“So what brings you to shop again?” I asked with a smile after we had secured ourselves a bench far away from the lunchtime preachers at Jevanjee Park.
“This is the best news ever!” she stated, and I could see the excitement building up. “But first things first. I brought you lunch… ugali and sukuma wiki!” she said, handing me a plastic bag.
The ugali4 and the sukuma wiki5 were wrapped in some kind of polythene paper, which after close examination turned out to be originally for bread. I hesitated for a moment.
“You don’t think I picked it up from the garbage bin?” she asked and looked almost hurt when she saw the doubt on my face.
“Did you?” I asked.
“Of course not,” she said without looking at me, which in Tamaa Matano–speak meant that I had crossed the line. Tamaa Matano and I had initially always picked food from the garbage bins around the city. But it wasn’t something that either of us was proud of. And it was certainly nothing to joke about.
I ate slowly and was surprised that the food tasted much better than it looked. The sukuma wiki was spiced with Royco,6 which gave it a meaty taste.
“So what is the news?” I asked.
“I am leaving the country,” she said, still not looking at me.
“What?” I asked, a thin smile spreading across my face.
“Yep… I am headed for Europe,” she said excitedly and turned to look at me.
“You have been doing that for as long as I can remember,” I said absently.
“No seriously… this time it’s different. I will soon be playing football in Europe.”
“Football?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. But she neither smiled nor laughed.
“Don’t talk with food in your mouth!” she said reproachfully. Even though Tamaa Matano and I were the same age, she had this feisty thing about her.
“You see, everyone only thinks of men’s football, but women’s football is just as lucrative.”
I watched her silently before I continued. “That is not the issue, Tamaa Matano. You have never played football in your life!”
“That is where you come in. I need to get myself selected for the national team, and since you know Okot, you have to help me.”
“Hell no!” I screamed without really wanting to.
“Calm down, it’s not like I asked you to kill someone,” she said, looking a bit taken aback. I turned to face her and saw the utter confusion on her face. I tried to make light of the matter, realizing that for someone with no background information, my reaction must seem completely overboard.
“You know that it is utterly impossible to make it to the national team of any sport if you have never played that sport—unless, of course, you are thinking of moving to Somalia and forming a football team,” I said with a smile, hoping to erase her worried look. But she wasn’t fooled.
“What is it with Okot? He’s your uncle. If you told him how important this is for me, he would definitely help me.”
I felt a sharp pain cut through my heart. It was the pain I experienced anytime I heard talk of how wonderful Okot was. To most people, he was the selfless man who helped the needy in the society. He surrounded himself with all kinds of less-fortunate relatives as well as non relatives. His reputation as a generous and kind man was part of the reason the minister of sports had rewarded him by making him the national team coach for women’s football.
But I knew a different version of Okot. A version that seemed only real to me. A version that almost always made me want to throw up. A version that always left me trembling in anger. How could everyone be so blind? How could they not see him for what he really was?
My mind went back to that Friday afternoon eight years earlier when my dear father was laid to rest and my nightmare began. I was eleven years old. My mother had passed on exactly three years earlier. I was officially an orphan, though technically I had been an orphan all my life. It was the burial day. The time must have been around noon or maybe two p.m. I don’t remember exactly. What I remember vividly is the smell. The antiseptic smell that engulfed the whole place. It was a sharp contrast to the foul smell that had been coming from my father before Kama the village nurse (whom everyone called the doctor) came around. I was seated in front of the casket. There was a line of people walking around, looking at my dead father. I noticed that some couldn’t get enough of him. They did one round after the other. I had never understood that culture of looking at dead bodies. I just wished I didn’t have to sit in front of one, even if it was my own father. What was the point of looking at someone who was not breathing and who could not change the expression on his face? I wondered how the people would react if my father suddenly winked at them or smiled. The thought amused me.
Suddenly there was mumbling among the crowd and shouts of “alleluia!” I realized that whatever it was, it had something to do with Okot. At the time, I actually liked and respected him. His reputation for generosity was unquestionable. And he was my uncle. Well, he was the uncle of everyone in the village.
“The cruel hand of death has once again struck. Little Philister will come and live with my wife and me. We will make sure she is provided for and will send her to school,” Okot was saying, and I could see the relief on the mourners’ faces.
“Mungu akubariki7!” they shouted.
A woman I recognized as one of my relatives paused from eating ugali and matumbo8 and started ululating. “Alalalalalalalalalalalal!” she continued endlessly. She seemed genuinely pleased about the development. “God has answered my prayers. I have been praying and asking God to let a generous soul take care of this little innocent girl,” she continued before she resumed eating.
It would be a lie to say that I wasn’t pleased with that little development. I didn’t know exactly what to do once my father was laid to rest, which was, of course, ironic considering the fact that I had been the one who had taken care of both of my parents all my life. My parents had always been sick as far as I could remember. In fact my lone memory of mother was her emaciated body ‘stuck’ on the metallic Safari bed in the grass thatched hut we called home. However much I tried, I couldn’t remember her ever walking or doing anything else.
