If we pay rent of around five thousand shillings, we should have more than enough to live comfortably on. We could save some and buy a car and then a house. Who knows we might even be able to build a skyscraper ha! I can’t wait to lead a happy and fulfilled life away from Karata. The other thing is, we could buy ourselves a real radio. Not just a pocket radio but a big, booming radio. My friend, start packing your things. Your life is about to change dramatically.
The end.
Philister Taa
Irmtraut
Kenya, 2010, a walk in the park
My life in Nairobi was going better than I could have imagined. For the first time in my life, I was sleeping through the night. The hectic pace that dominated my life in Europe was slowly fading into the distance. There were, of course, a lot of things to get used to, but mostly I was pleasantly surprised that life in Nairobi was so relaxed.
It was five thirty p.m., and I was already back at the hotel. I logged onto Facebook and read through what was going on in the lives of my so-called “Facebook friends” back home. It was laughable that Facebook had chosen the term friend to refer to these contacts. No sane person could have 557 friends. I was nevertheless grateful to Facebook. I regularly logged into it to get an update. It was the perfect tool for being a friend without being a friend.
I browsed through and checked a few contacts. Karl, an old flame, came up. He had updated his relationship status from “married to Monique” to “it’s complicated.” I smiled. But it even got better. Bettina, my ex-boss who had made my life hell before she moved to another company, had removed her professional status. I took that as a good sign. She was probably out of a job, I thought with satisfaction.
Just then, I made a decision. I was going to go for a walk. That’s right. I was going to go for a walk in the park the hotel overlooked. My experiences in Kenya had been up to that point only positive. Besides, I was not a naïve tourist who walked around with expensive cameras. I was careful, and I knew that only a fool could flaunt expensive stuff in a country as poor as Kenya.
I walked down to the reception. The evening receptionist had just started his shift. As usual, he was in an extremely cheerful mood.
“I’m going out,” I said and handed him my keys.
“Should I call a taxi, madam?” he asked in his exaggerated, kind voice. It was the tone you used when talking to a kid, especially a kid who was a bit dense.
“No, I am going for a walk.”
“A walk?” he asked carefully, unable to hide his worry.
“Listen, I know what I’m doing,” I retorted. “I am going to Uhuru Park.” I was getting tired of the excessive attention that they gave me.
“Uhuru Park?” he repeated slowly. The alarm on his face was unmistakable.
“Yes, Uhuru Park,” I responded evenly and walked out before he could say anything.
Uhuru Park turned out to be as beautiful as it looked from my hotel room. It was nice to finally breathe some fresh air. Fresh air is the wrong term. The air wasn’t fresh. There was smoke billowing from somewhere. Someone was burning a tire or some kind of rubber. I was nevertheless happy to be outside. I walked across a well-made path beside some benches that looked quite new. On them was boldly written “A joint initiative of well-wishers and the Nairobi city council.”
I saw a signpost indicating that the University of Nairobi was around the corner. The thought of a university brought back fond memories of my student days. The parties, the cookouts with other students, the choice to attend classes or not. There were so many options in universities—real options, not the theoretical options that one encountered later on in life. Choosing to sleep instead of going to the most prestigious party of the year was just that: a choice without any life-threatening consequences. Now imagine making the same decision in a corporate setting, and the sharks would have not just your butt for dinner but your lungs for breakfast as well.
The other thing was friendship.
The friends I had made at university were not perfect. But at least they were an attempt at friendship. It was my experience that most adults didn’t have any true friends. The older one grew, the fewer the chances of forming true friendships. Most people were too damaged as adults for genuine friendships.
“Mzungu!”43 I heard the voice before I saw him. It was a rough, deep voice, a bit like the voice one gets after suffering from a bad, endless cough.
“Give me the watch!” he said, moving towards me. Very calmly, the way one asks for something that belongs to them. My first instinct was to tell him to go to hell. But then I realized he wasn’t looking me in the eye. From experience, I knew that it was much easier to harm someone if one didn’t meet his or her gaze. Unless, of course, one was dealing with a psychopath; then no rules applied.
I wasn’t planning to give him the watch, and not because of its monetary value. It was a plastic digital watch that Philippe had given me. It was cheap, and the only reason he bought it was because we needed to time how fast we could do a backstroke in some hotel in Florida.
But I was feeling defiant. What right did that goon think he had coming from nowhere and demanding my watch? A plan crossed my mind. I was going to reason with him.
“You don’t have to take my watch,” I said flatly.
“Eeeeee?” he responded, in a way that clearly showed me that he considered my attempt to reason with him as nothing short of outrageous. “Leta!”44 he demanded, and even though I couldn’t speak any Swahili, I had no doubt what he meant. I removed the watch and handed it to him.
He grabbed it and put it in his pocket, and then quickly put his left hand forward. The whole time, he had kept it behind his back. He had a greenish plastic bag. From it came a stench that I couldn’t quite decipher.
“Leta pesa!”45 he thundered, waving the plastic bag on to my face. I was at a loss. I had no idea what else he wanted.
