man said. ‘Tomorrow it might be you.’ He laughed before grimacing in pain.
Our conversation over, we left him there – bleeding into his counter, drinking straight from the bottle – and made our way to Club 680.
There was no mistaking Madeline. She was up on a small stage, behind her a dreadlocked guitarist. People were clapping wildly. She waved them quiet as we took our seats at the bar, then turned so as to face the back of the stage. ‘Enough with the political shit,’ she whispered into the microphone.
I thought she was introducing a song, but before long I realised that this was a spoken word performance.
Silence descended as the guitarist took off his wedding ring and replaced it with a glass guitar slide. He tested the sound, so that for a moment the whole bar, dimly lit save for the stage, was filled with a bluesy sound. And then, starting to speak in slow rap, she joined the guitarist: ‘My hair has rootsall over the earth, like the roots of an old, old, old baobab, tapping and traversing the whole earth.’
Turning sideways, she leaned back as she undid the wrap around her head so that long thin dreadlocks unfurled, almost touching the ground, completing her arc.
‘And my skin, this old raggedy skin thing …’ The crowd laughed and even I smiled because her dark skin, glistening from oil or sweat or both, was so smooth that it looked soft to the touch and anything but ragged.
‘This old skin is the same skin my great-grandmother wore to sleep and to the garden, this is the skin that she wore when in battle. Don’t be fooled by its softness, in peace it’s for pleasure, but it quickly grows scales when it’s time for war.’ She caressed the length of first one arm and then the other, back and forth, back and forth until her skin seemed to radiate her blackness. Then, as she raised her hands up high with her fists clenched, the guitarist hit some violent chords, making his instrument sound like machine-gun fire and missiles.
‘And these breasts, these breasts can feed a child and bring a grown man to tears in the same evening.’ The crowd laughed approvingly – she was tall, about my height, and slender, but when she thrust her chest forward the T-shirt she wore to her midriff hugged her breasts tightly.
‘And my hands, they are rough from play and lifting machetes. They can undress you, or they can peel my covers away.’ She lifted her T-shirt up until we could see the beginning of her breasts.
‘And my mouth can curse or love, speak hope or pain, but when you are good to me, let’s just say my tongue wraps around things easily.’ She raised her hands high in the air andground her hips.
‘And this, this is not a treasure to be beheld from afar, when you come closer, when you come closer you will see that it will lead your tongue to my pleasure.’ Her hand followed the small chain that hung from a sparkling belly button ring down into her jeans. And then she broke into an easy laughter as if to remind the audience it was a performance after all.
‘What the hell!’ I heard O exclaim as the lights came up and everyone stood to give Madeline a standing ovation. It was an odd mixture of people, now that I could see them – elite Kenyans, refugees and expatriates. It reminded me of the mixture of people we had encountered in Mathare, only this was the other end of the scale.
After bowing first to the guitarist and then to the crowd Madeline made her way to the bar where men and their wives clamoured to shake her hand and buy her drinks. A few minutes later she was rescued from her fans by a gentleman who led her away to a table near the stage. O and I ordered drinks and kept watch, waiting for an opening, but it wasn’t until an hour or so later that she stood up and walked to the bathroom. When she re-emerged I stood to intercept her, but instead of heading back to her table she came over to the bar.
‘You are that detective? The American?’ she asked after I had introduced
Our conversation over, we left him there – bleeding into his counter, drinking straight from the bottle – and made our way to Club 680.
There was no mistaking Madeline. She was up on a small stage, behind her a dreadlocked guitarist. People were clapping wildly. She waved them quiet as we took our seats at the bar, then turned so as to face the back of the stage. ‘Enough with the political shit,’ she whispered into the microphone.
I thought she was introducing a song, but before long I realised that this was a spoken word performance.
Silence descended as the guitarist took off his wedding ring and replaced it with a glass guitar slide. He tested the sound, so that for a moment the whole bar, dimly lit save for the stage, was filled with a bluesy sound. And then, starting to speak in slow rap, she joined the guitarist: ‘My hair has rootsall over the earth, like the roots of an old, old, old baobab, tapping and traversing the whole earth.’
Turning sideways, she leaned back as she undid the wrap around her head so that long thin dreadlocks unfurled, almost touching the ground, completing her arc.
‘And my skin, this old raggedy skin thing …’ The crowd laughed and even I smiled because her dark skin, glistening from oil or sweat or both, was so smooth that it looked soft to the touch and anything but ragged.
‘This old skin is the same skin my great-grandmother wore to sleep and to the garden, this is the skin that she wore when in battle. Don’t be fooled by its softness, in peace it’s for pleasure, but it quickly grows scales when it’s time for war.’ She caressed the length of first one arm and then the other, back and forth, back and forth until her skin seemed to radiate her blackness. Then, as she raised her hands up high with her fists clenched, the guitarist hit some violent chords, making his instrument sound like machine-gun fire and missiles.
‘And these breasts, these breasts can feed a child and bring a grown man to tears in the same evening.’ The crowd laughed approvingly – she was tall, about my height, and slender, but when she thrust her chest forward the T-shirt she wore to her midriff hugged her breasts tightly.
‘And my hands, they are rough from play and lifting machetes. They can undress you, or they can peel my covers away.’ She lifted her T-shirt up until we could see the beginning of her breasts.
‘And my mouth can curse or love, speak hope or pain, but when you are good to me, let’s just say my tongue wraps around things easily.’ She raised her hands high in the air andground her hips.
‘And this, this is not a treasure to be beheld from afar, when you come closer, when you come closer you will see that it will lead your tongue to my pleasure.’ Her hand followed the small chain that hung from a sparkling belly button ring down into her jeans. And then she broke into an easy laughter as if to remind the audience it was a performance after all.
‘What the hell!’ I heard O exclaim as the lights came up and everyone stood to give Madeline a standing ovation. It was an odd mixture of people, now that I could see them – elite Kenyans, refugees and expatriates. It reminded me of the mixture of people we had encountered in Mathare, only this was the other end of the scale.
After bowing first to the guitarist and then to the crowd Madeline made her way to the bar where men and their wives clamoured to shake her hand and buy her drinks. A few minutes later she was rescued from her fans by a gentleman who led her away to a table near the stage. O and I ordered drinks and kept watch, waiting for an opening, but it wasn’t until an hour or so later that she stood up and walked to the bathroom. When she re-emerged I stood to intercept her, but instead of heading back to her table she came over to the bar.
‘You are that detective? The American?’ she asked after I had introduced
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