The Outsider(S) (12 page)

I asked in English, ‘Do you have a job for me?’ The old man looked at me curiously and said something that I didn’t quite understand. It turned out that he was Turkish. Turkish is a different type of white people. They are just as white as the other white people, but Karata said that they are poorer and that if I am serious, I should go to a real German shop. Anyway, the old man signaled to a young girl, who immediately brought a bowl of rice and dumped it in front of me. He must have thought that I was begging for food! Nevertheless, the food was delicious, and after that, I just left. How could I burden such a kind soul with yet another request for a job?

My “teammates”, or at least most of them, have all gotten some jobs. Karata says that they are not the kind of jobs for me. At this point, I really wish I could change places with them.

Karata said that any man who sees my face will have a nightmare for a very long time… bah! So I think the jobs they got have something to do with men or some man.

But I will soldier on, my friend. I have not lost hope.

That
is
the
end
of
my
letter
today.

Philister
Taa

Ramona

Germany, 2010, the Purse

I
smile to myself. I am a thief. I have finally achieved something. OK,
achievement
is probably the wrong term to use for stealing a purse. I wonder what the owner of this purse is doing or thinking.

I never set out to steal. It just happened. That’s right. It just happened. I wonder if that is the excuse all seasoned thieves use. “It just happened!” Even to my ears it sounds ridiculous. Things don’t just happen. They are done. So I start retracing the events that led me here. I took the self-help books back to the
Stadtbibliothek
41
and pow — it appeared. OK, that is not completely true. It was in a bag. A yellow handbag in a closet that wasn’t completely closed. I think the owner forgot to close it or maybe just didn’t care enough. At first, I thought to turn it in to the librarian, and then I checked inside and saw the gray purse. It was heavy, and I assumed that this was because it was full of money. So I took it. No one was watching, and the thrill of doing something risky completely overtook me. My whole way from the library to the bus stop was an emotional roller coaster. I made sure not to meet anyone’s gaze. I was terrified and excited at the same time. The thrill lasted a while before regret set in. So now I am sitting alone on this bench. But I feel sad. Really sad. It’s almost like I am very lonely, which I am. But I am not admitting it to anyone. Not to myself and certainly not to…

“Hello!” I say cheerfully, standing to greet Roswitha. Roswitha and I belong to the same club. It is a club for chasing devils. That’s right. It was started by a woman from Singapore. She said there are devils all over Germany. She doesn’t see them, but she feels their presence all the time. I don’t know if I believe her, though. But I joined, especially because it’s free. So we meet once every two weeks to chase devils.

“Hello!” she responds and looks genuinely pleased to see me. She has tears in her eyes, which instantly make me feel better. I like seeing sad people or just plain miserable people.

“What is it?” I ask in a concerned voice. And I am concerned. It’s not that I’m just pretending. As a matter of fact, I instantly push all my problems to the back of my mind.

“My son,” she starts, and now I become completely concerned.

“What has happened to your son?”

The tears in her eyes have turned into a full-blown breakdown. She is crying uncontrollably. I take her in my arms and we sit down together on the bench. Whatever it is must be quite bad.

After what seems like ages, she stops crying. I give her the tissue that was in my bag. I had used it before, but it doesn’t matter. I think it still serves the purpose.

“Roswitha, whatever it is, just calm down and tell me. I am sure we can find a solution together.” That sentence sounds very wise and almost too academic for me. And I know why: it is the favorite sentence of my fantasy therapist. I imagine him telling it to me, and I have convinced myself that I hate it.

“He has gone to the
Krippe
,”
42
she says amid sobs.

“OK.” I expect that she is going to finish the sentence with something to the effect that something catastrophic has happened to him at the
Krippe
.

“He is alone there,” she continues, and despite myself, the temptation to kick her butt completely engulfs me.

“You mean with the caregivers and the other children?” I cannot only hear the sarcasm in my voice but feel it as well.

“Yes,” she answers.

“Is it his first day there today?” I ask in my characteristic kind way.

“No, it’s the third week. The familiarity phase is now over and I have to leave him there,” she adds and bursts into a fresh bout of tears.

I don’t know why a kid going to the
Krippe
is reason to walk around wailing. I have a strong feeling that the woman has mental issues, but I just watch her sympathetically. I wonder what the real reason for her tantrum is. I know that her tantrum is just a tip of the iceberg.

I hold her hand and we sit there silently. My mind is back to the self-help books I have been reading.
Visualize
your
future
 
.
 
.
 
.
visualize
the
kind
of
life
you
want
. I think of the interview at Lufthansa and wonder if I have not taken that advice a bit too literally. I sat and visualized myself in an airplane as a stewardess. But more importantly, I saw myself at a destination. A warm, beautiful destination with friendly people. I look at Roswitha, and realize that among the things I want for my new life, mentally stable friends rank quite high.

Irmtraut

Kenya, 2010,
a Night Out in Nairobi

E
xpectations. They are the biggest cause of human misery. The period of time after I landed in Kenya had so far contained some of the happiest moments of my life. I hadn’t expected to survive the flight. I had not only arrived safely but was also beginning to actually love my life.

I generally had either no expectations at all or very low expectations. The result was that any small achievement made me smile. Mr. Makokha dropping me at the office safely made me smile. Pouring myself a cup of instant coffee made me smile. This was in sharp contrast to my life in Europe. Africa, I was learning, was nothing like I had thought. It was as close to paradise as I had ever been.

My phone rang. The breathless voice of Charity, my Kenyan assistant, came through.

“Mr. Crack is on his way to your office,” she said apologetically. Mr. “Crack” was actually Mr. Clark. He was our accounts director and a native of the United Kingdom, or what he fondly referred to as the “motherland.”

“Thanks.” I smiled into the phone. I found it cute that she called him that, especially because I knew how much it infuriated him. Most Kenyans spoke English with a funny accent but I was slowly getting used to them. I had so far identified three categories of these accents. There were those like Charity who didn’t seem to realize that the letters
r
and
l
were two different letters. A conversation with this type ended up with sentences like
‘The reandership of that company is torerant to such things
!’ Then there was the second group occupied by Mr. Makokha. This group interchanged
p, d, t
and
b
and sentences like
‘dutey beoble will pi in trouple!’
were not unusual. There was a further group which had issues with the letter
s
.
‘To be sheen with shuch companies ish not good for our image!
’ was a sentence that left me tongue-tied in one of my initial meetings with the team. There were many other variations in between but I mostly found them entertaining. Mr. Clark burst into the office with a small pocket dictionary in his hand.

“Is it possible that your name, Ickelschaft, actually means ‘disgusting’ in German?” he asked breathlessly.

I stared at him silently for a moment. “
Ekelig
means ‘disgusting,’” I stated calmly. “You must have confused the two.” I wasn’t going to show him that he had touched a soft spot. I wasn’t even going to mention that he was pronouncing my name wrongly.

“Did you get my e-mail?” I asked quickly before he came up with some new word. He was intently studying his dictionary.

“I am learning German. Maybe it is going to make my work of wooing you easier.” A seductive smile spread across his face. I ignored him and repeated my question.

“Yes. Indeed,” he answered. “Nairobi is a lovely city!” Before dashing off to his office again, he stopped and turned to face me.

“Should I pick you up?” It sounded like he was trying to use a sultry voice.

“No. I’ll be fine,” I responded quickly. I didn’t want him to get the wrong impression that I was his date. I had finally given in to his suggestions of going out at night. I had sent the whole team an e-mail asking them if they wanted to come along.

Two hours later I left my hotel room. Mr. Makokha was waiting in the lobby. He smiled when he saw me. We had developed some kind of relationship. “Madam, you are very smart,” he said and bowed down while shaking my hand with both of his. His exaggerated show of respect no longer irritated me. More than anything it amused me.

We reached Carnivore Restaurant half an hour later. Mr. Clark had said that it was the best restaurant he had ever gone to, and knowing that he was British, I had no reason to doubt him. They were not exactly famous for their culinary talents.

I was the first to arrive. At the entrance, there was a big barbecue area. Personnel in white uniforms were walking around with meat on skewers. I walked around the restaurant. It was spacious and beautiful. There were tables in strategic spots. There were also bonfires that gave the whole restaurant a cozy feeling. There was some kind of African music playing in the background, and I could feel myself getting excited.

Someone tapped my shoulder. It was Purity, Mr. Clark’s assistant. I smiled at her. I had thought it was some bad joke the first time I learned that there was a Charity and a Purity in the same office. I had a distant but paradoxically affectionate relationship with all of the staff. The competitiveness and the backstabbing that dominated relationships in Europe seemed to be nonexistent here. I don’t know if it had something to do with the fact that I was in Africa or the fact that everyone seemed resigned to his or her fate. But there was a feeling, at least, that no aggression was directed my way. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t feeling threatened. It was taken for granted that I had the right to be the boss.

“You are here,” she said excitedly. She was dressed in a yellow dress with black flowers. On her head was a scarf tied in a complicated knot.

I looked at my watch. We both smiled. “Of course you are already here, you are white!” she exclaimed with a chuckle.

We sat at our reserved table. “Do you come here often?” I asked her.

“Once in a while,” she said and I saw that her eyes were fixed on the table in the corner where a black couple was involved in a deep conversation.

“Do you know them?” I asked.

“Yes. They are celebrities here!” she said. I stared at the couple.

“What do they do?” I asked.

“They are athletes and they are very rich. You see they run for the Emirates.” I looked at her, confused.

“Kenya has many talented runners but it doesn’t have money. Some countries have money but they don’t have talent so we do some kind of barter trade!” she said and burst out laughing. I stared at her and smiled remembering my neighbor on the flight from Amsterdam to Nairobi

“Do you like it here?” she asked, moving her seat closer to mine. I thought about it for a moment.

“You don’t?” she prodded. “Of course I do!” I said, and we both burst out laughing.

“I can’t imagine living anywhere else in the world. I love it here,” she said finally, and I could see that she was deep in thought.

“I have to ask you something,” she said in a somber tone.

“Go ahead!” I said. I was enjoying myself.

“Is it true that most white people are serial killers?” she asked and stared at me directly in the face.

“Are you kidding?” I asked and felt myself almost bursting out in laughter. But she didn’t move, nor did the somber expression leave her face. Memories of the scary black man that I had grown up with quickly came to mind.

“Most white people have that look,” she said in a low tone, a thin smile spreading across her face.

“Which look?” I asked.

“The serial killer look!” she whispered. This time I did start laughing. She looked at me for a moment, and then she burst out laughing. After a few moments we stopped and stared at each other. “I don’t know where that idea came from, but many of us believe it,” she continued with a sheepish smile, adding quickly, “You don’t have that look though!”

We both burst out laughing again. I wanted to tell her how terrified I was of coming to Africa. I wanted to tell her all the terrible things I had heard or been told about Africa and its inhabitants. But I wasn’t sure what to say. Africa was still a big mystery to me. “You don’t believe it, though?” I asked finally.

She looked at me with a thoughtful expression on her face.

“I don’t know,” she responded slowly. It was the way she said it or maybe the fact that she didn’t meet my gaze. But it dawned on me that the scary white man was probably as real in Africa as the scary black man in Europe.

The rest of the people came in quick succession. In no time, our reserved table was full.