Dog Meat Samosa

by Stanley Gazemba

  Gichamba walked stiffly up the short drive behind the maid, his boots crunching on the gravel, conscious of the scrutiny of the elderly couple from the veranda. He had barely slept, had little appetite, and was miserable at the lack of communication with Mugure. He had tried calling the number of the phone in the black elections observer’s bag from a payphone, but he had been consistently greeted by the recorded message: “the subscriber cannot be reached.”

  Muthoni had orchestrated this separation, he knew with bitter conviction. She intended to oversee the sale of the car, to manage the funds, to call the shots. But he might have something to say about that, Gichamba thought grimly. But despite Muthoni’s machinations, why hadn’t Mugure made an effort to communicate?

  Ndirangu, his friend and fellow quarry worker, had urged Gichamba to find his wife and confront her aunt at their house in Wangige, which Gichamba had decided to do. He had not realized, however, that Mugure’s parents were also visiting. While Gichamba had never visited Mugure’s family home to formally ask for her hand, and had, in fact, never met her parents, the old woman on the veranda bore a striking resemblance to his wife.

  “Habari, Mzee…habari, Mama,” Gichamba greeted her as he stepped on to the veranda.

  The old man eyed Gichamba steadily, wiping the ring of beer foam from his upper lip with the back of his hand. “You are the young man who lives with my daughter, aren’t you?” he said gruffly.

  “That’s right, Mzee,” Gichamba replied, ducking his head respectfully.

  “So, now you have come to visit us?” he added as he stuck his rolled cigarette between his lips and began searching through his trouser pocket for an ancient tin lighter.

  “Er…yes, Mzee,” said Gichamba uncomfortably, extending his hand, offering a handshake, which Mugure’s father ignored.

  Gichamba, following the maid into the house, was shown to a deep armchair by the door and left on his own. Perching on the edge of the chair, he felt conscious of the trail of dirt his boots had left on the thick sea-green carpet. A slight breeze, blowing through the open windows, caused the crystal chandelier to swing gently, sending a cascade of rainbow-colored light across the walls. A four-foot aquarium, filled with tiny goldfish that darted around giant seashells and exotic aquatic plants, dominated one corner of the room. How was it that a vegetable and egg trader could afford to live in such affluence? Gichamba wondered. Through an open door across the room, he could see a large mahogany table being set for lunch.

  It was a tense meal, knives and spoons doing most of the talking as bowls of gravy passed quietly from hand to hand. Mugure’s father, seated opposite Gichamba, carved the massive rack of roast goat ribs, pausing every so often to glare at the young man, conveying a message that only the two of them understood: I am yet to eat your goat ribs, kijana. Mugure had been seated between her mother and Aunt Muthoni, where it was difficult for Gichamba to make eye contact with her. The little conversation they had was strained, initiated by the old man and deftly guided by him such that often it ended on a cryptic phrase that only the best speakers of the language could interpret, but which nonetheless was laden with meaning.

  At length, as everyone chewed their toothpicks to a pulp, Muthoni rose and asked Mugure to help her clear the table. One by one the women disappeared onto the kitchen until only Gichamba and the old man remained.

  “That was a hearty meal,” the old man said with a deep belch. “And now, a little fresh air settles the belly. What do you say, kijana?”

  The two men settled in the cane chairs on the verandah, just as the maid appeared with another cold Tusker for the old man and a beer for Gichamba.

  “So, you came to visit us, you say?” the old man asked.

  “Yes, I came to visit you, is true,” Gichamba acknowledged, steadily returning his gaze. “I also came to fetch my wife and to determine what should be done about our car.”

  “Your wife, you say?” said the old man, a crafty look in his eyes.

  “Yes, my wife,” Gichamba affirmed, taking a sip of his beer.

  “And would that be my daughter you are speaking of?”

  “I believe we are talking about Mugure,” Gichamba replied levelly.

  “You will forgive my expression of surprise, young man. You see, I am hearing this for the first time,” said the old man, licking at the edge of a square of old newspaper as he rolled up another cigarette. “Indeed I am hearing of this for the first time.”

