The Outsider(S) Read online

  I turned on my BlackBerry and saw that I as usual had a lot of e-mails. At that point, there were forty-one. I sighed. I knew that most of them were the usual corporate circulars, but it still annoyed me that no one put the hold button on to give me some time to properly arrive in Africa. I stood there, my eyes fixed on the luggage track. Many suitcases appeared, but mine were nowhere. I watched as my seatmate got a hold of his huge Nike traveling bag. He turned to me.

  “I hope we see you sometime” he said in my direction. I smiled back tentatively, my eyes still fixed on the track. Suddenly my suitcase appeared, but at that moment someone blocked my way. It was the “awesome” American.

  “Hey, I know you,” he said brightly. I smiled but said nothing. I looked at him with gritted teeth, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was probably intent on making up for the small talk he had missed out on earlier.

  “I’m Clifford.” He stretched out his hand. I contemplated ignoring him but thought the better of it.

  “I am Irmtraut, nice to meet you,” I said quickly hoping to shorten any chitchat. With my eyes fixed on my luggage, I pushed through the crowd. I grabbed both my suitcases and threw them off the track. I looked them over carefully and noted that they were intact. No one seemed to have stolen anything from me. I smiled to myself, but the smile quickly evaporated. Clifford was staring at me with a bug-eyed expression. I knew that he had come from the economy class since I hadn’t seen him in the business class. That meant that I was technically way out of his league. Anyone who couldn’t afford a business-class ticket had the duty to get someone to pay it for them. I had done that. I didn’t see any reason why he couldn’t. But that wasn’t my only beef with him. He was carrying a backpack. In my books, there were only a handful of adult men who could look sexy carrying a backpack: Steve Jobs, Bill Gates, and anyone else with as many zeros in their bank accounts.

  For everyone else it screamed LOSER.

  “Can I help you?” I asked dryly.

  He looked at me as if we were best friends. “I missed you!” he said cheerfully.

  “Excuse me?” I asked, disbelief spreading across my face.

  “No, sorry, I don’t mean it like that. I only meant that you disappeared after we bumped into each other at the airport in Amsterdam,” he continued. I stared at him, but before I could say anything, my BlackBerry beeped. It was Mother.

  “Irmtraut, have you read the Bildzeitung yet?” she asked breathlessly.

  “What?” I asked, not trusting my ears.

  “Have you read it?” she asked impatiently.

  “Mama, there is no Bildzeitung here.”

  “They don’t have Bildzeitung?” she asked disbelievingly.

  “No, Mama, Bildzeitung is a German newspaper.” I felt a chip breaking off my tooth. In normal circumstances, I would have said something smart. Something that would make a normal person silent for a very long time. But these were not normal circumstances. I saw that Mr. Awesome was dillydallying around.

  “They have killed Obama!” she continued breathlessly.

  “Mama, you mean Osama?”

  “No, Obama the terrorist!”

  “Obama isn’t the terrorist. You are mixing up the names.”

  “Irmtraut, are you the one who read the Bildzeitung or am I?” she asked, sounding infuriated.

  I was in no mood to argue with her. I couldn’t remember ever having a last word when it came to her. I only remember being swept with a wave of sympathy for Bildzeitung. With a readership like Mother, they didn’t need enemies.

  Mr. Awesome did finally give up waiting for me. I picked up my suitcase and rolled it through the terminal, suddenly aware that I had arrived in Kenya. There were many people waiting in the arrivals section. I looked around and felt terror gripping me. It was one thing to be on a flight. It was a totally different thing to be out there. I was contemplating what to do when I saw it. Irmtraut Eickelschaft. I stood there and stared at the African man carrying the cardboard notice with my name scribbled on it. He was old. His head was a mixture of white and black hair. He was dressed in a brown-yellowish suit that had sharp lines in the wrong places. I walked up to him and saw that he wore a flowered shirt. On top of that he wore a tie. The tie had red, green, black, and white stripes. He smiled at pretty much everyone who passed. I walked up to him, but he didn’t look at me. I stood directly in front of him. He flashed me a foolish grin and looked past me to a man who was busy checking for something in his luggage. I was a bit irritated but remembered quickly that I wanted to have a positive start in Africa. Technically speaking, prior to that moment, I had never had a proper conversation with an African. My seatmate excluded.

  “Jambo,” I said in greeting. I had read in my Kenya guide that that was the equivalent of hello in Swahili.

  “Jambo sana, habari yako?”39 he responded, his eyes still fixed somewhere ahead. I looked around uneasily. He lowered his face and looked at me for the first time.

  “Can I helep you?” he asked. I figured out he must have meant “help.”

  “Yes, I am your guest,” I said and smiled politely.

  He looked puzzled. He turned the cardboard that he was holding and examined it.

  “No, you are not my guest. My guest is a man called Irrrrmtruuut Ei… ck…” I watched as he struggled to read the rest of my name.

  “But I am not a man,” I said feeling a bit riled. That politeness thing wasn’t going to work.

  “So see then, you are not the one,” he finished, almost sounding apologetic.

  Being made to explain my name wasn’t the way I had envisioned my arrival in Kenya. I removed my passport silently and showed it to him.

  He carefully studied the various visas I had gotten for my trips to other countries, and I couldn’t help feeling disconcerted. His eyes lit up when he saw my work permit for the United States of America—“The land of Obama!” he said happily. I was both amused and

  irritated.

  “My name is Francis Makokha,” he said finally. “Karibu sana!”40 He grabbed my hand with both his hands in greeting. He was very jovial, too jovial for my liking. “I have never heard such a name,” he mumbled more to me than to himself. “Irrumtrautu.” He chuckled.

  He grabbed my suitcases and asked me to follow him. I followed silently. “I thought it was a man’s name,” he said in what sounded like an apology. Great! I cursed silently. Most of the people back in Germany were always surprised that I wasn’t sixty or eighty years old. I couldn’t remember how often I had to explain that yes my name is Irmtraut and no I wasn’t born ten centuries ago.

  “No, it is not,” I said finally, hardly able to hide my annoyance. We had reached the car. It was a strange-looking black car. It reminded me of a hearse. I got in and realized to my horror that the car had an unusual amount of space. There were only two seats and enough space for one to stretch their legs. Mr. Makokha looked at me the smile not leaving his face.

  “This is a London Taxi. We adjusted it to provide more comfort for the guests.” He said.

  I looked at him doubtfully and got into the seat next to the driver’s seat. I had survived the flight. I certainly didn’t want to die on the road. Like most people who drove, I was a bad passenger. I turned to him not sure what to say, and blurted out what came first.

  “Do you have a driving license?”

  He looked at me and there was no trace of surprise on his face. “Madam, you have no need to worry,” he said, smiling sheepishly.

  “Is that a yes then?” I prodded.

  He opened a small box that was lying next to him. In it was a fake Tommy Hilfiger wallet. He opened it and silently removed something. It was his driving license.

  We drove down airport road. The street was fairly smooth, but there were bumps every three hundred meters. We approached a police checkpoint. Mr. Makokha slowed do
wn and a uniformed cop approached us, looked at me, and saluted. I smiled, not sure why.

  Mr. Makokha turned right and started cruising. I checked the speedometer and was surprised to see that he was only going forty-three kilometers per hour. That didn’t make any sense at all.

  “Is it working?” I asked in an alarmed voice.

  He looked at me and smiled. “Yes, of course. I had it checked yesterday. Michuki is very strict.”

  I wanted to ask who Michuki was but didn’t get the chance. “How was your flight?” he asked. “Someday I will fly,” he continued with a chuckle. “My MP said that if we campaign for him and he wins, he will sponsor us for a trip to Mombasa…” We were approaching another bump. He slowed down and turned to look at me “. . . in an airplane,” he finished proudly. I looked back, not sure what to think. The terror in my stomach wasn’t dissipating. I looked outside and saw that there were many people walking. Alarmed, I inquired where they were going.

  “To Inda!” he responded.

  “To India?” I asked doubtfully. I knew that India and Kenya weren’t neighbors.

  “No, no, no,” he said with laughter. “That is the industrial area. That is the heart of the Kenyan economy,” he said confidently.

  “What are they going to do there?” I prodded.

  “To work. You don’t have industrial area in your country?” he asked in a self-important tone.

  I wanted to respond, but then I saw that we were approaching a traffic light. But Mr. Makokha wasn’t slowing down. “Stop!” I screamed. I felt my leg stretching as if to press the brake pedal. But he just drove through.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, alarmed. The sheepish smile was gone.

  “Do you really have a valid driving license?” I asked my voice shaking.

  He slowed down and parked the car on the sidewalk.

  “Why are you breaking traffic rules?” I felt tears welling in my eyes. He seemed confused; the way a fully dressed person would be if you told them that they were, in fact, naked.

  “Which traffic rule did I break?” he asked, looking even more confused.

  I raised my head to examine his face. “You drove through a red light!” I yelled.

  “Red light?” he asked incredulously, an awkward smile spreading across his lips.

  “You didn’t see it?” I asked in disbelief.

  Then he looked amused.

  “Madam, there were no other cars coming.”

  “That’s not the point. Rules are there to be followed,” I stated emphatically, almost sounding like my malicious driving instructor from decades earlier.

  “Madam, one only stops at red lights if there are police around or if there are other cars. If we stop at every red light, we will reach the hotel in three days.” With that he drove slowly back on to the street and drove away.

  But from then on, he diligently stopped at every traffic light. Minivans, which I later learned are called matatus, raced past us. They repeatedly honked at us aggressively whenever we stopped at red traffic lights.

  Philister Taa

  Germany, Job Search

  Dear Tamaa Matano,

  Things have not worked out the way I had hoped. No one seems to want to employ me. I have been looking for a job for a while now. But they all ask me for an address of residence and a telephone number. As you can imagine, I have neither of these. How can I have a place of my own as well as a telephone number before getting a job? I don’t understand the logic. But they all say that it is the law! That is the thing with this place. They have so many laws; laws for everything. The other day I was seated in a bus and then I saw this old woman with a dog. The dog shitted and you know what? She picked the shit up with a piece of paper and put it in her bag! I can’t tell you how disgusted I was. Apparently, if you don’t pick up your dog’s shit you go to prison! So my friend, I think I have to be very careful. In such a petty country, I might just land in prison for breathing ha!

  But you know what I also don’t understand? This whole obsession with dogs. Everyone here seems to have a dog or some animal tagging along. In the shops, on the streets, everywhere. I hear that the dogs have their own beds and eat special food. It is a strange world my friend.

  I still live at Karata’s underground house, and Karata said that if I tell anyone his address, he will make sure that I disappear. Karata is not as easygoing as I thought at the beginning. He has been very hostile lately. He says that I am not trying hard enough to get a job. I just wish he understood just how hard I am trying. The other day, I walked into a shop.

  It was a shop that sold all kinds of things… a bit like Mrs. Patel’s shop.

  I asked in English, ‘Do you have a job for me?’ The old man looked at me curiously and said something that I didn’t quite understand. It turned out that he was Turkish. Turkish is a different type of white people. They are just as white as the other white people, but Karata said that they are poorer and that if I am serious, I should go to a real German shop. Anyway, the old man signaled to a young girl, who immediately brought a bowl of rice and dumped it in front of me. He must have thought that I was begging for food! Nevertheless, the food was delicious, and after that, I just left. How could I burden such a kind soul with yet another request for a job?

  My “teammates”, or at least most of them, have all gotten some jobs. Karata says that they are not the kind of jobs for me. At this point, I really wish I could change places with them.

  Karata said that any man who sees my face will have a nightmare for a very long time… bah! So I think the jobs they got have something to do with men or some man.

  But I will soldier on, my friend. I have not lost hope.

  That is the end of my letter today.

  Philister Taa

  Ramona

  Germany, 2010, the Purse

  I smile to myself. I am a thief. I have finally achieved something. OK, achievement is probably the wrong term to use for stealing a purse. I wonder what the owner of this purse is doing or thinking.

  I never set out to steal. It just happened. That’s right. It just happened. I wonder if that is the excuse all seasoned thieves use. “It just happened!” Even to my ears it sounds ridiculous. Things don’t just happen. They are done. So I start retracing the events that led me here. I took the self-help books back to the Stadtbibliothek41 and pow — it appeared. OK, that is not completely true. It was in a bag. A yellow handbag in a closet that wasn’t completely closed. I think the owner forgot to close it or maybe just didn’t care enough. At first, I thought to turn it in to the librarian, and then I checked inside and saw the gray purse. It was heavy, and I assumed that this was because it was full of money. So I took it. No one was watching, and the thrill of doing something risky completely overtook me. My whole way from the library to the bus stop was an emotional roller coaster. I made sure not to meet anyone’s gaze. I was terrified and excited at the same time. The thrill lasted a while before regret set in. So now I am sitting alone on this bench. But I feel sad. Really sad. It’s almost like I am very lonely, which I am. But I am not admitting it to anyone. Not to myself and certainly not to…

  “Hello!” I say cheerfully, standing to greet Roswitha. Roswitha and I belong to the same club. It is a club for chasing devils. That’s right. It was started by a woman from Singapore. She said there are devils all over Germany. She doesn’t see them, but she feels their presence all the time. I don’t know if I believe her, though. But I joined, especially because it’s free. So we meet once every two weeks to chase devils.

  “Hello!” she responds and looks genuinely pleased to see me. She has tears in her eyes, which instantly make me feel better. I like seeing sad people or just plain miserable people.

  “What is it?” I ask in a concerned voice. And I am concerned. It’s not that I’m just pretending. As a matter of fact, I instantly pus
h all my problems to the back of my mind.

  “My son,” she starts, and now I become completely concerned.

  “What has happened to your son?”

  The tears in her eyes have turned into a full-blown breakdown. She is crying uncontrollably. I take her in my arms and we sit down together on the bench. Whatever it is must be quite bad.

  After what seems like ages, she stops crying. I give her the tissue that was in my bag. I had used it before, but it doesn’t matter. I think it still serves the purpose.

  “Roswitha, whatever it is, just calm down and tell me. I am sure we can find a solution together.” That sentence sounds very wise and almost too academic for me. And I know why: it is the favorite sentence of my fantasy therapist. I imagine him telling it to me, and I have convinced myself that I hate it.

  “He has gone to the Krippe,”42 she says amid sobs.

  “OK.” I expect that she is going to finish the sentence with something to the effect that something catastrophic has happened to him at the Krippe.

  “He is alone there,” she continues, and despite myself, the temptation to kick her butt completely engulfs me.

  “You mean with the caregivers and the other children?” I cannot only hear the sarcasm in my voice but feel it as well.

  “Yes,” she answers.

  “Is it his first day there today?” I ask in my characteristic kind way.

  “No, it’s the third week. The familiarity phase is now over and I have to leave him there,” she adds and bursts into a fresh bout of tears.

  I don’t know why a kid going to the Krippe is reason to walk around wailing. I have a strong feeling that the woman has mental issues, but I just watch her sympathetically. I wonder what the real reason for her tantrum is. I know that her tantrum is just a tip of the iceberg.

  I hold her hand and we sit there silently. My mind is back to the self-help books I have been reading. Visualize your future . . . visualize the kind of life you want. I think of the interview at Lufthansa and wonder if I have not taken that advice a bit too literally. I sat and visualized myself in an airplane as a stewardess. But more importantly, I saw myself at a destination. A warm, beautiful destination with friendly people. I look at Roswitha, and realize that among the things I want for my new life, mentally stable friends rank quite high.