Hiding in Plain Sight (23 page)

Salif takes a puff, and as he blows rings of smoke out, he thinks about cremations and what the Zoroastrians do: construct a raised structure on which the recently dead is exposed to scavenging birds. He cannot determine which is worse: to be interred in the ground, cremated, or become food for scavenging birds.

Qamar says, after having a toke on the cigarette, “How do you know all this, about the enforceability of wills, I mean?”

Salif replies, “My dad explained it to me.”

“Why would he tell you that sort of thing?”

“It is as if he knew that our mum would one day turn up and make unenforceable claims. So he warned me about it and said to rely only on Bella, whom he would make our legal guardian in the event he preceded her.”

“My dad never spoke about this type of thing to me.”

“Maybe your situation is different and he needn't do that.”

“Or maybe . . .”

“You see, Dad hoped I'd become a lawyer,” says Salif.

Salif receives the cigarette now that it is his turn to have a puff, then closes his eyes after drawing on it, holding the smoke in his mouth and releasing it gently.

“I think your mum has her madcap ideas,” says Qamar.

Salif has a hungry long draw on the cigarette for a second time before passing it to Qamar. And then he feasts his eyes on the well-presented series of photos of a young and an old Nina Simone and of Miles Davis playing a gig in a dive in Japan. Salif prefers African music in all its forms to American or European music. He has a stash of records from all over the continent and is disinterested in rock, country, or any music from elsewhere. And he doesn't make a statement with his choice of music. Qamar is a statements girl and declares that jazz is the music to cherish. Curiously, when the two talk about jazz, literature, or
anything serious, they speak in English, in which they feel more comfortable. They lapse into Somali when the topic is one of immediate concern: cigarettes, food, cinema money, or cash for more mobile phone minutes. At present, they are speaking in Somali interspersed with English words.

“Ever listen to Somali music?” Salif asks.

“I've had Somali music up to here.” Qamar touches her throat. “I had to listen to it as a child every time I got into the car, being picked up from school or taken shopping. Also, if I want to hear Somali music, I go downstairs: My mother has it on all the time. Except we seldom hear it in the house lately because Mum is in no mood to play music, any music, these days.”

“But you are your own person now, or so you think.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“You become more tolerant of the choices other people make when you are your own person. A girl your age with your background should allow others to make their choices and not take things in a personal way, as one does when one is a child. Wouldn't you agree?”

The cigarette is finished. Qamar picks up the ashtray, steps into the adjoining bathroom, empties the ashtray into the toilet, and flushes it before she returns to the bed.

She says, “Have we become our own persons?”

“Listening to your parents' choice of music and fussing are run of the mill experiences during the transition from the person our parents want us to be and the person we eventually become. Along the way, one loses a few things and gains others.”

“Life is boring, life is exciting.”

Qamar takes a sip of water from the glass on her side of the bed.

Salif says, “I bet it would be tedious to eat caviar in the morning,
caviar in the afternoon, and caviar in the evening. In the end, you would want to eat anything but caviar.”

As the children of Somali parents in exile, they have each been drilled in Somali identity. Yet Qamar remembers when she once asked one of her uncles in English to pay for an ice cream cone and he answered that he would do so only if she made the same request in Somali. She refused to oblige, choosing to forfeit the treat rather than be forced to do something against her will. When she repeated the anecdote to Salif, he said she was being foolish. Qamar retorted, “I am not someone's project. Speak Somali or else? I won't. And I can live comfortably without ice cream, thank you.”

Salif now says, “In Somalia, a woman is not thought of as a complete person in her own right. She has become male society's project in the making, which is why we refer to ‘women's organizations' as ‘mothers' organizations.' The same is true of Kenyan society, in fact, more so than in Somali society. You will notice that every older man is addressed as ‘Father,' which I see as part of the project. In short, I think that African societies view having children as an integral part of project making.”

“I won't think of myself as part of anyone's project.”

