“Nadia has been here longer than you,” he said slowly touching his chin thoughtfully. What he didn’t mention was the fact that Nadia had been his sleeping partner before I came along. Philippe belonged to the brand of men who recognized a fundamental truth about affairs: keep them short and stay away from young women. The end of his affair with Nadia had in my opinion been inevitable. But Nadia didn’t seem to think so.
“I think we can arrange something.”
“Arrange?” I asked.
“OK, done!” he said while raising his hands.
“Really?” I asked excitedly.
“The position is, however, in the emerging markets,” he started slowly.
“In Africa.”
I felt something cold in my stomach but didn’t let it show. The first step was done. I was going to be a senior vice president.
Along with brilliant certificates and knowing the right people, I had learned that the single most important thing was knowing what to do with the right people. I had initially gone the normal route. I had done my work diligently and watched as I was passed over and over again. Not once did I get a promotion. And then I had a revelation.
It happened one morning completely out of nowhere. I was locking my door when a mailman approached me breathlessly.
“Madam, please help me,” he said. I looked at him suspiciously.
“Do you know the guy who lives downstairs?” he asked. Before I could answer, he thrust a parcel in my hands.
“Please sign for him,” he pleaded while panting. My first instinct was to refuse.
“I have three thousand parcels today. If I don’t deliver all of them, I am finished,” he continued, his voice breaking. He started coughing, and for a minute or two I stood there watching him. The guy was sick. Not just sick but very sick. I never forgot that incident. Life, I realized was divided into two distinct parts. One part was inhabited by hyenas and the other part by sharks. Whichever part you found yourself in, you had to fight. And the rules weren’t always fair.
Philister Taa
Kibera
I sat in my cubicle, the pocket radio tightly held to my ear. The batteries were almost dead. The voice coming from the radio was hoarse. It was the voice of Mambola, a popular Kenyan radio presenter and my most favorite of the bunch. “Ho bahati mbaya,”13 he said for the fourth time in a row. Harambee Stars, the Kenyan national football team, had once again missed an opportunity.
I could vividly see how the match was progressing. Mambola was nervous and I could feel the nervousness creeping over me. The Cranes, the Ugandan national football team, had just scored again, their third goal. “Leo hatuna bahati kabisa!”14 Mambola said in resignation, and I could feel him clapping his hand in frustration and sitting back. I clenched my teeth. I had been hoping that Harambee Stars would do better than that. I turned the radio off and hid it behind the mattress that lay in the corner of the room. It was a torn mattress, and I had bought it with my first paycheck from Mrs. Patel. Sleeping on a two-inch mattress was much better than on a mat even though one could hardly see the difference. A two-inch mattress was just as thin, but for me it meant a world of difference.
Krkkrrkkrr. The sound came from what I had named the south of my cubicle. I checked through the holes on the iron sheets and saw that it was my neighbor Kanga’s pig. It was a long, skinny pig. Kanga had bought it as a piglet and hoped to fatten it before selling it at a higher price. But fat was not what you could call it. According to Kanga, it was the greediest and most ungrateful pig he had ever come across. He ate endlessly but was never satisfied, nor did he grow fat. The result was “hasara tupu!”15 as Kanga sullenly put it to anyone who cared to listen.
I moved to the north side of the cubicle. There were three chickens, and I wondered if Waris had added another or if the black cockerel belonged to Tush, the neighbor from the other end. I had never actually seen Waris’s face. She was always covered up, which would not be strange were she not the most talkative person among my neighbors. Tush was skinny, and word on the grapevine had it that he was a “victim.”16
The tin cubicles that we lived in were a luxury that few could afford. I had personally worked my way up. From sleeping out in the cold, I had moved to a cubicle made from plastic bags. From there I had quickly moved on to cartons. My movement to the tin house had happened quite suddenly. I had gone to sell water in Parklands. The woman who bought water from me happened to be Mrs. Patel.
“Do you know how to read?” she asked, and for a moment I stood there dumbfounded.
