Aluta Continua by Kingsley Taabu

An unkind afternoon sun shines upon a rather dry and dusty earth, forcing most to take shelter in homes, under trees or for people like me, in pubs. There is a breeze which seems to try and soften the harshness of the sun but all is a mere fiasco. One may think that whoever controls this earth finally got sick of us and decided to burn us to death. Only children are outside, who of course are motivated by play. Adults like me are in hiding; nothing makes the suffering of adulthood worse than an inconsiderate sun.

I am slowly drinking local beer, thinking of the life I am yet to have, when a shadowy figure appears at the local’s door. The figure not only captures my attention but also of other revellers. For what seems to be an eternity, the figure adjusts its shoulders. In bated breath, I await its next move.

Finally it steps in. The multitude of eyes, which was initially focused on it, face away. A click or two can be heard in the background. It's nothing extraordinary: Just a tourist with a lapdog by their side. If only I could confront them for my seconds wasted...

The Tourist, appearing to be in her late 40s, studies the pub. Her eyes light up in fascination for what they often call Swahili architecture. I can see that the painting of a sultan, which is definitely for aesthetics and does not belong there, has gobbled up all her focus. She can’t take her eyes off it. Slowly, she turns to the young man by her side and asks who the sultan was. I wish I could hear his reply; a reply I am certain to be a lie.

Two waitresses rush to them. One known to me as Amina and sometimes as a total pain in the neck, wins the battle as the lady decides to follow her. She places them at one of the ‘special tables’ with a great view of both the pub and the breathtaking ocean right ahead. To be a tourist in a coastal town seems so lovely!

Amina tries to ignore the eyes that are following her; eyes full of judgement and disgust. With her head down, she heads back to the counter for the English menu.’ No. It’s not a menu with English food but a translated one which the pub keeps away from us locals because “we do not understand English.” Oh, and I forgot to add that it has some extra coastal dishes which the pub believes we can't afford, nothing much.

“No, I won’t use this!” A raspy voice penetrates the atmosphere. Quite unpleasant, I must say. The Tourist places down the menu. Well, let’s actually give her a name. I think Karen would suffice. Karen looks at Amina and smiles. Amina smiles back, a bit shocked and awkwardly.

My attention is now on the boy she’s with, a young man in his twenties who hopes to achieve financial freedom through being a ‘guide.’ He’s been anxious the whole time. This is a trait he shares with many of his kind. The fear of judgement pursues them like a phantom. We know that they are more than just guides. We know what they do. Every Friday, though, we will meet them at the mosque, in their white kanzus. And later? They will be at our houses, looking for wives. Who will marry such men?

I can’t solely put blame on him for his choice of craft. I blame the system: a system on its deathbed, which promises to improve but keeps on disappointing its people. This system is a combination of many wrongs, but not limited to just poor governance, exploitation and corruption. It manipulates the poor with a balanced dose of sweet nothings and threats to see another day. A system which has reserved education for the rich, leaving the poor, who are the majority, at the mercy of ignorance and speculation. The system is rotten and needs to be put down, but the afflicted keep on guaranteeing its survival.

My internal rumbles come to an end when I notice Karen struggling to pronounce a word. I think she is ready to order. She definitely knows what she wants, courtesy of her lapdog I presume, but can’t pronounce it. Amina and the young man feign smiles and cheers. For a moment there, you’d think they were parents trying to make their child say their first word.

“Fi-ha-zzzi vy-ara-ye na kw-e-nju!”

She stares at them, hoping to have said it correctly. The two seem to be gauging what to say, which is quite funny since we all know it has to involve some ass-kissing with sprinkled with fake laughs for taste.

“Wow, I’m even confused as to whether you’re a local or not,” I finally chip in to get the script rolling. The boy looks at me in relief, thanking me through a fake laugh and nod. They ask me to join them but I decline. I like watching from outside. That way I am able to observe everyone.

He tells Amina to bring them samosas. Karen frowns. Seems like that’s not what she wanted but does not tell him. She just lets out a defeated sigh. I guess this is not the first time? He’s done it before. Hmmm, he seems controlling.

Meanwhile, what sounds like an argument emanates from the back. Of course, it’s from the pub area. A man and a woman are arguing. Actually, it’s two women. One of the women is carrying a child. The man is seated, looking at his palms as he smiles. The other lady is quiet, looking at him.

“I will come home when I want,” the man begins,” and when I do, I want to find foo...”

He is interrupted by a slap which lands squarely on his wide face. Pin drop silence descends upon the bar. Then, a thunder of laughter tears through the atmosphere. The quiet one grins after delivering the slap. She then beckons the other and they leave the pub. The man hurriedly follows them behind.

The ordeal has raised a multitude of theories from revellers at the pub. One man says that those were his two wives. Another man says that they are a throuple and he knows that because they’re his neighbors.

“It’s interesting to see men rumour mongering,” Karen shouts in my direction. She then smiles and asks why I won’t join them. I tell her I’m comfortable where I am. The young man has now taken interest in me, in quite a green-eyed way. Wish he realized that I wasn’t after his woman.

A cold breeze hits the premise. I enjoy the two seconds of relief from the heat. The pub is now more lively than earlier. A mix of rhumba and taarab acts as background noise for the many conversations and thoughts in the pub. A song which holds so much nostalgia plays and the pub is filled with different voices, both bad and good. In unison, they sing, each reliving a unique moment from the past.

I can see that Keren is impressed and asks her boy to teach him the song. In fact, she begs him. She has been moved by the singing, you can see it in her face. It’s as if she has experienced something alchemic; a moment which will truly be part of the stories she tells her friends and family back home.

I find it interesting how much this song, that she doesn’t even understand, means so much to her. If she came here every Wednesday afternoon, however, she’d realize that it is not something special. The drunkards here sing it with their hearts out. Its just routine and some sort of ritual for drunkards of the same age-set, to sing it.

Amina returns with a tray and two plates. Karen seems disappointed and exchanges glances with Amina. They both look at the boy, who looks at his palms and smiles. Then he picks a samosa from the tray. The two are still looking at him.

“Enjoy! Karibu,” Amina says as she heads back to the counter.

I watch her as she heads back. It never crossed my mind how physically endowed she was. It was such a wonder how an unpleasant lady was blessed with such a voluptuous bottom that mercilessly grabbed all your attention. She kind of reminded me of my tribeswomen and definitely had the attitude for it. In another world, she would be the woman for me. However, as of now, her nature of work does not allow for us. Plus, she hates my guts and I hate hers. Perhaps, we’re lovers in denial, who knows?

My delusion is interrupted by a tap on my hand. Of course, it is Karen. This time, she offers to buy me a beer, seeing that mine is nearly over. In exchange, I would have to teach her that song. She complains about how her boy doesn’t know it because he is apparently too young. I resist the urge to tell her that maybe it’s a sign. Anyway, after much begging and a promise of three beers, I am convinced.

“Yawuoi makare,” I begin, and it just hit me that it only took 3 beers to get the bird singing. I will probably be hearing from my ancestors later in the night. Anyway, I hope I do because I have a few things to get off my chest too.

She stares at me deeply as I explain the lyrics. Occasionally, she tries to also sing. Her voice is actually more pleasant than I thought it would be, or I might be drunk. We laugh together whenever she gets it wrong. It appears she hasn’t laughed like that in a long time. In the Hollywood movies, this is the part where she leans in for a ki...

Amina brings me three beers, but secretly steps on my foot. Either she is into me or thinks that I also seek to profit from their target. I highly presume it’s the former.

Karen begins telling me about herself and how the young man with her is her nephew. She is lying, but I go with it. Apparently, we are age mates. Ageing hasn’t been that kind to her, though. I wait to hear the sad cliché sob story of being a divorcee who runs to the coast to unwind after breaking off a fourteen-year marriage to a cheating husband. However, this is not the case.

The concept of marriage is unrealistic to her. She doesn’t see how it’s possible to stay with one man for the rest of her life. This is not because of promiscuity but growth. She thinks she will outgrow him or vice versa. As a result, they’ll have to deal with being dragged down until eventually one is brave enough to leave.

I never thought of it that way.

Though I am unmarried for different reasons, which can only be summarized with “The one that got away”, I think of marriage as a beautiful institution. I do not bring up an argument because I believe in the freedom of decisions.

At this point, I am quite drunk and not a fan of my company. I look at her man, who has had his eyes focused on me, trying to signal him to take her away. He, however, does not get the signal. What happened to men and reading cues?

She goes on and yaps about how she wishes to explore the food at the coast. Apparently, she has eaten so many samosas that she is tired of them. The way she describes the food to me is quite foreign. To her, the food has been crafted in heaven and sent to earth through different chefs as gifts to humanity. Then the food is not meant to sustain man but to make them live to see another day. The food, to her, should be the motivation of life.

I, however, do not respond. It is my hope that my silence will make her realize I am not interested in a conversation. Like a curious child, she continues speaking.

The topic is now the buildings and how they are such tickets to the past. She sees the faded paint and cracked walls as canvases which have stories to tell. These buildings, according to her, have listened to thousand of conversations, witnessed love stories and the likes. The architecture behind them has withstood the test of time and the danger that is modernism. To her, that is beauty.

To me, however, all that is nothing.

All that will forever remain part of a town which we struggle to leave. A town which is a graveyard of dreams and ambitions. Whenever I look around, I see death in the eyes of men. Why? There is nothing here. It is sad seeing the despair in the eyes of young people. It is sad seeing anguish on the faces of mothers when they pick up their sons from drunken stupor. It is excruciatingly painful seeing daughters give themselves to men just to bring food to the table.

If these buildings could speak, they would not tell stories of how Halima and Hassan sacrilegiously kissed for the first time, or of how Juma and Nerima held hands in the rain. They would lament how they have watched policemen target young people carrying fruits to sell. They would cry at how they’re forced to withstand terrible garbage stench because the county government cannot do its work.

The food tastes of an exploited farmer’s tears. The fish tastes of a beaten fisherman’s sweat. She cannot see it because the tourist eyes see a different world. I must admit that I admire the view. Maybe I will love it here more as a tourist. Maybe I will not be as quick to leave if I was one. As of now though, this town is a grave.

At this point, I am tired of listening to her. In one swift movement, I pick the remaining two beers, thank her, and then leave. I can feel her eyes looking at me. She must be furious. The young man is probably as shocked but relieved. He and Amina can continue taking advantage of their cash-cow at last.

As I walk out, the urge to leave the town becomes stronger. I resolve to head straight home and pack my things. That encounter was all I needed. It is my hope that I will find better. In the event that I will not, then I will continue searching.

“Aluta Continua”

To communicate more with the writer, find him on:

Email: taabukingsley@gmail.com

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Photo by Qarim Zam