Chapter 2
Sleep did not come. I was up all night rehashing my presentation in my mind, crying and feeling sorry for myself. My life is officially over. How did I get here? I used to revel in my peaceful existence. One presentation later and my world is spinning off its axis. There is no way I could show up for work today. The last person I would like to speak to is that creep who calls himself Rafferty.
My room contains a small lilac-sheeted bed, closely jammed to the wall. Purple flowered drapes black out my tempered glass window, which are perfect for the rare occasions Nanny allows me to sleep in. My computer is situated on the opposite side of my spacious room, along with other computer geek paraphernalia. All of my programmer apparatus stand in total contrast to the cream colored walls and fluffy carpet. A picture of my smiling father stares at me from the wall close to my bed. I intend to spend the rest of my day in this cosy room. I reluctantly grab my cell-phone to make the call.
“Hello? Natasha?” I rasp.
“Oh Safi, where on earth did you disappear to yesterday? I looked all over the place and your phone went to voice-mail. Are you OK?” she is genuinely concerned.
“I’m fine.” It isn’t a total lie.
“Well everything was perfect until the Q&A. Your presentation was very enjoyable, especially the part abou-”
“Listen Tasha, I won’t be in today, could you tell Rafferty?” talking about yesterday would only make me cry again. I just want to forget and move past this.
“No problem sweetie, I’d be surprised if you showed up here, after that ordeal, I’ll let the devil know.”
“Thanks girl…I mean for everything.” I’m emotional.
She is too good to me.
“We’re friends for life. This is just a bump in the road. Things will get better soon.” She says.
Natasha is annoyingly confident and optimistic. I think I admire that most about her.
I don’t want to replay yesterday’s events any longer but I can’t seem to control my thoughts. Just thinking about it makes me even more dejected. I keep seeing that man’s face in my head. He had the look of an aristocrat, but also a bit militant with high cheekbones and hazel eyes that cut right through me when he stared. He said his name is Adrian but who on earth is he? And why does he hate me so much?
My little radio on my bedside table broadcasts a breaking news report about the Amani, a known rebel group who always cause trouble in Kuzimu. They broke into a hospital and set free patients awaiting PIT injections, bombing the compound as they left. It’s hard to believe that my father had anything to do with them. Before he died, he was accused of participating in rebel activities. I look at his picture now. He face is peaceful and he smiles. Darius Adams looked like a principled man. He would never associate with rebels. He had to be wrongfully accused; it’s the only plausible explanation.
Nanny would always listen closely to broadcasts about the rebels. I guess she is just as concerned as I am, to know that her son-in-law was accused of associating with them.
I expect the disorientation I feel when I unwillingly get out of bed. Lack of sleep could do that to a person. The racket my mother made last night didn’t help matters either. It seems like she is more drunk than sober these days. No doubt she would be passed out at some unaccommodating part of the house. The bottom of the steps seems to be her favorite of late. That’s exactly where I see her now. Sarah is sprawled out with her legs open and a bottle of rum not too far away.
Nanny would just ignore her whenever she got like this. I don't blame her because it is how she copes with the sorrow of watching her only child wither away. Instead she seems to place all her energy into making her grandchild successful. I owe it to her to at least to try, after all she has done for me. She cleared out her meager bank account and took a loan just to send me to college.
I wake up my stale drunk mother, remove her muddy shoes and escort her upstairs. She is always a happy drunk and most people liked her better that way. Without her alcohol, she looks to be in a constant state of pain. She would always suffer terrible nightmares when she is sober. I would hear her wake up at night making bold confusing claims like, “I know what they do. I saw it! I know what they do.”
It would take a lot for us to placate at times like those. It’s clear that Nanny inwardly fears what I fear. That she would be given a PIT injection. Anyone who causes a disturbance is carted off to be treated. The populace doesn't know exactly what the injection contains but anyone who is given the treatment, never comes home the same. It made a sharp minded person docile and dimwitted. We both made a non-verbal agreement that at least if she is drunk, she could stay calm and she wouldn’t be taken away from us.
My mother became a shell of her former self since my father’s incarceration and subsequent death. She never speaks his name while she is sober and she destroyed all of his pictures except for the one I managed to save.
“He made his choice, we don’t need him” she would say followed by some expletive.
I had to gather what information I could about him, from inebriated conversations with her.
I know that my father was arrested for causing a disturbance many years ago. I don’t remember the incident although they let it slip that I was there. He committed suicide in sector guard custody and it seemed like my mother died as well, because she has never been the same. After his death, the news reported that he was a known rebel member and they had been looking for him for a while. I found out from my mother, in her drunken state, that he was innocent and they lied to cover up his death. She pretended she didn't know what I was talking about when she sobered up and I tried to learn more.
She blinked and then looked at me wide-eyed. “You pretty. I was pretty too. You got it from me. All the mens was after me.” My mother mumbled. “I had my pick of all the men in town, and I chose the brave one. He was honest and brave. Never choose the brave one; they always always leave you alone with a baby, ha ha!” She laughs in my face and her breath reeks of rum. I remove her clothes and deposit her into bed. “Listen to me.” She is serious when she says this even though her words are slurred. “Choose the smart one, never the brave one.” I close the door and go back downstairs to see what Nanny is up to.
