The five-hour drive northeast had been a shift in time even more than space. The region began to feel more exotic just twenty minutes outside of Nairobi as Fi and her driver reached the tin houses near Thika, and increasingly exotic after she bought short, fat bananas along the road in Yata and then hit the hot, barren desert. They passed solitary herdsmen with goats or cows, and the occasional family walking camels to water. Fi felt an excitement and urgency about her mission that grew as she traveled toward Garissa’s entrance, marked by a sign that said Karibu, Swahili for “welcome.” As far as she knew, she was the only white staying in Garissa, and at first she was viewed with enormous curiosity. Children gawked openly; grown-ups, attempting more subtlety, stared from beneath lowered eyelids. But after a couple of weeks, she woke up one morning to find that everyone seemed to have forgotten her skin color, or at least had become willing to overlook it. She forgot it herself, though perhaps that was partly willful, stemming from a need to fit in here, to have a place and purpose, not to be an oddity.
She felt glad that Garissa differed so from the modern, hurried, distracted world she’d left behind. She reveled in the difference. But sometimes, she had to admit, she missed surfing the Internet, knowing the latest news instantly, following the blogs of fellow librarians. And she even missed the crazy patrons, like the Asian woman with dyed lipstick-red hair who spent hours reading everything on gambling, including the novels, so she could learn how to beat the slot machines in Atlantic City. Or the would-be poet who always carried a notebook stuffed with his precious papers—some frayed or food-stained—and repeatedly insisted on showing her where his book should be shelved, if it were ever published—or ever written, though he never added that. Or the retired tailor who came in to read the newspaper every day. He vanished for a couple of weeks, and when he returned, he told her in a hushed voice that he’d been on a trip with extraterrestrials. That was the day she’d seen the ad for the consulting position in Kenya. That was the day she told herself she had to do something with her life beyond listening to patrons whisper about their adventures with men from outer space. Now, she wondered how the tailor was doing.
Abruptly, Mr. Abasi’s door swung open, as though he’d been expecting her, except that he looked astonished. He didn’t speak at first.
She smiled. “Mr. A.”
“Miss Sweeney?” He made several small hiccuping noises. “What are you doing here?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Now?” he managed.
“It’s a bookmobile matter,” she said. “I’m sorry about the intrusion. It’s important, though, and I was afraid we wouldn’t have enough time later on.”
He looked right and left and then made rapid scooping motions three times with his right hand. “Come in, of course.”
She dipped her head slightly to step into his dimly lit home. “Shoo!” he said over her shoulder, and she turned and saw two little boys hiding behind a worn wooden cart that was parked in front of the house next door. She was used to being followed by children here. She waved at them.
Mr. Abasi’s two-room home was sparsely furnished with a mat rolled up on the floor and a small pantry made of blond wood. Three hardcover books were stacked in a corner, and he’d put up a map of the United Kingdom. But her attention was captured by a stylized painting in shades of brown and red that hung on one wall. It showed a large woman with her back to the artist, both arms raised to her neck and shoulders as if she were massaging them. She wore a full skirt but seemed naked from the waist up. The painting’s hedonism conflicted with Fi’s image of Mr. Abasi. She moved in for a closer look and saw, stuck in the corner of the frame, a snapshot of one of the camels loaded with books. So he did care about this program. That boosted her confidence.
When she turned back to him, he was still standing a bit stiffly, staring with an expression that seemed almost a parody of surprise. His chest rose as he took a deep breath, and then he finally appeared to recover. “Sit,” he said, gesturing to a maroon mat, stuffed with stiff straw, on the floor. His tone held a certain note of command.
She sat cross-legged.
“Would you like some chai?”
She felt so impatient; she felt so American all of a sudden. She didn’t want chai. She wanted to leap directly to the point. But she’d come, unannounced, into his home. She had to do it his way.
“Chai would be fine, thank you,” she said.
