What is the What

by Dave Eggers

  After an hour of watching the street, the path below the window, I tried the television. I had seen only scattered bits of TV by that point, and so, left to my own devices, alone with twelve channels, this was a problem. I did not move for three hours, I am ashamed to admit. But the things I saw! I watched movies, the news, soccer, cooking shows, nature documentaries, a movie where the sky held two suns, and an examination of the last days of Adolf Hitler. I found a learning channel, directed to students my age, where the hosts were teaching the same book I was studying at Kakuma. This filled me with a certain pride, knowing that what was good enough for refugees was good enough for the Kenyans of Nairobi.

  In the afternoon, after far too much TV, I heard the students returning from school. I used my key to lock the door and I walked out to see all the boys and girls in their uniforms, and they looked at me and whispered.

  —Turkana!

  —Sudan!

  —Refugee!

  They pointed and giggled but they were not unkind, and I loved them for not being unkind. Here the students walked freely and wore clean white shirts with plaid skirts and scarves to match. It was too much. I wanted to wear a uniform, too. I wanted to be one of them, to know what to wear every day, and to be Kenyan, to go to school along paved roads and laugh about nothing. To buy some candy on the way home and eat it and laugh! That was what I wanted. I would have walls where I slept, and I could turn a faucet and water would come and wash over my hands, as much as I wanted, cold as bone.

  The film Mike, Grace, and I saw that night, I remember distinctly, was Men in Black. I knew to some extent what was going on in the movie, but wasn’t sure what was real and what was not. It was the first time I had been in a theater. The film was confusing but I did my best to follow the reactions of the audience. When they laughed, I laughed. When they seemed scared, I became scared, too. But all the while the separation of the real from the not-real was very difficult for me. After the movie, Mike and Grace took me for ice cream, and they asked me what I thought of Men in Black. There was no possibility that I would admit that I had no idea what was happening much of the time, so I lavished the film with praise and otherwise agreed with all their assessments. They were fans of Tommy Lee Jones, they said, and had seen The Fugitive four times.

  We walked along the streets of Nairobi that night, on the way back to their apartment, and I thought of this life. To have ice cream! We actually had to choose between two ice cream vendors! I remember being conscious of the fleeting nature of that night, how in two days I would be back at Kakuma. Though I tried to disguise it, I slowed our pace as we walked. I wanted so badly to make the evening last. It was a lovely night, the air warm, the wind civilized.

  Back at the apartment, Mike and Grace bid me goodnight and encouraged me to take what I wanted from the refrigerator, to watch television if I liked. This might have been a mistake. I did not take any food from them, for I was overstuffed anyway, but I did take advantage of the second part of their offer. I am not sure when I fell asleep. I spun the channels until my wrist was sore. I know that light had begun to bleach the sky when I finally went to bed, and I was dazed for most of the next day.

  In the morning, I found Grace on the couch, crying. I tiptoed quietly into the living room. She held a newspaper in her hand.

  —No no no! Grace said.—No! I can’t believe it!

  Mike came to see what Grace was reading. I stood, timidly, for fear that something like the bombing of the embassy had happened again. As I got closer to the newspaper, I saw the image of a white woman in a car. She was very pretty, with sandy brown hair. There were pictures of the same woman handing flowers to an African child, stepping off airplanes, riding in the back of a convertibles. I guessed that this woman, whoever she was, was dead.

  —This is terrible, Mike said, and sat with Grace, holding her shoulder against his. I said nothing. I still did not know what had happened. Grace turned to me. Her eyes were wet, swollen.

  —Don’t you know her? she asked. I shook my head.

  —This is Princess Diana. From England?

  Grace explained that this woman had given a great deal of money and assistance to Kenya, that she worked for the ban on land mines. She was a beautiful person, she said.

  —A car crash. In Paris, Mike said. Now he was behind Grace, wrapping his arms around her. They were the most loving couple I had ever seen. I knew my father loved my mother, but open affection like this was not part of life in my village.

