Dog Meat Samosa

by Stanley Gazemba

  “What kinda fuckin’ shit set-up is that?” Abu said irritably.

  “Samijee allowed us to bring one of the parts because he believes we are doing genuine business, but he wants to make sure you are not a fraudster who might try to pull a fast one on him once he has released the merchandise. That’s why he must see your cash first.”

  “You mean the Mhindi thinks I’m some kinda con?” asked Abu, bristling. “Look, man, I’ve got cash—loads of it. See? And I’m paying every damn penny that I owe for the parts this very minute…in cash, un’erstood?” He whipped out a fat gator-skin wallet which he shook in the face of the broker. “What does tha’ mothafucker Mhindi think I am, huh?”

  Kiki took a step back and waited, eyes lowered. At the shop counter the Asian trader leaned over to spit onto the dusty pavement before taking a fresh leaf from the bundle. His eyes, red-rimmed from the stimulant, were fixed upon the four men.

  “Well, you can always go to the counter yourself and buy directly from him,” Kiki said with a shrug. “Samijee will be very glad to sell to you at the counter price, you know.”

  “All right, write the damn receipt,” Abu snapped, counting out the money. “Boo-Gee has more important business to do, man. There’s no fuckin’ time to waste bargaining with fuckin’ Wahindi.”

  The broker counted the money twice before stowing the wad away in his coat pocket. Then, wetting his thumb, he opened a fresh page in his receipt book, lining the carbon paper carefully between the receipt and the copy. “Please confirm that all the entries are correct,” Kiki requested, after he had carefully entered all the items.

  Abu glanced quickly at the receipt before nodding. “Hurry it up, man, will ya?”

  “One minute, please. Let me give the money to the Mhindi so that he can allow Ng’ang’a to bring the rest of the merchandise. Do you want that packaged up for you?” the beaming broker asked, indicating the oil filter which the mechanic was still holding.

  “Sure. And hurry it up, dammit!”

  “One minute, bwana. I will have everything wrapped carefully, together with your samples.”

  Kiki whistled shrilly and Ng’ang’a started in their direction. The broker started towards the shop counter as Abu called to his mechanic, “Come on, let’s go get the stuff and get on our way.”

  When both parties were midway across the crowded street Kiki broke into a run, darting effortlessly into the traffic, weaving between cars. Abu turned slowly, like a man in a trance, and saw Ng’ang’a drop the cartons, which spilled bricks onto the ground, before he too disappeared down the alley. These events transpired so rapidly and so casually that very few people on the street—save the ubiquitous fellow brokers—noticed.

  It took a moment for Abu to recover his wits, after which, in a fit of rage, he took off after the con, dodging cans and rotting cabbages that littered the narrow urine-bathed alley. This was his second mistake of the day in the big bad city.

  Halfway down the alley, Abu sensed a presence jogging beside him; a battered size fourteen Nike sneaker easily kept pace to his right. Turning to examine the new arrival, he felt a sharp pain in the ribs as knobbed knuckles prodded him on.

  “Cheka na mimi…changamka, jo!”56 A whiff of cheap homemade liquor wafted from between a row of crooked brown teeth that glinted in the dark alley like a roasted corn-cob.

  Breathing hard, Abu stopped and began to swivel, seeking the help of his mechanic. A thick arm swung over his head, and locked in place beneath his chin. The blood rushed to his head as the stranger, who must have been seven feet tall, applied the ngeta57 squeeze. Abu felt his limbs flailing helplessly in the air.

  While thick meaty hands held him high above the ground, the fingers that worked their way deftly through his pockets were slender and spidery, even polite—the sort of fingers that are quite accustomed to slipping in and out of narrow crevices, and extracting things discreetly with practiced ease.

  “Hiyo mongolio, jo,”58 the giant hissed at his slender-fingered accomplice. “Pamoja na bling na ndula.”59

  It took precisely twenty-five seconds to strip Abu clean of anything that could change hands quickly for chinky. When he regained his senses he found himself leaning against the wall, the smell of urine strong in his nostrils, a tender spot in his throat where the narrow wooden bar strapped to the giant’s inner arm had bruised his windpipe. The alley was deserted, except for his mechanic at the street entrance, still reeling from a full-handed slap in the face that had almost blinded him.

