books.
She felt guilty.
When she saw him again it was after several days and he did not appear to notice her. He’s got my message, she thought. I am not interested. Why did I go to the teashop with him, then? … Because he’s so different. What confidence, what grace … so civilised, such a gentleman! That’s it! she thought. He said we Asians are so westernised … aping the Europeans … mesmerised … what about him? All that external polish: he was a proper English gentleman himself! She would tell him so!
‘Dear Professor Akoto,’ she wrote, ‘I wanted to tell you something. I thought I should tell it to you before I forget it completely. You called us Asians colonised. We are mesmerised with the West, you said. Well, have you observed yourself carefully lately? All those European mannerisms, language, clothes – suits even in hot weather: you are so much the English gentleman yourself! Yours sincerely, Yasmin Rajan. P.S. Could I borrow Omari’s
Wait for Me
from you after all? Thanx.’ She slipped the note under his office door.
He repeated his previous performance at lunchtime the next day, edging out her friends from the table.
‘Your point is well taken,’ he said. ‘Touché and so on. But I thought we had forgiven all that. Still, I don’t quite agree with you. And the reason is this: I know my situation. I struggle. In any case … Let’s not argue. Let me show you my library. You can borrow any book you like.’
‘You have your own library?’ she murmured.
When she saw it she was dazzled. Three walls were covered with books. She had never before seen so many books belonging to one person – in a sitting room, part of the furniture as it were.
‘You’ve read all these books?’ she asked.
‘Well … I wouldn’t …’
‘I envy you. You must be so knowledgeable.’
‘Let’s not get carried away now.’
‘Do you also write?’
‘Yes. But nothing out yet.’
He had a theory about African literature. ‘It is at present digging up the roots,’ he said. And that’s what he was trying to do. Dig. ‘So you can understand my obsession with authenticity. Even my name is a burden, an imposition.’
At The Matumbi, where they went that evening, she had her first sikisti. She talked about her background.
‘My father was a pawnbroker,’ she said, ‘but pawnshops are no longer allowed, so now he has a tailoring shop. Hardly a westernised background …’
He smiled. ‘Aren’t you ever going to forgive me?’
‘Tell me, do you think pawnshops are exploitative?’ she asked him.
‘Well, they tempt the poor and they do charge awfully high interest.’
‘Yes, but where else can the poor get loans? Would the banks give them? And as for the high interest – do you know the kind of things they bring to pawn off? Old watches, broken bicycles, clothes sometimes. We have three unclaimed antique gramophones at home that we can’t sell.’
‘Is that right? Can I look at them? I might buy one. I like old things that are out of fashion.’
‘Sure you can.’
He played badminton with the Asian girls one day, bringing along a shy young man from Norway. It was at a time (though they did not tell him) when they usually went to the mosque. After the game there was a heated discussion about China. And they arranged to play the next time a little later in the evening.
One afternoon, as agreed previously, Yasmin took him to her father’s shop to show him the antique gramophones. They went in his car and he dropped her off outside the shop and went to park.
When he entered the shop her father met him.
‘Come in, Bwana. What can I get for you?’
He was a short thin man with green eyes, wearing a long white shirt over his striped pyjamas.
‘I came with Yasmin,’ Akoto explained in his broken Swahili.
‘Yes? You want to buy something?’
‘I came for a gramophone –’
‘Ah, yes! The professor! Sit, sit.’
Akoto sat on the bench uncomfortably and waited,
She felt guilty.
When she saw him again it was after several days and he did not appear to notice her. He’s got my message, she thought. I am not interested. Why did I go to the teashop with him, then? … Because he’s so different. What confidence, what grace … so civilised, such a gentleman! That’s it! she thought. He said we Asians are so westernised … aping the Europeans … mesmerised … what about him? All that external polish: he was a proper English gentleman himself! She would tell him so!
‘Dear Professor Akoto,’ she wrote, ‘I wanted to tell you something. I thought I should tell it to you before I forget it completely. You called us Asians colonised. We are mesmerised with the West, you said. Well, have you observed yourself carefully lately? All those European mannerisms, language, clothes – suits even in hot weather: you are so much the English gentleman yourself! Yours sincerely, Yasmin Rajan. P.S. Could I borrow Omari’s
Wait for Me
from you after all? Thanx.’ She slipped the note under his office door.
He repeated his previous performance at lunchtime the next day, edging out her friends from the table.
‘Your point is well taken,’ he said. ‘Touché and so on. But I thought we had forgiven all that. Still, I don’t quite agree with you. And the reason is this: I know my situation. I struggle. In any case … Let’s not argue. Let me show you my library. You can borrow any book you like.’
‘You have your own library?’ she murmured.
When she saw it she was dazzled. Three walls were covered with books. She had never before seen so many books belonging to one person – in a sitting room, part of the furniture as it were.
‘You’ve read all these books?’ she asked.
‘Well … I wouldn’t …’
‘I envy you. You must be so knowledgeable.’
‘Let’s not get carried away now.’
‘Do you also write?’
‘Yes. But nothing out yet.’
He had a theory about African literature. ‘It is at present digging up the roots,’ he said. And that’s what he was trying to do. Dig. ‘So you can understand my obsession with authenticity. Even my name is a burden, an imposition.’
At The Matumbi, where they went that evening, she had her first sikisti. She talked about her background.
‘My father was a pawnbroker,’ she said, ‘but pawnshops are no longer allowed, so now he has a tailoring shop. Hardly a westernised background …’
He smiled. ‘Aren’t you ever going to forgive me?’
‘Tell me, do you think pawnshops are exploitative?’ she asked him.
‘Well, they tempt the poor and they do charge awfully high interest.’
‘Yes, but where else can the poor get loans? Would the banks give them? And as for the high interest – do you know the kind of things they bring to pawn off? Old watches, broken bicycles, clothes sometimes. We have three unclaimed antique gramophones at home that we can’t sell.’
‘Is that right? Can I look at them? I might buy one. I like old things that are out of fashion.’
‘Sure you can.’
He played badminton with the Asian girls one day, bringing along a shy young man from Norway. It was at a time (though they did not tell him) when they usually went to the mosque. After the game there was a heated discussion about China. And they arranged to play the next time a little later in the evening.
One afternoon, as agreed previously, Yasmin took him to her father’s shop to show him the antique gramophones. They went in his car and he dropped her off outside the shop and went to park.
When he entered the shop her father met him.
‘Come in, Bwana. What can I get for you?’
He was a short thin man with green eyes, wearing a long white shirt over his striped pyjamas.
‘I came with Yasmin,’ Akoto explained in his broken Swahili.
‘Yes? You want to buy something?’
‘I came for a gramophone –’
‘Ah, yes! The professor! Sit, sit.’
Akoto sat on the bench uncomfortably and waited,
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