  All day, people were crying. Ten of us, Tabitha and the Somalis and most of the Dominics, walked through the city and wherever we went, we found people weeping—in the markets, outside the churches, on the sidewalks. It seemed the whole world knew this person named Diana, and if the world knew her, the connection between the peoples of the earth was tighter than I had imagined. I wondered if the people of England would mourn if Mike and Grace died. At that time, confused as I was, I imagined that they would.

  My sleep-deprived state dulled my senses, and perhaps this was helpful. After lunch we went to the theater to rehearse for the next night’s show, and had I been more alert I might have fainted. The theater was enormous, a lavishly decorated space. The last time we performed the play we had done so on the dirt of Kakuma, the audience sitting on the ground before us. There were no proper stages in our camp, and now we were standing on real boards of cherry wood, looking out at the plush seats, twelve hundred of them. We rehearsed that day, though the mood was somber. The members of our group had all been informed of Diana’s death, and who she was, and they feigned or adopted sadness.

  When the troupe was alone that day, in whole or in part, we talked about staying. We all wanted to remain in Nairobi, to live there forever. No one wanted to go back to Kakuma, even those of us with families, and we theorized about how we might stay. There were plans to run away, to disappear into the city, to hide until they’d given up on us. But we knew at least some of us would be caught and punished severely. And if anyone did run, it would mean the end of any trips to Nairobi for anyone else at Kakuma. In the end the only solution, we knew, was a sponsorship. If a Kenyan citizen agreed to sponsor any of us, or any refugee in Kakuma, one could live with that sponsor, go to a real Kenyan school, and live as the Kenyans did.

  —You should ask Mike to sponsor you, one of the Dominics urged me.—I bet he would.

  —I can’t ask him that.

  —He’s young. He can do it.

  The idea was not a good one, I didn’t think. It was the habit of so many I knew, in Kakuma and later, to take the generosity of a person and stretch it to breaking.

  But in a few weaker moments I thought, I could ask him, couldn’t I? I could ask him the night before I was to leave. Then no harm would be done; if he said no, it would not be uncomfortable.

  So that became my plan. Until the last day, I would be cavalier and happy, showing how appealing I was, and then, the last night, I would mention to Mike that a young man like myself would be helpful in Nairobi, would be able to do just about anything for Mike and Grace and the Mavuno Drama Group.

  After rehearsal, Mike and Grace offered to take me and one friend out for dinner at a Chinese restaurant. I chose Tabitha, but was ready to have my selection rejected as inappropriate. But as it was not unusual in Kenya for people like Tabitha and me to date, Mike and Grace accepted and welcomed her. My selection intrigued them, I believe, for they asked many questions on our walk to pick her up. Which one was she again? Did we see her yesterday? Was she wearing pink?

  We ate at a restaurant with clean ceramic floors and pictures on the wall of past dignitaries of Kenya. Tabitha and I ate lamb and vegetables and soda. I gained weight, everyone did, so quickly those few days. We had never eaten so well. All during dinner Mike and Grace watched us eat, smiling sadly, and as we became sated and could talk undistracted by our food, Mike and Grace, I am sure, noticed that we were in love. They looked from Tabitha to me and back again and they grinned knowingly.

  We walked from
dinner to a shopping mall, four stories tall and filled with stores and people, so much glass, a movie theater. Tabitha and I pretended to be familiar with a place like this, and tried not to seem overly impressed.

  —Oh lord, we’re tired, Grace said, forcing an extravagant yawn. Mike laughed and squeezed her hand. He stopped outside a photo-processing shop. A potbellied man stepped out and he and Mike and Grace greeted each other warmly.

  —Okay, Mike said to Tabitha and me.—I’m guessing you two would like some time alone, and we’re willing to allow this. But first we’ll make an arrangement. This is my friend Charles.

  The potbellied man nodded to us.

  —He’ll be working here till ten o’clock. We will allow you two to stay here at the mall together, unchaperoned, so long as at ten o’clock, you meet Charles back here at his shop. He’ll close up and take you both home.

