by M G Vassanji
There were shouts from the streets, the sounds of bare feet thumping on the Tarmac, and inside Kulsum was standing in the middle of the room looking intently towards the window as if from that distance she could see down from it. In one hand the tasbih was speeding through her fingers. Sona and I, peering through the curtains, saw the looting of shops in progress.
Men and women—no children—running up from the sidestreets empty-handed, running back arms full of goods—ready-made shirts and singlets, shoes, harmonicas, radios—joyfully recalling the name of the bountiful Japanese ship (from which they had got nothing): “Sakura Maru! Sakura Maru!” What they could not carry they dropped on the road, and they returned, not to pick things up but to go to the source of the fountain itself, a newly broken-into store. Some undressed right in the shops, and ran home half buttoned up carrying armfuls. A man speeding along with a brand new, shiny red Italian-made accordion stopped in his tracks, wavered for a moment, then threw down his heavy burden with disdain on the sidewalk, picked up some shirts and singlets instead and sped on. The accordion I had lusted after, every time I passed the show window of African Bazaar, was picked up by the next runner. In our area it was the large, expensive shops with lighted display windows that enticed passersby and were looted. Iron grilles had not come in then and the glass came out easily with the throw of a rock and a charge.
It was a jubilee that lasted a few hours. None of the runners on the street had thought of climbing the stairs to the flats above. Early in the afternoon the army mutiny, as it had been, was over and soldiers descended on the sidestreets, searching African houses, looking for looters and loot. Faces were slapped, dwellings ransacked, dirty-looking hastily worn clothes were torn off to reveal milk-white singlets, crisp new shirts, starched drill shorts.
In the evening the radio promised that quiet reigned in the country once more. Kambona came over the radio. “This is your Minister of Foreign Affairs,” he said. “The Tanganyika Rifles and the police are still loyal to the Government.” But where was Julius? No mention was made of the President. An uneasy, quiet night followed.
The next morning the sun poured in as usual, through the east window, over the half curtains. Buses thundered on Kichwele, and government workers rode, pedalled and walked to their offices. At seven the servant knocked on the door and was uneasily let in. There was no bread and he was sent to Moonlight Restaurant to fetch maandazi. The radio in the restaurant crooned in Arabic to an absent Mustafa. Yet people watched from their windows for signs of disturbances. Soon the lecher Kakar arrived on his bicycle and opened shop. The bread cart followed, pulled by one man and pushed by another, and was converged upon on all four sides by boys and servants. Then Parmar cycled in to his tailoring shop, and all the other stores in the area opened too.
A crowd stood in a semicircle outside African Bazaar, watching. The fashionable store, the size of four normal shops, was empty of goods and the owners were clearing the debris of glass, cardboard and straw. A European-looking mannequin torso lay on its side with its neck twisted. It was the store with the most enticements to offer on our block, calling the passerby to come and watch and desire.
That day we stayed away from school. It was a day buzzing with gossip, news and tall tales. Servants hailed each other to tell stories of how the day had passed in Magomeni, Buguruni, Temeke. The Bohoras had put up a most spirited performance in their block of shops downtown, the men defending the area with clubs and sticks, shouting “Ao, eh mader chod, ao,” come you bastards, to the mob that was beginning to form. An Arab refugee from Zanzibar shot down two policemen and two civilians and his whole family except a boy were massacred. Mrs. Daya came down from her apartment with the juiciest story. A certain reputable Downtown family had ventured out in the afternoon in their car and been stopped and searched by the soldiers. Mrs. Daya told the story in a pious, injured tone, as if to imply: The thought of it! “Any guns here?” the soldiers had asked, feeling the breasts of the women. Mrs. Daya and Kulsum held their sides, giggling silently.
On her way back Mrs. Daya repeated the story to Roshan Mattress, who guffawed. “Serve them right! Didn’t the askaris feel anywhere else?” she sniffed and set about her work, efficient as always, pulling kapok and sisal mattresses into place, leaving a path to walk between them. Later that day Inspector Kumar came. The President’s whereabouts were still a mystery. There were of course many opinions, announced with great certainty and authority by government types and rebuffed with equal certainty and greater joy and merriment, not to mention contempt, by the fundis and servants at Kichwele and Viongozi. Eti, our Julius, Mwalimu himself, hidden in an old State House German-built tunnel, sitting there like an old woman—like his mother!—shivering under a blanket! Perish the thought! What foolhardiness. Swam half-way to Zanzibar and picked up by a British manuari? Possible, but not likely. It was all a plan, a great plan, Mwalimu wanted to see who were his real supporters and who would betray him. Edward put a twist to this theory. He had seen someone, someone who looked very much like our Julius but dressed up like a pauper, and Mwalimu must therefore be going around in disguise assessing the attitudes of the populace. Like Haroun al Rashid in Baghdad. When Kumar was on his way Edward boldly walked up to his car and enquired about the President. But the Inspector just smiled and smacked his cane lightly against his thigh. Keep guessing!
