Who Will Catch Us As We Fall

A Oneworld Book

First published in North America, Great Britain & Australia
by Oneworld Publications, 2016
This eBook published by Oneworld Publications, 2016

Copyright © Iman Verjee 2016

The moral right of Iman Verjee to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved
Copyright under Berne Convention
A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library

ISBN 978-1-78074-936-5
ISBN 978-1-78074-937-2 (eBook)

Text design, typesetting and eBook by
Tetragon, London

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Oneworld Publications
10 Bloomsbury Street
London
WC1B
3SR
England

To all the strong Kenyans in my life and four in particular: Winnie, Stella, John and Joseph. This story was inspired by you.
As always, to my family – without you, I would still be a young girl in love with the idea of writing big stories. Because of you, I write them.

• Part One: 2007
  
• Part Two: 1995
  
• Part Three: 2002
  
• Part Four: 2003
  
• Part Five: 2007
  

When I first began writing this novel, I knew exactly why I was writing it but I was too ashamed to say the reason out loud. The truth is, I felt disconnected from a place I was meant to call home. Yes, its smells, colors and noises thrilled me. It felt familiar in a way that a child's blanket is comforting – a warm memory to shrug on and off whenever I needed it. But like a memory, it had no distinguishable roots, nothing firm to anchor me to it. And it wasn't until I was almost halfway through the novel that I suddenly realized, I had discarded Kenya, not the other way around. Writing gave me something living in my birth country for over twenty-two years could not – a clear perspective.

For that, I have many people to thank. My father, whose passion inspires me and is the driving force behind this story. My mother, who is so inexplicably compassionate that it makes me strive to be a kinder writer and a better human being. Safia, you are the bravest sister I have ever known. Thank you for teaching me how to stand on my own two feet. Mishal, without you by my side, I would (most certainly) go mad. Your quiet yet absolute confidence makes me aspire to better things. Rahim, until I met you, I'd never met anyone so ready to give love. You remind me of everything that is good in this world.

To my grandparents – your histories and struggles are worth remembering and fighting for. I doubt I will ever know two such loving and inspiring people.

Calvin, I wrote this novel before I even knew you and yet you seem to be in every sentence.

To my wonderful friends – Mihir, as always, you were the first person I dared show this novel to and whose advice I have always inexplicably trusted. Zahra, I will always be grateful for your belief and enthusiasm every step of the way and to my girls – Tamiza, Shaloo and Rehana – without even knowing it, you made me who I am today. To Vicky, Devanshi, Amit, Adil, Nina, Meera, Sandhya and all my other Kenyan friends – may you find a little part of yourselves in this story.

Janelle Andrews – my astute agent – thank you for always believing in my ability to write stories, even when I had my doubts, and for making this process so easy and enjoyable.

Rosalind Porter – I will never understand how you saw potential in this novel beneath those first 800 pages of complete rambling and I will be forever thankful for your expertise, friendship and patience.

Jonathan Myerson – I will continue to thank you in every single book I write because every single book I write will be thanks to you.

To Juliet Mabey, James Magniac, Paul Nash, Amanda Dackcombe and the rest of the Oneworld team, thank you for your hard work, dedication and the valuable time you spent bringing this novel to life.

Leena watches as the massive, thundering engines of the Kenya Airways Boeing 747 airplane pushes out streams of straw-colored jet fuel, breaking the thinning cover of clouds below to reveal the dreary buildings that form Jomo Kenyatta International Airport. She has always enjoyed looking at the city from such a great height – so structured that it reminds her of a dollhouse she used to own. Today, however, she feels cheated by the neat, seemingly harmless, aerial view.

The flight attendant crackles over the loudspeaker in her practiced voice that she has expertly hammered down so that it is as smooth as velvet.
Kuwakaribisha kwa Nairobi.
Then, in English,
Welcome to Nairobi.

‘First time in Kenya?' The smartly dressed man beside her is holding a Kenyan passport and raises his eyebrows at her hands. She loosens her fingers on the seat handles and doesn't answer.

They land with a swooping bump and skid; the cabin fills with smattering applause and the clicking sound of people already undoing their seatbelts. She keeps hers on in a vain attempt to prolong the moment, apprehensive of the inevitable next step.

A group of teenage girls in the row ahead are taking pictures of each other, tailoring their memories to peace signs and fish-mouths, weaves of colorful bracelets catching the morning light – faint wisps of hair on skin like fairy-tale gold. They are wearing identical blue cotton T-shirts that have the name of a school stamped across the front. Printed in bold, white letters across the back they say,
Global Love: Kenya 2007.
Leena resists the urge to ask them who they are planning on saving.

In their hands she sees their passports – the exclusive maroon and gold of Britain that has shaped most of her teenage dreams. They move and speak in a manner born from the freedom it allows them, to be welcomed wherever they go but, more than that, the liberty it gives them to leave whenever they choose.

