Who Will Catch Us As We Fall (24 page)

‘Hi, Leena.'

He appeared so much older then and she felt a burst of nervousness, suddenly hating the puffy sleeves of her dress, its childish pink and yellow rosebud pattern. Her hair seemed ridiculous in its curly, wired locks and she pressed it down in vain. His voice cut through her thoughts.

‘You look very pretty.'

‘She looks like a poodle,' Jai said.

‘Not at all.' How heavy his voice was, pushing the world into a spin.

They settled down on the grass, Jai easily and the other two uncomfortably – both conscious of their movements so that they dodged, banged,
sorried
each other on their way down.

Trying to break the awkwardness he felt, Michael said, ‘Looks like you're having a huge party.'

‘My parents' anniversary. You know how Indians are – you have to invite everyone otherwise someone might be insulted and never invite you to one of their parties ever again,' Jai said.

‘It must be nice to know that many people – to feel like you'll never really be alone.'

Having had the chance to observe this
muhindi
culture for many months, Michael had come to appreciate the close-knit community they formed – even, to a certain extent, the sense of obligation and loyalty that bound them to one another.

‘My father thinks it's full of busybodies sticking their ears, noses and mouths wherever they don't belong.' Jai looked back at the house where the guests were starting to arrive. ‘I'm beginning to agree with him.'

‘What about you, Leena?'

She stopped fussing with her dress. Blinked twice. It felt strange to be asked for her opinion, to be looked at with such keen interest.

‘What's the point of thinking about it so much? It's just the way it is,' she replied.

‘That's exactly the kind of mentality that got us here in the first place,' Jai snapped.

‘Come on, Jai.' Michael calmed his friend. ‘We're all entitled to our opinions.'

‘Not if they're wrong,' he muttered, but Michael ignored him and kept smiling at her. It started a quiver in her chest – a slight but detectable change that thickened the blood in her veins.

A little ruffled, Jai stood, brushing off his trousers. ‘I'll bring you out something to eat, if you want,' he said to Michael.

‘A few samosas wouldn't hurt, I guess.'

Jai beckoned for Leena to follow him but she stayed rooted to her place. ‘You can join us inside,' she said to Michael. He had always been so kind to her and today she wanted to be that for him.

‘You know I can't.'

He caught her arm as she stood up to leave. Leaning over, he tucked a flower behind her ear, grazing her neck – the smooth skin behind her hair that she had never paid much attention to before. Now, its presence was a ceaseless vibration. ‘Bougainvillea are your favorite, right?'

‘Thank you.' The words were insufficient but there was nothing else she could say.

He released her elbow too soon. ‘Your mother is waiting for you.'

Her walk back to the house was measured and thoughtful, pausing at the step where her mother had come out. Pooja's gaze was fixed above Leena's head, her eyebrows knitted, the gold-hoop ring in her nose glinting. Then she reached out and snatched the flower from her daughter's hair.

‘Hey!' Leena grasped the blank space near her ear, surprised and saddened by what her mother had done.

‘I don't want it in your hair.' Pooja pushed her daughter into the doorway, crushing the petals between determined fingers and tossing them, ripped and drained of color, onto the step. ‘It's dirty and probably full of ants.'

That night, in bed, Pooja said to her husband, ‘Do you still want to move house?'

He turned to her in surprise, pulling off his reading glasses. The party had exhausted him; it was always nice to be around friends but he had reached a stage in his life now where he craved some degree of peace and quiet. ‘I do.'

‘How long will we have to wait?'

Raj bolted upright, trying to catch up to the implication of his wife's words. When he spoke, his words were fast with excitement. ‘There are two houses I've been looking at seriously.'

‘Whichever one you want,' she replied absently. ‘How long?'

Her haste confused him, stilting his enthusiasm. ‘Don't you want to see them first?'

‘I trust you.'

‘The house in Runda is ready – it's furnished and the current occupants leave for America this coming weekend.' He was cautious, wondering if it was some kind of trick.

