“You’ve become so dark” blurts Osman, “you’re almost my colour! Like ma sista!”
“It’s a nice colour”, I respond, knowing my mother would have a fit if she knew about the ten clicks I walked the previous day, like a bloody mad dog or English man. “It’s not the tanning, that’s ok”, she’d say, “but you must protect your skin”. There’s not much that SPF 30+, liberally applied, could do about the long curving beach, a giant semi-parabolic reflector, directing noon-day UV all over me, as if I was its focal point. Or the silky glinting sea water, shimmering strands of light extrusions on waves about to crash, shattering into a million pieces as they do, reflections dancing with my eyes in mutual joy on my face (marking out future wrinkles, my mother would add). As I walked on, cooling tired feet, highly exfoliated from hot sand. To some purpose. To some destination. But right then, totally alone. Happily and wholly immersed in journey.
Osman laughs and shakes his head, knocking me back from momentary distraction. “Ma sista” he says, and guns the engine as we clamber in. “Where to?”
-----------------------------------------------------
Danson’s already waiting, sitting alone at the table. It’s dark. There’s a couple of fluorescent tubes providing a harsh light from a distance away, near a crumbly building with a dark interior and iron grills protecting the bottles behind the counter. There’s just a faint whisper of a breeze. As far as I can see, the table’s on a netball court. About as many chairs around the table as there are cats surrounding the chairs. I sigh inwardly, give up my luxurious thoughts of a gin martini, olive please, and opt for a Pepsi.
“Roast chicken” says Danson. “For me and Osman. A whole one. Plus chips. What about you?” he asks the rest of us.
Osman hoots, gleefully singing out “David-oh! He’s an Irey-Jah!” He won’t eat meat”.
“Chips my-eye” says David pointing to his eye and pulling the lid down. “Tasty. I hope they’re as boom as the ones you get at the place I pointed out to you.” He unconsciously preens and smoothes out his dreads under his cap as Osman and the waiter banter about “Rastaman Irey-Jahs”.
Chips mayai. A giant omelette with a filling of soggy chips. Plate rim garnished with a solitary tired slice of tomato. C. already drowns hers in ketchup, without even tasting. I troop with the others to the water canister, pour Omo in my palms and wash. David remains behind to protect the food from the cats.
“So Osman”, I say later, initiating some post prandial chat. “C. has told me you’ve travelled a bit. Where did you go, man? What’s your story?” He leans back, picks a tooth and starts.
There’s a discernable turn in the breeze. No longer Osman but Athumani – “that’s my real name you see” – and Athumani has usurped court, has become the Prince. C., Danson and I, relegated, oscillate between being interrogators and court jesters.
Athuman left home and travelled to South Africa by bus. He punctuates his tale, of schedules, places and routes, with little snapshots through his lens. “That Lilongwe, that’s a bloody useless place. It’s like Tanga, man. Shitty roads, can’t get anything in the shops. Not like Kenya, no Nakumatt.” He snorts. “Then in Mozambique I got into a bus at the border.” Reverts into Kiswahili. “I’m telling you, that was a very local bus.” A chortle. “Yeah, a really local bus. I didn’t understand the local lingo you see. I had to stand as they packed people in, even more than in our local buses. I thought it would be for a few hours, but man, actually it was for eighteen hours!” He stands up. Ramrod straight. Prisoner-like. Chin up, looking at the ceiling, arms flattened at the sides. “Like this! Seriously local. You wouldn’t believe. Eighteen hours! Man!” He shakes in laughter at the memory. Then, more gravely. “People in Malawi and Mozambique are really really poor. We’re rich here in Tanzania, compared.”
“Anyway, I reached the South African border, but I didn’t have a visa.” He pauses and looks up. I can see a punch-line. He’s willing the question. I look into his eyes, narrowing mine good naturedly, knowing there’s something ahead. I remain mum, Danson doesn’t realise the little game and plays a pawn. “So what happened?”
