The Magic of Saida (3 page)

“You are here to buy property, sir? Are you on business? I can help you.”

No, Kamal told him, he was here simply on a visit, and received a doubtful but benign look in return, from someone who knew better. “But I can tell, sir, you have come from abroad.”

He was originally from Kilwa, Kamal persisted. “My mother was Bi Hamida—perhaps you heard of her?” Why would he, he’s not old enough. No point telling him either that he had lived with his mother just off the street known as the “one behind the Indian shops.”

“No, I have not heard of her.”

“You must be a teacher,” Kamal told him politely.

“A businessman,” the man said, then pointing to his attire, explained, “I have just returned from prayer. But I can be your guide. I know a lot about this place. All its history.”

“I’m not sure I will need help … but if I do, I’ll find you. You live around here?”

“Yes. I’ll be happy to be of service. I used to guide the archaeologists. Now I also guide developers from Dar. They want to know the history, the geography, even which places are haunted—I can tell them. Nobody knows Kilwa as I do.”

“Really!”

“Yes!” the man replied with equal emphasis, and they laughed.

They came out together on the street.

“Who’s buying the property?” Kamal inquired.

“Tanzanians like yourself who went away are looking for places to retire.”

“All the way here?”

“What better place? And Arabs,” he said softly with a glance sideways, expecting who knows what. “Mafia,” he added, a shade more softly. “Cosa Nostra. There is offshore oil and gas. The Aga Khan is interested. A Serena perhaps, like in Zanzibar.”

Kamal informed him that he was booked at the Island View Hotel.

“In Masoko?”

Kamal nodded. Masoko, twenty miles away, was the town the colonial district administration had favoured over Kilwa because of its deep harbour and had summarily moved there. Even during Kamal’s days, old Kilwa had begun to look defeated. There were no hotels in Kilwa.

“You can take a taxi,” the man said. “They all go to Masoko.” He put his hand to his heart, made a slight bow of the head. “Sir. Please call me when you need me.”

“I will. And your name?”

“Lateef,” he said. “Well, goodbye, kwa heri ya kuonana, see you again.” He gave a wave and headed off, and disappeared into the side street.

There were actually three Kilwas: the Island, called Kisiwani, the ancient stone city now a collection of ruins; Kamal’s Kilwa, which saw its heyday in the nineteenth century trading ivory and slaves; and Masoko, the Markets, having all the look of an afterthought, scattered about the main road to the harbour. The taxi dropped him off at Stendi, the depot in Masoko, from where he took a bajaji—an Indian-made autorickshaw—to his hotel. The road was deeply potholed and muddy, and twice Kamal almost flew out of the bajaji, luggage and all. They finally reached the hotel gate, which was opened for them. An unpaved driveway led directly to the steps of an oversized circular hut with a high thatched roof and a low enclosing wall to let the breeze through. There was not a soul in sight, but there came a faint and distinctive tinkle of glassware.

He went up the steps and inside, relieved at the sudden coolness of the shade. A large, imposing bar stood straight ahead, facing a dining area, both looking out at an empty beach. There was a back entrance at the bar, opening to a patio. The tide was still out. He saw no reception desk, therefore he headed for a table to sit at and paid off his awe-stricken driver, who still could not comprehend how an American bwana had spoken Swahili to him, and so familiarly at that.

A burly, red-faced Englishman stood at the bar lecturing the barman, leaning forward, perhaps raining spit on him. Evidently the manager, or owner. “You keep your eye on his glass, my friend, and don’t pick it up without asking first, ‘Another glass of the same, sir?’ I’ll bet you even money, our visitor will say yes. Hakuna mtu who says no. And you keep a plate of the salty peanuts beside him, to
keep him thirsty. Ume elewa, John? You understand? It’s the liquor that keeps us fed. He can afford it. Or you’re out of a job and back to Nairobi, and I’m out of a hotel and back to nowhere.”

“Yes, bwana,” said John.

Now the barman came over, a dark and hard-featured man in a server’s white jacket.

“I have a reservation,” Kamal said and handed him the printed confirmation.

“Yes, sir,” said John. “We have a room waiting for you. Would you like a drink first?” The thick accent very much Kenyan.

Kamal ordered a gin and tonic, though it was too early. The man at the bar flashed a knowing grin.