“Yes!” I said finally.
“I give you a new job, salesgirl!” she said. And so I started working in her shop. But now it was all over. That had also happened quite suddenly. Mrs. Patel had gone for lunch as usual. I had remained and sat outside. And then she came back looking furious. “Kwenda, kwenda, kwenda!”17 she had yelled at me and Boi, the security guy. We looked at each other helplessly.
“Madam, my wife is about to give birth; I need this job!” Boi had pleaded in tears. But she only locked the shop. I had gone back the next day. The shop was guarded by police with big guns. Boi was sitting in a corner near the shoe-shiners’ spot. His eyes were red, and when he saw me he burst out in a new bout of tears. “What will we do?” he asked me.
The mandazi woman walked over slowly to where we were standing.
“I have found out why Mrs. Patel fired you,” she whispered. We turned to look at her.
“An Indian family, those ones who own the petrol station around the corner, were carjacked yesterday and killed,” she said solemnly.
“Uwiiii!” Boi wailed. “But what does that have to do with me? With us?”
“All the Indians are on some kind of a strike. They have all fired their employees.”
For a moment we just sat there. No one said anything. “You can do anything, but just don’t sell mandazis around here!” the mandazi woman said finally in an unsympathetic voice. I walked home and had until now refused to think about the repercussions of what had happened.
My thoughts were interrupted by a whistle. There was only one person who whistled like that.
“Slaughter him!” I heard Tamaa Matano calling out to Kanga, and I knew that she was referring to the skinny pig.
“I can’t. He has to put on a bit more weight,” Kanga said in a pained voice.
“But it doesn’t make any business sense,” Tamaa Matano countered.
I watched Kanga watching her thoughtfully. “Tamaa Matano, since when do you know about business?” he asked, his hands akimbo.
“Believe me I know what I am talking about,” she said mischievously and walked past him towards my cubicle. I saw her raise her hand, but before she could knock on the door, I opened it.
“I brought a packet of milk; can we make some tea? I am starving!” she said breathlessly while brushing past me into the cubicle. She was dressed in her characteristic plastic sandals. And she was dusty.
“Where did you get maziwa ya nyayo?”18 I asked, feeling confused.
“I told you about my new business idea?” she asked. I nodded, but I wasn’t sure which one. Tamaa Matano had the talent of coming up with all kinds of business ideas that always seemed to fail.
“I decided to be sweeping the area around where Mama Mboga works. You see, everyone wants to buy their sukuma wiki in a clean place, right?” she asked, looking me in the eye intently.
“To be honest I don’t care!” I said.
“No, I don’t mean you. Rich people!” she said, straight-faced. I nodded. I still didn’t understand what any of that had to do with anything else.
“She didn’t pay me,” she said slowly. “Can you believe it?” she asked, raising her voice. I could feel her getting agitated. She started pacing around the tiny cubicle. “Anyway, her daughter came from school when I was there. I snatched
her bag, and then I found the packet of milk.”
I stared at her and we both laughed.
She walked to the corner and began fiddling with the Kimbo cooking fat that was lying on top of the omena. “Is this for the new month?” she asked without looking at me. Omena were tiny fish that were eaten whole. They were tasty save for the sand that stuck in their abdomen. I always bought a big tin at the beginning of each month to last me the whole month.
“I was listening to football,” I said while gesturing to my pocket radio.
“Oh,” she said and turned to look at me. “Does that… ?” she started but didn’t quite finish the question.
“We have to get out of this country. We can’t continue to live like this,” I said slowly. She looked at me and for a moment had a doubtful expression.
“What about that Muhindi?” she asked.
“She fired me!” I said simply. “No, she chased me away,” I corrected and felt tears welling in my eyes. Up to that point I had been suppressing the humiliation I felt at being chased.
“I am sorry,” Tamaa Matano said finally. For a moment we just sat there, each of us deep in our own thoughts.
