The Magic of Saida by M. G. Vassanji Page A

that they did not include his ancestors. Among the Indians in town there were one or two men who would definitely fit that description, he thought. And in Baghdad there was a powerful sultan called HarunRashid. There was Aladdin who had a lamp with a djinn inside it. No surprise that Mzee Omari, whose ancestor came from that city, had his own djinn too. Did Mzee Omari keep the dreadful Idris in a bottle? Did he come out of it like a blue puff of wind as in the storybook?

• 7 •
    During the month of Ramadan, early in the evening, when the day’s fast had been solemnly broken in each Muslim home, Kamal would emerge into the streets with a sinia, a round tray that he would balance carefully on one shoulder, holding it against his neck, heaped with diamond-shaped kashatas, pink and orange coconut brittles, sweet. Barefoot, the imported, England-made Y-front his only, though hidden, privilege. “Kashaataaaa! Five cents a piece!” he would call out proudly in a high pitch as if calling the azan—there was no shame in doing business. “Weh kashata!” would come a cry, calling him over, for in the parlance he was identified with the product itself, and he would go and ask the customer, “How many?” and collect his money. From such origins to medical school. From there to Edmonton.
    With his laden tray he would first meander towards the monument on the main road and linger, until her high, thin voice rose and she appeared from the opposite side, calling out, “Ee-eeh taaambi!” Fried vermicelli. They would sally forth on the street of the Indian shops, separating to compete for customers, then on to the street of the large Indian stone houses, which had a few shops too and the large prayer house, outside which the kids played. They were the best customers. The two vendors would rendezvous for a break to give their throats a rest. At one of the shops they would get a drink of water. “How much did you make, Kamalu?” “Fifty.” “Me, sixty-five!” “Go on, eti!”
    One last round as the streets turned dark and they would part company at the monument.
    They never spoke about each other, they just were, the two of them, a conspiracy together. An implication.
    During Ramadan the stores stayed open late, for it was the month of shopping, with money saved, money borrowed. Even the poorest needed new clothes for the Eid celebrations at month-end. Groups of women fluttering out in bui-bui, trailing sweet perfumes, children wailing for the toys displayed so cruelly in the stores, tailors on sidewalks, their machines grinding away creating dresses and shirts, beggars unrelenting. Night fell, the lamps would come out, the shops began to close. The Indian boys and girls would be outside playing in and out of the shadows. Their fathers sitting around in groups drinking kahawa and playing cards by lamplight.
    Among the beggars was the despicable Salemani Mkono. Not with an enlarged foot, or leper’s hands, or unwieldy scrotum, not old and covered in poxes. He was just a purple-skinned beggar, with a short, scruffy beard and an idiot’s grin on his large round head. And a bad, motionless left arm at his side. He wore the same soiled clothes for months, a checkered cloth round his waist and a torn T-shirt, until someone gave him a new set, and he might appear suddenly in green and red instead of red and black. Come Friday morning and he would be out, hand outstretched, and the faithful could not very well deny him alms on this day, even if it was a cent or a heller. Sometimes the kichaa hit him, that fit of madness, and he would march up and down the street of the Indian shops like a soldier, a stick on his shoulder, kids following, teasing him, calling after him, “Generali, generali”—the general. To their utter delight he would come to a sudden stop, shout a hoarse “Halt!,” then turn around and scream, “Achtung!”
    One Ramadan evening he approached Kamal as the boy paused on the street with his tray. Eh Kashata!