Who Will Catch Us As We Fall

by Iman Verjee

  Jeffery has time to reflect on such things now. Soon after Betty and Esther left, Marlyn did too, coming to him in tears and a makeup-less face. She had looked more alluring that day than he had ever known her to be, handing him back the very first necklace he had bought her.

  ‘When I wear this, I remember you as you used to be. Perhaps it will give you the same comfort.’

  She had kissed him on the cheek, keeping the trembling tips of her fingers close to his mouth.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ He had held tightly to the flesh of her arms.

  ‘Because you aren’t the man I fell in love with.’

  After she had left, he sat with the jewelry set in his lap, watching his reflection within its shiny, gold-plated surface and found that Marlyn had been right. He was hidden within the grooves of the fake crystals, the chipped and dulled rhinestone setting – a shy young man staring into the silky display window of an Indian clothing store. He had snapped the case shut and put it away, never looking at it again.

  Now he turns up the radio, grateful for its presence because it drowns out the stillness of the house, and listens to the presenter.

  ‘Most Kenyans are still hoping for a peaceful election, a fair one.’

  Since they have never had either, it is not a question of whether it will become violent but rather how violent it will become.

  That is the problem with Kenyans, Jeffery concludes. They are foolish, hopeful dreamers. Trample on a Kenyan with fake promises and flatteries and he will rise up and run straight back, hungry for your boot. Yes, he may for a time protest and speak out, but eventually he will return to his life, nonplussed, consoled by family and friends. What can we do, how much can we say – our lives don’t matter but they are ours, carry on, carry on, this is the way the world has always been.

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  50

  Pooja is waiting in the doorway for her daughter, so anxious that her eyes have become slightly unfocused, her thick plait coming apart.

  ‘Where were you?’ she demands.

  Lost in her musings, Leena steps into the house and snaps, ‘I told you, I was with Kiran.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me. I called her after you left – she didn’t know what I was talking about when I asked if she was meeting you for coffee.’

  ‘You’re checking up on me?’ Leena drops the car keys on the counter and pushes past her mother. She wants to be alone, to wallow in the unexpected disappointments of the day.

  ‘Don’t walk away from me!’ Pooja hurries after her. ‘Tell me where you went.’

  ‘It’s none of your business.’

  For a moment, Pooja forgets which child she is speaking to. There is so much fight in the girl’s words.

  ‘I won’t be angry with you,’ she says in an effort to placate.

  ‘It’s not about you being upset, Ma.’ Leena recalls his last words to her, accusing her of not having her own thoughts and she feels childish and unworthy of him. ‘It’s about you treating me like I’m twelve years old. Leena do this, Leena do that – Leena, you can only go to this university and be friends with these people.’

  The two women look at each other, caught up in the difficult truth of their relationship. Leena is gripping the banister while Pooja clutches her chuni desperately to her chest, wondering where her daughter could have possibly gone to make her come up with such wild nonsense.

  ‘It’s only because I’m concerned for your safety. This city can be dangerous or have you forgotten everything that has happened?’ She grabs Leena’s wrist to stop her from going up the stairs. ‘Have you forgotten what they did to you?’

  The air tightens between them.

  Pooja’s desperation has loosened her tongue and she is instantly regretful. Her carefully constructed world is coming undone and she grapples with its aging strands, anxious to knot it back together, however roughly.

  She watches her daughter struggle with the words but then Leena’s face snaps back into stubborn determinedness.

  ‘Your husband doesn’t listen to you. Your son does whatever he wants and I have been placating you my whole life. I’m sick of it.’ Leena marches up the stairs, energized and speaking rapidly. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, I’m an adult and I can do and think as I please.’

  Slow, deliberate clapping at the entrance of her room. She keeps her eyes fixed on the ceiling, weighed down by gloom and unable to move from her position on the bed.