“I hear that life in majuu is completely different. All those who want to work have a chance to work,” she said, and I could feel the excitement coming back to her voice. Majuu literally meant “up,” like up in the skies. It was the name given to places one could only access using an airplane. Stories were often told of people who arrived in majuu and suddenly became so rich they had no idea how to spend all their riches.
“Okot,” she said guardedly while watching me intently. I nodded. “It is a matter of life and death,” she added.
Ramona
Germany, 2009, Summer Sale
It’s the summer sale. I’m glad that I can finally shop cheaply. This doesn’t mean I like cheap things. As a matter of fact, I believe that quality always has a price.
I walk through H&M and am stunned by how cheap everything is. Almost all T-shirts and blouses and dresses are between 2.99 and 5 Euros. Even for someone as clueless about economics as me, those prices don’t make much economic sense. How do they make any profit? I wonder. The shop, as expected, is filled with the less fortunate. Those who don’t have much money. Those who can only afford during a sale, what the rest of society can afford the rest of the time.
An African woman brushes past me. She has a huge head. On closer examination, I realize that it isn’t a huge head but a huge wig. The roots of her short hair are clearly visible under the long, straight, blond, European-style hair. I stare at her. I find dark African skin beautiful. I also love African hair. But there is something about the woman that makes me smile. The whole thing with a blond wig and dark skin just doesn’t fit. If she is trying to look fashionable, she’s failed miserably.
I am suddenly overcome with joy. There is nothing as uplifting as realizing that you have it much better than some people. Maybe I should migrate to Africa or some poor country in Asia. Then I would be happy every day. I would compare myself to everyone like I currently do and always come out on top. I smile as I go through possible destinations. South Africa? Nah, too many racist Dutch. Thailand? Nah, too many sex tourists. Tanzania? Yes, of course. I can clearly see the elephants I once saw on Kika.19 I am overwhelmed with joy. That is my dream country. I will migrate to Tanzania and go on safaris every single day.
My daydreaming trip has taken me to the kids department upstairs. It is crowded. I look around, and just like in the previous department, there are mainly the poorer members of society. A Turkish woman pushing a stroller for twins is coming towards me. I can also clearly see that she is pregnant. Tugging on her arm is a pretty, four—or five-year-old girl. I watch them. I am fascinated by her confidence. It is as if motherhood is the most natural thing she has ever experienced. I wonder if she is happy with her life. I am reminded of Thilo Sarazzin20 and his controversial remarks about foreigners and their tendency to multiply endlessly. Could there be some truth in his remarks? I wonder but quickly banish the idea. It doesn’t fit the kind of a person I am. I am Öko, and that means that I not only care about eating healthy food but I am also alternative in my thinking. I care about the less fortunate in the society. The Turkish woman picks up a shiny dress. It is the kind of outfit I would never buy, mostly because my mother would throw a fit. ‘Such cheap clothes foreigners wear!’ My mother-in-law, on the other hand, would just make sure that it disappears. The Turkish woman tries to fit the dress on her daughter, who then squeals happily. I notice there and then that the twins are also dressed in shiny turquoise outfits. I am doing what I always do, comparing myself to the Turkish woman, and to my horror faring badly. She is wearing that long dress that Muslim women wear. Suddenly I am very envious of her. I wonder if she worries about gaining too much weight. Probably not. I wonder if she hates the fact that she is at the bottom of the social ladder. Probably not.
I walk out. I cannot take any more of this. There is a lack of positive energy in the air. No, that’s not quite right. There is some kind of positive energy. Just the wrong kind. These people seem so content with their lives, which doesn’t quite make sense. I am miserable. I am deeply aware that by Western standards of success, I am a big failure. And it makes me miserable. Shouldn’t they be miserable as well?
I end up at Engelhorn. Engelhorn is actually way above my budget. It is the kind of a place Irmtraut shops at. But maybe they have a summer sale as well. Just maybe I will be able to afford something this time. I smile at the thought of meeting Irmtraut while wearing something exactly like hers. Something that she also bought at Engelhorn. I can imagine her jaw dropping. No, I can imagine her thin lips tightening and the muscles on her neck suddenly protruding. Poor Ramona is not only in a happy marriage but now has enough money to live like me? No way!
