Dance of the Jakaranda

by Peter Kimani

  In truth, the recognition was yet another charade that denied Babu his rightful honor.

  To understand how this came about, let’s turn back the hands of time once again and return to September 1901 in Nakuru, when Ahmad returned from his brief sojourn to Mombasa, his penis still warm and moist after days of lovemaking with Fatima. On the one hand, he was remorseful and contrite; on the other, defiant and indifferent. He knew it was not right to steal another man’s wife, especially one who had entrusted him with the cardinal responsibility of informing his family when misfortune struck. But at the same time, Ahmad felt quite justified in his acts: What kind of man keeps a virgin wife, not for a day or week, but for years? And what man in his right mind would let a woman of Fatima’s beauty go to waste? Babu should count himself lucky it’s me who did it first, Ahmad assured himself.

  So that’s how he rationalized things: it was Ahmad’s duty of care that compelled him to violate Babu’s trust in him. Furthermore, Babu’s banishment meant Ahmad did not have to face him, at least not yet.

  Three months later, a perfect opportunity availed itself. The news that Babu had been exonerated started making its rounds. Chief Lonana was convinced someone with blue eyes must have impregnated his daughter and he made it known he had no further claims against Babu. Indian and African workers pointed in the direction of the most famous blue-eyed men in their midst, Reverend Turnbull and McDonald, but some dismissed their suspicions just as fast. “Those two, aaaaiiii,” some workers sighed. “It can’t be. Tell us another one . . .”

  Others were not as doubtful. “You never know, ya Mungu ni mengi. As Cow Man likes to say, God works in miraculous ways. His wonders to perform,” they said. But that’s where the conversation ended and everybody carried on with their lives, which, for the most part, meant rising at dawn and working till dusk.

  As previously mentioned, Ahmad saw this as his opportunity to share some good news with Babu, thereby assuaging his own guilt over sleeping with Fatima. It would be a relief for Babu to learn that there was no case against him. Babu might even be able to petition McDonald to get his old job back. Ahmad made inquiries with other artisans and technicians who had dropped out of rail work to start their small businesses along the railway line. After consulting with a few people, he had a pretty good idea of where to find Babu. Since his presumed hideout was a little ways off, Ahmad planned on using the goods train that departed early in the morning after arriving from Mombasa the previous evening. But when the train arrived that evening, Ahmad received the letter from Fatima. He had initially panicked when a colleague alerted him to the missive. None of his relatives in Bombay could write because they were illiterate. He had no known relatives in the colony, not even a girlfriend. His heart beat faster at the memory of Fatima; yes, she could count as his girlfriend, even though she was married. But she couldn’t write to him as that would be too risky. The memory of her erect nipple melting in his mouth shot a tremor through his body. He adjusted his trousers and sprinted to collect the letter from the train master.

  He found it was actually a telegram, and even before opening it, he noticed there was a feminine feel to it: the brightly colored envelope, the leisurely loops on the letters that spelled his name. He instantly knew it was Fatima and he cursed under his breath as he opened the mail. COUSIN ABDUL, WELCOME TO THE FAMILY. I’M WAITING EXPECTANTLY.

  Ahmad correctly interpreted the code to mean Fatima was announcing she was pregnant. There was no hint of panic in the note; if anything, there was a gleeful relish, an invitation to join her family, to populate it. Ahmad sucked the roof of his mouth; the act triggered a torrent of saliva. He felt like he was about to throw up. This thing must be infectious, Ahmad laughed quietly to himself as the nausea passed. I am behaving like a pregnant woman.

  But it was no laughing matter that he had put Fatima in a family way. His narrative had to be revised. He’d have to tell his friend Babu a different story, for he couldn’t simply walk over and blabber: Man, you are in the clear. The girl you thought you impregnated has been confirmed to have been generous with others. It’s definitely not your baby as you don’t have blue eyes. Chief Lonana says he has no further case against you. Meanwhile, when you sent me to see your virgin wife in Mombasa—don’t ask me how I got to know she is a virgin—things happened and, you know, we are family now. One big happy family, as I have put her in a family way.

