We were at Village Market putting our ducks in a row when this bigger duck in the shape of a black American scooted over to our side. It’s not late, about 10 pm; the night was still young, at least young enough for the mischief we were about to induce.
He had dreadlocks, giving us instant camaraderie. He seemed to be about 30, no more than 35. He said Hi. We said Hi. He said, “What you guys up to?” I said, “Nothing much. Lying low from the law.” He laughed at that. I liked that. Instant camaraderie.
C— wasn’t impressed. She was rolling her eyes so far back in her skull I was afraid they’d be stuck in that weird zombie position, and they’d need a brisk cuff on the ears to dislodge them back to normal. She said very little, sizing up my newfound best friend who spoke to us in unforced friendliness, the type you see only in dying people, a kindness and gentleness that came over them that was often embarrassing for those around them.
C— is naturally suspicious of people, whereas she thinks I am the next António Guterres; doubtful where I am cooperative, critical where I am confident. What made her nervous put me at ease. The duck asked who we were, what we do, who we were to each other. He concluded we were siblings, and we did not correct him. I told him I am a pastor, which is not far from the truth, as I deliver the word. Don’t I?
C— said she is a gynaecologist. I have known C— all my life, and I did not know she was a gynaecologist.
Well, he said. He is from America. The land of the brave and free. That would have been enough, except he is garrulous. He was in Africa to chill with the ‘common folk’. To do business, he said. He had been living in a black man’s civilised life in California, and he felt the motherland call to him. “You ain’t lived till you’ve been back in the motherland; you know what I mean?”
C— wasn’t convinced. She had questions. She wanted to probe. Maybe she is a gynaecologist after all. The duck told us about his family; he is a middle-born, a Sagittarius, whereas C— and I are Tauruses. He’s moved countries a lot, made a lot of money, and offered to foot our bill for the night. How American of him.
C— said no. I said, C— doesn’t speak for me. But she did. So he offered to take us to dinner instead. Morally, I shouldn’t accept money from strangers, but can you tell a hungry child that you gave him food yesterday?
Having found a willing audience, he blabbered on and on. He came to Africa 10 years ago; he is now in his prime; he’s conquered West Africa, wooed parts of Central Africa, staying at the best hotels, spending money like an underboss in a Sicilian Mafia, confabbing with both the state and its enemies. It all sounded like a movie to me, but I grew up fed on a diet of DJ Afro cinemas, and to this day I still believe that if you smeared a little mud on your face and stuck a few leaves on your head like Arnold Schwarzenegger in Commando, you became completely invisible.
He particularly liked Kenya, because, like America, this was the land of deal makers. With enough money, he could get anything done for you. Files could go missing. Or people. He didn’t tell us how. He said that’s how the world operates. He’d tried the stairs; he preferred the lift. The law of the land had its ways, and he had his. Realism over romanticism, he said.
I could feel C’s look of contempt and pity, a look for the fool blind to the realities of life.
I used to believe in the social contract I grew up under. Work hard, pay your taxes, and follow the rules, and as a reward for that diligence, your living standards will improve. Not anymore. Those who break the rules are confident that they’ll face no penalty for doing so, and those following the rules are left feeling like yutz.
He said the law was meant to limit bad decisions, not encourage good ones. I couldn’t agree more. Younger people feel they have the least to gain by following the conventional way of things. The street wisdom is thus: it is easier to ask for forgiveness than beg for permission. It also explains the proliferation of forex bros and Ni-God business merchants.
It’s a hand-me-down social inheritance: what floods at the top trickles down to the basement. Because how do you explain politicians who do not manufacture or run businesses becoming billionaires?
That Sunday, as I was headed to church, I noticed there were no police officers on the road. That meant I was now in charge of the roads. At the traffic light, which was red, I wondered why the car ahead of me had stopped. My moral gymnastics came into play: there was no incoming traffic, and the roads were as clear as my feelings for Zendaya, so the only reasonable conclusion to draw was: wickedness. It took my mother’s prayers for me not to hoot—or maybe it was the broken horn—but I couldn’t help but smirk when the preacher yelled about our casual dishonesty and Sunday Christians. Had he read my file?
Later that night, C— asked whether she should be impressed or worried about how easily I lied to the American bloke. Is this just who I am? I haven’t stopped thinking about her question.
