`My dad booked my ticket today,' Randa said.
`No!'
`Yes. I'm leaving next Saturday. Monday the term will start.'
I counted the days. Ten more days.
`We'll have a goodbye party for you,' I said.
`That will be nice.'
I tried to imagine where she was going. She was not going to London. She was going to Wales. I said, `fly cousin Samir is there too, at Atlantic College. You know, he said they have to do mountain climbing and outdoors stuff like that. It's part of the syllabus. He can tell you all about it. He's here now for the Christmas holidays.'
I pushed my chair hack from under the umbrella so that the sun could dry my hair. Chlorine-streaked hair. I had to go home, wash it and set it fast because I had an evening class.
I wore my denim skirt that evening. It was my favourite, tight and longish, with a slit at the hack. It had two side pockets and a zipper in front just like trousers. I wore my red short-sleeved blouse with the little blue flowers on the collar. My hair turned out nice that day, wavy and not crinkling up into curls. I cared that day about how I looked, more than usual. As if by looking good I would annoy Anwar or show him that I didn't care.
He wasn't there when I got to the university at five. I was late for my lecture because Omar had gone out with Samir and I had made the mistake of waiting for him. A breeze blew around the trees as I took a short cut across the lawn. The boy from the canteen was spreading out a big palm-fibre mat on the grass. He unrolled it and was shifting it around, getting the angle just right.
The Economics class was good that evening - Rostow's Take-off, which I understood and it made perfect sense to me. Our country was going to take off one day like an aeroplane, we just needed to keep jogging, to accelerate our development and then we'd move, slowly at first but then much quicker, from our backwardness, faster and faster until lift-off, take-off. We would become great, become normal like all the other rich Western countries; we would catch up with them. I was understanding all of this crystal clear, writing in my notebook, wishing Omar was with me, knowing that he would have loved Rostow. But then the professor pushed his glasses up his nose and said, `And now the Marxist criticism of Rostow's explanation for underdevelopment.' So it wasn't true after all.
We were not going to take oft. Around me the students began to shuffle their feet and fidget, murmur that it was time to pray. The professor ignored them. `History shows that not all developed nations have followed Rostow's model ...' The murmurs increased and two brave boys just walked out, some girls started to giggle. The professor gave in and said, `We'll have a ten-minute break.'
A rush for the door. `Because he's a communist, he's not bothered about the prayers,' smiled the girl next to me, the pretty one with the dimples. She passed me in a hurry to go out, calling out to her friends, her high-heeled slippers slapping her heels. She wore a blue tote today and looked even more cute. All the girls wore white tubes in the mornings and coloured ones in the evening. I liked watching the change in them, from the plain white in the morning to blue and pink flowers, patterns in bold colours.
I was one of the last to leave the class. Outside, I found Anwar chatting warmly with the professor as if they were old friends. I walked past them to the garden outside and sat on the steps of the porch watching those who were praying. Not everyone prayed. Girls like me who didn't wear topes or hijab weren't praying and you could tell which bons were members of the Front, because they weren't praying. The others lined up on the palm-fibre mat but it was too small to take everyone. The ones who came late made do with the grass. Our Maths lecturer, who belonged to the Muslim Brothers, spread his white handkerchief on the grass. He stood, his shoulder brushing against the gardener's. The student who was leading recited the Qur'an in an effortless, buoyant style. I gazed at all the topes of the girls, the spread of colours, stirred by the occasional gust of wind. And when they bowed down there was the fall of polyester on the grass.
`Why are you ignoring me?' Anwar's voice next me. I felt as if he was interrupting me - from what, I didn't know. I didn't reply. I got up and walked away in the direction of the lecture room. I couldn't see the students praying anymore and I felt a stab of envy for them. It was sudden and irrational. What was there to envy?
Anwar followed me. We were alone in front of the lecture room. He held my arm, above my elbow. `Don't play with me.'
`I am the one who is angry.' I tugged my arm away but he still held on.
`Is it what I said that day at the talk?'
`Yes it is what you said that day at the talk.'
He let go of my arm. `it has nothing to do with you
`It's my name. It's my father.'
`You're taking it personally. Broaden your mind.'
`I don't want to broaden my mind.'
