The children were hungry by the time that we reached Torora, the last stop in Uganda before the Kenyan border. At six o’clock, I walked down the train corridors in search of the fancy train restaurant rumoured to have served the queen. Taking up two carriages, each table was set with a white cloth, flowers, and china dishes. Europeans and wealthy Indians were seated for dinner, using cutlery with expertise. I wondered how far one meal would go between us all. Standing in the narrow passageway, the train bounced me this way and that.
“Madam,” an Indian waiter said, approaching me, “We have no special chairs to accommodate babies.” Using Hindi, he spoke with a purposeful British accent. “We are stopping in Torora for an hour to load the train with water, and fill the smaller engine behind the main one with coal. There, you can order what you are used to: Indian cuisine.”
“I want British food.”
“As you wish.” He closed his eyes in frustration. “First we will start with soup, followed by a beef dish served with vegetables, and conclude with a fine pudding.”
“Teek hai. One order please.”
“This is not your local street cart,” he snapped. “It is one order per person. I see four people.”
“But these are babies! Surely you cannot charge me for them?”
“Madam, this is why we discourage babies here. Order food to your own cabin, then you can divide it as necessary.”
I wondered how differently I would have been treated if my first husband had been present. He knew how to speak English. People had respected him. But today, I was alone.
I ordered food to the cabin, dressing the children for the night. The train rattled on, pummelling like a night monster through the purple darkness, leaving behind steam and deafening whistles. I fell asleep to the rickety monotonous sound, and awoke to a sharp chill in the air. When I looked out the window, I saw the Kenyan Highlands. I realized then we were riding thousands of metres above sea level. I gasped. The air was so crisp when I took a breath it snapped through my nostrils, like the crunch of a fresh cucumber. Green land stretched before me, a mosaic of emerald, jade, and tanzanite mint gems that flowed and rippled. In my mind’s eye, I designed a sari from the vision before me, fantasizing about how women would beg for my creations. A strong breeze blew into the cabin and I pulled my shawl tighter. I did not expect Africa could ever get as cold as this. Carefully, I climbed down from my bunk and bundled the children with the thin, cabin bed sheets. No longer asleep, their eyes were green glass marbles, reflecting the lush landscape outside.
Making stops at various stations, we were offered temperate climate fruits that European colonists had introduced to the area. They glistened like jewels robbed from a treasure chest. Fruit sellers juggled bountiful amounts on baskets, passing us produce through train windows. The children sunk their teeth into the meat of luscious plums, nectarines, apples, and pears. They sucked the juices from their fingers, leaving behind naked bones. I marvelled at how at the Ugandan-Kenyan border, a few hours back, the only fruits and vegetables offered to us were bananas, mangoes, plantains, and oranges.
The train descended slowly down the Highlands. By afternoon, when we finally reached Nairobi, it was warmer. The train made another long stop to load up on water and coal. I watched workers load sacks of Arabica coffee into the rear cabins. The sacks would be sent abroad, from the giant ports located in Mombasa. European settlers were the ones that had introduced the bean to Nairobi. I could see a few of the white bosses now, dressed in three-piece suits, smoking pipes from the sidelines. They paced back and forth with an important air, instructing the workers on how to best load the goods onto the train. The train was suddenly cloaked in the rich earthy smell of coffee.
Between Nairobi and Mombasa the only other memorable stop was Voi, which was crawling with sisal plantations. In the night, I was awoken by the African workers lodged near the train’s caboose. Even through the dark mist I could see spiky pastel-green plants poking out from fields, looking like abrasive weapons of war. On the platform, Indian plantation owners were met by African drivers dressed in British chauffer suits.
In the morning, we finally arrived in Mombasa, greeted hospitably by the salty smell of the Indian Ocean in the air, mixed with roasted plantains and peanuts. It was as if fragrant salted fish were constantly being grilled and charcoaled on wooden stakes. I stared out at the bustling city and wondered what type of transportation to use. February was a time of less rain, but even if a slight rainfall occurred, African roads would become mushy and unusable. Lorry trucks ran through Mombasa city, but I had no idea of the routes they were headed on. The only attractive choice, then, was to take a rickshaw. Unchaperoned by a man, I hoped this was a wise decision. I approached a rickshaw man. He reminded me of the skinny palm trees that bowed their heads into the ocean, looking like they might fall asleep in the water itself. His rickshaw was made up of a large carriage balanced on two large wooden wheels, and the two sticks he would use to pull the contraption were sitting in the dirt.
“Twende wapi?” he said from under a white cap.
I pulled out the postcard out read the address.
“Sawa, sawa,” he replied.
“You can take me there?”
“Si ndiyo.” He helped hoist us into the back seat. He began running barefoot through the city.
“The history of Mombasa,” he said, continuing in Swahili, “has been influenced by the Portuguese, Arabs, British, Indians and Africans alike.” I looked out at the whitewashed buildings. Some had narrow, bony balconies that looked as though they had been made from elephant tusks. Others had steep roofs that reminded me of churches, with corners that met on sharp angles. The patterns stamped out along the edges of the buildings made me think of elegant sari embroidery. Mombasa did not have the look of one era or culture. Rather, it was as if we were riding through a Portuguese villa that had crashed into an old Arabic town. A rare automobile carrying wealthy Europeans passed us here and there. Indians peddled quickly on bicycles along skinny lanes. After some time the scenery eased into a deserted landscape, with roads less travelled and fewer houses.
