The Outsider(S) (21 page)

Surprised, I looked around and smiled to acknowledge the applause. Nadia waited for a moment for the cheering to die down, and our eyes met again for the second time that day. I felt an uneasy feeling engulfing me. And I was right.

“The culture of rewarding performance is what has got us here. I am honored to be a part of a company in which everything is done on merit,” she raised her head and smiled.

“But just being a woman isn’t enough. I want to make it clear to you, my colleagues, that there is never a reason for preferential treatment for anyone. As a woman, much as I’m thrilled to be elevated to this position, I would feel insulted if the only reason was because of my gender.” she paused amid the deafening applause.

“The colleague who is going to take over from me has shown a great deal of not just brilliance but dedication to this company.” She paused again and looked at Herr Kracher.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our second female senior vice president!” she said and pressed the buzzer.

For a moment nothing happened. And then Emilia walked into the room. She looked at me and smiled politely. But my eyes were fixed on the door, just like everyone. We were all waiting for the new senior vice president. My guess was that Marta was finally going to get her chance.

“Thank you so much, Emilia,” Nadia said. I watched Emilia standing next to Nadia. For a moment I wondered why she wasn’t leaving. But I didn’t have to wait long.

“Ladies and gentlemen, once in a while, you come across an exceptional talent.” Nadia paused and looked around.

“Emilia is such a talent!” I felt my hands freezing.
My
assistant?
The
one
I
had
hired
a
year
earlier?
The
one
I
had
on
more
than
one
occasion
thought
of
firing?
This
is
outrageous
! I felt my heartbeat racing. There was applause from every corner. I raised my head slowly and looked up at Nadia and for the first time that day, I noticed that she wasn’t looking at me.

Most of what happened later on in that meeting remains hazy in my memory. What I distinctly remember however is the heaviness I felt in my legs and the numbness around my mouth as well as the endless
congratulations
that rained the air after Nadia finished.

I had known that she was going to strike, but I was still shocked by her brutality. I walked to the Lady’s and locked myself in the toilet. For what seemed like an eternity, I just sat there wondering what to do. After a while I made a decision. I was going to tell Nadia a piece of my mind. I was going to tell her how unfair and ridiculous her action was. I walked into her office but before I could close the door, Marta and Friedrich walked in. Nadia was busy searching for something from her handbag. She raised her head and looked at me. Completely without emotion.

“Irmtraut, I really appreciate your excellent work in Nairobi,” she said slowly. Marta and Friedrich nodded in approval. I didn’t smile.

“I would like to talk to you alone Nadia” I said calmly.

“We don’t have secrets in this company. Go ahead!” she said looking at me evenly. I looked at Marta. There was no trace of bitterness in her for having been passed over once again for a promotion. My plan of telling Nadia that her action was very unfair to Marta suddenly seemed ridiculous.

For a moment an awkward silence engulfed the room. I thought of turning and fleeing but then Nadia started talking.

“Irmtraut, the hotel is unfortunately too expensive.”

“You still stay in a hotel?” Marta asked in my direction feigning horror at my audacity.

“Security is important, and the hotel offers the best security,” I said trying to hide the cold terror that was gripping my stomach.

“We will give you an allowance for accommodation,” Nadia said ignoring what I had just said. She pressed the phone on her desk.

“Emilia, could you come over please?”

Emilia walked in. Both Marta and Friedrich moved forward and gave her a hug.

“I’m so happy for you!” Marta told her.

“You deserve it!” Friedrich added. I stayed silent and stared intently at my Blackberry.

“Have you worked out the figures?” Nadia asked her.

“Yes,” Emilia responded zealously, checking the iPad in front of her.

“Eight hundred Euros per month.”

For a moment no one said anything. I felt the pencil I was holding breaking into two parts.

“My apartment in Munich costs me twelve hundred Euros per month. I can imagine that you will get a palace for that amount in Nairobi,” Friedrich said with a chuckle looking at Nadia.

But Nadia didn’t say anything. Instead she turned and looked at Emilia.

“Do you have anything else to tell us?” she asked.

“I did some research and found out that the average Kenyan earns between fifty and two hundred Euros per month. So this amount is more than four times what the average person there survives on.” Emilia said. She raised her head and smiled wryly at me.

“Thank you,” Nadia said when she was finished.

“Sorry guys I have a meeting now. Will you excuse me?” she asked sweetly while dialing a number.

“Sure!” Friedrich and Marta said simultaneously. I felt a lump in my throat but before I could say anything I heard Nadia’s voice.

“Safe flight Irmtraut!”

*     *    *

Two weeks after I came back to Nairobi, I drove into a gated compound. I was going to check out a furnished apartment in Msongari, an upmarket area in Nairobi. I had gotten the contacts from Mr. Clark. I parked the car and got out. Most of the cars on the parking area had red and white number plates that were famously used by United Nations affiliated organizations.

A middle aged potbellied African man was leaning on a sleek grey Mercedes Benz SL car. It was exactly like Philippe’s car. At close to one hundred and fifty thousand Euros, it was one of the most expensive cars in the market. He raised his head when he saw me but didn’t smile.

“Are you here to see the apartment?” he asked with an American accent.

“Yes.” I responded.

He turned and walked up the stairs without a word. I followed him. We reached the second floor and then he retrieved a bunch of keys. I watched as he tried one key after the other. A Caucasian couple opened the opposite door. I listened as they discussed in Swiss German what to eat for supper.

The African man finally opened the door. We walked in. The sitting room walls were painted a light orange color that was surprisingly pleasant to look at. There was a glass table and cream leather sofas and a small flat screen TV. In the far end of the room was a small kitchen. I walked into the bedroom. The bedding was white and black. On closer examination, I realized that the black decorations on the beddings were zebras.

“So how big is it?” I asked.

“Forty-five square meters.” He responded but didn’t meet my gaze.

“And how much is it?” I asked.

“Three thousand dollars per month,” he responded still not meeting my gaze.

“Three thousand dollars?” I repeated disbelievingly. He looked up and met my gaze for the first time. His eyes were without any emotion.

“Three thousand dollars?” I asked him again, wondering if I had misunderstood something. I was pacing from one end of the room to the other. I lit a cigarette—or attempted to light one.

“No smoking!’’ the guy said and threw me a chilling stare. He looked at his watch and looked at me. I interpreted it to mean that he thought talking to me was a waste of time. I had already looked at three other apartments and they were all so bad that I never bothered to ask the price. I felt despair engulfing me.

“Do you know that I don’t pay anything close to that amount of money in Germany?” I asked finally, betraying my frustration.

“This is Kenya!” he stated uninterestedly.

“Exactly!” I echoed. “The infrastructure is nonexistent, the place is so insecure, and it is dirty. There is absolutely no reason for charging that amount of money!” I felt my palms sweating. He didn’t say anything. He walked to the windows and started drawing the curtains. And then he turned to me.

“The most expensive apartment in the world is located in Afghanistan! In Kabul,” he stated, and for the first time, I saw a smile spread across his face. “Of course, you can always look for a cheaper place. There is Dandora, Umoja, Kayole… I can give you the addresses if you want.”

I thought about the eight hundred Euros that the company was willing to pay. I wondered now if Nadia had known all along. Before I could say anything, he continued.

“I can’t guarantee that you will be alive tomorrow if you move there. But then again, staying alive might not be one of your priorities!” he said darkly.

“I will take the apartment,” I said resignedly.

“Good, then you should sign the contracts right away. The demand is quite high.”

I wanted to tell him off. But I just did not have the energy.

*     *    *

After going back and forth for a while, I finally called Kioko Johansson. “I don’t know if you remember me…” I started and was surprised when he said, “Of course I do. Did you manage to rent a car?”

I smiled to myself. There was something flattering about a total stranger remembering me.

Later that evening, he drove into the gated compound where I lived. I was watching from the window. I couldn’t shake off the nervousness. I was still not sure why I had invited him. I just knew that he was the most fascinating person I had ever met.

He got into the apartment and we shook hands. It wasn’t the kind of dramatic two-hand greeting like the one from Mr. Makokha. We sat down to a cup of tea. I had deliberately made the Kenyan type, milk and tea boiled together and served with a lot of sugar. I had passed by Nakumatt
61
earlier and bought Ketepa tea with milk.

“You drink this?” he asked amused. I laughed. There was something so uncomplicated about him. I started telling him about my life. My professional agonies. He listened intently. Not once did he show any sign of boredom. When I was finished he looked up at me and smiled.

“It was not sustainable,” he said, the cheeky smile not leaving his face.

“You have always been on the other side,” he continued, his eyes not leaving mine.

“By your own admission, you humiliated people. Of course, you hoped that it would never come back to you. But power that relies on other peoples’ suffering and humiliation isn’t sustainable,” he finished with a smile.

“I don’t think I had a choice” I protested getting up and walking to the window.

“You always have a choice” he said calmly. I wanted to say something but I didn’t know what. For a while we just stared at each other.

“I am taking you out for dinner. My treat,” he said finally and got up. I wanted to protest. I didn’t want him to use his meager taxi earnings on me, but more importantly, I didn’t want him to do anything out of pity for me.

“I insist,” he pleaded.

We drove to Java, a restaurant cum café that was located in a big shopping mall which was simply called ‘The Junction’. On more than one occasion, Mr. Clark had asked me to accompany him there but I had never come round to it. It was early evening and as was usual in Nairobi, the air was cool. I still found it difficult to deal with the contrast in day and night temperatures. While the temperatures during the day averaged 26° degrees Celsius, the nights were sometimes extremely cold.

We reached ‘The Junction’. It was crowded. There were many people driving around looking for a parking spot. We joined the line. Kioko opened the car window when someone tapped on it.

“
Vipi
?” a burly guy in a dark designer suit called out to him.

“
Poa
!” he responded. I listened to them and wondered silently why I never heard people speak Swahili the way it was written in my Kenya’s guide booklet. I had until then never heard any Kenyan saying ‘Jambo’ in greeting.

“What is going on here?” Kioko asked the burly man.

“Kentucky Fried Chicken has opened a branch here. Everyone wants to get a piece of civilization!” the burly man responded with a chuckle. Kioko looked at me and grinned.

“I’m driving out. You can have my spot!” the burly man added.

“Thanks bro!” Kioko told him and started reversing slowly to give him room to drive out. His car was a navy blue American type Hummer. I looked around and for the first time noticed that most cars on the parking lot were high-end. Mercedes, BMWs, Audis and Hummers seemed to be the norm rather than the exception.

“Yes, we are still in Kenya!” Kioko said in amusement reading my mind.

We got out and made our way to the Java restaurant. We walked to a table outside not too far from the bonfire. As soon as we sat down, a waitress in a maroon uniform walked up to us.

“Good evening madam!” she said to me.

“
Sasa
!” she told Kioko.

“
Fit
!” Kioko responded with a smile. We made our orders. After she was gone, I turned to Kioko.

“Kenyans are so friendly!” I said.

“Don’t be fooled!” he responded. I was a bit taken aback by his tone. He leaned forward and started talking.

“Kenyans are some of the most hateful people in the world.”

“Hateful?” I exclaimed. I had had my fair share of tribulations in Kenya. I had certainly encountered hateful people. The guy at the apartment and the cops at the hospital crossed my mind. But I had also encountered some of the most compassionate people I had ever come across in my life. A picture of Mr.Makokha flashed through my mind. ‘Hateful’ wasn’t the right adjective.

“You don’t believe me?” he laughed. “You should come here during elections. Kenyans worship their tribes. If their tribal god tells them to kill their neighbors, their wives, their best friends or their colleagues, they do it.”