  The end of the alley overlooked the sluggish Nairobi River, which swirled its way slowly downstream, laboring to wash away mountains of city filth that piled upon its banks. A scrawny ibis paused midstream, eyeing Abu malevolently with its glassy eye as it balanced one foot on a piece of rusty piping stuck in the reeds. The bird might have wondered what the barefoot stranger wanted in that dark part of town, disturbing the silence of those that made manure. Then it went back to the more important task of trying to salvage something to eat from the muck.

  * * *

  52 bit by bit; literally “slow slow.”

  53 Literally “open sun,” referring to the kiosk- or shed-based little enterprises that occupy the lower-end workers in Kenya’s economy; enterprises that don’t require much capital to start, and which bring in just enough to put bread on the table.

  54 Spicy rice, cooked with cloves, bits of meat, and exotic condiments, popular along the Kenyan coast, especially during wedding feasts.

  55 A stimulant chewed mostly by Asian men in Nairobi; a bunch of bitter-tasting leaves in which are wrapped a blend of grated traditional herbs. It gives the chewer a high and often causes them to become irritable and their eyes bloodshot.

  56 Street slang, literally translating as: ‘Laugh alongside me; cheer up, man!’ It is a phrase a mugger might use ironically to one they are about to rob.

  57 A mugging technique common on Nairobi streets where the mugger holds his victim in a hammerlock, lifting him off the ground. A wooden bar strapped to the inside of his arm chokes the victim, forcing him to comply, as an accomplice empties his pockets, taking his jewelry, shoes, and other attractive items.

  58 “Take that cellphone.”

  59 “Together with the bling and shoes.”

  Vending

  The three mama mboga60 women slogged their way slowly up the incline, chatting noisily. The women were short and squat, their gingham aprons well-worn and stained with earth and green leaves. Each boasted a massive kangaroo pouch—patched at the front of her apron and filled with house keys, loose change, and other bric-a-brac—which swayed left and right with each movement of her large, pendulous breasts. Massive baskets, fashioned from old jute bags, rested heavy on their backs, held in place by a thick strap that passed across their foreheads. With farm-coarsened hands, the women maintained a firm grip on the straps as they inched on, heads lowered so that they could barely see the road ahead.

  The baskets were piled high with an assortment of green vegetables, freshly harvested from their farms down in the valley. Despite their sizeable loads, the women found time to stop once in a while to laugh heartily at a joke or a piece of juicy gossip, their lined and rounded faces glowing with mirth, stocky midriffs shaking. “Ngai!”61 or “Auuuuwii!” one or another would exclaim with a hoot of laughter. Then they’d wipe their teary eyes and resume their slogging walk. So absorbed were they in their sociable chatter that they were frequently oblivious of the early afternoon traffic that rattled and roared down the road beside them. Occasionally an oncoming motorist blasted his horn when they drifted into the roadway, and the women would leisurely move aside, their banter scarcely interrupted.

  When they reached First Parklands Avenue they took up their chant as if on cue. “Iko kitungulu!” the first said, to which the next picked up, “…hoho!” and the last, “…na kindu kiingi!”
It was an amusing pitch for a warm Saturday afternoon, and it had the cheerful exuberance of a schoolyard rhyme. “Iko kitungulu…hoho…na kindu kiingi!”62

  The three women trudged slowly up the road, pausing to announce their passing to the compounds lining either side, where residents lounged in the shade of their verandahs after their afternoon meal. The guards at the compound gates knew these three, and many at their posts returned the women’s lively greetings.

  It was the last Saturday of the month, and the three mama mboga women were secretly excited, for this was the day when the women of the households, in this predominantly Asian neighbourhood, met for their monthly chama, usually at the temple or the home of one of the more prominent families. On occasions such as these, impending weddings or social functions were planned, or, if none was scheduled, the women were content to simply trade the latest gossip as they enjoyed the feast they had prepared. The chama was a female-only affair, and the men who were not at work were expected to find other engagements with which to entertain themselves. The monthly chama was a tradition that went back to the days when Parklands and Ngara were still considered prestigious neighbourhoods, when the City Council still swept and hosed down the streets and emptied the garbage cans.

  The mama mboga women had heard that an important wedding was to be held in the community. Perhaps today they would enjoy brisk vegetable sales with the promise of the upcoming festivities. As they crossed a junction and passed several compound gates, one of the women, a light-skinned vendor by the name of Njoki, lagged behind. The other two proceeded at a steady pace, heads bent low with the great weights they bore on their backs, between them taking up the portion of Njoki’s sales chant. “Iko kitungulu…hoho…na kindu kiingi!”

  Njoki lowered her basket to the ground and approached a guard lounging in a battered wicker chair in the shade of a dusty frangipani tree. A mangy African bush dog, lying at the guard’s feet, opened one rheumy eye to regard the visitor, then went back to a twitchy sleep.

  “Jambo,63 Abedi,” said Njoki, revealing her brown-stained teeth in a broad, knowing smile. Delving into her pouch, she withdrew half a roasted maize cob wrapped in leaves and passed it to him through the bars of the wrought-iron gate. The guard, springing awake, hurried to collect his gift and tucked it into his faded nylon tunic so that it would not be seen by his employer. “Is Mzee in?”

  The guard nodded, a smile flashing across his dark face. The cement drive beyond the gate curved around to an old storied building tucked into a grove of giant mango trees. Paint peeled in long strips off the wooden shutters that framed dusty windows. The original owners had come from India to build the ‘Lunatic Express’ railway line many years before, and it seemed likely the house was as old as the now-rusted railway. Through the golden shower vines clinging to the gate on the balcony that jutted over the carved wooden door, Njoki saw a figure in an old rocking chair.

  “Voo is it, Abedi?” the elderly Asian man called, rising from his chair and leaning over the curved balustrade. He wore a singlet and shorts, his heavy biceps and hairy forearms shiny with sweat. He squinted in the bright afternoon sun, his thick eyebrows faded grey, as were the tufts of hair jutting from his bulbous nose. “Nani iko?”64

  “It is mama mboga, Mzee,” said the guard.

  “Ve-ell, fungulia yeye!”65

  Njoki swung the heavy bag onto her back with practiced ease, winking at the guard as he swung the gates open to admit her into the compound. The homeowner, Sailesh, watched her approach, leaning against the balustrade. When she passed out of view beyond the side of the house, he put on his leather slippers and came down to open the back door for her.

  “Va-at have you broot toodeh, Njoki?” Sailesh asked with a wide grin, opening the kitchen door and ushering her inside.

  “Kitungulu, hoho…na kindu kiingi,” said Njoki, lowering her bag to the polished terrazzo floor.

  “Ve-ell..veell,” said Sailesh, cupping her ample backside in his huge hands while she bent over, engaged in freeing the carrying strap from over her head.

  “Ngai!” said Njoki, making a play of knocking his hands off her. But then they were both laughing. “Can’t a woman have a glass of water first in this hot sun?”

  “Ah, that can vaaait,” said Sailesh, pulling her into his bear hug.

  “You have been eating too much of that tambuu of yours again,” she said, patting him on the chin. “Your eyes are all red.”

  “Ve-ell, not too much,” said Sailesh, passing a hand behind her back and urging her toward the stairs. “I voos vaaiting for you!”

  An ancient air conditioner hummed like a World War One plane above the wide kitchen window, but the air was warm and muggy. The old wooden stairs squealed in protest as Sailesh and Njoki walked arm in arm up to the landing, toward the bedrooms. The guest bedroom, like the other rooms in the house, had a high ceiling with thick layers of cracked and peeling paint. While gleaming glass and steel towers were being erected all over the neighborhood, Sailesh’s old house retained a comfortable warmth that modern architecture couldn’t match. The memories and secrets of generations of his family were here, embedded in the pits and cracks of the walls and ceilings.

  Njoki took off her lesso and spread it on the wide bed. Then she reached behind her to free a button, allowing her gown to slip to the floor. All the while Sailesh, having long shed his own clothes, groped her, his eyes closed, his breath warm on her skin. She climbed onto the bed and lay on her stomach, the pillows arranged under her crotch. He liked Indian-style sex best, she knew.

  Later, they lay on their backs staring up at the rickety ceiling fan that sluggishly beat warm air over their cooling bodies. Sailesh had broken wind on the crest of the hill, and the odor lingered still in the room. Njoki passed her hand idly over his chest and belly, running her fingers through his pelt of body hair. “You never seem to age, Babur,” she said coyly, addressing him by his childhood nickname, one derived from an ancient Indian warrior king. “You are a wicked old lion!”

  “And you are my lioness,” Sailesh growled, eyeing her with a slanted gaze, his huge teeth flashing.

  

  When Njoki left a short while later her bag was considerably lightened; the assorted peppers, carrots, dhania,66 and cauliflower had been left on the kitchen table for the missus to sort through when she returned from the chama.

  The three vendors sat in the shade of a gnarled flame tree in the City Park, taking stock of the day’s takings. It was evening and the park was gradually filling up with necking couples and strolling families who couldn’t afford the fancy city restaurants. Up in the trees the monkeys flashed white and grey as they leapt from branch to branch, their chatter dulling the metallic grind of the endless city traffic on the adjacent road.

  Njoki spread her lesso on the leaf-strewn ground and sat upon it, her legs akimbo. As she untied the knot in her headscarf, a smile wreathed her lined face.

  “Not so bad business today, eh, Njoki?” Waĉeke asked, her browned teeth bared in a gleeful smile.

  “You can tell from her eyes,” said the third. “The kuhoya hoya67 was not in vain today.”

  The three women hummed to themselves as they counted their money. Njoki thought of her block of tin shanties in the Githogoro slums where the three of them lived. She was pulling them down, one room at a time, as the fundis68 converted them into permanent stone-walled rooms that attracted better rent. With today’s takings Njoki had enough to cover a truck of sand and three bags of cement.

  Across the park the Council worker who had been cutting long grass with a panga69 paused to enviously regard the three women, who always stopped under the flame tree to count their money. His own hustles—mostly bribes from teenagers found in “compromising positions” behind the overgrown bushes—never seemed to raise as much money.

  * * *

  60 women vegetable vendors, literally ‘vegetable mamas’r />
  61 Gikuyu for ‘God’

  62 Get your onions …capsicums…and other extras!

  63 Swahili for ‘Greetings!’

  64 bastardized Swahili for ‘Who is there?’

  65 bastardized Swahili for ‘open for her’

  66 coriander

  67 Gikuyu for “hustling”; any small-time business enterprise that ordinary folks engage in to put food on the table.

  68 Swahili for “craftsman.” Could refer to any skilled craftsman—a mason, tailor, watch-repairman, electrician, or even plumber.

  69 machete

  Crucifixion

  The faithful at Nyambari Parish Catholic Church should have been slightly alarmed that their new priest had not been formally introduced to them by their trusted, long-serving priest; neither had their priest of fifteen years hinted at his upcoming transfer during recent sermons. They should also have been somewhat suspicious that the new cleric arrived with his own altar boys in tow. The faithful, however, were neither alarmed nor suspicious, largely due to the boisterous charm and charisma of their new man of God. With benevolent, paternal features and neatly combed hair, the new priest was an immediate comfort to the parishioners as he stood—nearly six feet tall—behind the lectern in his fine silk robes, an old-fashioned monocle perched over one eye.

  At the priest’s signal the old organ player launched into an Easter hymn, “I am the Bread of Life,” and the flock rose obediently to their feet. The choir knew the opening notes of the hymn and joined in, their voices rising in flawless accord: