Who Will Catch Us As We Fall

by Iman Verjee

‘We have to talk.’

  ‘I have nothing to say to you.’ Michael retreats into the building, about to close the door.

  In a voice that has not been used in a very long time, Jeffery says, ‘She’s pretty, is she not, the Kohli girl?’

  For the first time since he has known him, Jeffery catches fear on the boy’s face. He grins, forces himself into the cool, cement shade of the building. ‘Perhaps we should go upstairs.’

  Pooja is keeping a silent vigil over her daughter’s comings and goings. She has trained her sharp ears to block out any sounds that are not the clip of high heels, the stuttered creak of a door hinge – Leena’s noises as she navigates the darkness of the house, occasionally stumbling into a standing vase or tripping up the stairs. At these times, Pooja feels very far away from her daughter, as if a foreign house guest is tiptoeing about her home, politely secretive and preferring to keep out of everyone’s way.

  The exact knowledge of her daughter’s whereabouts is beginning to accumulate in Pooja’s mind, though she is not yet ready to face it fully. It has provided her comfort to believe her daughter’s fibs about coffees with Kiran and late-afternoon shopping errands that turn into dinner and drinks with some old high-school friends – and Pooja has been careful not to ask too many questions, satisfied with the practiced information her daughter feeds her. But after what she heard at the temple today, the truth refuses to leave her alone, ticking mercilessly at the center of all her thoughts.

  A woman had cornered her in the langar earlier, while Pooja had been busy with a pot simmering with eggplant curry, steaming her skin in the aroma of bay leaves and black seeds.

  ‘Is it true?’ A whisper almost lost in all the commotion.

  ‘Is what true?’ Pooja had been busy frowning down at her cooking, upset because the vegetable was too soft, falling apart at even the most experienced touch of her wooden spoon.

  ‘What everyone is saying about Leena.’

  The broken eggplant forgotten, Pooja turned to the woman sharply, her breath caught at the base of her thin throat. ‘Who is saying what?’

  The woman appeared uncomfortable but simultaneously pleased with the power she now had. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  ‘Just spit it out!’ It came out as a desperate yelp, which Pooja gathered back quickly and rearranged into a more concerned murmur. ‘With things the way they are at the moment, we need to keep a close eye on our children, na?’

  Nodding her consent, the woman leaned in so as to make sure no one overheard. ‘Someone saw her at Diamond Plaza a couple of weekends ago with a boy.’

  A distressed ringing began between Pooja’s ears. ‘So what? It was probably one of her old school friends.’

  ‘He was an African.’

  The information was a quick bullet, halting everything around her, even the blood in her veins. She was certain the sound had carried above the steel clang of pots, whispering into people’s ears, and she felt the pressure of their snide disapproval. It was so heavy that she dropped the spoon into the curry and mumbled, ‘I just remembered, I have to pick up Raj’s blood-pressure medication from the chemist today…’ and she hurried out, her chuni wrapped protectively over her face, tears stinging her cheeks.

  Now she sits in the sloping darkness of the kitchen and waits for her daughter to creep in. She hears the cling of the car keys hitting the countertop and asks, ‘Where were you?’

  Leena jumps back with a surprised yelp. ‘You scared me, Ma.’ She looks flushed and pleased, her eyes jumping with a smile.

  Pooja finds her happiness disrespectful and her voice turns hard. She sits facing the window, away from her daughter. ‘I want to know where you went and with whom. No lies this time.’

  ‘I told you, I met up with some friends.’

  After playing along with the farce for so many days now, Pooja is tired. ‘It was Michael, wasn’t it?’ She speaks the name quickly – almost wanting her daughter not to hear it.

  But to her dismay, Leena’s shoulders collapse downward in relief. Grabbing her mother’s hand, she says, ‘I wanted to tell you, Ma. I really did.’

  A barking laugh springs from Pooja’s throat as she yanks her hand away, twisting her chuni around her palm. The objects in the kitchen begin to vibrate around her – infected by some manic energy – and try as she might, she cannot get them to quieten down.

  ‘Do you know someone saw you together at Diamond Plaza? Do you know that we have become the joke of the temple?’ She doesn’t realize she is shouting, her voice lost in her own panic. ‘You will not see that boy again.’

  ‘I don’t have to listen to this,’ Leena says, but her mother’s fingers pinch her elbow tightly, keeping her rooted in place.

  ‘This is not just about you sneaking around any more – it concerns all of us. It’s about our family’s reputation.’

  ‘Tomorrow people will be talking about someone else.’

  ‘People will not forget this,’ her mother warns. ‘And what happens when you learn that I am right? That no matter how much you like this boy now, such a relationship is not practical here. It won’t last.’ Pooja takes a shuddering breath. ‘This thing between you will inevitably fall apart and you won’t be the only one who has to deal with the consequences.’

  Leena shrinks against the darkness and when she speaks, her voice is hollow. ‘I think I’m falling in love with him.’

  Pooja cannot bear to look at her daughter. Instead, she fixes her eyes on the cold, half-moon traveling in and out of the night clouds. She is soothed by its hard exterior, its unwavering shape.

  ‘Feelings are like visitors, Leena,’ she says, drawing her chuni around her shoulders. ‘They never stay with us for long.’

  The next time Michael opens his door, it is to a different Kohli.

  He moves behind Jai to close the door, deliberating his next words. There is a specific reason why he has called his friend over but there are more important things to discuss first.

  ‘How come you never told me Leena was back?’

  Jai’s head gives a slight shake of regret. ‘I planned on it. I wanted to tell her about you too but when she got back from London, she was different. All jumpy and fragile – terrified of this place.’

  ‘I would never hurt her.’

  After a moment, Jai speaks. ‘Ever since we were children, she always believed that I was the one who was protecting her, keeping her safe.’ He thinks back to those moments when Michael had stood in front of his sister, guarding her body with his own; the way he had always so readily leaped to her defense, whether she had been right or wrong. ‘But we both know it wasn’t me.’

  ‘I love her.’

  ‘I’ve known that for a very long time.’

  In a rush of gratitude, Michael slumps down on the couch beside Jai. Once again, his stomach grows heavy with fear when he thinks of the policeman’s visit. He cannot understand how or when things became so complicated, only that they did. He thinks of the cop striding out of the front door, pleased with himself and with what he had threatened Michael into.

  ‘I need your help,’ he says and tells his friend everything.

  There is something about the hush of that night, the unusual calmness, which takes them back to the first wall they painted on. Their earlier graffiti has long been covered up but they can still recall the fast excitement, the fear and determination as they worked – their breath twin fogs in the night.

  It is a Wednesday evening and there is hardly a footfall around them so they take their time, lost in their own reflections, interrupted only by the occasional whisper. The villagers in Tana River Delta remain heavy in the forefront of their minds, a stinging reminder of how easy it is to dismiss lives in some parts of Kenya, treating people as pawns for political gain – training them to become systematic enemies so that neighbors raided each other’s houses, teachers killed their students, the youth turned on their elders.

  After it is completed, the two of them step back to obser
ve their work. Forty-seven hands joined together – a representation of the forty-seven tribes of Kenya – fingers intertwined. Within the unbreakable oval of their union, Michael has written:

  PEACE IS ONLY POSSIBLE WHEN WE COME TOGETHER

  Jai asks his friend, ‘Do you think this made a difference? All those hurried nights, you going to jail – do you think it was worth it?’

  Michael stands with his hands in his pockets and his reply is as composed as always. ‘Whether one person or a hundred see it, we did our part. That’s what matters.’

  As they make their way to Michael’s apartment, the stars blinking at their backs and a smell that lingers like an ache in Jai’s chest – smoke and dust, the honey-sweetness of flowers – he thinks of how this is his favorite kind of evening. It has an endless quality about it, the kind that allows you to know yourself completely, even for a short time.

  They are on the main road, surrounded by matatu noises and the leering whistles of touts. A cyclist speeds by, narrowly missing them and ringing his small bell in irritation, echoing far into the obscure darkness. Tired street vendors pack up, taking a momentary rest for a steaming plate of githeri, which they buy off the old woman who sits by the roadside with her jiko and small radio. They talk together briefly before the men drop their dirty dishes in a bucket of soapy water and leave for the night. A young woman leans into a car window; she is smiling a painted smile and adjusting the shortness of her dress. Her eyes dart about before she disappears behind the tinted windows.

  It stuns him because life in Nairobi is so raw, a series of short and poignant moments that, standing on the curb and watching life pass, acknowledge him like an old friend. Jai finds it impossible that anyone could ever wish to be any other place but here.

  ‌

  55

  The city is restless and, tired of waiting, rouses early on voting day. Before dawn, eager Kenyans blow whistles and trumpet-like vuvuzelas, calling for people to rise from the warmth of their beds. Raj wakes his son at five o’clock, the stars waning figures in a bluing sky.

  ‘I want to get a headstart.’

  They leave Pooja and Leena at home, slow breathing bumps beneath bedsheets, and drive to the closest polling station in Muthaiga. By the time they arrive, a pink chill has hardened the air and the wind disturbs Jai’s unbrushed hair.

  ‘Looks like everyone had the same idea as us,’ he says.

  The voting is taking place in the suburb’s main police station, temporarily transformed into a frenzied market of people. The absence of signs and officials means that they wait in shifty, confused lines – bickering and shoving, eager to cast their ballots. The two Kohli men walk the entire vicinity before spotting the main desk, hiding within a narrow, cool corridor. While Raj shows their IDs and Voter Cards, Jai returns to the waiting crowd.

  ‘The main desk is this way,’ he calls out. ‘You need a number first.’

  There are six different stations, separated into alphabetical order according to surnames. Yet still they must wait four hours before dropping their ballots into the color-coded containers. Breath held, folded paper forced into too-thin slits of the boxes, and when Jai exits the dark room he is met with dazzling, late-morning sunlight.

  People are growing impatient, disturbed by the heat, their voices rising as they begin to argue with officials and each other. Somewhere, a cheeky voter is caught trying to skip the line, causing a chaotic disruption as people turn on him.

  ‘I’ve been waiting here since early morning – are you the future president, you think you are so special?’

  ‘These Kikuyu think they can get away with anything.’

  The man is jostled, kicked and tugged by the collar to the end of the queue where, reprimanded, he stands baffled and wearing a shamefaced grin.

  An elderly woman wrapped in a shawl lightly touches the man’s arm and says in a voice loud enough for Jai to overhear, ‘It’s okay to wait because we are making history. If you want to do something good, you must be patient.’

  These are the words Jai carries home with him and that dissipate slightly the nervous fear that springs up whenever he thinks of the long day still ahead, the predicament that Michael and ultimately his sister have found themselves in – the unsettling clench of not knowing what is yet to come.

  The phone vibrates noisily, skipping over the table with a flashing blue screen. The name appears in bold, black letters and Michael turns the mobile over so that he can no longer see the display.

  The apartment is empty. He has sent Jackie and his aunt to stay with his mother in Eldoret. ‘Things are uncertain here. No one is sure what will happen,’ he had told them.

  ‘What about you, cuzo?’ Jackie had been a wide-eyed child, clinging to his wrists. ‘Aren’t you going to join us?’

  ‘I’ll see you very soon,’ he had promised.

  With the glare of the late-afternoon sun in his eyes, Michael moves slowly through the rooms of his home. He notices the things he has forgotten to look at: the permanent indentation of the living-room carpet from where his mattress used to lie; the bathroom door with its constantly squeaking, loose hinge; the wine stain on the couch where his aunt, after a working night, had fallen asleep with a glass between her fingers.

  He puts his hand to the rough upholstery, cracking now with age. It is also where Leena had trusted him with her secret: where twelve long years had stretched out and disappeared between them, rising in a new and much more urgent way.

  These are the stories of his life, neglected and left to fade, and he wishes he could take them with him. Misunderstood, they will be nothing but a nuisance to the next occupants, things to be fixed, because only he can see their magic.

  He is pulled from these musings by a loud rapping – quick and hard knocks on the door – and instinctively, he presses closer to the wall. He checks his watch. It is just past four thirty; the policeman is early. Then he hears her voice and his muscles weaken with relief.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he starts, pulling open the door, but the expression on her face stops him. It is stiff and annoyed and she stalks into the apartment with hurried words.

  ‘It’s such a disaster – my mother has found out about us.’ Leena throws herself onto the couch. ‘What am I going to do?’

  Her panic is abrasive, setting his already racing heart pounding even faster. He closes the door and goes to her.

  ‘At least now we don’t have to hide.’ Then Michael remembers that he has not yet told her about the policeman’s visit. Perhaps now he will be able to convince her to go with him – a leaping, painful hope in his throat turning to stone as soon as she speaks.

  ‘This is the worst thing that could have happened. Everyone at the temple is laughing and talking about me. I told you, I didn’t want to have to explain this to anyone.’

  She is so caught up in her own worries that she doesn’t even notice the emptiness of her surroundings. Gone are the bed, the sufurias, the portable drawers of vegetables – even the jiko was packed up in a cardboard box and taken to Eldoret. Only the couch and threadbare carpet remain.

  ‘Just tell me what you want to do.’ For the first time, Michael is angry with her – feels a pang of irritation at her childish selfishness.

  She asks, ‘What if there comes a point when we can’t cheat ourselves about how different we are from each other?’

  ‘The only difference between you and me is that I’m not constantly questioning this relationship.’ He is cold; he thinks of all the things he has agreed to do and how oblivious she remains – caught up in silly anxieties that hold no real importance.

  ‘It’s not so black and white, Mike,’ she protests.

  ‘And it never will be. You just have to figure out if this is worth the risk.’

  Having dispelled some of her anxiety, she finally recognizes that he is not his usual, patient self. His eyes keep wandering up to the clock, his fingers fidgeting over his stubble; he looks like he hasn’t shaved or slept in a few days.<
br />
  ‘Is everything okay?’ she asks, feeling the inklings of alarm.

  He says, ‘Actually, it’s getting quite late.’

  ‘My parents are expecting me home for dinner.’ She wants to reassure him of her feelings but something holds her back. As she glances around, she notices the absence of all the luxuries she is used to, seeing the frayed couch and the old-fashioned floorboards, and is reminded of her own home, so spacious and full, tucked into an expensive, modern suburb, and she feels the truth of her mother’s words pinching her stomach.

  When her eyes fall back on him, he gives her a long and hard stare. ‘Then you should leave.’

  As Leena walks by him, the sunlight a tangle of topaz in her hair, he wonders if this will be the last time he sees her. He is tempted to stop and tell her what is happening but before he can, she is reaching up to kiss his rigid cheek.

  ‘You mean a lot to me but there are other people I have to think of as well. Please just be patient.’

  His chest deflates sharply, disappointment gnawing at him as she walks away; he is angry at how easily she can do it.

  After she leaves, it takes him a long time to get dressed and he does so sitting on the edge of the couch, his legs heavy. He has to skip some of the button holes because of the tremor in his fingers; his khaki trousers snag and he pulls so hard that the seam tears. When he pauses, he notices that the shaking in his hands has become worse, has traveled up to his chest and shoulders.

  The phone rings again. This time he picks up without hesitation.

  Jeffery slips his mobile phone back into his breast pocket, holds up his empty glass and shakes it at the bartender.

  ‘Ingine,’ he calls out and then, because he is feeling slightly unanchored, promises himself that it will be the last one. It is almost five o’clock – in less than two hours, it will be dark. The streets outside remain empty. Most people have either stayed at home or shut their businesses early. ‘Turn on the television!’ he shouts in the direction of the bar, wishing that it was Marlyn here to serve him. But she had left for Eldoret that morning, promising him that she would not be returning to Nairobi, and the way she had looked at him, so neutrally, as if he no longer mattered to her, Jeffery believed it.