by M G Vassanji
The mall has been constructed, using lumber, as an extension and modification of a traditional Nairobi Indian dwelling once occupied by several families. We go past a sweet-smelling hallway full of young and old Somali women selling eastern perfume, into a maze of narrow passageways lined with all sorts of shops and sounding with at least three kinds of music, at the end of which is a staircase leading up to several apartments. The flat allocated to me belongs to one of Ebrahim’s younger brothers; it is exactly at the head of the stairs and consists of two rooms. A window looks out at the noisy street below.
Ebrahim and his brothers are clients of Sohrabji, who represents them in a dispute with a car dealership that happens to be owned by a government minister. Ebrahim says he hopes that after this favour Sohrabji will be induced to hasten his case somewhat; it’s been dragging on for a couple of years at least. I sympathize. He walks to the door and hollers down the stairs. A lanky youth from an electronics stall downstairs comes up. He is Salim, the brother who owns the apartment. Ebrahim instructs Salim to look after all my needs. Salim bows and shakes hands with me, then the brothers depart, leaving me to myself.
Vic, Vikram my friend, says Sohrabji warmly, how nice to see you after such a long time. He takes my hand and squeezes it. Listen, I would like to take you—when all this is over—to a sensational new Ethiopian restaurant in Hurlingham, a veritable treasure that brings an absolutely original addition to this city’s cuisine…
And I am thinking there is no one as soft-spoken in Nairobi as this Parsee who looks like Mahatma Gandhi but eats and drinks like Falstaff.
He has come to see me at the apartment above the Mogadishu Mall, my first afternoon here. Salim has kindly brought up two teas for us and we sit beside the window facing each other, the clamour from the street down below audible in all its glory.
A far cry from Hilton, eh, Sohrabji says with a naughty smile, putting his cup to his mouth, but you can hide here till doomsday and no one would know. You know my own place is open to you, only it is watched all the time.
He looks anxious for a moment.
Don’t worry, Sohrabji, this is fine here. I am grateful.
He nods, gratified, and says, Joseph is out, and he will be on his way to Toronto in a couple of days. His mother thanks you, and she says one day he will know what you did for him.
His father was the only true friend I had, I tell him.
But did you have to come all the way to Nairobi only for this, Vic?
Sohrabji, I told you to sound out the Anti-Corruption people—
He smiles sheepishly, says,
That I am doing, though I don’t know why you want to bother. You should have stayed out there in the West. In any case, I have spoken to a couple of people already. As I understand it—and tell me where I’m wrong—you are willing to meet with the Commission and answer questions about some of your business dealings, specifically those related to the so-called Gemstone Scandal. As a goodwill gesture you will dispose of most of your wealth, part to the Commission and part to an approved foundation—and I assume you will keep enough for yourself and also to pay my fees. You have done things unethical but not illegal, and these were done with the approval of public servants. For your troubles you would like the Commission to declare publicly that it has no case against you.
You think they’ll buy that?
One can only hope. It’s a brilliant plan, but. You were the perfect scapegoat, an Indian without a constituency, whom they could hold up and display to the World Bank and the Donors as the crafty alien corruptor of our country. But they never expected you to talk. They cannot charge you without also charging an army of public servants and friends of government. If they prepare indictments, the evidence will disappear. And where do they start with indictments, corruption in this country goes back thirty years, reaches the very top, and even into the ranks of the opposition. Already there are whispers of a truth and reconciliation commission after the next elections—so we can start anew in this beautiful country that’s been run off the tracks.
And you spoke to the businessmen? To Nderi?
To Nderi, yes, and a few others. There’s the rub, Vic. They are scared of being made scapegoats like you, for a condition that’s rampant. I’ve told them they have nothing to fear from you, you are going to focus only on Gemstone, as the Commission requested, about which it knows enough already. I believe they’ll call off the goons; they feel safer with you here, amongst them. They do respect you—you are one of them after all.