  It was a very good deal, we thought, and so we accepted immediately. Mike handed me a handful of shillings and winked at me conspiratorially. When I held that money in one hand and Tabitha’s hand in the other, I felt sure that I was living the best moment of my life. Tabitha and I had almost two hours alone together, and it did not matter that we needed to stay inside the mall.

  —Be back here at ten, Charles said, looking at Tabitha.

  —You’ll be okay? Mike asked me.

  —Yes sir, I said.—You can trust us.

  —We do trust you, he said, and then winked at me.

  —Now go, you’re free! Grace said, and shooed us with the back of her tiny hand.

  Mike and Grace left the mall and Charles returned to his film-developing machines. Tabitha and I were alone and the choices were too many. I began to think where might be the most appropriate spot to hold her against me, to hold her face in my hands. Gop had instructed me to hold a woman’s face in my hands when I kissed her, and I was determined to do it this way.

  I knew nothing about the mall, but I had the presence of mind to know that in such a situation, the man should appear decisive, so I first led Tabitha up two flights of stairs and into the biggest and brightest of the mall’s stores. I did not know what was inside. When I finally realized it was a grocery store, it was too late for me to change my mind. I had to feign great pride in my choice.

  When I look back on this, it seems very unromantic, but we spent most of our two hours in this grocery store. It was enormous, brighter than day, and filled with as much food as all of Kakuma could eat in a week. It was also something of a variety store and a drug store, too—so many things in one place. There were twelve aisles, some with freezers stuffed with pizzas and popsicles, others stacked with home appliances and cosmetics. Tabitha examined the lipsticks, the hair products, false eyelashes, and women’s magazines; she was very much a cosmetics girl even then. At Kakuma Town the stores were wooden shacks stuffed with ancient-seeming products, nothing packaged brightly, nothing so pristine and delectable as the contents of that Nairobi grocery-variety store. We walked up and down each aisle, showing each other one wonder after another: a wall of juices and sodas, a shelf of candy and toys, fans and air conditioners, an area in the back where bicycles were lined up and gleaming. Tabitha let out a little squeal and ran to those made for the smallest riders.

  She sat on a tiny tricycle built for a toddler and honked the horn.

  —Val, I need to ask you an important question, she said, her eyes alight.

  —Yes? I said. I was so worried that she wanted something of me that I was not prepared to give. I had feared for a long time that secretly Tabitha was well-versed in the ways of love, and that the moment we were alone, she would want to move too quickly. That it would be clear I had no experience at all. Seeing her on that tricycle provoked strong and inexplicable feelings in me.

  —Let’s run, she said.

  This wasn’t what I had expected.

  —What? Run where? I said.

  —Run away. Stay here. Leave Kakuma. Let’s not go back.

  I told Tabitha that she had lost her mind. She said nothing for a minute and I thought she had regained her senses. But she was far from finished.

  —Val, can’t you see? Mike and Grace expect us to leave tonight, together. That’s why they left us alone.

  —Mike and Grace don’t expect us to leave.

  —You heard Grace! She said shoo! We can go off and be like them. Wouldn’t you like to live like them? We can, Val, you and me.

  I told Tabitha I could not do it. I did not agree that Mike and Grace expected us to leave that night. I believed that they would be greatly troubled by our disappearance, that it would bring them a lot of trouble from police and immigration officials. Our defecting would also, I reminded Tabitha, put an end to all sanctioned refugee excursions from Kakuma. Our trip to Nairobi would be the last any youth from Kakuma would ever make.

  —C’mon, Val! We can’t think of that, she said.—We have to think of what you and I can do. We have to live, don’t we? What right do they have to tell us where we can live? You know that’s not living, how they have it at Kakuma. We’re not humans there and you know it. We’re animals, we’re just penned up like cattle. Don’t you think you deserve better than that? Don’t we? Who are you obeying? The rules of Kenyans who know nothing about us? Everyone will understand, Val. They’ll cheer us from Kakuma and you know it. They don’t expect us to come back.

  —We can’t, Tabitha. This isn’t the right way.

  —You’re put on this Earth just once and you’re going to just live as these people make you live? You’re not a person to them! You’re an insect! Take control. She stomped her foot onto mine.

  —Who are you, Valentine? Where are you from?

  —I’m from Sudan.

  —Really? How? What do you remember from that place?

  —I’ll go back, I said.—I’ll always be Sudanese.

  —But you’re a person first, Val. You’re a soul. You know what a soul is? She truly could be condescending, exasperating.

  —You’re a soul whose human form happened to take that of a boy from Sudan. But you’re not tied to that, Val. You’re not just a Sudanese boy. You don’t have to accept these limitations. You don’t have to obey the laws of where someone like you must belong, that because you have Sudanese skin and Sudanese features you have to be just a product of the war, that you’re just part of all this shit. They tell you to leave your home and walk to Ethiopia and you do. They tell you to leave Ethiopia, to leave Golkur, and you do. They walk to Kakuma and you just walk with them. You follow every time. And now they tell you that you have to stay in a camp until they allow you to leave. Don’t you see? What right do all these people have to draw boundaries around the life you can live? What gives them the right? Because they happened to be born Kenyan and you Sudanese?

  —My parents are alive, Tabitha!

  —I know that! Don’t you think it would be more likely to get to them from Nairobi? You could work and earn money and get to Marial Bai far more easily from here. Think about it.

  I can look back and see the wisdom in what she said that night, but at the time, Tabitha was frustrating me greatly, and I had a low opinion of her views and of her. I told her that her rhetoric would not convince me to break laws or to diminish the quality of life for thousands of young people at Kakuma.

  —I have no right to make life harder for anyone else, I said.

  And that was the end of our talk. I wandered through the store for some time, not sure if I wanted to be with Tabitha then or ever again. She was a different person than I had previously assumed. She seemed selfish to me, irresponsible and short-sighted and immature. I decided I would simply go to Charles’s shop at ten o’clock, hoping Tabitha would be there. But I did not want to be the one to prevent her from fleeing if she so chose. I hoped so dearly that she would not run away but I did not want to tell her not to. I did not have that right. I was sure that this night would be the end of our romance. She would see me as timid and overly obedient; this was something I feared from the beginni
ng, that Tabitha favored more dangerous men than me. I was then, like I was on so many days, at war with my law-abiding personality. Over the years, my eagerness to please those in authority got me into far too much trouble.

  It was, however, too soon to admit this to myself or to Tabitha, so I remained among the bicycles, reminded of the man in the desert who kept fresh food in a hole in the ground. I thought of this man and found myself unconsciously touching my shin where the barbed wire had made a meal of me. It was then that I saw that Tabitha had returned. She was storming down the aisle to me, past the electric fans and the coffee makers and towels, and she was soon in front of me, standing inches away.

  —Stupid boy! she yelled.

  I had no answer for that accusation, for it was certainly true.

  —Now kiss me, she demanded.

  She was as angry as I had ever seen her, her forehead making use of muscles I did not know a face possessed. Her lips, though, were pursed, and she closed her eyes and tilted her head up to mine. And immediately all of my opinions about her fell away. My stomach and heart collided but I leaned down to Tabitha and kissed her. I kissed her and she kissed me until a clerk in the grocery store asked us to leave. They were closing, he said, pointing to his watch. It was ten o’clock. We had been kissing for forty minutes there among the bicycles, her hands on the handlebars and mine on hers.

  I remember nothing from the next day. Tabitha was obligated to spend the day with her sponsors, and because Mike and Grace were working, I spent much of the day in their apartment. Occasionally I walked around the neighborhood, attempting to think, even for a second or two, of anything beyond the kiss we shared. But it was futile. I relived that long kiss a thousand times that day. In the apartment I kissed the refrigerator, I kissed every door, many pillows and all of the couch cushions, all in the effort to approximate the sensation again.