The Outsider(S) Read online

  Irmtraut

  Kenya, 2010,

  a Night Out in Nairobi

  Expectations. They are the biggest cause of human misery. The period of time after I landed in Kenya had so far contained some of the happiest moments of my life. I hadn’t expected to survive the flight. I had not only arrived safely but was also beginning to actually love my life.

  I generally had either no expectations at all or very low expectations. The result was that any small achievement made me smile. Mr. Makokha dropping me at the office safely made me smile. Pouring myself a cup of instant coffee made me smile. This was in sharp contrast to my life in Europe. Africa, I was learning, was nothing like I had thought. It was as close to paradise as I had ever been.

  My phone rang. The breathless voice of Charity, my Kenyan assistant, came through.

  “Mr. Crack is on his way to your office,” she said apologetically. Mr. “Crack” was actually Mr. Clark. He was our accounts director and a native of the United Kingdom, or what he fondly referred to as the “motherland.”

  “Thanks.” I smiled into the phone. I found it cute that she called him that, especially because I knew how much it infuriated him. Most Kenyans spoke English with a funny accent but I was slowly getting used to them. I had so far identified three categories of these accents. There were those like Charity who didn’t seem to realize that the letters r and l were two different letters. A conversation with this type ended up with sentences like ‘The reandership of that company is torerant to such things!’ Then there was the second group occupied by Mr. Makokha. This group interchanged p, d, t and b and sentences like ‘dutey beoble will pi in trouple!’ were not unusual. There was a further group which had issues with the letter s. ‘To be sheen with shuch companies ish not good for our image!’ was a sentence that left me tongue-tied in one of my initial meetings with the team. There were many other variations in between but I mostly found them entertaining. Mr. Clark burst into the office with a small pocket dictionary in his hand.

  “Is it possible that your name, Ickelschaft, actually means ‘disgusting’ in German?” he asked breathlessly.

  I stared at him silently for a moment. “Ekelig means ‘disgusting,’” I stated calmly. “You must have confused the two.” I wasn’t going to show him that he had touched a soft spot. I wasn’t even going to mention that he was pronouncing my name wrongly.

  “Did you get my e-mail?” I asked quickly before he came up with some new word. He was intently studying his dictionary.

  “I am learning German. Maybe it is going to make my work of wooing you easier.” A seductive smile spread across his face. I ignored him and repeated my question.

  “Yes. Indeed,” he answered. “Nairobi is a lovely city!” Before dashing off to his office again, he stopped and turned to face me.

  “Should I pick you up?” It sounded like he was trying to use a sultry voice.

  “No. I’ll be fine,” I responded quickly. I didn’t want him to get the wrong impression that I was his date. I had finally given in to his suggestions of going out at night. I had sent the whole team an e-mail asking them if they wanted to come along.

  Two hours later I left my hotel room. Mr. Makokha was waiting in the lobby. He smiled when he saw me. We had developed some kind of relationship. “Madam, you are very smart,” he said and bowed down while shaking my hand with both of his. His exaggerated show of respect no longer irritated me. More than anything it amused me.

  We reached Carnivore Restaurant half an hour later. Mr. Clark had said that it was the best restaurant he had ever gone to, and knowing that he was British, I had no reason to doubt him. They were not exactly famous for their culinary talents.

  I was the first to arrive. At the entrance, there was a big barbecue area. Personnel in white uniforms were walking around with meat on skewers. I walked around the restaurant. It was spacious and beautiful. There were tables in strategic spots. There were also bonfires that gave the whole restaurant a cozy feeling. There was some kind of African music playing in the background, and I could feel myself getting excited.

  Someone tapped my shoulder. It was Purity, Mr. Clark’s assistant. I smiled at her. I had thought it was some bad joke the first time I learned that there was a Charity and a Purity in the same office. I had a distant but paradoxically affectionate relationship with all of the staff. The competitiveness and the backstabbing that dominated relationships in Europe seemed to be nonexistent here. I don’t know if it had something to do with the fact that I was in Africa or the fact that everyone seemed resigned to his or her fate. But there was a feeling, at least, that no aggression was directed my way. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t feeling threatened. It was taken for granted that I had the right to be the boss.

  “You are here,” she said excitedly. She was dressed in a yellow dress with black flowers. On her head was a scarf tied in a complicated knot.

  I looked at my watch. We both smiled. “Of course you are already here, you are white!” she exclaimed with a chuckle.

  We sat at our reserved table. “Do you come here often?” I asked her.

  “Once in a while,” she said and I saw that her eyes were fixed on the table in the corner where a black couple was involved in a deep conversation.

  “Do you know them?” I asked.

  “Yes. They are celebrities here!” she said. I stared at the couple.

  “What do they do?” I asked.

  “They are athletes and they are very rich. You see they run for the Emirates.” I looked at her, confused.

  “Kenya has many talented runners but it doesn’t have money. Some countries have money but they don’t have talent so we do some kind of barter trade!” she said and burst out laughing. I stared at her and smiled remembering my neighbor on the flight from Amsterdam to Nairobi

  “Do you like it here?” she asked, moving her seat closer to mine. I thought about it for a moment.

