One Day I Will Write About This Place

by Binyavanga Wainaina

  “He is trying to cheat us because you are a foreigner.”

  I assume the taxi driver was angry because Hubert did not want to be a good citizen and conspire with him to overcharge me. We get another taxi, and drive past more grim-looking buildings. There are lots of warning signs: Interdit de… Interdit de…

  One.

  Interdit de Chier Ici. No shitting here.

  A policeman stands in front of the sign, with a gun.

  In several hand-painted advertisements women are serving one thing or another, topless, with the same spectacular breasts. I wonder if they are all by the same artists. Most Ghanaian hand-painted murals are either barbershop signs or hair salon signs. Here breasts rule. Is this a Francophone thing? An Eyadéma thing?

  It could be that what makes Lomé look so drab is that since the troubles that sent donors away, and sent tourists away, there have not been any new buildings to make the fading old ones less visible. They have gone: the licks of fresh paint, the presidential murals; the pink and blue tourist hotels with pink and blue bikinis on the beach sipping pink and blue cocktails. The illusions of progress no longer need to be maintained. The dictator who needed them is dead.

  We drive past the suburb where all the villas are, and all the embassies. Nearby there is a dual carriageway, sober charcoal gray, better than any road I have seen so far. It cuts through bushes and gardens and vanishes into the distance. This is the road to the presidential palace that Eyadéma built. It is miles away. It is surrounded by lush parkland, and Hubert tells me the presidential family has a zoo in the compound. Eyadéma was a hunter and loved animals.

  We drop off my luggage at Hubert’s home. His mother lives in a large compound in a tree-lined suburb. The bungalow is shaped like a U. The rooms open to a corridor and face a courtyard where stools are set. His mother and sisters rush out to hug him—he is clearly a favorite. We stay for a few minutes, have some refreshments, and take a taxi back to the city center.

  Driving past the city’s main hospital, I see the first signs of sensible commerce: somebody providing a useful product or service to individuals who need it. Lined along the hospital wall are secondhand imported goods in this order: giant stereo speakers, some very expensive looking; a drum set; bananas; a small kiosk with a sign on its forehead: Telephon Inter-Nation; dog chains; a cluster of secondhand lawn mowers; dog chains; five or six big-screen televisions; dog chains; crutches; steam irons; a large faded Oriental carpet.

  An hour later, we reach the market in Lomé, and finally find ourselves in a functional and vibrant city. Currency dealers present themselves at the window of the car—negotiations are quick. Money changes hands, and we walk into the maze of stalls. It is hard to tell how big it is—people are milling about everywhere; there are people sitting on the ground and small rickety stalls in every available space.

  There are stalls selling stoves and electronic goods, and currency changers and traders from all over West Africa, and tailors and cobblers and brokers and fixers and food and drink. Everything is fluent, everybody in perpetual negotiation, flexible and competitive. Togo’s main official export is phosphates, but it has always made its money as a free-trade area, supplying traders from all over West Africa.

  Markets like these have been in existence all over West Africa for at least a millennium. There are traders from seven or eight countries here. Markets in Lomé are run by the famous “Mama Benzes”—rich trading women who have chauffeur-driven Mercedes-Benzes. These days, after years of economic stagnation, the Mama Benzes are called Mama Opels.

  Most of the stalls are bursting with fabrics. I have never seen so many—there are shapeless splotches of color on cloth, bold geometrics on wax batik, pinks on earth brown, ululating pinstripes. There are fabrics with thousands of embroidered coin-size holes shaped like flowers. There are fabrics that promise wealth: one stall owner points out a strange design on a Togolese coin and shows me the same design on the fabric of an already busy shirt. There are fabrics for clinging, for flicking over a shoulder, for square shouldering, for floppy collaring, for marrying, and some must surely assure instant breakups.

  We brush past clothes that lap against my ear, whispering; others lick my brow from hangers above my face.

  Anywhere else in the world the fabric is secondary: it is the final architecture of the garment that makes a difference. But this is Lomé, the duty-free port, the capital of Togo, and here it is the fabric that matters. The fabric you will buy can be sewed into a dress, a shirt, an evening outfit of headband, skirt, and top in one afternoon, at no extra cost. It is all about the fabric. There are fabrics of silk, of cotton, from the Netherlands, from China, mudcloth from Mali, kente from northern Togo.