From somewhere close by comes a call to prayer—a long, wavering arc of sound rising above the rooftops, a reminder to the faithful, a call to the Almighty. We find ourselves staring at each other, lost within the spell. How insignificant we seem at this moment, a shady businessman with his clever lawyer, in this hideaway reeking of paint and wood and youthful sweat.
At length, as the call subsides, Sohrabji smiles at me and says: Well.
I follow him downstairs to the street and we walk along the sidewalk market awhile. He pauses at a few places to inspect the goods, reading out designers’ names for my benefit, bargaining with the vendors though not prepared to buy.
You know, he tells me, there are things you can buy here that you would not find downtown or in any of the fancy new malls you see going up in the suburbs. Stuff comes here all the way from the Persian Gulf, by ship and camel, road and railway. My daughter Roshnie will shop only at these stalls—they come here, the teenagers, though it’s not really safe. Do you know, Ebrahim was carjacked only last month? They took him along with them on a spree of robberies, then left him tied to a tree in the woods near Ngong. He was lucky.
Sohrabji takes my cellphone, which I have hardly used, and gives me another, a brand new one, as a precaution. Then he leaves.
It is impossible to believe that the bustling street down below could empty, but it did so, in the course of the night; now dawn’s dull shadows emerge wraithlike from the walls. There comes the muffled chatter of the day’s first newscast over the radio, perhaps from the restaurant down the block; then the sound of a child crying; the smell of fresh bread. The room feels claustrophobic, and there are bedbugs in the mattress, so I have slept only fitfully. I wish Deepa would call, or Seema. But Seema wouldn’t, we parted with a finality that was absolute. She was bitter. The thought of her brings memories of that house by the lake: the pure, cool air, the clear night sky. I wonder if Papa has my new number. I had told him not to call except in an emergency.
I wonder, not for the first time, if I made the right decision, returning. By all the measures of practical common sense that I can summon, it was a foolish decision. But I could not have lived out the rest of my days an escapee from my world. I had to come back and face it—though I still await to emerge safely from this weird underground. Meanwhile I have prevailed upon Sohrabji to act for Joseph, and that has been a good outcome, surely. Ultimately I will have my say; and I will make my peace with my world.
The muezzin’s call to prayer, then the street begins to fill up, the bustle rises to a crescendo and, to paraphrase the idols of my youth, I feel fine. A refreshing morning scene: children in uniforms traipsing off to school. I recall that Saint Teresa’s is here, and the former Indian Primary School. Salim informs me there is a restaurant on a sidestreet a couple of blocks away that is owned by a Somali who returned from Canada. I tell him I will go there later perhaps, but meanwhile I have breakfast at a tea kiosk. For a lark I get a haircut at one of the beauty salons, then, carried away, I buy a kanzu and kofia and wear them like a devout Muslim. I don’t know what is happening to me. In the evening Ebrahim takes me to his home for dinner. We eat by ourselves, the two of us, and the fare is mutton curry, Swahili chappati and rice. Ebrahim tells me that his wife is actually a Luo and theirs was a love marriage. He runs a charitable organization that sends teachers to the north of the country; he also collects sponsorships for the slaughter of goats during Eid. I don’t fancy sponsoring the slaughter of a goat but I tell him
I will donate to his charity. We watch TV until late and then he walks me back to my apartment. On the way he says to me casually, How did you manage to fool the National Bank like that? I stare at him, startled, and he says, I know who you are, Vikram Lall of the Gemstone Scandal. But don’t worry, I will not give you away.
I dream of cockroaches. They are crawling all over the floor and climbing up my legs. Some of them fly and there are a few in my hair and one in my ear. All the while Ebrahim is entreating, have more curry, the coconut in the rice is really very fresh…I wake up in a sweat, my heart beating violently.
While I’m having a completely unnecessary lunch of spaghettini and tomato sauce at the Canadian Somali restaurant, Sohrabji calls.