“The name’s Markham,” he said, shuffling over, breathing quickly. “Welcome to Island View. We also arrange tours.”

“Thank you. I’m Kamal Punja.”

The man before him was dishevelled and shapeless, with baggy linen trousers and an undersized blue shirt barely covering his stomach; there was a white stubble on the patchy red face and a crown of wispy white hair on his head. He could be playing a role, but then he could have grown into it, the lonely white Conradian exile at an outpost. And he was going nowhere from here.

“Edward Markham,” he leered. “Looking for property? Or have you come to sightsee? You don’t look like a government chap.”

He irritated. These colonials never learn, Kamal thought, and was immediately surprised at himself. This is not me at all, it’s what I might have said in my youth, and even then, not with conviction. Times have changed. It’s the new century.

Markham shuffled back to the bar, brought out a register from a shelf, and returned. “Here, we’d better check you in.” He sat down and flipped open the oversized book.

Sixty, Kamal guessed. More.

“And you’ll be staying for …?”

“Let’s say a week.”

The face lit up with a grin. “A week in the sun, then. Why not, it’s unspoilt and it’s got the ruins. You’ll be paying in dollars, then?” he asked, having noted the Edmonton address Kamal had supplied.

“Yes. You’ll take a credit card?”

“Cash better, but we’ll work it out, old chap. I’ll give you a good rate.” He looked towards the bar and called out, “The same here, John—and put both on my tab.”

“No, put them on mine,” Kamal protested, as he knew he must. “I insist.”

“That’s decent of you. What kind of doctor are you—if you don’t mind my asking?”

“General practice.”

“I see. And you’re staying a week—perhaps more?”

“I’m not sure.”

“If you want to take on patients while you’re here—”

“I’m on holiday. And I’m not licensed to practise here.”

That earned him a look of mild disdain, and Kamal turned away to gaze towards the sea. Two motorboats were moored in the shallows, rocking on the waves of the fast-approaching tide; in the distance loomed the Island, flat and faint as a pencil sketch. His attention was caught by a boy walking on the beach, carrying on his shoulder a tray of something to sell, something to eat, bringing back a sharp memory. Kamal followed the child’s listless walk, his hopelessly searching eyes upon the few people he passed. Why isn’t he calling out? Who’s going to buy your stuff, child, when they don’t know what you’re selling? You’ve got a thing or two to learn, young fellow. And your mother’s waiting for the money you bring to buy the flour tonight …

He came to, to see Markham’s hairy face fixed benignly on him.

Could he ever guess? Could this discarded English specimen possibly see him in that boy outside?

Markham stood up with a heave, hobbled over to pick up Kamal’s suitcase. Sciatica, the physician diagnosed; bad heart, high blood pressure. What else?

“Don’t worry about that,” he said, rising, and he took the suitcase and shoulder bag and let the man escort him to his cottage, past the patio and straight down a planked corridor.

“Sorry, no television in the room,” Markham said as he opened the door, turned on the light. The room was spacious, though filled with a strong residual odour of insecticide. There were two beds, with nets, and a small table and chair. The bathroom was tiled and clean.
“Anything else you need, say so. Keep the door closed always—mosquitoes.” With that advice he left, closing the door behind him.

Through the gap in his window curtain Kamal briefly glimpsed the man wending heavy-footed back to the bar. What could have brought him here, Kamal wondered, to sink every penny of his savings? We all have our secrets, lives unlived … He fell on his back on the bed behind him; it felt firm, and cool. The sheet had been washed many times. The pleasure—or ache—of travelling was this feeling of being precisely nowhere. Like Zeno’s arrow. Was this nowhere, or back home? What was he doing here? Here, staring at the lizard on the ceiling. Was he real? Was this a dream? Had he died and woken up somewhere …

He felt utterly desolate. Not a soul to tell his story to, explain why he had come, why he must see her. Tears rolled down his cheeks onto the sheets. Have pity on me, someone. Must be the gin; the heat; the jet lag. He was ready to admit defeat—confess to the pointlessness of his venture, its vanity; his ingratitude for all he had been able to achieve in life starting from nothing. If Shamim had come that moment, he would have let her carry him off back to the prairies of Canada, back to the certainty of their luxurious suburban home. He fell asleep.