She watched him move to a corner, where he lit what looked like a slightly larger version of a single-burner camping stove. On it stood a sky blue kettle, already steaming. He opened up a small pantry and pulled out a coffee mug decorated with a drawing of a leopard—it looked, she thought, like a souvenir from Africa that one might buy from an airport shop. He shook tea leaves into the cup from a small plastic Baggie and then poured in the hot mixture of milk and water. He didn’t look at her as he worked, and she sensed that she shouldn’t speak. After a few minutes, he brought her the cup and sat across from her.
“Thank you,” she said, and then she made herself take a sip. The chai was unsweetened, a little spicy, unexpectedly good. After that sip, though, she couldn’t restrain herself any longer. “Mr. A.” she said, “why did you become a librarian?”
He gave her a look that was at once amused and impatient. “Miss Sweeney. How is this about the bookmobile?”
“Bear with me, Mr. A. Is it that you love books? Or maybe reading?”
He was silent for a moment. “I like some books quite a lot. I like Shakespeare, for instance,” he said at last, and then he lowered his voice and intoned, “Eye of newt and toe of frog.”
She laughed, and he smiled, seeming pleased for the first time since she’d arrived.
“But if you really want to know,” he said, “I’m a librarian because of Miss Fetegrin.”
“Who?”
“Fetegrin. The first librarian I ever met. A no-nonsense Londoner with short hair. She wore these tight two-piece suits and had a tiny waist; but it was her eyes—they held such passion, and especially when she talked about the library on Saint James Street.” His tone had become fervent, and then he cut off, as if realizing he was getting carried away. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, she came from London and found me at my school—I guess my teachers recommended me. She interviewed me for a scholarship to study library science in England. I got it.”
“Once there, did you consider staying abroad instead of coming home?”
He shook his head. “I like it here, Miss Sweeney,” he said, and looked as though he was surprised by his own words. Then he fell silent, and she could tell he was done revealing himself.
“Me, I was slow to learn to read,” Fi said after a moment. “Some undiagnosed learning disability, I guess, but I was nearly nine before I could read a book on my own. I loved it. I realized right away that books could take us out of ourselves, and make us larger. Even provide us with human connections we wouldn’t otherwise have.” She paused. Mr. Abasi watched her without expression. “Back home, I help with the adult literacy program. Do you know how many people go to the library—even people who can’t read—to find answers and solutions?”
“Well,” Mr. Abasi said. “And what is this about, Miss Sweeney?”
She smiled at his tone, suddenly abrupt and impatient. “Mididima.”
He nodded, a satisfied expression overtaking his face. “I thought so.”
“Mr. A., you must think literacy is important. How can you be a librarian and think otherwise?”
“I didn’t say—”
“Do you know,” she said, “—but of course you do—that literacy increases one’s income?”
Mr. Abasi’s eyebrows climbed. “In the bush?”
“And there are less tangible benefits, too. For instance, a boost in one’s sense of self-worth.”
“You Americans,” he said, his tone at once exasperated and indulgent. “With your unflagging belief in your ability—and your right—to change the course of another’s histo
ry.”
Fi stretched her legs and flexed her toes. “You know, Mr. A., I’ve always hated the word administration. It’s a clipped, deadly word, don’t you think? After they told me I was in library administration, I start seeing images of myself being executed by a firing squad.”
“Yes, Miss Sweeney?” Mr. Abasi prompted after a minute.
“But those people in Mididima, they make me value my job again, Mr. A. They are smart. They deserve a chance. And I can help them. Without an education and exposure to the modern world, they have no future.”
“Of course they have a future.” He looked away for a second, his face creased in apparent frustration, and then spoke with exaggerated patience. “The people of Mididima have existed, in one shifting form or another, for thousands of years, Miss Sweeney. Longer than your country. You see them so abstractly.”
Fi stared into her cup of chai and then took a sip. She decided to try a different tack. “I’ve been thinking,” she said, “about a special trick of mine. I can always find books. No, seriously, Mr. A. It’s an amazing gift to have as a librarian. Whenever a volume is misshelved, I’m called to locate it. I don’t know how I do it exactly; I just put out my arms and walk through the stacks, as if I’m a book-dowser. It astonishes even me.”
