“Come see this miracle, young man,” the grinning Salemani said, and foolish curious Kamal followed him open-eyed into the shadows, where Salemani turned around suddenly and lifted up his loincloth to reveal his prodigious penis. Kamal stared at the monstrous piece of flesh, his heart thudding inside him, walked away, as Salemani called after him, “Feel it, hold it.” At home he couldn’t eat that night, his heart still pounding, and he went outside and vomited in the yard.
A few days later, walking with Saida, still during Ramadan, he turned sharply away as Salemani approached. The girl snickered. “If you go with him, he will show you his mshipa!” she said, shocking him.
“Who is this Salemani?” he asked his mother. “Why does he have such bad manners?”
One look at his face, and she knew. “Salemani the shameless. Eti, he showed himself to you?”
He nodded, tears in his eyes.
“That bastard, I’ll teach him manners!” She picked up the broom and stormed to the shopping street, rolling her wonderful haunches. “Where is that shameless fellow?” she demanded, until she found him slinking at the refuse dump on the main road near the monument, where she flew at him with the broom. Bystanders joined her in the abuse and the beggar was pelted with pebbles and anything else possible. Hamida’s fury was well known. Don’t toy with her or her son. Ni mama na baba huyu, she is mother and father, now that her man, the Indian, has absconded.
Sometimes the Indian barber gave Salemani a haircut, shaving his grey head completely, and the boys would jeer at the bald, shameless general. He trimmed his own beard at the dump, using an old knife or a piece of glass, appearing on the street bleeding and shocking.
But who was Salemani? What did he want? Why did he beg? And why did he act crazy, when all the town knew that he wasn’t?
One day he and Saida strayed away from the square, took the path alongside the creek, an inlet running north from the harbour through a wall of mangrove forest. It was noontime, just before lunch, nobody was around. The tide was low, the creek depleted of water. A salty stench hung in the air. Walking side by side in this private moment, holding hands while pretending not to, what do you talk about? “When I grow up I will buy Mama the best dress from a shop window in Dar es Salaam. Or from Nairobi—they have the best shops there.” “How do you know?” “Some Indian boy told me.” “You will go all the way to Nairobi? Where is that?” “It is in Kenya Colony, where Jomo Kenyatta is in prison. What will you buyyour mama?” “I will have a husband,” she says, “and he will buy me a dress.”
So simple. Recalling that moment so many years later, when he, now a doctor, was back in Kilwa inquiring about her, he was moved by his desperation to utter: “I will buy you your dress, Saida, where are you? … I’ll buy you a house!”
At the German cemetery, where they arrived, the two youngsters strolled about among the graves, the empty grey beds of stone under which rested the remains of dead white men of long ago, and eventually as they sat down on the ground with their backs against one of them, suddenly there was a murmur among the bushes down towards the creek that startled them; but when the sounds seemed human they crept stealthily closer to peer at the source. Male and female voices and a thrashing in the bushes. They looked through leaves and branches, saw an Indian girl lying down, the boy kneeling over her. Together they pulled down her knickers. He lowered his trousers.
Kamal and Saida stood away.
“He’s fucking her,” she said matter-of-factly. Anamtomba.
“Ah, Saida! Don’t say such bad words! Who taught you to speak like that?”
“Mm-mm.”
That surely linked them, this knowledge. And he looking at her like the girl she was; a female. She looking back at him, wide-eyed and innocent.
And how old were they? Perhaps ten and eight. Even now, he
A few days later, walking with Saida, still during Ramadan, he turned sharply away as Salemani approached. The girl snickered. “If you go with him, he will show you his mshipa!” she said, shocking him.
“Who is this Salemani?” he asked his mother. “Why does he have such bad manners?”
One look at his face, and she knew. “Salemani the shameless. Eti, he showed himself to you?”
He nodded, tears in his eyes.
“That bastard, I’ll teach him manners!” She picked up the broom and stormed to the shopping street, rolling her wonderful haunches. “Where is that shameless fellow?” she demanded, until she found him slinking at the refuse dump on the main road near the monument, where she flew at him with the broom. Bystanders joined her in the abuse and the beggar was pelted with pebbles and anything else possible. Hamida’s fury was well known. Don’t toy with her or her son. Ni mama na baba huyu, she is mother and father, now that her man, the Indian, has absconded.
Sometimes the Indian barber gave Salemani a haircut, shaving his grey head completely, and the boys would jeer at the bald, shameless general. He trimmed his own beard at the dump, using an old knife or a piece of glass, appearing on the street bleeding and shocking.
But who was Salemani? What did he want? Why did he beg? And why did he act crazy, when all the town knew that he wasn’t?
One day he and Saida strayed away from the square, took the path alongside the creek, an inlet running north from the harbour through a wall of mangrove forest. It was noontime, just before lunch, nobody was around. The tide was low, the creek depleted of water. A salty stench hung in the air. Walking side by side in this private moment, holding hands while pretending not to, what do you talk about? “When I grow up I will buy Mama the best dress from a shop window in Dar es Salaam. Or from Nairobi—they have the best shops there.” “How do you know?” “Some Indian boy told me.” “You will go all the way to Nairobi? Where is that?” “It is in Kenya Colony, where Jomo Kenyatta is in prison. What will you buyyour mama?” “I will have a husband,” she says, “and he will buy me a dress.”
So simple. Recalling that moment so many years later, when he, now a doctor, was back in Kilwa inquiring about her, he was moved by his desperation to utter: “I will buy you your dress, Saida, where are you? … I’ll buy you a house!”
At the German cemetery, where they arrived, the two youngsters strolled about among the graves, the empty grey beds of stone under which rested the remains of dead white men of long ago, and eventually as they sat down on the ground with their backs against one of them, suddenly there was a murmur among the bushes down towards the creek that startled them; but when the sounds seemed human they crept stealthily closer to peer at the source. Male and female voices and a thrashing in the bushes. They looked through leaves and branches, saw an Indian girl lying down, the boy kneeling over her. Together they pulled down her knickers. He lowered his trousers.
Kamal and Saida stood away.
“He’s fucking her,” she said matter-of-factly. Anamtomba.
“Ah, Saida! Don’t say such bad words! Who taught you to speak like that?”
“Mm-mm.”
That surely linked them, this knowledge. And he looking at her like the girl she was; a female. She looking back at him, wide-eyed and innocent.
And how old were they? Perhaps ten and eight. Even now, he
Similar Books
