I saw the smile fade and could literally see the rage spread across her face. Don’t dish out what you can’t handle, I thought with a secret smile. Marta, at close to 110 kilos, was definitely not slender.
“See you around!” I called out as I walked into the conference room where my farewell party was taking place.
Philister Taa
Germany, 1990,
a cellar in Germany
Spiegelein Daily April 6th 1990
The Kenya women’s football team has disappeared. According to the team manager, Mr. Bakari, the team left to jog in a nearby forest but didn’t come back. Police in Berlin have launched a search. The team shot into the limelight this past week after losing their first match with a whooping margin. Against Mexico, they lost 17 to nil. Apart from the Mexican team’s obvious superiority, the Kenyan players almost seemed like they had never played football. More than once, one of their players, Agatha, attempted to score a goal against her own team. This would, of course, be hilarious if it wasn’t for the fact that it appeared as if she didn’t really know the rules.
The disappearance of an African team at an international event is not totally unusual. In the past, African players have disappeared from the Olympics or other international events. This is, however, the first time that a whole team has disappeared. Mr. Okot, the Kenya women’s’ national coach, is being held for questioning and is assisting in the investigation.
Dear Tamaa Matano,
I have so much to tell you. I don’t really know where to start. A lot has happened since that day at the airport. The airplane was amazing. I can still hear the wuuuuuuuu sound. And the other thing, there was food in the airplane! I don’t know where it came from. Maybe from God? You know up there in the sky, one isn’t too far from heaven. The food was also the mzungu29 type of food. There were some sweet things that were creamy. I tell you, Tamaa Matano, boarding an airplane is quite special.
I don’t know if you have gotten the news yet. The football tournament was a disaster. I was the best player on our team, can you believe it? I had never played football and I still managed to be the best!
And the other thing, this place is some kind of paradise. We jogged in a big forest, and there was so much firewood. I couldn’t believe it. We could pick it and sell it for several years and there would still be some left! I can’t wait for you to come here so we can be picking firewood together—ha!
Now to the real news. We currently live in a cellar. A cellar is a room underground. People here have houses that begin from underground, can you believe it? It is the most unbelievable thing that I have ever seen. I mean, why would you want to hide a part of your house? Wouldn’t it be nice to show everyone what a big house you have? The cellar is nice, but it is a bit small and there is no window. So I have not seen light for a couple of weeks or months. I do not know anymore.
The house belongs to Karata. Karata is a Kenyan from the coast. He seems a bit dumb, but he says that the house belongs to him. If someone as slow as Karata can own a house, I can only imagine what I will be able to achieve. Maybe I will be able to own a gorofa.30 That would really be something. A gorofa with three or five or even ten levels. And then you and I could stay at the top and relax and watch people walking down.
Yesterday, I heard a movement on the stairs. I looked up, and there walking towards us was Karata. “Wenzangu,31 don’t panicki!” he started in his cheerful voice. “We shall succeedi . . . we shall succeedi.” I don’t know why he added an i at the end of every word. But his voice was just like Mambola’s. In fact, I suddenly missed my pocket radio and the Harambee Stars on VOK.32
“Sie success ndiyo tunataka?”33 he asked, searching our faces. I turned to look at my “teammates.” As you know, they have all paid a lot of money. One of them, Monika, told me that her family paid three hundred thousand Kenya shillings. But she said that one can earn that kind of money here within a week, so that isn’t a problem. Can you imagine what we could do with that kind of money?
“Dadangu waitwaje?”34 Karata asked me in that melodious Swahili of the coastal people. I took a few seconds to compose myself and do you know what came out? ‘Philister’ in that singsong coastal tone. Don’t laugh. I don’t want to jeopardize anything.
He looked at me for a moment and I can’t tell you how terrified I was. And then suddenly he burst out laughing.
“From now on, you are not Kenyans. You do not know your country of origin!” he said, clasping his hands together. I initially didn’t understand what he meant by that, but you should have seen the reactions!
“I don’t have a problem with that. I have never liked being a Kenyan,” Agatha shouted happily. Now this Agatha isn’t a very nice person, but that is a story for another day.
“I have no business being a citizen of a country that doesn’t offer me the possibility of leading a dignified life,” added Kango, a plump woman with so many necklaces I keep wondering how she breathes. She is the oldest here, and she always looks thoughtful. We all turned to look at her. But it got even more interesting.
“I can tear this passport right here, right now’” said a thin girl with protruding teeth and big boobs, holding her passport daringly. I don’t really know her name. As you know we are not a “team” team.
“No, no, no, no, hapana,”35 Karata said while signalling to her to hand over her passport.
“We shall have a karamu,”36 he stated in English but it sounded more like he was speaking in Swahili.
“In respect of motherland, we will burn the passports together and sacrifice something to the gods!”
There were wild claps in the air.
And so it happened my friend, that I became stateless. So technically, I don’t know you and you don’t know me… ha. If someone asks me whether I know where Kenya is, I say no. And I definitely have never played football, which ironically isn’t very far from the truth.
That is the end for today.