`Do you know what people are saying about him?'
`I don't want to know.'
`They call him Mr Ten Per Cent. Do you know why?'
`Stop it.'
`You can't bury your head in the sand. You have to know what he's doing. He's taking advantage of his post in the government. He takes commissions on every deal the government makes with a foreign company.'
Anwar said the word `commissions' in English. It sounded to my ear formal and blameless. `So!' I said, sarcastic.
He lowered his voice, but it was sharper. `He's embezzling money. This life you're living - your new car, your new house. Your family's getting richer by the day ... Can't you see, it's corrupt?'
My anger was like a Curtain between us. 'How dare you say these lies about my father! My father is me. My family ►s me.
'Try and understand this. My feelings for you and my politics are separate. It's had enough I'm laughed at for going with you.'
'Then leave me alone. ,Just leave me alone and no one will laugh at you.'
He blew impatiently, turned and went. I walked into the lecture room and, instead of emptiness, found a girl wearing hijab sitting filing her nails. She looked smug and carefree, filing her nails. She had probably heard all the conversation between me and Anwar. What was she doing here anyway instead of going out to pray? She probably had her period. I sat down in my seat and, to prove to myself that I wasn't upset, I took my pen and started to make an invitation list for Randa's goodbye party.
Six
izza, Pepsi, chips and tomato ketchup. Cupcakes and ta'miyah. Samosas and chocolate eclairs from the GB. Sandwiches made of tuna, egg, sausage, white cheese mashed with tomato, white cheese with olives. Vanilla ice cream in small paper cups. I passed them round in the dark and ended up dropping plastic spoons in the flowerpots. Grey-dark on the porch, mauve shadows on the cars. We were all beautiful in the moonlight.
`Sorry guys, the generator just isn't working ...'
`I couldn't get the bloody thing to work.'
`Why are they cutting off the electricity in the middle of winter? What's wrong with these people.'
`Watch it, their father is the government.'
`Don't you have batteries for the tape recorder?'
`Batteries. Omar find batteries. Go.'
`I'll go buy some.'
`No ... no.'
`She's gone to Nairobi for the wedding.'
`Five minutes in the car ...'
`You have the most perfect white teeth, did anyone ever tell you that? I can see them in this dark!'
`You're embarrassing the guy.'
`This is my going away party. This?'
'Randa!'
`I'm glad I'm leaving you . . . if this is the hest you can do.'
`Look at that girl!'
Day after tomorrow, no power cuts. Civilization.'
`Have a sandwich! That looks like egg ... I can't tell. Smell it ... This one is sausage for sure ...'
At might come back ...'
`What wrong with your generator anyway? Why couldn't you get it to work?'
`Let's go ...'
No one is going anywhere. Don't you dare move. Savor ... You'll just spoil the party.'
>
`1f we just had the music ...'
`What's he doing? No, you can't go. Please don't go.'
`Samir, you can't leave us.'
The car light shone on Sarnir, on his Afro and new moustache. He sat on the passenger seat, one leg still outside, the door open. He looked down at the car radio, turned knobs and then there was the sudden blare of the tape recorder with Heatwave's 'Boogie Nights.'
He started to dance towards us. Randa laughed out loud.
`Samir you're a genius!' I shouted above the music.
`Put the engine on, man. Put the engine on . . . your battery will die out.'
I didn't feel well after they left. I sat on the porch while the servants cleared up. It was still dark because the lights hadn't come on yet, but by then my eyes had adjusted to the darkness and I could see the neighbouring houses and the swing in the garden. The party had been a flop. And now Omar and most of the others had gone off somewhere else. Randa had gone home to pack. She thanked me and said the party was great, but she didn't mean it. I could tell she didn't mean it. It was the power failure that spoilt everything. One minute we were indoors dancing with the music loud and the atmosphere just right. Next minute it was the dark silence of outdoors, the intimidating sky. The lights never did come on and the generator was useless. They would talk about this, say we were so rich and yet too stingy to have a generator that worked properly. I knew they would say this because I would have said it if I were in their place.
