The In-Between World of Vikram Lall (53 page)
I dream of cockroaches. They are crawling all over the floor and climbing up my legs. Some of them fly and there are a few in my hair and one in my ear. All the while Ebrahim is
entreating, have more curry, the coconut in the rice is really very fresh…I wake up in a sweat, my heart beating violently.
While I’m having a completely unnecessary lunch of spaghettini and tomato sauce at the Canadian Somali restaurant, Sohrabji calls.
Vic, he says, hardly able to control the thrill in his voice. About your offer to the Commission—it’s settled. They are agreed.
Wonderful! Exactly what, but?
What you are offering is enough for them. The Donors and the World Bank will be pleased, all they want is some admission, after all, some accountability. You come clean on the Gemstone Scandal, you need not name names, you hand over the money; and you get a clean bill of health—you start anew. This is the first real break they’ve had since their mandate, Vic. The Commission is excited. Now they can hope other individuals will be persuaded to follow your example—and this could be the beginning of truth and reconciliation. Done, my friend!
We agree to talk again later to discuss details. Perhaps we’ll go to that Ethiopian restaurant in Hurlingham that he was raving about.
And so when Deepa calls that night from Rochester, she couldn’t have found me in better spirits. We are laughing. A new start, Deepa! Yes, Bhaiya, a fresh start, a clean bill of health, how wonderful! I am so, so happy!
We plan the rest of our lives over the phone. She says she will call Seema and give her the news.
Friday at noon, Somali Town. Brilliant sunlight bastes the street down below, itself festive with the holiday spirit. It is one hour to jumaa prayer, men and boys in kofia and kanzu bustle about hither and thither. A man in shirt and pants walks by under my window singing, apparently in English. A
young woman in a brown veil gives another, in a blue veil, a short chase; suddenly, as if sensing my gaze, they both look up at me, startled.
My cellphone rings. It is Sohrabji, and he sounds frantic and shrill.
Vic, did you hear? The Commission—the Anti-Corruption Commission has been declared illegal and disbanded!
What does that mean?
I don’t know—for one thing, there is no one you have to explain to.
I am not sure that is what I want, Sohrabji. That’s not a good thing at all.
Eh?—he sounds surprised but knows very well what I mean. We don’t seem to have more to say to each other, and he says he’ll ring again later.
For a long time I stare out my window at the tumult down below, turbulence of humanity swirling in the street. The two young veiled women have disappeared. A Land Rover is being pushed out of a pothole, the crowd flows smoothly around it. A boy of ten (I guess) waves at me. Finally the call to midday prayer begins, rises up over the rooftops, and languorously weaves a canopy of exotic sounds over our heads.
I can see no way out of my predicament.
I have been left dangling. I have been outsmarted. It’s clear that powerful people close to the government prefer me to keep my mouth shut. I have no friends and my former partners—rightfully—don’t trust me. I came ready to shed a large load off my shoulders; I was naïve in my expectations, which were inspired perhaps by an alien environment, but I also know that I had no choice. Now there is nowhere to put that load. It only makes me a target.
I spend the rest of the day reading papers and walking about the stores, a denizen of Somali Town in kanzu and cap. At four, time for the afternoon prayer, I walk into a small mosque in a sidestreet. It is dark and cool inside and I go and stand against the back wall. I cannot follow all the motions of
the devotees but I sit and stand and turn left and right as they do. Once again I don’t know what is happening to me, perhaps I simply long to belong somewhere. Later, at seven, I have dinner with Ebrahim, after which we walk about the streets. He asks me if I want to visit a prostitute, a clean one, guaranteed. I decline. Back in my room I cannot sleep.
In the morning Papa calls, tells me Sohrabji was taken away by police the previous evening. He insists on seeing me and comes in his car and drives me out to an Indian restaurant in Ngara. Like everything else in Ngara it has seen better days. Next door, Papa had his first business in Nairobi and hated it.
They took him away on Friday so they could keep him till Monday, says my father.
All I can do is nod back glumly at him. For all I know, Sohrabji is in front of a water hose right now, his thin body pinned to the wall by the force of the jet.
You know Vic, you can stay with me, says Papa.
No, I told you, Papa. In fact I told you to take a holiday in Mombasa.
He is silent awhile. Then: Vic—you know, I’m living with someone—
I am aware, Papa. Deepa told me.
How did she know?
She finds out things.
You know, she’s African, Vic.
I nod.
She is a comfort to me and looks after me. Do you think it’s wrong of me? A man gets lonely…Is it wrong, son?
He desperately craves approval, acknowledgement—a lonely old man who wants to be loved. All I can do is tell him, You did the right thing, Papa. There’s nothing wrong with it. You have to go on living, Mother would understand that.
