“Be at my place at eight thirty.” I’d told her when we left work at three that Saturday afternoon. The sounds of Toni Braxton ‘He wasn’t man enough’ became louder and louder and soon, a black Nissan Pathfinder pulled out at my packing lot. Aisha turned off the car, took her Gucci handbag, and looked one more time in the mirror. Out of the car, she walked like the world was watching, I was watching.
Aisha. She’d taken me in from the first day we met, a day I still remember. It was in the large dining room of Savannah nursing home, where I stood staring at a job application form, and she smiling at me in her blue uniform, her long weave hiding her forehead and her lips smeared in bright red lipstick. I looked at her, wondering how she did it, how she had made it in this country, how she could look so comfortable standing there, like she belonged. I wondered how she had filled her application form. What box she had ticked. I on the other hand only had question marks and doubts – ‘Caucasian-No, Hispanic-No, Native American-No, Asian-No, wait a minute, are these even races? Where is African?’ I struggled through with the last two options, ‘Black American-?’ – I’m not American, ‘Other’ – How convenient.’ Aisha approached me and stretched out her hand to greet me.
“Hi, where is ‘African’, what do I tick, you’re African, right?” I asked her pointing at the form.
“Oh that, don’t stress, it’s just a formality.” She said.
“So why does it matter then? Who is ‘Other’?” I asked.
Aisha smiled, “You, me and two thirds of the workers here. It’s like that everywhere, you’ll see.”
Just then Patrice the boss came back for the form. Aisha pretended to wipe the tables next to me. Patrice, a beautiful middle aged Black-American woman stood there for a while speaking to Aisha. “You know each other from Kenia, are you family?” She said, and then smiled, a quick smile, like invisible hands pulled her lips apart, quick, and then let free just as fast. Her serious face was back before I could return the smile.
“Ya, yah, cousins.” She said and then acted out a similar smile.
“Great, can you show her around. I’ll be right back.” Patrice said.
I followed her quietly, thinking how easy those lies had flowed out, was it necessary? I too soon came to learn the art of acting out the life I wanted, blending the imagined and the real of the life that I made for myself.
“A little white lie hurts no one, right cuz?”
“Right” I said and from then on, we let everyone think we were cousins.
I admired her confidence, that was so easily contagious. On that glorious day, I got a job as a waitress, a best friend, and a crash course in ‘How to survive in America as a foreigner’. A course that entailed – ‘Finding an accent and quick, self-confidence, the smile, not stressing about ‘minor details’ like ones’ identity, in short just pretend. I pretended to be a good waitress, I pretended to enjoy old people’s conversation, I pretended to speak American-English, I even pretended to be happy.
With time Aisha and I became clones of each other, and our multi-identities became veils we could take on and off. ‘A confident female with an attitude’ was the basic expectation for that Saturday evening. Aisha walked in the room, threw her bag on the sofa and went to the kitchen for drinks.
“I’m the driver remember.” I said.
“Relax, we’ll take a taxi, kupewa ni lazima.”
She walked into my room and put the drinks on the dressing table and was soon checking out my wardrobe for tiny pieces of fabric for the evening.
“Ebu jaribu hii ya red.” she said and passed me a tiny red dress. She then moved closer and put her hand on my bare shoulder, dragging my robe down, kissing my neck and then looked at my face in the mirror. I smiled back at her. In her eyes I saw myself, the passion that burned inside me when she was close. She put her arms around my waist, and I could feel her warm breath on my neck. I put my hands on her cheeks and kissed her lips.
“We don’t have so much time,” I whispered, “the world is waiting.” I said and tried on the little red dress.
“It’s perfect on you, you are perfect!” she said.
I looked at myself in the mirror, this was the kind of dress my mother back home would set on fire, ‘tûtangari twa maraya,’ she called them. It fitted perfectly to the term – a slutty little rug, tight at the waist, showing a bit of bare skin on the sides and fitting at the hips. It was low and a little loose at the neck but with some room still left for imagination and desire. I thought it perfect for the evening.
“A bit sluttish, I reckon.” said Aisha.
“Perfect!”
With the last brush of makeup, I was ready to put my mark in the night scenes of Georgia.
We packed outside the East African club in Marietta on Roswell Road; it was in here we met to forget the agonies of the ‘dou-bles’ which meant working two jobs to be able to make ends meet. It was here we met to confirm to ourselves and each other that we were still living the American dream, rolling in fancy cars, partying, dressed like Destiny’s Child’s dancers. It was also here where Kenyan alpha males and females met and fought over the newest mating partner in town, a fight that would be followed by an ugly merry-go-round of dating. Aisha and I kept out of this circle, we made sure to date ‘Out of State’ and that soon became our trade mark ‘The out of state bitches’. It was a term we loved, as nothing worthwhile ever came from being a good girl, as Aisha constantly reminded me. We came to dance. We were twenty three and we had the world at the palms of our hands. We set the rules.
It was intentionally dark inside with disco lights circling around from the ceiling. A stale smell of tobacco and beer filled up the room and most of the occupants looked painfully intoxicated. We found a place by the bar, ordered two Mojitos and drowned them as fast as we could and then directly to the dance floor. When we came back, a gorgeous, dark eyed man sat at our place smiling shyly. He wore short hair, clean cut beard and his face – a fresh look in the Kenyan clubs- seemed to have been curved specifically for this day, for this meeting. Though my back was partly turned against him, I feared he could hear my deep breaths, and see the tiny sweat drops dripping in my neck. I could already feel the gods of love mixing the portion, I looked at Aisha for cues, and she smiled and nodded.
“Hi, here you go; I’ve been keeping an eye on them.” He said.
“Thanks.” I said and continued talking with Aisha with my back on the beautiful stranger. But he’d caught my eye and my heart too.
“You know you can talk to her, I suck in sign language.” Aisha said to the wonder-man, just as I turned after thanking the gods above, and saw him curving out my body with his hands. He smiled.
“Hi, I’m Amahle.” He said. “And you? you look like a Zulu.”
I felt a dark cloud hover over my face, as I tried to hide my disappointment. I didn’t know much about Zulu men, but this did seem promising at all, but still I held on his hand a little longer.
“You are not Zulu, not even South African?” he insisted.
“How predictable…” I said.
He looked at me, a little embarrassed and after a few awkward moments, he continued.
“I’m sorry for being direct, but my mother expects me to bring home a Zulu girl, would you convert, what Zulu name do you fancy, Ayanda? you can come with me to South Africa and learn Zulu.” His eyes brightened up and his pupils dilated as he held on to my hand. I considered finding a quiet place and giving him a proper slap – beautiful face and all.
“I’m twenty three; I’m here to have fun not to hunt for a husband.”
“What are the odds? I’m twenty three too.” He shouted as I walked away.
“Then start living!” I said.
Aisha laughed so hard as we danced to ‘Sina Makosa’, while I lamented on what a damn waste of good looks he was.
I’d forgotten all about Amahle until, to my surprise we found him still holding a seat for me and Aisha at the bar after hours on the dance floor. He offered to buy us a drink, ‘if only to make amends for his rudeness’.
I said nothing.
“I’m sorry.” he said.
“What exactly are you sorry for? Is it coz you didn’t know my name before you proposed I find a new one? Or is it coz you’ll not call mummy tomorrow with news of her new daughter-in-law, poor little mama’s boy…, you want to know why I’m sorry? I’m sorry that I almost fell for your pretty face, that for a brief second I had allowed myself to dream, to imagine you and I, when all you came for is to get a wife, a silly naive wife, I bet a virgin too, In this club! Good luck with it, I say good luck!” I was now screaming, everyone was staring at us.
He took my hand and looked at me.
“I know your name, I’m sorry I came out too direct and too harsh, I’ve just had so much pressure from home and really, I would hate to waste your time.”
“Then don’t, go out there and find your mummy a nice girl.”
He was quiet for a long time and then took my palm and started studying it, drawing lines on it.
“What I should have said is that you are the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. That I want to go for a date with you, but that I know and hope in six months I’ll want to meet your family and you mine, that I’ll be torn between ‘us’ and ‘my culture’. I hope that you’ll tell me cultures are there to be reinvented, and that you too will be breaking your own. I will want to believe you, because it is I who’ll still be holding the most beautiful woman ever created. I’ll suggest we settle here for good, and live the rest of our lives with the burden of disappointed families, yours and mine.”
I smiled, thinking of how foolish we were, how full of himself he was, how right he was too.
“And I’ll say, ‘They will love you once they get to know you’, but I’ll imagine my mother telling her relatives, ‘Zulus are entrepreneurial, good business people like us’ when they ask her, ‘how is your daughter, the one who married a Zulu?’ You’ll cease to exist and all they’ll see is the tribe. You will be the tribe’s ambassador, and everything about you will be ‘because’ and ‘in spite’ of your being Zulu.”
He ran his fingers on my cheeks.
“And I fear, you’ll still be second best to them, ‘if only she were Zulu’, they’ll say, but I know deep down I’ll love you. Like I did from the first moment I saw you six months ago at the parking lot of Savannah nursing home.”
He paused. I tried to find a reason to make ‘us’ happen but reality was too harsh, he would never pass the test of the right son-in-law, his ‘name’ betrayed him. But with his looks I was ready to elope with him. After all, my destiny was entirely on my hands.
I looked around the club, lovers held each other, others fought over broken promises, while others just sat by the bar and watched, longing for their chance of passion. Aisha too had taken an exception to our rule and was engrossed in a serious kissing round. The music was slowing down, and I knew we had only a few hours remaining.
I kissed his lips.
“Let’s dance,” I said, “let’s pretend that there are no expectations. Let’s pretend the rules are there to be broken, cultures to be reinvented. Let’s pretend that the world is yours and mine to take. And should it be our last dance, then I say let’s leave our mark.”
We danced to the beats of MJ and Kalamashaka, we danced to Beetles and to Kamaru. And when we danced Whitney’s ‘How will I know’, we had the dance floor to ourselves, while everyone cheered.
On our way home, we walked in the streets and jumped in the nearest photo booth. A snap and a click, and as if biblical, a blinding light appeared, and six copies of lovers kissing came down the machine. He gave me three copies and on one of he signed, ‘No matter what life brings, we can look back and remember when we were twenty three. A glimpse of love… July 3rd, 2003.’
“And you are drunk my darling, now tell me, what were you doing at Savannah nursing home six months ago?” I said.
“Looking for a job.” he said.
Aisha, Amahle and I.
