36 arrowroot
37 guard
38 Traditional soup made out of a boiled goat’s head and garnished with bitter-tasting herbs that are believed to counter gout, low libido, and weight gain in men who drink plenty of beer. The herbs are sourced from Maasai herbalists. This soup is very popular with older Kikuyu men in Central Kenya.
Tommy Hilfiger
Jamin and Alice were in a scare. The boss was not in a good mood, and from the thumping coming from upstairs as he rummaged through furniture, fuming like a caged bush elephant, it was not a small matter that would end in the bedroom. Alice added more washing fluid to the sink and worked up a bubble of suds. Then she dipped her hands in the warm water and went back to cleaning the greasy plates, scrubbing furiously with the sponge. Through the window she could see Jamin equally busy scouring the tires of the car, reaching underneath the front fender to scrape away the brown Mara mud before putting the hose to it. Just like Alice he was trying to ignore the tirade coming from upstairs even though he expected the kitchen door to come crashing open any time and his boss to come barging out, his rotund face red as a tomato, baying for someone’s blood. Over at the guard’s hut, Odipo, the day guard, switched off his portable radio and stood at attention by the gate, pretending to scrutinize passersby, but all the while straining to catch a word of the tirade upstairs.
What could the matter be? they all wondered. Could it be one of those bedroom arguments? It seemed highly unlikely. The two of them were like two loving doves in a nest. How many times had they spontaneously given Jamin and Alice a day off so that they could be alone in the house? On days like this, the madam would often bring Odipo his flask of tea unusually early; his tea might be accompanied by sandwiches carefully packed in an ice cream tub, or left-overs from their own meal the evening before—usually biriani39 from a take-away restaurant, in which would be tucked a chicken wing or a half-gnawed drumstick. And from the way she locked the front door Odipo knew that their business for the day was ended.
Later Odipo would espy them, through gaps in the curtains, walking naked in the house, sometimes dancing to soft music from the stereo, or Madam clapping her hands and dancing as Harrison strummed his guitar and sang a country song. Thereafter, they would swim and then lounge on the chaise longues by the poolside, Madam drinking a cocktail and Harrison a whisky, both of them still in their birthday suits. Later in the evening they would light a bonfire on the back lawn and grill lamb chops or chicken wings, which they washed down with wine by candlelight because the security lights on that side of the compound would not have been turned on.
Odipo knew all this because he had been working for them for eight years. He knew too that Harrison liked to make love on the balcony of their upstairs bedroom on a moonlit night, while Madam liked to do it on the rug by the log fire in the living room. This he had gleaned from Ali, the night guard, who equally made it his business to know everything that went on in the home that he guarded. They knew that Harrison was a fine stud who knew his job well—if madam’s screams during the marathon sessions were anything to go by. And so, what could the fuss in the bedroom be all about?
Alice lifted her eyes from the dishes and glared at Jamin through the open kitchen window. Jamin winked at her and made a lewd sign with his hand over his crotch, leaning over the water-slicked bonnet of the car and humping it like a horny bull on a heifer. Alice made a face and wagged a finger at him, causing Jamin’s face to split in a grin, baring a mouthful of irregular teeth stained grey from numerous visits to the busaa dens in the neighboring shanty town. Odipo caught sight of Jamin’s antics and turned his face away, stifling a laugh. He was in the direct view from the master bedroom and he knew that Harrison or Madam could see him if they chanced to look out the bay window.
Soon Harrison’s heavy footsteps were heard coming down the stairs, the wood creaking beneath his mammoth weight. “Alice!” he called in his bawling voice, one that Madam said he had inherited from his deep-sea fishermen ancestors who had been famous whalers in the Antarctic. “A-a-a-lice!”
“Yes, boss,” said Alice, dumping the plate she was washing in the sink and hurrying to the foot of the stairs, drying her hands on her gingham apron.
“I cannot find my new set of underwear. Did you wash them for me when you last did the laundry?” Even this early in the morning his round face was flushed red, his breath huffing out of his massive chest as if from some heavy exertion.
“You mean the white ones, boss?” asked Alice, her hands wringing nervously.
“Yes. The Tommy Hilfigers I brought with me from safari last week. There is only one pair left. And yet I bought seven of them, one for each day of the week.”
“But I washed all of them last Saturday, boss,” said Alice earnestly. “I remember hanging them out on the line in the backyard to dry like you instructed, boss.” Her lips were quivering, a layer of moisture glistening on her brow at the prospect of losing her job. Finding a job in Nairobi these days was like searching for a tree frog in the Sahara. “I swear I left them on the line when I left at midday.”
“Well, like I said, I can’t find them. They are not here. Today is Friday, and there’s supposed to be a last pair. It is not there!”
“But, boss…” Alice’s lips quivered uncontrollably as she searched for words to explain. But before she could say anything he swept past her with a dismissive wave of the hand, banging against the bank of washing machines lined up against the wall and out the door, his ham fists swinging furiously.
“Jamin! Ja-a-a-min!”
“Yes, boss,” said Jamin, dropping the wet cloth in the soapy bucket and hurrying over, drying his hands on the seat of his green khaki overalls.
“Who took my underwear from the clothesline?” said Harrison, towering over the diminutive gardener.
“Your what, sir…?” said Jamin, his eyes wide, hands trembling by his sides.
“My underwear, didn’t you hear me? My new white Tommy Hilfigers. Did you take them?”
“I…I…I’ve never seen them, sir,” said Jamin in a stammer, his lips quivering, head shaking vehemently.
“Oh, so you mean a ghost came out of nowhere and disappeared with them, is that what you are saying? Huh? You mean they disappeared by themselves…?”
But before Jamin could answer he stomped off.
“Odipo! O-o-odiiipooo!”
“Yes, boss,” said Odipo, hurrying over on the double, his heels clicking on the tarmac.
“My underwear…who took my new Tommy Hilfigers?”
“I…I…” Odipo was trembling so much the words just wouldn’t come. His wife had just given birth the week before and the last thing he wanted to think of was the possibility of being laid off work. “I…I swear, boss, I do not know,” he stammered, dropping to his knees, hands raised in supplication.
“Wha…who…?” For a while Harrison’s huge red jowls worked like a bulldog’s, saliva spraying from his lips, eyes flashing like those of a wounded hammerhead shark. Then his heavy hands flopped to his sides and he stormed back toward the house. “Idiots! Bloody thieving idiots!” In his rage, his thick neck had withdrawn even further into his prizefighter’s shoulders, his head bobbing back and forth like a Neanderthal’s. The doors rattled on their frames as he slammed them behind him, cracking like pistol shots through the corridors of the sprawling villa.
That Saturday, at the dance in the region of the shantytown known as Congo, Jamin finally won the heart of the chocolate-skinned big-bottomed serving girl, Salima. Late-night revelers drooled every time she bent over to pour them a drink, their besotted minds weaving exotic fantasies about a night enveloped in her supple arms, their heads resting on her full breasts.
It was past midnight when the resident band upped the tempo—the drummer beating his palms into a frenzy on the makeshift drum set, fashioned out of old oil drums. The three-piece homemade guit
ars shrieked as they strained to follow the undulating lead of the litungu40 player, who bobbed his shiny bald head up and down on his sweat-slicked shoulders, like a blue-headed obongo-bongo lizard in an old flame tree, his pink tongue lolling out of his wet mouth as his buttocks waggled on his low stool to the carnal banging of the ring on his big toe against the shiny arm of the lyre. Taking his cue, the soloist soared above the frenetic melodies, his voice quivering in a timbre that caused the hearts of his audience to melt. By this late hour the yard had grown dim, lit only by the glow of the security lights set high on the perimeter fence of the neighboring Braeburn School.
One by one the revelers started to strip. The men tore off their shirts and strutted bare-chested around the circle, teasing the women, who removed their blouses, leaving their brassieres in place as they paired up on the dance floor. But in the heat of the dance the brassieres too would fly off so that the men and women would dance breast to breast. It was the hour of the tindikiti love-dance.
