The
OUTSIDER(S)
Caroline Adhiambo Jakob
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© 2012 by Caroline Adhiambo Jakob. All rights reserved.
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Published by AuthorHouse 07/09/2012
ISBN: 978-1-4772-0375-0 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4772-0377-4 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-4772-0376-7 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012908459
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Contents
Dedication
Irmtraut
GERMANY, 2009
Philister Taa
Kenya, 1989
Ramona
Germany, 2009
Irmtraut
Germany, 2009
Philister Taa
Kibera
Ramona
Germany, 2009, Summer Sale
Irmtraut
Germany, 2009, Mother
Philister Taa
Kenya, Nyayo Stadium
Ramona
Germany, 2010, My Dream
Irmtraut
Germany, 2010, the Farewell Party
Philister Taa
Germany, 1990, a cellar in Germany
Ramona
Germany, 2010, Öko Sisterhood
Irmtraut
Germany, 2010, My Departure
Philister Taa
Germany, Papers
Ramona
Germany, 2010, Flying Away
Irmtraut
Kenya, 2010, My Arrival
Philister Taa
Germany, Job Search
Ramona
Germany, 2010, the Purse
Irmtraut
Kenya, 2010,
a Night Out in Nairobi
Philister Taa
Germany, My new job
Irmtraut
Kenya, 2010, a walk in the park
Philister Taa
Germany, House Hunting
Ramona
Germany, 2010, My Memory
Philister Taa
The Nomad
Irmtraut
Kenya, 2010, Mr. Makokha
Philister Taa
Germany, Loneliness
Ramona
Germany, 2010, Discounter
Irmtraut
Kenya, 2010, Car Rental
Philister Taa
Germany, 2010, Fair
Ramona
Germany, 2010, my husband
Irmtraut
Kenya, 2010, the hairdresser
Ramona
Germany, 2010, the brown paper bag
Philister Taa
Germany, 2010, Coming Home
Irmtraut
Kenya, 2010, Philippe’s Visit
Irmtraut
Kenya, 2010, Nadia
Ramona
Germany, 2010, My Beliefs
Irmtraut
Kenya, 2010, The End
Kenya, 2011
The Woman from the Mkokoteni
Acknowledgements
Dedication
To the wonderful trio in my life who make everything worthwhile:
My husband Tobias, for all the smiles and especially all the sighs whenever I narrate my not so few ‘what if’ scenario stories. I love you!
My seven year old daughter Nathalie, for all the lovely drawings and the letters that you tirelessly gift me. My favorite? ‘I love you mummy especially when you prepare me pancakes!’ Unconditional love indeed. I love you!
My two year old son Cornelius, for all the times you spray your toys and anything you come across around the house. It is especially funny when you do it ten times in a row. I love you!
Making judgments about other people requires that we understand
where they are coming from; their motivations and their fears.
Only then, can we claim to know them.
Irmtraut
GERMANY, 2009
I brushed my hair one more time and examined my face in the small pocket mirror that I carried in my bag. I could feel the excitement building up. I walked to the door and turned one more time to look into the room. Stage one, I thought as I walked out.
“Hello, I am Irmtraut,” I said pleasantly, stretching my arm out to greet the lady sitting rigidly at the reception. Her back was straight, and I suspected that it had nothing to do with good posture. She looked startled. She had probably been hoping for a bit more time to go through the bunch of papers lying on her lap.
She stood up and extended her hand. She wasn’t tall, at most 5' 4”. Her dark hair was held firmly in a ponytail. She had wide eyes, which somehow hardened her face. Strange, I thought. I had always equated big eyes with gentleness.
“I am Emilia,” she muttered breathlessly. I noticed the firm handshake.
“Did you have a good drive down here?” I continued pleasantly. “The traffic is horrible,” I added.
She smiled tentatively. “No, I actually came by train.”
“Perfect! Brilliant choice!” I said cheerfully. “Please come with me.”
She grabbed the bunch of papers and threw it into her bag. It was a fairly big handbag. I also noted that it wasn’t cheap. I let her walk in front of me. There is nothing like watching someone from the back.
On the way, Friedrich stopped us. “Could you please get Emilia something to drink?” I asked pleasantly.
“Sure,” he responded in his fake-polite, pathetic voice. I wondered what else he was good at other than sucking up to superiors. A few moments later, Emilia and I reached my office. It was in the corner.
“Please have a seat,” I offered pleasantly. I sat behind my desk and started talking with a big smile on my face. “Emilia, I would like to thank you very much for making time to come for this interview.” I paused to let it sink in. I noticed that she had taken a sip of the latte macchiato that Friedrich had placed in front of her. A small bit of the froth stuck on her upper lip. She used the palm of her hands to rub it off. An awkward gesture. She nodded, the taut expression on her face slowly dissolving into a thin smile.
