by Jason Donald
Saseni! Contrary to the many RIPs, sijadie, I’m alive! Safely in the UK. Glasgow is the address! Been a tough year with many shidaz, but niko poa! Nawamiss!
She doesn’t know what else to write but this should put a stop to the rumours going around college. The word will get out that she is alive and well and then she can start to reconnect with friends one by one.
She hits ENTER.
Her parents never used Facebook, they weren’t part of the xaxa generation. Her mother only got her own phone three years ago. But everyone else uses Facebook, her friends, her teachers, her brother.
Samuel, her brother. The sense of him is clearer than her memories.
In her darkest moments her thoughts always reach towards her mother, her father. They were her earth, slipped out from under her. But Samuel exists to the side, his face opaque, like a silhouette in the moonlight. His outline is more defined when she doesn’t look directly at it. It troubles her that she isn’t more troubled by his death. His tragedy has somehow been lost in her own. His passing wasn’t an event itself, it merely became part of the earthquake splitting through the centre of her life.
She types his name and clicks on it.
There is his face. Real. True. Like he stepped from the shadow towards her. She can feel his mood in the proud, self-conscious profile picture. Her big brother, athletic and gentle.
His page has become a memorial site with hundreds of good wishes and RIP postings. She scrolls through the litany of tributes. Many of her friends have posted condolences and photographs that she has never seen. She clicks on the album and flicks through the photographs. One shows a crowd of well-dressed people standing in a field. The next one is of people posing in a car park. No one is smiling and her brother is tagged in every shot. She looks for his face but he isn’t there. In the next photo people in nice dresses wait outside a church. Recognition whispers something to her. The next picture is much the same as the last but the image hums with an unnerving chill. She recognises family friends, people who used to drive for her father, cousins and a few faces from college.
And then she knows.
This is the funeral.
This photograph was taken at her brother’s funeral. Her family’s funeral. These are her friends and family saying goodbye. It’s everyone saying goodbye, everyone except her. This is the funeral her uncle forbade her to attend. She breathes in so sharply it makes a noise.
Flicking through more photographs she finds him, her uncle, standing by a car with some of his men. They are wearing suits, smoking. In the foreground, some of Samuel’s friends are standing arm in arm, holding up her brother’s basketball vest.
This picture has a ferocious silence.
Her heart starts beating so hard she’s afraid she might scream. She pushes back from the desk and struggles to find a tissue in her pocket. Daniel turns in his seat and lowers his glasses to look at her. She blows her nose and raises her hand in a gesture to assure Daniel she is okay. She blows her nose again and when she looks at the screen a private message has popped up. She scoots forward to read it.
Muthoni Muragu Who is this? You are trespassing on my friend’s page and I will report you to campus security.
Dalila stares at the little green cursor showing that Muthoni, her best friend, is online right now. She’s not sure how to respond. Muthoni must be able to see that she is online and available for messaging.
Muthoni Muragu How did you get my friend’s password? Hacking someone’s private account is a serious offence!!
Dalila Mwathi It is me.
Muthoni Muragu Who are you?
Dalila Mwathi ni mimi Dalila.
Muthoni Muragu ur NOT Dalila. I know this!!
Dalila Mwathi Believe me. It’s me. We studied media and comm together.
Muthoni Muragu U can know all this from her page. U think I’m sooooo stupid. U R in big trouble. U can be expelled for this. If u r she, then where did we meet?
Muthoni Muragu not answering? U make me sick.
Dalila Mwathi Noni, don’t be like that! We met in the tiny mobile phone shop at Moi Avenue, near the place that sells nice fries. U were buying a Nicki Minaj phone cover. U helped me get the battery out of my phone because yr nails were longer. It is me, Noni. It’s Dali.
Muthoni Muragu OMG OMG OMG!!!!! Gff!
Muthoni Muragu Dali, is it really you??
Dalila Mwathi Yes! ☺☺
Muthoni Muragu They said u r dead. Killed!! But I knew, I KNEW. I knew I knew I knew!!!! ☺☺☺ R U ok? Are you sick? What? Sending you a big hug!
