Who Will Catch Us As We Fall

by Iman Verjee

  ‘Whichever one you want,’ she replied absently. ‘How long?’

  Her haste confused him, stilting his enthusiasm. ‘Don’t you want to see them first?’

  ‘I trust you.’

  ‘The house in Runda is ready – it’s furnished and the current occupants leave for America this coming weekend.’ He was cautious, wondering if it was some kind of trick.

  ‘So two weeks?’

  ‘Three at the least – if we do everything quickly. It’s only two years old so we wouldn’t have to do any renovations.’

  Pooja unfurled her pinned hair, letting it span out across her shoulders. ‘It’s decided then.’

  He grabbed her arm, his magazine falling to the floor. ‘I’ll take you there tomorrow – you’re going to love it.’

  ‘I have only one condition.’

  His smile turned worried. He didn’t like it when she sounded that way, determined as a bulldozer, crushing everything in her path.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Angela won’t be coming with us.’

  Dismayed, Raj felt betrayed by his wife’s ulterior motive. She had tricked him and he had fallen blindly into her trap. He tried to reason with her. ‘Angela has been with us for twelve years. We can’t just let her go without a proper reason.’

  ‘Do you want to move or not?’

  He should have pressed her for more information, perhaps tried longer to dissuade her, but he was afraid that she would change her mind, that he would be left to grow old in this compound surrounded by small-minded people, and so he remained silent. Consoling himself with the idea that he would help Angela find another position before they left, he nodded. ‘If that’s what you think is right.’

  ‘I’ll talk to her tomorrow then,’ Pooja said, turning away from him so that he wouldn’t see the way her face relaxed with relief as she stretched out her hand to flick off the bedside lamp, casting them into darkness.

  ‌

  ‌Part Three

  2002

  ‌

  26

  In the middle of the afternoon at a deserted bar situated high up on a busy street in Westlands, Jeffery lounged in the stuffy heat, sipping his whiskey and coke. He watched the road below, lined with rows and rows of nightclubs. Officially known as Mpaka Road, this corner of the city transformed into ‘Electric Avenue’ after dark, Nairobi’s liveliest club district.

  During the late afternoon, however, all one could hear was the beginnings of rush-hour traffic, a cacophony of car horns, reggae music and street vendors shouting out prices and knocking on windows. He enjoyed the gaudy colors of the matatus, the political and religious messages stamped across their back windows and on the sides of buses; in Nairobi, it was not uncommon to board a bus that carried quotes such as ‘Only Jesus can give wholeness to a broken life.’

  He watched tiny hurricanes of dust rise beneath the wheels of these chaotic vehicles and drew away from the window in a fit of coughing. Gulping down half his whiskey and coke he released an unsatisfied belch and checked his watch – three o’clock and he was disappointingly sober and annoyed at having been kept waiting.

  ‘Ingine?’ The damp whisper in his ear, long-ringed fingers accidentally-on-purpose grazing high up on his thigh.

  Jeffery’s eyes roamed deliberately over the waitress’s body. Once upon a time, he would have appreciated the obvious effort she had put into the tight, leopard-print dress, the twisted-up weave. But now, he was only bored as he nodded a yes.

  As she moved away to get his drink, he caught her hand roughly. ‘No diluting this one, mnalewa?’

  She sulked off and he downed the dregs of the drink in front of him with satisfaction. No one cheated him, especially not some leggy, aging malaya who sometimes waitressed and who was becoming nothing more than an old nuisance.

  A fresh glass was placed in front of him and he tugged at her curved waist, pressed her breasts up to his cheek as he leaned down to sniff the whiskey. Catching the pungent whiff he grunted his approval, noting that she had added two shots instead of the one he would be paying for. He pulled out a wad of cash and slipping it into the lace strap of her bra, whispered, ‘Baadaye.’

  Happy with this promise to meet her later, she moved away with swinging hips and he said, ‘You’re playing with fire, kijana.’