Vic, he says, hardly able to control the thrill in his voice. About your offer to the Commission—it’s settled. They are agreed.
Wonderful! Exactly what, but?
What you are offering is enough for them. The Donors and the World Bank will be pleased, all they want is some admission, after all, some accountability. You come clean on the Gemstone Scandal, you need not name names, you hand over the money; and you get a clean bill of health—you start anew. This is the first real break they’ve had since their mandate, Vic. The Commission is excited. Now they can hope other individuals will be persuaded to follow your example—and this could be the beginning of truth and reconciliation. Done, my friend!
We agree to talk again later to discuss details. Perhaps we’ll go to that Ethiopian restaurant in Hurlingham that he was raving about.
And so when Deepa calls that night from Rochester, she couldn’t have found me in better spirits. We are laughing. A new start, Deepa! Yes, Bhaiya, a fresh start, a clean bill of health, how wonderful! I am so, so happy!
We plan the rest of our lives over the phone. She says she will call Seema and give her the news.
Friday at noon, Somali Town. Brilliant sunlight bastes the street down below, itself festive with the holiday spirit. It is one hour to jumaa prayer, men and boys in kofia and kanzu bustle about hither and thither. A man in shirt and pants walks by under my window singing, apparently in English. A young woman in a brown veil gives another, in a blue veil, a short chase; suddenly, as if sensing my gaze, they both look up at me, startled.
My cellphone rings. It is Sohrabji, and he sounds frantic and shrill.
Vic, did you hear? The Commission—the Anti-Corruption Commission has been declared illegal and disbanded!
What does that mean?
I don’t know—for one thing, there is no one you have to explain to.
I am not sure that is what I want, Sohrabji. That’s not a good thing at all.
Eh?—he sounds surprised but knows very well what I mean. We don’t seem to have more to say to each other, and he says he’ll ring again later.
For a long time I stare out my window at the tumult down below, turbulence of humanity swirling in the street. The two young veiled women have disappeared. A Land Rover is being pushed out of a pothole, the crowd flows smoothly around it. A boy of ten (I guess) waves at me. Finally the call to midday prayer begins, rises up over the rooftops, and languorously weaves a canopy of exotic sounds over our heads.
I can see no way out of my predicament.
I have been left dangling. I have been outsmarted. It’s clear that powerful people close to the government prefer me to keep my mouth shut. I have no friends and my former partners—rightfully—don’t trust me. I came ready to shed a large load off my shoulders; I was naïve in my expectations, which were inspired perhaps by an alien environment, but I also know that I had no choice. Now there is nowhere to put that load. It only makes me a target.
I spend the rest of the day reading papers and walking about the stores, a denizen of Somali Town in kanzu and cap. At four, time for the afternoon prayer, I walk into a small mosque in a sidestreet. It is dark and cool inside and I go and stand against the back wall. I cannot follow all the motions of the devotees but I sit and stand and turn left and right as they do. Once again I don’t know what is happening to me, perhaps I simply long to belong somewhere. Later, at seven, I have dinner with Ebrahim, after which we walk about the streets. He asks me if I want to visit a prostitute, a clean one, guaranteed. I decline. Back in my room I cannot sleep.
In the morning Papa calls, tells me Sohrabji was taken away by police the previous evening. He insists on seeing me and comes in his car and drives me out to an Indian restaurant in Ngara. Like everything else in Ngara it has seen better days. Next door, Papa had his first business in Nairobi and hated it.
They took him away on Friday so they could keep him till Monday, says my father.
All I can do is nod back glumly at him. For all I know, Sohrabji is in front of a water hose right now, his thin body pinned to the wall by the force of the jet.
You know Vic, you can stay with me, says Papa.
No, I told you, Papa. In fact I told you to take a holiday in Mombasa.
He is silent awhile. Then: Vic—you know, I’m living with someone—
I am aware, Papa. Deepa told me.
How did she know?
She finds out things.
