Dalila

by Jason Donald

  Okay, ask me, says Constance.

  I thought this was a conversation class?

  If you ask, we have conversation.

  Fine, says Dalila, giving up. Are you married?

  Yes.

  Does your husband live with you?

  No, he stay in Congo.

  Do you have children?

  Yes. Four. Three boys and one daughter.

  Where are they?

  Through her heavy Congelese accent, Constance explains. The bigger boys is with they father in Congo. The other one, he is four and half years and my baby girl, she is two. They are downstairs in crèche.

  Fifty questions sprout in Dalila’s mind all bidding to be asked.

  Constance continues, My husband say he is coming soon. Money is a problem. Maybe next year, he come.

  The teacher claps her hands again. Okay, everyone, can I have your attention? Well, that was a nice little warm-up. Now, if you can all face the flipchart we can move on by reviewing some grammar. Does anyone remember what we were doing last week?

  The bronze-haired lady raises her hand, while glancing at her notes. The present continuous tense, she says.

  Very well done, says the teacher. That’s right. For the past few weeks we have been studying the present continuous tense. We’ve learned how to make positive and negative statements and how to form questions.

  Who can give me a positive sentence using the present continuous tense?

  One of the Muslim girls puts up her hand.

  Yes, Aiesha? says the teacher.

  The baby is eating the paper, replies Aiesha. The two girls burst into giggles. Everyone smiles at her choice of sentence. Dalila finds herself smiling too.

  Perfect, laughs the teacher. She writes it on the flipchart and turns to the class once more. What is the verb in that sentence, Aiesha?

  Eating.

  Good. And the auxiliary verb?

  Um . . . is?

  Very good. We know that to make a present continuous sentence you must use an auxiliary verb, and add –ing to the action verb. Now today we are going to learn when to use this tense, says the teacher. She draws a diagram on the flipchart.

  PAST -------------| NOW |------------- FUTURE

  The teacher points at the diagram and explains. We use the present continuous when referring to what is happening now, this very second. For example, we might say, I am breathing. Or another sentence could be, I am sitting. We can also use this tense to describe temporary states. For example, we could say, I am reading a book. Now, you might not actually be reading at exactly the same time as you say this sentence, but it still refers to a short time in the past when you started reading the book and assumes you will finish reading it in the near future. Do you understand?

  Dalila suspects the teacher is speaking too quickly and too technically for the level of English she is teaching, but everyone nods their heads, eager to show that they are keeping up with her.

  The teacher continues. So, it is a temporal state. The present continuous refers to positive or negative actions that are unfinished.

  Dalila stares at the word NOW, hemmed in by parallel lines. Cut off from the past and the future. Shut in on itself.

  So, who can give me another example of a present continuous sentence? asks the teacher. Anyone?

  Sentences of temporary, unfinished states flash through Dalila’s mind.

  Dalila is living in Glasgow.

  Dalila is waiting for the Home Office to decide.

  Dalila is spending her day alone.

  How about you? says the teacher to the bronze-haired woman. Can you think of a sentence?

  The bronze-haired woman thinks and replies, I am enjoying this class.

  Very good. Well done. Anyone else? How about a negative sentence?

  Dalila isn’t eating properly.

  Dalila isn’t sleeping.

  The woman in black answers, I am not standing up.

  Excellent, says the teacher. How about some more examples?

  Dalila is trying not to give up.

  Dalila isn’t crying today.

  Me, I’m speaking every day English, says Constance.

  Well, you have the right idea, smiles the teacher. But just say, I am speaking English.

  I said like this, I . . . am . . . speaking . . . English.

  Good, says the teacher. Any more examples?

  Dalila is sinking.

  Okay, why don’t we form two groups and discuss what we plan to do for the rest of the day. This is a perfect way to use the present continuous tense. Especially for short-term future arrangements. For example, I have theatre tickets for this evening so I can say, I am meeting my friends at 5 p.m. We are having a few drinks because we are celebrating my sister’s birthday. Then we are watching the show. See how this works? Why don’t you try?