  “You don’t?” she prodded. “Of course I do!” I said, and we both burst out laughing.

  “I can’t imagine living anywhere else in the world. I love it here,” she said finally, and I could see that she was deep in thought.

  “I have to ask you something,” she said in a somber tone.

  “Go ahead!” I said. I was enjoying myself.

  “Is it true that most white people are serial killers?” she asked and stared at me directly in the face.

  “Are you kidding?” I asked and felt myself almost bursting out in laughter. But she didn’t move, nor did the somber expression leave her face. Memories of the scary black man that I had grown up with quickly came to mind.

  “Most white people have that look,” she said in a low tone, a thin smile spreading across her face.

  “Which look?” I asked.

  “The serial killer look!” she whispered. This time I did start laughing. She looked at me for a moment, and then she burst out laughing. After a few moments we stopped and stared at each other. “I don’t know where that idea came from, but many of us believe it,” she continued with a sheepish smile, adding quickly, “You don’t have that look though!”

  We both burst out laughing again. I wanted to tell her how terrified I was of coming to Africa. I wanted to tell her all the terrible things I had heard or been told about Africa and its inhabitants. But I wasn’t sure what to say. Africa was still a big mystery to me. “You don’t believe it, though?” I asked finally.

  She looked at me with a thoughtful expression on her face.

  “I don’t know,” she responded slowly. It was the way she said it or maybe the fact that she didn’t meet my gaze. But it dawned on me that the scary white man was probably as real in Africa as the scary black man in Europe.

  The rest of the people came in quick succession. In no time, our reserved table was full.

  A waiter walked up to our ta
ble. He was carrying a small pail with a bottle of Champagne in it.

  Livingston, the departmental head of finance, called for a toast. “Ladies and gentlemen, to our Senior Vice President!” he called out. There were clinks of glasses. I watched them with a smile. That toast was nothing like the toast I’d been given back in Germany. There was no malice to it. Those people seemed genuinely happy to have me in their midst.

  The meat turned out to be delicious. It would even have been much better were it not for Mr. Clark’s constant nagging.

  “Isn’t it delicious?” he asked over and over again. I counted eight times.

  Charity was seated on my right. Purity was on my left side. “So are the two of you related?” I asked, looking back and forth between them.

  “No!” they said in unison, in a tone that suggested that this was a ridiculous question.

  “Hey, I’m only asking!” I responded with a light laughter.

  Livingstone, seated on the far end and looking all important, met my gaze. “They don’t belong to the same tribe. We have here what are called tribes,” he said slowly as if he were talking to someone who wasn’t very intelligent.

  “I am from the Rift Valley,” Purity stated.

  “Is that the name of your tribe?” I asked.

  “No,” she said in a barely audible tone. “It is the region where I come from.” For a moment no one said anything, and the tension was so thick I could have cut it with a knife.

  I wanted to ask for more details. I wondered if the regions were comparable to Bavaria, Rhineland, Hamburg, and the different federal regions in Germany; but I realized for the first time that that was a taboo topic. Tribes were a sore spot that no one wanted to talk about.

  “My tribe is popularly referred to as the ‘remaining white men,’” Livingstone said finally. Everyone joined in the laughter. It was clear that they were all relieved to change the direction of the conversation.

  “Why?” I asked, feeling confused.

  “Is that a good thing?” After the whole story of the serial killer look, I was willing to bet that the locals had nothing positive to say about white people.

  “Definitely,” Livingstone responded, and there was more laughter.

  Soon enough, people started moving slowly to the dancing area. There was a live band performing and within no time we were left alone. Livingstone moved to the seat next to me. “People from my tribe are gentle and intelligent,” he stated with a straight face. “Just like white people.”

  I burst out laughing. “Is that a joke?” I asked. But he was dead serious.

  “All the intelligent people in this country are from my tribe,” he continued. I looked at him disbelievingly, but he didn’t stop. In fact, my silence seemed to spur him on. “We produced Obama!” he said with finality.

  I smiled. “We?” I asked.

  “Yes my people. We are all related to Obama”—and then he burst out laughing.

  The waiter was watching us. He walked up to us and asked if we needed anything. I requested the check. Within no time, he came back with the bill. For everyone.

  I scrolled through it checking for the price of what I had eaten. Livingstone didn’t seem bothered, so I asked him when he was going to settle his bill.

  “You are not paying for all of us?” he asked, looking alarmed.

  “Why should I pay for everyone?” I asked, puzzled.

  “Because you invited us!” he said, a thin smile spreading across his lips.

  “I didn’t invite you. I only asked if we should go out for meal. I didn’t mention that I was inviting anyone!” I said helplessly. All the happiness I had been feeling was quickly evaporating. Livingstone retrieved his wallet from his back pocket and smiled at me.

  “It is different here. If you ask people to go out, you settle the bill. If you go out with people who earn less than you do, you settle the bill!”

  I heard a voice in my head. That is not fair. What actually happened is that I settled the bill.

