones that was being touted as one of the most successful African business stories. But I was more interested in the political stability of Africa. At the bottom was an article about African dictators. Kenya, it stated, had a grand coalition that was formed after the disputed previous elections during which many people died. I felt a cold shiver. On the right-hand side was a picture of two old men shaking hands. I took it to mean that they were the presidents, or whatever titles African leaders apportioned themselves. I watched them carefully, wondering if they were going to start some war during my stay there. At the end of the page was stated in bold:

  “His Excellency President for Life Field Marshal Alhaji Dr. Idi Amin Dada, Lord of the Beasts of the Earth and Fishes of the Sea and Conqueror of the British Empire in Africa in general and Uganda in particular, VC, DSO, MC, CBE, the rightful king of Scotland.”