‘Nairobi,’ I said, trying to match his casual manner and his broad smile.
‘So am I,’ he said with an expanded grin. He waited a moment longer, grinning and nodding his head encouragingly. Something was expected of me. I grinned and nodded too. His smile waned a little. ‘What are you called, man?’ he asked finally, gently.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, feeling stupid and discourteous. ‘My name is Hassan. Hassan Omar.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Hassan. Moses Mwinyi,’ he said for the second time. He leaned back with a proud smile. I wondered whether I should know the name. He sighed and glanced out of the window again, becoming impatient with the train. ‘Is this your home town?’ he asked.
I nodded. He drew breath sharply and shook his head with commiseration. ‘This place is dead,’ he said with exaggerated finality. ‘I’ve been here two days, and I don’t mind telling you, brother, I’ve seen enough. There’s nothing here but brothels and arse-fuckers. They should tear the place down and begin again. No offence, my friend.’
‘Where are you from?’ I asked.
‘Dar es Salaam,’ he said. ‘The City of Dreams!’
From everything I had heard about that city, he was welcome to it. I was not anxious to demonstrate my ignorance by saying so, though. For then I would have to admit that I had never been there. ‘I hear it’s a very dusty and ugly town,’ I said, unable to resist in the end. I was determined not to be intimidated by his confident smile and his athletic good looks.
‘Ugly!’ I could see he was not feigning the shock. ‘We have supermarkets and five-star hotels and night-clubs. What have you got here? You should go and see for yourself.’ The train hissed very loudly and jerked into action, lurching slowly past the platform. Moses glanced out of the window and grinned.
‘I’ve got to put out a fire,’ he said. ‘I think I saw a toilet down the corridor. Will you keep any eye on my bag? There are a lot of hungry people on this train.’
I liked him. He seemed so unconcerned about things. Everything was new to me, the landscape, the train. I had lived there all my life and had never even thought twice about these things. In the near distance were clumps of bushes and trees which cut off the horizon. I was surprised at how quickly we were in the countryside.
This was only the second time I had been away from home. The first had been a school trip to Chwaka, ten whole days by the sea, to study tidal patterns or something. Ten delicious days of half-cooked fish and soggy pancakes! The teachers had insisted we cook for ourselves. At night we sat on the veranda of the beach-house and sang sentimental love songs. We sat on night-long vigils by the cemetery, waiting for the ghosts that never turned up. Hockey on the beach . . . then somebody found a cave that smelt of leaf-mould and death. We found a cold pool in the depths of the cave, a shrine to an ancient water-god. We swam in it until the women came and threw stones at us for defiling their drinking water. It rained on the night before we left, and our thin mattresses were soaked and matted into gunny sacks. But what abandon in that run through the deluge past the cemetery to the sea! What delight to match the elemental rumpus with our own childish squeals and yells! Ten whole days by the sea.
The train swayed from side to side, hypnotic in its regularity, deafeningly noisy. A slight breeze blew in through the open window, ruffling the folds of the curtains held back by the straps. It looked hot outside.
We were expected to arrive in Nairobi the following morning. My mother had packed some food for me and I knew I had a sheet for the night. I checked that my passport was still in my bag. I sat back, and put my feet up on the opposite bunk, relishing my new freedom. There was a knock on the door, followed immediately by the entrance of a short, plump old man. He stared at my feet, then pointed a fat finger at them.
‘Off!’
He adjusted his cap, tugged at his tunic, squared his shoulders and asked for my ticket. There were no questions, no threats, no abuse. He patted his pockets and withdrew a pad. ‘Bedding?’ he asked. I shook my head. He wrote something down and put the pad away. ‘First time to Nairobi?’ he asked. I nodded. He looked slightly annoyed. I should have said something or smiled, but the words would not come. He yanked the door open and departed. I had not meant to be rude.
