trying to tell you,’ O said.
‘Yeah, I suppose, but I was going through my own shit: at work, with my parents. I was growing up. I didn’t know how to ask. Do you know what I mean?’
O gave me that blank look of his. ‘No, I do not know what you mean. You gotta ask … Always ask,’ he said with conviction and took a deep drag on his joint.
‘I’ll get them to put that on your tombstone,’ I said. ‘Detective O: always ask.’
‘And what does she do now?’
‘She works for Shell … Runs their business offices in New York. Good for her, I guess.’
‘You have to appreciate this here irony,’ O said, trying his American accent again. ‘Look, man, Shell is busy fucking Africa and she thinks you are the bad guy ’cos you are a black cop? See what I mean?’ He had this look of satisfaction on his face, like he had just relieved me of a great burden. He was high. I wasn’t.
‘Jesus, O! This shit is too heavy for breakfast. Let’s save it for a drunken night,’ I said, standing up and starting to pace up and down. ‘Fucking down time! We need something to do. I’m going crazy.’
‘My wife and I, we have rules, man,’ O said, looking contemplative. ‘I come home and have to be a husband, no matter what. I have to leave my work right at that door. Maria says, “I don’t treat you like a kid, so don’t treat me like a criminal.” Don’t get me wrong, I mean, I can still tell her about my day and some of the shit that goes down, but I can’t break dishes and throw things around. I’m not allowed to take it out on her. It might seem strange to you, but shit works, man …’
Did my ex and I have such rules, even unspoken ones? In true American spirit we wanted everything examined, laid out on the table and talked about – family time, we called it. But surely a marriage has to have a dark basement that no one goes to – where some things are thrown and left to rot because they are toxic? Maybe what my wife and I had needed were secrets?
‘Why did you decide to become a cop?’ I asked O, changing tack. Everyone wants to know why people are who they are – and more so with cops. The question really is: What made you dumb enough to risk your life for a head fullof bad dreams, a failed marriage and no pay?
‘There was only one university in the whole country back in the day. I didn’t get in. It was either this, join the army or become a criminal,’ O said, sounding as if everyone in Kenya had faced the same choices.
Why had I become a cop? I had talked about it often enough to have a prepared answer – wanting to do some good – but the actual reasons were more complex. I had gone to college, graduated with a useless degree that I could only have turned into a living by getting my PhD and becoming a professor … But the boredom! I did not want to become a drone, reciting the same lectures from ten years earlier about the US Constitution – although that’s exactly what my parents wanted for me.
My father worked as an accountant and my mother taught at a community college. I was an only child, and on their combined salaries we had lived well. I didn’t join the force because it was the only way to get out of poverty. I was a rebel. I didn’t want to become part of the black middle class with aspirations of whiteness – piano lessons and debutante balls. I had seen that world and didn’t like it one little bit, so I had opted out and become a cop. So, even though my ex-wife thought I was a traitor to my race, to my mind I was more of myself than I would ever have been being black on someone else’s terms. A paradox, but then what in life isn’t?
‘I didn’t want to join the black middle class,’ I answered O. ‘It’s true, I’m not out there fighting the man, but I do something,’ I added.
‘That’s ’cos you are the man,’ O said and laughed.
Just as I was about to call O a choice word, his phonestarted ringing. He grinned from ear to ear. We both knew
‘Yeah, I suppose, but I was going through my own shit: at work, with my parents. I was growing up. I didn’t know how to ask. Do you know what I mean?’
O gave me that blank look of his. ‘No, I do not know what you mean. You gotta ask … Always ask,’ he said with conviction and took a deep drag on his joint.
‘I’ll get them to put that on your tombstone,’ I said. ‘Detective O: always ask.’
‘And what does she do now?’
‘She works for Shell … Runs their business offices in New York. Good for her, I guess.’
‘You have to appreciate this here irony,’ O said, trying his American accent again. ‘Look, man, Shell is busy fucking Africa and she thinks you are the bad guy ’cos you are a black cop? See what I mean?’ He had this look of satisfaction on his face, like he had just relieved me of a great burden. He was high. I wasn’t.
‘Jesus, O! This shit is too heavy for breakfast. Let’s save it for a drunken night,’ I said, standing up and starting to pace up and down. ‘Fucking down time! We need something to do. I’m going crazy.’
‘My wife and I, we have rules, man,’ O said, looking contemplative. ‘I come home and have to be a husband, no matter what. I have to leave my work right at that door. Maria says, “I don’t treat you like a kid, so don’t treat me like a criminal.” Don’t get me wrong, I mean, I can still tell her about my day and some of the shit that goes down, but I can’t break dishes and throw things around. I’m not allowed to take it out on her. It might seem strange to you, but shit works, man …’
Did my ex and I have such rules, even unspoken ones? In true American spirit we wanted everything examined, laid out on the table and talked about – family time, we called it. But surely a marriage has to have a dark basement that no one goes to – where some things are thrown and left to rot because they are toxic? Maybe what my wife and I had needed were secrets?
‘Why did you decide to become a cop?’ I asked O, changing tack. Everyone wants to know why people are who they are – and more so with cops. The question really is: What made you dumb enough to risk your life for a head fullof bad dreams, a failed marriage and no pay?
‘There was only one university in the whole country back in the day. I didn’t get in. It was either this, join the army or become a criminal,’ O said, sounding as if everyone in Kenya had faced the same choices.
Why had I become a cop? I had talked about it often enough to have a prepared answer – wanting to do some good – but the actual reasons were more complex. I had gone to college, graduated with a useless degree that I could only have turned into a living by getting my PhD and becoming a professor … But the boredom! I did not want to become a drone, reciting the same lectures from ten years earlier about the US Constitution – although that’s exactly what my parents wanted for me.
My father worked as an accountant and my mother taught at a community college. I was an only child, and on their combined salaries we had lived well. I didn’t join the force because it was the only way to get out of poverty. I was a rebel. I didn’t want to become part of the black middle class with aspirations of whiteness – piano lessons and debutante balls. I had seen that world and didn’t like it one little bit, so I had opted out and become a cop. So, even though my ex-wife thought I was a traitor to my race, to my mind I was more of myself than I would ever have been being black on someone else’s terms. A paradox, but then what in life isn’t?
‘I didn’t want to join the black middle class,’ I answered O. ‘It’s true, I’m not out there fighting the man, but I do something,’ I added.
‘That’s ’cos you are the man,’ O said and laughed.
Just as I was about to call O a choice word, his phonestarted ringing. He grinned from ear to ear. We both knew
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