‘So two weeks?'

‘Three at the least – if we do everything quickly. It's only two years old so we wouldn't have to do any renovations.'

Pooja unfurled her pinned hair, letting it span out across her shoulders. ‘It's decided then.'

He grabbed her arm, his magazine falling to the floor. ‘I'll take you there tomorrow – you're going to love it.'

‘I have only one condition.'

His smile turned worried. He didn't like it when she sounded that way, determined as a bulldozer, crushing everything in her path.

‘What is it?'

‘Angela won't be coming with us.'

Dismayed, Raj felt betrayed by his wife's ulterior motive. She had tricked him and he had fallen blindly into her trap. He tried to reason with her. ‘Angela has been with us for twelve years. We can't just let her go without a proper reason.'

‘Do you want to move or not?'

He should have pressed her for more information, perhaps tried longer to dissuade her, but he was afraid that she would change her mind, that he would be left to grow old in this compound surrounded by small-minded people, and so he remained silent. Consoling himself with the idea that he would help Angela find another position before they left, he nodded. ‘If that's what you think is right.'

‘I'll talk to her tomorrow then,' Pooja said, turning away from him so that he wouldn't see the way her face relaxed with relief as she stretched out her hand to flick off the bedside lamp, casting them into darkness.

In the middle of the afternoon at a deserted bar situated high up on a busy street in Westlands, Jeffery lounged in the stuffy heat, sipping his whiskey and coke. He watched the road below, lined with rows and rows of nightclubs. Officially known as Mpaka Road, this corner of the city transformed into ‘Electric Avenue' after dark, Nairobi's liveliest club district.

During the late afternoon, however, all one could hear was the beginnings of rush-hour traffic, a cacophony of car horns, reggae music and street vendors shouting out prices and knocking on windows. He enjoyed the gaudy colors of the
matatus
, the political and religious messages stamped across their back windows and on the sides of buses; in Nairobi, it was not uncommon to board a bus that carried quotes such as ‘Only Jesus can give wholeness to a broken life.'

He watched tiny hurricanes of dust rise beneath the wheels of these chaotic vehicles and drew away from the window in a fit of coughing. Gulping down half his whiskey and coke he released an unsatisfied belch and checked his watch – three o'clock and he was disappointingly sober and annoyed at having been kept waiting.

‘
Ingine?
' The damp whisper in his ear, long-ringed fingers accidentally-on-purpose grazing high up on his thigh.

Jeffery's eyes roamed deliberately over the waitress's body. Once upon a time, he would have appreciated the obvious effort she had put into the tight, leopard-print dress, the twisted-up weave. But now, he was only bored as he nodded a yes.

As she moved away to get his drink, he caught her hand roughly. ‘No diluting this one,
mnalewa
?'

She sulked off and he downed the dregs of the drink in front of him with satisfaction. No one cheated him, especially not some leggy, aging
malaya
who sometimes waitressed and who was becoming nothing more than an old nuisance.

A fresh glass was placed in front of him and he tugged at her curved waist, pressed her breasts up to his cheek as he leaned down to sniff the whiskey. Catching the pungent whiff he grunted his approval, noting that she had added two shots instead of the one he would be paying for. He pulled out a wad of cash and slipping it into the lace strap of her bra, whispered, ‘
Baadaye
.'

Happy with this promise to meet her later, she moved away with swinging hips and he said, ‘You're playing with fire,
kijana
.'

A young man was hovering behind him and at Jeffery's voice he was goaded into a mild protestation. ‘There was jam everywhere, officer.'

‘That's not my problem. Where is it?'

A sorrowful face. ‘I haven't had a job in a while. If I can come see you next week with the payment,
itakuwa poa sana
.'

Jeffery kept his voice pleasant, his fingers trailing the rim of his glass. He had learned that in matters of money it was necessary to remain polite, no matter how angry one became. ‘How will I feed my family now?'