  Ahmad knew he couldn’t say that to Babu. It was one thing to steal a man’s wife, it was quite another to impregnate her and produce a progeny to perpetuate his lineage, even when that person was Ahmad who fantasized about lining the railway line with big-eared tots. He considered his options. He could persuade Fatima to elope with him. Before Babu caught wind of their absence, they would have crossed the ocean back to India. Folks there would understand. They would shrug and say that strange things always happen in Africa. In any case, why did that caveman need a wife if he couldn’t consummate the marriage? Alternatively, Ahmad could also hide in another part of the colony and Fatima and he would live like a couple and no one would ever suspect anything.

  Ahmad concluded that he wasn’t ready to face Babu. He made no reply to Fatima’s missive. He loved the sense of power that conferred him. With a stroke of the pen, he could commit a woman to eternal happiness or a lifetime of grief. He read the note again and decided that Fatima would be fine with or without him. She didn’t need him; she hadn’t needed Babu. But he didn’t know what to say to her, so he didn’t say anything.

  Two months passed as he mulled over his options. The rail construction had almost reached its zenith in Port Elizabeth. Technicians were about to lose their lifeline. Many were talking of returning to India by the next monsoon, inshallah. A new chapter was about to begin in the colony. With the inauguration of the train service, goods would soon start to be ferried to the dock in Mombasa for onward shipping to England. Coffee and tea and rice and potatoes and beans and maize and what-have-you. These would have to be packed in bags. Ahmad heard McDonald lament that all the sisal farms established to feed that need had failed—except for one place in the wild, the area around Babu’s cave. Now Ahmad knew something else that Babu was unaware of—his land, just like his wife, was virgin territory, awaiting exploitation. While Ahmad was busy planting semen in Fatima’s womb, Babu was busy planting sisal seeds in the wild. And from Ahmad’s spectacular success with Fatima, who bore instant fruit without much effort, he knew he could get something for nothing from Babu.

  Crucially, Ahmad possessed the information that Babu was a free man who didn’t need to hide anymore. But he didn’t tell him that when they met. Neither did Ahmad tell Babu about the impending birth of his baby with Fatima; instead, he told him of the potential business they could start with his sisal crop. And, since Babu was a fugitive, Ahmad said he would be the public face of the firm, now that the railway construction was coming to a close.

  Babu had no objections. He was grateful for his friend taking the risk of meeting with an outlaw, even more grateful for providing an outlet for his sisal, the crop that he had been cultivating all this time without actually knowing what it was. He would till the land and provide the sisal; Ahmad would harvest and sell the crop to make bags that would bring them a bagful of money. It’d be a win-win situation. Ahmad had planted seed in Babu’s domestic sphere, and Babu had planted seed in the wilds that would secure their futures financially.

  Regarding his trip to Mombasa, Ahmad casually told Babu his wife was doing very well; he said she had a small but thriving business and she was part of a functional and lively community.

  “What did she say about my—my problem?” Babu stuttered.

  “She took it in stride,” Ahmad lied. “Very strong woman. But I suppose she was distracted because she was on her feet all day serving customers at her shop.”

  Babu was quiet for a moment before he asked: “When you say she has a thriving business, do you mean her own enterprise or she works for someone else?”

 
; “I honestly did not confirm, but it looked like her own. She closed it when she wished and—” Ahmad checked himself just in time. He was talking too much. Or did he unconsciously intend to tell Babu what he did with his wife when she closed shop? “And that kind of thing,” he concluded abruptly.

  “And,” Babu pursued, “when you say she was on her feet, do you mean it literally?”

  “Oooh, I forgot to tell you about that little miracle,” Ahmad said with genuine enthusiasm. “Fatima is back on her feet!”