I thought about Anwar and how separate he was from the party. He did not know Randa or my cousin Samir. Now when I met him in university, he said hello and I said hello, that's all. Sometimes he looked at me as if he was going to say more, but he didn't. He seemed busy these days with a lot of Front activities. I still thought of the things he had told me, tried to make sense of them; why I felt frightened when he said, `The situation in the country can't last,' or when he said, `This system is bound to fall.' He had told me that his youngest sister was blind and if they had the money she would be able to go to Germany and get an operation. Every year we went to Europe, every summer we stayed in our flat in London or in hotels in Paris and Rome and did all our shopping. If one summer we stayed at home, Anwar could take the money we had saved and send his little sister to have an operation. When I was young, before secondary school, I used to get into serious trouble with Mama and Baba over things like that. I gave all my Eid money to a girl in my class. I gave my gold earring to the Ethiopian maid. The maid was fired and the girl got into trouble at school with the headmistress. There are rules, Mania always said, you just can't give charity based on whims - you will he despised, you will he thought a fool.
I learnt these rules. Only give away clothes you have worn. Give fairly. Give appropriately. Give what is expected. You can offend people by giving them too much. You can confuse people. You can embarrass people by giving them expensive gifts they will feel obliged to reciprocate. Never give one person something and ignore their colleague, their sister/brother. Think. Think before you give. Is it expected of you?
I stayed up until Omar came home. One of his friends dropped him at the gate and he walked slowly up the drive, stumbled up the steps to the porch, once nearly falling. He didn't see nie until I spoke out. On one side of our porch was a bench built in the wall. He lay down on it, staring up at the sky, his hand dangling to the ground. The smell came from him again, sweet and smoky, distinguishable from beer.
'You're in big trouble,' I said to him. He didn't even turn to look at Inc. '1 saw a packet full of powder in your drawer.'
'Did you take it?' He sounded calm but more alert.
No, but I'm going to tell Baba about it.'
Its nothing, Najwa.' His words were spaced out. 'It's only hungo. It's not addictive - a bit stronger than a cigarette, that's all.'
You think Raba is going to he happy his son is smoking hashish?,
'Will he be happy his daughter is going out with a cOllllliLllllSt?'
`It's finished between me and Anwar.'
`You just had a fight, you'll make up.' He shifted sideways, looked at me in the dark. `And when you do, do you know what Baba will do to hiln? Send him some thugs to beat him up. Make sure when he graduates, no one gives him a decent job.'
I breathed out. `You're talking rubbish - that stuff has messed up your head. Baba wouldn't do that.'
He laughed. `He'd do anything to protect his precious daughter.' He turned again on his back and we were quiet. He started to breathe steadily as if he was beginning to fall asleep.
You better go inside before they come back.'
He grunted.
`Here, take the torch.' I put it in his hand.
While he was heading inside, I saw the headlights of Baba's car coming towards the house. The car horn sounded and our night watchman got up to open the gate. There was the sound of the wheels on the gravel, then Mama's voice as she got out of the car. `How long have these lights been out?'
I went over to Baba and hugged him like I was afraid of something and he was going to make the fear go away. He smelled of grilled meat and supposedly banned whisky. I moved away from him. Mama looked tired, her shoulders stooped. Even in the moonlight I could see the mascara smudged around her eyes. We climbed up the steps of the porch. They didn't ask about the party and continued the conversation they'd been having in the car.
`He'll weather it out,' Baba said, `he's faced opposition before.'
I hope so,' she said. `Whatever hurts him will hurt us.'
I opened the door of the house. The lights came on and hurt nay eyes.
Seven
aba didn't often share his wishes with us but he did that day. We were at the farm and he was wearing a safari shirt. He was irritated a little because he did not like the family gatherings that my mother organized. He preferred meetings with business friends, useful contacts, to day-long picnics spent playing cards and eating nonstop. Leaning back on his deckchair, he looked up as a small plane flew past, spraying pesticide. `One day,' he said, `I'm going to have my own private jet. Three more years at the maximum - I've got it all planned!'
`Wow,' Omar and I said at the same time. We were sitting on a picnic rug on the grass.
`Think of your father, kids. I started out with nothing, not a father, not a good education, nothing. Now I'm going to have my own private jet.'
`I'll learn to drive it,' said Omar. `I'll take lessons.'