Calling someone you’ve just met by name serves two purposes. First, pretty much everyone likes the sound of their names. The second and more important thing is that it cements your position as the one in control. There is nothing more condescending than using a stranger’s first name.
“Emilia, tell me about yourself,” I said, and stared at her unblinkingly.
She straightened herself and began talking. She talked of her previous job and of other things that didn’t interest me too much. I don’t know how long all that took. I just knew that it was time to up it a
notch.
‘‘I don’t know where this is going. Are you aware that we are in the middle of an economic meltdown?’’ I asked in a low tone, a wry smile spreading across my face. I saw confusion spreading across Emilia’s face. I was interviewing her for the position of my project manager, or what other people call an executive assistant. I had been through four project managers since the beginning of the year. No one seemed to have what it took to keep the position for longer than a few months. The last one, a tall, lanky woman who said she had worked for the CEO of a rival company before she came to me, lasted three weeks. On her fourth week she walked into my office and while laughing hysterically bid me good-bye. I still felt traumatized thinking about that scene. “You, girlfriend, are sick!” she had repeated while pointing at me threateningly. We were neither friends nor was I sick, as far as I was concerned. I blinked and my mind flew back to the woman in front of me.
‘‘Yes,’’ Emilia responded timidly.
“Then show me that you want this job!” I hissed, and exhaled dramatically to stress the fact that her performance up to that point had been found wanting.
‘‘I really want this job,’’ she said with just a hint of desperation. ‘‘I need this job,’’ she continued in a quavering voice. I pretended not to notice. I retrieved my lipstick and applied it generously. Satisfied, I looked her in the eye and saw that she held my gaze. I knew instinctively that she had learned it from somewhere. Maybe some know-it-all management consultant had told her that it was important to keep eye contact. Especially if one was interviewing with a German company.
Turning to face her, I asked in a voice that feigned cheerfulness, “I see that you are from Lithuania?”
‘‘Yes,’’ she answered. Her voice sounded forceful and energetic. She was determined to prove her worthiness.
‘‘You look Asian—Indian?’’ I queried in a voice that was somewhere between friendly and hostile. I didn’t know what my intention was. I just knew that it was important to keep the initiative. To keep people on the defensive. That tactic had so far worked like a charm in my career.
I saw her blush. “We are currently a part of the EU so I am allowed to work in Germany. I am European…”
I cut her off. “My team is an international team. It is very important for me to have a team that reflects the global clientele that we currently serve.” I said this calmly while clasping my hands together to feign conviction. I had learned all that from a headhunter who specialized in hiring professional managers. He was a bully of the worst kind.
She sat upright, and I could see her smiling to herself. It was an inward smile, but I recognized it all the same. She was probably thanking her stars. Today was her lucky day.
“This is an important position,” I continued. “I work very closely with the head of the company. You will be exposed to company secrets and confidential issues within the company. Are you a gossip?” I asked abruptly, getting up and walking to the window, pretending not to notice her reaction but watching her very carefully from the corner of my eye.
“No.” she responded, looking bewildered.
“But Lithuania is in Eastern Europe, right?” I posed the question slowly while regarding her carefully.
“Yes,” she said with a stammer, and looked confused. I saw her lips move as if she wanted to say something, but then she kept quiet. She was not going to jeopardize her big chance to get a job in an international company. One of the most successful in the world. But I wasn’t finished.
“It must be difficult for you in the job market,” I said slowly in a sympathetic tone, as if it bothered me a great deal. Again she looked uncomfortable and for the first time didn’t meet my gaze.
‘‘There is a lot of discrimination,’’ she replied finally, touching her earring thoughtfully. ‘‘It is true. It is much harder for us to get jobs.’’ She looked up and I realized that I had her exactly where I wanted her. She was the right candidate.
Philister Taa
Kenya, 1989
That Tuesday morning began like any other. I packed my shiny handbag and headed for the Indian shop where I worked as a salesgirl. In the bus, I noticed that I was not the only one who had not taken a shower. The bus was full as usual and the sweaty smells spicier than usual. I made a mental note to take a shower within the next week. I was sure that my Indian boss, one Mrs. Patel, was soon going to make one of her snide remarks. The thought of Mrs. Patel instantly put a frown on my face. I hated her. I hated her stupid shop. I hated her beautiful saris. I hated her stupid accent. Well, I hated everything about her.
