bite to silence the pangs of hunger,” he said generously, slicing the tangled meat open, the juicy parts yielding drops of oil as he proceeded to cut it into tiny pieces. “You know, we have heard so much about you, mzee . . .”
“I hope you have heard the right things,” Babu had replied, glowing as he turned to his grandson Rajan. “He keeps asking me to tell him stories from the past. But I don’t know how he retells them.”
“He does it very well,” Gathenji assured, then went on: “You know, now that we are about to celebrate our independence, you stand tall as one of our fathers of the nation.”
“Not so loud,” Babu cautioned. “Some don’t think of fatherhood as a shared responsibility.”
“Never mind, you are our father. Tell me, where did you learn all those languages? Swahili, Kikuyu, Dholuo, Kalenjin?” Gathenji pressed.
“Well, it was all in a day’s work,” Babu allowed. “I worked with men from different communities, so I learned their languages.”
“And you know the most difficult part of it, my good mzee?” Gathenji said. “You built the rail with those hands of yours . . . the rail that now links the land of Waswahili to that of Wajaluo, Wakikuyu to Wakalenjin.”
“It was all in a day’s job.”
Gathenji waved him down. “Hold it right there, ngoja kidogo.” He had noticed Babu was not eating and still had his false teeth in. Gathenji dashed to the butchery and returned shortly with a mug of muteta soup and a glass of water into which Babu dropped his dentures, sipping the soup as he did so. They managed this exchange without a word.
“I hear this very house has an interesting tale to tell,” Gathenji said conspiratorially.
“Careful,” Babu smiled, flashing his bare gums, “walls have ears.”
“I agree,” Gathenji said. “Let’s not gossip about the stream while sitting on its rocks.”
“Words of wisdom.”
Gathenji was summoned back to the butchery by a customer. Babu took another sip of the soup and sighed. It was spicy, just as he liked it. He took a bite of mutura and chewed nervously, wondering if the meat was halal. Although he wasn’t very religious, he liked to eat right. The mutura was delicious, if a little oversalted.
Soon, Rajan took to the stage, calling the audience’s attention to the special guest in the house. Babu waved his walking stick from his seat as the revelers ululated.
* * *
Bringing his thoughts back to the present and to the mysterious kissing stranger, Rajan paused by the brazier and warmed his hands absentmindedly. With the return of the lights, the brazier had lost some of its brilliance, but the intensity of the heat had not diminished. The meat was spread on a mesh above the hot coal. A rising blue flame was snuffed by a trickle of blood. A blob of fat followed the route the blood had taken but got caught between two glowing coals. After some moments, the white blob congealed into a black knot, its fatty juice trickling down with a sparkle. The flesh sizzled, its red-pink color turning golden brown. There was a popping sound as a kidney puffed and burst, spewing a splash of fat that ignited a fresh flame that sprinted across the brazier, like a shooting star on a dark night, before it went down in a flicker.
Rajan felt a light wind sweep through. He lifted his eyes and peered at the animals by the watering hole. They, too, had lifted their ears, listening for threats to their lives. The carcasses of the animals that had been killed for the day’s meat nudged back to life, doing their upside-down dance at the butchery, attracting a fresh lease of interest from revelers. The sizzling of the meat and the heaving of the coals melded into the din of the night: the popping of a frosty, turbaned bottle losing its top, the clink of toasting glasses, the loosening of belts, the murmur of drunken men and women seducing one another.
Music came to the fore as someone bellowed: “Next onstage, the Indian Raj, the undisputed king of mugithi . . . Next onstage . . .”
Although Rajan was scarcely aware of this, he had gone almost full circle. He had combed the entire establishment in his search of the kissing stranger, to no avail. He had almost reached the washrooms again. The sound of the riff and the cheer from the crowd nearly brought him to his knees. There was something utterly overpowering about the music and the energized audience’s response. Somebody called out his name, and the riff sounded once more as the drums throbbed and the guitar wailed.
He was suddenly aware of the pressure on his bladder, which felt like the prick of a thousand needles, drilling a mild, burning sensation. There was even something pleasant about the pain. He shuffled to the urinal and listened to the rhythmic drone as the jet of urine drummed the white bowl, a haze of steam rising lazily in the air.
He felt happy and light as he sprinted backstage without washing his hands, feeling safe in the dim light, now insulated further by the taste of the stranger’s kiss.
He walked up to the microphone onstage and adjusted it to his height. He was small-bodied, like a stunted teen, with a clutch of jet-black hair held at the back by a red, gold, and green hairband. When fans saw him for the first time, they often remarked that fame does not match its owner, for his frame came up short of his towering reputation.
The instruments were building in tempo. Rajan trembled with delight and nodded appreciatively to the instrumentalists, tapping his right foot, responding to a rhythm that appeared to bubble deep inside him.
In his formative years as a singer, Rajan would shake with fright before the curtains opened, unsure how the audience might respond. Sometimes, lines that he had rehearsed for weeks would evaporate at the sight of hundreds of eyes. Now he was a lot more composed, but the dread before performing a show never really left him. It helped when he was under the influence of something. Steam is what they called preconcert intoxication; he’d had a few beers to “unlock” his mind.
Rajan let the instruments play on—the squeak from the keyboard, the wail of the guitar, and the throb of the drums building into a frenzy. He yanked the microphone from its stand and walked to the edge of the platform as dozens of hands rushed to touch him. He crooned in a low, mournful voice:
Barua nakutumia
Nikufunze ya dunia
Usije ukaangamia
Ewe wangu—eeeeeeeeeee!
He shut his eyes and let the music smother his face, now contorted into a mask of pain and pleasure. The air was tense as revelers fell silent. All the sounds from the orchestra were suffused in his small frame, his voice releasing the energy in dribs and drabs. The fans were hypnotized. When he sang the chorus again, the audience joined in, turning the song into a call-and-response, uniting those seated in different sections that once separated the races, building gently before cascading into the main riff.
Rajan fished a pretty girl from the mass of hands that waved excitedly at him. He always picked the most striking girls for this dance, which was a precursor to the gentler dance that followed backstage. The girl wore high heels and ascended the creaky stairs as though she were stepping on eggs. Her skirt was too tight to allow a full stride, which elicited more ululation from the audience. Rajan’s heart somersaulted at the flash of her exposed leg. He stretched his arm and held her dainty hand and pulled her onstage.
The
