The Outsider(S)

by Caroline Adhiambo Jakob

  I sighed and threw the magazine under the table. Maybe the TV would be more helpful.

  I switched the TV back on, this time to Phoenix. It was a channel that mostly showed documentaries and political discussions. I had in all my life never watched any Phoenix program to the end. In fact, I often wondered why anyone would be interested in the kinds of programs they showed.

  Right then, they were showing a documentary about some Godforsaken country in Africa. To be specific, it was a report about Sierra Leone, mostly about children. A white guy was being interviewed. He was a worker in one of the many charity organizations that tried to save Africa from its misery. I watched him closely to try to understand what motivated people to waste their lives away like that. There was no way in hell that I would voluntarily go to Africa.

  A young boy appeared on the screen. He looked dirty, very dirty, even by African standards, which I presumed didn’t value cleanliness too much. The camera zoomed in on a big wound on his lower leg. I cringed. It was a hole, and there was a mixture of blood and pus oozing from it. I thanked God once again for instilling the common sense in me to never pursue a career in medicine. The only good thing in medicine as a profession was the title doctor.

  The report continued. I sat upright, determined to see it through to the end. Maybe it would be my only chance to get tangible information about Africa. The topic was child labor and child trafficking. The little boy had been sold by his family for an equivalent of ten Euros. He had been rescued by the charity organization, but there seemed to be a problem. “Are you glad that they rescued you?” the interviewer was asking him.

  “I can’t go back to my family. My mother will be very upset with me,” the little boy responded amid sobs.

  I thought I missed something. The white guy came back on the screen.

  “Most of the children we rescue are terrified of the wrath of their parents. They do not want to go back home.”

  I felt a forceful upsurge of the coffee I had drunk an hour earlier. On the verge of vomiting, I ran to the bathroom. I was gasping for air. I did what my class-one teacher, Mrs. Müller, had taught me many decades earlier. I started counting: one, two, three…

  After what seemed like an eternity, I started breathing regularly. I sat in the corner of the bathroom and tried to concentrate on the tiled terra cotta floor. Tears were flowing down my face.

  I couldn’t fathom that level of cruelty.

  That was it with me and my pursuit of knowledge about Africa. There was no point in subjecting myself to torture. I was just going to wait and experience it, I thought silently as I walked to my bedroom.

  Philister Taa

  Kenya, Nyayo Stadium

  I hardly slept that night. I kept thinking of ways or reasons not to go through with the plan. I thought of all the possible things I could do: sell water, pick up plastic from garbage dumps, work as house help. The list was endless. But I had done most of these before, and I knew the result.

  At exactly five a.m., the first cockerel crowed. That was followed by a dozen others. Life was a competition, I thought sadly. Even the cockerels seemed aware of that. I continued lying on the thin mattress and looked up at the roof. There were holes in the tin, and I could clearly see the sky. The sky was dark, and for a moment I wondered if there was some truth in the saying that the darkest moment is the one before the light. I certainly needed some light in my life.

  Someone cleared their throat roughly and then spat. I knew that it was a huge piece of slime. And I also knew that Kanga was going to throw a fit about it. I got up slowly and took the piece of stick that I used for brushing my teeth. I had bought it from “the woman from Zanzibar.” At the prodding of my workmate Boi, I had paid twenty shillings for the stick. A fortune by all standards. Brushing my teeth with the sticks from Zanzibar was supposed to protect me from the evil eye and all misfortunes. But I wondered now if I hadn’t been too gullible.

  My mind drifted to Tamaa Matano. She had left the previous evening for a job at the shopping center. Robberies with violence had recently increased, and the shop owners wanted their shops protected. It was a dangerous job and was only done by those who had nothing to lose.

  I went outside and squatted on what I called a veranda but what in actuality was a mound of red soil beside my cube. I rinsed my face and noticed at that point that the water smelled of the omena23 Tamaa Matano and I had eaten the previous evening.

  “Bwana asifiwe!”24 a voice called out. It was Tush walking by pretty fast.

  “Asifiwe sana!”25 I responded. The one thing that bound all the slum residents was our belief in a supernatural power. It didn’t matter which one. Whether it was the woman from Zanzibar or Jesus or Allah, all of us believed that someone else was watching over us. And from the amount of misery, must have been doing quite a poor job of it.

  A few minutes later, dressed in an oversized gray T-shirt, I was ready to leave. A KBS bus number 34 appeared. Even though it was completely full, I boarded it and hung by the door. I didn’t have any money and hoped that I would reach my destination before the conductor came round. For the whole ride, I was preoccupied with watching out for the conductor. I was nervous. The last time I had been caught, he had used his ticket machine to hit me in the head. I still felt pain thinking about it.

  The bus hissed to a stop at the Nyayo Stadium, and I jumped out relieved that I had survived the ride. I walked up slowly. There were many people walking in the direction of industrial area. I had been trying the whole time to suppress thoughts of my upcoming meeting with Okot. I felt myself shivering, and for a moment I thought of turning back and going back home. But there was no home. Without a job, my landlady, Taptap, named after her shiny silver block shoes, was soon going to throw me out. I took a deep breath and went up the stairs. There was a long line. I sat on the bench at the end of it.

  Shortly after I heard mumbling and excited voices. I looked up and saw Okot walking towards me. He was accompanied by four police officers, each carrying a gun. They looked around suspiciously, as if the people waiting to see Okot were some kind of terrorists. Our eyes met, and for a moment he seemed transfixed in one position. But then he turned his face and looked away.

  “Karibuni!”26 he said to the people sitting on the left side. I watched and saw them smile up at him. The knot in my stomach tightened, and I felt a rage I hadn’t felt before. I got up and followed them, and before the last police officer could close the door, I pushed it open.

  The police officers cocked their guns, and I heard people screaming.

  “Stop!” I heard Okot shouting at the cops. “Leave her alone.” The police officers looked at each other but left without saying a word.

  A few moments later, we sat alone opposite each other. Okot’s office was spacious and luxuriously furnished. There was a red couch in one corner with a coffee table in the middle. At the back of the room was the picture of President Moi.

  “I am a busy man. What do you want?” he asked tersely.

  “My friend Tamaa Matano and I want to be a part of the women’s national football team,” I said flatly.

  “Aha,” he responded while staring at me with mocking eyes. For a moment I felt like fleeing and cursed Tamaa Matano for convincing me that it was a good idea.

  “Is that all?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I responded, unsure of what he meant.

  “That will never happen!” he said finally and burst out in thunderous laughter.

  “OK,” I said, getting up. “I will tell every single person what you did to me.” I felt warm tears flowing down my face.

  “I did nothing to you. You wanted it!” he said, spreading his arms.

  “Oh really?” I asked, my voice trembling.

  He regarded me for a moment. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said, and I realized that his initial arrogance was slowly being replaced by te
rror. “I never meant to hurt you.” He took a step towards me.

  “Don’t!” I shouted.

  For a moment we just stood there. “Only one of you,” he said in a voice barely audible, and handed me the passport application forms. I wanted to protest but had neither the energy nor the desire. I just wanted to get away from him.

  Ramona

  Germany, 2010, My Dream

  I have this habit that I am very proud of. I look at everything and everyone very carefully. I also listen to everything very carefully. I try to remember every detail of what I do. I am arranging the CDs that are sprawled all over our house. I put them back carefully. In the background, SWR-3 radio is playing. They are interviewing some people who are demonstrating in Stuttgart.

  “Why are you demonstrating?” the interviewer asks in a voice that is a bit too cheerful. I get the feeling that he quite likes the fact that there is a demonstration.

  “I don’t know what the demonstration is about, but so long as it is against the city council of Stuttgart, I will be a part of it,” the protestor responds with a chuckle. I smile to myself.

  I am convinced that remembering such details will one day be the ticket out of my routine, boring life. I just know at the bottom of my heart that I will one day be a star. I will be at the center of a major event. I will be a witness to something so extraordinary, the whole country will come to a standstill just to watch me shine. I need to arm myself for that day. I look at and listen to things carefully so as to be able to narrate them exactly as they were later on. I can picture myself on ARD or ZDF.27 In fact, I can picture myself being interviewed by Klaus Kleber on Heute Journal. The thought makes me smile. I like Klaus Kleber. In fact, if I am completely honest, I would say that I don’t just like him, I have a small crush on him.

  “Mama, Taxi is dumb!” a sulky voice rudely interrupts my daydreaming. It is my son Lukas. Lukas is four, and he hates his brother, Tankie, with a passion. Out of total spite he calls him Taxi.

  “Lukas, his name is Tankie!”

  “Stupid name!” he retorts and walks off.

  I watch his back. I don’t know any more what I should tell him. I just wish he would be nicer to his brother, who is only thirteen months.

  Motherhood demands all kinds of competences. One has to be a Kofi Annan, Mother Teresa and Dalai Lama all wrapped in one. And the other thing is that one must have quite some thick skin. I still have not gotten over the embarrassment of being pregnant. Being pregnant isn’t glamorous at all. There is a sinister way people look at you when you are pregnant, that suggests that you’ve been up to no good. If you survive that, then you find yourself confronted with what I have named the ‘How dare you look’. This look could be friendly or hostile. The meaning is always consistent. You are a social misfit or a lesser being for daring to reproduce. But despite all that, I actually enjoy motherhood. My first two sons grew up too fast. Before I could settle properly into motherhood, they were already going to school and had their own friends. Now, I hardly see them.

  School, football and friends seem to take up all their times. But at least I have Lukas and Tankie.

  Tankie comes out of Lukas’s room. He is holding Lukas’s red car. Lukas’s favorite toy. It is broken into two. He has a wide grin on his face as he walks towards me. Automatically, I shout, “Scheiße! Scheiße!”28

  He stops and looks at me. I can see the surprise on his face. I bend down to get the toy away from him. He hides it behind his back and then proceeds to mutter the unmistakable, “Scheiße! Scheiße!”

  The phone rings. It is Mother.

  “Why didn’t you pick up the phone?” she asks in what sounds to me like a very hostile voice.

  “I did,” I respond. Very straight and to the point. That’s what I do with Mother. I mostly wish that she would leave me in peace. And this is not without good reason. Mother’s favorite pastime is humiliating me. Every Christmas I watch her handing Irmtraut a nicely wrapped present. She makes sure to wrap it in the glossiest wrapping paper she can find. I never get anything from her. Last year she stepped it a notch and gave her a dog. I had seen the dog earlier and had secretly prayed that she gives it to me. But no, she handed it to her precious Irmtraut. That was when I made up my mind not to go to her house this Christmas.

  But there is no getting away from her. Yesterday, she arm-twisted me into going to dinner with her. She talked the whole evening about Irmtraut. How successful she is. How proud she is of her, and the worst bit: that she is going to Africa. She has not only been promoted to the senior vice president position but is also going to Africa. I almost choked when I heard that. I am not a hateful person but I struggle to accept Irmtraut’s existence. It is difficult to like someone who has everything that you don’t. Something that mother said yesterday has been playing in my mind the whole day.

  “Children are nice but they make one stupid.” She had said this slowly while looking at me intently.

  I raised my eyebrows and wondered as I often do why I bother with her.

  “It happens gradually,” she continued in her croaky voice.

  “Before I had any kids, I used to be very smart. After I gave birth to Irmtraut, I felt my brains deteriorating.” She paused and looked at me thoughtfully.

  “And then I gave birth to you, and by that time my brains weren’t tiptop.” I opened my mouth but didn’t say anything.

  “I don’t really blame you for turning out like you did.” She finished and threw me a sympathetic look.

  “I thought Irmtraut and I were twins,” I said finally unable to hold it any longer.

  “Yes, but there is a three-and-a-half-minute difference between you,” she stated in a matter of fact tone before taking a sip from her glass.

  At that point, I felt a strong urge to stand up and strangle her, but then I stopped myself. How would it look if or when Klaus Kleber read that?

  “Parents are supposed to love their children. At least, that is what most people would expect.” At this point, I imagine that he would pause in that regretful, intelligent way that only he can do. The camera would zoom in, and an even larger picture would appear. And then he would continue: “A young woman (what do you call a thirty-nine-year-old? Is that already old?) whose mother has relentlessly bullied all her life, finally had enough.” At this point, he would clasp his hands and tighten his lips.

  “She strangled her!” I feel a thin smile spreading across my face. Maybe my one minute of fame isn’t too far away.

  Irmtraut

  Germany, 2010, the Farewell Party

  I was in my office finishing up some things before the farewell party the company was throwing in my honor. I heard a voice and the distinct sound of Nadia’s high-heeled shoes walking into my office. I sat upright and looked at the laptop in front of me. Ever since the company announced my promotion, she had not spoken a word to me.

  “Hi there!” she called out.

  “Hi!” I responded and deliberately continued looking at my laptop, hoping she would leave. But she made no move to go. I raised my head slowly and smiled up at her.

  “I got something that might be of interest to you” she said in a surprisingly sweet voice. She moved forward and put a piece of paper directly in front of me. I looked at it. It read:

  A white couple was found dead yesterday in an African Resort. The couple, whose nationality hasn’t been established yet, was in Africa for professional reasons. What is shocking is the growing number of brutal murders of whites in Africa.

  I looked up at her and smiled brightly.

  “They probably just had bad luck!” I said, looking back down at my screen.

  “No, I don’t think so!” she said and stared at me evenly. There was no sign of the sweetness she had shown a few seconds earlier.

  “Your point?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. I could feel my hands shaking,
but there was no way I was going to show her my vulnerability.

  “I think it happens more often!” she said with feigned nonchalance, and turned to leave.

  As soon as she was gone, I walked to the door and locked it. My heart was racing. What if she’s right? I thought desperately. Ever since I’d got that promotion, I had experienced all kinds of emotions. And they were always extreme. One minute I was feeling really glad to finally be a senior vice president and the next minute I was terrified of living in Africa. The phone rang.

  “Are you coming?” Philippe asked. I hesitated for a moment.

  “This party is for you,” he added, and before I could say anything, he hung up. I grabbed my bag and walked out.

  On the way, I bumped into Marta, or rather she waved me down. She was the accounts director, and as she constantly reminded anyone who cared to listen, she had been in the company longer than Nadia or I.

  “You have to dress every day in that burgundy dress you wore two days ago. You looked fabulous!” she mouthed in that secret tone close friends use.

  Taken aback, I almost said, “Thank you,” but was interrupted by her continuation.

  “But weren’t you freezing? I could see goose bumps from so far away. That’s the problem with such skimpy outfits.” She started walking away. I increased my pace so as to be able to walk with her.

  “That Susanne from ARD, she had an outfit exactly like yours sometime last week,” I said brightly.

  “Oh really?” she asked and stopped walking. She was looking very pleased with her choice of outfits. Dressing like a TV personality certainly meant that one was in the know in fashion issues. But I wasn’t finished.

  “Yes, and she looked very nice. You know these vertical stripes look very nice on slender, beautiful women!”