Dalila Mwathi I’m ok.
Muthoni Muragu R U in UK?
Dalila Mwathi Yes. Glasgow.
Muthoni Muragu Where is this place? never heard of it. Pictures? Where R they? Want to see u with yr nice clothes!!☺☺☺
Dalila Mwathi It’s not like that. Glasgow is too cold. Things have not been easy.
Muthoni Muragu Don’t worry girl. I’m glad u r safe. Everyone said you died. They say you ran away, people were looking for u. Some said u live with your uncle. It was crazy here! After a year the colle want to take u off the register, can u believe that? But I deferred u for 1 year so they are holding yr place. ;-)
Dalila Mwathi wow!! U did this? U R the best!!
Muthoni Muragu When you’ll come back?
Dalila Mwathi I want to come back now, believe me. But I’m scared of my uncle.
Muthoni Muragu did u stay with him?
Dalila Mwathi at first I stayed but after he wouldn’t let me leave. It was bad for me, Noni. Bad things happened, but I escaped, ran away.
Muthoni Muragu that Mungiki bastard! I’m so sorry Dali.
Muthoni Muragu How did you get to UK?
Dalila Mwathi 1 of my uncle’s drivers helped me.
Muthoni Muragu he thinks he’s a big man now.
Dalila Mwathi who? My uncle?
Muthoni Muragu yes
Muthoni Muragu I saw his photo on the back of the matatus. He is campaigning 2 b on the city council.
Dalila Mwathi really?
Muthoni Muragu All these Mungiki are changing now. No more tobacco chewing, no more dreadlocks. These days they wear suits. True! No more gangstas, now they try 2 b businessmen. Even here at colle there are too many Mungikis. There R so many everywhere. If you speak against them it can be trouble.
Dalila Mwathi This is bad for me. Maybe I can never go home.
Muthoni Muragu Don’t think like that Dali. You come home soon, don’t worry. Its better U B safe now. But don’t tell people where U R. People talk.
She imagines people talking. Friends from college talking to other students who take the matatus home. The news of her whereabouts getting passed from one to the other. The loyal Mungiki students talk to the ticket boys or matatu drivers who are also Mungiki. The matatu drivers remember her name. They talk to her uncle. Her uncle must be furious that she has escaped, but when he knows where she has gone he will have a place to direct his rage.
Dalila Mwathi I just put Glasgow in my status!!! Stupid stupid!!
Muthoni Muragu Maybe better you delete it quick.
Dalila clicks back to her home page to find her recent status update already has twenty-nine likes and eight comments. Friends from college wishing her well and asking about her life in the UK. She deletes the post as quick as she can and refreshes the page to make sure it’s gone.
A warning box flashes up on her screen showing she only has two minutes of internet time left.
She sends Muthoni another message.
Dalila Mwathi I deleted my post but now I’m worried
Muthoni Muragu U B Ok. Don’t worry. No one can find you in UK. But better to use private message or email.
Dalila Mwathi I feel sick, Noni. Pls don’t tell people about me.
Muthoni Muragu You safe, girl. Believe that! Mungiki don’t fly to UK.
Dalila Mwathi I have 45 sec left on this computer.☺ love you Noni. We chat soon.
Muthoni Muragu I love you Dal
i!!!
When Dalila gets back to the flat she locks and bolts the door behind her. Her head is tight as a watermelon and her body is full of thoughts, getting tangled in her chest, diving down to her stomach. Each one wriggling and slipping, too fast to properly grasp. That strange old man, what was his name again? Daniel. And Ms Colgan. Miz Col-gin. And why did they make her take out her shoelaces? Do they expect her to unlace her shoes at every visit? She should use Facebook again. Muthoni. Sweet, precious Noni. She is such a good friend, a true sister.
Ma’aza enters the hall, fidding with the zip on her hoodie. Did you sign at Festival Court? she asks. They swipe your card?
Yes, says Dalila, taking off her coat.
Ma’aza zips up and lifts her face. Okay, we go.
Again? I am not so strong today. I want to rest.
Ma’aza lifts her chest and puts her hands to her hips.
