It was at the library that Lateef would give his pep-talks to the boys and girls while Farida and I sat at the table waiting for her son to come out inspired. Lateef saw us together and was taken aback; then, face beaming beatifically, he came and shook hands with her.
The ghost of Almeida lies rather strangely over us. I suppose it is because we all knew him and he has only recently left. It’s hard not to evoke him cycling with much effort along a country road somewhere.
‘Sir,’ said Lateef one day, ‘tell us what happened to Almeida … why did he become –’ he waved a hand, ‘this Jesus Christ figure …?’
‘He was jilted in love.’
‘But why?’
‘Why … He was about to be engaged to a real angel of a girl, a secretary at D T Dobie. He went on home leave to Goa and the girl was to follow with her mother, so the families could meet and so on.’
‘Well?’
‘She never went. When he returned, she’d got engaged to somebody else. Rich and influential family.’
Lateef sat back with a grin.
‘What are you looking so satisfied for?’ I said sharply. My tone caught us all by surprise; I felt angry at myself, and I avoided meeting Fahndo’s watchful eye.
This was during Lateef’s last visit and I had ample reason for being peevish that day. For one thing, he had been a special hit with the boys and girls. They loved to hear him talk about the Middle East and he thrilled them with stories of how the Arabs lived, about their wealth, arrogance, influence. He had demonstrated the Arab dress to them in the mosque compound, showing off with long strides the white flowing robes and head dress in a circle of enthusiastic onlookers. I took credit for having brought him to them in the first place. Only this time he had come of his own accord, and it was from Fahndo that I found out he was here.
‘How can Lateef afford to come here so often?’ Fahndo had asked me.
‘I wonder,’ I replied. ‘Perhaps we’ve seen the last of him for many months.’
‘You mean you don’t know he is in town?’
It was Friday. When I went to mosque that evening I saw him in the library, sitting on the checkout table talking to Farida.
The second festival of the year – in December – is the lesser one. But this one, over just last night – this morning – was a rip-roaring success highlighted by a public slaughter. Lateef arrived bearing gifts. A wonderful white and blue woollen shawl for Farida. Adidas shoes for her boy who was overjoyed. Shirt and denim jeans for the brother, perfume for the women. Santa Claus from Saudi in a ghalabayeh. I said as much with barely disguised venom at the gift ceremony at the brother’s. At the dandia that night he appeared in a dashing embroidered kurta, looking brilliant under the lights, his round face and grin and slight paunch going well with the loose fit. It would have been churlish not to let her play the dandia with him, a generous guest; although intensely jealous, I did try to possess her and lost form.
I had not yet proposed to her, of course. In my reticence I was being modest, but also I did not hasten because I was confident of the prize. Now I saw it slip from me. It was not what she did, the graceful woman, or said, but like a checkmate at a grandmaster’s game where nothing is obvious and all understood. If I needed any convincing, I got it when the Adidas-clad Karim let it drop that Lateef had been persuaded by his uncle to stay at their place – why waste money on inefficient hotels?
My game is up. For me now the permanence of this weekly ritual, this breathless empty reclamation of the streets instead.
GLOSSARY
Note: Swahili words are denoted (S); those denoted (I) are Gujarati or Cutchi. The last vowel is always pronounced.
Abunawas a trickster figure in stories told in Muslim countries
Asian term used for people of Indian descent
askari (S) policeman, watchman
ayah maid
bana (I) Indianised form for bwana (S), used in exclamations, as in ‘man!’
banyani (S) derivative of banya (I), name of the Indian trader class
bao (S) an African board game, played with stones etc
bapa (I) father
bhajias (I, S) Indian fried snack (pakoda)
biriyani (I, S) a rich aromatic dish of rice and meat
bwana (S) sir
chappati (I, S) flat Indian bread
chora (I) ‘boys’ or servants
dahkun (I) from dakini, a witch or she-devil
daitya Kalinga (I) the devil Kalinga of an Indian legend
duka (S) shop
dukawallahs (I) shopkeeper
European used for white people
ghalabayeh white robe worn by Arabs
ghee (I) clarified butter used for cooking
Goan a native of Goa in India, usually Christian in East Africa
hanisi (S) impotent; faggot
jambo (S) how are you?
jamhuri (S) republic
kanza (S) long white robe made of thin cotton
Kaunda suit the type of suit worn by President Kaunda of Zambia and popular in Tanzania
kismet destiny
kofia (S) cap
kurta (I) long Indian or Pakistani shirt
maghrab (I) dusk
mama (S) mother; term of respect for an older woman
mhogo (S) cassava
mnada (S) auction; market
mshamba (S) a farmer; uncultured
mzee (S) old person; a term of respect
nandeali (I) a prayer for help
pachedi (I) a light cloth worn over a dress, used to cover the head; can be used as a veil
pina derivative of pinafore
pipa (S) barrel
sala (I) expletive, used for a person, as in ‘You!’
salaa (S) prayer
samosa (I) a stuffed, fried triangular shaped snack
tasbih(I) praying beads (rosary)
uhuru (S) independence
vitumbua (S) plural of kitumbua, a sweet fried bread
M.G. Vassanji was born in Kenya and raised in Tanzania. Before coming to Canada in 1978, he attended M.I.T., and later was writer-in-residence at the University of Iowa in their prestigious International Writing Program. Vassanji’s fiction to date comprises five novels and a book of short stories: The Gunny Sack (1989), which won a Regional Commonwealth Writers Prize; No New Land (1991); Uhuru Street (short stories, 1992); The Book of Secrets (1994), a national bestseller and the winner of the inaugural Giller Prize; Amriika (1999); and, most recently, The In-Between World of Vikram Lall (2003), which won The Giller Prize.
Vassanji was awarded the Harbourfront Festival Prize in 1994, in recognition of his achievement in and contribution to the world of letters, and was in that same year chosen as one of twelve Canadians on Maclean’s Honour Roll.
M.G. Vassanji lives in Toronto.