She follows their gaze out of the window, her expression reflecting theirs: a curious bewilderment at this frenzied world where the images are brighter, the smells overpowering – the noise settling like a thick blanket across her skull. Her eyes track the dark-skinned, rowdy people of this country as they shove and jostle each other in their fight to disembark first, unbothered by the rules and boundaries that have characterized her life elsewhere. But unlike those girls, she does it without excitement, her stomach pressed with dreadful finality.

The man beside her rises. ‘Enjoy your visit. I hope you will find us to be very hospitable.'

And his open expression, his unquestioned assumption that she is a foreigner, strikes a deep chord in her already irritated disposition and she holds up her passport – royal blue emblazoned with the Kenyan coat of arms. ‘I'm sure I will.'

His hand freezes at the breast pocket of his blazer, where he has reached in and half-pulled out his phone: an old model Nokia. ‘You don't sound Kenyan.' The friendliness in his voice recedes. She is something entirely different to him now. ‘That is why I was mistaken.'

She doesn't tell him that his statement is impossible since she hasn't said a word to him the whole flight. She doesn't accuse him of making hasty conjectures based on their multiple and obvious differences, because it is something she understands. Just because you happen to be born in a certain place doesn't mean you belong to it.

‘Excuse me, miss?'

The next time Leena opens her eyes, the plane is empty. The air hostess is leaning over her, as lovely in her shapely red uniform and silk necktie as her voice implied her to be. ‘We need to get this plane ready for the next set of passengers. Perhaps I can guide you on to where you want to go?'

Unbuckling her seatbelt, Leena struggles upward. Her movements feel too heavy, sluggish and slow and she drags her luggage behind her as she tells the air hostess, ‘I know my way around.'

Walking down the slanting corridor of the arrivals section, the airport appears more modern than she remembers it, though there are still the brown linoleum floors that squeak underfoot and the stained stucco walls, the entire building clouded in the musty stench of urine. The duty-free shops are still selling the same overpriced African curios such as soap-stone chess sets and beaded traditional jewelry. She used to have a drawer full of such memorabilia, which she had collected with an irrational hunger during her first holiday back from university – a time when she had been homesick for this place.

‘Next.' At the customs booth, a man gestures her forward. He is sweetly rounded with billowing, silk-like cheeks and a visible dampness spreading from under the armpits of his yellow shirt. ‘Where from?' he barks.

‘London.'

‘
Univasaty?
'
he asks, used to the likes of her. Wealthy Asians dressed up like Westerners, noses in the air and an excessive amount of degrees in their pockets.

‘Yes.'

‘When are you going back?'

‘I'm not.'

He is used to this also. An apartment there can buy you a home, two housemaids and a brand new Range Rover here. ‘So you are returning to Kenya, to home?'

‘Yes.' So quietly that he has to lean forward to hear her.

‘Passport.' Trying to soften the growl in his throat because, unlike what he is used to, she looks sad, terrified almost, to be standing before him. He stamps the pages of her book without glancing at it and hands it back, shouting out, ‘Next!'

‘
Asante.
'
She thanks him in Swahili and then stops, wondering where it came from – that sneaky bit of herself, startled at the ease with which she has already begun settling into her past.

‘
Karibu
.' He waves her impatiently away.

When she eventually exits the building, the early morning mist has condensed into a thick humidity and the sky is bright blue and windless – a typical Nairobi morning. Jai is standing at the entrance and she catches the scent of his cologne,
Cool Water
,
which she brought back for him on that last, never-to-be-mentioned-again visit. As always, he speaks first.

‘Hello, monkey.'

Finally.
The tension in her chest relents, the air cool in her lungs.
Some semblance of coming home.

Jai steers the cart out of the terminal and toward his old, canvas-green Land Cruiser. She climbs into the passenger seat while he tosses her suitcases into the trunk.

‘Nice flight?'

‘Long. I had to wait seven hours in Dubai.'

‘I told Ma you would hate that.' He hops into the driver's seat and turns the ignition, rolling down his window as the car jumps awake. ‘The traffic is insane these days so it might take a couple of hours before we're home. I bought you an omelette sandwich – they're still your favorite right?'

‘Come on, Jai, it hasn't been that long.'

‘You're right. Four years is nothing when you're running away.'

It is difficult to quell the guilty upsurge his words spark and Leena reminds herself that she had not left Nairobi out of choice. It had forced her out on a rainy night, the only promise of solace being the flickering of taxi lights on the runway, blurred in the storm as the plane had lifted her away.

Jai ruffles her hair. ‘I'm glad you're back.'

The smile comes on its own. ‘I missed you too.'

Jai turns the car out of the car park and onto the main street with an easy twist of his wrist. ‘Maybe you'll realize that this place is better than you remember it.' He cocks his head at her. ‘Give us people who stayed some hope.'

The open, trimmed spaces of the airport fall away as they enter the main city, picking up speed amongst cargo trucks rattling dangerously under their loads and the smaller public service vehicles,
matatus
,
which duck recklessly in and out of cars. The peeling street signs are bright, momentary flashes before they are thrown back out of vision.

‘You don't need me to give you hope – you do enough of that for the whole of Nairobi.'

Jai grins. ‘No arguing with that.'