“Will you have children or not?”

“Supposing I do?”

“Then you will be complying with society's wish.”

“No, I won't.”

“Yes, you will.”

“Don't you talk like that to me,” Qamar said.

“Anything that requires advance planning is just a project by another name. If, from the look of things, children do well, then the project has been a great success. Look at you and me: We are but seeds
projected from our ancestral Somali tree. It's too bad we Somali offspring are unable to have direct knowledge of the country and its cultural nuances. The very parents who want us to become and remain Somali tell us it is unsafe for us to go there.”

“They have a point,” Qamar says.

“Don't I know it?”

“You've no business putting your life at risk,” says Qamar.

“Yet the European passport on which I travel is to me a mere document permitting me to legally board flights, fill in forms, go into and out of other lands—and have some form of identity.”

“Why do you have a European passport?” Qamar asks. “Was it via your mum?”

“No,” says Salif. “Our EU passports were granted to us thanks to my dad's working for the UN. Another way of gerrymandering the boundaries of identity.”

“Hence the question,” Qamar says.

“Question, what question?”

“What does it mean to be Somali in this day and age?”

“What about your Kenyan papers?”

“Our father obtained Kenyan citizenship through bribery after living here for decades as an undocumented refugee.”

“I had no idea.”

“Yes, they were declared stateless when they first arrived, along with all the other Somalis fleeing the civil war. Eventually, they got Kenyan papers, but I do not think of myself as a Kenyan since I am not welcomed as such. I am Somali, and my loyalty is to Somalia, which I've never visited and do not know. My attitude toward Kenya will change the day the people of this country accept me as Kenyan and do not tell me to go back to my own country!”

Salif says, “Our hearts are not where our papers are.”

He lights yet another cigarette, but when he passes it to Qamar, she shakes her head no.

“Who knows what will become of people like us?” she says.

“We are difficult to define, aren't we?”

Dahaba calls to Salif. He stubs out his cigarette and Qamar hides the ashtray before Dahaba appears in the doorway, leaning against the jamb.

“Do I smell what I think I smell?” says Dahaba.

“What's your beef, Dahaba?” says Salif.

She furrows her forehead and holds her nose in disapproval. “You promised!” she says.

“Promised what?” challenges Salif.

“You promised our father.”

“Were you with us when I promised?”

“No, I wasn't, but you told me.”

“Anyway, what is your point?”

“You swore you'd quit smoking.”

A sudden unease dominates the room. Salif gets out of bed and stares at Dahaba, annoyed; Qamar looks sheepishly away.

Dahaba says, “I'll tell on both of you.”

But just as Dahaba prepares to leave the room, looking as if she might indeed report them to one of Qamar's parents or make a phone call to Auntie Bella, Salif says, “Listen, Dahaba.” He has a look of mischief on his face. “You may tell on us to anyone you choose as long as you don't tell Qamar what happened last night, since you've already shared it with Zubair.”

“How do you know I told him?”

“Something tells me that you have.”

Salif has Dahaba's total attention and Qamar's too.

“What happened last night?” Qamar asks. She looks from Dahaba to Salif and back.

Salif is trying to rattle Dahaba's cage, but he hopes she realizes that telling on him won't help anyone.

Qamar says, “Will someone tell me what happened last night?” She turns on Dahaba. “I thought we shared everything, you and I?”

Dahaba tenses. “You tell her,” she says to Salif.

“No, you tell her. You saw what happened with your own eyes. I didn't.”

Qamar says to Dahaba, “Let us trade secrets.”

Dahaba says, “It all started with a YouTube video that Dhimbil, a distant cousin on our father's side who lives in Kampala, forwarded to Salif. Salif, being mean, wouldn't share it with me.”

“Cool. And then?”

Dahaba tells what she saw at their house, her mother and Padmini “doing it.” And then her phone rings. It's Bella, who says, “My darling, I am waiting in the car outside the door. Since I do not want to disturb Fatima or Mahdi because they may be napping, would you give them my best and thank them and come to where I am parked?”

And before Qamar can say anything, Dahaba and Salif run off to join Bella in the car.

Driving away from Fatima and Mahdi's house, Bella is in a good mood and so are the children. She is getting the hang of how Nairobi works, and she is also getting the hang of how these children work. She prods them less about what has been said by whom because she is beginning to realize that the young are like sieves when it comes to secrets, which they share as readily as they would share a sandwich.

Salif has forfeited his turn in the front seat to Dahaba, who jumped at it and thanked him. Nevertheless, Bella smelled cigarette smoke on
Salif's clothing when they hugged, and she plans to have a word with him on the subject when the time is right. It's a waste to speak to the young when they are not ready to hear you, she is learning; you need to speak to them at a time and in such a way that they think they are the ones who made the choice.

Back at home, they assemble in the kitchen and Bella first shows them the big album she made out of the photos she brought from Rome. And then she shares with them the album that Gunilla presented to her. She must call Marcella, she reminds herself, but right now she is enjoying what the children are doing, sitting side by side, delighted with what they see: photographs of Bella; of Hurdo, their Somali grandmother in Canada; their father back when he was writing his dissertation. A photo of baby Salif and one of baby Dahaba, Bella with Salif in a kindergarten in Geneva, learning his alphabet in French. Padmini with Rajiv, whom neither child remembers.

Salif says, “How long did it take you to collect these photographs, and where did they come from? They are quite something, very much worth the effort.”

Bella asks them both if they remember Gunilla.

“But of course we remember her,” Dahaba says.

“She was our father's lover for a time,” Salif says.

Bella pretends not to have heard his assertion.

“Gunilla brought many of them last night in an album of photographs that she gave to me, and the other album I brought with me to give to you.”

Salif says, “That is brilliant.”

Dahaba says, “I'd love to see Gunilla again.”

“What about you, Salif?”

“We both liked her. Gunilla was fun.”

“I'll ask her to come to dinner,” Bella says.

“That will be great.”

Then the children retreat to their rooms, text messaging or consulting websites of one sort or another or listening to music of their choice until dinner is ready and Bella shouts to them to come down and eat.

—

Valerie's mobile phone squeals, breaking into the late-afternoon silence in the hotel room. It rings on and on, and Padmini does not pick it up. Valerie has been in the bathroom forever, doing who knows what. Eventually, the phone stops ringing, and Padmini thinks, what a relief.

Today, Padmini has been finding Valerie more difficult to deal with by the hour. The time has come, she thinks, for them to question whether there is any point in staying on in Nairobi. Padmini hasn't yet shared her worries about their mounting expenses with Valerie because her partner has the pie-eyed look of someone who has been in her cups for days. Padmini is coming around to thinking that it is time they cut their losses, just as they did in Kampala, and return to Pondicherry, where, according to the sign they put on the door, they are due to reopen their hotel and restaurant in less than a week.

Valerie's phone rings again, and again Padmini lets it ring until it stops. But when the ringing begins again, with still no sign of Valerie, Padmini picks it up and answers.

“Is that Val?” The woman on the other end of the line has a heavy Teutonic accent, and she sounds supremely self-assured. “This is Ulrika Peters. Remember?”

Padmini explains that she is answering Val's phone. A short pause follows as Ulrika absorbs this information.

Ulrika says, “You met us, you and your English rose, Val, last night, remember? She said to call and maybe we could meet up and have a little more fun.”

“Where would you like to meet?” says Padmini. She is playing for time as she tries to figure out if this is the beer-guzzling Oktoberfest-type giant with the iron handshake who so impressed her and Valerie last night with her heroic drinking abilities and her carrying on with the women on either side of her. Nipple pinching and toe sucking in public! The things some people go for, thinks Padmini. But maybe Valerie would like that sort of thing.