  ‘My little monkey is all grown up.’ Jai slides into the desk chair, rolling it toward her with a smooth flick of his heels. She flips onto her side, the fluttering in her chest slightly released now that she has him to distract her from the afternoon’s events: the sure, yet airy touch of Michael’s fingertips, the unrelenting directness of his gaze.

  Leena pulls a face. ‘I really upset her.’

  ‘It was the truth and someone had to say it.’

  Alight once more with indignation, she sits up. ‘Even while I was living in London, she was always calling, always checking up on me. She never gave me a chance to grow up on my own.’

  ‘Where is all this coming from?’ Jai asks.

  She wonders if she should tell him, if he has already been told. ‘Michael.’

  The spinning chair stops. Jai’s back is turned to her and softly, as if he has been expecting it, he says, ‘I see.’

  ‘How come you never told me you were still friends with him?’ She grabs hold of the chair, forces it around.

  ‘Ma made me promise not to.’

  ‘Since when do you listen to what she says?’

  Jai thinks back to that day – of how quickly the panic had descended upon his mother. He had never seen her that way before, chin quivering and a bloodless face. It was as if there had been something of utter importance at stake – something that, at his young age, he had been unable to comprehend.

  ‘I was only trying to protect you.’ Jai struggles to understand the rapid burning in his chest – the idea that the two of them have met without him makes his stomach churn. He hasn’t spoken to Michael in over a month, though he has tried calling him many times. He is so used to being the center of Michael and Leena’s relationship that now, having been made inconsequential, he feels perturbed.

  Leena continues talking. ‘I was so embarrassed to be seen with him and when he asked me why, I had nothing to say except that my mother told me to be.’ She hugs a pillow, brings her knees up the way she used to when she was a child with a problem too big to solve. ‘She would never forgive me for this. You heard what she said.’

  Pooja’s careless statement had jolted her but less than she expected. It was the first time the incident had been mentioned since Leena came back from London and it was almost a relief to hear it, a mighty exhalation as the tense energy surrounding her return finally cracked; and, to everyone’s surprise, she didn’t break with it.

  ‘I think you should do what you feel is right.’

  It still pinches, that old adage which has evaded her ever since she was young. Something that comes so easily to Michael and Jai holds a mountain of uncertainty for her.

  Leena picks anxiously at the blanket. ‘There are so many things to consider. It’s not as simple as you make it out to be.’

  She thinks of all the things that being with him will mean. Facing her mother’s tornado-like disapproval, the questions and gossip from the community – subjecting not only herself but her family to suspicious scrutiny.

  Her mind travels back to the way the women at the old compound turned so readily from Mrs Laljee when they caught a hint of her son’s indiscretions, the cruel taunts and ugly, black words locking them away from their neighbors. A nervousness butterflies in her stomach when she thinks of how her friends might view Michael, of the relationships she might jeopardize by taking a chance on him.

  When she speaks again, her voice is far-off and regretful. ‘He looked so disappointed in me.’

  Jai stands. ‘I should go and calm Ma down.’

  She stops
him at the door with a question. ‘Do you think I should see him again?’

  Jai fights his selfish instincts and attempts a reassuring smile. ‘I think he sounds good for you.’

  The sound of his slow footsteps fades out as she drops back down onto the bed, lost in the confused tumble of her thoughts.

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  51

  The two men have returned, lurking beneath his window. They pace the small patch of garden, blackening it with tobacco spit. They are discussing something in low tones, an occasional rising laugh as they lean against the wall, happy to wait.

  It has been a long time since Jeffery has seen them. Following the incident at the Kohlis’ house, there had been a long, drawn-out inquiry and the father and brother of the girl had been frequent visitors to Parklands police station.

  Jeffery can still recall the determined slap-slap of the older man’s leather slippers, his cotton kurta carrying whiffs of sandalwood. His ears still ring with the patient growl of the man’s voice, despite his obvious distress.

  ‘I don’t care about my wife’s jewelry. I just want you to catch the criminals who hurt my daughter.’

