by Peter Kimani
McDonald was particularly pleased he had included Babu in the lineup for another reason: one enduring lesson at Sandhurst was to push your enemies down, and keep them down. Although McDonald felt a little contrite about holding his grudge for so long—not to mention his role in stunting Fatima’s recovery with the fake treatment from Dr. Casebook—Babu had not helped his case by acting so suspiciously throughout the debacle at the escarpment.
* * *
The lineup was conducted in an open space. The fifty-two men, naked to their waists, stood in the sun, while a small group of elders sat under a large muiri tree. Among them was Reverend Turnbull, who was translating, and Chief Lonana, who sat in solemn silence in a pith helmet gifted to him by McDonald that morning. McDonald had told him he’d been appointed Paramount Chief, to which Chief Lonana had responded that though he did not know what that meant, he did not care for it. But he had taken the hat and tried it on, then left it on, as it shielded him from the sun. At that juncture, Chief Lonana informed McDonald that he had appointed a Maasai elder to act on his behalf in the dispute.
“I’m the complainant, so I cannot be expected to be impartial. My role here is simply to observe,” he had said, before slumping into silence.
Everybody else at the gathering did nothing but observe Seneiya, a small bump discernible as she walked hesitantly before the line of bare-chested men. She had been instructed to stop at the feet of the man she recognized as the one responsible for her pregnancy. There were dramatic pauses whenever she lingered to peer at a face closely; the man under scrutiny virtually stopped breathing, then sighed with relief after she walked on.
When Seneiya first discovered she was pregnant, she had fled to her favorite aunt in the nearby village of Witeithie. She had hoped she could secure refuge there until she gave birth. But since she was her father’s favorite daughter, her aunt knew it would only be a matter of time before she was summoned back home. In any case, since the fallout with his brother, Chief Lonana spent most of his days outside his hut brooding, rarely calling for meals from his wives, and rarely eating if the food was not delivered by Seneiya.
“You can’t abandon your father in his hour of need,” her aunt reprimanded. “I shall take you back home. We shall rear whatever it is that you bear.”
Seneiya and her aunt returned under the cover of darkness, and for a while the awareness of her pregnancy was confined to only them. When the aunt divulged the news to Seneiya’s mother, she was silent for a long while before she sighed: “This will kill him. He thinks he failed when his brother wrenched power from him. Now he will hang his head in shame for failing to protect his own daughter.”
Inwardly, Seneiya was burning with shame. What she had considered a very private act was now playing out in the open. She had once attended the trial of another girl who had conceived before she was married. The girl and the young man responsible for the pregnancy had been summoned to appear before a group of elders and asked to recount what had happened, every tiny little detail, from how he had taken off her kilt to the method used to remove her muthuru.
Seneiya knew she wouldn’t divulge certain information. It was enough humiliation for her to go through the lineup like a thief. Nobody had sought to know how she felt about the whole thing. If the intent was to smoke out the culprit who had stolen her innocence, they could have simply asked her for the name. But it was presumed she didn’t know his name. She felt numb from the ordeal, momentarily wondering if she should pick a few different men from the lineup, which would mean she wasn’t even sure who it was. This would cast her in very bad light, but she didn’t care anymore. In any case, that would only further humiliate her parents. Then and there, Seneiya resolved she would do it her own way: she would pick the man who had the kindest face.
Seneiya walked toward where Babu was standing. She glanced at him and acted as though she was about to move on, but then did not. She could remember encountering him but couldn’t remember where. In any case, all Indians looked the same—though this one had the kindest face.
Babu froze as their eyes met. The girl who he had first seen through a long lens, and later lay beneath him on that day darkness came at noon, when the moon and the sun became one, on that day flamingos arrived in Nakuru, was standing right in front of him.
She looked at him and bowed. An excited murmur went around the group, as two well-built men dashed toward Babu, each grabbing one of his arms and dragging him away.
12
The news of Babu’s arrest for impregnating Seneiya came as a shock to many. Ahmad’s joke about Babu being hit by lightning during the pilgrimage to the escarpment had turned stunningly prophetic at the sex parade. Who would have thought it possible? Many men giggled, glad to have escaped what some silently feared was about to befall them. Ahmad also escaped unscathed and his heart went out to Babu. He wondered if Babu had been nailed for that one instance he pimped a girl for him in the swamp on that day flamingos descended on the lake. He wanted to make amends, do something to make him feel better. He decided to keep his pact with Babu. Should anything happen to me on this mission, Babu had pleaded, I want you to travel to Mombasa and relay things as calmly as possible to my wife Fatima . . . And so on the third day after Babu’s arrest, Ahmad took the goods train to Mombasa to look for Fatima.
Ahmad was in his khaki uniform; that was the only way he was going to get a lift from the train driver. He had lied to Patterson, telling him he had an urgent family message to telegram to India, and needed to go to the post office in Mombasa. He found, with relief and trepidation, that Babu’s news preceded him there, if somewhat distorted, for every man who greeted him in Mombasa asked if it was true some coolie had been arrested for putting all the girls in one village in the family way.
Babu’s arrest had been received with lighthearted cheerfulness by men who had survived the lineup, some of whom confessed to having slept with a local girl or two, and who had feared being picked out. But as Ahmad neared the spot where somebody had said Fatima operated a duka, he got increasingly worried about how the conversation was likely to go. Relaying news about someone’s death may be considered grave, but breaking news about an impending birth, presumably from a spouse’s suspected infidelity, carried with it a hint of scandal. One might take it out on the messenger; alternately, the messenger could be made to mop up the mess if the spouse simply couldn’t handle the news.
Through his inquiries to Karim, Ahmad had established that Fatima had been bedridden after losing use of her legs during their long sojourn from India. He had expected to find her resting at home, a little sulky, resentful even. Instead, he found a cheerful, beautiful woman on her feet, going about her business. She ran a small shop that opened into Mombasa’s fish market, a semicircular outlay of dwellings that brought in men, women, and children to the duka. The space couldn’t have been bigger than a cupboard, so how Fatima fit in there and was still able to take in sacks of cereals and cooking oil and sugar and salt and spices and cigarettes and kerchiefs and simsim and mango and coconut and guava and toothpaste and bread and andazi and mahamri and kaimati and what-have-you, seemed a great accomplishment. There was a small glass case on the counter that held the sweets and toffees and tamu tamu; the main face of the shop displayed a mesh on which the kerchiefs and rolls of tobacco were knotted. Sacks of cereals leaned on the outer structure, as though to secure it from being blown away. The only space inside or outside that wasn’t laden with goods was the tiny aperture Fatima’s pretty face filled to greet a customer or slide through a commodity that had been requested or receive rupees to pay for the goods. Fatima’s own torso appeared to grow out of those wares, her pale yellow melding with the colors and textures of her products.
Ahmad watched customers come and go: a little boy came for a pinch of salt, which Fatima measured in a spoon and rolled in a piece of paper, admonishing the boy for holding it clumsily; a woman wrapped in khanga wanted a cake of soap, which Fatima sliced expertly with a thin string; yet another woman wa
nted flour because the sima cooking on the stove was soggy. She promised to bring money when the meal was done. Men, too, arrived at the shop. Some simply said they wanted kawaida, and Fatima dutifully rolled sticks of their favorite cigarettes. In other instances, when a little boy came for kawaida, she would roll a wand of toffee for him or give him a donut.
Watching all this, Ahmad was confounded. This woman was no cripple; she was part of a thriving community—actually, she was the centerpiece of that community. She was not the neglected cripple that he had imagined her to be. Ahmad cleared his throat and peered into the small aperture, wondering if he had been directed to the wrong shop.
“Shikamoo ndugu, nikuuzie nini?”
Ahmad perfectly understood the Swahili greeting, but he responded to her in Punjabi. “I am your visitor,” he said hesitantly.
A flicker of doubt flashed through Fatima’s face as she recognized his khaki railway uniform, before she replied cheerfully. “A visitor who arrives without knocking on the door?”
“Knock knock,” Ahmad intoned, ramming his knuckles in the air.
Fatima grinned.
Ahmad relaxed. “I bring you news from afar.”
“It better be good news, coming so early in the morning.”
Ahmad was silent.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’m not thirsty,” Ahmad lied.
“A guest who arrives without thirst must find others with thirst for news, no?” Fatima smiled.
“You may say so.”
“If it’s about Babu it must be bad news,” Fatima said in an even voice.
“Yes, it is.”
“It is bad news?”
“No—not quite. I said yes to confirm it’s about Babu. I wasn’t sure I am in the right place.”
“So you bring me good news?”
“Uuuhm, uuuhm . . .”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure what to make of it.”
“Why . . . ?”
“Sister Fatima, I need some baking powder,” a new customer cut in.
Fatima’s voice regained her cheerfulness as she made the transaction, then another customer arrived to place another order.
The third customer was a man who glanced at Ahmad’s uniform and asked, “Is it true what we are hearing?”
“What have you heard?” Ahmad asked cautiously.
“About the coolie who has been stringing girls along, building a railway of women.”
“I-I don’t know what you are talking about,” Ahmad stammered.
“You sure do!” challenged the man. “We hear the man was even arrested and castrated. Would they have done that for nothing?”
“Rashidi,” Fatima said, “my guest has had a long trip.”
“Ooh, I’m sorry, Sister Fatima. I thought—”
“Never mind what you think, Rashidi. This is my cousin Abdul. He traveled overnight to see me.”
“My apologies, Sister Fatima.”
When Rashidi left, Fatima’s face filled the tiny aperture again. “My cousin Abdul,” she smiled, “better finish this family tale before the entire village descends on us. What was that about coolies and the village girls?”
Ahmad tensed. “There was only one.”
“What one?”
“One coolie.”
“And how many girls?”
“Just one girl.”
“Who did what?”
Ahmad paused. “Pregnant. She got pregnant.”
“With the coolie?”
“You may say so.”
“Was Babu involved in any way?”
Silence, then: “Yes.”
“Is Babu the coolie in question?”
Silence.
“Has he been arrested?”
Pause. “Yes.”
“Is that why you are here?”
Another silence.
Fatima retreated inside the shop. Ahmad couldn’t see her face, only coils of ground tobacco swishing against the wind as white kerchiefs flapped about.
A female customer arrived. “Dada Fatima?” she called out.
Fatima was momentarily silent as she gathered herself before answering. They exchanged greetings as Fatima peeked through the hole, glassy tears lingering in the corners of her eyes.
“Mama Suleiman, meet my cousin Abdul,” she called out as a distraction.
But Mama Suleiman was perceptive enough to notice the sadness in her eyes. “I hope your cousin has not brought bad news from home,” she said.
“No, he didn’t,” Fatima replied.
“Nobody has died . . . ?”
“Not at all!”
Mama Suleiman relaxed and effused, “Watu wa Mombasa ni watu wa raha, hatutaki matata,” meaning that Mombasa people wanted nothing but happiness, before she placed her order of kawaida, a dish of quail eggs, onion, and garlic. That was her regular breakfast. The result was there for all to see: a smooth face with round arms and an extended round bum. A small child could ride on it without falling.
It was only ten in the morning and the sun was still soft. Fatima had not spoken directly to Ahmad since he’d broken the news; the teary eyes were the only response he had seen thus far.
Fatima stepped outside; she was an imposing figure in her own right. She grabbed the sacks of cereals without much of an effort and cast them into the shop. From inside, she pulled in the metal bar that propped the window open. Like a folding umbrella, the outer merchandise collapsed to lie on the mesh. She bolted a latch and stepped outside again.