The seat was not as comfortable as it had at first seemed, clinging as it did to my moist back. I wanted to stretch my legs, have a look around but I did not want to leave Moses’ bag unguarded. I didn’t want to think about my uncle, not yet. When he intruded on my thoughts I pushed him back. Strangely, I was not at all afraid. Once the train was on the move I felt safe. The door opened again, slowly. Moses put his head round the door, then came in.
‘He’s gone,’ he said. ‘I don’t have a ticket, you see.’ He smiled at me, acknowledging my amazement. ‘I never buy a ticket. These collectors are so dumb you don’t need to. Twice a term I travel up and down, and not caught once. I’m a student at the University in Nairobi.’
He said this with his eyes lowered. I must have looked suitably impressed, for when he glanced up he smiled. ‘Reading Literature,’ he added, picking up his book and cradling it in interlocked hands. He put the book down beside him and glanced at me again. The glance gradually developed into a stare.
‘Don’t you say anything?’ he asked, frowning. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, yes,’ I said, nonplussed by this direct assault.
‘As I was saying, I never pay.’
‘Yes, yes,’ I said.
‘You say this is your first time? Phew! You’ve got a lot to see. Nairobi’s a great place. I really like it . . . and the University’s good. Except the food, of course. The mess they give us to eat is poison. Last year we went on strike. No more lectures until they fire the cook, or kill him. Yeah, we really went on strike.’
‘Successful?’ I asked, feeling a burden now to say something, to show interest.
‘Not at first,’ continued Moses, pleased with me. ‘At first they brought in security guards, big Luos with heavy sticks. But the students just went berserk, chasing the guards all over the campus, breaking into buildings, smashing cars. It’s true. So then they called in the army. I tell you, this Africa. We’re savages. They killed one student and sent the rest of us home. When we came back, they fired the cook. Why couldn’t they do that in the first place?’
‘Is the food better now?’
He laughed. ‘No, it’s still poison.’
‘Your studies . . . what about them? Are they going well?’
He brushed my question aside, making a face. ‘The city, that’s what Nairobi’s about. What a city!’
‘Better than Dar es Salaam?’
‘Eeh,’ he chuckled. ‘I only live in Dar, my people come from Kenya. Nairobi’s the best in Africa, you’ll see. Only you need to be a millionaire to enjoy it. And there are too many Indians.’
‘Do you have to do a lot of reading for the course?’ I asked, not wanting to hear another vengeful attack against Indians.
‘You don’t listen or what, eh? I’m telling you it’s the night life that’s the real life in Nairobi. You could start in the evening and you’d still be eating honey when morning comes. They have bodies in Nairobi that you won’t find anywhere in East Africa . . . black, white, Arab, Somali, Indian. The things they do . . . ’
He laughed, waiting for me to ask more questions. I must have looked disapproving. He looked suddenly serious and studious, picking his book up again. ‘But don’t think it’s all fun,’ he said admonishingly. ‘You have to work very hard at the University. We’re very lucky to be there. The future of our country’s in our hands.’
The train was slowing down. Moses stuck his head out of the window, despite the warning not to do so. ‘We’re in the middle of nowhere,’ he announced as he turned back in. ‘Maybe the driver needs to go into the bushes. Shit, it’s hot.’
He sat down and gingerly picked up a corner of his shirt with the tips of his fingers and flapped it, fanning himself. He picked up his book and fan
ned himself with it.
‘Do you like Peter Abrahams?’ I asked.
‘Well, he’s not a bad writer,’ he said. ‘He’s too self-conscious, that’s the problem. He doesn’t write like an African. Do you know what this book reminds me of? Alan Paton. It has the same kind of liberal preaching, soft-nosed and confused. Do you know what I mean? There is no sense of identification with the mass of oppressed Africans.’
I went to look for the toilet as soon as the train was on the move again. It was late in the morning, and the sun was now brazen enough to distort distances and shapes. In the distance I could see the shadow of hills. The land was dry and empty. The wind was building up, whirling angry puffs of reddish dust across the plain. On the other side of the train I could see the escarpments of the central plateau, purplish and hazy.
