The Gunny Sack (19 page)

Wisps of memory. Cotton balls gliding from the gunny sack, each a window to a world … Asynchronous images projected on multiple cinema screens … Time here is not the continuous coordinate of Mr. Kabir (who knew all the theorems by heart and could tell you the page numbers in the maths book on which you could find them) but a collection of blots like Uncle Jim drew in the
Sunday Herald
for the children, except that Uncle Jim numbered the blots for you so you traced the picture of a dog or a horse when you followed them with a pencil … here you number your own blots and there is no end to them, and each lies in wait for you like a black hole from which you could never return—

The mosque was among the maze of streets in the heart of the old Indian quarter downtown. Twenty years old, and it looked
ancient and imposing: grey stone, clock tower, iron gates, the gallery of rogues always sitting outside. Every evening at six you would see men and women traipsing by respectably, servants hurrying with a newspaper-covered plate of food on their last chore of the day, boys loafing, all along Kichwele Street towards the distant tower, where ten or twenty simultaneous marble games were winding up in the compound, marbles being stuffed into dirty pockets by dirty hands, food offerings being collected, and preparations made for the first prayer at quarter to seven. Mnazi Moja was a Central Park: you would cross it alone at night only at your own peril. We had hidden thief-proof pockets sewn into our shorts, but often it was just easier to part with the five-cent or ten-cent copper, hand it over to the shadowy African mugger who was no bigger than us.

The rogues’ gallery, later called the Dirty Dozen, was an assortment of scruffy characters who all lived on the community’s charity and hung about the mosque. General Juma in military uniform, who would do a solo march past when mosque broke up, going left-right left-right up and down the compound until he spied Hassam Punja getting into his Mercedes, at which point he would do an “Attention!” salute smartly and put out his beggar’s hand. Squat, lame Bahdur, who moved like lightning up and down stairs, chasing after boys when the mosque was emptying. Hussein Chai always asking for tea money, accusing passersby of stealing his shoes, who would scrape a large blob of throaty phlegm from his tongue and hurl it at an offender. Fat Gulu who, grieving a lost love, at the stroke of midnight, at the end of festivities, would go up to the band and lead the cheer in its name, “Hip-hip! Hurray! Hip-hip! Hurray!”

There was a Mshiri who had a cigarette store on Kichwele Street … a thin Arab in loin cloth and T-shirt, chappals flapping behind
him as he took his long, ambling steps, rising and falling on his toes, body dipping with every step, long arms swinging, grinning sideways, looking for boys to show kindnesses to as one big hand brushed against their little bottoms.

The lids which covered like iron doors the manholes in the streets spoke of exotic places. One said “Cape Town.” Did Cape Town then lie beyond that door, underneath? Check the world map, yes, Cape Town was directly under us. But no, said Shamim the wise, the world is round, haven’t you heard of Columbus, yes, Christopher Columbus?
Australia
was under our feet, no matter what was written on the iron lid. Then, if you opened it, this lid sealed so securely, would you fall feet-first or head-first into Australia? Well, perhaps you did go through Cape Town …

The Famous Five of Kichwele and Viongozi: Shamim, Kala, Sona, Shiraz and Salma. The latter two, Shamim’s brother and sister, new arrivals sent to Dar for schooling by my nimble-footed Bahdur Uncle, who moved from Kilosa to Shinyanga in search of better business. Shinyanga is close to the diamond mines, said Bahdur Uncle to Kulsum, only a few more years and I’ll take them off your hands. My star is rising, over these diamond mines.

What do the Famous Five do? They make bandas on the terrace with planks of wood, sit under its shade and hatch plots involving gypsies and smugglers and desperately wish for moors and rolling plains for their imaginary caravans and to hike through. They study the Cub handbooks and know the components of the Union Jack off-pat. When the mood strikes them they help our grandmother cross the road, they never keep the money they pick up on the road, and they use a variant of the Cub promise. I-promise-to-do-my-best-to-do-my-duty-to-God-and-the-Queen: to-help-other-people-at-all-times … and to obey the Famous Five law! Dib dib dib. Dob dob dob.

