Translated from the Swahili by J.C. Niala
‘If anyone tells me to go back to Kisima, they’d have to explain why!’ Hariri said to her husband, Panyakoo, every word dripping with contempt. Fatma, who was in her bedroom getting ready, stopped to listen as the argument escalated.
‘What sane person would want to live in a hole like Kisima? It’s full of savage and ignorant people, their lives drenched in darkness black as their skin. They wallow in drunkenness, poverty, petty politics, treachery, overpopulation, floods, droughts, chaos, corruption, disease, and greed. They don’t know how to dress, to speak English, cook, serve food, see properly, or study. Even those who do study want a foreign education like you get here. They can’t look after themselves, can’t tell a fridge from a cupboard, they’ve no interest in their future. No, no, no- these things are openly discussed nowadays, not just on social media, but in churches, universities, even the mainstream media. What good is there in such people? No wonder we here in Bahari exploit their labour. They sweat, and we enjoy a sweet life for just a dollar. What sane person would wish for the kind of life in Kisima?’
‘Relax, relax! Chill out wifey,’ Panyakoo said smiling. ‘It was only a joke.’
‘What kind of joke is that? How is it be a joke to remind me of our Africa? I swore the only way I’d ever go back would be in a coffin.’
To avoid a lengthy argument, Panyakoo changed the subject and talked about his work problems. He was convinced that his colleagues shunned him because he’s Black and, whenever there was a problem, he often found himself in his boss’s firing line – facing false accusations.
In her room, Fatma listened to every word, as she fell back onto the bed like a sack of potatoes, she remembered where she had come from.
Only a few years earlier, she had been hundreds of miles from the sweeping oceans of Bahari, in nurturing Kisima, the same place that her uncle and aunt were mocking. Her mother, the widow Sijambo, had been struggling to raise eight children alone ever since her husband died young from drinking poisoned chang’aa. As the firstborn, it was Fatma who helped her mother cook and sell sorghum porridge and chapatis to provide food for the the nearby villages. Fatma was a hard worker who excelled at school, and had just been accepted to university when her father passed away. Her fees were paid by sympathetic well-wishers. When Panyakoo heard that his niece had graduated as a doctor, he arranged to bring her to Bahari to help her find work. Fatma’s family and neighbours were delighted by Panyakoo’s generosity.
On the day Fatma left, people came from far and wide to say their goodbyes, each planting a seed so she’d remember them fondly on her return. But there were some who were worried, and whispered to her not to change the way Panyakoo and his wife had. Since they first set foot on the shores of Bahari, the couple had never come back to Kisima. Despite her deep concern, the widow Sijambo tried to stay positive and supress her worries that Fatma, too, might forget her family.
As she flew through the sky in the white clouds, Fatma agonised over the expectations placed on her. She thought about all the cars she was expected to bring back to her village, and the promises she had made to find people jobs – as if she could create opportunities in Bahari! Her mother expected Fatma would send money every month. Fatma prayed, she was sure that in Europe, her education would take her far –now she’d see if what she was taught about Bahari in university was true.
If you asked Fatma about her plans, she would say you can’t know where you’re going until you know where you’ve been. But, from the moment Panyakoo welcomed her into his home, she knew her dreams had been washed away. Many days passed without her getting the promised job. Whenever she reminded her uncle of his promise, he became irritated, telling her to stop bothering him. His wife explained that in Bahari, even looking for work was work.
‘I know you’ve been wondering why I bleached my skin,’ said Auntie Hariri. ‘It’s so I look like I’m from Bahari. If I didn’t, I’d still be working in a laundry or as a nanny. How would I have gotten all the things in this house then, you tell me that?’
‘So what should I do?’
‘Use your wits! I know you don’t understand these things, but give it time, you will.’
Fatma spent weeks thinking about all the things she didn’t know. Learning to live in Bahari was exhausting. She remembered the gentle, tranquil life in her home village, where people respected each other. The young were taught good manners until it was second nature. Children belonged, not just to their parents, but to the whole community and were corrected by everyone. From an early age, they were taught responsibility. It was wonderful to see them gather firewood, hunt birds, forage for fruit, fetch water, or play football, hide-and-seek, and guessing games. In the evening, after a traditional meal, they would sit around the fire listening to stories from their grandparents.