You know, she’s African, Vic.
I nod.
She is a comfort to me and looks after me. Do you think it’s wrong of me? A man gets lonely…Is it wrong, son?
He desperately craves approval, acknowledgement—a lonely old man who wants to be loved. All I can do is tell him, You did the right thing, Papa. There’s nothing wrong with it. You have to go on living, Mother would understand that.
We go to the temple, and we do our round of the murtis separately, each to make our peace with our gods. Then we take a walk, a few times briskly round the temple grounds. Finally he drops me off at the apartment in Eastleigh. He gives me a tight hug before he leaves.
Sunday night. I wake up sweaty and hot. There is violent banging on the door.
Fire! Moto! shouts Salim at my face when I open the door.
Where, Salim? Wapi?
Right here, he says, this building is on fire! Get out! Get out!
He runs, is already halfway down the stairs before turning to look back at me. There is a glow behind him, which gives his sweat-run face a red gloss. Not only is this mall extension made of wood, the products on sale are extremely flammable. There are explosions in the distance. Hot air engulfs us. But there is no sign of a fire engine or of attempts to combat the conflagration.
Come quickly down, pleads Salim, the stairs will go soon! Tafadhali, Bwana!…
Smoke rises around me.
Wait! I shout at him. Here, hang on to this—Go, run, I will follow you…
AUTHOR’S NOTE.
I am greatly indebted to a number of people, who have assisted me in various ways in various places during the writing of this novel. They are, first, Sultan and Zera Somjee, Radha Upadhyaya, Shariffa and Yusuf Keshavjee, Neera and Suresh Kapila, Muzaffar Khan, Begum and Pyarali Karim, and Susan Linee of Reuters, all of Nairobi. They welcomed me warmly and gave much of their time and knowledge. Bethwell Kiplagat shared his knowledge and experience during a stimulating conversation in Nairobi; Kariuki wa Thuku volunteered many hours of candid discussions in Nairobi and Nyeri; Pheroze Nowrojee was a wealth of information and insight; and two wazees of Nyeri, who knew the freedom struggle from up close and had learned to forgive, and selectively to forget, with twinkling eyes presented me with enigmas to solve. Harish Narang and Pankaj Singh supplied me with information, checked my Punjabi, and read the manuscript; my wife Nurjehan provided her usual thorough reading; Miguna Miguna took time off from a busy schedule to clear up some language matters; Rashid Mughal shared his enthusiasm and remembrances of Nairobi; Benegal and Debbie Pereira of New Hampshire generously opened up their house and their library to me. Benegal’s stories about his father Eddie’s days in Nakuru and his own enthusiasm for the railways were an inspiration for which I owe an extra debt of gratitude. The Asian Heritage Exhibition, which had just opened in Nairobi as I b
egan my inquiries, was an inspiration and a visual aid. It was a long time coming, this acknowledgement of identity, history, and heritage, and I hope it prevails. I also wish to acknowledge here the friendly facilities of the Kenya National Archives, the basement of the Macmillan Library in Nairobi, the generous and efficient though forbiddingly hushed-tone services of the Rhodes House library in Oxford, England, and the indifferently helpful New York Public Library. Finally, it is with sorrow that I acknowledge my debt and gratitude to Jayant Ruparel, who met with a tragic death in Ethiopia soon after our last meeting; his enthusiasm and love for his native city Nairobi were inspiring, his knowledge of its history was extremely useful, and the kindness and hospitality of his family often left me speechless.
I must also thank Stella Sandahl for providing me with a refuge within the dark labyrinths of Robarts Library; my agent, Bruce Westwood, and his associates for their enthusiasm; my editor, Maya Mavjee, for her solicitous readings and many suggestions; Nick Massey-Garrison for his patient assistance with the manuscript; and Sonny Mehta for his comments and suggestions. As always, my gratitude to my wife and sons for their unflagging support and their faith that going away each February was not only to escape winter.