  * * *

  It was that little miracle that compelled Babu to travel incognito to Mombasa to see Fatima. Drawing on his escarpment experience, he masqueraded as a devout pilgrim, sadhu, and had his prayer beads, misbaha, draped around his neck over a flowing gown. He made his way on the rail that he had helped build, nearly squealing with pleasure as the train departed the station. It felt like a stolen moment, the gentle rocking of the train. He recalled each bend along the way, the conversations he’d had with Ahmad and many other workers. It was truly a journey down memory lane, some of it painful, some joyous. What stayed with Babu was the sudden realization that they had been out in the open for four solid years, making lairs just like wild animals. He thought about the friends he had made and lost along the way. Faces flashed through his mind but he couldn’t produce their names as fast. Ahmad and Karim, it seemed to Babu, were among the only friends that had stayed the course—Babu and Karim having been reacquainted when the latter temporarily moved to Nakuru, before migrating to Ndundori. Great friends indeed. “God bless them,” Babu muttered, using his misbaha for the first time.

  Babu reached Mombasa without incident. He was excited about surprising Fatima. He was also somewhat nervous. He may have been hiding for five months, but he had been fleeing from Fatima for over two years, unable to cope with her illness, especially with the pressures of work on the railway. It wasn’t called the Lunatic Express for nothing. But the main reason Babu had kept away was to avoid the curse that he suspected had befallen his wife, and all because of his foolishness. He had messed with a man of God, and soon after, Fatima had lost the use of her legs. If Ahmad were to be believed, though, Fatima was healthy once again. That could only mean that the effects of the curse had worn off.

  It was on this optimistic note that Babu descended on Mombasa and quickly located Fatima’s shop. There were not very many shops run by Indians in Mombasa, and those who lived there knew each other. Fatima, the wife of a railway technician, was known to all. Babu arrived at the shop with a broad smile on his face. The young woman he met did not recognize him, now that he had a full beard and was turbaned, and neither did he recognize her. He was looking for a scrawny little girl with tiny studs for breasts. The figure before him was a woman in full bloom. She was buxom, with wide hips, and the outline of her abaya confirmed she was supporting a ballooning belly. She smiled back at him and inquired what he wanted to buy from the shop. That’s when Babu saw the gap in her teeth and confirmed he was indeed talking to his wife. Teeth, often used to identify corpses, are what he needed to identify his living wife. His wife who carried a new life that he’d had no part in making. A piece of Babu died instantly. He became the living dead.

  * * *

  Babu returned to Nakuru without any disguise. He felt, to use a popular Nakuru expression, like the man who went to a village dance lamenting his lack of shoes, only to find others who did not have feet. He had thought being an outlaw was the worst thing to happen to anyone, but he had returned from Mombasa feeling humiliated in the worst way. He had been cuckolded and the evidence was there for all to see. He did not have to hear the rumors from men in pubs or tea shops; he had seen for himself the fruits of Fatima’s labor. He imagined her lying naked, sighing under the weight of another man, groaning with pleasure. He could not, try as he might, put a picture to the face of the man. Was he black, white, or brown? Had he been mechanical about his business, shedding his clothes carefully and piling them at the foot of the bed to avoid getting them creased, just in case he had to wear them to work, or had he torn them off in the throes of passion? Did that man know him?

  Babu tried to focus his thoughts elsewhere. He had not impregnated Chief Lonana’s daughter as alleged, yet he had been humiliated. So he had lost on all fronts: lost face at work, lost his job, and now he had to deal with the permanent disgrace of Fatima’s infidelity and her illegitimate child. He needed to create as much space as he could between Fatima and himself.

  On the way back to Nakuru, Babu considered his options. Perhaps he could try sneaking on board a ship and returning to India—only he would be persistently questioned about Fatima once he was back home. And what would he say to such inquiries? Sorry, folks, but things didn’t work out between us, my wife got a man for herself and they did it so well, they even produced a baby. But was it not he who had left her first, abandoning a crippled woman to fend for herself, and had she not shamed him by seeking treatment and regaining use of her legs, thus creating a new life without him? There was no way for Babu to extricate himself from the mess and the relentless questions if he returned to India.

  There was also the possibility of abandoning Fatima and starting a new life somewhere else in the colony. This option seemed most plausible. He would lose nothing by moving to a new locale where nobody knew him, and where he would be saved from the embarrassing questions about his wife. Back in India, their families would think they were still together, so there would be no rumors of their estrangement.