“Do you know,” Mr. Abasi said, “how many people live in Mididima, Miss Sweeney? Maybe one hundred seventy-five. Think of that.”
“You are saying that’s too few people to worry about?”
“I am saying there are many other places for your bookmobile to visit, now that the people of Mididima have broken the rules.”
“That seems unnecessarily hard-hearted.”
“Hard-hearted? No. It’s practical.” He stood up and poured himself more chai. “There is something else, Miss Sweeney,” he said as he added more to her cup as well. “Something I learned when I lived in London. Sometimes countries like your own can begin to believe theirs is the only way.”
“I’m not disagreeing, but I think I’m missing your point. I’m talking about books, not a military invasion.”
“You love the idea of what you think you are accomplishing in Mididima. But they have their own approach to their lives, Miss Sweeney. Don’t assume it needs to change.”
“What kind of life? Not enough food. Not enough water.”
“Let me tell you a story,” Mr. Abasi said, sitting again, “about another settlement not too far from Mididima. The people there fetched water from a well that was a four-hour walk away. A few years ago, a Christian mission raised money and started to build a well that would be only fifteen minutes away. Before they could finish, it was destroyed. They began to build again, and again it was destroyed. Finally, they asked the people of the settlement if enemy tribes were wrecking the well. No, the people said. They were destroying it themselves. The women had always walked those four hours, once a week, and it didn’t seem too long to them. It allowed them a break from daily chores and a chance to visit their neighbors. Also, it had become a rite of passage from girlhood to womanhood, a part of their culture. They didn’t want a well fifteen minutes away.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “These people have connections to the land and their traditions that outsiders might not understand.”
“But what, Mr. A., can be wrong with learning to read?”
“The books we bring are in Swahili or English, not their local tongues. They are not books about their lives,” he said. “These are books that might even make them feel ashamed of their lives.”
“We need other books, I agree,” she said.
“I’m not sure, Miss Sweeney, that there exist the kind of books they need.” He sighed. “But your mind is settled, I see.” Then he gestured for her to take another sip of chai, and waited until she did. “Have you heard,” he said, “that many of our people believe if you know five colloquial expressions in their tribal language, they must always provide you with nourishment and shelter? But—” He paused as though to make sure she was paying attention. “But if you know fewer than five, they owe you not even a sip of water.”
She nodded, understanding his point, but he pressed it.
“Learn those five phrases, Miss Sweeney,” he said.
“Maybe even ten, Mr. A.,” she replied.
The Teacher
HE WOULD HAVE EMERGED A DIFFERENT MAN IF HE’D BEEN born someone else’s son. A hunter. A warrior, perhaps. It wasn’t predestined, his current life as Mididima’s teacher. As a boy, he’d moved with the silence of held breath, which the tribesmen mentioned regularly and with meaningful gazes. As a young teen, he’d sometimes imagined chasing and slaying, returning to his people bearing sustenance.
But Matani, who loved his father to the point of worship, always knew he would finally succumb to his father’s wishes. He learned to spear words instead of animals. He compensated by telling himself that he was, in the end, a warrior of sorts, strong and passionate, fighting for the future of his wife, for his children who were soon to be, and for his neighbors. It wasn’t the same, he knew.
“Hello, Teacher,” Nadif called to him. “Time to start?”
Matani touched the boy’s shoulder. “Go drink some milk and gather your energy. I’ll be ready soon.” Nadif did not ask where Matani was going: everyone knew he was headed to see Scar Boy. Matani felt the pressure of eyes and thoughts on him; his neighbors were waiting to see if he was truly worthy of the new respect he’d lately been given.
“Okay, Teacher,” Nadif said.