  A young man was hovering behind him and at Jeffery’s voice he was goaded into a mild protestation. ‘There was jam everywhere, officer.’

  ‘That’s not my problem. Where is it?’

  A sorrowful face. ‘I haven’t had a job in a while. If I can come see you next week with the payment, itakuwa poa sana.’

  Jeffery kept his voice pleasant, his fingers trailing the rim of his glass. He had learned that in matters of money it was necessary to remain polite, no matter how angry one became. ‘How will I feed my family now?’

  ‘You know how this job works.’ As he spoke, the man, Nick, kept a pleading hand to his chest. ‘Sometimes money comes, other times no one is looking to buy. There is so much competition these days.’

  Jeffery remained silent and the boy recognized the expectation on his face. He had not come here for nothing. So Nick removed six thousand shillings, more than three-quarters of what he had made that week, and slid it unhappily over the table. But he was partly relieved, having been let off relatively easily. He had been terrified to come here, especially after hearing what this officer had done to his partner.

  What was his name again? Nick searched for it as Jeffery counted out the notes in his hand.

  ‘You need to work harder, sawa?’

  David. That was it.

  Nick retreated rapidly, thanking the officer on his way out. Jeffery returned the glass to his lips, muttering under his breath. Mafala.

  Idiot.

  How is it possible to be cheated by your own soul? It was the newest question Jeffery grappled with every night. For thirty years, he had been living one life, so certain of it that even in his poverty he had been content. But one deceptively sunny morning, he had awoken in another man’s house, surrounded by a stranger’s possessions, including his wife, and found that the life meant for him was something entirely different.

  Three years prior to that day, together with David he had been working closely with the sacco leader from that unassuming shop on Biashara Street. The first night he had received thirty thousand shillings, Jeffery opened his own bank account upon his friend’s advice.

  ‘This is only the beginning, Jeff,’ he had been told.

  David was quick to monopolize the information he had received about the saccos. They latched onto various matatu unions springing up around the city before anyone else realized how profitable they were and, within the year, the two of them were receiving payments from ten such companies: a hundred thousand shillings monthly.

  Of course, there was the hierarchy to consider and a large percentage of what they collected went to officers in stations above them, including the senior police officer at the Parklands station.

  ‘We forgive and forget, eh-he?’ the fat man had said. ‘Besides, look at how successful you are now. You should be thanking me.’

  ‘He’s right,’ David had told Jeffery. ‘Stop clinging to the past – it’s time you moved out of that shack. You have more money now and how much of it can you spend on whores?’ A wicked laugh. ‘Or should I say whore?’

  ‘We’re in love,’ Jeffery had informed him.

  She called herself Marlyn, and though it wasn’t her real name its exoticness suited her perfectly. Mysterious, with a body so perfectly curved, it had an animalistic sway – dark skin that was cool and soft to touch. Mar-Lynne the mermaid.

  After several months of courtship, which included buying her expensive gifts and staying in luxurious hotels, which back then were still out of his pocket’s reach, and dining in fine restaurants, Marlyn stopped seeing other men and Jeffery stopped paying her. She asked to move in with him but he refused, wanting to hold on to his curtained shack, guarding the fi
nal remnants of his past.

  Despite his moving upward, something held him back from leaving those winding, muddy streets, the outdoor lawyers and Miss Judy reciting the alphabet with singing children. Doing so would be like having his mother die all over again, and he knew that the day he left her house would be the time he was truly lost.

  Having grown up in a place where even using the toilet had its price, Jeffery was unsurprised by all the luxuries money could buy. Alcohol, food, two mobile phones clipped to either side of his belt; soon he became bloated by all of these things. His paunch folded over and his shirt buttons often strained and snapped right off. He could be walking down the street, kissing Marlyn and pop! Another button would go flying off, a sad and frightening reminder. His chin sagged and wrinkles sprouted over his forehead and eyes, like flowers in bloom. Marijuana stained his eyes red and tobacco browned his teeth, but still he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

  And the fatter he grew, the greedier he became for new things, so that eventually even Marlyn became something in want of replacement. He watched her one evening getting dressed for dinner, knotting up her hair so that she could fasten the clasp of her necklace.

  ‘I don’t know why you still wear that one when I’ve bought you so many more expensive things.’

  Marlyn studied herself in the mirror, finger traveling over the rusted costume jewelry. Her eyes met his. ‘Some things are worth more than just how much they cost, Jeff.’

  And he blinked and felt belittled because he had forgotten how that could possibly be true.

  That same night, after she had rolled off him, he swung his legs off the bed and reached for the bedside table. Rifling through his wallet, he pulled out a stack of notes. He shoved the money at her, forcing her from her peacefulness. She gave an astonished gasp of laughter as he pried open her fingers and said, ‘I need my sleep.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ She clenched the notes. He hadn’t paid her anything in over a year.

  ‘I’ll come and find you when I want.’ He adjusted the pillow, closed his eyes.

  She had dressed hastily, pausing with one heel dangling from her toes, leaning down to kiss him – her tongue thick and wet between his unresponsive lips. He rolled onto his side and listened to her reluctantly leave and thought how sad it was that she had pocketed the money and felt glad that he was no longer in such a position.

  ‘Thank God!’ David had clapped his back at the news. ‘Now we can really have some fun.’

  A different woman every evening, a new hotel every night – Jeffery became so used to the things in these rooms that had been absent from his previous life – a television, a mirror, his own private bathroom – that going back to Kibera, he saw his home for what it really was: unfit for any living person.

  ‘Yet still you refuse to move into the city.’ David had clucked his tongue. ‘I don’t understand you. Why don’t you take a break from all the malayas and join me and my wife for dinner?’

  Jeffery found himself in the strange position once again, after a very long time, of being jealous. ‘That is why you never take a woman.’

  ‘The line has to be drawn somewhere. If it wasn’t, imagine all the terrible things we could do to each other.’

  David’s wife, Esther, was a simple woman with slightly pock-marked skin from a bad bout of chicken pox and who wore her hair natural, a wiry, small afro that framed her angular cheeks and bird-like eyes. She startled him with how she reminded him of his mother, so that the whole first night he clung to her every word.

  When David told him that he lived in South C, Jeffery had arrived expecting to stand before a gated house but what he found instead was a block of high-rise apartments – gray and morbid with black grille windows and small balconies. He was embarrassed for his friend as he entered the congested, one-bedroomed flat and saw that it was nothing short of run down. Linoleum floors with cement holes where the tiles had fallen away, the constant running of a leaking toilet and such sparse furniture that the chairs they used for dining were also the ones they dragged to the boxed TV to end the night. Nevertheless, the house smelled homely – yellow corn bubbling in the pot and Mr Sheen wood polish, and Jeffery couldn’t help but be desperate for such things, all the more harrowing because they did not come with a price.

  It was one such evening when everything changed.

  They had just finished dinner and had moved the wooden chairs to the living room, the window thrown open to cool down the house from the heat of the day, and he heard the sounds of three young boys singing and playing the drums from the apartment upstairs.

  ‘Doesn’t that disturb you?’ Jeffery asked his friend.

  ‘It’s entertainment. Sometimes Esther and I go up there to listen to them. One day, they’ll be famous – mark my words.’

  ‘Better cash in,’ Jeffery grinned.

  ‘I’m working on it.’

  The two men sipped on their drinks with slow ease. Jeffery closed his eyes to catch every trill of the cymbals, the dull pounding of drums that seemed to close the walls in around him and he almost felt happy. Then Esther asked, ‘Did David tell you the good news?’

  An uncomfortable silence fell over them. David puffed his cheeks out in a guilty exhalation. ‘I haven’t had time yet.’

  ‘Tell me what?’ Jeffery paused with the glass at his lips. His friend’s expression caused him to return it to his lap without taking a sip.

