by M G Vassanji
At that moment four women, having just entered, were spotted by one of our Italians; he called out in happy recognition, waved, shouted, and invited them over. We moved chairs to accommodate them among us. That was how I came to meet Sophia; she was the petite one who sat next to me and introduced herself.
Sophia, like Loren, I smiled with a brave effort, intimidated by her closeness, the smell of her perfume, the low cut of her tight-fitting white dress.
Like Loren, she agreed, returning the smile. She had short black hair and ivory-white skin; an upturned nose, a cherry-red small mouth.
The four girls were all Italians working for the airline Alitalia. In such circumstances the women are always prey, and in those times race was always a factor. White women were even then, some years after independence, the exotic and forbidden fruit, and reputedly freer in their manners than our own local girls. But we handled ourselves quite honourably at our table, subtle and not-so-subtle hints notwithstanding, and the women left together appreciative and unoffended.
The next afternoon Sophia D’Albertini phoned me at the office and asked me if I would accompany her to a dance at the Italian Club on Saturday. I said I was not really much of a dancer but would be delighted to accept her invitation. We had hit it off well at the dinner and needless to say I found her very very attractive. Before that Saturday of our date arrived we had already met a few times. She was an airline stewardess, on vacation. She was charming and demonstrative, prone to draw attention wherever she was. (Spicciati, Vittorio, vieni o non vieni? Haraka! And she halts on the Kenyatta Avenue sidewalk, arms at the waist, all eyes taking her in before coming to rest enviously on me.) She had appeared like a genie and transported me spontaneously and magically into a youthful ecstasy I had not known before. She came home for lunch once and met my parents, who were delighted by her informal ways. It turned out that Sophia and I did not go to the Italian Club on the Saturday but went to the Drive-in instead, where a rather comically dubbed Italian western was being played. It was here where we first made love. I did not go home that night but spent it with her at her hotel. I had been a virgin so far, and that first experience of sex was—well, what such an experience always should be. It was wonderful to be alive and I was in a state of thrill; it was wonderful to be so physically intimate with, so bound into, another for a moment that is eternity, and then feel emotionally close afterwards, the heart brimming with happiness.
The following day, Sunday, when I returned home already showered and shaved and sat in the living room, my face still glowing, as I imagine it, Papa said, So you spent the night with the Italian girl, hunh?
I nodded, in embarrassment.
Shabash! he said, Well done!, with such a boisterous warmth in his enunciation as to totally flabbergast me. His son had become a man, but so untraditional was that response that I started uncontrollably and silently to snicker, tears streaming down my cheeks, and he did likewise. Mother of course knew what I had been up to, how could she not? Surprisingly, she had not objected to Sophia—not to her different race and culture, not to her occupation—though her inquiries on my behalf and her pressures upon me to settle down, meaning to get married, were well under way.
I took some days off from work, and Sophia and I spent an extended weekend at a beach resort in Mombasa. This was her treat, she having access to special rates and favours through her airline. Where were we headed, Sophia and Vittorio? Precisely nowhere, of course, though I would have been loath to admit that. Deepa had already warned me that if knowledge of my loose moral conduct, that is, being constantly seen with a beautiful white woman, were broadcast among Nairobi’s Asians, I would find it hard to settle down. But did I want to settle down the traditional way anymore? I was smitten, and so it seemed was Sophia. We couldn’t stay away from each other.
It turned out that Carlo Cortina of Lettieri, the company which had hosted the outing at the Sombrero and whose tender to my ministry was currently under appraisal, was also in Mombasa that weekend. Carlo was a darkly handsome, athletic man in his forties, always flamboyantly dressed: a red or black shirt open at the neck, white duck pants, a light jacket and a panama, is how I remember him then. We met him under a Cinzano canopy for lunch on the porch of our hotel by the sand, the sun hot and glaring, a Goan band playing jazz, the waves chasing each other in quick ripples in the distance, crashing gently on the shore. Grilled meat and fish of more than a dozen varieties were offered us, with the better wines from France and Italy. After we had eaten and chatted awhile, Sophia stood up to go for a nap, ruffling my hair and caressing the side of my head as she left. I held on to her hand a moment, then watched her fine behind as she alluringly walked away to our room. She wore a colourful khanga wrapped round her waist, with just a bikini top above. There followed an interlude of silence, during which Carlo and I sipped our coffee, our eyes briefly on the sea and the sand, before he turned and casually inquired if everything was in order regarding the Lettieri application. I said it was, just as he raised a hand in apology, saying, No business talk, sorry. And then he asked me if, regardless of the outcome, Sophia and I would be willing to join him and his wife at a holiday resort in Sardinia.
I said I would love that, if Sophia was game. We left it at that.
It was Monday night when I left Mombasa with Sophia, provoked and bothered. The following day was the meeting with the PS regarding the Lettieri application, and I looked forward to that conclusion, to bring to an end those lingering doubts I had begun to feel regarding the legitimacy of Sophia’s and my relationship.
Lettieri, better known for their sports cars and their jet engines, had proposed through their coach division to supply sleek ultramodern first-and second-class carriages, chair cars, and observation cars to service the Kenya portion of the railways. They also proposed new kitchen and dining cars. But there were obvious drawbacks to the proposal. First, the level of traffic on the railway, even if a tourist boom were to take place, did not warrant spending on new luxury-type passenger coaches, however stylish and sleek their appearance. Moreover, the proposal did not come with attractive loans attached, the company proposing to acquire development rights to some beach property in Mombasa in lieu of partial payment. And finally, Lettieri’s prototype models had been developed for Europe and not Africa, where steep gradients and narrow gauges were the norm, raising concerns about the stability of their product. I had diligently consulted with mechanical engineers at Nairobi University regarding this matter and even written to retired EAR engineers in England. A team of us put these arguments forward with all the earnestness of young people having been assigned an important project involving our country’s development and scarce financial resources. The financial expert, a man also recently from university, and I had met a couple of times and carefully thrashed out our reservations. His name was Juma Omari and he revealed to me that Carlo Cortina had taken him to the Nairobi Casino a few times, offering to pay for his excesses, but being a Muslim Omari declined to gamble.
Lettieri was sent the letter of rejection stating our reservations. The next day Carlo left for Rome and I never saw him again. I spoke with Sophia briefly over the phone, immediately following that afternoon meeting, before I headed for home. She seemed a little taken aback at the news, but we promised to meet tomorrow, as we had previously planned. The next day however I could not reach her in her hotel room. I called every hour from my office, left messages, and later called her from home. It was midnight when I stopped dialing. I recall my humiliation, sitting by the phone pretending nonchalance, idleness, Mother pottering about the vicinity with obvious though unstated concern. The following morning Sophia finally picked up the phone and to my anxious inquiries, said simply, Vittorio, caro, I have been having second thoughts about us. I don’t think it is a good idea for us to see each other any more. We are too different, no? So please don’t call me again. Ciao.
Just that. I smarted from hurt and humiliation. It seemed that everyone at the office was aware of my situation, lo
oked up and down at this smart young bureaucrat who had been taken for a ride by the Italians. Had I been so utterly toyed with? Was Sophia no more than an expensive prostitute, who had been used in an attempt to buy me? There were no answers, because she had none to give me, and she too disappeared from Nairobi.
I saw the PS’s wife in a tiny brand-new Lettieri 650, the Bambina Sports as it was called, not long afterwards, cruising around downtown’s Kaunda Street desperately searching for parking, as one tends to do there. I don’t think Oletunde had accepted a bribe, he was always an honest man; he had acquired the vehicle, I presume, the same way I had come upon Sophia, as a bit of unbelievable good luck; but his green Bambina Lettieri did not drive away. His wife would use it well into the next decade.
One day Oletunde called me to his office and said, Minister Paul Nderi has been rather impressed by your integrity in the matter of the Italians and he wants you as his personal assistant. To my look of confusion, the PS said pointedly, That’s a promotion. You have done well.
But there was a wariness in his long look at me. I knew I did not have a choice.
Well, well, said Njoroge when I gave him the news. You certainly are going places, Vic. Personal assistant to Paul Nderi himself—high up there, in the Inner Circle, close to Mzee and possible successor to the throne! But then Njoroge turned serious and said: Refuse the offer.
Why? And turn down my chances? I could become a PS myself, one day, for heaven’s sake!
You don’t know what Nderi’s like for one thing. And it’s wiser to keep out of the way of the top brass. It’s dangerous and murky up there. What’s not wanted is thrown away and falls a long distance.
I’ve been posted—I don’t have a choice. But this is Vikram Lall, remember—I am the least political person you know. I survive.
He grinned. You’re right. Remain that way. Just stick to railways. And finance. Stay away from politics.
Neither of us could have known what irony lay embedded in that advice.
TWENTY-THREE.
Africa’s Anglican ministers had gathered in Nairobi at the city’s new pride and joy, the Kenya Conference Centre; church observers from other countries of the Commonwealth were present, and the meeting which had hitherto been dull and routine suddenly erupted in an uproar. A motion had been put forward recommending that Africa should resolve never to develop nuclear weapons, hands were up for the formality of a unanimous vote, when Paul Nderi, the country’s Minister of Transport and self-styled Minister of Science, leaned forward into the nearest microphone, tapped it a few times for attention, and dissented: Mr. Chairman, Archbishop, if I may put in a word here…Let’s not be in a hurry, my dear reverends. The motion is pointless, surely…And then, his voice rising, the round-faced minister exploded into proclamations: Africa must and will have nuclear weapons! We should leave behind the ridges and the forests of our fathers, eh my dear sirs! Come out into the world! I will go so far as to predict that we will explode a nuclear device, namely a bomb, by the year 2000!
When calm prevailed, the motion nevertheless passed. And the government minister had once again left his controversial stamp on a public proceeding.
I choose to introduce Paul Nderi this way—perhaps presumptuously—to highlight how expectations and self-image have changed with time. What confidence and pride our new country had then (what cheek the minister showed), whereas now like a waif in a poorhouse it awaits handouts from the rich “Donors” who regularly raise stern fingers of admonition at it, as at a naughty boy.