“How much longer, brother?” It occurred to me I had been so eager to board the rickshaw, I never asked how long the journey was to begin with.
“Not long, not long.” For a long time this answer seemed enough. Then suddenly the carriage dipped and sank sharply toward the left.
“The tire has gone flat!” the rickshaw man exclaimed.
“But you can fix it,” I said nervously. The few houses we passed here and there had been one-room shacks. Each had a tiny window, an open door, and a thatched roof. The rickshaw had stalled deep in a thicket of coconut farms. The huts surrounding us must house the workers. February was one of the hottest months of the year in Kampala, and Mombasa seemed no different. The sun baked the metal spokes of the rickshaw tires, causing white light to glint from them, hitting my eye.
“Once I drop these sticks, the babies will slide off the carriage like greasy kebabs roasted on sticks. Let me help them off.”
“Surely you must have a spare tire.”
“Ma’am, I work with what I have. I am not wealthy like you folk, with your sisal plantations in Voi, rich enough to travel without the likes of a man!”
I did not bother to correct him. Using a few branches lying on the side of the road, I built a makeshift tent under the shade of an old coconut tree. I draped a sari over the sticks to make a canopy, hoping this would suffice as a shelter for the children. The rickshaw man finally emerged from the carriage, holding the rubbery tire tube in his hand like a black banana peel. His shadow covered us like a dark monster.
“I must go into town for help.”
“How long will it take you?”
“Not long, not long.”
“I will come with you.”
“No, no, you will be too slow.”
“Why did you take s
uch a deserted road?” I accused him. “We have not passed one vehicle since we came down this road.”
“Freight trucks do pick produce from the coconut farms. You may be able to hitch a ride. You told me you wanted to get to your destination as soon as possible. Rickshaws are for short travels, not long ones like this!”
Suddenly alone, it donned on me that a villager from a hut could rape, mug, and murder me. The rickshaw man himself could rape, mug, and murder me. A truck driver could do the same, dropping us off for dead into the ocean. Finally, the rickshaw man may never return and we could be eaten by wild animals. Just as dusk was settling across the wild and I had handed out the last of the dried fruit, the rickshaw man reappeared. He spun the tire in the air like a circus performer. A package was nestled cozily in the wing of his arm.
“You are not rich are you, ma’am?” He handed me a package wrapped in oily newspaper print.
“No,” I said against my better judgment.
“You are running away from something terrible.”
“Yes. Asante sana,” I whispered, opening the package to find bhel puri. The puffed rice snacks were covered with tart vegetables and a spicy tamarind sauce. The children squealed like hungry baby birds.
In a short time, civilization painted its way back into our scenery. Houses showed up more frequently, cars began sputtering past us. Surprisingly quickly, clusters of buildings reappeared. Panting, the rickshaw man finally pulled the carriage to a stop.
“This is as far as I go.” Sweat slid down his back in the shape of a knife. He pointed to a beach. I saw vendors setting up for the approaching night crowd. “The house is up on the bank. There are not many hills in Mombasa. Only rich folk want to live on ground higher than anyone else. I cannot manoeuvre up there. I think rich folk even built the hill themselves so they could loom over all of Mombasa in their big mansions. When I was young I remember all this land being flat here, but what do I know?”
He accepted far fewer shillings than he should have. “Ma’am, settle down in a hotel. It will be dark soon. Ji hadhari! You can never be too careful!”
I nodded, taking in the fishy scent of whatever the sea had left behind. The sky was mottled tangerine and coral. I imagined creating a sari that looked like the sunset, filled with fiery explosions of volcanic red and angry orange. I pulled out my postcard, and asked the first African street vendor I saw to give me directions. The Indian beachgoers were admiring the cobalt blue ocean, so still it looked like a mirror reflecting slices of the red, mango sky above. The tranquillity of the water reminded me of the tiny glass mirrors I was an expert at sewing onto sari blouses; they too glimmered with fireworks of diced-up colours. The African vendor pointed me toward a grid of bungalows that appeared to be only a few streets away, up on a slight hill. He explained if I followed the streets leading up the hill paying attention to always veer to the right, the house would be easily accessible. The house did not seem far. If I hurried I would reach it before the sky had a chance to draw its curtains. This way, even if Auntie no longer lived at the address or turned me away, I would have a chance to return and book a hotel. In my head, I rehearsed the speech about how resourceful I was at tailoring and sewing. I would be happy to live on as a maid should I be able to keep all three children with me.
When we began climbing the hill, I saw none of the directions the vendor had given made sense. There was no street where I could take a right turn. No matter how carefully I manoeuvred, I could not reach the gates of the bungalows. The evening had now dimmed its lanterns. There were sharp magenta smears cutting into the peach skin of sky. I could hear wild dogs barking at different tones: some sound angry, some sound hungry, some just plain mad. The streets were beginning to melt together, stopping at cul-de-sacs, or altogether hitting dead ends. Narrow pathways stuck out awkwardly like the bones on the store merchant’s ankles. The further right I veered, the more it seemed I was heading into the core of a spiral I would never exit from.