Baba looked at us over his gold-rimmed glasses and asked, `So how old are you now?'
`Nineteen,' Omar chanted.
`Nineteen, already? And you too, Najwa?'
`Yes,' I smiled.
He was teasing us. `I thought you were eighteen.'
`That was last year,' said Omar. I laughed. It rarely happened but today Omar and I were dressed in identical colours. We were both wearing Wrangler jeans and I was wearing a beige polo neck and he had on a long-sleeved beige shirt. Mama came and took a photo of us. Years later, after everything fell, that photo remained. Omar and I smiling, a pink flower wedged in my hair, my legs crossed, my elbow on my knee and hand on my chin. Omar close, his back against my arm, his eyes bright, legs stretched out, hand resting lightly on the tape recorder, the cassettes scattered on his lap and on the red-check rug. Years later, when everything fell, I would narrow my eyes and try to distinguish by colour and words the tapes on the rug, tapes we used to buy on our summer holidays in London: Michael Jackson, Stevie Wonder, Hot Chocolate and nay own tapes of Boney M.
Everything started to fall that night, late after the picnic, after the barbecue, after the guests had gone home and we also had gone home. After grilled kebab and peanut salad, boiled eggs, watermelon and guava. We drove back home and we were quiet, we were all tired. I washed my hair that night because of all the dust that had got into it. I examined an ant bite on nay elbow. It was swollen and raised and I could not stop scratching it. The telephone call came late at night, close to dawn. I heard it and I thought someone had died. It had happened befor
e, someone dying, a close friend or relation and Mama and Baba having to leave the house in the middle of the night. Over the next days of mourning they would say, We came as soon as we heard the news ... we came at night.'
I didn't get out of bed. I was not curious enough. I heard Baba's voice on the phone but I could not distinguish his words. I could hear his voice and something about it was not right. There wasn't the bite and shock that came with death. I sat up in bed, saw the outline of the room slowly come to focus as my eves adjusted to the dark. The nights were still cool; we did not need air conditioners. If they had been on, I would not have heard the phone.
The door to Omar's room was closed. I walked down the corridor to my parents' room. Their light was on and the door was ajar. I saw the suitcase on the bed. I saw Mama tucking some of Baba's socks in the suitcase, which was already nearly full. He was getting dressed, buttoning his shirt. He turned and looked at me as if he couldn't see me, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for him to he going out in the middle of the night.
Are you going away?' I asked but neither of them answered. N/lanma continued to stalk the room, packing, distracted, as if she was listening to a voice in her head, a voice that was listing things for her, telling her what to do. 'Go hack to sleep,' she said to me.
Wide awake, I went to the bathroom. I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, smoothed my eyebrows, admired how the yellow of my pyjamas suited my skin and forgot about Baba.
When I got out of the bathroom, I heard him starting the car. It had to he him starting the car because Musa didn't sleep over. Musa went home every night. I wondered where Baha was going, where was he travelling to. Why didn't they tell me that someone important had died abroad? I went into Omar's room and started to wake him up. He woke but didn't come with me to the window. I looked through the curtains. I saw Baha easing the car out of the garage, over the pebbles towards the gate. I saw the night watchman drag open the gates for him. Then I saw the headlights of a car coming fast down our road. It stopped with a screech in front of our gate, blocking Baba's car. Two men got out. One hovered near the gate and the other went and opened Baba's car door, like ,Musa opened it for him every day but not like that, not exactly like that. Baba turned the ignition off and got out of the car. He spoke with the man, gestured towards the hoot of the car. The man said something to his friend and the friend opened the hoot and took Baba's suitcase out. They started to walk towards their car and just left Baba's car beached in the parkway, neither in the house nor out of it. Baba took out something from his pocket, probably money or the car keys, and gave it to the night watchman. Then he got into the car with the two men. He sat in the hack seat and that was wrong, I knew. He shouldn't he in the hack seat. I had never seen him sitting in the hack seat, except in taxis or when Musa was driving. And Mama was next to me; she frightened me. The way she ground her teeth, stopping herself from crying, and hanged the window softly with her fist frightened me. Omar came and put his arm around her, led her away from the window.
Minaret: A Novel Page 4