  ‘It’s nothing.’ David tweaked his mouth.

  ‘It’s big.’ Esther prodded her husband, who was glowering at her.

  Now that his wife had let the news slip, David had no choice but to continue. ‘They offered me the senior officer position at Parklands police station.’

  ‘What happened to Muema?’ Jeffery inquired.

  ‘He found a job at the airport. Said it’s easier money and much less pressure.’

  Jeffery slammed the drink down with much more force than intended, causing Esther to jump. ‘It’s getting late.’

  David called out for him but Jeffery ignored his friend and went staggering down into the dark, claustrophobic evening.

  Instead of alighting a matatu, he wandered aimlessly down the broken pedestrian walkways, hitting shoulders with drunkards and side-stepping women linked at the elbows, heads bowed close together, sharing secrets. As he passed, he was sure they looked up to snicker. A bicycle swerved by him, the sharp ring of the bell not registering in his mind until someone shouted, ‘Mjinga! Watch where you are going.’

  It was past ten o’clock when he boarded the bus. It was empty and he sat toward the back, watching the nightlights of the city grow and shrink behind him, taunting Jeffery with a broken reflection of himself. He was corrupt – a horribly overweight cheat – and he had become this way because of David. Yet he hadn’t minded because they had been working together but now he would be alone. His friend was moving up in the ranks and soon Jeffery would have to report to him. He would have to give him a larger share of their profits. In time, David might decide that he no longer needed a partner – and so it was Jeffery’s greed and pride that made him do what he did next.

  The following morning, instead of heading straight to the station as he always did, Jeffery went to Biashara Street, walking rapidly to the electronics store with his head bowed into the collar of his jacket and shoved open the door so forcefully that the bell continued to shriek after him.

  Startled, the man looked up. When he spotted Jeffery, he lifted his hand in a high-five greeting. ‘Mambo.’

  ‘Poa.’ They clapped hands.

  ‘David ni wapi?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve come to talk to you about. We have a problem.’

  ‘What kind of problem?’

  ‘David is going to be announced as the senior officer at Parklands police station,’ Jeffery informed him.

  ‘Good for us, sindiyo? Always helps to know people in high places.’

  ‘He’s going to put you out of business.’ A spew of words beyond his control. ‘
He’s been arranging it for some time now with another sacco to steal away all your buses.’

  ‘He can’t do that.’ The man brushed aside the information but Jeffery detected a flicker of worry behind the indifferent façade.

  ‘He will put all your buses under inspection and when they fail, he is going to impound them and sell them off.’

  ‘He can’t do that,’ the man repeated, looking around his empty shop.

  ‘Who will stop him?’ Jeffery asked.

  ‘Why are you telling me this now if he has been planning it for a while? How do I know you are not his accomplice?’

  ‘Your worries are none of my concern. I’m just informing you – if you don’t do something chap chap, you will be out of business by the end of this month.’

  The two men stared at each other for a long moment. The shopkeeper spoke. ‘I’ll work something out.’

  As he left the shop, Jeffery turned back once more. ‘I don’t want to know what you’re planning. I have no part in this – I simply gave you some information and I want you to remember how I have helped you.’

  Once outside, he fell against the side of the building, pulling the handkerchief from his pocket to dab his perspiring forehead. He was suffocating on the smoggy, industrial air and pushed himself back up onto the main street. He couldn’t imagine what the man might do but his anger had inebriated him, pulled him outside of himself so that he had acted purely on impulse. Two days later, he discovered it was worse than anything he could have imagined.

  Too many police officers crowded in the doorway of the station when he came up the driveway that morning, voices climbing over each other; some men pulled out cigarettes with trembling fingers, forgetting about their rations and lighting one after the other, over and over, the air smelling of wet ash.

  ‘What happened?’ Jeffery pulled the men out of his way, his large stature forcing its way through. ‘Why is everyone standing here like this?’ Stopping dead himself when he reached the front of the crowd.