  It is the stall selling bras that stops my forward motion. It is a tiny open-air stall. There are bras piled on a small table, bras hanging above. Years ago, I had a part-time job as a translator for some Senegalese visitors to Kenya. Two of the older women, both quite large, asked me to take them shopping for bras. We walked into shop after shop in Nairobi’s biggest mall. They probed and pulled and sighed and exclaimed—and I translated all this to the chichi young girls who looked offended that a woman of that age could ask questions about a bra that had nothing to do with its practical uses. We roamed for what seemed like hours, but these Francophone women failed to find a single bra in all the shops in Sarit Centre that combined uplifting engineering with the right aesthetic.

  They could not understand this Anglophone insistence on ugly bras for any woman over twenty-five with children.

  Open-air bra stalls in my country sell useful, practical white bras. All secondhand. Not here. There are red strapless bras with snarling edges of black lace. I see a daffodil-yellow bra with curly green leaves running along its seam. Hanging down the middle of the line is the largest nursing bra I have ever seen, white and wired and ominous. I am sure the white covers pulleys and pistons and a flying buttress or two. One red bra has bared black teeth around a nipple-size pair of holes. Next to it is a corset in a delicate ivory color. I did not know people still wore corsets.

  A group of women start laughing. I am gaping. Anglophone. Prude.

  It takes an hour for Hubert and me to move only a hundred meters or so. Wherever I look, I am presented with goods to touch and feel. Hubert looks grim. I imitate him. Heads down, we move forward. Soon we see a stall specializing in Togo football team jerseys. There are long-sleeved yellow ones, short-sleeved ones, sleeveless ones. Shirts for kids. All of them have one name on the back: Togo’s superstriker, Sheyi Emmanuel Adebayor.

  I pick out a couple of jerseys and while Hubert negotiates for them, I amble over to a nearby stall. An elegant, motherly woman, an image of genuine Mama Benzhood dressed in pink lace, smiles at me graciously. Her stall sells shirts, and looks cool and fresh. She invites me in. I go in and stand under the flapping clothes to cool down. She dispatches a young man to get some cold mineral water. I admire one of the shirts. “Too small for you,” she says sorrowfully. Suddenly I want it desperately, but she is reluctant. “Okay. Okay,” she says. “I will try to help you. When are you leaving?”

  “Tomorrow,” I say.

  “Ahh. I have a tailor—we will get the fabrics and sew the shirts up for you, a proper size.”

  It is here that my resolve cracks, that my dislike of shopping vanishes. I realize that I can settle in this cool place—cast my eyes about, express an interest, and get a tailor-made solution. I point at possible fabrics. She frowns and says, “Nooooo, this one without fancy collars. We will make it simple—let the fabric speak for itself.” In French this opinion sounds very authoritative. Soon I find I have ordered six shirts. A group of leather workers present an array of handmade sandals: snakeskin, crocodile, every color imaginable. Madam thinks the soft brown leather ones are good. She bends one shoe thing into a circle. Nods. Good sole.

  Her eyes narrow at the salesman and she asks, “How much?”

  His reply elicits a shrug and a turn—she has lost i
nterest. No value for money. Price drops. Drops again. I buy. She summons a Ghanaian cobbler, who reinforces the seams for me as I sit, glues the edges. In seconds all is ready. She looks at me with some compassion. “What about something for the woman you love?” I start to protest—no. No—I am not into this love thing. Ahh. Compassion deepens. But the women’s clothes! I see a purple top with a purple fur collar. A hand-embroidered skirt and top of white cotton. It is clear to me that my two sisters will never be the same again if they have clothes like this.

  I get two outfits for each of them.

  I can’t believe how cheap the clothes are. Now my nieces—what about Christmas presents for them? And my brother Jim? And my nephews. And what about Jim’s wife? These women in my life—they will be as gracious and powerful as this madam in pink lace, cool in the heat. Queens, princesses. Matriarchs. Mama Benzes. Sexy. I spend four hours in her stall, and spend nearly two hundred dollars.

