Uhuru Street (8 page)

Inside the store was dark and cool. A large and dirty green tarpaulin sheet hanging from an awning protected the counter side from direct sunlight in the afternoons. Behind him were stacks of old British newspapers,
The Observer, The Illustrated London News, News of the World
, wrapping paper for sale to neighbouring stores. Behind the papers were gunny sacks filled with grain and behind these, in the storeroom, was complete darkness where no light, electric or sun, ever reached, and where only the servant ventured. There were cupboards on the walls that had not been opened for years. The place was infested with rats and cockroaches. An odour of spice and grain mixed with cockroach egg and wet gunny permeated the air inside.

The servant, a young boy who sat outside on the weighing scale under the awning, apparently with nothing to do at this hour, looked up as the driver approached.

‘Eh, Idi,’ spoke Nurmohamed in a hardly audible croak to the driver. ‘Now take the food to the mosque.’

It was Friday today, the day of charity, when shopkeepers changed ten-cent coppers into pennies that servants then handed out to the scores of beggars expectantly touring the streets rattling their cans. On Fridays also, Nurmohamed fulfilled a family obligation and he sent his weekly offering to his mosque.

Idi walked towards the back of the building where a side door opened into the courtyard and the stairs. But first he passed it, turning into the open lot behind the building, covered with shrubs, trees and refuse, and stopped beside a pawpaw tree to urinate against the stained, yellow back wall. It was used by the servants throughout the day and the area was covered with a thick stench. He had to hold his breath.

He had used the toilet upstairs several times before, until he was caught emerging out of it once by Nurmohamed’s wife and bawled out. So it was the wall for him, or one of the row of toilets in the mosque courtyard, where he could sneak in unseen. Wait, he had thought then, smarting from the insult. We’ll have our day.

Upstairs the woman was taking her nap in the bedroom. The flat was quiet. All the curtains were drawn and it was cool. On the dining table, which was covered with a red and white checked plastic sheet, was a plate of food covered with a newspaper. Idi opened the pantry and brought out three hardened, stale chappatis and wrapped them in paper. He took the wrapped chappatis and the covered plate downstairs to the store and announced, ‘I’m going.’

‘Wait,’ croaked the shopkeeper and from the cash box in front of him he took out a fifty-cent coin. ‘Here, give this to her.’ He started to cough, a deep, interminable wheeze.

The driver put the coin in his shirt pocket and crossed the street towards the car. The goldsmith was closing up. Near the goldsmith’s
was a butcher’s also owned by Arabs. A smile lit up his face as he passed it. Early morning, every day, a truck came to deliver meat and the event almost always ended at the brink of bloodshed. At an innocuous seeming moment one of the African delivery boys would put a palm to his lips, blow a tremendous fart, and muttering ‘Y’Allah!’ like an Arab, pause for a moment. This was the cue. One of the younger butchers would come running out, brandishing a knife, an axe or a steel, swearing in Arabic. ‘You son of a dog! Your father’s arse!’ Whereupon the other delivery boys, strategically placed and on the mark, joined in, provoking with taunts and musical farts, and were hotly pursued by the screaming Arabs right to their waiting truck. At some moments the excitement reached such a pitch that bystanders were tempted to join in the fun and sometimes did.

Idi had never succumbed to the temptation. It did not suit his image. He was a driver trained by another driver at the District Commissioner’s office in his village and hoping for a government job. His khaki shirt and black trousers were of smart ‘American’ drill, and his black, leather shoes, although bought at a local auction, were polished. In contrast the delivery boys came barefoot and in tatters, hauling large hunks of bloody beef on their backs. No, he thought, as he reached the car, he was definitely not one of them.

He looked the car over and fondly stroked its warm and shiny roof. It was a light green Ford Taunus, three years old. He wiped it with a cloth every day. Nurmohamed had bought it to carry his son to school. He had then accepted to transport the neighbours’ kids too, for a fee. This would pay for its upkeep. The son had died suddenly from an illness, but the transportation of kids continued.

Inside the car through the rearview mirror he could see Nurmohamed in his singlet on his high seat, hands still in motion. The man had always drawn from him feelings of disgust or pity. The personal attention he had to pay him was the worst part of
his job. Fat and asthmatic, spluttering and coughing in his filthy store from morning till evening, he had to be assisted to walk, had to be lowered to his stool to take a wash. And with his small but sharp-tongued wife, harbouring a double grief. First the death of the son Amin who had come to them late in life after an unbroken line of seven daughters. Idi had been quite fond of the boy. At the funeral the woman, screaming and beating her breast, had to be restrained from running after the hearse. Idi and one of the daughters had held on to her while the hearse pulled away to the sound of wails. Later he had driven the mourning Nurmohamed and a few neighbours to the cemetery. Six months later their third daughter, wife to a drunkard, jumped to her death from the third floor of a building. What, he had often wondered, does tomorrow hold for these two? Do they feel a desire to walk out of their dark flat or their equally dark store and into the sun and breathe the fresh air, free from the smell of gunny and DDT and stale turmeric? Their future buried with their son, they continued now with what they had always done but with no purpose, no end in sight. The two-storey building named after him, Amin Mansion, was like a mausoleum over them.

There were stories of how he had made his money in the shack that used to be where Amin Mansion now stood. Once the police had raided it, looking for stolen jewellery. And Nurmohamed had taken them around by the light of a kerosene lamp that all the while contained the jewels. It was an Indian inspector of police, no less, who had been thus fooled. Then at another time he had swallowed a numbered hundred-shilling note so as not to be caught in possession of it.

Idi eased the car into reverse and backed out into the street. Then he drove forward and turned right into Kichwele Street. He cruised behind a bus for a while before it entered a stop lane and he passed it. A rally to support independence was in progress at the Mnazi Moja grounds where from the back of a pickup truck a man
in shirt sleeves, a schoolteacher, was addressing a small crowd with a small megaphone. Soon he reached the mosque and drove into the compound which spanned a full block and parked behind another car.

He got out with his two packages. In deference to their common God, Nurmohamed’s and his, he held the covered plate of fresh food in his right hand. Diagonally across from him where he stood beside the car, near the gate through which he had just driven in sat two women on the pavement with white enamel begging bowls in front of them. Their heads were covered. Behind them was an arched doorway that led into apartments for old women without means. One of the two was much older than the other, her face was pale pink, her hair white-golden, and her body frail. She was eating rice from her bowl, applying a fistful onto her wet old mouth and then rubbing the remainder off against the lip of the bowl, humming all the while. A tireless fly kept buzzing about her hand, weaving circles between the bowl and the ancient face. The other woman, darker and stronger, stared fixedly in front of her and did not stir as he approached. She was Nurmohamed’s sister.

The driver approached her with some misgiving, as always, for she had nothing but taunts or complaints for him. She seemed to hold him responsible for her brother.

She looked up and grumbled. ‘Why are you late? I have not eaten all day, do you know that? Does your master know that? Who cares if an old woman starves, if she’s sick, if she’s dying …? Did you tell him not to come to my funeral? Tell him not to lay a foot there … not to come to my funeral. I have let it be known … he won’t be allowed. Let him regret it forever. For what past sins we suffer … no sons, no husband, and a brother worse than not having one … ay, you heard me, tell him! In these arms I rocked him. Now he doesn’t know me … I have no one in this world, nobody loves me. It’s that witch, I tell you …’

‘But God loves you,’ the driver said to humour her. He bent
forward to hand her the package in his left hand and his eyes twinkled in amusement.

‘What do you know?’ she taunted in return. ‘Are you His messenger or something … does He whisper things in your ears …?’

As she said this he hesitated, felt the weight pulling down on the right hand as if to beckon. Then on impulse he reached out this hand pulling back the other and gently placed the mosque food, God’s share, in front of her beside the bowl. The half-shilling clinked into the empty bowl when he dropped it and he stood up. He felt strangely elated.

She pushed the newspaper wrapping aside where it fluttered a little from a gust and when she saw the contents, sweet and fragrant yellow rice and curry still warm on the plate, she gave a chuckle and poured the curry on the rice. He left her and walked to the window where they received food for the mosque and handed over the second package. The boy at the counter unwrapped it, checked the contents – three dry chappatis – and scribbled a chit in Gujarati for him to take back.

As he crossed the compound on his way to the car, Idi let the note flutter away from his hand. His days with Nurmohamed would soon be over.

At a few minutes past eight, as always, Mr Stuart strode into the classroom gripping his cane. Conversations broke in mid-sentence, yells got stifled, and chairs rocking on hind legs landed firmly on all fours. A few stray characters quietly slipped back into their chairs and the remaining titters and murmurs from the less controllable quarters in the back rows finally petered out. It was as if a noisy radio had been abruptly switched off, leaving only the memory of its sound to sully the stillness.

Stuart, as he was called, appraised the scene for a moment, standing at his table, and then went back to the door to close it. He was tall and bony and walked with a little stoop. He was assistant headmaster, responsible for discharging the mandatory punishment on the backsides of latecomers: as a result of which he always came a few minutes late, to an uproarious class revelling in its short freedom.

As the door swung to a close, Rafael came thumping down the corridor, basket bobbing in hand.

‘Sorry, Sir,’ he said, panting, as the door swung open again. His black face was streaming with sweat and his clean white shirt disarrayed. He was barefoot.

‘Bend-bend-bend,’ said the master in a bored voice and delivered two cursory smacks on the proffered khaki bottom.

At this point Rafael goofed. He could have walked to his seat nursing his bottom. Instead he proceeded to remove from his
basket a pair of polished black shoes which he dropped on the floor with a clatter.

An impish smile came over the stern, old face.

‘What now, Rafael! Shoes in the bag!’ He moved closer to look, peering as if at a specimen. ‘Straight from the comics, this,’ he called out over his shoulder.

‘Send it to
Readers’ Digest
, Sir!’ called out a voice.

Stuart turned around with a snarl. It was the same voice that had called out ‘Holy Ghost!’ a few days ago; the owner of which sat fidgeting with a pencil, looking down at his desk in mock innocence. Stuart turned to the problem at hand.

‘Well, now …’

Rafael was the only black boy in the class, always neat, a little timid.

‘I was running, Sir,’ he was explaining in earnest, ‘… and there’s a lot of mud on the way …’

‘Shoes are meant to be worn, Rafael, to keep our feet clean,’ began Stuart unctuously, enjoying himself. ‘Look at you – clean shoes and muddy feet. Will you slip on these glittering objects now – or do you propose to present us with the spectacle of your muddy paws all day long?’

Laughter. In Stuart’s class laughter was a prolonged and exaggerated affair: anything to keep the old codger going and postpone the impending lesson.

‘It was raining last night …’

‘You boys have to be taught even the rudiments of manners, the rudiments of hygiene. Haven’t you seen the mamas sitting all day outside the hospital – with kids with worms in their feet, worms in their bellies? Just to be able to show your new shoes at the Girls’ School …’

Howls of delight at the magic words. A planted joke.

‘And in the rain, you’ll go around naked to save your
clothes …’ He started muttering under his breath, the dark scowl returned to his face.

It was not known in class where Stuart originally came from. He looked neither European nor Asian. He sounded English, but not quite. The conclusion was that he was a Eurasian, perhaps even a camouflaged Goan. He always came in a cream or a light brown suit, wore a hat and carried a briefcase. The face was of a skeleton, a thin, pale skin stretching across it, his teeth rarely showing even when he laughed. It gave his scowl a distinctive ferocity and earned him the nickname Frankenstein. It was in fact one of the most feared faces in school. His lower lip jutted out and moved continuously during his silent mutterings. The boys never knew if those were real words he muttered or if he just pretended. But when he did that for what seemed like an eternity you felt your entire ancestry held up to ridicule and dismissed with contempt. ‘Right up to Adam!’ as Kanji said. Kanji, of whom Stuart said, ‘Born in the gutter, bred in the gutter.’

The latecomer hugging his seat, the lesson started. The final chapter of an abridged
Tom Brown’s Schooldays.

‘It was the summer of 1842 …’ Stuart began. He preferred his own reading to the boys’ imprecise intonations. ‘Wot-wot-wot’ he would sometimes yell in derision at an ill-pronounced question. This time he did not proceed beyond 1842 in his reading. The year brought memories and he digressed. And the boys prayed he would keep on digressing until the bell rang. The class was quiet and attentive and responded positively to his humour.