  As the other students arrange themselves into two groups, Dalila raises her hand. Excuse me, she says to the teacher, where is the bathroom?

  Downstairs and on your left, says the teacher.

  Dalila stands up, loops her bag over her shoulder and leaves.

  At home, Dalila goes straight to bed and sleeps for the rest of the afternoon. She wakes, groggy and stiff, and waddles to the bathroom. Sitting down to pee, she blows her nose at the same time, wondering if perhaps she is catching another cold. When she stands up, there is blood on the toilet paper. She blinks and stares into the toilet, then checks her crotch. It’s here. She hasn’t been regular for over a year, not since her uncle took her. When was the last time? Three months ago? Four? But here it is again, it’s back.

  She glances at the missing bathroom tiles before staring back down into the bowl.

  Lifting onto her toes and splaying her fingers, she quickly presses the latch on the toilet and watches everything get flushed away. All that’s left is clean, white porcelain.

  She washes her hands and face when something rushes over her, a feeling of being drawn down, of her whole self being flushed clean. She sits down on the edge of the bath and bursts into tears, sobbing out a horrible weight she forgot she had been carrying. Right after the relief comes delight. Sheer, sparkling delight at being free. Her giggles gurgle out amongst her tears as she wipes the back of her wrists across her eyes.

  No baby, she whispers to herself.

  No matter what he did to her, there will be no baby.

  When Ma’aza arrives home she dumps her backpack on the kitchen table and pulls out two frozen pizzas, a bottle of Pepsi, crisps, salsa and a large tub of Asda’s own-brand vanilla ice cream.

  Where did you get all of this? asks Dalila.

  Ma’aza undoes the bun at the back of her head. She rakes her fingers across her scalp and shakes out her hair till her loose curls spring out in all directions. Tonight, my little sugar sister, we get fat, fat, fat, she says, snapping her fingers and throwing her hips.

  Try this one, she says, passing Dalila a Tunnock’s teacake.

  What is it?

  Ma’aza raises her shoulders. It’s like a . . . a sweet. It’s very good. Try.

  Dalila unwraps the foil and holds up a half-dome of chocolate the size of a small pomegranate. How can I eat this?

  You just . . . Ma’aza gestures for Dalila to shove the whole thing in her mouth.

  As Dalila bites into it, the chocolate shell collapses, sending sweet white marshmallow paste over her chin and fingers.

  Ma’aza bursts out laughing. Is good, huh? Ha ha, you have some on your nose.

  Dalila grins with her mouth full and wipes the back of her hand across her nose.

  Tonight, we eat and laugh, says Ma’aza as she turns the oven on and peels the wrapping off the pizzas. I got this DVD in the market. We can watch tonight. It’s about these two American women, they are police, and the fat one is funny.

  Okay, says Dalila, picking up the DVD and trying to read the badly printed sleeve notes. I can make some tea?

  No, no, says Ma’aza, wagging her finger. You Kenyans always want tea. But
no, tonight we make coffee and popcorn, Ethiopian style. You sit on the sofa. Go. Turn the TV on and take these nachos.

  Halfway through the film, the two of them are slumped side by side on the sofa. Ma’aza’s feet are up on the coffee table. Now and again her hand dips into the bowl of popcorn on Dalila’s lap.

  So the class was good? Ma’aza asks.

  What?

  The English class. Did you go?

  I went there, says Dalila, keeping her eyes on the TV screen.

  And the people are nice?

  Dalila shrugs and pops some popcorn into her mouth.

  Ma’aza watches the movie for a few minutes and then says, Dali, did you stay till the end of the class?

  There is no answer. Ma’aza sits up and opens her eyes wide in mock shock. She says, You didn’t even stay, I know it.

  Dalila tries to fight the smile coming to her face but she can’t. It was too boring, she laughs. I couldn’t stay. I tried but I couldn’t.

  Ma’aza sighs theatrically but her smile betrays her real mood. She grabs a handful of popcorn and tosses it into Dalila’s face.

  Dalila approaches Daniel’s tower. The bonnet of a car is open like a basking crocodile. Daniel is bent forward, leaning into the mouth.

  Men bent over cars – same.

  He looks up, gives her a quick wave.

  I will come back tomorrow, she says. You are busy.

  No, please, says Daniel in Kiswahili. I am almost finished. I would be honoured if you kept me company. But don’t get too close, everything here is dirty.

  My father loved cars, says Dalila. He was always fixing them.

  I think I would have liked him, says Daniel, sitting down on the ground. He reaches his arms into the machine, feeling for something.

  How are you, my sister? he asks.

  Okay. Dalila sighs. Some days are better.

  I haven’t seen you. What have you been doing?

  Nothing, says Dalila, just walking.

  Only walking? Oh, but you should see people, too. Did you try an English class?

  I tried one, but . . . Dalila leaves the rest unsaid, not knowing how to explain it.

  Some weeks are difficult for me, too, says Daniel. He stands up and wipes his hands on a rag. There have been many days when I did nothing, he says. In those times, I become unfamiliar to myself, an old man who gazes at the TV and waits for the rain clouds to pass.

  Dalila suspects he is saying this just to identify with her, to make her feel better. She can’t picture Daniel slumped indoors. Every time she meets him he is busy, motivated, facing the world unafraid.

  But today is not one of those days, he says. Look at us. We are out. There is peace. And the sun is . . . Daniel squints up at the sky. Well, the sun is probably shining in Africa.

  Dalila smiles. Yes, Africa has stolen all the sun from this place. We are guilty of that.

  My sister, have you eaten? asks Daniel.

  I will eat at home, she replies.

  Well, I am going to my favourite food van. It is full of Scottish food. Would you like to join me? You can add the experience to your different list.

  I have no money for this.

  I have a little money. I will treat you and you can repay me by keeping this old man company.

  Daniel bends over a bucket and scrubs his hands with a nail brush. He throws the water out across the lawn and dries his hands off on his trousers. He locks up the car, puts on his hat and they set off.

  Dalila strolls, making sure Daniel can keep up. A light drizzle starts and she keeps her hands warm in her coat pockets.

  So you have had your interview? asks Daniel.

  Yes.

  And so now you wait, he says.

  Yes, now I wait.

  How do you feel about this?

  She wants to say that she is fine and she knows everything will be okay. Instead, she lets his question rest with her.

  I feel . . . I don’t know, she says. I see myself alone in a great desert. I can see for many kilometres in all directions and everything is flat. I don’t know which way to go. All directions are the same, they all go nowhere. So sometimes I think, Why continue? Why not just stay here?

  Hmm. Yes, says Daniel. I believe you see the world correctly. It doesn’t matter which path we choose. In the end, we are all going to the same place. The emptiness you feel will always be there. I feel it too. It is there for everyone. If you pretend it isn’t there, it is there still. Better to make friends with it, stay in it. It is simply a feeling like joy or anger or boredom. If you become familiar with it, you can watch its approach, unafraid, and accept its embrace with grace.

  Dalila looks over at this old man, surprised by him.

  But I believe your questions are confused, says Daniel, more as if he is talking to himself than to Dalila. When you ask, Why go on? It cannot be answered. There are no clear directions. So we are left with how to proceed. How to go on? says Daniel, jabbing his middle finger against the open palm of his hand. Now that . . . that is the interesting question. Maybe if we know how to continue, we glimpse why we should continue.

  Her father always had a plan, that was always evident. He was always preparing for the future and counselling her and her brother to choose their paths and stick to them. But Daniel? This old man is different and less like her father than she first thought.

  We should stop here, says Daniel, leading Dalila by the elbow across the street towards a van.

  One entire side of the van is flipped open and propped on poles to create a stiff awning. She notices that the inside of the van has been converted into a little kitchen with a hob, deep-fat fryer and fridges. There’s a small glass counter housing chocolate bars, drinks and pink-glazed doughnuts. Beside the counter a small printed menu has been taped to the panelling.

  So this must be their version of street food, Dalila thinks. No wonder she hadn’t seen any until now. She had been looking for open charcoal fires and hawkers selling roasted corn on the cob and goat sausage or some sugar cane to nibble.

