“Why so much?” I asked finally, wiping away tears.
“You are white. The bribes are higher,” he answered.
“That is racism!” I cried. Mr. Baktari only looked at me blankly.
Philister Taa
Germany, 2010, Fair
Dear Tamaa Matano,
Where do I start? I have so far written you sixty-two letters. I am desperately hoping to receive a sign from you that you are still alive. Many things have so far happened in my life. As you have probably guessed by now, I speak the local language fairly well. I also found out that contrary to what I thought at the beginning, the buses and trains are not for free. This happened one evening on my way to work many years after I arrived here. Don’t worry; I didn’t confess to the inspector that I had never bought a ticket ha!
Like I wrote before, this place is very lonely. Topista, that woman from Congo recently passed by. I was very happy to see her. I asked her, “where have you been?”
She answered “Everywhere!” I stared at her wondering whether to ask her about my money. And then she asked me. “Do you want to come with me to an African party?” Before I could respond, she said, “You don’t want to die alone like a white person!” That is when I decided to go with her. We arrived at the party. There were so many Africans that it all looked like home. For the first time in twenty years, I thought I was back in Africa. I just stood there ogling the food. Real African food. There were boiled bananas, cassava, ugali, and fish. There was everything I could think of. I asked Topista, “What do we do now?”
She responded, “I don’t want to be seen with you. The way you are dressed, everyone will think I have lowered my standards!” Can you believe how shameless that woman is?
And then a man walked up to me.
“The funeral contributions. Have you given your share yet?” he asked.
“Who died?” I asked, feeling confused.
“My mother,” he said before adding quickly, “I am Barasa. I am from Uganda. I saw you and knew that you are one of our own.”
“When did your mother die?” I asked feeling sorry for him.
“Last week” he said. I retrieved my purse and gave him three Euros. He went straight and bought himself a beer and then he came back and sat next to me.
“By the way, she hasn’t died yet, but I am pretty sure that she is going to die soon,” he said. I stared disbelievingly at him. I just don’t know but I have a feeling that living here is making many black people go mad. Did I tell you how cold this place is?
But mad or not, I didn’t take it lying down. I told him in no uncertain terms that what he had said was dishonorable.
“It is easy to talk of honor when you have something to eat!” he answered.
“You don’t have something to eat?” I asked him feeling irritated. It was then that I noticed the scars on his neck. He saw me looking at his scars and quickly tried to cover them. It looked like someone had tried to wring his neck.
“Did you try to kill yourself?” I asked alarmed. He stared at me and looked so dejected. And then he told me the story of his life. He had come here hoping to get a job and earn some money. His whole village back home had contributed money to enable him come here. The whole village was also waiting to reap where they sowed. The jobs were scarce but he once in a while got jobs. Sometimes back, he got a job at a construction site. One evening, while walking from work, a group of men attacked him and almost killed him. And you know why? Because he is black!
I can’t tell you how shaken I was. In the weeks that followed, I couldn’t sleep. His story kept replaying in my mind. It was then that I made a decision. I went to an African shop. That was where I bought Fair, a cream that promised to turn me into a Mzungu. It stunk of urine, but I religiously applied it on my face every day. And my determination paid off.
Within two weeks, I was as white as a Mzungu!
But you will never believe what happened next; my neighbors called the police and said that there was a strange new woman living in my apartment. The police were very confused.
“Where is your passport?” they asked. I showed them my passport, which is actually Maria Kotoko’s passport.
“But you look different,” the female police officer said while observing me carefully. My heart started beating fast. Very fast. I thought that the Mzungus had finally figured out that I wasn’t Maria Kotoko.
“The woman who used to live here was not an albino!” she said finally. I felt relief sweeping over me.
It was then that I went into the apartment and came out with the tube of Fair. The female police officer read it carefully and started shaking her head. She handed it to her partner. “Don’t do this. This is dangerous!” she said and she was almost in tears.
“Krass!”56 her partner said over and over again.
But don’t worry, I am now back to my usual color and my usual self. I have been trying to make sense of everything. I still don’t know why I did it. Living here has taken something away from me my friend. I don’t know exactly what it is. I don’t know myself anymore. I’m constantly treading carefully. I feel like I hold my breath all the time for fear of something. Something that I can’t quite explain.
Even though no one has so far tried to kill me, the feeling that I am an unwanted guest hangs over me. People not meeting my gaze or being too nice to me make me feel exactly the same way. I have been wondering why this is so. I think I finally figured out the answer. Pity and contempt, are different sides of the same coin my friend.
The end.
Philister Taa
Ramona
Germany, 2010, my husband
I arrive back home that evening and find Magnus seated on the sofa. His backpack is lying next to his foot, which isn’t totally unusual. What is unusual is his nervous, tentative smile and what he says next.
“I need to talk to you about something important,” he says watching me carefully.