“You seem really far away. Has the plane landed in Paris, or is it in London?” Tamaa Matano was asking me.
“Nope. I’m still here, and I have to go back to the office,” I said coolly and stood up to leave.
“Office? I wouldn’t call that racist Muhindi’s9 shop an office!”
“Oh shut up! You don’t even have a job,” I said curtly. But I regretted it as soon as the words left my mouth. I saw the hurt spread across her face. As I walked back to work, my mind drifted back to the first day Tamaa Matano’s way and my way crossed. I was freezing and had slept hungry for the third time in a row. On top of that, I was scared. Living in the streets of Nairobi, I was finding out, wasn’t a walk in the park. The humiliation, abuse, and degradation I had suffered at the hands of Okot were slowly seeming milder by the day. In fact, by the time Tamaa Matano found me, I couldn’t even remember that Okot had robbed me of my innocence and shattered my young life. “Drink the uji,”10 she had said while forcing a metal cup with a charred rim against my mouth. I tried to open my mouth, but my teeth were clenched tightly together. I remember that someone else helped her to open my mouth, and after several tries, I was able to hold the cup on my own. Not once did she ask me what had brought me out to the streets. It was an unwritten rule in the streets that everyone had their reasons for being there. No one had the right to ask. Tamaa Matano was close to my age, even though she seemed much older sometimes, and a deep friendship developed between us.
She was the closest thing to family I had ever had. In fact, I considered her my only family.
Ramona
Germany, 2009
Trrringtrrrringtrrring! The phone is ringin
g, and to be honest, I don’t really feel like picking it up. I feel exhausted. This is how I have been feeling for so many years. To be exact, for the past seventeen years. If I ignore it long enough, I am sure whoever is calling will give up.
Yay, it’s stopped. See, that’s what happens when you will yourself to sit something out. If you want something so badly, you just need to tell yourself that you will get it. And in no time, you will. Like now, I just willed the phone to stop and it did.
My mind drifts back to the visitor I just had. Visitor isn’t quite the right word to call him. It was an interviewee. That’s right, interviewee, someone who attends an interview with the hope of getting a job.
He was supposed to be an assistant in my upcoming organic shop. The shop has been in the pipeline for a while now. I have huge folders of business plans I have prepared for this day.
I don’t know why Magnus invited him of all people for the interview. He was the BWL11 type. He had an air of purpose mixed with raw ambition. The moment I saw him, I felt a knot in my stomach. He walked into the shop and looked me directly in the eye. I could tell it was a trained act. Or maybe not. Some people just seem to have that entitled look. He made a bold appearance. He shook my hand. A firm handshake, I noted.
I left the room and rushed to the back. I was shaking, mentally back to my childhood and most of my life. Irmtraut is standing in front of me showing Mother her excellent grades or bragging about her high-flying jobs. She is explaining her plans to take part in the McKinsey career workshop for women. Mother concentrates on her. She hangs on her every word, the way one does with an adult one respects. An adult who is intelligent. I wait for my turn. It never comes. Not once does Mother ask me to show her my certificate. She knows there is no way in hell anything I do would be better than Irmtraut. “Make us some tea!” she turns and orders me. Her tone is condescending. I feel the bitterness completely engulfing me.
There is no way in hell that I am going to employ Irmtraut. Wait, someone who looks like Irmtraut. Correction, someone who reminds me of Irmtraut. Get your act together, I chide myself.
“Listen, you are not my type,” I state simply when I come back into the room.
“Huh?” I hear the sound but more importantly, I see his expression. I can tell that he is not used to not getting what he wants.
“But the interview has not yet started,” he says in a surprisingly composed tone.
“Correct, but I already know that you are not my type.” He looks at me, and I can see that his composure is turning to bewilderment.
He scans the room with his eyes and slowly turns to me. “Are you serious about this venture?”
I can’t believe it. The guy really is Irmtraut dressed in a man’s clothes. Not long ago, I had the same question from Irmtraut.
“Get out,” I order him.
He grabs his loose-leaf folder and leaves the room. From the look on his face, I can tell that he is badly shaken.
After he has left I close the door, make myself a cup of tea, and try to relax.
Soon enough, someone is banging on the door.
“Ramona, are you there?” The unmistakable voice of my mother-in-law thunders through. I cringe. Wasn’t she supposed to be taking care of my son, Tankie? A lot of things go through my mind. The foremost one is to ignore her and pretend that I am not there.
“I know you’re there. Please open; I need to talk to you. It’s very important,” she says in that self-possessed tone of hers. Now against my better judgment, I decide that I’m going to open the door. One of those decisions you regret even before carrying through. But I don’t think I have an alternative. I know that my mother-in-law is an extremely persistent woman. One needs to be extremely persistent in order to be able to sell homemade marmalade to fellow seniors whose favorite hobby is preparing homemade marmalade.
I straighten myself, brush my hair, put on some lipstick, and flash a huge smile. I am going to pretend that I am actually very excited to see her.
“Hey, you’re here already!” I say with fake enthusiasm. She doesn’t respond. She brushes past me and into the shop.