Your friend,
Philister Taa
Ramona
Germany, 2010, Öko Sisterhood
I will make her like me, I swear to myself. I will make them like me, no, love me. I am practicing positive affirmation. I read that the more often someone says something, the more one believes it. I have practiced it with Mother all my life. And so far the results point to a different conclusion. So I have changed plans. I have been working hard to make sure that my mother-in-law, Ute, likes me. Some years have passed, though, and I don’t even look like I am close to the middle, let alone to the target. It seems like the more I try, the more I fail. Her visit to the shop has decimated all the little confidence that I had. I bite my teeth and swear for the umpteenth time not to give up.
As I walk out of Engelhorn, I see someone across the street. It is someone I don’t wish to talk to. I quickly look down and pretend to get something from my handbag. I glimpse across and realize to my horror that she is doing the same. I instantly know that she is also trying to avoid me. Something in me is furious. What can make her want to avoid me? I am suddenly overcome with the need to know. I feel massively offended. I run across the street. A car hoots and brakes violently.
“Renate, hello!” I say brightly, standing directly in front of her. She looks surprised but moves forward and pecks my cheek. It’s not like I gave her a choice. Out of habit, I positioned my cheek directly in front of her face. We are standing almost in the middle of the street.
“Ramona!” she exclaims in an over-eager voice as we move to the sidewalk. The kind of voice one uses when one is caught red-handed doing something wrong. Or to feign an emotion when one is feeling the exact opposite.
“It has been a while since I saw you. How are you?” I ask in a voice that should sound enthusiastic but that actually comes across as accusing.
“We are doing great. Magdalena is talking, and…” I nod vigorously in a way
one only does to feign interest. But impatience gets the better of me, and before she is done, I cut her off. I don’t like the direction this conversation is taking. I’m not interested in how her brood is doing. I have my own, and in all honesty, there is nothing so interesting about them. I am more interested in business. Renate and I know each other from the pelvic floor–strengthening group. Those are exercises women do after giving birth so as not to pee on themselves later. And the other reason is to keep their husbands from roaming. That is what Hebamme37 Elke said. So in about six months ago I shared my idea with Renate about my upcoming Öko shop. I was actually naive enough to believe that we were friends. Of course, I had no idea that an Öko mom could steal from another Öko mom. I thought we were the alternative to the corrupt world. Now it’s been six months since I confided in her. A new Öko shop has been set up, and the proprietor is—surprise, surprise—Renate. I’m tempted to punch her in the face, but I don’t. Instead I do what I always do. Play nice. I am obsessed with being the bigger person even when it hurts so badly.
“I’m so glad for you. You actually managed to open an Öko shop,” I say glowingly. I have feigned niceness for so long that it is difficult even for me to know what I really feel.
She looks at me uneasily. I feel guilty. I have no right to make anyone feel uneasy. Other peoples’ feelings are very important to me. “I will come by soon,” I whisper and bid her good-bye.
I feel tears welling in my eyes. I know that I have once again let myself down.
Irmtraut
Germany, 2010, My Departure
I was woken up the next day by the ringing phone. I realized to my horror that it was ten forty-five a.m. I had never overslept in my thirty-nine years of existence.
“Hi, I have sent Thomas to drop your plane tickets on his way to a client. I just wanted to find out if you are at home.” The voice of Emilia with her thick-accented English came through.
“Tickets?” I asked, horrified. “Which airline did you book?”
“Royal KLM Dutch Airlines.”
“Oh… they fly to Africa?” I asked, relief spreading through my soul. What she forgot to mention was probably the most important bit.
I spent the rest of the morning packing and watching daytime TV. There seemed to be all kinds of social misfits trying to outdo each other. On one of the channels, a man who claimed to be a prince was selling a wonder necklace for ninety-nine Euros. Anyone who bought the necklace would instantly become rich, he stated without blinking an eye. I was not just disgusted but shocked at the gullibility of daytime TV viewers. In my experience, nothing worth having came that easily. And money was certainly at the top of that list.
Later that afternoon, I left for the airport. An hour after we left Frankfurt, we landed at Amsterdam. This was where I was going to take my connecting flight to Nairobi. It was to leave in two hours, and so I rushed through the terminals to check in. I stopped at the front to check the list of the flights and boarding gates. There was a Kenya Airways flight leaving for Nairobi at exactly 9:40 p.m. just like my supposed KLM flight. I looked around confused. There was no sign of a KLM flight to Nairobi. Was it possible that I was, in fact, booked on the Kenya Airways flight? Was it possible that Emilia had failed to mention that I was, in fact, booked on an African airline? I grabbed my handbag and drew the tickets out, and just as I had dreaded, my connecting flight was with Kenya Airways. I felt sweat dripping down my face. My hands and armpits were soaked in sweat.
“Ma’am, is everything all right?” I heard a man’s voice with a distinct American accent. I tried to put on a nonchalant face and nodded that I was fine. He walked away, and I was very grateful. I was aware of Americans’ notoriety for small talk. I dialed Emilia’s number several times. No response. I was in no mood to leave any recorded message. I just didn’t believe that it could relay exactly how I was feeling.
