by Iman Verjee
That night, Leena had trouble falling asleep and it had nothing to do with being reprimanded for stealing. Something had started up in her, an invisible army marching through her blood, which kept her tossing and turning, kicking off her blankets in frustration. The day flashed through her mind in small, significant pieces. Silken palms. Three emerald peas sitting close together – one now hidden away in her jewelry case. The reassuring smile warming her and the way he had leaned down to pick her up.
Her cheeks stung at the memory, a bittersweet ache in her chest because she wanted to relive the thrill of that moment, if only once more. Everything is going to be okay, he had promised, and she collected up those words, felt as if they were important but was uncertain as to why they were, gathered them up and stored them lovingly in the treasure box of her memories – a shining, perfect diamond amongst so much, now irrelevant, clutter.
20
The stench of roasted meat reminded him of his dead mother. Jeffery sat back on the high bar stool and placed his hand over his mouth, burping down the spreading feeling of nausea. He was perched amongst five other police officers, only here after David had dragged him from the station one evening, insisting that he come along. Jeffery had agreed because it was still too hard to go home to the low-sitting shack, which now seemed overly spacious and empty. The hurt seemed to grow stronger every time he climbed into the bed where his mother had suffered her last humiliation, even though he had stripped it bare. He had thrown away the blanket and sheet and slept uncovered, curled and shivering, with only his loneliness for company.
In the old, cheap bar he watched the other policemen eagerly wet their mouths with beer, the light dipping into the brown-glass bottle and making the lager appear gold. They wiped their lips with the ends of their sleeves, grabbing continuously at the nyama choma on the shared platter at the center of the table, caught in a feeding frenzy.
Klub House was a restaurant that had been built to look like a gigantic, sprawling tree house. It was split into three sections: a restaurant, a nightclub and a sports bar. There was also a motel that was semi-detached from it, consistently booked out by the end of every night as swinging-hipped women led eager tourists, exhausted husbands or lonely men, such as himself, into one of the damp-smelling rooms for two or three hours of numbing escape.
Although they might have been more comfortable in the restaurant, Jeffery’s colleagues had chosen to settle on a high table in the nightclub, perched like fat vultures under disco lights that shone their aggressive colors into his eyes. They came and went in short, flashing bursts and had the effect of isolating every object from its surroundings – so that the bar appeared to hover slightly above the ground, the waiter’s head severed from his shoulders, the short-skirted prostitutes on the dance floor one moment and back at the table, sipping cheap wine, the next.
‘What’s the matter? Eat, drink and we’ll get you a woman later.’ David pushed a beer toward Jeffery and he accepted it weakly, twirling it between his thoughtful fingers.
With great difficulty, he dragged his eyes away from the women to hear the conversation back at the table. ‘Matatu saccos, I’m telling you,’ one officer was boasting. ‘It’s the way to go. Every month, upfront cash. In July, I put fifty thou in my bank account.’
Fifty thousand shillings. A figure so enormous that even when Jeffery tried to imagine what he could do with it, his mind remained stupidly empty. He put the beer to his mouth and gulped the foamy liquid, filling his chest to the brink of explosion.
‘What’s a sacco?’ David asked, scooting forward in his chair.
‘Matatus have begun organizing themselves into companies per district – just clever businessmen looking for more ways to make money and I thought, why not capitalize? Went to see this jama and told him that if he wanted his matatus to operate peacefully then he better hand over fifty a month. So he collected from his guys and now,’ dusting his hands with a proud smile, ‘we’re all happy.’
‘Are there more of them?’
‘All over,’ the officer confirmed. ‘So I don’t mind sharing.’ He grinned and looked over at Jeffery, who was now on his second beer and had begun to feel dull-headed. Share for a price – one day, the man would return to collect the debt David would owe him for this information. Nothing was free in Nairobi, not even generosity.
‘When you say they can operate peacefully, what do you mean?’ Jeffery asked.
‘You know how these guys are – they like to break the rules kidogo. Pack in passengers until there’s no space for even air. I think they would tie them to the roof and tires if they could.’ The officer chuckled. ‘Sometimes the insurance is missing, sometimes they speed or fail monthly inspections – all these things, I help make go away.’
‘And when they crash?’ Jeffery asked, the beer and neon lights making his speech hostile. ‘What then? What do you give back to the families who have lost someone because of your greed? Or do you drown yourself in money to help you forget?’
The officer laughed, too pleased to be offended. ‘Bwana, what country do you think you are living in? If we don’t help ourselves, who will?’
‘It’s not right,’ Jeffery argued, moving onto his third beer for the night. But he was uneasy, because for the first time he felt a sneaky temptation, remembering how easy it had been to collect five thousand shillings from that muhindi driver – so quickly she had given it up that it had caused any guilt he might have had to dissipate and left in its place a feverish desperation to feel those crisp notes beneath his fingers once again.
As the officer turned away, his attention caught someplace else, David said to Jeffery, ‘When are you going to stop holding onto your values and realize that they are the one thing causing you to sink?’