‘You know how this job works.' As he spoke, the man, Nick, kept a pleading hand to his chest. ‘Sometimes money comes, other times no one is looking to buy. There is so much competition these days.'

Jeffery remained silent and the boy recognized the expectation on his face. He had not come here for nothing. So Nick removed six thousand shillings, more than three-quarters of what he had made that week, and slid it unhappily over the table. But he was partly relieved, having been let off relatively easily. He had been terrified to come here, especially after hearing what this officer had done to his partner.

What was his name again?
Nick searched for it as Jeffery counted out the notes in his hand.

‘You need to work harder,
sawa
?'

David.
That was it.

Nick retreated rapidly, thanking the officer on his way out. Jeffery returned the glass to his lips, muttering under his breath.
Mafala.

Idiot.

How is it possible to be cheated by your own soul? It was the newest question Jeffery grappled with every night. For thirty years, he had been living one life, so certain of it that even in his poverty he had been content. But one deceptively sunny morning, he had awoken in another man's house, surrounded by a stranger's possessions, including his wife, and found that the life meant for him was something entirely different.

Three years prior to that day, together with David he had been working closely with the
sacco
leader from that unassuming shop on Biashara Street. The first night he had received thirty thousand shillings, Jeffery opened his own bank account upon his friend's advice.

‘This is only the beginning, Jeff,' he had been told.

David was quick to monopolize the information he had received about the
saccos
. They latched onto various
matatu
unions springing up around the city before anyone else realized how profitable they were and, within the year, the two of them were receiving payments from ten such companies: a hundred thousand shillings monthly.

Of course, there was the hierarchy to consider and a large percentage of what they collected went to officers in stations above them, including the senior police officer at the Parklands station.

‘We forgive and forget,
eh-he
?' the fat man had said. ‘Besides, look at how successful you are now. You should be thanking me.'

‘He's right,' David had told Jeffery. ‘Stop clinging to the past – it's time you moved out of that shack. You have more money now and how much of it can you spend on whores?' A wicked laugh. ‘Or should I say whore?'

‘We're in love,' Jeffery had informed him.

She called herself Marlyn, and though it wasn't her real name its exoticness suited her perfectly. Mysterious, with a body so perfectly curved, it had an animalistic sway – dark skin that was cool and soft to touch.
Mar-Lynne the mermaid.

After several months of courtship, which included buying her expensive gifts and staying in luxurious hotels, which back then were still out of his pocket's reach, and dining in fine restaurants, Marlyn stopped seeing other men and Jeffery stopped paying her. She asked to move in with him but he refused, wanting to hold on to his curtained shack, guarding the final remnants of his past.

Despite his moving upward, something held him back from leaving those winding, muddy streets, the outdoor lawyers and Miss Judy reciting the alphabet with singing children. Doing so would be like having his mother die all over again, and he knew that the day he left her house would be the time he was truly lost.

Having grown up in a place where even using the toilet had its price, Jeffery was unsurprised by all the luxuries money could buy. Alcohol, food, two mobile phones clipped to either side of his belt; soon he became bloated by all of these things. His paunch folded over and his shirt buttons often strained and snapped right off. He could be walking down the street, kissing Marlyn and
pop
! Another button would go flying off, a sad and frightening reminder. His chin sagged and wrinkles sprouted over his forehead and eyes, like flowers in bloom. Marijuana stained his eyes red and tobacco browned his teeth, but still he couldn't bring himself to stop.

And the fatter he grew, the greedier he became for new things, so that eventually even Marlyn became something in want of replacement. He watched her one evening getting dressed for dinner, knotting up her hair so that she could fasten the clasp of her necklace.

‘I don't know why you still wear that one when I've bought you so many more expensive things.'

Marlyn studied herself in the mirror, finger traveling over the rusted costume jewelry. Her eyes met his. ‘Some things are worth more than just how much they cost, Jeff.'