PO Box 15037, Dar es Salaam, Tanganyika Territory (TT), British Empire. So Begum filled in the sender’s address on the envelopes carrying letters to her pen-friend in Sarawak or to relatives in Kenya, KC, C for colony, before licking the stamp on which the Tanganyika giraffe faced the Queen. She stares out of other currency notes now, an older, grimmer version of the graceful young woman on horseback riding in some plush green English grounds, stopping and descending at a gate and turning to smile and wave briefly at her subjects standing to attention at a cinema house as the national anthem drew to a close.

“Where is the English woman?”: Tarzan, pulling a respectable native hair lock. Steve Reeves as Hercules bringing the pillars of Greece (and the house) down in the noon-hour one-shilling-all-round show at the Azania (where the projector was so low you could raise your slipper and see its ugly image on the screen): every building in Dar had a Steve Reeves, we had Ahmed. And every building in the wake of Greek or Italian heroes who followed Hercules also had a Maciste—who was usually the same boy who was Steve Reeves. There were also many Zimbos in Kariakoo. Zimbo was the Indian Tarzan, Lila was his Jane, and Dada his monkey. The noon-hour show was packed with the fans of these heroes. There would be roars of delight and sighs of anticipation or disappointment. Audience participation at the Azania. Sona exhorting his heroes: “Watch him! Aré baba, look behind you! Yes! Yes! Give him one! Give him two!” and in a frenzy: “Pillau! Eat Pillau!”

Early in the morning on the day of the Queen’s birthday the Famous Five set off to witness the march past at Government House … first to the Askari monument, the furthest reach of the Indian section, then further still through the tree-lined street past the old white-washed houses in which the Europeans lived, dogs barked, haughty servants and quiet ayahs looked on, as we scampered along beside the museum
outside which stood two old cannons that had seen service in the First World War. The King’s African Rifles would be at ease standing in array, waiting for the Governor. Then the waiting crowd would stir, before settling down to watch intently, as with a yelling and a screaming the red-faced European sergeant-major would give the order to attention and go pounding to the Governor, and the guard of honour would begin. The portly Sir Edward Twining, out of his usual baggy suit, looked formidable now in full regalia.

Sir Edward Twining, Sir Alan Lennox Boyd, Sir Evelyn Baring, Sir Patrick Renison … the list goes on. You will forget the faces and the contexts but you’ll carry the jingle of those names to your grave … what’s in a name, you ask … the sounds of power and authority, the awe and the glory. They will stir inside you, these sounds, when a small part of you in your heart of hearts holds back, holds back when they condemn her, when you should condemn her, a colonial power over Rhodesia … And when you scan the headlines for the fate of her warships … when she is no longer powerful and glorious but cynical … always, that small, that tiny part of you rooting for her, why deny it … you were vanquished, as you said …

Is it right, Shiraz who had come from Kilosa would ask, to press down a ten-cent copper into the ground and rub the crown into the dirt with your foot so as to brighten it … or to put the silver fifty-cent coin on a railway line to flatten it and let the Central Railway run its iron wheels over the Queen?

At home Begum was queen. Tall and thin, pony tail tight over her head: imperious as Victoria, fierce as Boadicea, wielding the cobweb broom like a sceptre. On Sundays she cleaned the house, had the floors scrubbed, the mattresses turned over or taken out to be sunned, laid traps for mice, went after cockroaches with the kitchen broom, sprinkled DDT in the cupboards. She was the talk of the neighbourhood, this girl who worked so hard and even went down on her knees. Every
Sunday, inspection of the troops: drawers, for orderliness, nails and knees for grime, shoes to be polished in readiness for Monday, socks all paired off into fist-sized balls. Then we could go out. We were grouped into seniors and juniors, Blue House and Red House. The Famous Five, of course, were the juniors. For a few months Begum drew up a chart on which were chalked up our scores with black and silver and gold stars. At the end of the month scores were counted and prizes of handkerchiefs, colour pencils and Baby pens handed out. But this method of incentives proved too expensive for Kulsum and the more traditional one of threats and punishments prevailed.

