by M G Vassanji
The rogues’ gallery, later called the Dirty Dozen, was an assortment of scruffy characters who all lived on the community’s charity and hung about the mosque. General Juma in military uniform, who would do a solo march past when mosque broke up, going left-right left-right up and down the compound until he spied Hassam Punja getting into his Mercedes, at which point he would do an “Attention!” salute smartly and put out his beggar’s hand. Squat, lame Bahdur, who moved like lightning up and down stairs, chasing after boys when the mosque was emptying. Hussein Chai always asking for tea money, accusing passersby of stealing his shoes, who would scrape a large blob of throaty phlegm from his tongue and hurl it at an offender. Fat Gulu who, grieving a lost love, at the stroke of midnight, at the end of festivities, would go up to the band and lead the cheer in its name, “Hip-hip! Hurray! Hip-hip! Hurray!”
There was a Mshiri who had a cigarette store on Kichwele Street … a thin Arab in loin cloth and T-shirt, chappals flapping behind him as he took his long, ambling steps, rising and falling on his toes, body dipping with every step, long arms swinging, grinning sideways, looking for boys to show kindnesses to as one big hand brushed against their little bottoms.
The lids which covered like iron doors the manholes in the streets spoke of exotic places. One said “Cape Town.” Did Cape Town then lie beyond that door, underneath? Check the world map, yes, Cape Town was directly under us. But no, said Shamim the wise, the world is round, haven’t you heard of Columbus, yes, Christopher Columbus? Australia was under our feet, no matter what was written on the iron lid. Then, if you opened it, this lid sealed so securely, would you fall feet-first or head-first into Australia? Well, perhaps you did go through Cape Town …
The Famous Five of Kichwele and Viongozi: Shamim, Kala, Sona, Shiraz and Salma. The latter two, Shamim’s brother and sister, new arrivals sent to Dar for schooling by my nimble-footed Bahdur Uncle, who moved from Kilosa to Shinyanga in search of better business. Shinyanga is close to the diamond mines, said Bahdur Uncle to Kulsum, only a few more years and I’ll take them off your hands. My star is rising, over these diamond mines.
What do the Famous Five do? They make bandas on the terrace with planks of wood, sit under its shade and hatch plots involving gypsies and smugglers and desperately wish for moors and rolling plains for their imaginary caravans and to hike through. They study the Cub handbooks and know the components of the Union Jack off-pat. When the mood strikes them they help our grandmother cross the road, they never keep the money they pick up on the road, and they use a variant of the Cub promise. I-promise-to-do-my-best-to-do-my-duty-to-God-and-the-Queen: to-help-other-people-at-all-times … and to obey the Famous Five law! Dib dib dib. Dob dob dob.
PO Box 15037, Dar es Salaam, Tanganyika Territory (TT), British Empire. So Begum filled in the sender’s address on the envelopes carrying letters to her pen-friend in Sarawak or to relatives in Kenya, KC, C for colony, before licking the stamp on which the Tanganyika giraffe faced the Queen. She stares out of other currency notes now, an older, grimmer version of the graceful young woman on horseback riding in some plush green English grounds, stopping and descending at a gate and turning to smile and wave briefly at her subjects standing to attention at a cinema house as the national anthem drew to a close.
“Where is the English woman?”: Tarzan, pulling a respectable native hair lock. Steve Reeves as Hercules bringing the pillars of Greece (and the house) down in the noon-hour one-shilling-all-round show at the Azania (where the projector was so low you could raise your slipper and see its ugly image on the screen): every building in Dar had a Steve Reeves, we had Ahmed. And every building in the wake of Greek or Italian heroes who followed Hercules also had a Maciste—who was usually the same boy who was Steve Reeves. There were also many Zimbos in Kariakoo. Zimbo was the Indian Tarzan, Lila was his Jane, and Dada his monkey. The noon-hour show was packed with the fans of these heroes. There would be roars of delight and sighs of anticipation or disappointment. Audience participation at the Azania. Sona exhorting his heroes: “Watch him! Aré baba, look behind you! Yes! Yes! Give him one! Give him two!” and in a frenzy: “Pillau! Eat Pillau!”