  On the way from the center of Lomé, I see an old sign by the side of the road. Whatever it was previously advertising has rusted away.

  Somebody has painted on it, in huge letters: TOGO 3 – CONGO 0.

  We head for Hubert’s home. The beach runs alongside a highway, and hundreds of scooter taxis chug past us with 5:00 p.m. clients, mostly women, who seem very comfortable.

  Hubert’s eldest brother has spent the day lying under a tree. He had a nasty motorcycle accident months ago, and his leg is in a cast. He is a mechanic and has his own workshop. His wife lives here too, and his two sisters. We shake hands and he backs away. There are metal rods thrust into the cast. He must be in pain. The evening is cool, and the earthen compound is large and freshly swept. It is a large old house. This is an upper-middle-class family. Hubert tells me he is uncertain. His father is from the north, and after Eyadéma died, he is not sure how safe his mother is in the capital, which is in the south.

  Hubert’s mother and sisters are happy to see him home, and have cooked a special sauce with meat and baobab leaves and chili. Hubert’s mother, a retired nurse, is a widow. Hubert is the last born, and it is clear he is the favorite of his sisters. The rooms at the front of the house open to the garden, where some of the cooking takes place to take advantage of the cool.

  We all stand around the kitchen. Clearly Hubert and his brother do not get along, but what is most curious is the family setup. His mother is the head of the household. His father is dead. His brother—a good ten years older than Hubert—behaves like a boy in his presence.

  Talking about money with Hubert has been tricky. He agreed to come with me, but said we would come to an agreement about money later. He has made it clear he will be happy with anything reasonable I can afford. He is not doing this because he is desperate for the money. He seems comfortable with the arrangement I offered—and is happy to do things, trusting my good faith, and giving his. He does not eat much. As an athlete, he is very finicky about what he eats. His mother does not complain. I dig into the sauce. It’s hot. Awkwardly, I make him an offer.

  I find out I am to sleep in his room.

  It is very neat. There is a fan, which does not work. There is a computer, which does not work. There are faded posters of soccer players. There are two gimmicky-looking pens arranged in crisp symmetry on the table, both dead. There is a cassette player plugged in and ready to be switched on, but I can see no tapes. There is no electricity—I am using a paraffin lamp. The bedroom is all aspiration. I wonder, before I go to sleep, what his brother’s bedroom looks like.

  In the morning, I try to make the bed. I lift the mattress and see, on the corner, a heavy gray pistol, as calm and satisfied as a slug.

  Chapter Thirty-­One

  It is 2006. Winter. I have finally become acceptable to a respectable institution. For the past few months, I have been teaching creative writing and literature at Union College in Schenectady, in upstate New York.

  All my life, my body has been a soft and comfortable beanbag, nicely worn into the right shape for my mind to wiggle around, to lean back, sigh and dream. No longer. Something happenened. This winter my body has been causing havoc. It has become one of those American chairs—fat and cushy, with numerous moving parts and levers that can chew your fingers; chairs that have gears and buttons and heart monitors, chairs that, at a push of a button, start vibrating maniacally.

  I have lost a lot of weight and I wake up several times a night to the sight of a million dripping icicles of confectionary outside my window. I am so hungry I am faint. Only crunchy crystals of sugar will do. Or oozy sugar. Or any sugar. My throat went and got all imperialist on me. It wants to drink the whole Hudson River. It is sure it can drink it all. It must be something wrong with the heating, and winter energy cravings. What do I know about this new American weather, these old upstate houses? Every night, I eat, drink, piss madly, then turn into a late-night cheerleader on amphetamines. I race out of the house with doughnut fuzz on my lips and I jump on my bicycle. The cold means nothing; the dark means nothing. I pedal furiously, all the way down to the Stockade, and ride along the river, and between the old Dutch houses, and climb back up the hill to my house, soaked with sweat and full of energy, my body burning from inside, cold on the outside.

  It is Friday. I wake up at 2:00 a.m. and eat three frozen chocolate croissants and drink a liter of water. I clean the house, which is filthy. The previous owner left behind more cleaning chemicals than I have ever seen. I spray and wipe, spray and wipe, and I am dizzy with chemical haze. One of the kitchen cleaning sprays says it kills the HIV virus, which must surely lurk inside loose coffee grounds in the sink. I am still restless and find random things to drop into that wonderful whirring metal chewing machine inside this American sink that has twin power jets. No dribbles here.