I could hear the pack of dogs coming closer. The walls grew tall around the four of us, barricading us from the beach. Somehow we had managed to end up at the back end of the massive bungalows, with no access to their front gates. I could only make out patches of what lay beyond the tall walls: an odd shirt drying in the ocean breeze here, a mango tree planted there. How peaceful the lives of the occupants inside must be. They must be sipping their evening chai, thinking of taking an ocean stroll. Meanwhile, their backyards were a dark jungle of snapping dogs and roads that led nowhere.
I abandoned my search for Auntie’s house and tried to find my way back to the beach where Indians were sure to be snacking on peanuts rolled tightly in twisted paper. The sky was now navy blue, with only a band of white light visible on the lower half of the horizon. I tuned my ear to the distant sound of laughter and Indian music crackling through radio speakers below. Hurrying down a crooked path, I raced towards the sound. My sari started coming undone. I hastily tucked in a swathe of fabric to keep myself from tripping. Hearing the dogs’ staccato barks pierce the air, I broke into a fast run, taking care not to let go of the suitcase or the children.
Taking turns balancing the children on my hips, by some miracle, I met a cluster of large rocks where the bungalows ended and a grassy cliff began. The mansions stood behind us, white and monstrously tall. The hill leading downward was steep, filled with weeds and jagged boulders. In parts, the grass had eroded into bald patches. When I looked down the hill, I could see a corner piece of a grainy landscape: the beach at a different angle. From this height the Indians below looked like small stitches on a sandy cloth. The scent of blackened corn and grilled sticks of meat wafted up. The wild dogs sounded like they were nipping the tails off one another. I took a deep breath and imagined us tumbling down, falling to our deaths. Go now! I thought.
Just as we were about to descend, three figures appeared. At first I thought they must be Indian residents that had seen us through the barred windows of their bungalows, coming to our rescue. But then I saw they were three Africans holding pocket-knives. They rushed forward to block our way, teetering backward, leaning dangerously on the brink of the hill. Even in bare feet, their foothold was strong. The darkness did nothing to hide their nervousness or youth. They brushed their shoulders together to seal the path down to the beach, as if a woman with three small children could outrun them.
I realized then I feared the dogs more than the humans. We were frozen — a beautiful montage under the moon: the boys holding their knives shakily at us, and the mother cloaking her arms protectively around the children. No words were exchanged. The tallest boy ran forward, the first to break the freeze frame. In one swift motion, he cut the strings on my purse. Then all three boys ran into the maze of houses, kicking pink dirt up from under their feet, disappearing into the labyrinth. Our suitcase, untouched, leaned like an old man against a rock.
The dogs still behind us, I put the children on top of the suitcase and they rode it like a raft down the hill. I did my best to prevent us from going too quickly or hitting rocks. By the time we came to the bottom of the embankment, we were dirty and our clothing was tattered. We approached the beach. A new group of Indians had gathered in front of street carts to eat fried mandazi, a flour and coconut treat. It was then I realized the purse I wore had held both Auntie’s address and all our money.
The sky had slipped on a thick, black winter coat, as my nanaji used to say. In India, the moon never shone half as brightly as it did in Africa. There, Nanaji said, it looked like a dull rock hanging in the sky. Indeed the moon was a white spotlight in the sky. Swallowing my pride I decided to ask for help. I spotted an Indian woman wearing full hijab standing with her family. She was drinking the juice from the head of a decapitated young coconut. She looked away — it was no wonder, my children and I looked like we had climbed straight from the ashes of a cigarette pit. Each of the woman’s fingers was wrapped in gold rings, and her hijab was made from an exp
ensive silk blend. I was sure she was a resident on the hill. Perhaps she would know Auntie by name alone.
I tapped the woman’s shoulder. “I am sorry to disturb you. I am a widow from Kampala. I was robbed upon arrival. I am not looking for money, only the whereabouts of my auntie. Perhaps you know her?”
She looked uncomfortable. “This stranger sure has a lot to say to me.” Her grown sons turned away from the street cart, folding the last triangles of mandazi into their mouths. I tried and look as motherly as possible, bending to fix Nargis’s pacherri and adjusting my own head scarf.
“I apologize for the way I look, sister, for the travels were hard on my family. Might you know my aunt? Also, I am a seamstress and I greatly admire your exquisitely embroidered hijab.”
Her face flushed a shade of crimson to match the ruby jewels planted in her rings. “You poor thing,” she gushed. “It is far too late to search for your auntie at this hour. Come stay at our mansion; surely you can use one of our many rooms. After all, Allah is judging how we treat our fellow brothers and sisters.”
We walked up the hill again using an alternate route. There were no complications or confusing turns. We came upon a British-style mansion guarded by a watchman. It was the largest structure on the block, with white walls whipped into an egg-shell shade, freckled with mauve and blue shadows, courtesy of the night sky. Upon entering the house, the woman told her husband to lock up the gold.
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