Jeffery remained silent, letting his eyes wander the nearly empty bar. It was only seven thirty and in a few hours it would be close to impossible to make it even two steps ahead without bumping into another person. His gaze stopped at a shapely silhouette, leaning suggestively against the wall, her elbow resting in the bowl-shaped dip of her waist.
She was cradling a glass of wine between her sharp fingernails, surrounded by an aura of tired elegance, betrayed by the black top cut too low over her breasts, a skirt pulled tight over impressive thighs – the confirmation he needed to let him know exactly what she was. As he stared at her, she straightened and spread her legs slightly, trailing her dark weave over her mouth.
With shallow breath, he turned to his drink and swallowed down most of it in confusion. He instantly regretted the action because the last thing he needed was his morals loosened. Still, his fingers searched for his wallet, flipped it open, counting out the notes. He calculated roughly in his mind the cost of three beers and food, though he hadn’t eaten, and came to the dismaying conclusion that he didn’t have enough. David was watching him.
‘I told you,’ he said, and Jeffery saw that he was glad, ‘you could have that one and many others better than her if you just climb down from that high mountain you sit on.’
‘I don’t want her.’ His voice was unconvincing. His loneliness was potent; it made him haggard and drawn and even as he lay awake, trying to relieve himself, the enjoyment he drew from his own hand always turned ugly. That was why, after he closed his wallet, his eyes refused to move from the woman at the wall. It was why he could almost taste her salty flesh, smell the cheap sweetness of the perfume she wore and imagine in great detail, the wet insides of her eager mouth.
‘I’ll lend you some money.’ The offer was whispered.
‘Sitaki.’ Jeffery shook his head in stubborn refusal.
‘Do you think I’m stupid, Jeff? Come on, there’s nothing to be shy about. It’s a man’s right to sleep beside a beautiful woman.’
‘What do you want from me?’ He asked it wearily, but was excited at this unexpected prospect, eager to get to her before someone else did.
‘I want you to come with me to see this sacco leader tomorro
w.’ David glanced at the police officer who had been telling them about it. ‘I don’t trust this jama and I want someone there to back me up, just in case.’
The woman drained the last of her drink. She looked at him and tipped the glass slightly in his direction. He turned back to David. ‘Yes, okay. Give me the money and I’ll come with you tomorrow.’
David pressed a wad of notes into Jeffery’s hand. When their eyes met, Jeffery was frightened of the smile on the man’s face – ever so sinister as he urged, ‘Go and have fun.’
The window was stuck closed and the overhead fan refused to work so that the air around him stayed perfectly still and suffocatingly hot. Her tongue trailed the bony expanse of his chest and, in the dim light coming from the bar outside, he saw them, two unlikely figures in the cracked mirror of the dresser. He directed his eyes upward to where flies buzzed, restless in the heat. The thump-thump of music was an unrelenting distraction and he tried to push it from his mind and concentrate on the slick feel of her, the sweet heat rising from her belly as she curved down on him, her mouth hovering above his.
He tried not to gag. Her breath felt like steam and smelled of dried alcohol. She removed his belt, slid his trousers down and when her hand went around him, he pulled slightly too hard on her weave so that she scowled. ‘You know, it’s extra charge after one hour.’
Throwing his head back on the pillow, he allowed her to continue – her touch so delicate in comparison to his hard tugs, the slight scrape of her nails surprisingly erotic. Fingers replaced by mouth and then she was scrambling on top of him, grabbing a hold of the bed frame, reminding Jeffery that she wanted to get this over and done with as quickly as possible. He pressed his hands into her thighs and said, ‘Slowly, slowly.’
She ignored him, making ridiculous noises that angered rather than excited him and he extracted himself from the tight grip of her legs. She glanced at him in shock, pushing her hair from her sweaty forehead.
‘I said slowly, please.’ He twisted her over so that she was pressed beneath him and he bound her with his legs.
She began to struggle, her nails scratching, but it was only when she bit down hard on the fleshiest part of his chin that he remembered where he was and released her.
He rolled over onto his back and lay motionless as she chewed her gum and climbed back on top of him. He lost himself in her rhythm and heat, had to hold onto her knees to keep her from slipping away, and when she stretched out her hips and convulsed slightly, a ripple going up through the center of her breasts and contracting her face, he tried but failed to reach a similar release.
As she dressed, he asked, ‘Aren’t you supposed to wait until I’m…’ searching for the word, ‘done?’
With some tissues crumpled in her fist, she wiped between her legs. The action was so crude, it bordered on arousing and he shifted impatiently on the bed.
‘If you want me to stay, then it’s extra.’
There followed several moments of painful contemplation before he shook his head.
‘Sawa.’ She shrugged, grabbed her purse and left without a backward glance.
He had to finish off the job himself, but this time it wasn’t accompanied by its usual heaviness because he held in his memory the weight of her upon him, the feeling of being pressed so close to the hidden parts of her. It had been so comforting that he knew with certainty he would go and meet David tomorrow, that he would agree to whatever partnership the man proposed and then he would come back here and give her whatever she wanted, just to have her tucked into the space of his body where there used to be something.
