by Anar Ali
“You can’t go. You must pay.”
The Hulk’s fist whirled around, dropping Mansoor to his knees. Blood filled his mouth.
“Don’t cause no trouble, old man. There’s two of us here and only one of yous.”
Get up, Mansoor told himself. Get up. You are Mansoor Visram Govindji. King of Kampala. Lightweight Champion. Master of Crocodiles. Mansoor shot up from his knees and punched as hard as he could. He only grazed the Hulk’s chin.
The Hulk burst into laughter. “Come on, Santa. You really want to have a go at it?” He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, his hands clenched into fists. “Floats like a butterfly, stings like a bee.”
Layla, who had woken to go to the bathroom, pushed open the interconnecting door in time to see the Hulk delivering a final blow to Mansoor. “Stop!” she yelled, her firm voice ricocheting through the store.
The Hulk seemed to panic. He grabbed his friend’s arm and the two of them scrambled outside.
“Get out,” Mansoor whispered, his fingers on his bloody lips. He had fallen, once again, to his knees. “Get out of my store.”
Layla rushed to double-bolt the door. From the front window, she then watched a dog jump back into the truck before the culprits screeched away. She rushed to Mansoor and reached down as far as her belly would allow, offering him her hand.
“No!” Mansoor raised his palm to her. “Leave me.”
Layla walked to the back of the store and waited for him. She watched her husband struggle for a few moments before he finally stood up on his own. The Christmas lights strung on the Hawaiian mural twinkled in Mansoor’s eyes. He marched to the wall, snatched handfuls of the green wires pinned to the palm tree and tore them down, taking strips of the mural off with it. He threw the fistful of jumbled lights and paper down and then walked slowly toward Layla. His pyjama sleeves had slipped out from his suit jacket. He wiped his mouth on the edge of a sleeve, covering it with blood.
“Don’t worry,” Layla said. She stood in the door frame and held the door open for him with an outstretched arm. “I’ll do the laundry tomorrow.”
Mansoor only nodded; his gaze was still fixed on the shop floor. But when he raised his head to her, he saw, as if for the first time, the outline of Layla’s strong legs underneath her thin kanga, the flood of light from the house illuminating the shape of a body capable of bearing the weight of two.
Mansoor turned off the 24-hour sign and then stepped through the store–house door. Layla closed the door behind them and then together, they walked back into their house.
Baby Khaki’s Wings
Baby Khaki was born with a set of transparent wings, which lay flat against her back, camouflaged against her milky brown skin. If you picked the baby up, laid her across your lap, and inspected her closely enough, perhaps ran your finger along the outline of her back, then maybe, just maybe, you might be able to feel a thin pipe—the frame of her wings. But even then, this was most difficult as it was easy to confuse this piping with a bulbous vein, ready to burst if the skin was slightly punctured. Across the width of Baby Khaki’s back, between her shoulders, there was a thin slit—a pouch to tuck wings in. The tip of the right wing turned up toward the sky, but only ever-so-slightly, as if it was ready to be peeled off like the soft shell of an overcooked egg. No one learned about Baby Khaki’s ability to fly until much, much later. Thankfully, the secret of her wings was guarded by her ayah, Aisha.
As with most Business People (and other Very Important People) in Tanzania, it was customary to hire an ayah for each child—not because it was always necessary but because ayahs were quite an affordable luxury, so much so that they became an expected expense line in many household budgets. Plus, many husbands reasoned, the presence of an ayah would not only ensure that each child received abundant care but also free their wives to focus on other extremely important duties: those of properly taking care of them.
The Khakis of Arusha had not been able to find a good ayah and Baby Khaki was due to arrive any day now. When Mr. Khaki told his brother in Zanzibar about their difficulty, his brother promptly offered to send their ayah, Aisha, to Arusha—as a loan of sorts. Mr. Khaki accepted and thanked his brother for what seemed, at that time, like a very generous gesture. He knew that his brother and sister-in-law had hired Aisha with the hope of having a child themselves—but after months of trying, his brother’s wife had been unable to conceive.