Jamin wriggled out of his designer muscle shirt and threw it at the friend he had been sharing a pot with, taking a long drink of the lukewarm busaa out of his plastic straw. Then he strutted onto the dance floor, legs bent at the knees, elbows tucked in, hands flopping in the manner of a duck about to take to wing, and slim hips swaying expertly to the beat of the band. As his bottom swung the waistband of his distressed jeans sagged lower, riding low upon his hips and piling around his sneakers in the sagging look of the yoyos.41 Jamin’s back pocket bulged with a thick wallet stuffed with payday money, which he carelessly flaunted. Above the hem of his sagging jeans, his bright new boxers glowed in the dim light, just like the heroes of the gangster videos he had seen in number 48 matatu shuttle vans. The blue-and-red label on the rucked band of the slightly oversized boxers was stark against his sweaty dark skin, and that succeeded in drawing even more attention to his wiggling hips and his fat wallet.
Jamin saw Salima approach from the corner of his eye. She was carrying a huge frothing pitcher, weaving her way through the crowded dancers to replenish a pot at the far end of the yard. He was watching her keenly, and he saw the way her mascaraed eyes followed the thick wallet stuffed in his back pocket. All the girls in the place, Jamin knew, were openly eyeing him, even as they pretended to listen to the men who had accompanied them. He had selected his clothes most carefully, from the Converse sneakers to the fake gold chain on his wrist, and he knew that he could have just as easily fit in at one of those high-end hang-outs in Westlands where Harrison occasionally took Madam for a drink and dance Saturday evenings. His dance moves had been well rehearsed from a DVD he had bought from a matatu tout42 he knew on the 48 route. It was only his English that would give him away in a yoyo crowd. He swung his hip, bumping into Salima as she passed, winking lewdly at her.
“Tonight the choma43 and drinks are all on me,” he whispered into her ear. “I’ll buy you as much Guinness as you want. What do you say we find a more decent pub to go to, my lovely?”
Salima made a face at him, her deep dark eyes rolling, her thick soft lips forming a seductive pout. But even as she brushed past he knew he had not wasted his words. For when Jamin staggered home to his tiny quarters behind the garage later that night his prize was leaning on his shoulder. He had had to drag Salima out of the taxi, which had halted some distance from the gate to the compound, so as not to attract undue attention. When Ali, the night guard, saw them coming up the dimly lit street, the corners of his lips lifted in a knowing smile. By the time Jamin had bribed Ali sufficiently to allow him to slip Salima into the servants’ quarters without waking Harrison, his erstwhile bulging wallet had shrunk alarmingly. But it had been money well spent.
Two weeks later, Jamin had almost forgotten the love-dance, and the way Salima’s bare breasts had brushed against his chest. He had a long month ahead and an empty wallet. He was in a perpetually foul mood, and he took to haggling with Alice in an effort to borrow money from their women’s chama44 account. Given Jamin’s prior refusal to pay interest on loans of this kind, his inveigling was frequently to no avail. Preoccupied by his lack of funds, Jamin made endless simple mistakes and was often berated by Harrison or Madam.
Harrison and Madam had just returned from another game drive to the Mara for the weekend when Odipo noticed the flat tire on their Range Rover—the perfect opportunity to get a tip from the boss.
Jamin hurried up to the front door and took a deep breath before pressing the buzzer.
“What is it, now?” Harrison barked, his face flushed from the treadmill. “Do you need another loan for your sick brother upcountry, Jamin?” His voice was mocking; he had known Jamin long enough to understand the manner of the man.
“No, boss. It is a flat,” Jamin replied, licking his lips nervously. “You have a flat tire.”
“Oh, shit,” Harrison snapped, drying his moist face on his face towel. “Just when I need to get to an important meeting!”
“I can fix it, boss,” said Jamin, eagerly.
“Can you?”
“Sure, boss,” said Jamin with a nod. “Odipo can help me with the jack.”
“Well, let me find the keys. You’ll find all you need in the boot. I hope you know how to do this?”
“Very well, boss. I have done it before,” Jamin said, nodding eagerly. From the corner of his eye he caught Odipo watching him from his hut, a grin spreading across his face as Harrison disappeared into the house.
They were just completing the job—Odipo leaning on the wrench one last time to test the firmness of the bolts before Jamin could lower the jack—when Harrison, placing his gator-skin briefcase on the tarmac, kicked the tire with his shiny boot, testing the pressure.
“Well, you seem to have done it well,” Harrison said approvingly. He wore a navy Hugo Boss jacket, which creased up under his armpits and hugged his midriff, like a Fiji rugger centre forward dressed up for a Parisian fashion show.
“Thank you, boss,” said Jamin with a grin that exposed the last rotten tooth at the back of his mouth.
“Well, take out the jack then. I expect you will be looking forward to a tip, right?”
The grin remained on Jamin’s lips as he bent to press the button that deflated the hydraulic jack. Harrison reached for his patent leather wallet, but his hand froze in mid-air. As Jamin had knelt to deflate the jack, the tail of his shirt had pulled upward, exposing his trouser waistband and a portion of his bare back.
“Ja-a-min?” said Harrison in the low drawn-out tone they all dreaded.
Jamin turned slowly, a cold dread creeping up his spine.
“No! Stay right where you are…don’t move an inch!” barked Harrison. “Odiipooo! Come here!”
Odipo hurried round the side of the car. Harrison’s gaze was fixed on Jamin’s exposed back, and the rucked hem of the designer boxer shorts that peeped from beneath the waistband of his old corduroy pants—no longer dazzling white, but the navy and red label unmistakable.
Harrison’s face was flushed as he stood over Jamin, who hurriedly threw his possessions into a big yellow SEE-BUY-FLY nylon bag. The enraged mzungu herded him through the compound gate, towering over Jamin like a giant as the servant lugged his bag and his hastily rolled mattress on his back.
“Close the gate!” barked Harrison, and Odipo dragged the heavy gates into place, swinging the iron chain through its holes and snapping shut the thick Viro padlock.
For a while the big man paced up and down the drive, his huge arms working restlessly like logs swinging from his shoulders, jaw clenching and unclenching as he ruminated on his terrible anger. Then he lumbered into the house, snatched up the car keys on the little bureau in the hallway and reemerged. Perhaps it was the fact that the little fellow had worked for him for nine years; or perhaps it was that the little bugger’s mind worked like a computer during a crisis. Of all Harrison’s employees, Jamin was the only one who knew where
to get a plumber in the middle of the night when the tank in the ceiling above the study started leaking; he was the only one who could locate a technician whenever the television decoder started acting up, minutes before a crucial Manchester United match. Jamin was a useful bugger, his numerous faults notwithstanding.
Harrison climbed into the car and slammed the door shut. Odipo ran to open the gates as the huge Range Rover roared into life and backed out of the parking bay. With a loud screech that left a layer of rubber on the tarmac, Harrison rocketed out of the compound, missing the gatepost by an inch. He caught up with the weeping Jamin a little distance down the road. As the car screeched to a halt, Jamin jumped into the gutter, the rolled mattress flying out of his grasp, poised to bolt like a cat whose tail was on fire. Harrison leaned over and opened the back door. “Get in!” he shouted.
Jamin gathered his possessions and piled into the car, almost wetting himself with fright. They sped off down the road, a tense silence filling the air between them. It was only when they turned into the gates of the nearby police station that it dawned on Jamin where he was being taken.
The OCS had had dealings with Harrison before. The beefy cop palmed the two thousand shillings the mzungu passed under the table, his huge fist disappearing into the pocket of his pants as a huge grin lit up his darkly moist face. Then he rose, bawling at the boys in the other room as he adjusted his belt over a girth that rivaled Harrison’s.
“Tell them not to get overzealous. I don’t want him hurt,” Harrison muttered, rising from the battered visitor’s chair.
“Don’t worry, bwana,” the cop replied, smiling. “I know my job.”
Then, slapping his visitor on the shoulder, the cop escorted Harrison from the drab office and on his way.
When the Range Rover turned up the following morning, Jamin slid into the rear of the car and cowered in the far corner, whimpering like a beaten puppy. Despite the sting of his rear end and the fresh memory of the bamboo cane descending, Jamin was grateful a hundred times over that he was going back with the boss.
Dog Meat Samosa Page 8