  For several weeks, he sat in a plastic chair in the corner of the room, politely shifting back and forth to make space whenever the station became overcrowded, constantly tightening the white shawl around his shoulders. But despite the persistent chill, he had refused to leave, filling in numerous police reports, requesting abstracts for insurance companies – asking and answering countless questions pertaining to that day, a common thread running through all of them: Betty.

  ‘I don’t want to make any hasty accusations,’ the man was careful with his words. ‘But there was no sign of forced entry and she disappeared with them. I haven’t seen her since.’

  With a tightening gut, Jeffery had listened through the closed door of his office. The Kohli men had brought in a photocopy of Betty’s ID and it sat on his desk, atop a pile of other papers, and he had spent many hours trying to decipher her life from it.

  She would be turning thirty later this year and she was not originally from Nairobi. Her traditional Kalenjin name, Cherop, told him that she had been born during the heavy rains and it made sense to him because of how clean she was, stripped and washed of anything ugly. In the poorly taken photograph, he searched for her short-lashed, dark eyes and the gathered mouth, but the blotched ink had made her featureless and it could have been anyone.

  It had been a long time since Jeffery had experienced such a level of guilt, a selfless, all-consuming sorrow that left him constantly listless. Just as Esther had done following David’s death, he found a permanent spot beside the living room window, letting the night air freeze his thoughts. His mind was haunted by the upheaval he had forced into Betty’s life; he had sought out her help and then made her into a thief, an accomplice to the most horrific crime. It was in those still, quiet moments that Jeffery understood why she had run from him, though it did little to soothe the permanent sore just above his breastbone, growing more acute every day.

  He had made certain that the Kohlis’ case remained at the bottom of an endless pile of similar complaints, hiding out in his office, oftentimes calling in sick – terrified and sure that if he met those two Indian men, faced by their impressive size and flashing eyes, he would confess everything.

  Three months of constant anxiety, hounded by those two tobacco-chewing fellows – If we hear you’ve snitched on us – until finally, the station grew quiet and empty once more.

  Jeffery was told, ‘His wife came in yesterday and begged him to stop. She told him that they had to move on, that this investigation would amount to nothing.’ A smirk and chuckle from the reporting officer. ‘She called me a useless kharia.’

  After that, the two goons left him alone and Jeffery’s life had fallen into a peaceful, if imperfect, rhythm: work, a steaming roadside chapati for lunch, two whiskeys in the evening then falling asleep on the uncomfortable, hardback chair.

  But now, those heavy boots scuffing the grass flat, the whistles alerting him to their presence, promises to disrupt it all. He shut his eyes, hoping they might leave.

  ‘Weh! Mzee, let us in.’

  Jeffery presses himself closer to the wall. Go away – can’t you see what damage you have already done?

  ‘Do you want me to tell your neighbors what kind of man you really are?’

  Rushing to the windowsill and looking downward he hisses at them, ‘What do you want this time?’

  ‘We have a business proposition.’ Stained smiles, two bellies quivering with malicious joy, their sounds carrying forever up into an impossibly bright and cloudless afternoon.

  They drain most of the whiskey before beginning. One settles in Jeffery’s chair, the other moves slowly about the plain living room. He kicks the pot of a houseplant and the crisp, dead leaves come loose. He runs a thick finger down the dusty TV screen and holds up his hand, unimpressed.

  ‘I see your women have gone.’

  Jeffery doesn’t answer, staring longingly at the last golden sip of his drink. The man continues.

  ‘As you know, the elections are taking place next week.’

  ‘So what?’ He resents their presence here – the way they have settled in, trampling carelessly over his losses. Unlike Jeffery, they carry with ease the responsibility of what they did, almost proudly, and they are as eerily cheerful as he remembers.

  ‘We have come for your assistance, what else?’

  ‘You gave me your word that you would leave me alone.’

  The man draws his lips back over his teeth. ‘Things have changed unexpectedly. We need to destroy a station.’

  A blink of confusion. ‘My police station?’