My new boss was a charismatic, intimidating man. He was a bulky five-eight, with round jowls, smooth face, and an impressive, deep forehead in the manner of many Kikuyu. I was asked to meet him, following my appointment to his office, at the railway yards in Nairobi. When I arrived he was standing in a group with a few EAR officials, viewing a locomotive; it was approaching under a trail of steam, an ugly hulk of ancient steel emitting shrill, short whistles. He had just been explained the difference between burning oil to fuel a steam locomotive and the combustion process of a diesel locomotive. But the minister was a proud man of science and already knew the difference; the explanation was only stoking an already raging temper. There had been a cock-up, for he had come to view a diesel, one of the older series that had given much trouble ever since their hasty purchase by the colonial administration. The day was hot and the approaching engine belched a great fog of steam, as it gave an ear-piercing screech and came to a halt.
The engineer, one Eddie Carvalho, stepped out of his cabin to report to his superior, who was standing next to the minister. On his way he turned around and shouted to his assistant, Ay! Wipe the engine, you!
A rather rude and foolish mannerism, reminiscent of arrogant colonial attitides.
When Carvalho reached us, the minister asked him why he was treating an African subordinate that way.
Even I have been asked by my superiors to wipe and clean, said Carvalho in a knowing manner, giving a cheeky grin, at which the minister said, White superiors, ndio! and almost leapt upon the skinny dark Indian in a fury, landing a couple of slaps on the unfortunate.
It was a shocking incident by its sudden intensity, and it left in me a deep impression of the power and passion of the man, and a fear of that maniacal temper. My heart was still thumping as I followed him into the black ministerial Mercedes and we were driven to the Norfolk for lunch. He smelt of sweet cologne but his recent exertion had left him breathing heavily, and he wiped beads of perspiration from his forehead with a large white handkerchief. He spoke little on the way except to say that we were meeting to get to know each other and discuss my duties. When we arrived at the hotel, his secretary Rose Waiyaki was waiting for us at the terrace restaurant, and the minister was soon a transformed man. Waiters hovered deferentially behind him, tourists gawked at him. For lunch he had oxtail soup, which he grimaced at, and shepherd’s pie; Rose and I had maize-meal ugali, a local staple cooked specially for the benefit of tourists. You can get better ugali at the kiosks down the road, he told us in good humour. He tasted a couple of white wines and picked one. Over lunch he told me my duties, which amounted essentially to being an assistant to him as required.
Paul Nderi was obviously not the beastly man I feared he might be from that display at the station. He was educated, suave, and had a sense of humour. He could be generous. And as I came to realize, he feared no one except the Old Man of Gatundu, Mzee Kenyatta himself, to whom he was devoted, and—according to rumour—his own wife, to whom he was routinely unfaithful. He had a master’s degree in physics from Rochester University.
Almost from that first day on the job it seemed to me that I had been shunted aside to run petty errands for the minister. I was supposedly the intermediary on railway matters between the PS Ben Oletunde and Paul, but this arrangement was a mere formality, a salve to my ego, for the PS also spoke directly to the minister. In due time this charade was dispensed with. Paul Nderi was active on many fronts. Often I was on the phone setting up meetings. Rose, who was also his distant niece and mistress, was present at the more private and politically sensitive meetings. I was secretary at the innocuous ones. My hands would reek from the perfumed purple ink of the cyclostyle machine that Rose and I used to make copies of notes and minutes. The Olympic Committee met once every two weeks, and the City Transit Commission once a month. One of Paul’s other ambitions (besides the African atom bomb) was to bring the Olympic Games to Nairobi in 1980. Urban planners with rolls of drawings appeared at these sessions and businessmen promised all manner of benefits; the upcoming games in Munich were a subject of many discussions. The afternoon Transit Commission meetings on the other hand were so dreary that two of the senior members present actually snored, and Paul was often late or absent. It seemed to me I had become a sort of Asian batman for Paul Nderi to show around; still, he was the minister and I received the respect and attention due his assistant. As I sometimes stood listlessly about while he dictated a letter to Rose at her desk in the out
er office, she would watch me with a thoughtful smile. I was convinced that she felt sorry for me. She was a beautiful, long-legged woman with a soft oval face that she lightened with creams. I found her attractive, but she was the minister’s girl, and also perhaps too tall for me.
Was this job a punishment of sorts? Had my forthrightness in the Lettieri case been viewed negatively after all?
I had left a wonderfully fraternal and challenging working environment; my work had inspired me. I loved trains, I dreamed locomotives. Before I left I had been drafting a report on the feasibility of converting the Mombasa-Nairobi traffic from steam to diesel; the conversion would be expensive, I concluded, especially with the current global oil crisis and tensions in the Middle East. There were already standing orders for Indian steam engines and for a new class of 61 Garratts. But the drive to diesel was led by Nderi himself—man of science—to whom steam spelt Stone Age, irrespective of performance, and he was damned if Africa would remain there. He was already looking to an electric future. I wondered if he had brought me out of harm’s way of his plans. But I was small fry; my report could always be shelved, as no doubt it ultimately was. I could have been transferred to another department, why had he brought me right under his nose? It turned out he had other designs for me.
