The Outsider(S) Read online

  Of all my jobs, the job at the old people’s home is the one I like the most. And you know why? Because they are mostly nice to me. But do you know what Topista said? That they are nice to me because they can’t see properly so they have no idea that I am black… ha!

  That Topista told me that she hates white people. She said that they are evil but you should have seen how much she smiled at them. If you ask me, she is even more evil than them. So on the day that the accident happened, I had accompanied her to a dry cleaners shop. A dry cleaning shop is where you take expensive clothes. That was the thing with that Topista. She only wore expensive clothes. She told me she’d rather starve than wear my kind of clothes bah! We reached the shop and they handed over her dress. She looked at it and cried ouiiiiiiiii. For a moment, I wondered whether someone had died. But no, it was Topista wailing because they had not cleaned her dress properly. I tried to calm her down.

  “What will I wear to the wedding?” she wailed.

  “Everyone is coming in designer and I come in tatters?” she continued.

  She started cursing at the people who work there. I can’t repeat the curses. They were words that could make a dead person cringe in embarrassment. Now do you know what happened after that? They said they were going to call the police. “Go ahead!” she shouted at the tiny woman behind the counter. I thought she was going to beat her up. The woman took the phone and started dialing the numbers. That is when Topista grabbed the dress and we started running. We run so fast that I didn’t see the hole on the side of the street. I fell down and when I looked at my leg, it was so swollen I could barely walk. Topista helped me walk back to my place. I gave her money so she could buy me medicine. She came back with the medicine but you know what? She had spent all my money!

  The next day the most unbelievable thing happened. She came and told me she was leaving! I asked her, “Where to?”

  She answered, “I am a nomad.” And just like that she was gone.

  Everything else is otherwise normal. My toilet cleaning job has lately become quite lucrative. I have been employing the same tactics that Topista taught me and they are quite effective. You wonder what these tactics are? ‘Make the people who come to the toilet feel as guilty as possible!’ Topista said that smiling and saying hello are the most effective ways to get people to give you a tip. She also said that I should inquire about their families and if all these fail, give them a dirty look. I didn’t believe this at first. As you have probably guessed by now, that Topista was a bit crazy. Losing my savings has however made me change tact. I have now realized that there is some truth in what she said. I smile and say hello to all the people who come to the toilet. And guess what, they rarely leave the toilet without dropping a coin in my bowl! If this trend continues, I might just be able to save enough money to send you.

  That is the end for today.

  Philister Taa

  Irmtraut

  Kenya, 2010, Mr. Makokha

  The incident with the shit was a low point. After scrubbing myself for hours, I fell into a fitful sleep. I couldn’t quite get rid of the disgusting feeling of feces on my face. I had used several bottles of Dettol disinfectant but could still see a vivid picture of the shit on my face. The next day, I went to the office and promised myself that I wasn’t going to risk going anywhere. I was suddenly overcome with fear. I asked Makokha to bring me lunch from the hotel.

  At exactly one p.m., he arrived at the offices. After going through his routine of shaking my hand with both of his, he handed me the lunch. “Madam, this is your lunch,” he said in a respectful tone. I blushed a bit. I couldn’t quite get used to someone treating me as if I were some queen.

  “I am sure that it is very sweet,” he continued awkwardly. I nodded at him, not sure what to say. I opened the silver bowl and saw that it was ugali and sukuma wiki mixed with beef. “They used Royco,” he added when he saw that I wasn’t quite excited about the food.

  Ugali was some kind of hot bread made from water and maize flour. Without salt and oil, the taste could only be described as bland. I always ordered it whenever I went for lunch with colleagues. But that had nothing to do with my love for it. “You are a very interesting person,” Purity had said the first time she saw me eating ugali. Interesting, that is the way she described me. No one had ever called me interesting. And that wasn’t for lack of trying. Ruthless, selfish, vain, aggressive, vengeful, and yeah, self-centered were the adjectives I was more familiar with. Coming to Kenya had brought out the best in me. I was willing to do anything to sustain this goodwill. If eating ugali everyday would help, then I was all for it.

  I looked up at Makokha. I was going to wait for him to leave and then throw the ugali in the garbage. “Asante,”51 I said in a low tone.

  He moved slowly and I realized that he was carrying a green plastic bag. He hesitated a moment, and then he stopped and turned to face me.

  “This is for you,” he said, handing me the plastic bag.

  “What is it?” I asked suspiciously.

  “It is a present for you,” he said, and I could read excitement on his face.

  “Thank you,” I said calmly a bit at a loss for words. Before I unpacked it, he turned to leave looking very pleased with himself. I touched it carefully. It was soft, and the plastic bag smelled of fish. I contemplated throwing it in the garbage. After the shit-on-my-face experience, I wasn’t too willing to take chances.

  I put it aside and logged onto Facebook.

  “Do you like them?” he asked when he came back to pick the utensils half an hour later. I didn’t have a choice. I had to unpack the present. I did it slowly, and the first thing that fell out was a skirt. A long, gray skirt with orange and pink flowers. I checked the label and saw that it was from Marks & Spencer. It was long and old and too wide. I raised my head to look at him. He smiled sheepishly. Another skirt fell out. It was a jeans skirt with elastic on the waist. It was the kind that could fit the obese version of me. I stared at him, but I didn’t know what to say. Instead I felt myself laughing.

  “I knew you would like them,” I heard him say. The laughter that I had been trying to suppress completely took over. I laughed so hard that there were tears in my eyes. I tried to stop myself, but it seemed like the harder I tried, the harder I laughed.

  I calmed down, dried my eyes with tissue, and turned to face him.

  “Why?” I asked and could barely suppress a new wave of laughter.

  “Madam, I heard what happened to you at Uhuru Park. I am very sorry. I thought I should get you new clothes.”

  I looked at him. He was dressed in one of his usual ill-fitting suits. The trousers and the coat were different shades of blue. It was clear that they didn’t belong together. And then there was the white shirt with streaks of sweat on the collar, and a flowered tie.

  “Where did you buy them?” I asked, suddenly feeling touched by his action.

  “We have a very good, big market here in Nairobi. It is called Gikomba,” he said.

  “You didn’t have to,” I said and felt tears welling in my eyes. In all my life, I had never experienced that level of compassion and generosity.

  Philister Taa

  Germany, Loneliness

  Dear Tamaa Matano,

  The loneliness here is overwhelming. Life here has been nothing like I expected. There are, of course, good things that have so far happened to me. But there is a feeling I can’t quite shake off. People here act like they don’t see me. They look past me all the time. No one meets my gaze. No one says anything to me. I don’t know why, but this bothers me a lot. I have been trying to make friends. And it is a baffling experience. After my experience with Topista, I swore to keep to myself. But I couldn’t stand the loneliness so I decided to look for new friends. I was walking in town a few days ago. Did I tell you how clean the towns are? There is no garbage at all. All the choko
ras52 would starve to death if they came here. I don’t know where they take all of it. And lo and behold, I saw a black person.? It was a woman. A short, healthy-looking woman. And you know what? She was smiling at me. I walked fast, and soon I was standing directly in front of her.

  “Blablabbbbbblaa,” she said, or at least that is how whatever language she spoke sounded to my ears. I stared at her helplessly.

  “Swahili?” I asked.

  “Blablablabalabala,” she continued.

  “English?” I asked.

  “Pa!” she sighed and turned to leave.

  “Wait!” I said. She turned and looked at me, and quite unexpectedly she grabbed my hand. For a while we walked together silently. And then we reached a building. It was a tall building just like the one I live in. We went in and after walking up many stairs, we reached a room. By the way, gorofas are not as nice as I used to think. She knocked on the door, and a woman in a colorful green kitenge53 came out.

  “Alleluia!” she shouted in a delighted voice.

  “Blablablabalaba,” the short, fat woman started.

  The other woman looked me up and down, and before I knew it, she was hugging me. “Welcome, sister!” she said. I felt myself smiling.

  “Where do you come from?” she asked in a strange accent.

  “Kenya,” I responded nervously.

  “Me, I come from Nigeria, but doesn’t matter. We all sisters und brodas!” she said.

  They talked with each other for a while, and all the time they looked at me. But it was really like they were sizing me up.

  “You have a job?” the woman in the Kitenge asked.

  “Yes!” I said.

  “How much you earn?” she asked. It sounded more like a statement than a question. At that point, something clicked in my mind. I remembered a story Topista once narrated to me. She once lived together with other Africans and they took every cent that she earned. They also beat her up. I didn’t respond to the question, instead I looked around.

  “Come and stay with me. We all sisters and brodas!” she continued. I hadn’t mentioned that I was looking for a place to stay. Her house was one small room with a big bed in the middle and a small stove in the corner.

  “Rent is negotiable,” she said.

  The short, fat woman pushed me in the direction of the bed and signaled that I should sit. And the woman in the Kitenge started talking again.

  “Sit, sit, make yourself comfortable! We watch a movie from home!” And then suddenly, a big picture appeared. What I had thought was a mirror on the wall was actually a big TV. It was so flat. I have never seen anything like that before. The movie was nice. It was about a witch killing a whole village. But I didn’t get to watch it to the end.

  “All black people stay together!” the woman in the Kitenge said. I nodded in agreement, but she didn’t stop talking.

  “I had a vision that you would come to my life,” she continued, and suddenly I was sitting sandwiched between the two of them.

  “God told me he would send a servant my way,” she said slowly while regarding me carefully. I thought about it for a moment. “Let us thank God for being faithful,” she said. We stood up and held hands. The three of us. “My God, my savior, my redeemer. You know how many people I have helped in the past. That is the reason you have sent me a new one. Because I am your trustworthy servant, I asked you to increase my monthly earnings to five thousand Euros, and now you have done it. Thank you for being faithful!” I opened my eyes and realized that I had been the only one who had closed her eyes. I smiled up at them.

  “Where is the toilet?” I asked. She pointed to the corner of the room. I turned, but instead of walking to the corner, I rushed out the door.

  “Sister! Sister!” they screamed behind me. I saw people staring at me from their windows. They were mostly black. I ran like I have never run before. But now I am back in my own four walls. I have still not lost hope of making some friends. It might just take longer.

  Your friend,

  Philister Taa

  Ramona

  Germany, 2010, Discounter

  “I have to let you go,” Frau Katberg says, looking at me wearily. “You left yesterday at three p.m. again.”

  “Yes. That is because my shift ended then and I had worked the previous day up to six p.m. The other thing is that I had to pick up my son from school,” I say apologetically.

  Frau Katberg sighs and looks at me resignedly. “The time written on the contract is just that. What matters is staying until all the work is finished,” she says and stands up to get her coat.

  “Uwe!” she calls out to the guy from the butchery department who is just passing by. She throws me a glance, and just like that I realize that our meeting as well as my stint as a discount supermarket employee is over.

  I read through the list of my supposed wrong deeds as I walk out of her smelly office. I do need this job, but I am also kind of relieved that it is all over. In the corridor, I meet her, Ines Wolke. The object of my misery. After getting the diplomatic response from Lufthansa that yes, they would like to employ me but no, they do not have any opportunities at the moment, I had continued looking for a job—any job. The Lufthansa rejection had surprisingly served to inject some confidence in me. I walked by a discount supermarket and saw that they were looking for assistants to help in the various departments. I passed by the next day armed with my CV. I was determined to do better than I had done at Lufthansa.

  “Have you worked in a supermarket before?” Frau Katberg, the head of the branch, asked during the interview. She was a lanky woman with bad teeth and short black hair. The hairstyle gave her a masculine look. Before I responded, she cut me off.

  “It doesn’t matter. You will learn on the job. We are a very team-oriented company. We are especially family friendly. I myself have three children of my own,” she continued breathlessly, shoving the contract my way. I tried to read through it. The words were so small and so many.

  “You are expected to work at least twenty-five hours per week,” I read to myself. But what did “at least” mean? I thought silently but didn’t dare ask Frau Katberg.

  I went home that day very happy with myself, and for the first time started believing that the self-help books are not just money-minting machines for their authors.

  The next day I appeared at work smiling widely at everyone. I wanted to make a good first impression. I stretched my hand to greet everyone and introduced myself, believing naïvely that being good to other people automatically makes them be good to you.

  My first assignment was arranging milk on the shelves. I did it carefully and thoroughly. I wanted anyone who passed by the milk shelves to grab a packet even if they didn’t need one. That was pretty much what Frau Katberg implied when she said, “Arranging goods on the shelves is an art.” I did that well, or I thought I did. As soon as I finished, I went to Frau Katberg’s office to let her know I was finished and to ask her if I should continue arranging the soy milk as well.

  I came back with her and was astonished to find all the milk that I had arranged in the shelves neatly put back in the cartons.

  “Frau Rosler, I thought you said you were finished.” She looked at me reproachfully. I was lost for words.

  “Y… e… ss.” I felt tears of shame welling in my eyes.

  “Finish them and then arrange the soy drinks as well. When you are really finished, come and let me know.” she said and marched off.

  That was the beginning of my nightmare. Ines Wolke, the de facto boss, decided to put me through the baptism of fire. I quickly learned that getting a job wasn’t enough. The real challenge was surviving a job.

  Every day, I did my duties religiously and hoped that I wouldn’t be accused of something. And every day, Frau Katberg called me into her office for alleged wrongdoing.

&
nbsp; “You drink coffee the whole time and don’t even bother to clean up your cup?” she said in a voice that implied it was somewhere between a question and a statement.

  “I…” I started before she cut me off.

  “Make sure from now on that there are no dirty cups lying around the kitchen.” The truth was that I had never drunk coffee at work. At that point I thought to tell her the real truth behind my woes, but then I remembered what Irina from the grocery department had told me earlier.

  “Don’t bother reporting Ines unless you want it to become worse. If you want to keep the job, you have to just play along.”

  Ines walked into the office and smiled at me brightly.

  “Frau Katberg, everything is in its place. Don’t worry about anything. I will take care of all the orders.” She looked like she was about to kiss the ground on which Frau Katberg walked. Frau Katberg smiled at her and turned to me.

  “Why can’t you be like Frau Wolke? She takes responsibility, does her work very well, and is very reliable. On top of that, she even has time to redo your mistakes.’’

  “Oh, Frau Katberg, she is still new. She will learn with time,” Ines responded humbly. I watched her silently and felt tears welling in my eyes.

  Irmtraut

  Kenya, 2010, Car Rental

  “Good morning, here is Irmtraut. I would like to borrow a car,” I said crisply. I was calling Ace, an international car rental company that also had branches in Kenya. I remembered only too late that I had in my introduction directly translated German to English. “Here is Irmtraut” sounded more German than English.