by Dhasi Mwale
Aggrieved, Mother comes to the principal’s office, and I know the moment we get home, she’ll give me the beating of a lifetime. Mother never spares the rod.
She surprises me, not punishing me as I expect, but not speaking to me either. This is too much a punishment for me to bear. I wish for her to flog me instead.
In the evening, after supper, as we warm ourselves by the fire, she speaks.
“You look like him, you know. Your eyes, your hair … your skin. You look just like your father, but you will not turn out like him. Do you hear me, Makena?”
“Y—yes,” I stutter, ready to promise anything in exchange for her forgiveness.
“You will not turn out like him, and you will not fight again at school, or anywhere.” She spits in the fire, and the firewood hisses.
I don’t sleep that night, thinking about my father who I look like.
So, when Pastor Humphrey goes on, “He was coming out of a big gold shiny car…and he wore a beautiful black suit, and his shoes were polished…he wore gold rings on all his fingers I tell you.”
His words stun me. I put my hands on my mouth. My father is a rich man?
“He walked into a market. At first, I did not know which market it was, but God whispered that it was Marikiti in Mombasa. Everywhere he walked, people bowed down for him. He bought all the things in the market. You should have seen how the traders praised him, Makena. They hugged his knees and thanked him as they closed their stalls early.”
“He…bought all the things?” I try to stitch the fragments of this puzzle together.
Maybe my father owns a large hotel. My God, what if he has one or two of those five-star tourist hotels advertised in the paper? My luck in life is about to change.
Mami’s arthritis has grown worse. I spend all my salary buying her medication. If my father is a rich man, maybe, he can help us.
“I can take you to see him, Makena” Pastor Humphrey says.
I’m so overwhelmed by his kindness that tears fill my eyes.
“If you want we can go to Mombasa next weekend…just me and you” He winks at me and fondles my hand.
I quickly snatch myself from his married hands.
“It’s alright, pastor. I do not want to take you from God’s work. I will look for him myself.”
I walk out of his office with a headache.
People say he has the gift of prophecy, so the vision must be real. I only wished he had not winked at me.
Now I’m in Mombasa. I can find my father myself. I enter the market and approach the third stall, which has big healthy-looking juicy mangoes.
My father may have bought mangoes here for his big hotel. I stop in front of the trader who sits next to his goods. He is staring at his feet.
“Samahani…habari yako?” I call out.
He doesn’t seem to hear me.
“Habari yako?” I edge closer.
He doesn’t hear me or pretends not to.
I nod and walk on. This is crazy, and a sign that I should abandon this mission altogether. It’s getting too hot, and I don’t have all day. I should go to the beach and do what I’m here to do. I decide to ask one more trader and then leave.
I stop at a tomato stall. There are all kinds of tomatoes, big, and small, some red and ripe and others green. The trader is separating them into three lots. She is a middle-aged woman with a red leso tied around her non-existent waist.
The leso reads, “Mbuzi kala mkeka, wadaku mtakaa? The goat has eaten the mat, where will you gossipers sit?”
“Samahani. Sorry for bothering you.”
“Ehen”
“Natafta mtu. I am looking for someone.”
Shy suddenly, I wonder how my rusty Swahili sounds to her. Although I’m fluent, I’m not a native.
She goes on separating her tomatoes, and I take that as an encouragement to continue.
“I am looking for the man … who ... bought all the goods in the market.”
She stops and looks at me, up and down. See, she must have met him, and now realises I look exactly like him.
It’s happening. Pastor Humphrey may have weak flesh, but his spirit is strong.
“Ati kafanya nini?”
“He bought all the goods in the market from all the traders.”
She looks into my eyes for a long time. Then drops the tomato she is holding back to the bunch. She tells me not to move and goes to the next stall, where three women sit. They have coconuts, mirrors, lipsticks, and bananas in the disorganised booth. She returns with the women.
“Rudia ulichosema. Could you repeat what you just said, please?”
“I am looking for the man who bought all the goods in the market. He wears gold rings on all his fingers.”
First, they stare at me, then at each other. Suddenly they burst into loud laughter, holding their shapeless sides. Everyone in the market turns and watches us.
“Wacha bangi. Stop smoking whatever you are smoking.”
“These youngsters in Mombasa are smoking anything and everything.”
The tomato trader holds me by the shoulders. “Wewe Mrembo. You are a beautiful girl. Stop smoking these things, eeh. They will destroy your mind. If you have no job, why not go to Diani. You might catch yourself a rich white man.”
I shrug and march away fast, keeping my eyes down because everyone is looking at me. Stupid stupid me. Why did I ruin a beautiful trip by coming here?
One of the women, the one with the black henna on her nails and palms runs towards me.
“Dada, sister, maybe I can help. You said he did what again?”
I look into her kajal-rimmed eyes. Maybe someone did know my father after all.
“He bought all the goods—”
Before I finish, she is howling on the ground, and her friends high-five each other as they continue laughing at me.
Funny, how it’s no longer funny when the joke is you. I hurry, not looking back.
Don’t cry, no crying. I unzip my bag and withdraw my earphones. I put them on although I’m not listening to any music.
I flag down a tuk-tuk and head to the beach. Soon I’m there.
Forget those women and do what you came to do, Makena.
I reach for the yellow thing in my bag, and a big lump clogs my pipes. Glancing around, no one is watching. It’s time to part ways.
A tear falls from my eyes. Not only for what I’m about to do, but for the incident at the market, and a father I’ll never meet. This is harder than I thought.
I grab the yellow thing and yank it out of my bag.
Someone groans behind me, he sounds like he is dying.
I glance over my shoulder.
Continue reading Beautiful Mess by Mukami Ngari
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