  Then we walked toward the dance floor and took a table close by. The place had filled up, mostly with white people who all seemed to hold a contest for the worst dancer on the planet. Charity, Purity, and the rest of the team were also on the dance floor. Mr. Clark waved at me. He was surrounded by three women who all seemed to be fighting for his attention. One whispered something into his ear. Another one was resting her hand on his sleeve protectively. Yet another one was touching his face lovingly. I stood on the side and waved back shyly. But he wasn’t moving a step. More than anything he seemed to be having the time of his life. There was no sign that he had ever been interested in dating me, and for a moment I wondered if his flirting was a figment of my imagination.

  The atmosphere was electric, and I could feel myself tapping my feet. Livingstone walked to the bar and came back with two beers.

  “Tusker, the best beer on earth!” he said with a chuckle and handed me one. I tasted it and touched his bottle for a toast. I quite liked the protective way he hung around me. He saw me looking over at Mr. Clark.

  “They are all prostitutes!” he said, pointing to the women surrounding Mr. Clark.

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  He smiled wryly. “Everyone knows,” he said with a smile. He saw the quizzical expression on my face. “Apart from white people!” he added. For a moment we just sat silently. I tried to understand my feelings. On the one hand, I felt at home with those people, but on the other hand I resented their prejudices—which seemed to be endless.

  “Are you married?” I asked amid the loud music.

  “Why?” he asked and smiled slyly.

  “I am just curious”, I responded.

  “Yes. I have three wives.”

  I turned to face him, my mouth open. “Three wives?” I asked.

  “And eight children. My youngest wife delivered a baby boy two weeks ago,” he continued proudly and scrolled through his BlackBerry to show me a picture of a newborn baby. I looked him up and down. Even though I wasn’t good at guessing the age of black people, I guessed that he was at most just a little older than me.

  We moved to the dance floor and started dancing.

  “You are a very beautiful woman,” he whispered into my ear. I smiled. “Be my fourth wife!” he continued, looking me in the eye. I looked up at him with a smile. There was something very attractive about his boldness and ridiculousness. And yes, about his audacity.

  Philister Taa

  Germany, My new job

  Dear Tamaa Matano,

  I have several pieces of news. The good and the not so good. I will start with the good so as to make you happy. I got a job at a fast-food restaurant. Fast-food restaurants are where rich people eat. You wonder how I figured that out? Because they are all fat! People here are rich, my friend. In fact, I hardly see thin people, I mean, poor people. The other thing is that they all have to be served quite fast. That is where the name comes from!

  The not-so-good piece of the news is that I am a cleaner. Not just a cleaner but a toilet cleaner! The smell of the shit of some of these people make my farts smell like perfume. Can you believe it? The mzungus produce shit just like black people. Bah! That really surprised me.

  My friend, don’t be disappointed about my job. I know that after boarding an airplane, I expected to find a better job than to have an office in a toilet. But that is how life here is. There is a hierarchy of sorts. And from what I gather, foreigners are at the bottom of this. But the other shocker is that there are white people who also clean toilets! I saw it with my own eyes. Actually, I didn’t just see, I know one. Her name is Agnieszka and she speaks some English. She comes from Poland. It is a white people country. I asked her where it is and she said ‘far far far!’

  Now this Agnieszka is so white that I got nightmares the first day I met her.
She also has green eyes! Can you imagine someone with green eyes? It is the strangest sight I have ever come across. But apparently, it is normal for white people to have colorful eyes. I just hope that I don’t come across one with purple eyes ha!

  And the other thing. She told me that she used to be a doctor in her country. I don’t know if that is true but she said that she earns more cleaning toilets here than she used to earn back in her country. I hope I didn’t scare you about Agnieszka. She actually has very nice hair. They look exactly like those of Mary the mother of Jesus. You remember that picture we saw in that church in Kawangware?

  Did I mention that there are different seasons here? It is currently winter and it is very cold. I can’t describe how cold it is because I don’t know the right words for it. Agnieszka said that it gets colder in her country than it gets here and she said that one can die from the cold.

  This Agnieszka has been very kind to me. She took me to a church to get clothes for the cold season. I got myself a very nice green jacket and I didn’t have to pay anything. I asked her where the clothes come from and she said ‘From rich people or dead people!’ I really hope that my green jacket isn’t from some dead person.

  There are other developments. My first paycheck has arrived. I am very happy about it. It is 950 Deutschmark. Deutschmark is the currency here. Not shillings but Deutschmark. This is actually a lot of money. Karata said that it would be enough to feed several villages in Kenya for a few years.

  I don’t know the exchange rate, but I suspect that it is somewhere around fifty thousand Kenya shillings. I have been staring at the money since yesterday. I am now playing in the upper leagues my friend - ha!

  All the other girls have to pay Karata, but he told me that my biggest gift to him would be to disappear. He doesn’t want to ever set eyes on me again. He said that I am more of a liability than an investment… bah! So I am going to look for a place to live in. I think as soon as I settle down, you can come and live with me.