Before leaving for Arusha, Aisha overheard the Khakis of Zanzibar discussing the lack of children in their household over tea on the verandah. They had tried all sorts of remedies to counter such bad luck, even leaving sacrifices for the spirits on the roof of the house, but nothing seemed to work. After some deliberation, they became convinced that Aisha was the source of their problems. After hiring her, hadn’t their business taken a turn for the worse? Hadn’t Mrs. Khaki fallen down the stairs and broken her ankle? (Poor thing!) And how about the time Mr. Khaki became very ill with some unknown sickness (and he had been unable to go to the shop for almost a fortnight!). And once, Mrs. Khaki had seen the ghost of a child partially emerge from the kitchen wall and then sink back into the plaster, as if caught between two worlds. It was Aisha, undoubtedly, who had ordered an uganga on them, rendering them childless. On top of that, they had also heard from several neighbours that Aisha had been seen returning from the bush late at night, and really, what kind of girl does that? Only a whore or someone up to no good. Worse yet, there had been many rumours lately about the increasing activities of the Wachawi. What if Aisha hadn’t just ordered the spell but belonged to this secret sect and possessed the powers to evoke strong juju herself? They had to do something quickly. Otherwise their fates would be sealed!
They decided to test their suspicions by sending her to Arusha. If their suspicions proved to be correct, then it would serve as a double blessing: a child in their home and a slip in fortune for the Khakis of Arusha—rectifying a lifetime of misaligned stars favouring one brother over another.
Soon after Aisha left Zanzibar, Mrs. Khaki of Zanzibar conceived—trapping Aisha in Arusha. If she so much as placed a toe outside the prescribed path, then the Khakis of Arusha would surely send her back home to Zanzibar straight away, where rumours about her ominous powers would have already seeped and slithered their way into the gardens of other Very Important People. None of them would dare hire her again, not only in Stone Town but in all of Zanzibar. Then what would she do? Aisha had no family, no husband, and she would be thrown out on the street, alone once again.
Before she was hired by the Khakis of Zanzibar (who prided themselves on their charitable nature), Aisha had lived between the streets and the bush, doing whatever was required to survive. Aisha’s father had remarried soon after his wife ran away with a young man from Oman, and when his new wife gave birth to a child of her own, she absolutely refused to keep Aisha any longer. Aisha’s father felt trapped between his affections for his new, growing family and his unwavering love for his first child—no matter that she reminded him of the terrible insult from his former marriage. His inability to choose drove his new wife mad, so that there were daily arguments in the house, making life almost unbearable. In the end, Aisha’s father apologized to his daughter and told her that he loved her very much, but he had no choice—she would have to leave.
It was the Thursday after the Khakis of Arusha brought their newborn daughter home from the hospital that Aisha discovered the perils of her new position. She walked into the baby’s room to find Baby Khaki pushing her way out of her baby-hammock, wings unfurled, flapping vigorously, and her mouth sucking the air as if it was a flaccid breast, desperately trying to fill her belly. At first, Aisha smiled and shook her head as a mother would when she finds her child in harmless mischief, but as Aisha stood on her tiptoes and plucked Baby Khaki out of the air—saving the baby from smashing her head against the ceiling—Aisha realized that the baby’s deformity would most definitely be blamed on her. The Khakis of Arusha would blame her for ca
sting an uganga on their daughter in the same way that the Khakis of Zanzibar had blamed her for the lack of children in their household. Her heart shook against her rib cage. Aisha held the baby close to her clattering heart, patted down the wings, and then tucked them into their pouch. Baby Khaki screamed and squirmed, throwing her head back and kicking Aisha in the stomach. Aisha let out a loud cry.
Hearing the mixture of Baby Khaki in distress and the ayah’s scream, Mrs. Khaki rushed into the room. “Kamanini sveze, bana, hanh?” Mrs. Khaki yelled, and snatched Baby Khaki from Aisha. “What in God’s name are you doing to my child?”
“Nothing, Mamma. I am doing nothing.” Aisha twisted her hands in the pockets of her pinafore.
“Then why the hell is she crying like this? And why were you screaming at her? She is a baby for God’s sake, not an animal. Such a good baby. Never cries like this, never fusses.” Mrs. Khaki looked down and stroked Baby Khaki’s head, but the baby continued to cry. “Bas, bheta, bas. It’s all over now. No one is going to hurt you, okay? Don’t worry, mitu, Mummy is here.” Juggling the baby in one hand, Mrs. Khaki reached out and grabbed Aisha’s arm, leaned in closer. “If I ever, ever find out you have done anything to my child, anything, by God, somebody better help you.”