  When Babu arrived in Nakuru, however, two things happened that compelled him to alter his plans. First, he found a portion of his sisal crop had been cleared by Ahmad.

  “Babu bhai, I vonder if you go back to India by foot,” Ahmad chuckled when he arrived the following day. “I take our sisal to ginnery. Now our money is spinning, it vill fall like rain.”

  It struck Babu as odd how little Ahmad inquired about Fatima, even after he mentioned he had been to Mombasa. Maybe Ahmad was keeping a respectable distance so as not to appear intrusive. All he asked about was Fatima’s business, of which Babu said little. Ahmad announced that he was leaving shortly with their sisal harvest and would return the following day to bring Babu his share of the proceeds.

  * * *

  But the rains did not come—the financial rains that Ahmad had promised—not even a trickle. Babu vented his frustrations through work, clearing more land and spreading new sisal seedlings. If Ahmad had found some use for the sisal, then he was sure his good friend would not swindle him out of his sweat. He would definitely bring him some money.

  Yet Ahmad did not return, not the following day nor the following week nor even the following month. And Babu could not go looking for his friend, lest he expose himself to the authorities and risk arrest. It was in the third month after his trip to Mombasa that Babu decided to go back there. He was down to his last penny and life was getting unbearable. He regretted having fled from Fatima instead of confronting her, demanding some answers. He needed to know more about her business. There was no point in going around with bottled-up bitterness. He needed an outlet, and who better than Fatima herself? If the shop that he had seen was hers, he needed to know how she had come into its possession. Perhaps she had become a woman of low virtue and peddled her flesh for a living.

  Once again, he traveled as a sadhu, just in case some old colleagues recognized him on the train. He went straight to Fatima’s shop but she wasn’t there. A young woman was holding down the fort, and she said that Fatima had fallen ill. “If you are a man of God, I think she could do with some prayers,” the woman announced, glancing at Babu’s regalia.

  Babu was shamefaced as he headed where he had been directed, conflicted as to whether to proceed there or to flee back to Nakuru. Fatima had wronged him, but he had wronged her too. And if she was unwell, he was her only relative in the colony—if he discounted the father of her child, he thought bitterly.

  Babu realized, rather belatedly, that he had not inquired into the natur
e of her illness. He recognized his mistake when he reached her doorstep. The piercing cry of an infant assaulted his ears. He turned to walk away but the door swung open in that instant. A middle-aged woman stood at the entrance not uttering a word, then shutting the door quickly. When the door opened again, a bunch of women stood by, waving him away.

  “This business is for women only!” one shouted.

  Babu glanced inside. An elderly woman sat in the center of the room. She was blowing a black horn in which herbs and spices had been stuffed, directing the smoke toward the infant that Fatima held in her hands. Babu retreated in panic.

  Several women huddled to whisper among themselves. It appeared somebody had recognized him. He was invited in, but he remained rooted to the ground. Inside, the baby yelled at the full volume of its lungs. Soon, the women broke into song, holding the infant in turns, smiling into its face while humming. Babu scanned the room for any recognizable faces. Fatima, sitting in a corner, flashed a dainty smile.

  “This must be the father of the baby,” one woman addressed him directly, rising from her seat, glancing at Fatima for confirmation.

  Fatima smiled and nodded.

  Babu tensed. He might be her husband, but he wasn’t the father of the baby.

  The woman handed him the baby. “A baby is not held by the tips of the fingers. Come in and hold him properly,” she said, and started singing; the other women joined in.

  Babu stiffly accepted the baby. He was flummoxed. In one moment, he was being chased out of the room; in the next, he was being welcomed with merriment. The one thing he had promised himself was that he would have nothing to do with Fatima’s baby; now it had been thrust into his arms, and half a dozen women were watching him intently. The baby stirred and yawned, a frown creasing its face. Then it stretched its tiny, spindly legs before releasing a trickle of warm urine that coursed down Babu’s arms and hands.