by Iman Verjee
‘I was waiting for a taxi and this car came by and the driver threw eggs at me!’ one girl complained, holding a dirty tissue to her bleeding forehead. ‘Then I dropped my purse in shock and they grabbed it faster than I could see.’
She couldn’t have been more than seventeen. A poorly fitted halter top, cat-like red nails and lipstick that smudged higher than the natural curve of her lips. Jeffery scoffed. ‘We both know you weren’t there waiting for a taxi. But no matter, I’ll escort you home personally.’ Instead, he had driven her to a motel and taken what he wanted, leaving her no money but with a promise not to arrest her.
He would come home after all of this, haggard and staggering under his many crimes, only to be met with the worst one of all.
Yet something compelled him forward that dark night, as if David was watching, the ringed scars around his neck puckered and ghastly, begging Jeffery to save his wife. And how was it possible to refuse a man after taking his life?
So he grabbed Esther by the collar of her gown and yanked so hard that she fell on top of him, knocking the chair with her heel.
They lay that way for several stunned moments, two fat bellies and a broken chair, with the shouts of matatus down below and the thrumming of instruments up above.
‘Aki, that boy can’t even sing!’ he had shouted, shoving her off him. ‘How is a man supposed to get any sleep in this house?’
Esther stayed pressed to the floor, her skin dampened by drink and sweat, staining her pockmarks darker so that, in the moonlight, she looked truly horrendous.
‘Go back to bed,’ he had commanded.
Several minutes later, she was crawling in beside him and he was disgusted to find her fingers searching between his thighs. He slapped her hand away. ‘Don’t touch me.’
‘Please, Jeffery.’
With his back to her, she was slim and sweet again and he derived a cruel satisfaction from her attempt to apologize. He took her hand and returned it.
When she was finished, he asked, ‘Do you have any family here, Esther?’
‘They all live upcountry.’
‘Perhaps you should go stay with them for a while.’
He heard her fussing with the sheets, was horrified to discover that she was now touching herself. He had stolen away her husband and then failed to do what was required of one.
‘I want to stay here.’ She sounded like a small child.
‘Then you can’t keep acting this way.’
‘I have a cousin living in Nairobi – her name is Betty. I will ask her to visit for a while – it might help me get better.’
‘I’ll go and stay with a friend while she’s here,’ he said, thinking of Marlyn and of how much he missed those dips and curves of her body, the inner softness of her thighs. A woman who knew how to take care of herself.
Esther didn’t reply. He heard her panting, shifting beneath the sheets and it drove him from the bed, down into the living room, refusing to come back up until the next morning.
Two days later, in the lingering afternoon, when the sun tended toward evening, releasing its bright hold on the world, a small lizard climbed the water drain off the east side of the Kohlis’ house. Occasionally, it paused to flick out its tongue, scales glowing green, yellow or purple depending on its position in the light.
The only sounds to be heard were the countless blue-jays, stirring up mini-tornadoes in the trees. Inside, infrequent footsteps could be heard in the kitchen as they moved from stove to sink – cooking, washing and drying all at once. Sometimes, Betty could be there until nine o’clock, depending on what time the Kohlis ate their dinner.
Upstairs, in the room at the head of the corridor, the curtains were drawn. Pooja appeared as nothing more than a slight bump under the covers and the only thing that gave her away was a leg jerking in sleep and dream stirrings.
Suddenly, she bolted upright, fighting against the bedsheets. It took her a few moments to reorganize the world and she clutched her pillow tightly. It was only a nightmare. She glanced at the telephone, wishing there was a way to contact him. She had to laugh at herself, for what would she say if she could? Hello, son, are you alive?
She checked her watch. The darkness in the room made it difficult to tell what time of day it was and when she saw it was closing in on five o’clock, she sprung out of bed. ‘Baap-re-baap! What will happen to dinner?’ Searching for her slippers she rushed downstairs, shouting as she went, ‘Betty! Betty, where are you?’ and came skidding to a halt in the small kitchen, where she found her maid gone.