Above them, screeching vultures patiently circle the carcass of a dead dog, repeatedly flattened by careless cars. At intervals, one bird at a time will swoop down and snatch up whatever it can of the animal's remains until the dog is not a dog any more but just a stain and some teeth on the tarmac.

As they go deeper into the city center, Jai closes his window and turns up the air conditioning. He hits the side of the radio twice with his fist until it yelps to life; Kiss FM – a local station – is playing and the two presenters are discussing the upcoming December elections.

‘It's all everyone can talk about these days,' the first presenter says, ‘and I get the feeling that the public mood is quite upbeat. A lot of Kenyans seem to be optimistic about the direction in which our nation is heading. Of course, the worry of tribal conflict is always there but we can only have faith in our leaders that the elections will be conducted fairly.'

‘You know, Maina, tribal problems have always trumped the confidence Kenyans hold in their electoral system and democratic institutions.' The other presenter has taken over. ‘And this year, I fear it won't be any different. The election period has always been and will always remain a worrisome time for Kenyans.'

‘What do you think?' the first presenter asks, and Leena imagines him leaning into the microphone, pointing outward accusingly at her. ‘Are you satisfied with the state of democracy in our country? What are your views on ethnic conflict? Are we going to have a safe and fair election this year? Call in with your thoughts on 0722-
K-I-S-S-F-M.
'

‘Do you think we should be worried?'

Jai shrugs. ‘With our politicians, you never know. We can only try to raise awareness of the issues and pray for the best, as we always have.'

Street vendors move in and out of traffic, holding up magazines, newspapers, some of which are two days old, counterfeit DVDs and car fresheners shaped like pine trees.

‘Good price.' She hears their voices through the closed windows. ‘You buy and I give you good price.' They knock on the glass and make rolling motions with their hands.
Kunisaidia, Mama
,
they implore.
Tu kitu kidogo.

Leena keeps her gaze fixed ahead into the sea of vehicles while Jai leans forward, waving them away. ‘
Sitaki
,' he says. ‘We don't want anything.
Sitaki.
'

She makes sure the doors are locked and, closing her eyes, she does the breathing technique she learned on the internet. One hand on chest, the other lightly placed on her abdomen. Deep breath through the nose, stomach rising. She can hear the woman's infomercial-like drone from the YouTube video.
Phhooof
, a whistled, hard breath out, counting a slow release.
1-2-3-4.

Jai looks over. ‘What are you doing?'

‘Nothing, I'm fine.'

The car inches forward and her brother gestures at the thermos of tea. ‘Eat. Drink. You must be starving.'

She takes a bite of the sandwich and smiles, even though the bread is too dry. ‘You put green chilies in it.'

‘Just the way you like it.'

‘Do you remember how Angela used to make them for us?' The memory is unexpected, slithering out of her unconscious.

‘I have to tell you something.' He cannot hold the words back any more. He has been trying to say this to her ever since it was decided she was coming home. Even before then.

His confession is interrupted by a shout, followed by a quick succession of loud orders. Four bodies dash by their car, slamming the sides of it with their elbows and hands. Leena sees a boy who cannot be more than twelve, running and clutching the two side mirrors of a car, tucked into the torn armpits of his shirt. He stops momentarily as he makes contact with her side of the Land Cruiser and their eyes catch.

She drops her sandwich and grabs onto Jai, craning her neck as she watches the boy go. ‘What's happening?'

‘I'll go check.' Jai makes a move to climb out.

‘Please don't leave me.' The words squeeze from her throat and she doesn't care if they make her sound desperate.

‘Stop them!
Mwizi
!' A man is chasing the boys and he pauses by their car, bending over to catch his breath. Jai rolls down the passenger window before Leena can stop him.

‘What's going on?'

The man pants. ‘Those bloody
chokoras
. They came out of nowhere! Grabbed my side mirrors and when I opened my window to see what was going on, one of the little fuckers snatched the phone right out of my hand!'

He is a thirty-something African man dressed in pants made from a shiny cotton, slightly too short and too tight for him, creasing at the crotch. His sunglasses have been pushed up to his forehead. ‘Do you know how hard it is to find Audi parts in this country?'

‘Can't catch them now,' Jai says apologetically.

‘This country is too much. Full of thieves from up to down.' The man heads back toward his car, letting his sunglasses fall back into position. The traffic resumes and Leena leans her head against the window, trying to slow her heart. Hand on chest and stomach, clutching this time. Breathe in.
Phhooof
. Jai doesn't say anything but she senses him watching.

She should have known that this technique would have no power on this side of the world, where there is nothing to separate her memories from her life.

Pooja Kohli stands in her sun-soaked living room and watches a bee settle on the white hibiscus tree under which Kidha, the gardener, crouches in his overalls, pulling weeds from the grass. The sleeves of his uniform have been deliberately shorn off, revealing ball-like muscles which stretch and compress in compliance with his movements. Luna, the family's German shepherd, sniffs around his sandaled feet, her heavy tail thwacking
Kidha's thighs as she buries her face in his chest with a delighted whimper. He pauses. Strokes her just-washed fur.