Aisha stepped back, her heart jammed. Mrs. Khaki pulled her arm with greater strength. “Count it your luck that this time I won’t be telling Mr. Khaki. You think I’m upset—he wouldn’t tolerate your shenze-wara—not for a second!” Mrs. Khaki dug her manicured nails into Aisha’s arm before she flung it free from her grip.
Aisha’s face felt hot. She wanted to yell and scream back, maybe even slap Mrs. Khaki hard across the cheek. Instead she cradled her strained arm across her body.
Mrs. Khaki reassured her baby once again, then handed her to Aisha. “Be careful! I don’t want any more trouble.” Mrs. Khaki checked her watch. “Feed her. It’s time.” She walked out of the baby’s room, turned the corner, and ran straight into Mr. Khaki, who had just returned home from working at his newest venture, Khaki Arms & Ammunition.
“Arrey, watch yourself!” Mr. Khaki wrapped his fingers around Mrs. Khaki’s shoulder, pushed her aside, and then removed the rifle that swung from his shoulder and leaned it against the wall.
Mrs. Khaki nodded and apologized; she sensed right away that her husband was in a foul mood. Must be all the stress from the new shop. Can’t be easy working with those unreasonable tourists. And now with the onslaught of so many American hunters, it can only be harder. Mrs. Khaki felt great sympathy for her husband. Yes, she was a very lucky woman indeed, so very lucky to have a husband like Mr. Khaki—unlike the many, many other women who just did not seem capable of attracting good men. Poor souls! If only those women would volunteer for the community or do other charitable work, then good fortune would certainly be theirs.
Having noted Mr. Khaki’s mood, Mrs. Khaki quickly changed the subject to one of his favourite topics: his daughter. “The baby is well. Eating plenty, pani-pesab—all good.”
Mr. Khaki broke into a smile. “Good, good. Let me take a look.”
Mrs. Khaki was pleased that she had been able to change her husband’s mood. She asked Aisha to bring the baby out. Mr. Khaki placed his rifle in a scabbard lashed to the hall chair and then held his daughter at arm’s length, let his glasses slip down his nose, and inspected his child. He glanced at his wife, then back at the baby. Yes, yes, she will be as beautiful as her mother. Thank God! And in that moment, Mr. Khaki felt great admiration for his wife. She was exquisite, wasn’t she?
He remembered how he had been overwhelmed by her beauty right from the very start. When he announced his marriage plans to his mother, she screamed and yelled and told him that he was shameless for making marriage arrangements without consulting her first, and worse yet, he had chosen such an utterly lousy family. Bad enough the girl’s father was in the lowly shoe business—this will bring nothing but bad luck, believe you me, and then to top it all off, their family is littered with so many imperfections, have you not noticed, son? Haven’t you seen that cousin-brother with a club foot? Can’t even walk. Or how about that auntie, you know, the fatty-fatty one—she has an extra pinky finger. Then there’s that uncle’s second wife, her child was fine and then one day, God knows why, she stopped talking. Just like that. Stopped right in mid-sentence. This must be the work of the devil only. And don’t forget the older sister, hanh? She has skin the colour of makara. Uh-ruh-ruh! Are you mad, son? Please don’t do it! I beg of you. You will only bring such bad, bad bahati into this good family of ours. It will make your poor dead father turn in his grave. Mr. Khaki’s mother’s pleas were futile, so she enlisted the help of others—cousins, uncles, and grandparents—to knock some sense into the boy. But nothing worked. Mr. Khaki ignored everybody’s pleas; he didn’t care one little bit what anybody said. All he knew was that he wanted this woman and he would have her. And now, as he stared at the beautiful baby his wife had produced for him, he was certain, absolutely certain, that he had made an excellent choice.
Mr. Khaki handed the baby back to Mrs. Khaki and asked her in Kutchi so that Aisha would not understand, “Everything good with the servant-girl?”
“Yes, yes. She’s working out fine.”
