The Outsider(S) (13 page)

A waiter walked up to our table. He was carrying a small pail with a bottle of Champagne in it.

Livingston, the departmental head of finance, called for a toast. “Ladies and gentlemen, to our Senior Vice President!” he called out. There were clinks of glasses. I watched them with a smile. That toast was nothing like the toast I’d been given back in Germany. There was no malice to it. Those people seemed genuinely happy to have me in their midst.

The meat turned out to be delicious. It would even have been much better were it not for Mr. Clark’s constant nagging.

“Isn’t it delicious?” he asked over and over again. I counted eight times.

Charity was seated on my right. Purity was on my left side. “So are the two of you related?” I asked, looking back and forth between them.

“No!” they said in unison, in a tone that suggested that this was a ridiculous question.

“Hey, I’m only asking!” I responded with a light laughter.

Livingstone, seated on the far end and looking all important, met my gaze. “They don’t belong to the same tribe. We have here what are called tribes,” he said slowly as if he were talking to someone who wasn’t very intelligent.

“I am from the Rift Valley,” Purity stated.

“Is that the name of your tribe?” I asked.

“No,” she said in a barely audible tone. “It is the region where I come from.” For a moment no one said anything, and the tension was so thick I could have cut it with a knife.

I wanted to ask for more details. I wondered if the regions were comparable to Bavaria, Rhineland, Hamburg, and the different federal regions in Germany; but I realized for the first time that that was a taboo topic. Tribes were a sore spot that no one wanted to talk about.

“My tribe is popularly referred to as the ‘remaining white men,’” Livingstone said finally. Everyone joined in the laughter. It was clear that they were all relieved to change the direction of the conversation.

“Why?” I asked, feeling confused.

“Is that a good thing?” After the whole story of the
serial
killer
look
, I was willing to bet that the locals had nothing positive to say about white people.

“Definitely,” Livingstone responded, and there was more laughter.

Soon enough, people started moving slowly to the dancing area. There was a live band performing and within no time we were left alone. Livingstone moved to the seat next to me. “People from my tribe are gentle and intelligent,” he stated with a straight face. “Just like white people.”

I burst out laughing. “Is that a joke?” I asked. But he was dead serious.

“All the intelligent people in this country are from my tribe,” he continued. I looked at him disbelievingly, but he didn’t stop. In fact, my silence seemed to spur him on. “We produced Obama!” he said with finality.

I smiled. “We?” I asked.

“Yes my people. We are all related to Obama”—and then he burst out laughing.

The waiter was watching us. He walked up to us and asked if we needed anything. I requested the check. Within no time, he came back with the bill. For everyone.

I scrolled through it checking for the price of what I had eaten. Livingstone didn’t seem bothered, so I asked him when he was going to settle his bill.

“You are not paying for all of us?” he asked, looking alarmed.

“Why should I pay for everyone?” I asked, puzzled.

“Because you invited us!” he said, a thin smile spreading across his lips.

“I didn’t invite you. I only asked if we should go out for meal. I didn’t mention that I was inviting anyone!” I said helplessly. All the happiness I had been feeling was quickly evaporating. Livingstone retrieved his wallet from his back pocket and smiled at me.

“It is different here. If you ask people to go out, you settle the bill. If you go out with people who earn less than you do, you settle the bill!”

I heard a voice in my head.
That
is
not
fair
. What actually happened is that I settled the bill.

Then we walked toward the dance floor and took a table close by. The place had filled up, mostly with white people who all seemed to hold a contest for the worst dancer on the planet. Charity, Purity, and the rest of the team were also on the dance floor. Mr. Clark waved at me. He was surrounded by three women who all seemed to be fighting for his attention. One whispered something into his ear. Another one was resting her hand on his sleeve protectively. Yet another one was touching his face lovingly. I stood on the side and waved back shyly. But he wasn’t moving a step. More than anything he seemed to be having the time of his life. There was no sign that he had ever been interested in dating me, and for a moment I wondered if his flirting was a figment of my imagination.

The atmosphere was electric, and I could feel myself tapping my feet. Livingstone walked to the bar and came back with two beers.

“Tusker, the best beer on earth!” he said with a chuckle and handed me one. I tasted it and touched his bottle for a toast. I quite liked the protective way he hung around me. He saw me looking over at Mr. Clark.

“They are all prostitutes!” he said, pointing to the women surrounding Mr. Clark.

“How do you know?” I asked.

He smiled wryly. “Everyone knows,” he said with a smile. He saw the quizzical expression on my face. “Apart from white people!” he added. For a moment we just sat silently. I tried to understand my feelings. On the one hand, I felt at home with those people, but on the other hand I resented their prejudices—which seemed to be endless.

“Are you married?” I asked amid the loud music.

“Why?” he asked and smiled slyly.

“I am just curious”, I responded.

“Yes. I have three wives.”

I turned to face him, my mouth open. “Three wives?” I asked.

“And eight children. My youngest wife delivered a baby boy two weeks ago,” he continued proudly and scrolled through his BlackBerry to show me a picture of a newborn baby. I looked him up and down. Even though I wasn’t good at guessing the age of black people, I guessed that he was at most just a little older than me.

We moved to the dance floor and started dancing.

“You are a very beautiful woman,” he whispered into my ear. I smiled. “Be my fourth wife!” he continued, looking me in the eye. I looked up at him with a smile. There was something very attractive about his boldness and ridiculousness. And yes, about his audacity.

Philister
Taa

Germany, My new job

Dear Tamaa Matano,

I have several pieces of news. The good and the not so good. I will start with the good so as to make you happy. I got a job at a fast-food restaurant. Fast-food restaurants are where rich people eat. You wonder how I figured that out? Because they are all fat! People here are rich, my friend. In fact, I hardly see thin people, I mean, poor people. The other thing is that they all have to be served quite fast. That is where the name comes from!

The not-so-good piece of the news is that I am a cleaner. Not just a cleaner but a toilet cleaner! The smell of the shit of some of these people make my farts smell like perfume. Can you believe it? The mzungus produce shit just like black people. Bah! That really surprised me.

My friend, don’t be disappointed about my job. I know that after boarding an airplane, I expected to find a better job than to have an office in a toilet. But that is how life here is. There is a hierarchy of sorts. And from what I gather, foreigners are at the bottom of this. But the other shocker is that there are white people who also clean toilets! I saw it with my own eyes. Actually, I didn’t just see, I know one. Her name is Agnieszka and she speaks some English. She comes from Poland. It is a white people country. I asked her where it is and she said ‘far far far!’

Now this Agnieszka is so white that I got nightmares the first day I met her. She also has green eyes! Can you imagine someone with green eyes? It is the strangest sight I have ever come across. But apparently, it is normal for white people to have colorful eyes. I just hope that I don’t come across one with purple eyes ha!

And the other thing. She told me that she used to be a doctor in her country. I don’t know if that is true but she said that she earns more cleaning toilets here than she used to earn back in her country. I hope I didn’t scare you about Agnieszka. She actually has very nice hair. They look exactly like those of Mary the mother of Jesus. You remember that picture we saw in that church in Kawangware?

Did I mention that there are different seasons here? It is currently winter and it is very cold. I can’t describe how cold it is because I don’t know the right words for it. Agnieszka said that it gets colder in her country than it gets here and she said that one can die from the cold.

This Agnieszka has been very kind to me. She took me to a church to get clothes for the cold season. I got myself a very nice green jacket and I didn’t have to pay anything. I asked her where the clothes come from and she said ‘From rich people or dead people!’ I really hope that my green jacket isn’t from some dead person.

There are other developments. My first paycheck has arrived. I am very happy about it. It is 950 Deutschmark. Deutschmark is the currency here. Not shillings but Deutschmark. This is actually a lot of money. Karata said that it would be enough to feed several villages in Kenya for a few years.

I don’t know the exchange rate, but I suspect that it is somewhere around fifty thousand Kenya shillings. I have been staring at the money since yesterday. I am now playing in the upper leagues my friend - ha!

All the other girls have to pay Karata, but he told me that my biggest gift to him would be to disappear. He doesn’t want to ever set eyes on me again. He said that I am more of a liability than an investment… bah! So I am going to look for a place to live in. I think as soon as I settle down, you can come and live with me.

If we pay rent of around five thousand shillings, we should have more than enough to live comfortably on. We could save some and buy a car and then a house. Who knows we might even be able to build a skyscraper ha! I can’t wait to lead a happy and fulfilled life away from Karata. The other thing is, we could buy ourselves a real radio. Not just a pocket radio but a big, booming radio. My friend, start packing your things. Your life is about to change dramatically.

The
end.

Philister
Taa

Irmtraut

Kenya, 2010, a walk in the park

M
y life in Nairobi was going better than I could have imagined. For the first time in my life, I was sleeping through the night. The hectic pace that dominated my life in Europe was slowly fading into the distance. There were, of course, a lot of things to get used to, but mostly I was pleasantly surprised that life in Nairobi was so relaxed.

It was five thirty p.m., and I was already back at the hotel. I logged onto Facebook and read through what was going on in the lives of my so-called “Facebook friends” back home. It was laughable that Facebook had chosen the term
friend
to refer to these contacts. No sane person could have 557 friends. I was nevertheless grateful to Facebook. I regularly logged into it to get an update. It was the perfect tool for being a friend without being a friend.

I browsed through and checked a few contacts. Karl, an old flame, came up. He had updated his relationship status from “married to Monique” to “it’s complicated.” I smiled. But it even got better. Bettina, my ex-boss who had made my life hell before she moved to another company, had removed her professional status. I took that as a good sign. She was probably out of a job, I thought with satisfaction.

Just then, I made a decision. I was going to go for a walk. That’s right. I was going to go for a walk in the park the hotel overlooked. My experiences in Kenya had been up to that point only positive. Besides, I was not a naïve tourist who walked around with expensive cameras. I was careful, and I knew that only a fool could flaunt expensive stuff in a country as poor as Kenya.

I walked down to the reception. The evening receptionist had just started his shift. As usual, he was in an extremely cheerful mood.

“I’m going out,” I said and handed him my keys.

“Should I call a taxi, madam?” he asked in his exaggerated, kind voice. It was the tone you used when talking to a kid, especially a kid who was a bit dense.

“No, I am going for a walk.”

“A walk?” he asked carefully, unable to hide his worry.

“Listen, I know what I’m doing,” I retorted. “I am going to Uhuru Park.” I was getting tired of the excessive attention that they gave me.

“Uhuru Park?” he repeated slowly. The alarm on his face was unmistakable.

“Yes, Uhuru Park,” I responded evenly and walked out before he could say anything.

Uhuru Park turned out to be as beautiful as it looked from my hotel room. It was nice to finally breathe some fresh air. Fresh air is the wrong term. The air wasn’t fresh. There was smoke billowing from somewhere. Someone was burning a tire or some kind of rubber. I was nevertheless happy to be outside. I walked across a well-made path beside some benches that looked quite new. On them was boldly written “A joint initiative of well-wishers and the Nairobi city council.”

I saw a signpost indicating that the University of Nairobi was around the corner. The thought of a university brought back fond memories of my student days. The parties, the cookouts with other students, the choice to attend classes or not. There were so many options in universities—real options, not the theoretical options that one encountered later on in life. Choosing to sleep instead of going to the most prestigious party of the year was just that: a choice without any life-threatening consequences. Now imagine making the same decision in a corporate setting, and the sharks would have not just your butt for dinner but your lungs for breakfast as well.