Life in Bahari was very different. Fatma was shocked by how much Hariri had changed, from the way she dressed to her make-up. Hariri was in no hurry to be a mother (a child would spoil her fun) despite the ticking biological clock. She no longer went to church, she drank too much, and Panyakoo seemed blissfully ignorant of just how awful she had become. In Kisima, Hariri would have been teetotal. In the village, only elderly men took strong spirits at their parties. Hariri’s arrogance was obvious from the exaggerated English accent that mimicked Bahari women which Fatma couldn’t imitate even when she tried. Both Panyakoo and Hariri smoked openly and teased Fatma, saying that cigarettes would make her more sophisticated. Fatma clung to her traditions for more than a year until she realised she had become an unpaid housekeeper.
‘Uncle, I’d be better off working in a laundry – that way I could send some money home to mother,’ Fatma said one day over a typical opulent Baharian dinner. ‘It’s obvious that getting a job as a doctor here is like milking a bull.’
Hariri glared at Fatma. ‘Please let me look for opportunities for people from Kisima.’ Fatma continued, undeterred. ‘My academic qualifications don’t really matter, because both of you have masters and doctorates but you work in low-paid, menial jobs. Even if I start out as a housekeeper, I’m convinced I’ll eventually rise above it.’
Panyakoo listened to her patiently. ‘I hear you, Fatma. Don’t let me hold you back. After all, I’m not paying you. As you know, back in Kisima, family help each other without expecting anything in return. You’re free to do as you wish, Fatma, as long as you make money. I’m sure your aunt will help find you opportunities here in Bahari, won’t you, dear?’
‘As long as she stops being ignorant.’
‘I’m drowning, Auntie… I have to do something.’
And so, Fatma began to live like a native of Bahari. When she got a job working as a cleaner at The Strain Bar, she was thrilled to be earning money. There, she befriended someone else from Kisima, a regular called Christine, who never came alone. It troubled Fatma that Christine always had a different white man on her arm. Christine was a party girl, forever smiling, eating, drinking, and moving on. Fatma was curious and so decided to get close to Christine to learn her secret. They became friends, and reminisced about their past lives. Fatma concluded that ‘Bahari is truly mighty.’ Nonetheless, she was still shocked by Christine’s habit of changing old white men as often as she did her underwear, men who saw her ebony beauty, sculpted by plastic surgery, as something to devour.
‘I hate Kisima. It’s like mucus!’ Christine said sneeringly. ‘My parents sent me here to study. As soon as I got here, I realised I wasn’t a fool – I gave up my studies and I’ve spent the last five years eating and drinking!’
‘Your parents haven’t been looking for you?’
‘How could they? I changed my name. In Kisima, I was Manita Naisiae; here, I’m Christine Faustine.’
‘Haha! You’re something else, sister! Even a rhyming name?’
‘You might think I’m foolish, but here, brains are more than just an accessory. Get with it, Fatma, leave your old life behind.’
Fatma was manipulated into joining Christine’s lifestyle: her aunt Hariri’s issues were nothing by comparison. Before long, she was wearing make-up of every possible hue, multiple nose rings, numerous earrings, dark glasses, miniskirts and high heels.
On the day Fatma decided to move out, she put on the same elaborate make-up, took her travel bag and went into the living room to say goodbye to her family. The moment Panyakoo and Hariri saw her, they stopped criticising Africa.
‘Now, as I told you, I will be moving to my own place today, Uncle and Auntie. I’ll come round from time to time to check on you.’
‘It’s not a problem, Fatma. This is a big step for you,’ said Panyakoo. ‘But take care, since I don’t want to be blamed some day. There are many businesses here in Bahari, but some of them are dangerous. People are secretive, so be careful. And if there is something you can’t deal with, remember I’m always here to give advice.’
‘Why is he suddenly changing his tune?’ thought Fatma, though she was grateful for his concern.
‘I’m glad to see you took my advice,’ said Hariri smugly. ‘We’ll visit you soon.’
‘Seriously, my dear, if anything terrible happens to Fatma, I’ll regret it,’ Panyakoo said thoughtfully.
Fatma wanted the conversation to come to an end so she could press on with her plans. McDonald, the elderly white man (for whom she had settled) was standing at the front door, smiling. His hair was the colour of flour and his speech was slurred by age. Fatma smiled back and together they went back to his mansion. Having dated a number of white men, Fatma had finally found her needle in the haystack. Meanwhile, Christine, who had hooked her friend up, was unhappy at being left behind and advised Fatma to ditch marriage for freedom. Fatma didn’t want things to go backwards, which angered her scheming friend.
It didn’t take long for Fatma to realise her mistake. Life among Europeans was confusing and lonely, leaving her to feel overwhelmed and fearful. She often wondered why she had abandoned her old traditions for these terrible new ones. She moaned about the self-hatred instilled in her by the people of Bahari and worried how the people of Kismina would see her if she ever went home.
She couldn’t understand why she still felt as if she were drowning.
‘Why did I stop living like my people to take on these terrible new ways of life?’ Fatma asked herself everytime she looked in the mirror. ‘How did the people of Bahari make me despise my black skin? What is wrong with God-given blackness? Christine got me into this hole, where is she now to get me out? Who am I now? How can I say I am from Kisima when I no longer live like they do? When I now mix our language with English. And, if one day I should go home, will those who raised me even understand me? These days, I don’t wear traditional clothes these days, I scarcely even think about them. Bahari women are different to those at home. What are the people in my village saying about me? All is lost!’
‘Don’t say that!’ said her inner voice. ‘If you know where you have come from, you can find your way back.’
Everyday Fatma was torn between following her heart or her head.
Why was it like that?
Shortly after they exchanged vows, McDonald left Fatma at home. From the day she first moved in, McDonald had explained her role in the marriage. First and foremost, Christine would show her how to take care of the business. And Fatma took care of the business without knowing what the business was until she finally asked the nature of the business, and when she found out she refused to cooperate with the old man, even when he tried to convince her otherwise. After that, McDonald and Christine treated her like a leper.
At first, Fatma didn’t realise that she would be alone for much of the time. Not that she felt lonely, but whenever she tried to call, she could not get hold of anyone. Months passed and she began to be defeated, not knowing what to eat, or drink or wear. The little money she had saved was rapidly depleting. Now that she was pregnant, she couldn’t even look for another job. She had headaches from all the thinking to try and figure out where she had gone wrong.
One morning she was woken by the sirens of the Anti-Drugs Agency outside. Fatma knew who they were when she saw the name emblazoned on their jackets. They burst into the house and began to ransack the house. Fatma could not understand why they ignored her when she asked them what they wanted. Maybe you don’t want to talk to the blackie?was her guess. After a while, the officers gave up. Clearly, they hadn’t found what they were looking for.
Eventully one officer said, ‘Where is your husband?’
Speaking in English, Fatma gave a detailed explanation of everything she knew about McDonald up until the day he had left the marital home. Her words were written down and recorded. By the time the officers left, Fatma knew she had sacrificed herself to a drug lord. What shocked Fatma even more was that Christine was among those arrested for drug dealing. Fatma soon realised that it was only by the skin of her teeth that she had been spared. There were no secrets left.
In the end, dragging her bags behind her, Fatma trudged back to her uncle’s house. Though shocked to see her in such a state, he welcomed her inside. He asked a few questions, but was careful to avoid hurting her further. He comforted and advised her even as he explained his own troubles. He had quit his job after being falsely accused of theft. His wife, Hariri, had left him. Every time he tired to speak, he choked up.
Panyakoo: I quit my job before they could falsely accuse me. My work colleagues plotted against me just because of the colour of my skin, they threatened to take legal action. I had to beg on my knees and promise to leave.
Fatma: Aki, uncle, some people are not human.
Panyakoo: I’m telling you! As if it weren’t bad enough to fall, the ladder lands on top of you. When my wife heard this she packed her bags and took off. I got the news that she is married to a white man right here in Bahari.
But that’s not the real problem – the problem is that it’s this man called McDonald – the same bastard you were married to!
Fatma: Oh no! Auntie and McDonald? How did they even meet?
Panyakoo: How would I know, Fatma? How could I know when I didn’t even bother to find out where my wife got her money? On the news yesterday, they said McDonald had been arrested. What will happen to Hariri?
Fatma: Imagine Uncle, we’d be better off in Kisima. Better to be in our village than to stay in Bahari where we’ll never really belong. A little of what is yours is better than a lot of what may lead to ruin.
Panyakoo: Great minds think alike! I’ve been thinking about going home, even if it means living in a cave. I don’t know what welcome I’ll get in Kisima, but I’ll farm with what little I have. Bahari has crushed me like a tidal wave.
Fatma: Take me with you, Uncle, take me back to the village you brought me from. I need to ask forgiveness for my broken promises. I can only hope that my people will believe in me again.
Panyakoo: We will try to make them understand.
Fatma: If they do, I’ll teach the children of Kisima so they do not face these problems. If it is the only thing I ever achieve, I’ll be content.
Some days later, Panyakoo and his niece took a plane back to Kisima. Fatma, bursting with happiness, worked to remember her native language before they landed. She was better off than Panyakoo, who was struggling with his feelings. Thinking about her pregnancy, Fatma smiled, grateful that her child would not set foot in Bahari. She wondered if they ever did whether they could withstand the might of Bahari.
***