  The seated man examines his fingernails, chews on a torn piece of hard skin while looking up at Jeffery. ‘A polling station. The one in Kibera to be exact.’

  At this information, Jeffery’s body shudders involuntarily and he strides over to the table to escape it, taking up his bottle of whiskey. His mind is already shrinking with fear, their words cutting uneasily into his stomach. He holds the alcohol for a long time to his mouth, even after it has all been drained. If I stay still long enough, perhaps they will leave.

  But they watch him lazily, entertained by his erratic behavior, and as he removes the drink from his mouth with a steaming gasp, they laugh. His head swimming, Jeffery mutters, ‘You’re asking me to affect the outcome of a presidential election.’

  They remain mute as he pants absurdly, his tongue burning with alcohol and dread. When Jeffery speaks again, the heat in his mouth turns to bile, sour as vomit. ‘I won’t do it.’

  A threatening creak of his old floors as the black army boots of the standing man approach, the mirth vanished from his face. ‘Perhaps you have forgotten what we are capable of doing to you.’

  ‘Kill me then, I don’t care.’ The words are overdramatic, momentarily thrilling him but then he instantly regrets saying them.

  ‘If you refuse me, I will drag you to that poll station myself and burn you with it.’

  Jeffery begins to whimper. ‘It’s so wrong— I can’t do it.’

  The men are pitiless. They smile inanely as the police officer throws his head violently from side to side. ‘Then find someone else to do it for you, sindiyo?’ The standing man gestures for his companion to rise. ‘Like that boy – what was his name?’

  Remembering the muddy rush of Nairobi River, the twisted glasses. Nick.

  Jeffery tries again. ‘We had an agreement – I got you the money you wanted and you promised never to disturb me again.’

  ‘There are some things that are also beyond our control.’ One of them shrugged, leaning in close to Jeffery. ‘I don’t care how you manage, just get it done, sawa?’

  They pat his back heavily and turn to leave, the door swinging shut on their terrible mockery just as Jeffery collapses forward on his knees, bringing the empty bottle crashing down with him – a thousand mocking shards of his reflection
; broken, unfixable little pieces.

  ‌

  52

  Two days since he last saw her, Leena sends him a text message asking him to meet her at Diamond Plaza. And at lunchtime too – their busiest time of day. She has a point to prove and he chuckles at this stubbornness, thinking that it is the part he likes most about her.

  The shopping center is within walking distance from his apartment and he sets off, wanting to prolong the moment of contemplative happiness. The mall has been aptly nicknamed ‘Little India’ because it is made up of a multitude of small, overstocked and mostly East-Asian shops – tailors and dressmakers, clothing and material retailers and dozens of stores selling Indian knick-knacks. Recently, other stalls have appeared carrying cheaply priced mobile phones, iPods and other counterfeit goods. The scent of resin peppers the air and small copper bells tinkle outside the various temple shops.

  Leena is already seated within the galvanized metal shade of the outdoor food court, sipping on a mug of sugar-cane juice. Squeezing the tip of the straw between her teeth, she waves away a host of waiters, pleading in broken Swahili for them to leave her alone.

  ‘There are a lot of people here today.’ He reaches her, shoos away the insistent waiters and their countless, similar menus. The formica tables are full of businessmen sneaking a quick barbequed lunch, loud families on outings and jostling tourists, cameras hung about their necks and shopping bags at their feet.

  They hold each other’s gaze until she breaks away with a nervous sigh. ‘I wanted to apologize.’

  ‘That’s not why I came.’

  ‘I know but I was wrong and I see that now.’ A deep scarlet rises up her neck, her throat constricting into a twin pair of hard ridges. But when she speaks, she sounds sure. ‘I want to give this a try.’

  ‘It’s not going to be easy,’ he warns, distracted by the light layer of green foam that has stuck to her lip from the juice. He rubs his thumb along it, collecting up the moistness of her mouth. For a moment he thinks he has been too bold but then she smiles.