Early in the morning on the day of the Queen’s birthday the Famous Five set off to witness the march past at Government House … first to the Askari monument, the furthest reach of the Indian section, then further still through the tree-lined street past the old white-washed houses in which the Europeans lived, dogs barked, haughty servants and quiet ayahs looked on, as we scampered along beside the museum outside which stood two old cannons that had seen service in the First World War. The King’s African Rifles would be at ease standing in array, waiting for the Governor. Then the waiting crowd would stir, before settling down to watch intently, as with a yelling and a screaming the red-faced European sergeant-major would give the order to attention and go pounding to the Governor, and the guard of honour would begin. The portly Sir Edward Twining, out of his usual baggy suit, looked formidable now in full regalia.
Sir Edward Twining, Sir Alan Lennox Boyd, Sir Evelyn Baring, Sir Patrick Renison … the list goes on. You will forget the faces and the contexts but you’ll carry the jingle of those names to your grave … what’s in a name, you ask … the sounds of power and authority, the awe and the glory. They will stir inside you, these sounds, when a small part of you in your heart of hearts holds back, holds back when they condemn her, when you should condemn her, a colonial power over Rhodesia … And when you scan the headlines for the fate of her warships … when she is no longer powerful and glorious but cynical … always, that small, that tiny part of you rooting for her, why deny it … you were vanquished, as you said …
Is it right, Shiraz who had come from Kilosa would ask, to press down a ten-cent copper into the ground and rub the crown into the dirt with your foot so as to brighten it … or to put the silver fifty-cent coin on a railway line to flatten it and let the Central Railway run its iron wheels over the Queen?
At home Begum was queen. Tall and thin, pony tail tight over her head: imperious as Victoria, fierce as Boadicea, wielding the cobweb broom like a sceptre. On Sundays she cleaned the house, had the floors scrubbed, the mattresses turned over or taken out to be sunned, laid traps for mice, went after cockroaches with the kitchen broom, sprinkled DDT in the cupboards. She was the talk of the neighbourhood, this girl who worked so hard and even went down on her knees. Every Sunday, inspection of the troops: drawers, for orderliness, nails and knees for grime, shoes to be polished in readiness for Monday, socks all paired off into fist-sized balls. Then we could go out. We were grouped into seniors and juniors, Blue House and Red House. The Famous Five, of course, were the juniors. For a few months Begum drew up a chart on which were chalked up our scores with black and silver and gold stars. At the end of the month scores were counted and prizes of handkerchiefs, colour pencils and Baby pens handed out. But this method of incentives proved too expensive for Kulsum and the more traditional one of threats and punishments prevailed.
An imposing Philips radio stood on the toy cabinet between Kulsum’s bed and the sofa. A powerful oracle: if anything worthwhile was in the air it would grab it, from Cape Town to London, America to Bombay. All Sunday morning as Begum went on her knees and ordered the servant and baked in the heat of the charcoal fire, the radio stayed on and the world poured in. In martial Urdu or sing-song Hindi or BBC English, Connie Francis or Lata Mangeshkar, the children’s programme on TBC, the request programme on KBC, Akashwani on All India Radio … It was for the radio she stayed upstairs. At about noontime the sweet odours of ghee and cinnamon and coriander wafted out from the open door. We would walk in nervously, wash our hands and feet and sit on the sofa. Shortly after one o’clock the grave tones of the Hindustani Service of the KBC turned positively funereal, as the voice said, “Elan.” Brows furrowed with concentration, Begum would carefully note the death announcements for a familiar name that she could drop at the table for Kulsum’s benefit. A false move here, a laugh or a loud sn
eeze, a fit of the giggles, and after the elan her long, hard fingers would close on a culprit’s ear, and turn and turn then release it, bringing a deep red, followed by the pain, ringing inside the skull, coming in waves of dizzying magnitudes. The store closed and Kulsum and her helpers would arrive. Nine of us would crowd round the table for lunch, the only meal we all had together. It was half day for the servant, who would leave after washing the pans and dishes, and Kulsum would take her only afternoon nap of the week, and Sona, Shiraz and I would go outside and out of her earshot for a spot of cautious cricket.
The hazards of playing cricket in Habib Mansion: you could play on the little balcony at the landing, outside our door, but in that case you could only use a golf ball bought from Mzee Pipa, and the off slips were at neighbour Sharrif’s door, so after a few cracks at it out would shoot the sleepy and furious Sharrif’s arm and give the batsman a cuff. You could try our terrace, among the flowers, which could bring fierce Boadicea racing up: or the other terrace, which could bring a Sharrif more furious than before.