The story that the ladies of a certain house had had their breasts squeezed spread among the women, causing irrepressible fits of giggles. They wiped their eyes, held their sides, and put their hands to their heaving chests, while at the same time managing to look shameful. Early in the afternoon Zera Auntie, on her way to the medical store, came by to enquire after everybody’s continuing good health and parted with: “Did you hear? What a shame—” She showed her tongue to indicate the shame. Kulsum looked blank. “You know, so-and-so,” said Zera Auntie. “They have their clothing store in the town—” “Yes, yes, I heard,” Kulsum said, “the soldiers stopped them.” “Yes, and they felt them here—” said my aunt squeezing her own breast and sticking out her tongue to indicate the shame of it all. “Hai hai.”
At four in the afternoon the rumour spread that a disturbance had begun in an African sector. Kakar closed shop and sped away on his bicycle. Parmar lingered awhile before following suit. The rest of the shops then closed and the servants were sent away. Nothing happened. Mehroon and Begum returned from work some time later and once more we heard the story of the squeezed breasts.
That night we crowded round the radio in silence and heard Baba wa Taifa, father of the nation, our Julius assuring us that the trouble was over, exhorting us to remain calm, to act grownup, not to spread rumours and panic.
The following day he toured the city, visiting the looted stores, reassuring traders, exchanging banter. Followed by a barefooted crowd, surrounded by policemen, himself in sandals, bush shirt, loose trousers and swinging his stick, he came to African Bazaar. He did the entire block on foot and paused outside the mattress shop to inquire in jest, “Mama, did they leave your mattresses?” At that point Roshan Mattress did something she had never done before, she revealed a side to her character that would dominate her activities from now on. Taking a deep breath, one arm to her waist, she raised the other to her mouth and let out a tremendous vigegele—beh-beh-beh-beh … and the African women in khanga and buibui and frocks all followed suit in a jubilant ululation. A loud, female expression of happiness rang out, the crowd tightened in excitement behind the policemen, and the President strode on, beaming.
Three days later, early in the morning, eight helicopters and a handful of Royal Marines succeeded in disarming and capturing the First Battalion of the Tanganyika Rifles, which had mutinied. The former KAR had proved a joke at the hands of its mentors. “What did I tell you, sister?” said an elated Hassan Uncle dismounting from his bicycle. “The British have not left us!”
The mutineers were sent to their villages, or awaited trial in prison; tall Nigerian soldiers in green fatig
ues arrived to keep peace and paraded the streets with their black and white flag (they can’t eat ugali, said a rumour); the Royal Marines departed, feeling rather sad about leaving the stray dogs they had adopted; and Awadh, young Awadh …
Staring at the camera, a bandage round his head, in new shorts and shirt, clinging to a black Red Cross nurse, clutching a toy car with one hand … sole survivor of the Arab family blasted away during the mutiny. That look at the camera … and the heads crowded round the newspaper photo in front of Kulsum at the counter … to stare and stare and drink in that look that no one could describe but stirred you to your depths … so that you will never forget young Awadh … What will your future be, young Awadh … will you grow up angry and vengeful like those Arabs on the island and do something brash and useless and terrible with your life—as did your father who took shots at the mutinous soldiers? Above all, how will you forget, Awadh?
The patriotic fires kindled in Roshan’s ample bosom took her towards organizing. She became a leader in the Women’s Movement. When the women of the capital congregated at Party Headquarters for a march in support of the President, Roshan took Mrs. Daya with her. They marched, they ran, they sang, with nuns, teachers, prostitutes, shopkeepers and politicians; they lost their shoes and they got blisters. The next day Mrs. Daya was bedridden with sores and pains and vowed never again to go with Roshan. But Roshan was her same old self, pushing and pulling piles of mattresses, bouncy, jocular and sour at once.
The men and boys of Kichwele and Viongozi marched behind Nuru Poni, Alu’s father. We wore kitenge and khanga shirts, we took with us the President’s picture, we carried banners proclaiming our loyalty and we sang and danced. And when we reached State House, Nuru Poni made a speech in Swahili that did us proud.
“Chou-en-Lai! Nyerere! Chou-en-Lai! Nyerere! Chou-en-Lai! Nyerere!” We chanted, lined up in school uniforms on Uhuru—formerly Kichwele—Street, this time outside Kakar’s, opposite our own Fancy Store, to welcome the Chinese premier. Altogether now, boys and girls, holding Chinese flags, Chou-en-Lai! Nyerere! You and I! Nyerere! You and I! Nyerere!
Beware this Chinese, some said. Remember when Nehru went to China? “Hind-Chin bhai bhai.” We are brothers. And when Chou-en-Lai showed Nehru a map of the world, lo! there was a little bit of India written over by Chinese characters!
Africa is ripe for revolution, said Mr. Chou-en-Lai, denouncing the imperialist running dogs.
The four seas are seething
clouds lowering and waters raging
the five continents are rocked by
storm and thunders!
The Kenya tabloids fretted, American ambassadors fretted. Keep the cold war out of Africa! Why Tanganyika turns East.
The red and the blacks. And so on. The tabloids said that Nyerere had even started wearing Chinese-style shirts—but Kulsum could have told them that her father sold precisely the same style of shirts, made of Marikani, not Teteron, in Membeni. Two Americans were expelled. Documents, involving the Western countries, were discovered, with plans to overthrow the country. Cheap forgeries, said the Americans. A book, purportedly printed in Albania, calling for the overthrow of the three big East African countries, was distributed. Cheap forgeries, said the Chinese.
East African federation had become more and more remote, the pictures of the three Presidents with the caption “Who will be the boss?” irrelevant, and a few months before Nyerere had announced a federation with Zanzibar. We must do what we can. “How Nyerere solved his Cuban crisis,” wrote an American reporter. A competition was announced for naming the new union, and sixteen people pocketed 12.50 shillings for suggesting the new name. Tanzania.
At a Diwali celebration, the Prime Minister of Zanzibar said that Asians must intermarry with Africans. To which Hassan Uncle retorted in the privacy of our store, “What did I tell you?” And a letter in the Herald, written by a Mr. White, unfortunate name under the circumstances, said, “Do wildebeest and zebra mate? Do giraffes mate with elephants, or lions with leopards?” and concluded with a quotation from Kipling. To this, our tireless letter-writer A. A. Raghavji, a.k.a. Nuru Poni, replied: “When wildebeest and zebra, or any of the other pairs mentioned by Mr. White mate, nothing happens, but when people of two races combine, beautiful children are born with the virtues of both races and the prejudices of neither, one must hope.” Eh, did you hear this, Kulsum Bai, he is willing to give away his daughters, so far has he gone.
Was Mzee Pipa, counting out the minutes, hours and days with his little ten-cent packets of spice in Pipa Store, as evil as he was made out to be? That must remain a mystery, as the secret of Alzira and her family, which they would take with them to Goa …
It was all planned, said those who considered themselves knowledgeable—among whom one must count Mrs. Daya and Roshan (who was biased, of course), and Nuru Poni’s wife, and Edward bin Hadith. It all started with the arrival of Mzee Pipa’s niece Nasim from Mafia. A drab girl, this Nasim, with big legs, wearing beltless, loose dresses with large flower patterns or checks, and ribbons of an awful colour. She stayed not with the Pipas (who could stay with Mrs. Pipa?) but as a boarder a little way off on Kichwele. Not educated beyond Standard Eight, she wanted to be a typist. But her English was Standard Eight, and a Mafia Standard Eight at that.
With Africanization under way in the civil service, Roshan’s husband Nurdin Samji followed the path taken by many Asians and retired, with the prospect of a pension from the British government. Nurdin Samji was not a very welcome helper at his wife’s mattress shop, where the handsome Inspector Kumar could pop in any time. He had to be sent on many errands, and he also had the sense to keep away for extended periods. He would visit the neighbouring shops and stay for chats, shopkeepers entertained him and he them. He did not go to visit his brothers Downtown for an obvious reason: Do something, you milksop, they would tell him. He was often sighted on the sidewalks, a good-natured man who did not know what to do with himself or his time.
“Why don’t you teach English to my niece?” Mzee Pipa asked him one day. “And you could also teach her how a European office is run. Give her some of your know-how, your experience.”
Why not, thought Nurdin. A good deed, to be stored away somewhere in the karma account books of the gods.
“I will pay you,” added Mzee Pipa.
“We’ll see,” said Nurdin.
He drove the Mafia lass to typing class and back and gave tuitions at Mzee Pipa’s, upstairs. And lo! (al hamdulillah! said Edward) Beauty and the Beast in reverse. A bad taste in dress can be changed; the hairstyle of a hag, even that can be changed! Big legs, but look, they are proportionate with the body—and look what you’ve got: a young beauty not plumper than Roshan. Nurdin walked proudly beside her, and he started to give her driving lessons. Many a romance in Dar has reached its proper maturity in driving lessons. It is not from anyone that a girl will consent to take driving lessons. Driving lessons are taken in lonely places, early in the morning or on Sundays.
Kichwele and Viongozi held its breath: no-one had any sympathy for Roshan Mattress, but how would the she-devil, the tigress, respond?
“Hmph,” said Roshan Mattress. “Big deal. I know precisely what that lalu is capable of: a little holding hands, driving around, talking under street lights, but nothing else, he doesn’t have it in him: then the girl will find a boy, a proper marad who can satisfy her, and my Nurdin will come running back to his big Roshan.”
Inspector Kumar still visited.
But Roshan miscalculated. On two counts. Inspector Kumar’s post was also Africanized. That was, after all, part of the demands of the mutineers and many of the politicians now wringing hands in exile in London. Inspector Kumar, a foreign national, had expected this fate. He had a family. One afternoon he came for the last time. He parked his car outside, with his wife and two children inside, went into the mattress shop, and emerged after two minutes. Roshan Mattress followed. Hands on her haunches, she watched his car drive away and stood watchin
g long after it had disappeared.
Nurdin and Nasim’s romance blossomed, and it went public. Within a few weeks Roshan Mattress closed her shop and went to live in Upanga. Nurdin married his second wife and lived in Downtown, and Roshan, still his first wife, concentrated on the Women’s Movement. Occasionally she would lecture the Asian women, explaining the Government’s policy in some detail. From time to time, after major processions, her photograph would appear in the papers.
THESE DREAMS, READY MADE AND GONE.
The most memorable part of the wedding is the farewell and last ceremony. You remember it when she comes back after the first fight, and you remember it when she bears the first child. You remember it when he begins to beat her, and you remember it when her hips grow bigger, her face looks plainer, her manner preoccupied. And the parting that once was a mere formality is a deep schism, permanent and hopelessly cruel. And you realize, one day, why there were tears then even though it rained flowers; why every step of the happy way was paved with good-luck portents and disguised prayers.
On the afternoon following the official wedding, the registration and blessings by the mukhi, the afternoon after the reception and the first night spent at the Sea View, the couple are escorted by the bridesmaid and the best man to Kichwele and Viongozi, where they slowly make their way up to the roof terrace of Habib Mansion, laid with mats. Mehroon enters like a goddess, a blushing queen looking elevated and larger than life—in her wedding white, a dress made by Alzira of the most expensive brocade available in town (the groom paying), in high-heeled shoes and with her long hair set in a style known as the birdnest. As they enter the doorway they step with a little excessive vigour, just in case, on auspicious clay saucers, the camera clicking away, and walk over to the sofa which is the centre piece of the terrace. After lunch, the groom’s youngest sister appears and takes hold of Mehroon’s dress and doesn’t let go until she is paid a sum approved by her family. Sona then hides the groom’s shoes and doesn’t return them until he is paid a sum approved by his family, in other words, Begum. Patience is wearing thin by now, the bridesmaid and the best man get up, and Mrs. Daya takes the cue and shakes Mehroon’s hand and gives her a big hug, sobbing. Then Mehroon’s friends appear to wish her goodbye, and the other neighbours, Alzira, Roshan, even Mrs. Pipa. Finally comes the turn of the family, beginning with Ji Bai, who’s won her way in but just. And then Sona and I go to shake Mehroon’s hand, shyly, because we’ve never shaken hands with her before, this cousin-sister who has bathed us and spanked us and taken us to school. Then weeping Begum comes and gives Mehroon a big hug, followed by Kulsum. Tough Kulsum, without a tear in her eye, shakes Mehroon’s hand, slips some money in her hand … at this point she is supposed to tell Mehroon not to return except with her husband, she is no longer a daughter but a wife with a home of her own, but then she breaks down. Mrs. Daya pulls her back, the bride and groom leave, the bride throwing rice behind her, to the left and right, her abandoned rights in the home of her parents, and without looking back she descends the three flights of stairs to be greeted by a bevy of chattering, excited African girls murmuring, admiringly as young girls do on such occasions, “Mhindi ame owawa,” the Asian girl has wedded, and passes through them to the waiting car whose trunk is now filled with her belongings, the doors slam shut and the car drives over two small coconuts for more good luck and takes the bride away.