“Unbelievable!” she mutters under her breath. The tone makes the meaning very clear. She is furious.
“What’s wrong?” I ask innocently. Tankie is standing next to her. No, he is rushing to climb onto the ÖKO stools I got from a woman who said she is an African princess. I’m supposed to sell them and share the profits with her. I turn to Tankie. He is muttering something.
“Look at Wolfgang!” Ute, my mother-in-law, points helplessly. For dramatic effect, she raises her arms up, the way one does to show that something is utterly hopeless. I watch him, and actually, by normal standards, he looks quite all right. I note that as usual, Ute has changed the clothes I dressed him in earlier. But I’m used to that. I don’t take it personally that she constantly redresses my kids. What to do? She is a super mom and I am not. That much she makes me aware of anytime I have the bad luck to be near her, which unfortunately is all the time as she lives around the corner. I think of correcting her and pointing out that his name is actually Tankie. But we have had this discussion before and nothing much has come out of it. After I delivered, I decided to name the baby Tankie after a certain very courageous character from a science fiction novel that I read. My mother-in law had stared at me without saying a word. She had since then always called him Wolfgang.
“Listen to him!” she continues and I can tell that she is feeling frustrated that I am not quite getting what this is all about.
“Ute, Tankie can not talk yet. He is just a thirteen-month old baby” I say and deliberately stress ‘Tankie’.
“I know, but that is precisely why Wolfgang should be taught the right things”. Now I am feeling mad. I am not going to hold a conversation about how or what to teach my kids.
“He said scheiße! scheiße! the whole time” ‘she continues and I can see that she has turned red. I feel fury engulfing me. How dare she? I turn to my son and to my astonishment hear the unmistakable “scheiße, scheiße, scheiße!”12
Ute stares at me accusingly. “Magnus never curses.” She says reproachfully. With that she turns her back and marches off. Me, I am left with my ‘scheiße’ muttering son. I know that I’ll someday look back and laugh about all this. That day isn’t today, however. First, being confronted by Irmtraut’s lookalike has completely decimated the little self confidence that I still had.
And now this. The one thing that was supposed to elevate me above Irmtraut has turned out to be nothing more than a disaster. I had long ago accepted that I was never going to be as successful as her professionally. But at least I had a family that I was firmly in control of. I was supposed to be a mother who knew how to treat her family. One who lived in a big happy family, unlike Irmtraut. One who never cursed around her kids. One who was good at setting examples. I wipe the tears that are flowing generously and close the door.
Irmtraut
Germany, 2009
I walked into my bedroom. The deep red color on one side of the wall and the white color in the rest of the room gave it a warm look. I drew the curtains from the French windows, and the room was suddenly flooded with light from the streetlights below. I dropped onto the bed, exhausted from the day’s happenings.
I watched the dressing table thoughtfully. Standing forlornly on it was my childhood doll, Jackline which my sister Ramona for whatever dumb reason had always called “Schackeline.” I grabbed it and caressed it lovingly. It was old, and one eye was falling off. But I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it. It was a reminder of an uncomplicated past and an unfulfilled dream.
My life was governed by terror and a persistent fear that it could all end any minute. Being one step ahead had as literal a meaning in my life as it got. Only the very ferocious survived.
The meeting earlier in the day with the Chinese investor
s kept replaying in my head. Nadia, my fierce rival and the only other female vice president, had talked for fifteen minutes. In Chinese. It had been a sticky situation. And whatever offer I made had been countered by the two Chinese men. After Nadia’s performance, there were only smiles and handshaking. But what I remembered more than anything was the feeling of being useless and the fear of being replaced.
At thirty-nine, I didn’t have much time left. In fact, I had everything to lose. No family, no kids, and no husband were enough calamities for one person.
My thoughts were interrupted by the beep from my BlackBerry. I quickly retrieved it from my Gucci bag, scrolled through the messages, and realized to my horror that everyone in the shark kingdom was working. It was nine p.m. and none of them had thought to log out of the system. I quickly turned my laptop on and began working.
Sometime that night, I realized I wasn’t able to shake off the anxiety. I picked up my phone and dialed a number. It was picked up on the first ring.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” the voice said, and hung up.
Less than fifteen minutes after the call, Philippe was standing at my door. He was wearing a black sweater and a black shawl around his neck. His gray eyes glimmered in the light. At forty-four, Philippe had achieved what most people could only dream of. He had a loving wife and two lovely kids whose pictures dotted every space in his office. And he was the CEO. He closed the door behind him and pushed me in the direction of the bedroom. “You bring out the worst in me!” he said huskily. I giggled up at him as he threw me on to the bed. We kissed, and I could feel his hands undoing my bra.
“We have to talk,” I said firmly, getting up from the bed.
He smiled. “You are naughty,” he said and attempted to grab my arm. But I took a step back.
“Whatever you want,” he said finally when he realized that I wasn’t budging.
“I want to become a senior vice president,” I said boldly. He watched me pensively but didn’t say a thing. My heart raced, and for a moment I wondered if I had pushed my luck too far.
The Outsider(S) Page 2