I started going home from school with other boys. I went with Jogo, whose father went about limping in the streets at four in the morning calling people to prayer, and with Alu Poni the pawnbroker’s son. Sometimes a rickety old red Dodge pickup with an open body gave free rides from school. It was called “Chama Chetu (Our Party) Namba Three” and belonged to a genial failure called Fateh, who had slid down from business to business and now was at rock bottom, selling coal. On the back of the pickup was another sign, “Your old friend, Fateh the coalseller,” in Gujarati. Every day after school a lookout was kept for Chama Chetu, and when it was sighted, racing up to the gate in a cloud of dust and smoke, cries of welcome greeted it: “D-S-K-9-9-9!” which was the number on its licence plate. Packed brimful with boys and a few brave girls who could risk a mirror placed on the floor, with a smirking, slimy Ahmed standing in front of it, Fateh’s pickup raced home, throwing jeers at passersby and slower vehicles, making two stops, one at Msimbazi and the final one outside the owner’s home not far from our corner.
Alu Poni lived on the ground floor of Anand Bhavan, behind the pawn shop. Outside the pawn shop there was always a jostling crowd, behind which could be heard the pawnbroker’s shouts. Their home opened at the back into an enclosed yard, about thirty by ten feet. Drawn on the far side on one of the walls, the ubiquitous stumps, in charcoal.
A clean bowl, grazed bails, flying stumps: they all had counterparts in the world of charcoal-drawn stumps. A thick black stripe across the rubber ball, a smudge, a gap in one of the stumps. How’s that? came the appeal, and you all went to examine the evidence. Leg breaks took off wildly from a crack, and the off break—oh, the off break: there was an upward slope on the offside so that the ball would seem simply to come to a stop in mid-air. Zero velocity. It would stop there tantalizingly suspended, telling you: “Hit me! Go on, go on, hit me.” And you would swing, for a chhako, a six against the far wall—which is what it was waiting for, because then it would take a dip and land on the stumps.
But even here it was not entirely safe. The outside wall, on the offside, was about eight feet high, and a missed catch could easily go over the wall and land among the huts beyond. Then would begin the begging and pleading. The three Ponis were fluent in Swahili and could reply word for word. We would climb on top of stones and crates to look over the wall where there was a bare patch among the broken glass, and Firoz would begin:
“Excuse me, mama! Excuse me. Aisei! Hodi!”
“What now?” an irate mama would show a face.
“Mama, if you could throw the ball … please.”
“Aaaah! What do you think? You can throw the ball here any time … and suppose it hits one of the children—” Now the whole mama would be visible.
“Polé, mama. Sorry. Forgive us.”
“Didn’t you say polé the last time? And now again … you think this skin is made of stone, it doesn’t hurt—”
“The last time, mama. It will not happen again. Truly, mama. By God.”
“No.”
“I beg you, mama, God will reward you.” Giggles behind him.
“Aa-aa!” No.
Then would begin the bargaining. Ten cents. Forty cents. A deal at twenty-five and the ball came flying across the wall.
There were two ways around paying the ransom. One was to keep quiet and try to retrieve the ball by using coal tongs tied to a long broom. Or Alu or I was lowered behind the wall and then pulled up with the ball. On the other side of the wall was a hut, with a narrow space in between. On one occasion however a mama must have heard my shuffling against the baked mud, for while I was picking my way among the debris a bristly broom-head landed against my own head. With barely stifled cackles, my companions’ heads withdrew behind the wall and I was left alone to face a glaring broom-wielding mama. I took two steps back, emerged into an open space, and started running, chased by the screaming mama. “Catch the Indian, the bastard …” Another mama emerged, her hair wet. I cut across the compound towards the outer door, the two mamas in hot pursuit. But then the wet-haired one tripped on her khanga, and for a fleeting instant I looked behind to see a naked, black body glistening in its wetness, before I emerged into the safety of the street.
“You saw her naked, Kala? Tell me what you saw—did you see her black black fuzz, her arse—”
“I don’t know …”
“Oh God, he saw and he didn’t know what he saw—Oh God,” Firoz walked off, violently scratching his crotch, eyes fastened skyward in despair.
The next day the two brothers had a plan for me. With the promise of a chance to play in their fictitious MCC, the Msimbazi Cricket Club, I went back to the huts with a proposal. There I met a third fat mama.
“I want to see the young mama—” I began.
“Halima!” She screamed. “An Indian boy asks for you!”
Halima came out. “What? Again? You boys have no shame?”
“Mama … my brother sent me … my friend’s brother … Do you want one shilling? Do you have the time, mama?”
I was chased all the way to the Poni home by the furious woman, and the five of us hid in the bedroom. Two mamas talked first to Alu’s mother and then Nuru Poni came to hear them. “They have no respect! They have no manners!” fumed the mamas. And Nuru Poni pacified them in his best Swahili: “You are their mother, mama. True, true. I will punish them. If you want, I will let you punish them. Alu, come. Here, mama—do with him what you will.” They left convinced that justice would be done.
Meanwhile, cricket stumps and bats had been sent into hiding in the neighbour’s home. But Nuru Poni, anticipating the measure, bought a cheap broom, threw away the head and used the handle on the backs of my friends, while Sona and I went home with unrequited guilt on our heads.
Nuru Poni, the philosopher-pawnbroker, who was not averse to using his fists against ruffians who sometimes mixed in with the crowd outside his shop. His were the only Asian boys who learnt to read the Quran, in the original. An African shehe called twice a week, and for an hour each time, the three boys chanted after him from the Juzu. From Nuru Poni came such jewels of wisdom as the adage “Done is done, it cannot be undone, even if you go to London,” and more down to earth advice such as what to do when called by nature at an inopportune moment. In this case you loosened your belt and rubbed your belly right to left; or perhaps it was left to right. That was the problem with this remedy, an error could be disastrous if you were caught, say, in the middle of Mnazi Moja.
Nuru Poni’s actual name was A. A. Raghavji. He came from Zanzibar and was an old acquaintance of Kulsum’s family. He had been—although his interests had now shifted to civics and politics—a pious young man, a lover of God, like Mad Mitha my mother’s father. When Mad Mitha announced his doomsday vision for the island, Nuru Poni had been one of the first to take a boat out. An African customer once asked him what he hoped to see in the mosque at four in the morning, which he never missed. “Nuru,” he h
ad replied without blinking an eyelid, meaning God’s light, and the cynics of Kariakoo found him his name.
Every evening Kulsum sat on her big bed, feet up, scissors in hand, biting into it night after night, making callouses to last a lifetime: scissors in hand and measuring tape round her neck. Snip, tear … Bend, beend, hold. Snip-snip-snip-sniiiiiip, snippet. Cloth diminished, bolts from Osaka, which carried when new pictures of pretty Japanese ladies or Fujiyama, became thinner and the pile of cutting for the next day’s sewing rose higher. It was family hour. On Mondays and Fridays the Philips oracle held attention, high on the glass case which enclosed the memorabilia from my father’s days. It announced listeners’ requests and throbbed young hearts with the sounds of Pat Boone, Elvis and Cliff. Bedsprings were not insured against the wilder improvisations of rock ‘n’ roll, when “Jailhouse Rock” was played, until finally it seemed that the song was altogether banned from the programmes.
Sometimes the BBC told stories … which we rarely listened to, we had storytellers of our own …
Begum on prime time, standing next to the radio, better than the BBC …
Kulsum supplied us with our daily chapati, but Begum sold us our dreams. Her stories were for the benefit of all but directed at Kulsum. She sat like a goddess on her couch, Kulsum, a few feet away from anyone, surrounded by colourful cloth, measuring tape for garland—and scissors for weapon? She would listen quietly, and there would be something like a faint smile on her lips, except that we knew it was not a smile but a thought: what thought? what ghostly memory? On the second floor of Habib Mansion as the street below emptied of people and sound, and every building and every lighted flat in it belonged more and more to the surrounding night than to the society of each other, we took lesson and hope from the stories. Wellington and Nelson rode in triumph under our tube light, Portia leant against the toy cabinet in a lawyerly pose smirking at Shylock, and Captain Scott wrote down the words “We must go on,” before going down in an Antarctic blizzard.