“Money, money,” he continued, indicating with his fingers.
“I don’t have money!” I snapped and felt real anger brewing in my chest. He must think I am such a wimp, handing him my watch without much protest, I thought. I hated wimps, and just the thought that someone, even a thug in Nairobi, might consider me a wimp was too much to fathom.
“Listen, go away!” I ordered and meant it. There and then, I made a decision to walk back to the hotel, but the man moved fast and blocked my way.
“Leta pesa!” he ordered in an even more menacing tone.
“Go to hell!” I shouted, but before I could continue, he flung whole contents of the plastic bag into my face. It was feces. Human feces.
“Scheiße! scheiße! scheiße!” I screamed and started running in the direction of the hotel. I must have been wailing loudly because everyone stopped walking to stare at me. I had never been that close to any shit. Not my own, and certainly not that of some street goon in a third-world country.
Impulsively, I removed my ruined blouse and threw it down. And then I realized to my horror that I had nothing underneath. No bra, no undershirt, nothing.
I don’t remember what happened after that. I reached the hotel, but I don’t remember seeing anyone. I only remember packing my bag. I wanted to leave there and then.
Philister Taa
Germany, House Hunting
Dear Tamaa Matano,
I have so much to tell you. Looking for a place to live has been more difficult than I thought. I looked through the local newspaper that I got from Agnieszka. In the newspaper, most of the apartments cost at least seven Hundred Deutschmark! Can you believe that? That would be almost all my salary!She called one of the apartments and even drove me there in her old car. A woman opened the door, and when she saw me she opened her mouth. I think she was shocked. She didn’t say anything. She just stared at me. She didn’t even move from the door to let us in. Agnieszka said that some white people are afr
aid of black people. But she is not. She once almost married a black man. But then she changed her mind. And do you know why she changed her mind? Because she didn’t want to have kids with him. She said that it is a punishment to be black! I can’t tell you how much I laughed when I heard that. That Agniezska had so many funny stories. Are you wondering why I’m using past tense? Because she left.
It happened so suddenly. She came to work one morning. She didn’t clean anything. She lit cigarette after cigarette. That is the thing here. Women here smoke like chimneys. But on that day, she smoked more cigarettes than usual.
“You can have my place!” She said when we were finally left alone. I didn’t understand it at first.
“No one will ever let you rent a place on your own,” she continued absently. I stood there and watched her muttering to herself.
“I told you it is a punishment to be black,” she said when she saw the incomprehension on my face.
Later that day we went to her apartment. She handed me the keys and a contract. She rubbed her name off and wrote my name. No, my other name, Maria Kotoko. And just like that, I got an apartment of my own. That evening, she boarded a bus and left. Did I mention that she was always scared? I pray every day that God protects her. But I’m very relieved. After house hunting for such a long time, I can only tell you that I’m very glad that Agnieszka left and gave me a chance to have a place of my own. I was wondering if I was going to be homeless with money in my pockets ha!
The apartment itself is different from my tin house in Nairobi. But don’t get excited. It is dark and moist. In every corner, there is mold. It is situated in a big gorofa.46 I think the gorofa has about twenty floors. I do have neighbors. My immediate ones is a white couple who plays very loud music all the time. I don’t think they like me. They walk around with a fierce-looking dog and I suspect that they have contemplated letting it bite me. The other day, I heard a knock on my door. “Police!”
I walked up to the window and looked down. Karata had said to avoid the police like the plague.
“The police are not your friends. They are the biggest threat to your dreams!” he had said. So I had a difficult choice. Jump down or open the door. “Police!” they called out again. I felt myself panting. I prayed as well, and then I opened the door slowly.
“Is everything OK?” they asked to my utter surprise and in English. I looked them up and down. There were two of them, a tall, girl with Agnieszka like hair and a muscular guy with a bit dark hair.
“Yes,” I responded nervously. I put my hands together. I was expecting them to handcuff me at any moment or wrestle me down.
“Have your neighbors done anything to you?” the female one asked. Now believe it or not, she was talking to me in a very kind voice.
“No,” I said. At that point, my neighbors came out of their door. “Scheiß Nigger!”47 they shouted, looking at me. I don’t know what that means, but the cops looked really worried. Not for themselves but for me.
“Call this number if there is anything,” the female one said and handed me a phone number. I locked the door and listened to the fight between the cops and my neighbors. They argued for a long time. The whole time they talked in German, so I unfortunately can’t really tell you what they were fighting over. I can’t tell you how strange it is to live in a place where you don’t understand the language. It is like watching your own life from the sidelines. There is no one to laugh with or talk to. At this point, I wish Agnieszka had stayed, but then I wouldn’t have an apartment.
I was hoping that you could come over as soon as I get a place to live, but I think that you have to be a bit more patient. The rent in my new apartment is seven hundred Deutschmark. Agnieszka said that as long as the landlord gets the money in time, he doesn’t care who lives there. I also have extra costs of sixty Deutschmark. Agnieszka said that if I don’t heat the apartment, I will die from the cold. I believe her.
