Who Will Catch Us As We Fall

by Iman Verjee

  ‘No. They’re all Kenyans.’

  She stared at him, reflecting on how strange he had become – aloof, without a trace of the easiness that had been there when he had helped with her bike. Gone was the cool, collected boy she had come to know. Nowadays, he couldn’t seem to keep still, his eyes forever darting, his feet always stepping away from her – and when she asked him questions, he no longer teased her but regarded her with a seriousness that was out of place in their new friendship.

  ‘I bet they teach you things relevant to our history,’ Jai interjected. ‘We learn about British prime ministers and American wars, when all I really want to know is how the Mau Mau got our country back.’

  He had been this way ever since school had started, disillusioned and frustrated, refusing to back down on his new opinions, even though Pooja often rubbed her temples and groaned, ‘Why must we always talk about such things at dinner?’

  Finally, concerned about her son’s recent interest in Kenya’s past, his growing friendship with Michael and the way he shunned all the other boys in the compound and at school, she asked, ‘Is there something going on that we should know about?’

  ‘Just because my ideas don’t agree with yours doesn’t mean there’s something wrong.’ He looked her boldly in the eye, in his lap a history book she had spotted Michael with, not long before.

  ‘Don’t talk to me that way.’ Pooja banged her fist down on the table. ‘Bringing so much shame onto this family,’ she said, pointing at her husband. ‘And you aren’t doing a thing to stop it.’

  ‘Leave the boy alone.’ Raj spoke proudly. ‘He’s growing up.’

  In their room, Leena tried asking him again. ‘She’s worried about you,’ she told her brother. ‘And so am I.’

  She felt distanced from Jai in a way she never had before; it was as if his readings had created an unshakeable barrier of misunderstanding between them – as if everything she said and did was wrong.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about. I’m fine.’

  In truth, Jai’s feelings had never been more tangled, more impossible to decipher. He knew that his father was proud of him, could sense it in the way Raj spoke to him, more like an equal – listening to him talk with rapt attention. Sometimes, in the middle of a conversation, Raj would rub Jai’s head with his large hand and say, ‘You’re such a clever boy. You’ve made us very proud,’ gesturing at Pinto’s picture, which Jai didn’t like to look at any more because it was full of too-big dreams and the disappointments that inevitably came with them. Yet it had pleased him that his father thought of him that way – and he was involuntarily sucked into the heroic, larger-than-life version of himself that lived inside his father’s mind.

  But he found, after reading the books Michael had lent him, that he was burdened with a phantom despair. The history of his people in Kenya was fraught with racial tension and violence, beginning with the coolies brought in by the British to build the Ugandan railway and it seemed that even now, those divisions were there, stronger than ever, and he was overwhelmed by it. Sometimes he wished he could erase all the information he had learned and live with the easiness of an unthinking, empty mind.

  Wanting to break the heaviness in his chest, he leaned over the edge of his bunk and said to his sister, ‘Michael is our friend.’

  ‘I know.’ She tried not to feel as if he were blaming her for something.

  ‘You shouldn’t let what anyone else says about him change that.’

  The mattress shifted above. She reached up to touch the shafts of wood holding him away from her. ‘I won’t.’

  ‘It’s harder than you think. People can be cruel.’ They lay in silence, listening to the night noises before he spoke again. ‘I’m not sure what’s happening to me, so what do I tell Ma? Sometimes I feel so confused and angry.’

  Leena didn’t know what to say – was at a loss as to how to comfort him, afraid that her words might drive him further away, might disappoint him on this first time he was looking to her for answers.

  ‘You’re the best person I know,’ she said finally.

  Again, his face came into view and it was more relaxed this time, more like himself. When he smiled, it was a flood of happiness in her chest. ‘Thanks, monkey.’

  ‌

  22

  There was an old electronics store downtown, situated in the center of Biashara Street, nestled between dozens of small shops, which had been standing there for three generations, selling everything from leather to textiles, live chickens and food. Jeffery passed the many East Indian dukas, such as Sunu’s Baby & Children and Taj’s Fancy Shop, pausing to glance at the bright silks draped in the display windows and the costume jewelry sets that most Indian women wore – and wondered what one would look like on her. He imagined the necklace high up on her neck, falling in stiff waves of gold and ruby and he paused, fingers pressed to the glass, before David kicked his ankles and forced him forward.

  ‘There it is.’ David pointed to a large sign that read Abdullah & Sons Electronics and they crossed the street, holding up their hands to pause speeding matatus and boda-bodas, motorcycle taxis, as they criss-crossed their way to the shop’s entrance.

  A bell chimed as they went in and the man at the counter paused from what he was doing, placing the phone battery aside as they approached, asking pleasantly, ‘Yes, officers? What can I do for you?’

  David rested his palms on the glass countertop. ‘Is this your shop?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘You have many things here,’ David observed, gesturing at the shelves stacked with radio parts, CD players, TVs in sealed packages. ‘Where do you get everything from?’

  ‘Overseas, mostly.’ The man’s manner was untroubled and he spoke in Swahili. ‘I make a few trips to America every year.’

  ‘Business must be doing well then.’ David was glowering, his voice packed with envy, and Jeffery found that he was affected by a tightening in his chest as well, a plummeting jealousy. His whole life he had been dreaming of leaving Kibera for Nairobi, only a few kilometers away, but it had never occurred to him to think of traveling any further.

  ‘God willing.’ The shopkeeper understood they wanted something and was prepared to make them wait for it. ‘If you could give me a few minutes,’ he held up the phone battery, ‘I have to fix this for a customer.’

  They watched him as he worked. He was likely in his early thirties, light-skinned and groomed, dressed in a lavender shirt left open at the collar. Everything about him was extravagant. A thick gold chain was roped around his neck, a matching hoop in his left earlobe. Most of his fingers were adorned with large-stone, imitation rings and whenever he moved, the officers were overwhelmed by a musky scent of cheap deodorant, disguising itself as cologne. Catching the lemony whiff, Jeffery noticed that in every exaggerated action, a small bit of the man’s falsity came leaking through, and when he glanced at David he received a nod in confirmation.

  After several minutes, David asked, ‘Are you finished?’

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. As you can see, I was busy.’

  David stood, stretched and tilted his body as if to peer into the back of the shop. ‘Don’t you have any employees to help you?’

  ‘They’ve gone for lunch.’

  The two officers glanced purposefully at the clock overhead, which read ten forty-five. ‘So early?’

  ‘I didn’t think I would have so many jobs, so I told my man to take the day off.’

  ‘It doesn’t do you any good, playing games with a police officer.’

  ‘I’m not lying.’

  David folded his hands into his belt. ‘Tell me this. You seem like a very successful businessman. You go on trips, you wear lots of necklaces and such things. And yet, when I look around, it seems to me that your shop is in trouble.’ He held his hand up to stop the man from interjecting. ‘No need, I understand. The black market for electronics is growing and why would anyone come here to buy something when they can get it cheap, cheap fr
om the chokora down the street?’

  ‘It’s difficult,’ the young man admitted. ‘But I’m getting by.’

  ‘And how is that?’ David leaned in once more.

  For the first time, the man looked uncomfortable.

  David’s voice shaped itself into a steely sternness. ‘A sacco, sindiyo?’

  Stubborn quietness filled the shop; the sound of haggling street vendors outside came sneaking through.

  Jeffery thought about the necklace again. ‘Answer him.’ There was a forcefulness in his tone that surprised even David.

  ‘What do you want?’ The man’s smile was gone.

  ‘To help you.’ David stuck his belly out in satisfaction. ‘We can come to an arrangement that can benefit both of us.’

  ‘What makes you think I want to help you?’

  David strode around the shop. He trailed his fingers through the headphone packages, knocked on the screen of an expensive Sony TV, extracting a whimper from the shop owner. ‘As you said, you obtain all of these goods from overseas. And yet, you do not pay tax on them.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’ A bristling voice.

  ‘Yes, I do. No matter, I shall report you and by the time you’re done paying whatever tax you have evaded, plus the hefty fine for avoiding it, your business will be over.’ David leered at the shop owner. ‘No more trips to America. In the meantime, all the matatus in your sacco will be subject to inspection and I can say with surety that they won’t pass. You’ll have to pay for the repairs, of course, before they can operate. Must think of the safety of Kenyan passengers.’

  A forced smile. ‘Why all this hostility, bwana? I never said I wasn’t willing to help you out.’

  David stopped at the front desk once more. ‘Good. Now that we are no longer pretending with each other and you have decided to stop wasting my time, let’s discuss.’

  As they talked, Jeffery moved outside, the bell chiming loudly above him as he leaned against the closing door, shutting his eyes and listening to the sounds of people and cars playing havoc on the streets.

  Two weeks later, in the same bar, this time scooping up meat in heaps of ugali himself, David slipped something into his hand.

  ‘Thirty thousand – your share. Of course, I took what I lent you plus interest.’ It didn’t matter. Jeffery took the cash, dumbstruck, as if it might be snatched away from him at any moment. I have to look after my well-being, he thought, as he slipped the money into his back pocket, wolfing down his food and washing it away with warm beer and a burp.

  The following day, Jeffery returned to Biashara Street, to Taj’s Fancy Shop, and purchased the gold-plated jewelry set he had seen, adorned with scarlet stones. It came in a set with earrings and a petal-like pedant to drape in her hair and it would fall like a symbol upon her forehead announcing that she was his, or would be soon enough.

  He waited for the rest of the day at Klub House and it was late evening by the time he scrambled off his stool toward her, having ordered them drinks.

  ‘I’ve been waiting all day for you.’ His voice close to a snap.

  She looked at him quizzically, as if she didn’t recognize him. Suddenly embarrassed, he said, as if begging, ‘I’m the one who—’

  She took the wine, unimpressed. ‘I remember you.’

  ‘Where were you?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s not your business but I have a job as a waitress.’

  ‘At which bar?’

  She smiled a little condescendingly. ‘I don’t mix my businesses. I’m sure you understand that,’ she said, looking pointedly at his blue shirt, the telltale silver buttons and stitched-in badge that sat on top of his breast pocket.

  ‘I bought you this.’ He removed the velvet box, placed it on the table beside her. ‘I very much hope you like it.’ He spoke formally, desperate to impress her.

  She touched the gift, fingers lingering. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Why don’t you open it?’ Her expression overjoyed him; she was grinning fully, showing off all her teeth, not the sultry smile he knew she reserved for clients.

  With a small gasp she lifted the cover, laying a trembling hand on the red cushion inside. She stared at the set for the longest time, pausing only to take a long gulp of her wine. The maroon liquid stained her mouth, darkening it. He saw the pink contrast of her tongue as she licked the droplets away and he touched her hand urgently.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  Her throat rippled, her eyes brimming. ‘Aqua Bar.’

  ‘Pardon?’ His eyebrows came together in a question.

  She shut the case and drained the last of her drink, took his hand. She placed it high up on her thigh and leaned forward so that he caught sight of the chocolate slope of her breasts. He stumbled close to her, breathing raspily. She whispered in his ear, ‘That’s the bar where I work.’

  ‌

  23

  Pooja sat in the small armchair and surveyed her family. Raj was lounging on the couch, a half-read newspaper laid over his lap. Leena was resting her head against his shoulder, legs tucked up, playing with the frill of her full skirt. It had rained last night and now the house was filled with the residues of it; humid and stifling. She toyed with her stockings, wondering why her mother had made her wear them. Jai was perched at the edge of the sofa cushion.

  ‘Can I go now? Michael is waiting for me.’

  ‘No you cannot go,’ Pooja answered. ‘We’re all going to the temple.’

  Groans. Rolling eyes. Slumping shoulders and pouting mouths. ‘But, Maaa!’