An imposing Philips radio stood on the toy cabinet between Kulsum’s bed and the sofa. A powerful oracle: if anything worthwhile was in the air it would grab it, from Cape Town to London, America to Bombay. All Sunday morning as Begum went on her knees and ordered the servant and baked in the heat of the charcoal fire, the radio stayed on and the world poured in. In martial Urdu or sing-song Hindi or BBC English, Connie Francis or Lata Mangeshkar, the children’s programme on TBC, the request programme on KBC, Akashwani on All India Radio … It was for the radio she stayed upstairs. At about noontime the sweet odours of ghee and cinnamon and coriander wafted out from the open door. We would walk in nervously, wash our hands and feet and sit on the sofa. Shortly after one o’clock the grave tones of the Hindustani Service of the KBC turned positively funereal, as the voice said, “Elan.” Brows furrowed with concentration, Begum would carefully note the death announcements for a familiar name that she could drop at the table for Kulsum’s benefit. A false move here, a laugh or a loud sneeze, a fit of the giggles, and after the elan her long, hard fingers would close on a culprit’s ear, and turn and turn then release it, bringing a deep red, followed by the pain, ringing inside the skull, coming in waves of dizzying magnitudes. The store closed and
Kulsum and her helpers would arrive. Nine of us would crowd round the table for lunch, the only meal we all had together. It was half day for the servant, who would leave after washing the pans and dishes, and Kulsum would take her only afternoon nap of the week, and Sona, Shiraz and I would go outside and out of her earshot for a spot of cautious cricket.

The hazards of playing cricket in Habib Mansion: you could play on the little balcony at the landing, outside our door, but in that case you could only use a golf ball bought from Mzee Pipa, and the off slips were at neighbour Sharrif’s door, so after a few cracks at it out would shoot the sleepy and furious Sharrif’s arm and give the batsman a cuff. You could try our terrace, among the flowers, which could bring fierce Boadicea racing up: or the other terrace, which could bring a Sharrif more furious than before.

I started going home from school with other boys. I went with Jogo, whose father went about limping in the streets at four in the morning calling people to prayer, and with Alu Poni the pawnbroker’s son. Sometimes a rickety old red Dodge pickup with an open body gave free rides from school. It was called “Chama Chetu (Our Party) Namba Three” and belonged to a genial failure called Fateh, who had slid down from business to business and now was at rock bottom, selling coal. On the back of the pickup was another sign, “Your old friend, Fateh the coalseller,” in Gujarati. Every day after school a lookout was kept for Chama Chetu, and when it was sighted, racing up to the gate in a cloud of dust and smoke, cries of welcome greeted it: “D-S-K-9-9-9!” which was the number on its licence plate. Packed brimful with boys and a few brave girls who could risk a mirror placed on the floor, with a smirking, slimy Ahmed standing in front of it, Fateh’s pickup raced home, throwing jeers at passersby and slower vehicles, making two stops, one at Msimbazi and the final one outside the owner’s home not far from our corner.

Alu Poni lived on the ground floor of Anand Bhavan, behind the pawn shop. Outside the pawn shop there was always a jostling crowd, behind which could be heard the pawnbroker’s shouts. Their home opened at the back into an enclosed yard, about thirty by ten feet. Drawn on the far side on one of the walls, the ubiquitous stumps, in charcoal.

A clean bowl, grazed bails, flying stumps: they all had counterparts in the world of charcoal-drawn stumps. A thick black stripe across the rubber ball, a smudge, a gap in one of the stumps. How’s that? came the appeal, and you all went to examine the evidence. Leg breaks took off wildly from a crack, and the off break—oh, the off break: there was an upward slope on the offside so that the ball would seem simply to come to a stop in mid-air. Zero velocity. It would stop there tantalizingly suspended, telling you: “Hit me! Go on, go on, hit me.” And you would swing, for a chhako, a six against the far wall—which is what it was waiting for, because then it would take a dip and land on the stumps.

But even here it was not entirely safe. The outside wall, on the offside, was about eight feet high, and a missed catch could easily go over the wall and land among the huts beyond. Then would begin the begging and pleading. The three Ponis were fluent in Swahili and could reply word for word. We would climb on top of stones and crates to look over the wall where there was a bare patch among the broken glass, and Firoz would begin: