by Peter Kimani
All the adults wore long faces. Even Babu’s grin had shrunk, although it wasn’t gone completely. He elbowed Karim again when he caught sight of Nahodha, who was bent over in prayer, kneading knots of misbaha in his shaky hands.
“The captain has surrendered his vessel to the will of God,” Babu said.
Karim grunted, suppressing laughter.
“There is nozing like being young,” one of the men playing cards said in a tone that was neither castigating nor complimenting. “Just shoving teet all te time!”
Babu smiled on.
“We reckon there isn’t much else to do but surrender to the will of God!” Babu shouted. Although the workmen were mostly Indian, they spoke different languages and dialects, so English was their common denominator.
Nahodha interrupted his prayers and stepped forward to face Babu. He had removed his skullcap to reveal a receding hairline. He looked like a lion without a mane, yet still bore a fierce demeanor that temporarily scared Babu. Nahodha did not have his shoes on, and his right leg appeared even shorter than Babu remembered it. His churidar pajamas conveyed a certain vulnerability, like a little boy stepping out of bed. He addressed Babu in Gurmukhi, a language that the younger man understood perfectly.
“Why do you mock God when I’m making an earnest prayer for help?”
Babu did not respond.
“Why do you mock my prayer?”
“Why do you think your prayer is so important? Everyone on this dhow is praying,” Babu responded defiantly.
“Why do you mock my dua?” Nahodha repeated as if he had not heard the response.
Babu’s patience snapped, his simmering resentment of authority finding an outlet. “If your commune with God is as important as you imply, then I expect farmers to plant when you pass water,” he said, then added with as much spite as he could marshal: “And that this vessel will move if you break wind.”
Nahodha’s next statement was a war cry, delivered in a fearsome trembling timbre. Even those who did not know the language understood his gesture of ripping hair from his depleted pate. He was issuing a curse against Babu. “I think you have water instead of brain in that head. May Allah, the Almighty God, whose faithful servant you have scorned, curse you and your bloodline!” he wailed. “May blood flow to your doorstep, may your women be barren, may your seeds dry up! May enemies triumph over you! May laana from Allah descend upon your family!”
Babu froze, turning his gaze away from Fatima, as the memory of their wedding night, only days earlier, flooded in. The wedding had been hurriedly organized by his parents and he had only met his bride hours before the ceremony. He had known about his betrothal for years, but had never met his future bride. He had hardly thought of his future wedding at all—his energies consumed by his curiosity about the world. Visions of Africa, the impenetrable, dark forests, the rivers that flowed endlessly, apparently without a source, captured his imagination. So he jumped at the opportunity when he read notices announcing jobs working for the British colonial government in Africa.
With his impending trip, it was decided between his family and Fatima’s that the time was nigh for them to marry. He had gone through the ritual with bored indifference, and showed little enthusiasm when he was finally presented with his bride, a little girl whose dainty hand dripped with flowered henna patterns. She looked down when he peered into her eyes, and Babu felt a slight tremor shoot through him when he held her hand—just about the only visible part of her body.
Babu became more interested and curious as he undressed her that night, peeling off her sari and calico clothing as though unwrapping a package of food, until she finally lay naked before him. He hadn’t seen a naked woman before, but he found Fatima too bony for his liking: her ribs showed through her skin; there were hollows around her pelvis. Still, it was thrilling for him to see a naked woman. He touched her glowing skin, stroking her carefully and smoothly. By the time he reached the middle of her legs, he had worked himself into a froth of excitement. He jumped on her with urgency, just as the tension that had been building up in him, like a rising tide, finally gave way to a whitish fluid that coursed over Fatima’s belly.
Babu lay on his side, sighing with relief, which soon turned to desperation, as the fluid that he had emitted dissolved into the white sheet that had been spread beneath Fatima to test her virginity. Babu dreaded the sight of the clean sheet. He was now limp, and try as he might, he was unable to rise to the occasion. The absence of blood on the white sheet would arouse the suspicion that he had been fooled into marrying a woman who was not a virgin; conversely, it could also mean that he had been unable to consummate his marriage. Either way, he was going to end up with egg on his face.
Babu stroked his bride anew, touching different parts of her body but eliciting little reaction; his anger welled up inside of him as he considered a course of action that could salvage his pride and reputation. Throughout his boyhood, he was known as the striking cobra, a notoriety fanned by fights with boys who teased him over his distended navel, his weapon of choice being his pronounced forehead.
Babu lightly kissed Fatima’s breasts, then her neck and face. He glanced into her eyes briefly before striking the bridge of her nose with his forehead. There was a flash of panic and anger in her eyes, but Fatima sobbed silently, as though she was bracing for a worse attack. Babu quickly grabbed the white sheet spread beneath and wiped the drops of blood that issued from Fatima’s nostrils. His idea of her virginity test, it appeared, was directed at the wrong hole.
* * *
The passengers were marooned at sea for six days and six nights. Fatima lay in a corner weeping, her hunched shoulders supporting her tiny head, her hair covering her face, tears gluing the strands together like corn silk. Babu and Karim had retreated to a corner of the dhow. Both noticed the massive wave approaching, but made no sense of it until was too late. After six days and nights of zero movement, something was stirring in the sea.
The building wave was swirling and twirling as it drew near, before landing on the side of the dhow. The vessel reeled from impact, tossing sideways as women and children shouted for help. When stronger and swifter waves descended, the dhow went into a spin as men, women, and children did what their forebears had done for generations: they banged on whatever they could lay their hands on to calm the sea spirits; Nahodha blew the horn and knelt to pray, his voice trembling but still impassioned. The sky had turned from blue to gray; it was difficult to tell if the distant ocean was lifting up to the heavens, or if the heavens had melted into the sea. A gray nothingness held the ocean and the sky. All Babu and Karim felt from the edge of the dhow was the sludge of salty water on their feet, before it jumped up to slap their faces. The storm doused all the cries from the women and the children below. Nahodha’s praying was the last voice to be heard on the ship, its tenor panicky and pained.
* * *
Against all odds, all the adult passengers aboard MV Salama from India made it to the shores of Mombasa on the night of August 1, 1897. Three children had drowned during the voyage. The Mombasa fishermen administered first aid to the surviving children and adults. Most had distended bellies, which they pressed to expel water. One child had shrunk to the size of a shoe. It was hard to differentiate between men and women because the women had lost their round forms and breasts. Many were too weak to walk and got on all fours when they touched the land, like giant crabs scurrying across the earth for a hole to hibernate in. Some seamen stole suspicious glances at them, unsure if the creatures they had rescued were humans or jinn as some of them feared. Three more children remained unconscious; two of them never recovered. After crouching in a waterlogged corner of the dhow for so long, Fatima had lost the use of her legs and had to be dragged away, leaving a trail behind her, like that of a slug. She instantly believed Nahodha’s curse had taken effect, but it was Babu’s encounter with McDonald days later that fortified this notion.
* * *
That night, as the shipwrecked passe
ngers were taken in safely to shore, a full moon hovered above, its silvery glow setting the ocean alight. Mombasa’s single street was bustling with life. Flickering candles beckoned in food stalls where tin kettles sat on glowing coals to make chai. In other stalls, women who resembled bats, because only their eyes were visible beneath their black robes, prepared food to sell. One dropped dough in a large pan to make mahamri, the sizzle of oil dancing. Another vendor fanned her jiko to roast mshikaki. The food market was teeming with activity as vendors called out to passersby to try their delicacies. But all those sounds were muted in the ears of the new arrivals. Only Nahodha would have understood Swahili, but he had passed out by this point.
Babu would remember their arrival into Mombasa as the walk of the dead, for he could not tell whether or not he was still alive, or if the child in his hands was alive or dead. He could not even tell whether he was still at sea or on dry land. The roar of the sea was close by, as were the voices speaking all around him that he could not understand. All he heard inside his head was an incessant buzzing sound, like a radio searching for a transmission frequency.
They were taken to an inn and those who were conscious were given hot soup. Two traditional medicine men were summoned to the inn by the fishermen. They prescribed herbs to revive those who were still unconscious. They also lit incense to ward off evil spirits that may have been stalking the survivors.
Early the following morning, the inn’s window opened to a panoramic view of Mombasa, then a mishmash of rondavels of coral and lime plaster, their makuti thatch and rusty metal roofs fanning out like a colorful oil painting.
The market was an open space ringed by palms. Although it was still early in the day, the market was almost completely full. Every sound competed for attention. A fetid wind lifted from the sea. A mongrel squeaked from the kick of a brown boot. A monger swished the tail of a tilapia, hailing its freshness. Another vendor sliced soundlessly through a ripe mango. A woman displaying hand-printed garments chuckled, revealing a fake gold tooth. A merchant clanged a knife on ivory. A rooster crowed. A donkey pulling a cart brayed, spilling drops of mnazi. A trader swore at a haggling customer. A mother admonished a child strapped to her back. A worker quarreled with his tools. The sea roared to assert its authority. The muezzin called the faithful to morning prayers. Mombasa turned into a Tower of Babel as Swahili, Arabic, Punjabi, Gujarati, Hindi, Marathi, and English tongues sought coherence.
Babu peered through the window and a wave of anticipation swept through him. He wanted to touch the soil, hurl a pebble into the sea and wait for its response. He was still weak, but his spirit wanted to fill his lungs with fresh air as he stepped outside. It was only when he saw two women helping another woman that he remembered he had not seen his new wife since their arrival. He had been at sea longer than he had been married, so his temperament remained that of a carefree boy, with the world at his feet. Feeling somewhat ashamed that he’d not thought of Fatima until then, he dashed back inside to check on her, but his mission was cut short by a man in a white uniform and a wide-brimmed hat. He was carrying a baton that he waved in the air while exclaiming: “This way, coolie! All workers are meeting now!”
Babu pointed to the women: “I need to see my wife.”
“Coolie, you have not been here for a minute and you are missing your wife already?”
“My wife is unwell,” Babu said firmly.
“What language do these people understand?” McDonald asked in clear exasperation, turning to his assistant, Superintendent Patterson. “Can you call these coolies to order? We need a head count.” McDonald clutched Babu’s wrist in a playful way, but the grip was tight enough that Babu could not extricate himself.