Only since the arrival of the bookmobile had the children begun addressing him in this way, as if the library had conferred the title on him. He knew that their respect might not last. A furtive step, a muscular arm, a closed mouth: these were the most esteemed of male virtues. And he, after all, was only a man who could read, and who could speak unknowable words in irrelevant languages, and who spent hours among children. His sole act of bravery was to support a contentious camel-borne library. If he’d been a more traditional sort of warrior, maybe Jwahir would have found it easier to understand him.
To keep loving him; that’s what he meant.
That, after all, was the real source of his self-doubt. Jwahir had become distant, as if she’d moved on to a different watering hole and left Matani behind on spent land. Even during the previous night, as he tossed wakefully, she’d spurned him. He could tell by her breathing that she was awake too, so he’d reached for her; thinking they could talk; that they could share this worry about the bookmobile; and that then, he might finally rest freely. But she feigned sleep—a sort of lie—and rolled heavily away. He preferred her passionate anger to this withdrawal.
As he quietly reached the door to Scar Boy’s hut, a vision came to mind: he was returning from hunting, his shoulders well built, his skin shiny with sweat; Jwahir was staring with admiring eyes, taking his hands, putting her thumb in the middle of his palm, stroking there, moving closer.
So preoccupied was he with this image that he was startled when Badru swept aside the cloth door of his hut. Badru’s unsurprised expression made it clear that he’d heard Matani’s approach, that Matani no longer possessed even the quiet step of his youth.
“Hello, Teacher,” Badru said.
Coming from Badru, the greeting sounded dismissive.
Matani stepped closer, gathering himself, not expecting this task to be difficult but still focusing on the responsibility that had been impressed on him by so many—not only Neema and Jwahir’s father, but children, young women, even Jwahir’s best friend Leta. “I’m here, as promised,” he said. “To see your father.”
“And he’s not within.”
Badru spoke smugly. But Matani had expected Abayomi’s absence. He’d been counting on it, in fact. “Your brother, then,” he said.
Badru hesitated before beckoning him forward.
In a corner of the room, Scar Boy sat cross-legged. He did not glance up as Matani entered. He held a stone, triangular with one sharp point, brown in the center, gray around the edges. It lo
oked like the meat-filled dumplings Matani had eaten on the streets in Nairobi. Scar Boy had been using it to draw in the dirt in front of him, Matani saw. A spiral shape. And an animal—a camel, perhaps?
Even after all these years of watching the boy’s scar stretch and soften, Matani still could not help cringing inwardly for the first moment or two each time he was in Scar Boy’s presence. He didn’t admire this in himself, but he had to forgive it: his reaction was involuntary. The scarred skin of the boy’s left cheek was dark and vivid at once, an almost luminous cobalt, the sort of color Matani suspected might be found on large leaves in the dense, tropical regions his father used to talk about. The boy’s nose had been torn from his face, and in its place stood a wartlike lump with two holes. Half his lip was wrenched downward, as if the left side had abandoned its fight with gravity.
But this was not what frightened the villagers most. It was Scar Boy’s eyes. The right eye, untouched by the hyena, was higher and wider than the other. Too much of the white showed. The left eye had slipped almost onto the cheek. The boy looked permanently unbalanced, feral.
“Hello,” Matani said.
Scar Boy shifted his rock from palm to palm and grimaced in greeting.
Something in Scar Boy’s harsh expression produced a spiky pain in Matani’s stomach and, at the same time, triggered a sharp memory of the afternoon when Abayomi had carried a chewed, bloody mass into Matani’s home.
Matani had been a young man, only a few years older than Scar Boy was now. He’d been preparing to go to Nairobi to study. His father had been giving him an English lesson. Matani could still remember clearly how his father sat cross-legged, hands cupped on his lap, his voice dipping and soaring in a gentle rhythm—and how the lesson ended when a force punched into their hut with the thrust and velocity of a sand blizzard. A rush of air, a sour smell, a sound of panting, and wild-eyed Abayomi with the writhing toddler in his arms. Matani had never, not before or since, seen anything as brutal, as reeking, as glaring. The child seemed to be wrestling with death itself.
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