The Other Language(31)
“Why theoretically?” I ask.
“Stuff happens all the time. Either it’s the animals that die of mysterious diseases, or they’re stolen by neighbors. Or the husbands take the money and use it for whatever they need. So actually most of the women have failed to repay the loans.”
“That’s disappointing.”
He nods and keeps eating in silence. Somehow I had expected him to feel more passionate about this project. That he’d find it a rather noble task to devote one’s life to lifting women from poverty.
“So, what happens now?” I asked. “Are you out of a job?”
“No. They have kept me on a salary while they try to figure out how to change the modus operandi.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“A bunch of Norwegians,” he says. Now I do hear a bit of passion—just shy of a sneer.
He shrugs and looks into his plate.
“As if they’d have any idea of how to operate it. They show up twice a year and they don’t even speak the language.”
I resist asking more. Though I have so many questions, clearly he doesn’t particularly like to talk about any of this; he must know that this bare room looks nothing like an efficient NGO. Maybe there will be another opportunity, later. Maybe we both need a little time.
He fills my glass with water. I wonder if it’s filtered but I don’t dare ask. I could do with a drink, actually. It would really help me to soften up the edges and get through this more smoothly.
When I retire to my room in the evening I discover that Farida has scattered pink frangipani petals on my bed. The scent is sweet and heady. I would like to take a photo of it, but the power goes off just as I start fumbling inside my bag for the camera. A couple of minutes later, Farida knocks lightly at the door and brings in a kerosene lamp that fills the room with a warmer glow. Now that we are alone, she covers her mouth, repressing a laugh, and reaches for my hair. She holds a strand between her fingers for a moment, testing its texture.
Later, once the sounds of closing doors, splashing water and coughing have ceased next door, I lay awake on the hard mattress, lending an ear to the other side of the wall. I am not ready to handle any intimate sounds that might seep through their bedroom walls.
Time here moves as slowly as inside a dentist’s waiting room.
I am trying to figure out what Andrea’s routine is, to get a sense of his existence, but his life keeps eluding me. There has been a procession of visitors throughout the whole morning, all of them men who sit out on the porch with him and talk very loudly in Swahili. I watch Andrea as he slaps his thigh and raises his voice, joining the chorus. He’s a different person in this new incarnation—that cool aloofness, that lightness of touch he had when I knew him, seems gone. Swahili sounds like a language that needs a strong vocal emission, wide gesticulation and theatrical facial expressions. The men wear shirts over colorful kikoys wrapped around their waists, bantering and laughing on the stone bench that I’ve been told is called baraza. It could be local gossip, or perhaps they are just recounting a fishing expedition; I notice one of them is moving an open hand like a knife slicing his forearm, perhaps demonstrating the size of his daily catch. Andrea hasn’t introduced me to any of them.
After lunch—another disappointing meal of plain white rice and fried fish with too many bones—I tell Andrea I’d like to go out and take some pictures of the village. I have begun to feel hostage to the house, as though—inexplicably so—there’s an unwritten rule that I am to stay put and not wander out. It is decided that Farida is to accompany me in my wanderings. Apparently it doesn’t look good for any woman—mzungu or local—to be out on the streets by herself. This has of course not been openly stated, but somehow I get the drift. Farida reappears clad in her black buibui, showing an unforeseen eagerness for the assignment she’s been given, and off we go. The minute we are alone she urges me in sign language to enter a neighbor’s house. I try to protest—I’ve had enough of being shut inside—but she won’t relent. Evidently she’s no longer so scared of me.
We enter another squared house with a small inner courtyard where an old lady wrapped in a bright pink cloth sits quietly next to a goat with her withered legs stretched out in front. She looks blind, and strangely beautiful. Farida ignores her and we enter a dark, stuffy room. I hear giggles coming from its depths. There are two young women about Farida’s age who get up from the floor and come toward us. Farida shows me off to them with pride, like a girl with a new doll. I have a feeling that news of my arrival has been spreading and the neighbors are expecting to get a glimpse of me. There is a brief discussion, then the young women decide I have to follow them to the next room, darker than the first one. Here they pat the floor mat till I sit down. More women, both young and old, join us now, appearing from the recesses of what looks like a big house, and sit across from me, making sounds of appreciation. I am surrounded. The room smells of cheap lotions, cloth, sweat, boredom and sleep. Farida must have told them it’d be okay to go ahead and touch me, because now they tug at my hair, at my clothes, they inspect the fabric, grab my wrist, discuss my rings, my watch. The room is stifling; my clothes stick to my back as sweat rolls down my spine. I glance at my watch and I see it’s only half past three. The end of the day still feels a long way ahead.