Just ten minutes before Pooja had woken up, a strange man had knocked on the Kohlis’ gate. Betty had sprinted out to it, not bothering to wash away the soap suds on her hands, pulling it open before the noise could disturb Pooja.
She wished she had checked through the gap first, because the man standing at the low step didn’t look like someone who might visit the Kohlis. He was breathing too heavily and spat out a thick, brown stream of tobacco, rubbing his tongue across his teeth.
‘Ni nini?’ she demanded.
‘Betty?’
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Jeffery.’
‘What do you want?’ She had partially closed the gate so that half of her body was protected.
‘Do you know Esther Kipligat?’ he asked.
She recognized the name from her mother’s side of the family. ‘Small?’ she couldn’t help but ask, curious. ‘Short with funny-funny marks on her face?’ she added, patting her cheeks.
‘Yes, that one.’
‘She’s my cousin. Has something happened?’ Immediately, she regretted admitting ties to this woman. If something had happened to Esther Kipligat, it would now be Betty’s responsibility.
‘Nothing has happened,’ the man grimaced. ‘Yet.’ He stepped forward and took her hand before she could back away. ‘We just want you to visit, that’s all.’
‘Who are you?’ she asked again, this time more urgently.
‘Her husband.’ The word stuck in his throat and he coughed it out. ‘She hasn’t been feeling well – we’ve had much to deal with and I thought it might be good to have her family visit.’
Glancing back at the house, Betty saw Pooja’s bedroom light flicker on. ‘I have work to do.’
‘Will you come?’ She had never seen a man so desperately hopeful as he pressed down harder upon her fingers. ‘I just need you to stay for four days with her. I’m afraid she might do something to herself.’
Betty was certain that Mrs Kohli wouldn’t give her that many days off but she asked him anyway, ‘Where do you live?’
‘Victoria Courts in South C.’
‘I’ll talk to my employer. If she says yes, you’ll see me tomorrow morning.’
‘Thank you.’ The man shook her hands wildly up and down. ‘Asante sana!’
‘I have to go now.’ She pushed the gate closed.
‘Wait.’ He stopped it with his palm, suddenly sounding different, sounding the way he looked – grossly vulgar. As if he no longer noticed her there, the man heaved his way up onto the driveway.
‘Please, you must go. I’ll lose my job if they see you.’
But he ignored her, too busy staring up at the house. Whitewashed walls and a roof made from brick tiles – it was like something out of a children’s fairy tale, creeping out from behind the thick shade of tall trees.
Jeffery had felt powerful before coming here, the top man at the police station, but looking up at the house he was reminded of all the things he still did not have. Of all the people above him, still stomping, still drowning in luxuries bigger than anything he would ever be able to imagine. He stumbled backward as Betty closed the gate on him.
‘I hope to see you tomorrow.’ He regained his composure before hearing the turning click of the lock.
Betty pocketed the key and hurried back to the house, already hearing Mrs Kohli’s shrill voice calling for her. ‘Betty! For heaven’s sake, where are you?’
Betty t
hought that perhaps, since she had not taken a holiday yet, this might be as good a reason as any to do so.
Pooja was waiting in the kitchen, tapping her slippered foot.
‘I’ve been calling you,’ she said sternly.
‘I was just taking the rubbish out.’ Betty wiped her hands nervously across her apron – back and forth, back and forth – leaving clumpy dust streaks behind.
‘It’s almost five thirty and there is nothing prepared for dinner.’
‘I took some prawns out of the freezer, just like you asked me to.’ Betty gestured to the plastic bowl filled with fish in icy water.
‘And you’ve cleaned them? Deveined them like I showed you?’
‘Yes.’ It was a process Betty detested; poking the edge of her pinky into the gray-white flesh, getting a hold of the worm-like vein and carefully maneuvering it out with minimal damage. After she was done, her hands would be littered with fish insides and smelled like something terrible.
‘Good.’ Pooja closed her eyes, scratchy from sleep. Then, as if she had just remembered, she said, ‘Leena is at her friend’s house and Mr Kohli will be out tonight. It’s just Jai and myself.’ She stared down at the bucket of prawns. ‘Since it’s only two of us, we’ll have something simple – sausages and eggs. Do we have baked beans?’
‘I’ll check the cupboard.’ Betty was angry, having spent close to an hour cleaning the prawns. She wouldn’t have minded so much if Mrs Kohli had given even a moment’s notice to the time she had spent but the woman was moving out of the kitchen without a care. She called after her, ‘Mrs Kohli? A cousin of mine has suddenly become unwell and has asked that I go and stay with her for a week.’
Pooja didn’t pause for reflection. ‘I can’t possibly allow you to go for so long. What will happen to the work that needs to be done?’
You’re here, aren’t you? Isn’t this your house?
Betty’s silence was full of so many unsaid things.
‘It’s important I go. She’s all alone.’
Pooja listened with impatience, resentful of being cornered in such a manner. She’s probably lying. They all do. If it’s not malaria, it’s pneumonia – if it’s not pneumonia, it’s an aunt who has died five times already. ‘What’s her name?’ she asked.
‘Esther Kipligat.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘South C.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘She has pneumonia.’ It was the first affliction that came to Esther’s mind and she realized that the man had not told her what was wrong with her cousin.
Pooja cocked her lip. ‘What was her name again?’
‘Esther.’
It may or may not have been the same name as before, but Pooja couldn’t remember. She sighed, disturbed by her dream and the small tickle of anxiety it had left festering. She wanted to lie down again.
‘I’ll allow you two days, but that’s it. I need you back by Friday because we’re having guests over.’
Betty was overcome by a surge of irritation. She wanted to shout. To let the woman know that this was only a job and not her whole life. You don’t own me, she wanted to say.
Instead, a soft and helpless, ‘Thank you.’
31
‘So we meet once again.’
Jai looked up from his books, keeping his fingers tight on the page as it struggled, wanting to rise in the gust of wind blowing through the open cafeteria.
‘Hi,’ he greeted Steven Kimani.
The man slid onto the bench opposite him, his palms pressed down, elbows bent back so that he seemed, at any moment, ready to take off again.
‘How’s your arm? It looked like you hurt yourself badly.’
‘It’s starting to heal.’ Jai rolled up his sleeve, showing the bandage.
‘I wasn’t able to thank you. You saved me from a big injury.’
‘Comrade Power, right?’ Saying it, Jai recalled a small bit of the excitement he had felt, chanting the phrase within a crowd of other voices. It sounded conventional and a little cheesy now, but he held the memory of how powerful it could be.
‘Exactly so,’ Steven nodded. ‘Exactly so.’
Jai’s eyes trailed down to his textbook, not reading but allowing the words to blur together, become ant-like images. Steven watched the students who milled in the open corridors, pausing against classroom doors to discuss weekend plans, to flirt and catch up.
‘What must it be like to live your life so ignorantly?’ Steven wondered out loud. His face turned hard, bitterly disappointed. ‘Most of the students here accept whatever injustice comes their way. They will complain about it for a few days and then they’ll simply accept it. This is how the government is, they say. This is Kenya. What can we do about it?’ Jai looked up and met his questioning gaze. ‘Why does no one believe in fighting for anything any more? We are so satisfied with being lazy.’
‘I can’t understand it either.’ Jai felt a tug of affection for this man, their common frustrations tethering them to one another.
‘You’re different, I can see that. That’s why I’ve come to find you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I want you to join the Student Union, of course. We desperately need more members like you.’ Steven leaned forward, his fingertips hovering at the edge of Jai’s textbook.
Jai had derived great satisfaction in the protest, the kind he had not been able to find in all his hours spent at the library or discussing his new ideas with Michael – and every time he thought about the canister propelling toward Steven, he felt a lightning pulse of adrenaline jerk his blood, making him light-headed.
But Michael had been quiet and reserved ever since that day, having made it known that he didn’t approve of the violence and messiness that had arisen from the riots. He had told Jai, ‘They weren’t there to fight for the students. They were just there to fight.’
Steven broke into his thoughts. ‘You’re hesitating because you are an Indian, is it not? You’re worried people won’t take you seriously. They won’t accept you as one of them.’
‘Many Indo-Kenyans have that problem,’ Jai acknowledged. ‘But it’s never been one of mine.’
‘Because you care. I can see that in you – you care about Kenya, about this university. About us. Kenya ni yetu, sindiyo?’ He rose, thumping his closed fist down on the table thoughtfully. ‘The next meeting is on Friday after classes. Bring your friend if you want.’
After Steven had left, Jai reopened his book. He began to skim the pages but his mind kept wandering to the student protest, to the passion and eagerness in Steven’s voice – flattered that he had been sought out. He contemplated how he would convince Michael to join him and finally snapped the textbook shut in frustration, because every time he caught onto a spark of an idea, he searched within it and came up blank.
On Friday evening, the campus was empty. Most students had returned to their dorms or gone into town to celebrate the weekend and fast-approaching Christmas holidays. Jai walked quickly down the corridor, throwing anxious glances at Michael.
‘Thank you for coming with me.’
‘It’s only because I don’t trust the guy.’
‘You’re just hesitant because of what happened at the protest,’ Jai tried to reassure him. ‘Sometimes it gets violent, even if no one wants it to, Mike.’
‘He was enjoying it,’ Michael insisted. ‘He had been waiting for it. He’s not like us.’
‘Just go in there with an open mind.’
The lecture hall had peeling carpets and was built on a slight slope. Out of the hundred blue chairs packed into the room, only the first two rows on the left side were occupied. Steven was nowhere to be seen.
‘We’re so glad you could make it.’ Ivy came up to greet them and gestured behind her. ‘As you can see, we are always looking for new members.’
‘Where’s Steven?’ Jai asked.
‘He’ll be here soon. Please have a seat.’
/> Ivy was the only woman in the room and the rest of the men cast curious glances toward Jai, whispering in Swahili. It had been his experience that most of them assumed he couldn’t speak the language, hoped that he wouldn’t because it justified their dislike. What is he doing here? Does he think this is the Hilton Hotel? They followed him with their stares as he sat down.
Usually, he would have answered with a funny one-liner in Swahili or a joke, but today he was preoccupied with what Steven had planned and so he said nothing.
Eventually, the discussion turned to the protest.
‘Anthony was arrested,’ one man said.
‘That’s the second time now.’
‘If he’s not careful, one day he might never come back out.’
The first man spoke up. ‘Steven wasn’t happy about it. That’s why he called this meeting.’
Jai didn’t have to wonder too long about what they meant because the space outside was soon filled with fast approaching footsteps and the door swung open.
‘Pole, pole.’ Steven strode to the podium with an armload of papers that he threw onto the table behind him. Ivy was there to prevent them from scattering onto the floor. ‘I was in a meeting with the dean of the university, informing him that we are planning another protest.’
‘What’s this one for now?’ Michael spoke up.
Steven glanced up from the first row of men. ‘Ah, Jai. I see you’ve brought your friend.’
‘What will you be protesting this time?’ Michael stood. ‘Ivy told us that we were protesting about school fees last time because a source told you that the government was planning a fee increment.’
‘That’s correct.’ Steven held both sides of the podium, his fists tightening – ‘such a contrast to Michael’s cool assuredness, Jai’s friend showing no sense of strain in his demeanor as he stood almost lazily with hands slung in his pockets.
‘And yet never once did anyone else hear about it. Only you.’