  After taking a shower, pissing, drinking more water, I get on my laptop and start browsing randomly, to kill time.

  We are a year and a bit away from the presidential and parliamentary elections in Kenya, and Kenyans are already arguing on the blogosphere—this time it is not about water, power, or the constitution. All of a sudden, Kenyans, usually skeptical, are becoming unusually fierce in defending leaders who share their ethnicity. For Gikuyus, Kibaki is the most wonderful person ever. For Luos, Raila was manufactured in heaven. For Kalenjins Ruto is the next king, Koitalel arap Samoei reincarnated. Our usual irony about all politicians seems to have vanished. Any attempt to be nuanced means being accused of being a traitor, a communist, mixed up.

  Next year promises drama. We do not know if our democracy is strong enough for the incumbent, President Kibaki—Gikuyu— to be peacefully removed from power by a strong candidate, Raila Odinga—Luo.

  Things are getting hot in Togo too as we get closer to the World Cup. The Togolese soccer federation is run by Rock Gnassingbé, brother of the president and son of the late Eyadéma.

  Now, soccer itself is not a negotiable object. Democracy is, treasuries are, French government loans and grants, the lives of all citizens, the wombs of all women—all these things can bend comfortably to the will of the first family, but the fates of the national soccer team belong to the people. Nobody has ever successfully banned the playing of soccer in Africa.

  It is easy to see why: soccer is a skill one can cultivate to the highest levels with nothing but plastic and string and will.

  Arjukumar K Patel is online early in the morning, somewhere in an anxious Gujarati-speaking Kenya. On a Canadian Immigration Web site, he has this to say:

  I am originally INDIAN born but settled in kenya & holding KENYAN CITIZEN i dont have any digree, but i have work experiance for more then nine years in tyre business, is there any chance to get job in canada? i have my first cousin who is a CANDIAN CITIZEN can he apply permenant resident for my family? please advice me thank you.

  I grab an apple and carry my laptop to the living room, and put on the television. Somebody is selling a TOTAL solution to WEIGHT LOSS. I change the channel. Goodness. The teeth of Americans are truly wondrous. Look at Lionel
Richie’s teeth, as he zigzags across the stage in sequins and shoulder pads singing in broken Kiswahili presented in a bad Jamaican accent. “Jambo nipe centi moja, oooh Jambo Jambo.”

  Hallo, hallo, give me one cent, hallo, hallo.

  Tension is high, and next year’s election is going to be close. We hoped to have a new constitution in place before the election. This will not happen. Now that the main players are so divided, and Kenyans too, we agree on nothing. We had one referendum for Kibaki’s constitution, and he lost. Kibaki lost the trust of non-Gikuyus. Our doddering colonial constitution gives the presidency the powers of a medieval king. It is very difficult, under the present constitution, to remove an incumbent president from power. Kenyatta and Moi made sure of that. We have to trust that Kibaki will behave with grace and allow a relatively level playing ground.

  A soccer player seeks to find chinks in the structural arrangements of an opposing team—needs to make his body and mind flexible; needs to have an eye that does not just understand the structure of the opposition but also can seduce, fake, deceive, con, charm. Can score and secure victory by finding a hole, a gap, seeing avenues where zigzag paths exist; sweet-talking your way through the barbed wire of the Port Area that serves the whole of West Africa; bullshitting your way into the fat cat’s office; seducing, with a nimble tongue, the stiff and proud daughter of the fat cat; and then you have access to the duty-free goods of a subcontinent. Strolling through gates manned by violent giants into the inner sanctum, the president’s zoo, his home, and the treasury of your country. At any time, a giant monster, or a team of them, will be ready to bring you down with all the violence they know how to produce. Your tongue, the flexibility of your limbs, your sexiness, the timbre of your voice; your understanding of the structure of power you face—these are your only tools.

  This intelligence is not harbored in the mind. Repeated practice transfers the ideas of the mind into the instinct of the body. No gun to the head can make this body perform.