21
It had been odd, going to bed feeling one way and waking up to a completely different perspective. That was how he had felt it had happened anyway – as if he had been informed by his muddled dreams and hadn’t yet had the chance to decipher fully their meaning. Now that school had started he looked forward to the evenings when he would join his mother at the Kohlis’ house, but now it was with a new kind of apprehension – a twisted, miserable excitement that often kept him sleepless at night but springing with energy in the morning. He lost control over his eyes, his thoughts and movements, which worked together to seek her out, accompanied by sweaty palms and a host of butterflies warring in his stomach – physical symptoms, which in any other situation would have been unpleasant but which he now enjoyed.
It began one night, after Jai and Leena had gone inside for dinner and he wandered the compound, waiting for his mother to finish. He had been accosted in the small alleyway between two houses by Tag. The boy followed him for several steps before Michael stopped.
‘What do you want?’
‘You’re the intruder here.’ Tag was advancing. ‘This is where I live. I’ll go wherever I want.’
Michael had tried to move past the boy, back into the lit-up street, but heavy fingers were laid on his chest.
‘She was in on it, you know,’ Tag informed him. ‘She came up with the idea because she wanted to get rid of you.’
‘Who?’
‘Quit playing dumb. You know who. She said you smell funny and dress in ugly, old clothes and that you refuse to leave them alone, even though Jai is only being nice to you because his father told him to be.’ Tag was glad that he had caught Leena crying behind the water tank that day. She had been so upset, so ready to spill everything and then begged profusely afterward for him to keep her secrets safe.
Not wanting to hear any more, Michael said, ‘Get out of my way.’
Tag pushed himself up off the wall, his large frame blocking the entire path. ‘Make me.’
‘What do you want?’ Michael asked, a little tiredly.
‘She wants you to stop coming here. Get a hint – you don’t belong in this place.’
‘Then why did she defend me?’ His stomach plummeted in pleasure at this memory.
Silence. They heard Angela calling and he was about to push past Tag when his collar was grabbed and he was shoved up against the grille gate of someone’s veranda. The smell of Indian spices and bad breath. Michael turned his head away.
‘She was just scared that she was going to get into trouble. It had nothing to do with you.’
‘Mike?’ His mother stood at the edge of the tunnel-like alleyway, ready to come in. Tag released him and Michael straightened his shirt, starting to smile. He was still grinning when he emerged onto the street and into the graying evening.
He should have been upset. As they made their way home, Michael searched for a sense of betrayal or injustice, thought that he would have been hurt to learn that she had wanted him to leave, but instead found himself walking with a light step beside his mother, unable to stop smiling.
‘What was that boy saying to you?’ his mother demanded as they carefully navigated the broken, almost non-existent pedestrian pathway, past hordes of other people making their way home. A light drizzle had started and a faint layer of mist built upon his cheeks, caught in his eyelashes, polka-dotting his vision.
‘Nothing important. He just doesn’t like me, that’s all.’
‘And that doesn’t make you angry?’
He shook his head because he finally understood the reason for Tag’s hostility. The boy had threatened him because of her, because he was intimidated by his presence, and the shock of it jolted Michael into his own awareness.
‘I don’t care about him.’
The world had shrunk into the small, gangly figure of a twelve-year-old girl. Everywhere he looked, he discovered her. Her name housed itself on his tongue, waiting to jump out every time he opened his mouth to speak. It was liberating to be so possessed by another, as if she were living inside his skin.
It didn’t matter to him what Leena had thought before, because she had changed her mind. She had protected him, come to the decision that what she had planned was wrong and had wanted him to stay.
Evenings soon became the center of their lives. Those free hours after school they stole to sit together ben
eath the bougainvillea tree, in the soft chill that carried the scent of wood fires being lit up for the night. Michael watched Leena speak in that charming way, more with her hands than her words. Always gesturing in wide sweeps when she was explaining something, or stabbing the air with frustration – he had come to know all her gestures by now. Sometimes, he even found himself mimicking her.
She was telling him about her school, a private one in the suburbs of Karen, and the way she described it – small classrooms of fifteen children, British expatriate teachers who were strict about manners and cleanliness, the science lab and outdoor swimming pool – burned him up with longing.
‘Do you have British teachers also?’ she asked.
Embarrassment. It was a new feeling that came with the others – a severe self-consciousness that caused Jackie to yell at him every morning to hurry up: ‘I was ready in five minutes and you’re still finding your trousers,’ pointing at his torn pajamas and raising an eyebrow. He had rushed back up to put on his school pants, her giggles running through his ears, making him laugh until he shook and felt his mind slip away.
Every afternoon before leaving school, he would check his appearance in the bathroom, waiting until all the other students had gone before grabbing the slimy, black bar of soap and running it under his arms, wiping away the foam with a wad of wet toilet paper. He bowed his head under the cool water of the tap before gargling repeatedly.
When he reached the apartments, he worried that it had all been for nothing because the sun was too hot and he had sweated all over again. That was why, despite wanting to always stand close to her, he kept his distance, worried she might catch a whiff of him. So when she asked whether he had British teachers, he wanted to lie but couldn’t bring himself to.