The four of us grab shamelessly at the pieces of tender flesh, roll them in salt and shove them down our throats, followed by chasers of zesty kachumbari, a cool crunch to freshen the palate. We mop up the juices with balls of ugali, suck on the slabs of fat, lick the grease from our fingers. We belch, groan, feast like vultures – there’s nothing left but bones picked clean.
A few days after our night out, I’m sitting on the patio writing emails on my laptop, when James drags the hose around to water the garden. He waves hello, and I notice he keeps glancing back at me as though there’s something more he wants to say. I close my computer, trying to appear more approachable. He sets the sprinkler up then comes over to the bottom of the steps.
‘Excuse me, Kirsten,’ he says, looking at the ground, nervous, ‘you know I told you about my daughter, Rebecca? She is the eldest girl.’
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘she’s the one who’s nearly finished school, right?’
‘Yes. I was wondering … Can you teach her how to use the computer?’ He points at my laptop.
‘Oh – yes, of course!’ I say, not sure what else I was expecting.
‘Because, you know, she will be studying to be a teacher soon. And I think it would be very good if she could learn computers. She will be visiting me next week. Maybe you can teach her then?’
‘Of course, James. I’d be happy to. Just let me know when she’s here. As soon as I’m not on duty with the bwana, I’ll come around to see you.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ James says. ‘Asante sana, god bless!’ He’s far too grateful for such a small ask.
But the day Rebecca comes to stay, Alice is out, Millicent is on duty with Walt, and Marguerite is making life hard for everyone. At the very last minute she’s decided to go for lunch with a friend instead of out to do the groceries, which she had absolutely insisted that morning was what she wanted to do because she just loves doing those sorts of things, don’t you know? So now the shopping falls to me, and we’re running low on a few crucial supplies – things Khamisi needs to make dinner, and Walt’s blackcurrant juice ‘wine’ – and if I don’t go to pick them up there’s guaranteed to be a litany of tedious dramas tonight.
But I’m loath to break my promise to James. When he pokes his head through the kitchen door to let me know Rebecca is ready and waiting, I decide the Smyths’ pantry can stay bare a little longer; fuck it, I’ll deal with that bullshit later, and I sneak out through the side door.
‘Karibu! Karibu!’ James says, showing me into a room about ten square metres in size. It’s the first time I’ve been inside the staff quarters, and if he didn’t seem so proud to welcome me into his space I’d find it hard to disguise my shock. It’s essentially a cement cube, windows on either side letting in a breeze and the sunlight. The only furniture is a bed, and a platform of pallet planks propped up on boxes and bricks, topped with a sheet of plywood to form a table in the corner. A radio and a phone charger are plugged into a powerboard in the corner, and a jiko – a small charcoal burner – sits against the wall near the door.
Rebecca is seventeen: a young woman born to illiterate parents in a village with no electricity, about to graduate into the world of the twenty-first century. She’s sitting quietly in an olive-green T-shirt with sparkly rhinestones that spell out ‘Viva Nicole’, her hands neatly folded in her lap, her feet resting gently together. Her voice is so soft I can barely hear it, causing me to slow my own movements, to lower my own voice.
William, James’s six-year-old son, is also visiting. He’s been practising his writing – scraps of paper scribbled with colourful alphabet and numbers are strewn across the table – but now he’s hiding behind a sheet draped down from the ceiling as a screen, playing peekaboo then muffling giggles as he burrows into James’s chest. They’re going to watch the computer lesson, so James makes William promise to be quiet. They sit on the edge of the bed; Rebecca and I sit at the table on plastic crates.
I set my laptop down between us, and flip open the screen. Rebecca stares at it as the display lights up.
‘Have you ever used a computer before?’ I ask. She shakes her head. ‘Have you ever seen one before?’
‘Just one time at school,’ she says, and I wonder where to begin.
‘Okay,’ I say, opening up Microsoft Word, ‘let’s start with typing.’
The blank white page appears, a thin black vertical line blinking at us from the upper left corner. In this room, my laptop is no longer a seamless extension of myself. I see it in a new light: a glowing machine waiting patiently for a human to tell it what to say, and not minding at all what that might be.
‘See this flashing line?’ I say. ‘That’s called the “cursor”. It shows whereabouts on the page you are, where the words will go.’
I guide her hand to the keyboard, press her index finger onto the ‘T’.
Ttttttttttttttttttttttt
‘That’s it. Then you press this button – “enter” – to start a new line. Yup, exactly. Now, have a go. Type whatever you like.’
At careful five-second intervals, each new letter appears, nudging the cursor further across the screen.
rebecca
She hits enter and types her name again. Faster this time, though, her fingers growing more confident with every stroke.
rebecca
She types the names of her brothers and sisters:
william
emma
joshua
mary
daniel
And at the end of this list of the most important people in her world, the cursor just blinks back, impassive, as if to say, ‘Yes, what else? A shopping list? A manifesto? It makes no difference to me.’ I remember doing the very same thing when I was a kid: Dad would take me into the office with him on a Saturday morning and let me play on one of the typewriters. I’d just tap out my name, over and over again. When that got old, I would type a list – ‘Mum’, ‘Dad’, and the names of my sisters and then everyone else I knew, stamped in echoes of fading ink all over the back of scrap paper. There’s something primal in that, I think: the fact that the self and family are the first things we feel an urge to express for the record.
I show Rebecca how to delete text. How to use the shift key and caps lock for capitals, how to use the arrow keys to move the cursor around the page. Then I explain how the trackpad works, how she can move the pointer on the screen by tracing her finger across it, how pressing down on the pad will select items. She can use it to make the text bigger or smaller. Make it underlined or bold or blue. Make it flow from the right-hand side of the page instead of the left.
All of it she picks up just like that, like it’s obvious, and maybe it is. I hope that my astonishment is less about underestimating her than it is due to not appreciating how intuitive computer and software design must be, to allow someone who’s never so much as seen a word processor before to learn in the space of five minutes how to type a letter.
She starts with a message for Emma, her youngest sister:
30/11/2010
TO EMMA
Despite being young you should start working hard early in advance as for the early bird catches the worm.
From Rebecca
Then there’s Joshua:
30/11/2010
TO JOSHUA
I want to wish you all the best in your studies and remember that HARD WORK PAYS.
From Rebecca
And Mary:
30/11/2010
TO MARY
It’s only ONE YEAR remaining 4 you in primary school so pull up your socks to get better grades to go to a good school.
From Rebecca
Just as she starts on her message to Daniel, Walt appears at the door. We all startle, but he comes in peace. ‘Errr, um, hello,’ he says, smiling. ‘How d’you do? I wonder if you can help me? I think I’ve got myself a bit lost …’ He looks around at this unfamiliar place a few dozen feet from his very own bedroom; he must think he’s wandered onto one of the native reserves
of the 1950s, and that I’m a European missionary. ‘And I seem to have picked up a stray mutt along the way.’ Shujaa – the brown mongrel – is with him, wagging her tail against his legs.
‘Yes, of course, Walt,’ I say, ‘it’s me, Kirsten – it’s okay, we’re here at your house, in Nairobi. You’re in the staff quarters. This is James’s room.’
‘Hello, bwana,’ James says, standing up as William ducks to hide behind him.
‘Oh – yes – James, of course. Jambo.’ Walt’s forehead creases with relief as he recognises his gardener, though Rebecca and I are still very much strangers.
‘This is Rebecca, Walt,’ I say.
‘She is my eldest daughter, bwana,’ says James.
‘Oh, yes, hello there,’ says Walt, to which Rebecca gently replies, eyes downcast, ‘Hello, sir.’
William peeks around from behind the edge of the cotton sheet. He seems frightened of the dog and of the bwana, but Walt lights up at the sight of the child’s face, at the big brown eyes, so bashful. ‘And who’s that?’ he says, in the gentlest tone I’ve ever heard him use, ‘we’ve got a young chap back there, have we?’
James drags William out to shake the bwana’s hand, and now we’re all of us acquainted. I know I should probably take Walt back to the house, that Millicent must be looking for him, but I want to see this unlikely moment play out a little longer. Part of the Smyths’ arrangement with their staff is that in addition to paying them domestic salaries at twice the mandated minimum wage (still only about five hundred Kenyan shillings a day, or five Australian dollars), they pay for their children’s education, too: school fees, uniforms and textbooks. They – like so many others – hand the money over but keep their distance, white guilt assuaged by the feeling they’ve done their bit – that it’s up to the Africans to get on with it now. And I wonder if, on some level, Walt realises that the young Kenyans he’s just been introduced to are the beneficiaries of his paternalism.
‘I was just showing Rebecca how to use the computer, Walt,’ I say. ‘She’s nearly finished school, and she’s going to be a teacher.’
‘Oh, well done you!’ he says to her.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she replies, sounding proud.
Walt steps closer to the table, squinting as he stares curiously into the backlit future of the laptop screen. ‘They do send you people over with the most marvellous contraptions these days, don’t they?’ he says, poking the liquid crystal display. James drags a chair in from Esther’s room next door while I secure a nod from Rebecca that it’s okay for Walt to watch her type her letters.
‘She’s writing to one of her brothers,’ I tell Walt, as we watch size 36 font fill up the screen.
30/11/2010
TO DANIEL
I wish you all the best in your studies and just know that you are ALWAYS in my prayers.
From Rebecca
Walt thinks Rebecca’s letters are great. He reads each one aloud as she types it, and he asks over and over again how the computer works, whether you can get paper out of the machine, how much the jolly thing costs. But eventually the spell is broken.
30/11/2010
TO MUM
Thank you for your care and protection since I was small I will cherish you forever.
MAY GOD BLESS YOU.
From Rebecca
This one makes Walt think of his own dear old mother, whom he really must go and see, she’s down in Hampshire, an hour or so’s drive, if he can remember where he left the car, let alone the keys – he pats down his pockets; what the devil has he done with his car keys? – and now he’s frowning and fretting and I have to take him back to the house.
I spend the next two hours with Millicent trying to calm him down, leaving Rebecca to finish writing letters to her family, imploring her siblings to work and study hard, and thanking her parents for all that they’ve done.
Late that night, once everyone’s in bed asleep, I sneak into Marguerite’s study to use the printer. I make two copies of each of Rebecca’s letters and run them over to James’s room in the morning so that she can pass on her messages in hard copy.
8
THE RUSE
Marguerite is going away for a few days. She announces it over dinner. ‘Cousin George from England has decided to come for a visit.’
‘Who?’ says Walt.
‘Cousin George. The one you don’t like.’ She tells him matter-of-factly, then whispers across the table at me and Alice, ‘Walt thinks George is a queer. Tell you what – I think he might be too. But I do love queers! They’re such fun.’
‘Oh, George,’ says Walt vaguely. I don’t think he remembers Maybe-Gay George at all.
‘Oooooh, I know!’ squeals Marguerite, a mouthful of roast chicken falling onto her plate. ‘We’ll spend a few days in Watamu. It’s just lovely there – he’ll love that.’
Watamu is a small, white-sand beach town about a hundred kilometres north of the main coastal city of Mombasa. It’s where Kenyans go for a coastal holiday – to avoid the European tourists who flood Mombasa and ‘don’t know any better’.
‘What a splendid idea,’ Marguerite says. ‘Oh, I am clever.’
I’m not sure how spontaneous this decision really is, though. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something about the way she’s brought it all up that feels … contrived.
‘You girls will be alright with Walt, won’t you? Millicent can stay while I’m gone so all three of you are always around. Pass the gravy would you, darling?’
Two days later, she’s gone, and I’m on night shift.
It’s half-past one when the bed alarm wakes me. I check the monitor to see Walt is up pacing. I go through to his room to try to settle him – he’s furious.
‘I don’t have five fucking pounds to rub together!’ he says. Everyone’s trying to screw him out of his dough. ‘And I won’t bloody hesitate to physically exterminate the culprits if that’s what it takes!’
‘Okay, Walt, it’s okay. I think there’s just been a mix-up, that’s all.’
‘What do you mean, a “mix-up”?’ He holds his wallet out to me. ‘Not a single fucking pound in there!’
‘Well, the good thing is you don’t need to worry about having pounds – we’re in Kenya, remember?’ I say, in the cheeriest tone I can muster at this time of night. ‘We use shillings here. And look, you’ve got plenty of those – hundreds!’ I show him the notes. ‘You’re loaded! You could take me out to dinner every night of the week with all this.’
Walt stares at me like I’m mad. ‘Keen-ya?’ he says. ‘Keeny-ya?’
‘Yes, Walt. In your house in Nairobi.’
‘No, we’re not.’
‘Yes, we are.’
‘No, we’re not.’
‘Yeah, Walt, look – we are!’
‘Why must you talk such nonsense. We are in England, you silly girl!’
And so begins a one and a half hour tour of his own house. I show him the labels on the Kenyan products in his bathroom, the cans of Tusker beer in the pantry, the Masai beaded doilies under the tray on his dresser. No dice.
We go through to the living room. I turn all the lights on and walk him around the place, trying to help him find his bearings. ‘See, Walt – look around. This is Kenya. Don’t you recognise it? We’re in your house in Nairobi.’
Walt circles the room, takes it all in, shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Well, well, well.’ He chuckles bitterly. ‘This has been very cleverly done indeed, I’ll grant you that much.’
I’ve no idea what he means. ‘What has?’
‘I suppose it cost an awful lot to ship all this stuff out here.’ He waves his finger at his furniture, the pictures on the wall.
Holy shit. He thinks I’ve recreated his Kenyan house somewhere in England.
I try to point out the more structural features of the house – things that can’t be packed into a shipping container.
‘No, Walt, look! Look at the fireplace, the skylight, the archway –’
‘I’m no fool, I know just where I am!’
How do I prove this? Do we have to go outside? I open the curtains; the garden is lit blue by the beams of a full moon. ‘Okay, Walt – here, come and have a look.’ We’ve both got our faces pressed against the glass, foggy patches pulsing with our breath. ‘There, see? That’s your garden. See the bird feeder? And the trees where the monkeys play in the morning? And that’s James’s wheelbarrow. This is not England.’
He sees. He screws his eyes up and shakes his head, then looks and sees his Kenyan garden again. He’s starting to come around.
I spy a newspaper on the couch. ‘And here, see? This is today’s newspaper. The Daily Nation. Look at all these pictures of fat politicians! Where else could you be?’
Walt flips through the pages, slowly becoming less sure of himself. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘when the sun comes up, I’ll be sure to take a long walk through “Nairobi”.’
‘Absolutely, Walt. I promise we can do that in the morning. For now, how about we go back to bed, though? It’s three o’clock in the morning!’
He follows me reluctantly down the hallway, just as Millicent emerges from a night-time toilet trip. I shoot her a look to let her know everything’s under control.
‘Nighty-night,’ she says, making a quick dash for her room to minimise the distraction.
‘And who the bloody hell is that old woman?’ Walt asks me, as I tuck him into bed and arrange his pillows just so. ‘I keep seeing her everywhere.’
‘She’s an old friend of the family,’ I say, astounded he’s able to remember that, but not his own home. ‘We can sort it out tomorrow.’
The next day, it’s as though the night before didn’t even happen. We spend the morning at home, reading the Kenyan papers, watching the Kenyan birds. Until he becomes restless, saying he feels like he’s in prison, and I decide an excursion would be good for his head.
Peter drives us down to the Club for lunch.
It’s just Walt and me, sitting at a table in the main dining room, surrounded by silverware and roast trolleys.
I Built No Schools in Kenya Page 12