  Street food – different.

  They huddle under the awning as the rain picks up. Faint aromas of hot cooking oil and burnt sugar comes from inside the van. Inside, a large, bald man turns to look at them. Afternoon, Daniel, he says, wiping his hands on his apron.

  Big Chris, my friend, says Daniel, shaking the bald man’s hand. How is that Toyota? Is she behaving herself?

  Aye, good, says Big Chris. Been running it to Paisley and back every day. Never had any bother.

  I told you. Those ones are the most reliable cars, chuckles Daniel. One day your son will be driving it.

  Well, mibbe. We’ll have to see about that.

  Last year I sold a car to this gentleman, Daniel explains to Dalila. He turns back to the man in the van and says, This is my good friend Dalila. She has recently moved to this neighbourhood.

  Big Chris reaches over and shakes Dalila’s hand. Good tae meet you, luv.

  He places his elbow on the counter and leans heavily on it to relieve some of the weight from his legs. Some weather this, aye?

  Yes, Daniel replies, but me, I like rain.

  Well then, you’re in for a treat. Forecast says it’ll be like this till the end of the week.

  Rain is good, says Daniel. Scotland is too lucky.

  Lucky? Big Chris smirks. We’ve been called many things, but I’m no sure about lucky. Big Chris places both hands on the counter and raises himself up. So what can I get yous?

  Daniel turns to Dalila and asks her in Kiswahili, Have you ever had a bacon roll?

  What is this? Dalila asks.

  It is a Scottish delicacy and this particular establishment prepares the best bacon rolls in the entire country. You must try one. It is my treat. But I wouldn’t try the tea. It’s like Kibera sewer water.

  Okay, says Dalila, trying not to smile, no tea.

  Daniel orders two bacon rolls.

  Right you are, says Big Chris. You wanting yer rolls soft or crispy?

>   Soft, please, says Daniel.

  They wait, watching gutter water flow down the side of the street. The smell of frying bacon drifts out of the kitchen van behind them. It’s a deep and marvellous smell. Dalila swallows the saliva gathering under her tongue.

  Daniel cleans his glasses with a paper napkin and looks out at the rain.

  So, asks Dalila, trying to adopt the tone of their previous conversation, how do you know . . . how to . . .?

  Daniel nods, appearing to understand what she is trying to ask. It is only a simple thing, he says, but an easy thing to forget. Ubuntu reminds us how to live. You know about Ubuntu?

  It’s a word from her childhood. A word often said, but rarely emphasised. Yes, I know this word, says Dalila. I think it means sharing, or kindness.

  It is about sharing, of course, Daniel nods, but the true meaning is higher. Ubuntu says, I can only be okay if you are okay. I am, because of who we all are. Do you understand?

  Dalila nods, unsure.

  My sister, Ubuntu is simply a way of being. If your efforts are used to give value to others, it will bring purpose and dignity to yourself. Be like this, and you will possess the hours you live.

  You wanting sauce, Daniel? asks Big Chris.

  Yes, please.

  Red or brown?

  Brown for each one.

  The man squirts brown sauce on each roll, wraps them in paper and hands them over. He returns to leaning forward on his elbows. Daniel places enough coins on the counter.

  That’s perfect. Cheers, says Big Chris.

  The rain comes on heavier. Daniel and Dalila eat under the canopy to keep dry. As she chews she studies the bacon in disbelief.

  I told you it was good, smiles Daniel.

  It’s really good, she says, taking another bite. This is not like the bacon in Kenya. She wipes the sauce from the corner of her mouth and sucks it off her thumb. I like it. What kind of sauce is this?

  Daniel shrugs. It is brown sauce.

  But what is it made of?

  A mischief plays across Daniel’s face. It’s made of brown things.

  She takes another bite and peers out into the rain. A car drives slowly by and comes to a stop. The reverse lights flick on and the car comes back towards them, stopping across the street. With the bacon roll poised in front of her mouth, she watches the rain water dribble down the car’s metalwork, the windscreen wipers sweep and pause, sweep and pause.