Nanny is singing Sumu hymns in the kitchen as she usually does while she tends to her herbs. She loves her little hoop-house garden and I would sometimes help her with her herbs. She consumes them regularly and would encourage me to do the same, but we had to keep it a secret, even from the neighbors. Hoop houses are illegal in most of the sectors of Kuzimu, because the health department found that most herbs and spices to be dangerous to health. I grew accustomed to our clandestine operation from an early age and I made a good look-out. Nanny would keep the front and back doors locked at all times but she still had a room with a secret door under our staircase where she kept her herbs. She would bring them out for sunlight every day. Trust me, it’s a tedious affair. I’m very familiar with the herbs and their uses and Nanny wouldn’t have it any other way.
The Kuzimu government recommends their own special line of food for optimum health and well-being. It’s always cheaper than the other food items and the mungus are the largest consumers. I think the health department is correct on this count because Father Lamont consumed my Nanny’s herbs, and ended up seeing strange visions, much like my mother without her alcohol. We had to house him for two days while he recovered in order to protect our secret.
She would usually give her herbs to Brick, our neighbor but he never seemed to be affected. In fact it actually improved his condition after he was given the PIT injection. Brick has just a dash of grey-white hair edging his balding, scalp. He has a mean face but the scar on his left cheek made matters worse. For a middle aged man he has a sizable muscle mass and a fit appearance. On the rare occasions that he would speak, it was brief and curt, bordering on rude.
He never associated much with other people in our neighborhood but he got along very well with my
grandmother. I overheard stories about him from people in our area. He had a reputation for fighting and losing his temper until a brawl in a bar resulted in his arrest. I guess they didn’t much like his temper, so they gave him the PIT injection.
He used to walk around in a daze until Nanny offered him a job, cleaning our yard and fixing things around the house. He would have dinner with us sometimes, never saying a word beside ‘more please’ pointing to his plate. Brick loves Nanny’s home-cooked meals and her herbs.
I smell oatmeal cookies which only means one thing. Father Lamont is coming for a visit. They are his favorite. Since I grew up with no male figure, I guess my Nanny felt I needed a male presence, so she would invite Father Lamont to lunch with us ever so often. He also loved Nanny’s cooking and would comment on how women seldom cooked anymore. “Learn how to cook like Nanny.” He would tell me.
Father Lamont is tall slender man with a heavily lined, narrow face. His pearly white teeth seemed to be always exposed because he smiles all the time. His immaculately tailored suits never had a wrinkle. He is almost as old as my grandmother and they have an obscure history that I could never wrap my head around. Though his hair is grey, he is not balding, a fact he always bragged about before saying ‘praise the Lord.’ He is a pillar of the Morton community and he founded the sumudral that we go to.
He lives walking distance from us and it isn’t uncommon to have him drop off for impromptu visits. He and Nanny would sometimes discuss matters that I could tell were heated but I could never get close enough to eavesdrop. Nanny would always send me off to do some chore to distract me.
Even after forty years in Kuzimu, my grandmother still had her accent from Kisawa but she hid it well, especially around company. Kisawa is the one of the islands of south Kuzimu, where a larger majority of mungus live. She never talks about why she came to Kuzimu or the relatives she left behind. Her mood would always change when I brought them up. My grandmother and my mother have this trait in common. They are both extremely reticent about past affairs. I really need to solve this puzzle.
“Why you not at work Safi, you sick?” She stops tending her herbs to feel my forehead.
“No Nanny I’m good, I just wasn’t up to it.” She eyes me suspiciously.
“I hope you didn’t go an’ catch belly and bring here you know...”
Nanny thinks I’m pregnant. I can’t help but laugh. Nothing is further from the truth. My Nanny had a flair for the dramatic. “You take your med-cine chile?” She is referring to my anxiety medication.
It is only then that I remember my error. I left it at work in my desk drawer.
“Yes Nanny.” I lied. There was no need to worry her pointlessly. My therapist prescribed them a while back and I take them religiously, although I don’t see the reason. I still have the same fears I always did.
“At what age did you get pregnant Nanny?” It is a clever way to change the subject.
“I was a young girl, younger than you.” She speaks slowly, measuring every word before she says them. “I was about nineteen.”
“So that means you were still in Kisawa?" Nanny is all of a sudden busy looking for imaginary weeds between her herbs.
“It was a long time ago chile.” She dismissed. “You don’t expect an old woman like me to remember all ‘dese things.” I couldn’t let it rest; not this time.
I need to find out what is so horrible about my family history. Also it’s totally lost on me why Nanny would take such a risk with our lives. The fine for keeping a hoop-house is one hundred thousand dollars or jail time of five years.
“Nanny,” I tried to speak slowly so that I wouldn’t come off as disrespectful, “why do we gamble with our lives by growing herbs and spices?”
“You’ll understand everything in due time. We’ve gotten this far, haven’t we?”
So basically I’m supposed to keep a secret I’m yet to fully understand. I’m losing my patience.
“Why do you and mom always avoid my questions about the past?” I’m sure she heard the frustration in my voice.
“It’s for your own good Sapphire,” She is almost pleading. “Trust me…”
I decide not to press Nanny any further. But I must learn the truth, one way or another.
Chapter 3
Here we go.