  ‘No But, Maaas.’ Pooja pulled her mouth back to imitate her daughter’s high-pitched whine. ‘I said we’re going, so we’re going.’

  Raj slammed his newspaper shut, a swell of irritation in his chest forcing him upward. His wife was always deciding things without talking about them first. ‘Where is all of this coming from?’

  Her children had been acting up. Such nonsense, non-stop. Talking back, hiding things from her, lying and fighting – still playing too much with that boy even though school had started. That was what worried her the most. They needed direction now more than ever.

  She had spoken to Mrs Laljee from Flat 39 about this yesterday, when the elderly woman had come to borrow a cup of sugar and vanilla essence for a pound cake. ‘I was wondering if I could come in?’ She had pushed her way through Pooja’s door and into the living room.

  ‘Of course.’ She had led the woman to the couch, calling into the kitchen, ‘Angela! Bring some tea and biscuits.’

  The two women sat side by side, their knees turned toward each other. Mrs Laljee folded her gray salwar kameez between her knees and adjusted her chuni to sit more comfortably, hoisting the chiffon scarf upon her head.

  ‘Is everything alright?’ Pooja asked.

  ‘Is everything okay with you, beta?’ Mrs Laljee put a motherly hand on her thigh.

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ At last, Pooja saw the reason for the woman’s visit.

  ‘Oh, Pooja.’ Mrs Laljee shook her head. ‘I’m so worried about your daughter.’

  Putting her fingers on top of the woman’s hand in a tight clutch, she felt suddenly grateful that she could finally confide in someone who was willing to listen. ‘What have you heard? She’s just growing up – that’s all.’

  ‘I remember she used to be such a sweet, polite girl. Now all I hear are stories that she’s stealing money and running around fruit markets in her skirt, like some kind of hooligan! It doesn’t look nice.’ She grimaced, as if embarrassed. ‘Forgive my intrusion – you know I’m not one to pry.’

  The women fell silent when Angela entered the room. They waited for her to put down the tray, and when she picked up the tea pot, Pooja stopped her. ‘I’ll do it.’

  Once the housemaid was gone, Mrs Laljee spoke again. ‘Does she have to bring that boy with her every day?’

  ‘There’s no one else to look after him.’

  ‘Then get a new maid. Is she really worth all this trouble?’

 
; ‘I thought about getting a new girl but Raj refused.’ Then, more concerned, ‘What kind of trouble do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know – these kharias can get up to anything, really.’ Mrs Laljee didn’t bother to lower her voice. ‘And if something does happen, people will blame you.’ She accepted a tea cup, swirled a chocolate biscuit in the hot liquid. ‘My ayah has a daughter and I wouldn’t even let her in my house.’ She sucked the tea out of the cookie, pushing it whole into her mouth. ‘I suppose it’s okay for Jai to play with him, for now at least, but it’s different with girls. You could be getting yourself into some serious hot water if you don’t discipline her now.’

  ‘What shall I do?’ Pooja asked, out of ideas.

  ‘Start bringing them to the Gurdwara,’ had been Mrs Laljee’s answer. ‘They can meet some new friends there – those who share the same values, speak the same language. We should never underestimate the power of community, especially in this country. It’s important we stick together.’

  ‘Raj would never agree. He’s not a religious man.’ Pooja gestured with an irritated scoff at the picture of Pio Gama Pinto. ‘That’s who he talks to.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Mrs Laljee picked up another biscuit. ‘That’s not a divine being. Pio was just a silly man who gave up his life for a silly dream. You must encourage Raj to come along,’ she urged. ‘A man without God is like a house without a toilet. It’s unnatural and doesn’t make sense.’

  Listening to his wife retell the story, Raj kicked away the footstool in front of him. ‘I’ll be damned if I let Mrs Laljee run this family!’

  She ignored his anger and stated again, ‘We’re going.’

  And true to her word, twenty minutes later, Raj and his son were dressed, the house tightly locked up, and Angela and Michael instructed to stay out on the veranda until the Kohlis returned.