I pour myself a glass of apple juice and sit opposite him on the stained sofa. I make a mental note to scrub it in the next few weeks. We stare at each other silently. This is actually how most of our marriage has been. We stare at each other and kind of just exist next to each other. That state is amazingly peaceful.
“I have met someone!” he blurts out like a kid who has just seen the best toy.
“OK,” I respond without quite understanding what he is talking about. Magnus and I don’t fight. We just tell each other what our states of minds are. The rest of the time we spend on putting a show for my mother and my sister, Irmtraut, and his parents. I try to recall what his state of mind is and slowly remember it quite clearly.
“I am very unhappy. This can’t go on. I have to change something,” he said the last time I can remember. I deliberately took it to mean that he wanted to change something at his place of work. The facility management company has not been doing well. The competition has become very stiff. The Eastern Europeans have all started their own companies ever since that sector was liberalized, and the revenues have subsequently decreased. I raise my head and look up at him.
“I am glad you understand.” He continues looking at me suspiciously.
“What is there to understand” I ask, genuinely confused. That happens a lot to us. We listen without really listening. I wonder if all married couples experience it.
“That I will be leaving…” he continues and stares at me uncertainly.
“Oh,” I say for lack of a better expression.
“That’s all?” he asks, looking bewildered. I can see that my reaction has disappointed him. I try to master the fury that women whose husbands leave them experience but am stunned to find nothing. The amount of energy I have used in trying to sustain this marriage has left me with nothing to grieve for it with. “Who is she?” I ask, determined to follow a script and sound normal. I kno
w from what I have in the past read that everyone wants to know whom their partner is leaving them for.
“I don’t think you want to know,” he says, looking more satisfied with my reaction.
“Of course I do,” I say without emotion.
“Roswitha,” he responds.
“Roswitha Kuhner?” I ask, disbelief engulfing me. I remember Roswitha throwing a tantrum because her child was going to the Krippe. I also remember wondering if that was the real reason for her tears.
He doesn’t say anything. “What about the kids?” I ask, remembering that there are other players in this issue.
“The older boys are starting their apprenticeship soon and are moving out. I will visit Lukas and Tankie as often as possible. Mother will also help us whenever necessary,” he adds conclusively.
“She knows already?” I ask, and for the first time feel tears welling in my eyes. He stares at me regretfully. I burst out in tears. Somehow, it is more painful to hear that he has gone behind my back and told his mother about his leaving me than it is to find out that he is leaving me. I feel humiliated.
Irmtraut
Kenya, 2010, the hairdresser
“I will be with you soon,” the message read clearly on my BlackBerry. I looked around the room to be sure that I wasn’t dreaming. Lately, I had been daydreaming a lot. A bit too much for my liking. Philippe on his way to Nairobi? I felt excitement sweeping through me. This was exactly what I needed to hear after what I had so far gone through. I wondered whether to narrate the incident of the watch and the shit on my face as well as the fiasco with the car to him, and decided against it. I was not his wife. It wasn’t my place to feed him depressing news. Besides, I needed to put up a front that I was enjoying my time in Africa, which ironically wasn’t far from the truth. I dialed a number and waited.
“Hello, wai geits?” the excited voice of Mr. Clark thundered through.
“Excuse me?” I responded, feeling confused.
“Wai geits?” he persisted, sounding a bit disappointed that I wasn’t getting what he was saying. “Isn’t that how you say hello?” he asked, and I could feel him sighing.
“Oh,” I responded, amused by his attempt to speak German. It slowly dawned on me that he actually wanted to say “wie geht’s,”57 which came out completely wrong.
“Good job!” I said with a laugh. My relationship with Mr. Clark was friendly. What I initially interpreted as his romantic interest in me had quickly dissipated. After our night out with the team at the Carnivore, he had confessed that he was having the time of his life in Africa. “Everywhere I go, I am treated as something special,” he had told me the next day with a smile. I had watched him and was for a moment tempted to ask him whether he knew that those women were prostitutes. But I quite liked him, and I knew that the feeling was mutual.
“Broken German or badly pronounced German is horrible to the ears!” I said.
“Are you lecturing me?” His voice was heavily laced with disbelief before he burst out in laughter. I wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic or if he was upset. That was the problem with the subjects of the queen. They were masters at pretense. “What can I do for you, miss?” he asked finally after laughing for what seemed like an eternity.
“I am looking for a hairdresser. The best hairdresser in town.”
“That would have to be me,” he said quickly.
“You?” I asked in a perplexed voice.
He waited for a couple of seconds before continuing. “Come on, I am kidding! What is it with you Germans? Must I always explain the jokes?” And then he burst out laughing. At that point, I contemplated putting the phone down and never speaking to him again. I was getting a bit tired of his German clichés.
“Her name is Scilla,” he said finally.
“Scilla?” I asked, repeating the name slowly.
“She is some Eastern European who is married to some thug. I don’t know if he is Italian or Spanish,” he started. I could hear the TV in the background and I knew that he was watching Little Britain. He had confessed to me that he had every single episode on DVD. “She is kind of cheap in that Eastern European way but she does hair OK. At the moment, she is the best in town—unless, of course, you want to try the diplomat’s wives, but I wouldn’t go there if I were you!” he said and paused.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because they have no idea what they are doing! They are doing it because they have nothing better to do. They have no real interest in doing hair!” he finished in a contemptuous tone.
I sighed. The problem with Mr. Clark was the fact that he loved the sound of his own voice. He could talk the whole day without a break if one so much as showed the slightest sign of listening to him.
Scilla’s hairdressing salon was based at Yaya Centre. Yaya Centre was a shopping complex that was located on an upmarket side of Nairobi. I looked through the windows of the taxi and, as was usual in Nairobi, saw many pedestrians all over. After an endless traffic jam, we arrived at the Yaya Centre. It turned out to be a dusty looking brown building. There was a huge open-air market in front of it with people selling all kinds of traditional wares. On the one side was a parking lot. I walked inside and was, as always, amazed at the transformation. The building was completely different. There was no doubt that a lot more effort had been put into making it look nice from the inside.
“Hello,” a white woman with ash blond hair and too much makeup called out to me when I walked into the salon. She stretched her hand to greet me as she introduced herself.
“My name is Csilla,” she started in English but with a thick Eastern European accent that I couldn’t quite place. The name came out as “Chilla,” and before I could ask any questions, she proceeded to spell it.
“It means ‘star’ in Hungarian. You can just call me Star!”
I looked around, amused. The woman seemed likable enough and definitely made an effort to make her clients feel at ease. I wondered silently if she had picked up the habit here in Kenya or if they were outgoing back in Hungary.
“Have a seat,” she continued enthusiastically and disappeared to the back. The salon was luxuriously furnished. Everything in it was either reddish-purple or white, and I instantly felt at peace.
“Would you like to drink something?” a petite black woman asked me as soon as she had handed me a copy of True Love magazine. She wore a navy blue frock that looked like some kind of uniform. She was very slender, and I wondered if it was because of not having enough to eat or if she just had model genes.
“Water,” I responded with a smile. After a few minutes, I was alone with the white woman.
“By the way, I own this place. I always make sure that I serve my clients personally.” She stated while picking up a big white towel from a rack. I smiled up at her.
“Don’t worry about the black people here. They only do the basics such as warm the water or clean up the floor. Everything else is done by me. I am very professional so I don’t let them touch my clients. This is a white person’s salon, white person for white people”. She said while searching my face for a reaction.
My instincts screamed racist! I considered myself a person who believed in equal rights, but strangely enough, I found comfort in Csilla’s speech. I looked her up and down to try and discern any discomfort but found none. Something about the confident way she said it all showed me that this speech was something she regularly held for her clients. I suspected that none of them had so far complained about it. I wasn’t going to be the first one.
“Do you like it here in Kenya?” I asked in an effort to make conversation. It didn’t make any sense to me that someone would choose to live in a country whose people she clearly detested.
“Like it?” she asked, and I couldn’t tell if it meant that my question was ridiculous or if she was glad that I asked it. “People here are
primitive and with absolutely no sense of hygiene!” she said, throwing her hands in the air. I kept quiet.
“So you want it blond?” she asked while examining my hair.
“Yes,” I said and after a few seconds realized that she might dye my hair ash blond like hers.
“But not like your hair,” I stammered and realized too late that it came out all wrong.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I want it blond. Natural blond.”
“Natural blond, huh?” she asked, and I felt myself shrinking in my seat.
Ramona
Germany, 2010,
the brown paper bag
I am at the train station in Stuttgart. I actually love train stations. There is something about them that reminds one that life isn’t static. Everything changes. The trains come and go. So do the people. For some reason my memory goes back to Angelika, my fourth and last driving instructor. “There are two different kinds of people Ramona; passengers and drivers” she had said in her sympathetic voice after I failed my driving test. My eleventh driving test. The thought makes me smile. Time has a way of healing things. I watch Tankie and Lukas seated on the opposite bench. Ever since Magnus left, some kind of stillness has engulfed us. Lukas hardly talks but even Tankie isn’t his usual self. He still climbs onto things but not as often.
A black woman walks up to us. She is dressed in an ill fitting sky blue trouser and a faded old green jacket. She has short kinky hair and she looks tired and timid. She looks around searching for a place to sit. I smile up at her. She smiles back tentatively and sits down next to me. Well, on the farthest corner of the bench.
Tankie crosses over and jumps onto my lap. His eyes are fixed on the woman. I grab him and try to show him the big Western Union poster directly in front of us.
“Meine Damen und Herren die Regionalbahn von Mannheim nach Donzdorf über Stuttgart ist leider verspätet. Wir bitten um Entschuldigung!” I hear the announcement and watch as Lukas’ face creases in concentration.
The Outsider(S) Page 13