We go to the temple, and we do our round of the murtis separately, each to make our peace with our gods. Then we take a walk, a few times briskly round the temple grounds.
Finally he drops me off at the apartment in Eastleigh. He gives me a tight hug before he leaves.
Sunday night. I wake up sweaty and hot. There is violent banging on the door.
Fire! Moto! shouts Salim at my face when I open the door.
Where, Salim? Wapi?
Right here, he says, this building is on fire! Get out! Get out!
He runs, is already halfway down the stairs before turning to look back at me. There is a glow behind him, which gives his sweat-run face a red gloss. Not only is this mall extension made of wood, the products on sale are extremely flammable. There are explosions in the distance. Hot air engulfs us. But there is no sign of a fire engine or of attempts to combat the conflagration.
Come quickly down, pleads Salim, the stairs will go soon! Tafadhali, Bwana!…
Smoke rises around me.
Wait! I shout at him. Here, hang on to this—Go, run, I will follow you…
AUTHOR’S NOTE.
I am greatly indebted to a number of people, who have assisted me in various ways in various places during the writing of this novel. They are, first, Sultan and Zera Somjee, Radha Upadhyaya, Shariffa and Yusuf Keshavjee, Neera and Suresh Kapila, Muzaffar Khan, Begum and Pyarali Karim, and Susan Linee of Reuters, all of Nairobi. They welcomed me warmly and gave much of their time and knowledge. Bethwell Kiplagat shared his knowledge and experience during a stimulating conversation in Nairobi; Kariuki wa Thuku volunteered many hours of candid discussions in Nairobi and Nyeri; Pheroze Nowrojee was a wealth of information and insight; and two wazees of Nyeri, who knew the freedom struggle from up close and had learned to forgive, and selectively to forget, with twinkling eyes presented me with enigmas to solve. Harish Narang and Pankaj Singh supplied me with information, checked my
Punjabi, and read the manuscript; my wife Nurjehan provided her usual thorough reading; Miguna Miguna took time off from a busy schedule to clear up some language matters; Rashid Mughal shared his enthusiasm and remembrances of Nairobi; Benegal and Debbie Pereira of New Hampshire generously opened up their house and their library to me. Benegal’s stories about his father Eddie’s days in Nakuru and his own enthusiasm for the railways were an inspiration for which I owe an extra debt of gratitude. The Asian Heritage Exhibition, which had just opened in Nairobi as I began my inquiries, was an inspiration and a visual aid. It was a long time coming, this acknowledgement of identity, history, and heritage, and I hope it prevails. I also wish to acknowledge here the friendly facilities of the Kenya National Archives, the basement of the Macmillan Library in Nairobi, the generous and efficient though forbiddingly hushed-tone services of the Rhodes House library in Oxford, England, and the indifferently helpful New York Public Library. Finally, it is with sorrow that I acknowledge my debt and gratitude to Jayant Ruparel, who met with a tragic death in Ethiopia soon after our last meeting; his enthusiasm and love for his native city Nairobi were inspiring, his knowledge of its history was extremely useful, and the kindness and hospitality of his family often left me speechless.
I must also thank Stella Sandahl for providing me with a refuge within the dark labyrinths of Robarts Library; my agent, Bruce Westwood, and his associates for their enthusiasm; my editor, Maya Mavjee, for her solicitous readings and many suggestions; Nick Massey-Garrison for his patient assistance with the manuscript; and Sonny Mehta for his comments and suggestions. As always, my gratitude to my wife and sons for their unflagging support and their faith that going away each February was not only to escape winter.
Finally, some explanations. My usages of Kiswahili (or Swahili), Kikuyu, Hindi, Punjabi and Gujarati should be self-explanatory in their contexts. It should be noted that the terms “Indian” and “Asian” are interchangeable in this book,
being terms in use in East Africa and meaning “South Asian” in today’s language, and “European” denotes “white.” This is a work of fiction. Although real public figures, especially the late President Jomo Kenyatta and the late J. M. Kariuki, appear in this novel, they do so as fictional characters only.
The Eliot quote in the epigraph is from
T.S. Eliot: The Complete Poems and Plays
(Harcourt Brace, 1971); the Swahili proverb is from
Swahili Sayings 2
, by S.S. Farsi (Kenya Literature Bureau, 1998).
ABOUT THE AUTHOR.
M.G. Vassanji was born in Kenya and raised in Tanzania. He took a doctorate in physics at M.I.T. and came to Canada in 1978. While working as a research associate and lecturer at the University of Toronto in the 1980s he began to dedicate himself seriously to writing.