Dalila can’t meet her eyes.
I am not your mother, says Ma’aza, shooting her arm out towards Dalila and snapping it back to its place on her hip. I don’t take care of you. I don’t ask for you to be here. If you don’t have money, if you don’t eat, I don’t care.
Dalila turns her head away, wondering if it’s perhaps safer to just leave.
You want your money? asks Ma’aza.
Yes.
So, we go to the Post Office, she says, her arm punctuating the air again. Don’t take off your shoes. We go now.
*
Ma’aza strides down the street, chin up, never looking left or right, while Dalila looks at everything through the haze of a head cold. Seagulls swoop and peck at litter. Seagulls, the same as in Mombasa, and Dalila wonders if Glasgow is a seaside town. Old trees splay their branches and their roots buckle the concrete slabs around their trunks.
They approach what appears to be a bus depot. Dalila watches a mother pushing her child in a pram. The child is at least four years old, maybe older. A black taxi, like the ones she saw in London, U-turns and stops by the roadside. A white man sweeps rubbish from the pavement.
White cleaners – different.
Taxis – different.
Is this the city centre? asks Dalila.
No. This is Govan. City centre is other side.
They cross the road, towards a small shopping mall. At the entrance sits a man in wheelchair wearing an Iron Maiden T-shirt. His wheelchair is very modern. He doesn’t beg or speak to passers-by, he just sits, with his tattooed forearms resting on his lap, waiting for someone, or something.
Beggars – different.
Inside, it’s stuffier and smells of overcooked food. Many of the shops are vacant, their windows whitewashed from the inside. Ahead, she sees a shop called Farmfoods. It is filled with freezers and seems unlike any place the farmers she knows might visit. The malls in Nairobi are better than this.
Ma’aza pulls Dalila by the elbow into a brightly lit shop selling sweets, newspapers, stationery, drinks, magazines and cigarettes. The Post Office is at the back, behind the stationery and birthday cards. The staff work behind security windows and speak to customers through the glass with the aid of microphones. Though there are four windows, only two are manned.
Ma’aza and Dalila join the queue behind a man in a blue turban. Ma’aza, like everyone else, gazes straight ahead and makes no effort at conversation. Dalila holds her face in a neutral mask, trying to blend in, but her eyes scan the room, fascinated. What is most astonishing is what isn’t happening. No one tries to push to the front of the queue. People don’t swarm at the counter. No one sits on the floor. There are no children. No security guards, no guns. People merely wait, like tired school pupils, like inmates. The next person is called to the window and the entire queue shuffles one step forward.
Hundreds of glossy magazines line the far wall. Almost every cover shows a woman with glorious skin. On the top shelf are pornographic magazines with naked white women pouting and exposing themselves. Dalila lowers her eyes but can’t help taking another quick look. Those pictures are right there, shameless in this public place, but no one seems to notice.
Pornography – different.
They move forward, following the queue as it doubles back on itself, now facing the people in the line behind them. A tall old lady at the back of the queue briefly makes eye contact with Dalila and then turns to whisper something to her podgy companion. When the podgy one glances up, Dalila feels heat rising in her face.
Another person is called to the counter and Dalila is forced to step closer to these old women. She glances at Ma’aza, who is texting on her phone. Dalila looks down at her feet, then lifts her chin and pretends to read a poster about banking with the Post Office. All the time, she can feel the old women’s eyes on her, on her lips, her hair. Again the queue moves. Now she is standing right next to these women. The tall one fumbles with letters, the plump one makes a show of helping her friend. Dalila takes this moment to study them, their slack dry skin the colour of weak tea, their spider-web hair.
Ma’aza gets called to a window. She slides her ARC card through to the woman behind the glass. You have your card? asks Ma’aza.
Yes, says Dalila, holding it up.
After you report, you come to this place for money, okay? You must remember the way. I cannot show you every time.
Dalila nods and watches the clerk behind the counter swipe the card through a machine. The clerk studies the computer screen for a moment, counts out some notes and coins, prints out a receipt and slides it through to Ma’aza, who scrunches the notes and quickly shoves them in the front pocket of her jeans.
Then Dalila slides across her ARC card and, within a few minutes, she too receives her money. £37.41, which she mentally converts to Kenyan shillings and it seems to be a lot.
The two old women stand ready, each with a letter in hand, and don’t look at Dalila. They don’t look at her in that peculiar way women can curse you by refusing to look at you.
Leaving the mall through a different exit, Dalila braces herself against the wind. She follows Ma’aza past some warehouses, past a car repair shop, past an open plot of land strewn with papers rolling in the wind, till they come to a row of old houses, the ochre kind.
Wait here, says Ma’aza.
Dalila nods.
Ma’aza disappears into the building.
The wind pulls brown leaves from the trees. Dalila blows her nose and tucks her hands deeper into her coat pockets. She’s alone on the street. And yet it’s hard to believe she is here, alone, on this strange, cold street. Who would believe it? She had never even heard of Glasgow before coming to Great Britain. Still, it was dumb to mention Glasgow at all on stupid Facebook. What if the news gets back to Uncle Kennedy? His fury would be uncontained, but he won’t come here. Certainly not. This city is a nowhere place. No one could find her here.
Her stomach pulls and curls in on itself. You’re a stupid girl, Dali, she says out loud. A stupid, silly girl.
A dog comes towards her and she backs against the wall, moving away from it and up the three steps into the building’s entrance. The dog sniffs the lamp-post, lifts its leg and carries on down the street.
Ma’aza comes out and says, Take this. You must have one.
She holds out an old Nokia mobile phone, the kind Dalila owned when she was seventeen.
Thank you, says Dalila, taking the phone. She looks up at the building and wonders what this place is. It looks like people’s homes. Did Ma’aza just buy this phone from a friend? Maybe there is a shop inside. When she turns to ask Ma’aza, she sees her walking off down the road and Dalila hurries to catch up.
They march to a main road heavy with traffic. Across the road, cars queue up at a gleaming McDonald’s drive-through and wait to place their order at the speaker, but the restaurant itself is empty.
Further on, three tower blocks come into view, identical to the cluster of towers they live in. Two of the towers stand hollow and windowless, the balconies marked with graffiti. The front of the third tower has g
one, crumbled away as though made of sand, as if bomb-blasted. It’s like a war-zone news report, thinks Dalila. One entire side of the building is completely gone. Tangled metal supports hang from the shredded concrete. Painted walls and coloured wallpaper hint at what used to be a living room, a child’s bedroom, the tiles of a long-gone kitchen.
As they get closer, something near the top, about fifteen floors up, shifts. A slab of concrete the size of her bedroom wall loosens and falls to the rubble below. A second later, the shockwave shudders through their chests.
I used to live in there, says Ma’aza.
In there?
Yes, up there, she points, where they are breaking it.
Dalila looks, and only now sees the articulated digger partially obscured behind the tower. It’s fitted with a long insect-like arm that scratches and pokes at the remains of a yellow-wallpapered room, pushing it, till the wall crumbles and smashes to the ground. The digger adjusts its position and starts prodding the next patch of colour.
How long did you live there? asks Dalila.
Fifteen months. Then they move everyone out. Put us anywhere in the city. But they put me in Iona Court. Our building is like this one. Next year they will move us again and destroy our building also, just the same like here.
When did you come here? Dalila asks.
I am in the UK for four years and seven months.
That long? And you don’t have papers?
Ma’aza sighs and shakes her head. Listen to me, they never tell you anything. You only wait. Maybe they move you to a different place and then you wait there. Waiting is your biggest problem. This is not Africa. They don’t use guns against you. In this place, they use papers and lies.
Ma’aza pauses, as if waiting for a response. To avoid her eyes, Dalila stares up at the crane.
They say they give you everything, Ma’aza continues, but they only take from you. They try to turn you against yourself. They want you to stay inside, to be alone, to do nothing. This is a broken place, you understand? Heavy hearts are a sickness here. That’s why I go out every day. To forget about the waiting.
Ma’aza looks directly at Dalila. Moving is living, she says, believe me.