Nonchalantly. “Oh, I paid a guy to take me across. We had to go at night and cross underneath three big heavily patrolled fences. We carried shears and made ‘panya’ routes. I burrowed like a rat under the fence posts. It was very dangerous.”
The pawn’s been gobbled, a quick ruthless royal gulp. C. splutters out Pepsi.
“Then?”
“Then I went to the city and worked in a factory making duvets for two years. South Africa is good. But I didn’t like the pay and anyway I wanted to come home for a bit”.
“How did you get out?”
“By then I’d got myself a proper passport, with a South African visa stamped in it. It wasn’t a problem.”
I tease that he must have trailed an affair with a pretty girl at the visa desk in the High Commission. He laughs, doesn’t say anything, but later tells me how he did it.
“I’ll go back again sometime again” he says presently. “I’ll cross the border correctly next time. Not to stay, though. I want to save up a bit and go to see the World Cup. Ma sista, do you play any sport? Like netball maybe?”
“Not netball. I never liked it, my friend. What about you? Football? Play for Tanga United?” I reply.
“Golf!” he responds, triumphantly. “Yeah. I’m really good! Sometimes I go and play outside of Tanga. But there’s not much chance and I don’t have the stuff. But you know when I get on that place, you know, that place where you putt? It’s called putting. I’m dangerous, man! Very dangerous! Very very dangerous! I could be a professional.”
“Like Tiger Woods!” David chirps up.
“Yeah. Like Tiger Woods. But there’s no chance here, man. This is Tanga. Pfffffft! Dreams! Just dreams y’know?” He waves his arm backwards, like he’s dismissing his dream. Stretches out his leg in front of him and rubs his stomach. He looks at me and raises his eyebrows a couple of times. “Ma sista” he belches, satiated with food and talk.
------------------------------------------------------
The next day he fleeces me for a third above his agreed daily rate. S’okay ma sista, whatever, y’know?,” he shrugs. I cough up because I’m totally soft that way. What can I do? This person who's lived more lifetimes than I can imagine. This charming fellow.
“It’s a nice colour”, I respond, knowing my mother would have a fit if she knew about the ten clicks I walked the previous day, like a bloody mad dog or English man. “It’s not the tanning, that’s ok”, she’d say, “but you must protect your skin”. There’s not much that SPF 30+, liberally applied, could do about the long curving beach, a giant semi-parabolic reflector, directing noon-day UV all over me, as if I was its focal point. Or the silky glinting sea water, shimmering strands of light extrusions on waves about to crash, shattering into a million pieces as they do, reflections dancing with my eyes in mutual joy on my face (marking out future wrinkles, my mother would add). As I walked on, cooling tired feet, highly exfoliated from hot sand. To some purpose. To some destination. But right then, totally alone. Happily and wholly immersed in journey.
Osman laughs and shakes his head, knocking me back from momentary distraction. “Ma sista” he says, and guns the engine as we clamber in. “Where to?”
-----------------------------------------------------
Danson’s already waiting, sitting alone at the table. It’s dark. There’s a couple of fluorescent tubes providing a harsh light from a distance away, near a crumbly building with a dark interior and iron grills protecting the bottles behind the counter. There’s just a faint whisper of a breeze. As far as I can see, the table’s on a netball court. About as many chairs around the table as there are cats surrounding the chairs. I sigh inwardly, give up my luxurious thoughts of a gin martini, olive please, and opt for a Pepsi.
“Roast chicken” says Danson. “For me and Osman. A whole one. Plus chips. What about you?” he asks the rest of us.
Osman hoots, gleefully singing out “David-oh! He’s an Irey-Jah!” He won’t eat meat”.
“Chips my-eye” says David pointing to his eye and pulling the lid down. “Tasty. I hope they’re as boom as the ones you get at the place I pointed out to you.” He unconsciously preens and smoothes out his dreads under his cap as Osman and the waiter banter about “Rastaman Irey-Jahs”.
Chips mayai. A giant omelette with a filling of soggy chips. Plate rim garnished with a solitary tired slice of tomato. C. already drowns hers in ketchup, without even tasting. I troop with the others to the water canister, pour Omo in my palms and wash. David remains behind to protect the food from the cats.
“So Osman”, I say later, initiating some post prandial chat. “C. has told me you’ve travelled a bit. Where did you go, man? What’s your story?” He leans back, picks a tooth and starts.
There’s a discernable turn in the breeze. No longer Osman but Athumani – “that’s my real name you see” – and Athumani has usurped court, has become the Prince. C., Danson and I, relegated, oscillate between being interrogators and court jesters.
Athuman left home and travelled to South Africa by bus. He punctuates his tale, of schedules, places and routes, with little snapshots through his lens. “That Lilongwe, that’s a bloody useless place. It’s like Tanga, man. Shitty roads, can’t get anything in the shops. Not like Kenya, no Nakumatt.” He snorts. “Then in Mozambique I got into a bus at the border.” Reverts into Kiswahili. “I’m telling you, that was a very local bus.” A chortle. “Yeah, a really local bus. I didn’t understand the local lingo you see. I had to stand as they packed people in, even more than in our local buses. I thought it would be for a few hours, but man, actually it was for eighteen hours!” He stands up. Ramrod straight. Prisoner-like. Chin up, looking at the ceiling, arms flattened at the sides. “Like this! Seriously local. You wouldn’t believe. Eighteen hours! Man!” He shakes in laughter at the memory. Then, more gravely. “People in Malawi and Mozambique are really really poor. We’re rich here in Tanzania, compared.”
“Anyway, I reached the South African border, but I didn’t have a visa.” He pauses and looks up. I can see a punch-line. He’s willing the question. I look into his eyes, narrowing mine good naturedly, knowing there’s something ahead. I remain mum, Danson doesn’t realise the little game and plays a pawn. “So what happened?”
Nonchalantly. “Oh, I paid a guy to take me across. We had to go at night and cross underneath three big heavily patrolled fences. We carried shears and made ‘panya’ routes. I burrowed like a rat under the fence posts. It was very dangerous.”
The pawn’s been gobbled, a quick ruthless royal gulp. C. splutters out Pepsi.
“Then?”
“Then I went to the city and worked in a factory making duvets for two years. South Africa is good. But I didn’t like the pay and anyway I wanted to come home for a bit”.
“How did you get out?”
“By then I’d got myself a proper passport, with a South African visa stamped in it. It wasn’t a problem.”
I tease that he must have trailed an affair with a pretty girl at the visa desk in the High Commission. He laughs, doesn’t say anything, but later tells me how he did it.
“I’ll go back again sometime again” he says presently. “I’ll cross the border correctly next time. Not to stay, though. I want to save up a bit and go to see the World Cup. Ma sista, do you play any sport? Like netball maybe?”
“Not netball. I never liked it, my friend. What about you? Football? Play for Tanga United?” I reply.
“Golf!” he responds, triumphantly. “Yeah. I’m really good! Sometimes I go and play outside of Tanga. But there’s not much chance and I don’t have the stuff. But you know when I get on that place, you know, that place where you putt? It’s called putting. I’m dangerous, man! Very dangerous! Very very dangerous! I could be a professional.”
“Like Tiger Woods!” David chirps up.
“Yeah. Like Tiger Woods. But there’s no chance here, man. This is Tanga. Pfffffft! Dreams! Just dreams y’know?” He waves his arm backwards, like he’s dismissing his dream. Stretches out his leg in front of him and rubs his stomach. He looks at me and raises his eyebrows a couple of times. “Ma sista” he belches, satiated with food and talk.
------------------------------------------------------
The next day he fleeces me for a third above his agreed daily rate. S’okay ma sista, whatever, y’know?,” he shrugs. I cough up because I’m totally soft that way. What can I do? This person who's lived more lifetimes than I can imagine. This charming fellow.