This amount would probably be enough to pay rent in my old house in Kibera for ten years. I am a bit shocked at how difficult and expensive life here is.
I am barely left with enough to live on. But don’t lose hope my friend.
I will soldier on.
The end.
Philister Taa
Ramona
Germany, 2010, My Memory
Today, I passed by my husband’s company. That’s right, company. Company sounds better than just “business.” Business has something shrewd about it. My husband runs a facility management company. That’s the name the consultant advised him to give it. Instead of calling a spade a spade and calling it a cleaning company, he said giving it a fancy name would give it “character”.
I walked in and saw him seated in the corner. He was smoking and had a scowl on his face. I instinctively felt pity for the people working for him.
“Scheiß Ausländer!”48 he was shouting at a short white woman trying to scrub something off the floor. “Fauler Sack!”49 he finished and turned to go to the back. I looked at the woman and felt a deep shame for my husband. For this man I am supposed to call a husband.
“Are you new?” I asked pleasantly. I try to be nice to these poor souls. I know that I am poor, but I don’t even know the right term for these people who work for my husband. They are mostly Eastern European and African.
“Nee” she said but didn’t look up. “I am Ramona.” I said. She raised her head and for a moment we just stared at each other. She had intense dark eyes
“Petra” she said. “Ich Petra Kukolova”50 she repeated pointing to herself.
“Nice to meet you… . good day Petra Kukolova!” I said walking backwards off to the back. That was the fifth Petra Kukolova I was meeting. And that one didn’t even look the least bit like the previous Petra Kukolova. Which kind of amused me. I don’t have a problem with foreigners sharing the same identity. I know that they are all just trying to survive.
“Did you buy the gift?” Magnus asked when he saw me. I stared blankly.
“It is mother’s day!” he said flipping papers.
“And did you go to Herr Schmidt?” he asked and for the first time raised his head to look at me
I sat down. I felt dizzy. I forgot Mothers’ Day? That has never happened ever since I married Magnus.
A strong bout of fear gripped me. Dementia. Maybe I was suffering from dementia. This was, to me, the worst disease that could happen to anyone. It would destroy all my plans to be famous. I wouldn’t be able to remember all the details of the event that was supposed to make me famous. I tried to remember how often I had forgotten things in the past and was suddenly overcome with anguish.
It was in that state that I bought a Bildzeitung. My first Bildzeitung. I needed something big that I could use to cover my face. I didn’t want anyone to see me in that state or, worse still, ask me for something that I couldn’t quite remember.
Twenty minutes later, I was at Mother’s place. Of all the places, I went to Mother’s. “You are so pale!” she said as soon as she saw me. This is actually her standard line whenever she sees me.
“I think…” I started in a trembling voice. I could not bring myself to voice the word dementia loudly.
“You think what?” she asked in an unconcerned but hostile tone. Before I answered, she grabbed the Bildzeitung from me.
“I knew they would divorce! She is too liberated for his sorry ass!” she murmured to herself as if she had just come across the best piece of news. She was referring to a celebrity couple, but more importantly, she was hitting at me.
“Only weak women stay married,” she said while looking at me. I looked at my nails. My plan to confide in her about my oncoming dementia dissolved into thin air. There was no way in hell I would tell her anything she could use against me. Something that could finally prove to her my permanent inferiority to Irmtraut. Her emancipated, independent, real daugh
ter.
“I’m leaving!” I said in a hurry and grabbed the Bildzeitung.
“You are deteriorating… not that you were ever intelligent, but…” I heard her say behind my back. I switched her off. I was no longer listening to her toxicity.
That’s how my day has been so far. The Bildzeitung has been of quite some help today. I read the story of the cop who was fined three thousand Euros for threatening a serial killer and cried half of the afternoon. Misery does love company. I am so far immersed in the many sad stories I have read.
Philister Taa
The Nomad
Dear Tamaa Matano,
A lot has changed. Did I tell you that the money here is no longer Deutschmark but Euro? Some people are happy about it. Some people are not. For me, it doesn’t make a difference. I still need at least two jobs to survive. I work all the time. Days and nights. I have been trying to save money so as to someday send you a plane ticket but I think that will have to wait. I was recently involved in an accident and pu all my savings disappeared. I have never gone to hospital ever since I came here. It is too risky. I buy my medicine from the supermarket. Now are you wondering how the accident happened? It is actually a silly story. A black woman I used to work with called Topista was the cause of it. This Topista comes from Congo. I should have known from the beginning that she was trouble. But she had actually been quite helpful to me in the past. She helped me get a job in the old people’s home.
Are you wondering what an old people’s home is? This is a different world my friend. People here round up old people and put them in one place. Can you imagine a whole place where everyone is old? It is some kind of an institution, a bit like Kenyatta national hospital. Some people complain about it. That Topista even told me that old people’s homes are God’s way of punishing white people! But to be honest, I don’t think it is such a bad thing. And not just because I work there! These people have enough to eat and they just sit around and watch TV the whole day. Now if that is not a good life, I don’t know what is.
The Outsider(S) Page 10