I arrived at the shop at exactly seven thirty a.m. As usual, she had not yet arrived, and so I had to sit outside in the cold Nairobi morning. The wind blew, and it was unbelievable how cold the breeze was. Against my better judgment, I bought myself a mandazi1—an overpriced one. But what to do? I was cold and hungry and miserable, not to mention full of hate. I took a bite of the mandazi. It wasn’t as sweet as it should be. I suspected that the mandazi woman had used less sugar. Maybe to save on costs.
A shrill voice cut through the air: “Get in and start cleaning!” I jumped up and gobbled the rest of the mandazi and followed Her Royal Highness inside. Royal Highness is what I called her, or rather, that is what Tamaa Matano had nicknamed her.
“Customers vill be here in a moment so move your ass, quick!”
Mrs. Patel’s distrust of Africans was legendary. She would rather have had a bullet through her head than let me keep the key to the shop. Every day, I reported to work at seven thirty a.m., which left me with around thirty minutes to sit out in the cold, freezing and spending my hard-earned coins on mandazis. Mrs. Patel came every day at two minutes to eight a.m. That left me with exactly two minutes to clean up the shop and start “encouraging” people to buy her stupid products. I had on many occasions thought of reporting to work five minutes to eight a.m., exactly three minutes before her, but I was too scared. What if she for once reported to work early? The thought sent a chill down my spine. I hated my job, but I needed it so badly.
A person walked into the shop, and before my eyes could adjust to see whether it was a man or a woman, Mrs. Patel jumped to her feet.
“Kazi, kazi,2 don’t be lazy! Attend to the customer!”
I got up, but before I could say anything, said customer waved me down. “I don’t need your help, I am just looking around!” she said. I could see the scowl on Mrs. Patel’s face. She hated customers who were assertive enough to fight the harassment we unleashed on them. I smiled secretly. Obviously there was justice in life.
Time flew by, and in no time, the sun was up. From the sweaty customers who came into the shop, I knew that the temperatures were soaring out there. At exactly one minute to one o’clock, the lanky frame of Tamaa Matano appeared. I smelled her before I saw her. Tamaa Matano loved Susana pomade. It was a greasy-sweet or foul-smelling body cream, purely depending on your sense of smell. On my good days, I actually thought of it as nice smelling. I personally preferred Yolanda pomade, a sister product.
Mrs. Patel hesitated for a moment when she saw Tamaa Matano. She was in the process of locking the shop for her lunchtime break. That was the biggest advantage her distrust of Africans accorded me. I could never be left alone in the shop, which technically meant that anytime she was not there, I had a break from work and had to sit outside.
“Customer, come back in the afternoon!” I heard her tell Tamaa Matano.
“But I am in a hurry and I want to shop now!” Tamaa Matano responded dryly. I almost burst out laughing.
“Madam, I have never seen you buying anything here. You only loiter around!”
“What? That is racist!”
“No, I don’t have time!” Mrs. Patel stated with finality and promptly locked the padlock. It was clear that there was no love lost between Tamaa Matano and Mrs. Patel. During that whole fiasco, I
pretended to search for something in my shiny bag. I could not afford for Mrs. Patel to know that I knew the one customer she hated with a passion, let alone that she was my best friend.
“So what do you want?” I asked Tamaa Matano without quite turning my head after Mrs. Patel had left.
“What do you think? Of course I want to shop!” she responded.
I turned to look at her. Her plastic shoes were dusty, and I knew that she had walked for miles. “Let’s get out of here,” I said finally, alarmed that Her Royal Highness might come back and find me talking with the one customer she could barely stand.
Despite never having money and actually hating shopping, Tamaa Matano came to Mrs. Patel’s shop an average of ten times per week. It was always the same routine. She came in. Mrs. Patel shouted at me to talk to the customer. Tamaa Matano asked the price of pretty much everything and then left. It took a while before Mrs. Patel realized how often she “shopped.” From that point on, it was downhill.
“Ve don’t have anything for you!” she would yell as soon as she saw her.
“Yes you do!” Tamaa Matano would respond and quickly walk past her into the shop and immediately start studying the rucksacks intently. “Is this from China?” she would ask.
“No, it is from Taiwan,” I would explain while laughing inside hysterically.
“Oh, I was wondering if you have the Japanese rucksacks,” she would say in that serious tone normal people who have money use. Mrs. Patel would follow her all around.
“Quality is the same. Doesn’t make any difference where it comes from!” she would snap.
“Oh,” Tamaa Matano would say, a sardonic expression plastered on her face.
Mrs. Patel would sigh in frustration.
But she was not one to lose easily. Her dislike of Tamaa Matano turned to suspicion and slowly to paranoia.
From that point on, Tamaa Matano stopped being my problem. The security guard, Boi, took over.
“Askari,3 make sure she doesn’t steal anything!”
The Outsider(S) Page 1