I squeezed into the side of the carriage to allow two girls to pass. They giggled as they sidled past, pretty Indian girls, brushing their buttocks against my leg. Daddy was just behind them so I pretended not to notice.
Later the train stopped at a small dusty station. Nobody got off the train, and it was still too hot for anybody to think of stepping out for a stroll. An old lady sat on her own on the platform, leaning against the domed, whitewashed station building. It seemed an unnecessarily elaborate building for such a small pointless stop on the way to Nairobi. Perhaps the station was part of somebody’s grandiose scheme which had not worked. Trussed-up live chickens were gathered round the old woman’s feet, their heads moving with sudden, speculative movements, as if they knew what they were hoping to see but had not yet caught sight of it.
I wanted to eat my food and wondered if Moses had any of his own. He seemed pleased by the offer that he should share mine. I spread out the bread and the chicken that my mother had packed for me.
We stopped at the station for about a quarter of an hour. As the train built up steam, preparing to pull out, the old lady gathered her wares, holding the chickens upside down by their trussed legs. No official of the railways had appeared in all the time we had been there. None appeared as we were leaving. Nobody had got off, and I had not seen anybody get on. It was a mysterious stop in the middle of nowhere, at a mysteriously elaborate station without a name-board. Moses looked puzzled when I mentioned it, then suggested that perhaps the train had stopped to rest.
Moses went away and came back a few minutes later with a bag of plums. He would not say where he had got them from. I suspect he stole them. He put the bag between us, among the remains of the chicken. He was talking and laughing about everything, enjoying himself. We drank water from the miniature fountain, bending down to suck at the spout.
‘This thing reminds me of my little brother pissing,’ he said. ‘Trickle, trickle.’
We reached the arid plateau in the early evening. There was not much to see. I was glad that I was just passing through this hostile land, and not part of it. We drew the curtains early and stretched out on the bunks. It turned out that Moses had no bedding of any kind, so I lent him a kikoi.
‘I like travelling light,’ he said, drawing the kikoi round him. ‘And I’m creating the opportunity for a kind fellow traveller to do a good deed. I’m hungry again.’
We went to bed without supper. I insisted that we should keep what was left of the bread for breakfast. I had not reckoned on sharing my food, although I did not mind doing so. I was glad of Moses’ company.
‘So what do you do with yourself when you’re not playing an explorer?’ he asked as we lay in the gentle swaying of the speeding train.
‘Nothing. I’ve just finished school.’
He grunted in the dark. ‘I know the time. Looking for prospects, hoping that somebody will smile kindly on you. I was lucky. I was the best student in my school so it was easy for me. I went straight to university. You know in my school I was the head prefect. Azania High School. I mean, that’s something.’ He sat up, leaning on one elbow and was silent for a while, contemplating his own greatness. ‘So it was easy for me. I’m doing Literature. I can take it or leave it, you know, this Literature. I did well in it at school, and I knew my teacher wanted me to do it. The headmaster thought it was a good idea too. Literature is life, he used to say. The stupid old shit. What did he know about life?’
‘Why did you do it then? Why didn’t you do what you wanted?’
‘All I wanted was a degree. I wanted a car, a fine house, chicken for dinner and some fancy women. I thought Literature would be easy.’ He peered at me, waiting. I nodded for him to continue. ‘And it is easy. It’s shit. All this humanities stuff is shit. All we have is African Art, African Literature, African History, African Culture and all that shit. And we can’t even make a screwdriver or a tin of talcum powder for ourselves. It’s technology we need. Now everything we use we have to get from Europe or America. They even give us money to buy these things. We have to learn to build our own factories, make our own motor cars, weave our own cotton . . . That’s the secret. Until then, all this stuff is shit.’
He was leaning forward, straining to emphasise his words. ‘Listen,’ he continued. ‘Maybe in order to grow we’ll just have to forget about African Art for a while.’ He smiled and shifted position. ‘I’m even prepared to forget about African people for a while. What’s the point of spending millions to build hospitals for some of these primitive tribals? When they get better you have to spend more millions to feed them. They don’t produce anything or do anything. I would shoot them. If it takes the murder of a few thousand savages to make ourselves strong, then so be it. It will be worth it for our children.’ He paused to see if I would object.
When I did not, he leaned farther forward, anxious to persuade. I guessed that this was a favourite thesis. ‘This talk of tradition and African this and African that is just more African Art. These people take us for fools. They don’t mean it, these champions of tradition. The only tradition they’re interested in is making their buttocks fat. What we need is a strong man with a vision, a Stalin. Instead we have these greasy chiefs who are only interested in dirty money and other people’s women. They talk about the dignity of the black man and then kick him in the teeth. They take us for fools.’ He sat up, his feet touching the floor. ‘They play on our greed, you see.’
‘Where will your sacrifices begin?’ I asked.
‘No, don’t joke. These people just don’t think. Look at the way they’re treating these Indians. It’s stupid. So what if they came here and made a lot of money? So what if they refused to become citizens? They have expertise. They have money. Let’s make use of them first, then we can throw the bastards out. We don’t throw the white man out. We’re too afraid of him. We want him to like us. African Art, African History . . . we plead with them to think of us as human beings. But the Indian we persecute and chase out. We’re behaving like children. It’s demoralising.’
‘I said where will your sacrifices begin? Which tribals will you start with? When will it be the turn of the Indians? When will you move on to the Arabs, or the Somalis? And who will be your next scapegoat after that?’
‘Scapegoats! That’s the problem,’ he thundered. ‘That’s why we don’t do anything. We all see ourselves as victims, waiting our turn. Waiting for somebody to come from out there and give us a helping hand. We don’t do anything for ourselves. Who’ll be next? Well, we’ll be next . . . sooner or later. Unless we do something about it.’
‘Do what? Make sacrifices . . . of other people?’
He made me nervous. I had heard people say the same things before. I may even have said them myself, but never with such passion and conviction. We said many foolish things that were part of our frustration as we witnessed the plundering of our nations. Moses spoke as if he believed in what he was saying, but I doubted that he was doing more than we were.
‘We are victims,’ I said. ‘And maybe you’re right, that we sit and wait and do nothing. What would you have people do in the face of such violence? Sacrifices are made every day. Somebody or other is pluck
ed out and sacrificed for the advancement of our nation. It provides all of us with a powerful hint of the might of our state. And we can all run around like frightened mice, whispering about conspiracies and slaughters. It’s a sport our masters provide for us.’
‘Sport!’ he said angrily. ‘What do you think we are? Savages? You’re making us sound like bloodthirsty natives out of a Tarzan movie.’
‘You’re the one who doesn’t mind killing tribals and Indians.’
‘If necessary,’ he shouted. ‘If we have to kill those who are holding us back or exploiting us, then I say let’s do it.’
I watched him leaning forward and huffing with the passion of his defence, and I realised that I was enjoying provoking him. ‘Shall we do it before or after you get your degree and your house and car?’ I asked him.
‘That’s unfair,’ he said, leaning back.
‘This is just high-sounding hate, Moses. You talk of killing as if it is a game. What kind of price is that to pay for progress?’
‘No price is too much,’ he said, waving a finger at me. ‘Until we do things for ourselves, and don’t have to go begging from these white people every day of the week, you can forget progress or justice or any of that business. And if it’s only a Stalin who can do that, then I say let’s have him.’
We had got nowhere, but he was watching me with a smile, secure in the invincibility of his argument. ‘I hope Stalin will still let you go whoring in night-clubs,’ I said.
He laughed, prepared to be generous now that he felt I had conceded to him. I lay down on my bunk. He switched the light off, still chuckling in the darkness as he settled himself down. I wondered what he would be doing in a few years’ time, whether he would have learnt the cynicism that would make the memory of such passion seem an absurd illusion. I heard him shuffling, reaching into his bag, and then turning the water on.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked. ‘Pissing in the basin?’
He laughed. ‘No, just going to squeeze some juices out. Do you want the soap?’
Memory of Departure Page 8