I paced around muttering under my breath. There wasn’t a worse sin in the shark kingdom. The unwritten rule was to be available anytime one was needed. That applied to everyone, especially those lower in the rank. After what seemed like an eternity, she picked up the phone.
“Who do you think you are?” I asked before she could say anything. “I will have you fired first thing in the morning!” I was seething with rage and breaking my number-one rule. Control your emotions.
“I don’t understand. Did something happen?” I heard her panicked voice from the other end, barely audible. I didn’t know where to start. Of course, so many things had happened.
“Kenya Airways?” I asked finally in a livid voice. “Was that the best you could do?”
“KLM, the Royal Dutch Airlines, has a partnership with Kenya airways. They assured me that most of the pilots on Kenya Airways are Dutch,” she responded, her voice breaking in sobs. Being driven to tears wasn’t exactly a rare occurrence in the shark kingdom.
“They better be!” I whispered with gritted teeth and hung up.
I headed to the KLM business lounge. It was by no means the best that I had been to, but I was sure that it was all going downhill from then. I shuddered at the thought of what was awaiting me at my destination. If I reached it at all.
The American who had asked me before if everything was fine passed by. He was talking on his cell phone. I didn’t want to eavesdrop but it occurred to me that he was repeating the same word over and over again: “Awesome, awesome, awesome…”
My Blackberry rang. I checked and saw that it was Emilia. I composed
myself. Watching the “awesome” American had calmed me down.
“Yeah?” I started restlessly.
“I am really sorry that I didn’t pick up your call right away. I was attending to a family matter and had forgotten my phone in the car,” she started breathlessly. She paused, but I didn’t say anything. I knew the power of silence. “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that according to the airlines ranking, KLM and Kenya Airways are both ranked three-star, so theoretically one can expect similar or comparable standards.”
“That’s not the point,” I interrupted her curtly. I could feel the uneasiness on the other end of the line. Of course, she didn’t dare ask what exactly the point was. But we both understood. When it came to issues concerning race, one was best advised to keep it to oneself.
“Listen, I have to go,” I said abruptly. “I am very dissatisfied with your performance. If you don’t pull up your socks, I might be forced to look somewhere else.” There was an uneasy silence. “You are aware that this is a chance of a lifetime?” I prodded.
“I am very sorry. This will not happen again,” she pleaded. She continued tentatively, “You are booked at the Sarini Hotel. Someone will pick you up from the airport.”
I felt a shiver. “Is it any good?” I asked.
“Angelina Jolie stayed there the last time she was in Kenya,” she responded cautiously. I pondered that. Even though Angelina Jolie with her tendency to adopt anything exotic could not be trusted, there was at least the hope that it would not be a total disaster.
I disconnected the call without a word. It was a habit I had learned early in my career. My first boss never bothered to end a call. I would talk for minutes before realizing that I was talking to myself.
“Ladies and gentlemen, KQ flight 802 to Nairobi, boarding now!”
I sprang from my seat and remembered that I had not talked to Philippe. I knew that he was at home playing the perfect husband and daddy.
“Ready to go?” he asked when he picked the phone.
“Yeah sure!” I replied and felt a lump in my throat.
“Good luck!” he said finally. The tears I had been trying to hold back suddenly dripped down on to my shirt. Luck was what one wished people who were in an undesirable position. Every single shark had made a point of wishing me luck, and now Philippe of all the people had joined the bandwagon.
“I’ll be fine!” I said brightly. Whether I was going to crash on that flight or be eaten by some dangerous African animal on arrival, I was going to maintain my dignity.
“KQ flight 802 to Nairobi boarding now!” the announcement boomed over the speaker. I quickly bid Philippe good-bye and rushed through to the gate. Almost all the passengers had boarded by the time I reached the plane. I was met by a stewardess in a red uniform. “Ma’am, may I see your boarding pass?”
I smiled broadly. It was the kind of exaggerated smile that I always flashed whenever I felt anxious.
“Ma’am, you are in business class. Let me show you your seat,” she said smoothly.
“Thank you,” I responded sweetly and followed her into the cabin. I was trying to act as carefree as possible.
The business-class cabin was surprisingly spacious and clean. Compared to many of my previous European flights, the cabin looked very nice. I noted that the plane was fairly new. It was a Boeing 777-200 ER.
I looked around the cabin to check out who my neighbors were. There were around ten people in the business class. Two white nuns sat directly in front of me. I wondered where they got the money to book themselves into business class from. I had always thought anyone who chose to live as a nun had no appreciation for material things. Wasn’t the criterion for admission into nun-hood a love for poverty? I mused.
A black man who had been busy stuffing his luggage in the overhead compartments came and sat next to me. I couldn’t guess his age. He was very skinny; in fact, one could have easily mistaken him for a kid were it not for the small moustache that he wore. He was dressed in a green Nike track suite with Kenya written boldly on it.
“Hello,” he said to me.
“Hello,” I responded a bit too enthusiastically. The lone memory of my train ride to Hamburg flooded back. “Are you going home?” I asked, feigning cheerfulness.
“Home?” he asked, smiling widely. “I am Qatari,” he said, looking very pleased with himself.
The Outsider(S) Page 6