Engelhorn has that air. It oozes money. The people who shop there have a certain confidence. The confidence that money brings. The confidence that stops one from breaking into a panic when one’s credit card doesn’t go through. The knowledge that one can afford something.
An assistant walks up to me. “Is everything all right?” she asks. I jump and grab my handbag tightly. I try to smile back and nod that I am fine. I feel singled out. I feel like she knows full well that I cannot afford to shop here. I shuffle my feet and move away to go up the escalators. I don’t look back until I reach the top, too scared that they will grab me and throw me out. At the top, I look back and watch the young assistant. She is talking to another client. Maybe she didn’t single me out after all.
Irmtraut
Germany, 2009, Mother
I was never a fan of holidays. Especially Christmas. Even in the shark kingdom, working during Christmas was abhorred. It was the one time you looked bad when you worked. Every single shark pretended to have a big loving family. The idea was to show the world that they were not just successful people professionally but also had loving relationships. They were well-adjusted, balanced people. Of course, everyone knew that this was quite often very far from the truth. However, everyone only knew their own story. No one knew for sure if their colleagues were loved by their families or not. Take my case, for example. Mother’s calls were sporadic. “Irmtraut, do you still jog alongside the Rhine?” she would ask urgently.
“No. I don’t jog,” I would respond.
“Oh.”
“Why do you ask?” I would ask hopefully, hoping that she wouldn’t start something about Ramona and her lovely family.
“A woman’s body was found floating on the Rhine. She looked like you. Not blond like Ramona…” she would finish, and anytime she did, I could feel the disappointment in her voice. Sometimes it changed to the Neckar or to some other river. One thing was certain. She was as convinced about the bad things waiting to happen to me as she was of the good things waiting to happen to Ramona. Seeing that no one wants to have someone specu
late on their death, my decision to avoid her was not just justified but also reasonable. This wasn’t difficult at all. Except during Christmas.
On that Christmas morning, I went to the gym and was surprised to see quite a number of people. I wondered what their real reason was for being in the gym on a Christmas morning. Were they escaping the loneliness in their own homes? I knew that keeping fit was the last reason on my mind when I grabbed my gym bag.
I stepped onto the Stairmaster and watched a woman in front of me working out and reading a magazine. I felt dizzy just watching her. An hour later, I was done. On my way home, I realized that the streets were completely empty. I made up my mind to go home and make myself comfortable. I switched on the TV. There was crap and more crap on pretty much all the channels. Three hours and fifteen minutes and three packs of Marlboros later, I was on the A8 headed home, to Mother. The Autobahn was full. I noted that it wasn’t going to be a white Christmas after all. It had snowed consistently for a week. On December 21st, it had stopped. I don’t know if the guy up there is malicious, but to crash so many dreams of a white Christmas seemed to me at best a malicious act. What was left were small blocks of ice on the sidewalk and a longing for snow. This didn’t bother me, though. I enjoyed the drive. It was almost always the best part of the trip.
I drove down the small street that led into the small town where Mother lived. I had grown up in that small town, though not in that same house. Mother had inherited that house from her parents, the Eickelschafts.
Houses tell a lot about their occupants. My grandparents’ house was castle-like with a stately arrogance about it. In my memory, it quite fit their personality. On my right-hand side, around the corner, stood the big house of the Wickles. It was a house I had always admired. It was painted pink in my memory and had something glamorous about it. I watched carefully and realized that it was no longer pink. And there was certainly nothing glamorous about it. The walls had lines of dirty water, perhaps from being rained on. The window frames were no longer white. They were cream-colored and gave the impression that no one had cleaned them in a long time. On my left, I saw the big black Mercedes of my grandfather’s former accountant. To the best of my knowledge, he had swindled my mother and her brother out of Herr Eickelschaft’s big inheritance.
The Outsider(S) Page 3