When he awoke, it was dark, quiet. In a panic, he ran towards the door, groped around for the light switch, flicked it on. The modest furniture, the chemical odour reassured him. There were sounds of people somewhere. He washed his face and came out, cast his eyes on the dark, silent sea for a moment, and the sky, noting that the constellations were indeed different from what he was used to. There was no moon, instead a close bright object hanging low like a lamp that he surmised was a satellite, perhaps relaying at this moment millions of phone calls and text messages to people everywhere in this part of Africa. Cell phones were the big thing, that’s what he had learned the few days he had already spent in this country. A gust of wind hit him. He hurried down the dark corridor towards the front. Dim, romantic lights, music. Two people at the bar with John, several diners at the tables. The clink of cutlery.

The waiter pulled a chair for him and Kamal sat down, ordered a drink, paid heed for a moment to the faint cheerful strains of African
jazz from the bar. Then he pulled out his cell and dialed. “Hullo, is that Lateef? This is Kamal, whom you met this morning—in Kilwa, at the tea shop. Yes, I am at the hotel, it’s comfortable …”

It turned out that Lateef was in Masoko, sitting down to dinner at a local joint not five minutes away; he could join Kamal later; no, it would not be too late.

Lateef came an hour later, transformed, having changed into a pressed white shirt over smart black trousers, though still wearing the kofia, which gave him the look of a respectable Muslim and earned him the deference of the waiter who brought him over. As he sat down, he said, leaning forward, “Sir, you mustn’t consume that.”

“Come again?”

“You must not drink alcohol.”

Kamal looked at him, feeling silly and suddenly elated, because this situation was so palpable, down to earth. The man was playing a role too. The waiter had stopped to observe them with a smile.

“Why not?” Kamal asked.

“It is haram, sir. Alcohol is forbidden to we Muslims. But it is your wish.”

He sat back.

Dinner had been fish fried crisp, with rice, meat curry, and chapati. And, of course, soggy chips, the side dish of choice of the modern upwardly mobile Tanzanian. Earlier, the chef had come over and asked Kamal if he had a special request for the days he would be staying, and Kamal said could there be more vegetables on the menu, even spinach, which he liked very much. The chef looked disappointed, but said he would be happy to oblige.

When the waiter came to refill Kamal’s glass, he declined out of consideration for his abstemious guest, who smiled his appreciation. At the bar once more stood Markham, in a black shirt for a change, and looking very gratified at this scene of happy consumption on his premises. He turned the music loud to enliven the mood even further.

Lateef’s family had lived in Kilwa for many centuries, he said. They had come with the first sultan from Persia, Ali bin al-Hassan.
Some of his ancestors were buried on the Island. They had been imams. What business did he do? He did not reply, glanced around mysteriously. He wanted to open a touring agency, he said. Life was hard in Kilwa, but the government had promised new development. This region was Tanzania’s unexploited gem, its best-kept secret. After all, the Comoros were only a short hop away; so were Maputo and Durban. And from Kilwa, tours could go to the Selous National Park. Offshore gas had been found, and was already being pumped away north. But so far the locals had received no benefits; they had their ruins with new plaques donated by the United Nations. And they had the sea and the fish and the beach. Jobs would surely come. Bwana Markham was no fool, he too was awaiting the inevitable tourist boom. But Bwana Markham was not so young, and he did not look well, Kamal wanted to tell him. He desisted.

“There.”

Lateef gestured with a brisk nod at the table behind Kamal, who turned around to see. Two young Europeans sat in a cheerful group with three youths who looked like Filipinos.

“Surveyors,” Lateef explained. “Their boat is anchored at the harbour—with all the machinery. You can go and see it.” Kamal had hardly taken this in when Lateef leaned forward and said, “Behind me—those two.”

Kamal observed a well-groomed man in a goatee, dressed in designer safari, sitting with someone older and very evidently a local.

“What about them?”

“Hunters,” Lateef said, taking aim with an imaginary rifle. “They can hunt here?”

“In the national park. With a licence. Each licence twenty thousand dollars. They come with machine guns, from the Middle East—
pa-pa-pa-pa-pa!
—lions, buffaloes, rhinos. They come in planes, but this one”—his gesture indicating a beard—“must have missed the plane or wanted to see the country. They come with bodyguards.”