  At that moment Aunt Muthoni and Mugure’s mother bustled through the doors, settling themselves in the remaining cane chairs.

  “Nyina wa Mugure,”78 said the old man, making a half-hearted effort to rise from his chair. “It is good that you have come. This young man here was amusing me just now. It seems like some matters have been going on behind my back, would that be so?”

  “I do not understand, Mzee,” said Mugure’s mother. “Of what are you speaking?”

  “It is truly amusing,” said the old man, pausing to light his cigarette. “I come all this way to visit my daughters in the city and then, after being received so well I stumble on the information that one of them is married; and yet I have never tasted a horn-full of muratina in the marriage negotiations as the girl’s father! What do you think of that, Nyina wa Mugure?” The old man’s chest was heaving in a burst of wheezy laughter that caused tears to spring to his eyes. “I say, isn’t that plain amusing, Nyina wa Mugure?” he repeated breathlessly, dabbing at his wet lips. “Or was this your plan, Muthoni, to invite me over and then pull this surprise on me?”

  By the time Gichamba left two hours later the air was charged, brimming with such hostility it would catch fire if someone struck a match. The entire clan had come out on the veranda to confront Gichamba and their collective vehemence had finally driven the young man to the front door where Muthoni issued the parting shot.

  “Look at him,” Muthoni spat. “He has no shame at all, coming here, eating free food, and then having the audacity to ask for his wife…what wife do you have here, Gichamba?”

  “You know very well what brought me here, Muthoni,” Gichamba said furiously. “I want to know where Mugure and our car are. You have no business in any of this!”

  “Ati, I want to know where Mugure and the car are,” Wanjiru mimicked his accent, her lips twisted in a snarl. “Just what are they to you, eh? Was it you who won the car or Mugure?”

  “It is my phone that drew the winning number, a phone which I bought with my own money,” Gichamba retorted, stung. “The business is mine; it is I who opened it for my wife.”

  “What kind of a phone is that, eh?” Wanjiru said, mockingly. “Do you even know what phones look like?” Muthoni and Wanjiru exchanged amused glances, breaking into contemptuous laughter. “Come on, Muthoni, show him what a phone looks like.”

  “Listen, Gichamba,” Muthoni said stepping forward, thrusting a finger in his face, “if it is a phone you want we can buy you a dozen phones. That thing you call a phone is nothing to us, do you hear? Come on, look at me!” She swiveled around like a peacock, her ample hips straining against the cloth of her khanga. “Do you think I look like someone who would be caught with a thing like that in my handbag?” Wanjiru cackled with derisive laughter. “Listen to me well, kijana. The truth of the matter is that you were not even there when the entry for the competition was made. Whose picture was in the newspapers? Was it yours or Mugure’s?”

  “Yes, answer us that,” Wanjiru urged, her expression that of a hunter taking aim along the shaft of a tightly drawn arrow. “Whose picture was it, Gichamba?”

  “I demand to speak to my wife!” Gichamba shouted, unable to contain his fury any longer. “Bring Mugure out here and let her swear to the things you are saying!”

  “Listen, Gichamba,” Muthoni said condescendingly. “I know you feel that we have robbed you. I would feel the same if I was in your place, and I will not waste any
more of your time. First let me put you in the picture, if only to save you the heartache. The truth is that the car has been sold and the money is safely in the custody of Mugure’s family. We reached this decision together, as a family. I will not tell you how much it was sold for, but I just want you to know that it has, and so you should stop dreaming about it. I hope we now understand each other?”

  Gichamba stared at her for a long while, swallowed the lump in his throat, and nodded slowly as if he were coming out of a trance.

  “Good. Secondly, I think you heard what Mzee said? He has never seen a goat’s tail delivered to his compound as Mugure’s dowry, neither has he tasted your beer. And so technically, you and Mugure have just been girlfriend and boyfriend and not really husband and wife. I know you will argue,” she held up a hand to stifle his protest, “but the truth is that if you speak to someone who understands these matters they will tell you that Mzee is within his right as far as tradition goes. That is just the way it is, Gichamba. Now, I know it was you who bought Mugure the phone, and that you rightfully deserve a share of the prize. But like we said before the prize is hers—just as the phone company stated—and it is entirely up to her to do with it as she pleases.”

  “So why isn’t Mugure telling me this?” Gichamba stammered, his heart a leaden weight in his chest.

  “Please, let me finish,” said Muthoni, her hand outstretched. “As I said I am only trying to lay it out for you. Arguing about it won’t help matters. Now,” she said quickly, before he could interrupt again, “this is what we are going to do. We are reasonable people, you see, and we recognize the fact that you were living with Mugure at the time when good fortune visited her. Because of that we shall not cast you away empty-handed. We have deliberated on the matter and agreed to give you a portion of the money. You will also have your phone back so that you can continue running the business in the hope of striking another fortune. As regards your relationship with Mugure, I am afraid it will depend on whether you decide to formally go and ask for her hand. I believe that is a matter between the two of you. Nonetheless if you asked me I’d advise you give it a shot. Mzee is not unreasonable. If you move with speed he might just give you his blessings. That, Gichamba, is how the matter stands. And if you will excuse me I will fetch the package for you.” Muthoni gestured to Wanjiru, who came forward with the black elections observer’s bag.

  “I believe this is all that we owe you,” said Muthoni calmly, laying the bag on the stair. “And now, if you are reasonable, you will take your bag and go. I believe this matter is settled.”

  Gichamba remained rooted to the spot as the two women watched him stonily, arms folded across their ample bosoms. He tried to speak, but his tongue felt swollen in his mouth.

  “I hope we don’t have to bring in the police,” Muthoni said finally, her tone resuming the earlier iciness. “There is a police patrol base just down the road, and if I must, I will call and tell them that you are trespassing. Have a good day, Gichamba.” With that she drew closed the little steel gate that secured the veranda entrance, turned on her heel, and disappeared into the house.

  “Listen, you two,” Gichamba shouted hoarsely, finding his voice at last, “this matter is not over! I will be back!”

  The massive front door slammed behind them and Gichamba could hear the sound of the bolt sliding shut. Slowly Gichamba retrieved his bag, slinging it over his shoulder as he slipped out between the iron gates. He glanced back at the house, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mugure in one of the windows, but the lace curtains were drawn and still.

  That evening Gichamba got truly drunk for the first time since the day he had received news of their prize-winning car. In company with Ndirangu, he visited one pub after another until they staggered home, singing raucously, the black elections observer’s bag dragging along the ground behind them. The following morning, after Gichamba had sobered up, he opened the black bag to discover his phone, along with a manila envelope containing two hundred and fifty thousand shillings—his share.

  When he visited Muthoni’s house in Wangige the following week, driven by a desire to see Mugure, he found a To Let sign hanging on the locked gate. A uniformed guard, who was patrolling the premises, gruffly informed him that the last tenant had left no forwarding address.

  

  The girl was weary and footsore, her foam bathroom slippers worn at the heel, the straps held in place by twisted wire. The baby slept in the dirty shuka79 slung across her back, her tiny toes and wooly head emerging from the pool of shade thrown by her mother’s shaggy nest of unkempt hair. Occasionally the baby whimpered softly and sucked noisily at her thumb. The mother’s gaze focused intently on the dusty road ahead, swaying slightly to the motion of the cloth bundle balanced on her head. The murram road danced softly in the midday sun, the shimmering mirages rising off the hot surface, blurring her vision. Fighting a rising dizziness, she continued resolutely forward.

  A cattle truck had brought her from Isiolo the day before, depositing her at the Kiamaiko market. She had wandered a while among the Somali goat traders, trying to find the trader who had robbed and raped her. She had intended to plead with him to return her ID and bank card. He could keep the money. Toward midday, having had no luck in discovering her attacker, she decided to board a matatu to town. She had a few coins hidden away in the knot in her shuka, enough to pay for the fare to town and a meal of githeri. The other passengers in the matatu had wrinkled their noses and turned their heads away when she had squeezed among them. She was, she knew, filthy and unkempt. Strands of straw and knotted burrs tangled in her hair, and raw scratch marks surrounded wounds where ticks had once attached themselves. If that were not enough, she smelled strongly of goats with which she had ridden in the back of the truck.

  Her child had been born outside Isiolo town on the coarse grass behind a fawn-colored thorny bush. She could close her eyes and recall those hours with a vivid clarity—the coarse grass on which she lay, prickling the back of her bare thighs; between her trembling legs, across the mound of her belly, she could see the rickety manyatta80 she had been attempting to reach before she collapsed. A shaggy-winged scavenging bird, etched against the azure blue sky, sailed lazily on the thermal above as her breath labored in her throat, her spine stiffening in agony as the spasms of birth convulsed from one end of her body to the other. Through the deafening din in her ears she heard the sound of cowbells and voices.

  Opening her eyes, she saw Maasai herdsmen crowded around her, leaning on their long white herding sticks and talking animatedly in a language she could not understand. She recognized, however, the glances of kind concern that flittered across their brown and weathered faces.

  Later, as she nursed her baby in the shade of a thorn tree, she wished she might reward these kind herdsmen—who had not asked for a penny in payment. And yet they had quietly passed on, true to their ancient nomadic instinct to find the next green grazing patch for their herds.

  Stumbling on a stone, she stubbed her toe on the murram road and stooped to rub her foot, a grimace curling her cracked lips. Then, straightening painfully, she limped around a bend in the road to see the mabati-roofed store the farm women had told her of. The road in front of the store was crowded with several trucks, half a dozen handcarts, and half a dozen people coming and going. The sign above the store read: Gichamba’s Hardware Store, Dealers in Construction Material, Sand, and Ballast.

  The girl stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes glued to the people at the counter, her heart drumming inside her chest. A boy perched high on a donkey cart paused to stare at her, the empty water barrel the beast was lugging to the stream stirring up dust behind them. The girl took no notice, but stared fixedly at the buxom woman behind the counter, who also carried a baby on her back. The woman moved with ease, despite her immense girth, chatting up the customers as she fetched their orders and wrote out their receipts. Behind her Gichamba struggled with a bundle of half-in
ch PVC pipes, trying to pull them out of the top rack without dislodging the rest. A battered Chevrolet pick-up truck backed up to the entrance, a cloud of black diesel smoke billowing past the counter and causing the woman to shout a blustery protest. The girl could see though that even as she yelled at the truck driver, wagging her finger in his direction, her chubby face was laughing, and her eyes friendly.

  The driver climbed out and crushed a cigarette butt under the heel of his pointed boot. Then, thumbs hooked in the loops of his faded jeans, he sauntered up to the counter, pausing to tease the woman who waited behind it, slapping her upper arm playfully. After which, lifting the panel at the end of the counter, the driver assisted Gichamba with the pipes, carrying them in stacks out to the pick-up truck. The woman, perched on her high stool behind the counter, tallied each order in her receipt book as the men passed, her forefinger moving down the listed entries on the LPO form at her elbow.

  After the pipes had been counted, packed, and secured, Gichamba paused, wiping the sweat from his brow. He turned and his eyes met those of the girl just as she was preparing to turn on her heel and bolt. Instinctively, he started forward, his eyes widening in sudden recognition. Clutching at the cloth bundle on her head, the other hand supporting the baby on her back, the girl turned and ran.

  A battered Bedford truck hurtled up the road, lugging a huge exhauster tank behind, delicately balanced on a rickety frame. The driver, seeing the girl run into the road, slammed on the brakes, cursing loudly, the smell of burnt rubber filling the air. The girl thudded against the steaming radiator grill and tumbled to the road, the bundle on her head rolling away into the gutter.

  Gichamba reached her just as the driver and his loader leapt out of the cab, one to see to the girl and the other to wedge a rock under the wheel to prevent the truck from rolling downhill. Gichamba held the girl by one hand and the driver by the other as they helped her to her feet.

  “Are you hurt?” the driver asked, dusting her off. “Is the baby all right?”