had gathered in the alley outside andclimbed up on stones and boxes and craned their necks over the wall to watch, but created such a noise that they were allowed in and told to sit quietly at the back. After that the Shamsis showed their films inside their jamatini. But Kamal knew about movies from the notices in the papers, and from listening to Indian boys talk about them in school, having seen them during holidays in Lindi and Dar. And so he knew about Raj Kapoor and
Shane
. His dearest desire was to see a Tarzan film. But Mzee Omari’s stories were exciting too. His heroes were Africans like al-Bushiri and Makunganya and Kinjikitilé of Ngarambe. And Punja the Lion.
“Don’t go, I tell you,” Mama said. “There are djinns there, by the sea, in the trees. That Mzee Omari, he attracts them. He has no fear of anything, that old man. Don’t go there, did you hear? Some shetani-djinn will get inside you.”
“Thubutu! That Idris tried to chase me away one night, and what a chiding Mzee gave him! In front of all.”
“I told you!”
He couldn’t keep away. One way or another he would find out when a recitation was scheduled, and he would sneak off and find his place behind the rows of sitting elders. One evening Kamal sat mesmerized, listening to the poet, when Saida slid down beside him, silent, panting. She smelled of pee.
“Mama, she does not wear knickers. I can see her uchi sometimes.”
This happened when they were sitting on the floor, studying. His mother looked strangely at him, then looked away.
But Saida got her knickers, she showed them to him proudly when she came for her lessons, in one quick flick of her dress, when Mama was not looking. Red and yellow checks, the kunguru design, coming up to her belly button. Mama had stitched them. Kamal was pleased with himself too. He had got his first Y-front from the Indian store. The problem was when it was in the wash. “I’m saving,” Mama said, “I’m saving for the next one. Meanwhile, keep your thing discreet. Don’t let the bwana peep out or flip-flop about.”
They had a long laugh together.
• • •
“Mama …”
“Mmm. Nini, sasa.” Stitching buttonholes for the Indian store. She wore glasses now. “What’s it,” she said.
“Mama, sikiza!” Listen!
“Now what, my son?”
“Mzee Omari’s ancestors were Arab.”
He sat down beside her, on the broken-down sofa.
“Who told you that?”
“Even he said that—they came from Baghdad!”
“What are you saying?”
With that tone there always came a glare. He didn’t like to make Mama angry. It was so much nicer when they were friends and she looked after him, when they laughed together. Seeing her mood suddenly scorch unsettled him. But he couldn’t help it. He had discovered a point of argument.
“Mama—can anyone be more African than he? And yet his ancestor came from Baghdad.”
“Don’t trouble me.” Then she reached out and drew him up close. She laughed, and his heart relaxed with joy. There were only the two of them then, the third one mere memory, an imprint on their existence, slowly fading.
He had heard about India in his school, and he had read about Baghdad in a storybook. In his class, which contained all Indians except for him, a teacher came to instruct the boys about their culture. Every time he came he would tell a story. Kamal would be asked to sit in the last row during this lesson, but he paid attention, and that’s how he learned about his father’s country. In India there was a king called Rama who had a wife called Sita. The teacher held up pictures of this couple; they were similar to those in the calendars in the Indian shops. Rama and Sita were white people and had four hands. Rama held a bow. Their friend was a monkey who stood tall on two feet, looking very serious. This monkey was a fundi, an engineer. Was his own father, the doctor who had gone away, white? Did some Indians look like monkeys? If so, then he begged Allah
Shane
. His dearest desire was to see a Tarzan film. But Mzee Omari’s stories were exciting too. His heroes were Africans like al-Bushiri and Makunganya and Kinjikitilé of Ngarambe. And Punja the Lion.
“Don’t go, I tell you,” Mama said. “There are djinns there, by the sea, in the trees. That Mzee Omari, he attracts them. He has no fear of anything, that old man. Don’t go there, did you hear? Some shetani-djinn will get inside you.”
“Thubutu! That Idris tried to chase me away one night, and what a chiding Mzee gave him! In front of all.”
“I told you!”
He couldn’t keep away. One way or another he would find out when a recitation was scheduled, and he would sneak off and find his place behind the rows of sitting elders. One evening Kamal sat mesmerized, listening to the poet, when Saida slid down beside him, silent, panting. She smelled of pee.
“Mama, she does not wear knickers. I can see her uchi sometimes.”
This happened when they were sitting on the floor, studying. His mother looked strangely at him, then looked away.
But Saida got her knickers, she showed them to him proudly when she came for her lessons, in one quick flick of her dress, when Mama was not looking. Red and yellow checks, the kunguru design, coming up to her belly button. Mama had stitched them. Kamal was pleased with himself too. He had got his first Y-front from the Indian store. The problem was when it was in the wash. “I’m saving,” Mama said, “I’m saving for the next one. Meanwhile, keep your thing discreet. Don’t let the bwana peep out or flip-flop about.”
They had a long laugh together.
• • •
“Mama …”
“Mmm. Nini, sasa.” Stitching buttonholes for the Indian store. She wore glasses now. “What’s it,” she said.
“Mama, sikiza!” Listen!
“Now what, my son?”
“Mzee Omari’s ancestors were Arab.”
He sat down beside her, on the broken-down sofa.
“Who told you that?”
“Even he said that—they came from Baghdad!”
“What are you saying?”
With that tone there always came a glare. He didn’t like to make Mama angry. It was so much nicer when they were friends and she looked after him, when they laughed together. Seeing her mood suddenly scorch unsettled him. But he couldn’t help it. He had discovered a point of argument.
“Mama—can anyone be more African than he? And yet his ancestor came from Baghdad.”
“Don’t trouble me.” Then she reached out and drew him up close. She laughed, and his heart relaxed with joy. There were only the two of them then, the third one mere memory, an imprint on their existence, slowly fading.
He had heard about India in his school, and he had read about Baghdad in a storybook. In his class, which contained all Indians except for him, a teacher came to instruct the boys about their culture. Every time he came he would tell a story. Kamal would be asked to sit in the last row during this lesson, but he paid attention, and that’s how he learned about his father’s country. In India there was a king called Rama who had a wife called Sita. The teacher held up pictures of this couple; they were similar to those in the calendars in the Indian shops. Rama and Sita were white people and had four hands. Rama held a bow. Their friend was a monkey who stood tall on two feet, looking very serious. This monkey was a fundi, an engineer. Was his own father, the doctor who had gone away, white? Did some Indians look like monkeys? If so, then he begged Allah
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