by M G Vassanji
One night, the three of us sitting outside in the darkness lit only by the lamp behind me, Nuru asked me about myself. I answered that I was born in Mtwara, where I went to school first and later in Dar es Salaam. I had gone to Nairobi and then abroad for university and found a job in Canada. I was married, but my wife and I now had separate interests. She nodded, a barely perceptible smile on her lips. I did not want to seem a foreigner, but she knew that I had returned after many years. Some of my ways were foreign—I ate with a spoon, and had once absently asked for a fork and knife to eat the chicken with. I wondered how much Joseph had told her about me.
My wife, Zohra, had recently taken to wearing tight hijabs, with long dresses to cover her large shape; with a renewed faith, she was now dedicated to the service of our Islamic community in Toronto. She was on its governing council. I had met her when I was a student of mechanical engineering in Nairobi, and she a modern, vivacious, and very beautiful student of architecture. To get her to go out with me, when others had failed, and moreover to the famous nightclub called the Sombrero, had been a triumph. Now the Book had called her. I had two daughters, one a lawyer who specialized in Sharia, and the other an assistant professor of art history. I had retired prematurely from my business of manufacturing plastic gewgaws; it was the only company that offered me a decent job when I entered Canada, and I took it over when the previous owner left. Like my wife, I became weary of the world around me; unlike her, I had turned into an avowed atheist. I had no interest in our community politics, or discussing medicines and stocks, or joining chat groups to bash America and bewail the woes of modern Islam. Two old friends had died, one from a heart attack and the other from cancer. Zohra had thought it a good idea when I mused to her about following up on my idea of going back to Tanzania and travelling, seeing it again and visiting places I had heard about as a child but had never actually set eyes upon. I don’t think she cared where I was at the present moment. She was with God.
One afternoon as I sat outside on the veranda, the rickshaw driver’s girlfriend, Halima, came walking over to me. I knew that she visited Nuru some afternoons.
“I want you to teach me,” she said to me after the usual greetings.
“Teach you what?”
“English and math…and other things.”
“Have you been to school?”
“In Mtwara.”
“What happened? Why aren’t you over there, studying?”
She sniffed, turning away. Money, I presumed, or her parents did not wish her to study. Nuru had advised her to see me. I agreed to teach her and told her to come to me for a lesson whenever she visited Nuru.
“Don’t let Shomari know.”
“He doesn’t like you to study?”
“He wants me to marry him and bear children. But I have ambitions.”
* * *
—
It rained three straight days, but lightly, with intermittent periods of brilliant sunshine. The air was warm and earthy, the wet leaves gleamed full and merrily in the hazy light, the ripeness all around accentuated by a faint whiff of rotting garbage and smoke, and I became sick. It was malaria, which I had feared ever since arriving in the country, and immediately recognized from my childhood. I had never taken seriously ill in my adult years and felt miserable, shivering and aching in my bed, my only companion the radio. No one to comfort me or cajole me into putting a bit of food into my mouth, no one to put a cool hand on my forehead, pull the blanket over my body. I wondered if I should go to Mtwara to a hospital; but that would be admitting defeat. I had bought some weekly malaria pills in Masasi and recalled Joseph’s advice to take them daily if I was struck. Aware of nightmarish side effects, nevertheless I began swallowing them. On the third day, almost starving, I asked for soup and bread. Nuru made a potato soup and Shomari was dispatched to bring bread from the town. From then on, realizing perhaps that I was only human, Nuru began bringing me my soup and stale bread. Once she checked up on me at night, saying I had been shouting in my sleep. Yes, because a fiend was roasting me in Hell for having once eaten a ham sandwich. After a week, I was over the worst, lying cool on sweat-drenched sheets that were then changed.
One night shortly thereafter she came to me in my room and sat down. She put her hand on my forehead, how good that felt, made the heart heavy with want, then told me in a tender voice to go to sleep. As I turned away, she slipped into the vacant space beside me.
The intimacy we developed remained tentative and exploratory, at times clumsy, but gradually over the days a restrained familiarity developed, a guarded mutual affection that was never articulated in words. I was still the stranger. My other involvement was with Halima; we had contacted a bookstore in the capital, and she purchased a few books that I helped her to select, sending money by phone. When they arrived, she was elated. She kept them at the guest house.
No letter came for me and my phone was dead. Any thought of that other world which I had abandoned filled me with dread. But I had to go to Mtwara to withdraw money. I returned by the same bus.
* * *
—
One morning I was walking to town as usual. It had been forty-three days since I stepped off the Masasi-Mtwara bus, a reminder I found somewhat disconcerting. The exact number of my days stayed current in my mind, as though tracked by an internal calendar; soon enough, I expected, and hoped, it would fade into obscurity. My thoughts at such moments usually lingered on some details of my current life, a recent incident in the clash of our different ways; she hated peas, took four teaspoons of sugar in her tea. She was casual about sex but revolted by a kiss. A kiss became a tease. My finicky personal habits, acquired in North America, I was slowly shedding; I was learning to eat with my hands again. Sitting outside on the porch at night, we told each other riddles; a recent one was: a tall old man with a golden beard and a green coat. Answer: an ear of corn. I might think of Halima: how to teach her a simple novel like Things Fall Apart when she hadn’t the faintest notion about colonialism? That period was like a fairy story to her. I had more success with differential calculus. Recently I had advised her to read newspapers, to ask the bus drivers to bring past issues for her from Mtwara. The first batch had arrived.
And that almost proved my demise. Suddenly in the midst of my thoughts I heard the throbbing of Shomari’s auto close to my ears and in an instant it had knocked me to the ground and sputtered away. The instinctive cry I had uttered faded into the landscape as he glanced back and our eyes met. A pain gripped my side. Shocked beyond words, I struggled to get up, dusted myself, spat out the sand from my mouth. I was almost halfway to town and could have turned around but defiantly hobbled onward and completed my routine. I had my tea and maandazi, bought three ears of corn and a packet of sugar, and started back towards home—as the guest house had now become for me. Shomari drove over and casually stopped to offer me a ride. My pain was so intense that I was grateful to accept. But we didn’t speak.
Nuru told me, attending to my bruises, that Shomari and Halima had quarrelled. Apparently I was having too much influence on her. She had talked back at him, and he was hurt. He thought he was losing her. She had already revealed her ambition to go abroad. But he continued to bring her to the guest house in the afternoons, and each time gave me a sullen eye. Halima never asked me about the attack.
* * *
—
Guests arrived, three officials on their quarterly tour from the district office in Mtwara. A large white Land Cruiser could now be seen raising dust on the local roads; at night it stood like an oversized sleeping beast outside the guest house. They were a boisterous lot, dressed in what in the political seventies used to be called the Nyerere suit, a collarless short-sleeved tunic of polyester and matching pants. Their familiarity with the house and its two owners was disconcerting to me, now that I was beginning to think of it as home. One of them was called Juma, with a chubby face and satiated gover
nment employee’s paunch; he wore white or beige, clean and pressed, obviously a badge of distinction. Nuru’s silent blushes at some of his comments spoke much to me. On their first evening, the five of us sat for our meal out on the porch. She had fried the ocean fish they had brought, which we had with spinach and maize meal, Juma providing, in addition, Indian mango pickle in a bottle. It became apparent from the men’s bluster that they were up to nothing more than checking trading licences and looking for the odd illegal Mozambican, while taking bribes where they could. After two bottles of beer each, they staggered off to their rooms. That night I asked Nuru about Juma. She did not reply and we did not speak further.
The next morning before they left for town, Juma hovered in the front office, leaning over the counter, chatting up Nuru. When he offered her a wad of notes, she refused them, saying she would give him his bill later. He turned and eyed me with a sardonic smile. “It’s dollars now, is it,” he said to her. The three men returned for lunch, and later when Juma attempted to grab her casually by the hips, she smacked his arm with, “Mind your manners.” Huna adabu. More words were exchanged. That night after our meal, chicken and red beans with rice, he watched her come into my room and made a cutting remark about the Asian who could pay her more. Things were getting nasty.
I asked Nuru how long she had known Juma. Had she accepted money from him? For being nice to him. Came the retort, “Do you think it’s easy to feed yourself here?” That blush, and the flaming eyes. I said I was sorry.
The next morning, angry words were exchanged in the reception room as I began to set off on my jaunt. Juma sounded harsh and threatening, and Nuru screamed her retorts at him in a voice I had not heard from her before. They both stopped abruptly when they saw me come out, and he pushed past me as he strode off to his room. I muttered a brief goodbye and left.
Halfway to town, at almost exactly the same dip in the road where Shomari had jostled me, I heard the metallic whine of the Land Cruiser approaching behind. I took a step further inside, slowed down, and kept walking. But the vehicle came to a dead stop, I saw two men jump out, Juma in the lead waving a machete. And I ran, shouting empty protests, hoping perhaps to be heard and rescued. Juma’s curses were barely comprehensible, but they were all, it seemed to me, about my being an Indian. It occurred to me that my running only got his blood up as he panted after me and swore. I stopped then to face him and we sized each other up, his face contorted in a fury, his machete arm lowered for the moment. I said, “What have I done to you? We should talk.” That was comical, and I knew it even as I said it. He raised his machete and I turned and ran. He was younger, and despite his paunch he was fast. But just then Shomari’s auto came roaring down the road. We stopped and stared at it as it slowed down into free and glided towards me. Shomari stopped beside me, said, “Ingia,” get in, and with me inside he turned his vehicle around and drove me back to the house. “They would have killed you,” he said simply as I stepped out and thanked him. Wouldn’t he rather have seen me dead?
That evening and the next day the three men came and went, speaking only among themselves, and they ate in town. I discussed with Nuru the likelihood of their reporting me to immigration authorities in Mtwara. She said it was certain that they would do so. They would return with police. Perhaps I should simply leave, I said. “If you want to,” was her reply. “You know I don’t want to go,” I told her, and her look melted.
The following morning the men were not around, and the Land Cruiser was gone. When I asked her about them, she informed me that they had left, and I could walk to town without fear. I set off, only partly relieved, debating with myself what tomorrow might bring. The image of the attack still vivid in my mind, I could not help turning around for a quick glance behind me. The sight of Shomari’s auto would have been a relief. As I approached that fateful dip in the road, I became aware of an unusual smell in the air, which I discerned as burning rubber and smoke. Farther along, the smell very strong now, I saw the terrible sight of a burnt-out vehicle spewing up thin black wisps. The Land Cruiser. It had run off the road, partly into the undergrowth. There were four men at the site, including Shomari, his auto close by. An old green Land Rover was parked some yards ahead. One of the fellows was a burly man in a torn T-shirt to whom I had given handouts of spare change a few times. I stared open-mouthed, my eyes teary from the smoke. Shomari came and told me to return to the guest house, the three charred bodies were being removed from the vehicle now. He offered me a ride back and I took it.
I reported the incident to Nuru and she replied calmly, “It was written. From Allah we come and to Him we return.” We exchanged a look. “No one to hassle you now,” she added.
That afternoon, after my lunch I took my walk into town. I noticed that the Land Cruiser had been overturned into the bushes and the road was clear. It even looked swept. In town, people had gathered outside the local mosque, witnessing a sheikh saying prayers over the three bodies, now wrapped in white cotton and ready to be transported to Mtwara. Shomari took me back, for it was very hot. When we passed the overturned vehicle, I asked him what might have happened to it. He said the engine probably overheated. But it was wise not to talk about it, the police would come from Mtwara to investigate. I should keep myself away then.
Halima announced shortly after that she was getting married to Shomari.
A SHOOTING IN DON MILLS
“Mrs. Lalji…”
“Yes?”
She recalled seeing him in the lobby when she took the elevator up. He did not seem threatening, a tall man with a soft, ruddy face and a modest paunch under his open suit jacket. Thin strands of grey hair had been combed neatly over his bald head. What did he want? Who was he? She could guess.
“May I come in, Mrs. Lalji?”
“What do you want?”
“I am from the police.” He showed her his card. Kevin Leary, Inspector. Community Outreach.
She stepped back inside. “Come in.”
He followed her to the living room and sat down on the upright chair next to the television. Yes, he said, he would have tea, and she brought him a cup of sweet Indian chai. He took a sip and liked it.
She stood staring at him for a moment, then went and sat down on the long sofa opposite him.
“I don’t know if you heard, Mrs. Lalji…that Officer White—”
“I heard. He was shot and killed some days ago outside the mall. In the parking lot. I was in Vancouver then.”
He was silent, then came out with, “Yes.”
“You came to tell me this?”
“Yes, Mrs. Lalji. Based on the fact that in October 1976 you lodged a complaint against Officer White.”
She took a deep breath. She said, “He was an animal. There was another policeman with him too that day. Granger. But that was a long time ago. And your police did nothing. Why have you come now?”
“Just a goodwill call. We are sorry we could do nothing about the incident. There were no witnesses.”
Sorry his head, she thought. They are all one.
“I myself was not here at the time. I was in North Bay.”
“Have they found the killers?” she asked.
“Not yet. There is one suspect. He was seen running from the scene, and we believe we know him. A young Asian-looking man named Idris—Idris Pal. He hangs around the kebab place sometimes.”
He eyed her as he said this. She did not respond.
“A tall man with dreadlocks.” He demonstrated with both hands. “You may have seen him at the mall.”
“Yes, it’s possible.”
“Well. We thought we’d tell you. Officer White is dead.”
“And the other one is still around.”
His head jerked and he gave her a quick stare.
“I’m sorry to have brought it all back to you. We just thought you would want to know—for your closure.”
Y
ou didn’t bring it back, she thought. It’s been with me all the time. You did nothing when you could, you stuck together. I don’t know what closure is, but it is I who have closed the matter. Only half of it. And I waited a long time.
* * *
—
It was she who had hankered to get away to Canada. Asians were leaving Tanzania in droves during those difficult days of socialism. There were people from Dar already in Vancouver, Toronto, Calgary, sending back wonderful reports, unbelievable photos. Everything they had imagined Europe and America to be. There were good jobs to be found, people had bought cars within a few months and lived in beautiful high-rise apartments overlooking green valleys and hills. There was safety, opportunity, abundance in Canada. In Dar they had to queue up for bread early every morning and pay a bribe to get any little thing done officially. They had not seen such days before. Why not us, she told Kamru, her brother. We’re no better or worse than those who’ve gone? The two of us will go first, and then we’ll send for Ma and Bapa. He agreed, though he was reluctant at first. The parents acquiesced readily. Our lives are over, you two look after yourselves.
She was a shorthand-typist at the office of the lawyer A.K. Mawani, and word was around that they needed typists in Canada. She and Kamru both applied to immigrate. Kamru was rejected, but Gulnar was accepted. They decided she would go, and Kamru would follow, even if she had to sponsor him from there. The door had opened for them. She left for Toronto. It was the first time she had flown in an airplane. To London via Cairo, then on to Toronto in May.
Canada was wonderful and yet not always quite so wonderful. It was clean and beautiful, orderly, and abundant. The air-conditioned supermarket took your breath away every time you entered, a lit-up funfair of packed shelves and heaps of foods, some of which you had never heard of before. She put on weight despite being careful. But the faces on the streets were different, the sounds alien; the clean air blew with a certain chill; she was not used to such open spaces. And there was the humiliation of not knowing how to do or name things, of not speaking the right way, of being intimidated and called names, of just being afraid. There were nice people too, of course—who taught you how to use the bus and subway and readily gave you directions. Her first job was part-time at a Dominion supermarket in her neighbourhood, stacking supplies every Monday and Friday before opening. A big comedown from the Dar lawyer’s office, though she didn’t mind. She was earning money. Dollars. A few weeks later she applied for and was offered a job downtown as a typist at a legal office. She was set.