savings behind the closet, which were almost all used up.
My heart contracted and I grieved silently as I heard Mother say something in a heavy voice in the next room; and after that:‘Will you do it again?’ twice in succession. Then the sound of smacks as she slapped him on the thighs with a leather slipper, and his wailing reply, ‘No, no.’
She returned to the sitting room, her face white, her lips pressed.
The Driver
He parked the stationwagon outside the goldsmith’s shop and a bunch of schoolboys in rumpled, soiled uniforms of white and grey tumbled out of it from all sides. He watched them take off in all four directions for their homes. Then he carefully wiped the oil from their hair off the seats, locked the car doors and sauntered towards Nurmohamed’s store across the street.
A bicycle speedily crossed his path and came to a wobbling stop a short distance away at the intersection. On the main road, the daily bread cart came creaking into sight, a fellow pushing it from behind and another pulling it. Now it pulled up at the intersection and waited. It was four o’clock in the afternoon and humid after the rains. As he walked he put his hand behind his neck and softly rubbed the sweaty skin there. Wet globules of dirt formed under his fingers. The inside of his shirt collar felt wet to his touch and he cursed at the heat.
Nurmohamed, who had followed his arrival from inside the store, now watched him cross the street. He sat, in a white singlet and a worn, green loincloth, perched on a carseat atop a wooden crate. Through the two storefronts he looked out on the two streets. He was surrounded by his wares, sitting practically in their midst. Crates heaped with grain and spices formed an uneven chequerboard displayed to the main street on one side; a wood-topped counter with a fly-specked glass front containing old yellowing items closed off most of the other side, leaving a smallpassageway behind him. Tufts of grey hair jutted out from under his soft fat arms. His uncovered chest was a jungle of grey hair, his layered chin had a white stubble, and his white head was cropped close. His hands were in continuous motion. He would put a handful of spice or gum on a piece of square paper, then fold it rapidly, twice, to make a cone, then a third time, and finally tuck the remaining edge in and throw the finished packet into a basket. It would fetch ten cents from his mainly African customers.
From where he sat he could reach and measure out grain for them with a rusty milk can attached to a long handle. And he could extend a small metal tray to collect their money and return change. An old wooden cash box stood on the table in front of him. He did not have to move. They called him Mzee Pipa – Old Barrel. He was known far and wide, Mzee Pipa, the fat Indian shopkeeper of Kichwele Street, who would gyp you of a penny if he could. His weak legs could not carry his weight, and he had to be supported by the driver when he walked.
Inside the store was dark and cool. A large and dirty green tarpaulin sheet hanging from an awning protected the counter side from direct sunlight in the afternoons. Behind him were stacks of old British newspapers,
The Observer, The Illustrated London News, News of the World
, wrapping paper for sale to neighbouring stores. Behind the papers were gunny sacks filled with grain and behind these, in the storeroom, was complete darkness where no light, electric or sun, ever reached, and where only the servant ventured. There were cupboards on the walls that had not been opened for years. The place was infested with rats and cockroaches. An odour of spice and grain mixed with cockroach egg and wet gunny permeated the air inside.
The servant, a young boy who sat outside on the weighing scale under the awning, apparently with nothing to do at this hour, looked up as the driver approached.
‘Eh, Idi,’ spoke Nurmohamed in a hardly audible croak to the driver. ‘Now take the food to the
My heart contracted and I grieved silently as I heard Mother say something in a heavy voice in the next room; and after that:‘Will you do it again?’ twice in succession. Then the sound of smacks as she slapped him on the thighs with a leather slipper, and his wailing reply, ‘No, no.’
She returned to the sitting room, her face white, her lips pressed.
The Driver
He parked the stationwagon outside the goldsmith’s shop and a bunch of schoolboys in rumpled, soiled uniforms of white and grey tumbled out of it from all sides. He watched them take off in all four directions for their homes. Then he carefully wiped the oil from their hair off the seats, locked the car doors and sauntered towards Nurmohamed’s store across the street.
A bicycle speedily crossed his path and came to a wobbling stop a short distance away at the intersection. On the main road, the daily bread cart came creaking into sight, a fellow pushing it from behind and another pulling it. Now it pulled up at the intersection and waited. It was four o’clock in the afternoon and humid after the rains. As he walked he put his hand behind his neck and softly rubbed the sweaty skin there. Wet globules of dirt formed under his fingers. The inside of his shirt collar felt wet to his touch and he cursed at the heat.
Nurmohamed, who had followed his arrival from inside the store, now watched him cross the street. He sat, in a white singlet and a worn, green loincloth, perched on a carseat atop a wooden crate. Through the two storefronts he looked out on the two streets. He was surrounded by his wares, sitting practically in their midst. Crates heaped with grain and spices formed an uneven chequerboard displayed to the main street on one side; a wood-topped counter with a fly-specked glass front containing old yellowing items closed off most of the other side, leaving a smallpassageway behind him. Tufts of grey hair jutted out from under his soft fat arms. His uncovered chest was a jungle of grey hair, his layered chin had a white stubble, and his white head was cropped close. His hands were in continuous motion. He would put a handful of spice or gum on a piece of square paper, then fold it rapidly, twice, to make a cone, then a third time, and finally tuck the remaining edge in and throw the finished packet into a basket. It would fetch ten cents from his mainly African customers.
From where he sat he could reach and measure out grain for them with a rusty milk can attached to a long handle. And he could extend a small metal tray to collect their money and return change. An old wooden cash box stood on the table in front of him. He did not have to move. They called him Mzee Pipa – Old Barrel. He was known far and wide, Mzee Pipa, the fat Indian shopkeeper of Kichwele Street, who would gyp you of a penny if he could. His weak legs could not carry his weight, and he had to be supported by the driver when he walked.
Inside the store was dark and cool. A large and dirty green tarpaulin sheet hanging from an awning protected the counter side from direct sunlight in the afternoons. Behind him were stacks of old British newspapers,
The Observer, The Illustrated London News, News of the World
, wrapping paper for sale to neighbouring stores. Behind the papers were gunny sacks filled with grain and behind these, in the storeroom, was complete darkness where no light, electric or sun, ever reached, and where only the servant ventured. There were cupboards on the walls that had not been opened for years. The place was infested with rats and cockroaches. An odour of spice and grain mixed with cockroach egg and wet gunny permeated the air inside.
The servant, a young boy who sat outside on the weighing scale under the awning, apparently with nothing to do at this hour, looked up as the driver approached.
‘Eh, Idi,’ spoke Nurmohamed in a hardly audible croak to the driver. ‘Now take the food to the
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