Mr. Khaki smiled, happy that his house was in order. In his head, he started to organize the tasks for the afternoon: first and foremost, unpack the shipment of .500 rifles that had arrived from Germany, get the servant-boy to clean and hang them properly on the rack (good merchandising, that’s what the Americans liked, he had been told), and, ah yes, don’t forget to put the new licence rate-card up on the window. (Thank goodness Tanzania Hunter had increased the General Game Licence cost to one hundred shillings!) Yes, yes, business will surely be good with all those rich Americans in town, ready and eager to check off all the animals on their lists. Mr. Khaki realized he had much to do before the new lot of Americans arrived and so he requested that his lunch be served right away. Mrs. Khaki nodded, passed the baby to Aisha, and then rushed downstairs to the kitchen.
Later that afternoon, during Mrs. Khaki’s nap, Aisha quietly searched the hall closet, and returned to the baby’s room with needles and a spool of brown thread. She lifted the baby out of her hammock, laid her across her lap, and fingered some Vicks VapoRub onto the wing-pouch. Aisha turned on the tape recorder, slipped in the newest collection of nursery rhymes, gently stuffed the baby’s mouth with a small cloth, and dipped a needle into a bottle of Dettol.
—
BABY KHAKI’S POUCH remained sewn shut for months, until one day Aisha returned to the garden with some toys to find Baby Khaki caught in the branches of a small machungwa tree. The baby hung there, sucking her thumb, as if she were a ripe fruit ready to be picked. The weight of Aisha’s spine pushed down into her legs. She scanned the courtyard to make sure the Khakis were still inside. She grabbed a chair, climbed on, and reached up toward Baby Khaki—but the baby was out of her grasp. In a panic, she jumped off the chair, took the footstool from under the garden table, and placed it on top of the chair. She mounted the two-storey ladder she had created, wobbling on the uneven surface. She reached up on her tiptoes and rustled the branches until the baby tumbled out—breaking and bending a few branches so that leaves and even an orange hit Aisha below. Ouch! Aisha ignored the spray of foliage, but just as she seized the baby, the stool slipped from under her. She came tumbling down, landing on the grass with a thud and Baby Khaki on top of her. Aisha quickly stood up, dusted the baby off, and then crumpled up the baby’s wings and tried to tuck them back into the frayed pouch. Baby Khaki let out a wail.
“Shh, shh, toto. Everything is fine.” Aisha patted the baby. “Please stop your crying.” Baby Khaki continued. “Stop it!” Aisha squeezed the baby hard. She looked up and saw Mrs. Khaki pushing open the bedroom window.
Mrs. Khaki leaned out, her voice hurled down into the garden and rolled into the wild bush trail behind the house to the base of Mount Meru. “What’s all the kelele a
bout? What the hell are you doing down there?”
Aisha held the baby closer, and rocked back and forth, almost losing her balance again. “Mamma, she is crying for food. Look, I am feeding her.” She reached into her dress for her breast, cradled the baby closer, and shoved the breast deep into the baby’s mouth. The baby refused at first, continuing to cry.
“Don’t make me come down there. You are paid very, very nicely—and what all for, if I always have to keep on checking on you!”
Aisha pushed her breast harder into the baby’s mouth and whispered, “Drink, child-of-Satan, drink!” Baby Khaki bit Aisha’s nipple. Aisha held her breath. She knew this was the baby’s sign that she would now start sucking. Baby Khaki wrapped her mouth around Aisha’s breast and pulled her milk out.
“See, Mamma,” Aisha said, half smiling, pointing at the baby. “Everything, it’s mzuri-sana.”
Mrs. Khaki shook her head, closed the window, and turned away.
—
AISHA WAS DESPERATE to find a solution to stop Baby Khaki from flying. She had no choice. She had to cut the wings off! Aisha sterilized a pair of scissors and then set about preparing the baby. She slipped her fingers into the wing-pouch and pulled each wing out. Some white fluff flew out. Aisha smoothed out the creases on the wings and laid them across the baby’s back. Only then did she realize that the wings had changed: they were now lightly downed with golden-brown hair. Aisha stroked the wings—they were so soft! What a beautiful baby! She picked up the baby and tossed her into the air. The baby cooed and floated back into Aisha’s arms. Aisha laughed and kissed the baby all over her chubby cheeks. What a sweet, sweet child! Aisha threw the baby up again. Baby Khaki giggled, flapped her wings, and flew directly toward the open window.