Patterson made his way to the spot where the newly arrived Indian men were playing a game of bao, tiny cups of kahawa thungu at their feet. Patterson called to the local drummer, Nyundo, and gestured to him to sound the drums. Soon, music filled the air as the instrument throbbed. Like crickets peeking out of their holes, men emerged from the houses and spilled into the dusty street.
“I have made a citizen’s arrest!” McDonald said to Babu with a smile.
Babu smiled back but didn’t speak. It was the first time he’d ever been this close to a white man, his white fingers encircling Babu’s brown wrist.
“Where are you from?” McDonald asked.
“Punjab,” Babu replied swiftly.
“How long have you been here?”
“Just arrived today . . . yesterday? I have lost sense of time.”
McDonald relaxed his grip on Babu. “Are you the guys who were shipwrecked?”
Babu shrugged. “I guess so.”
“Goodness me! And you are on your feet? You must get some rest.”
Babu shrugged again. “I-I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to come now,” McDonald told him. “You can come tomorrow, or whenever you are ready. We do a head count every other day.”
Babu instantly took a liking to McDonald. He decided to stay on and watch the proceedings from afar. Once the beach was clear, he would touch the water of the ocean, toss a pebble in.
McDonald bore a handlebar mustache that served like the whiskers of a cat. He ran a forefinger over his mustache when nervous, curled its edges when amused, and the mustache twitched when he was irritated. McDonald had ordered his men to round up all Indian workers and direct them to Fort Jesus, the phallic building in the center of the town whose decaying stones had turned brown like the crust of bread, with green moss sprouting in its crevices. It had no windows, the only visible opening being the mouth of the cannon that faced the sea. It had been built by the Portuguese four centuries earlier when they occupied the coast. It took nearly two hours before all workers were assembled in front of the building.
McDonald stood before the gathering, his black boots shining so brightly one could see his reflection in them. His white pants were so well pressed they could have stood up on their own. His white skin, now full of pink blotches from the sun, made him look like a fish out of water. But the rays of the sun and their reflection on his white clothes made it difficult for one to look directly at him without lifting a hand to deflect the light. McDonald grabbed a whistle from Patterson and blew, puffing in and out. His voice grew shrill as he tried to compete with the roar of the ocean, which sounded louder now that all the workers were silent.
There were 249 workers in all; they had arrived on different days over the past week. From their long exposure to the sun and salty waters, their pale skin had faded to the deep brown of grasshoppers in the savanna. Babu quietly joined the meeting, buoyed by his burning desire to throw a pebble into the ocean. He stood at the edge of the gathering, impatiently listening to McDonald.
“On behalf of the government of Her Majesty the Queen of England, I would like to welcome you all to the British East Africa Protectorate. Thank you for enlisting your support in the service of Her Majesty. Now, I will make this short because I know you have all had long trips. Some of you have endured great hazards to get here. I appreciate your commitment to the service of Her Majesty. I want to start with a word of caution: in this service, there are rules of engagement. I am a soldier—well, I was one in my past life—but since soldiers never retire nor die, I can say I’m still one, which is to say I take rules rather seriously. Those who run afoul of the law shall be guests of the state in this building . . .”
McDonald pointed at the decaying phallic building. This strategy was straight out of the missionaries’ manual: the fear of the Lord is the beginning of all wisdom. Getting potential offenders to fear their future dungeons should certainly serve as deterrence. There was an instant stampede as men on the brink of collapse from exhaustion and dehydration streamed into the rustic building. They had misunderstood “guests of the state” to mean that this would be their new guesthouse. The workmen grumbled in Urdu, Punjabi, and Gujarati, but their disapproval was unanimous: Why does this inn look so unkempt?
McDonald decided to le
t them wander. There were three levels to the building. The top floor was well lit and ventilated and had a beautiful view of the endless sea. In his notes, McDonald had labeled the top floor White. The lower floors were labeled Others. Even his jail was designed according to racial hierarchy. Whites took the best available space; other races would take what was left. The middle floor was poorly lit although some light from the White area filtered through, and one could see the outline of the sea where crevices had not been filled in with weeds. The bottom level was cloaked in virtual darkness—echoes reverberated when the workmen spoke as bats flitted around soundlessly. When one got accustomed to the dark, one noticed the stone walls were perspiring from the intense heat and poor air circulation.
McDonald blew his whistle, a sharp screeching sound that the workmen understood was a signal for them to stream out of the building. They obliged and converged where they had first stood, but most left their luggage in the best-lit corners of the building. When the men learned that the dark building was the jail awaiting offenders, six of them took off instantly, three of them rushing to the vessel that had brought them from India and begging the merchants to return them home.
But the dhow merchants swiftly hauled two of them on their shoulders and dropped them at McDonald’s feet like sacks of potatoes. The third man, who was the heaviest, was dragged off and similarly dumped with the others. McDonald smiled for the first time, revealing a cleft under his chin. He didn’t really open his mouth when he smiled, his cheeks just puffed out a bit and his lips twitched. He handcuffed the three men to each other.