“Let’s go,” Fatima said to Ahmad, who walked uncertainly along. He did not know what to say, lest he aggravate what he had already revealed. Neither did he inquire where they were going. Instead, his mind swirled with a hundred thoughts, unable to reconcile the stunning woman walking beside him and the image of the invalid lodged in his mind. Along the way, they met some of Fatima’s customers, who asked why she had closed the shop so early, and how soon she expected to be back. She said she was attending to her cousin Abdul before returning to the shop, chap chap.
After a ten-minute walk, Fatima led Ahmad to a cluster of huts plastered with white coral and entered her house. He instantly recognized the jar filled with colorful stones that he had witnessed Babu collecting during their first year of the rail construction. There was hardly anything else suggesting that this was Babu’s house. All else belonged to Fatima: the multicolored uteo hanging on the wall, cowrie shells by the window, a ringed black horn suspended in a corner, a large mirror. Ahmad admired a pebble that had the feel of a ruby while Fatima walked quietly about the house, opening or shutting windows. Ahmad wasn’t paying much attention to her as she did this, but when he turned around, he found Fatima standing behind him, animal naked, the rays of light streaming through the grass thatch on the roof landing on different parts of her body. Like a sun goddess, she was all lit up.
13
Yet again, Ahmad’s words had turned prophetic: his vision of placing beacons in women who stretched from Mombasa to Nakuru had come poignantly true. But his copulation with Fatima was special. She was a virgin, which enhanced his thrill and wonderment. How could it be that Babu had a virgin wife and was now in trouble for consorting with a chief’s daughter? How could it be that his wife had remained untouched all these years? Ahmad did not dare ask these questions, at least not yet. All Fatima said, between her gasps and moans, was that she needed him to fill her and make her whole, which Ahmad did with his regular leitmotif: Your vish be my command.
Fatima did not seek any further information about Babu; her only comment about his reported infidelity was a simple lament: “I spared myself for him all my life, and this is what I get in return?” She then chuckled and said in Punjabi: “I guess he was always drawn to the wild side of things; maybe I’m too domesticated for his liking.”
That day and night, and over the next few days, Ahmad and Fatima remained in bed. She was hungry for experience, and Ahmad was patient and generous in his lovemak
ing. On the second day, he announced he was willing to elope with her and live happily ever after, to which Fatima reminded she had a shop to run and he had the rail to build. When their work was done, they would explore the future, she said after learning the punishment that Babu was likely to get for his transgression.
The goods train to Nakuru was to depart on the fifth day for overnight travel. When Ahmad made it to Nakuru, he found Babu’s story had taken an interesting turn.
14
Rajan’s absence from the Jakaranda was elevated to a mythical plane when news spread that a mysterious woman was behind his disappearance. And Gathenji the butcher was among the few people who could attest to having rubbed shoulders with the woman.
“Let me tell you, undo kwo undo, I have never seen such beauty, and I suspect neither have you,” Gathenji told revelers who sat in rapt attention. He described her face as brighter than the flash of sun upon a mirror, her cheeks rounder and softer—even though he had not actually touched them—like a tomato growing in iganjo, while her bosom was so well endowed, it hurt to imagine what a man could do with such assets.
“What was her voice like?” some curious reveler inquired. Gathenji hesitated. “Ooh, she didn’t talk to you?” the reveler persisted.
“Aaaah, what are you saying?” Gathenji returned. “Let me tell you, when she greeted me, my heart went paragasha!” He explained her voice was like the croon of the nightingale, the chatter of a weaver, and the coo of a dove all put together.
Most of the band members conceded that Gathenji had likely served Mariam at the Jakaranda, although some silently questioned the butcher’s detailed descriptions of Mariam, given the fleeting nature of their interactions. But there was no doubt that Mariam was a striking woman. Even those who had not seen her trusted the assessment.
