John Goldbach - It Is an Honest Ghost

His surprisingly sunny disposition kept me from focusing on how generally lousy I was feeling, with the jetlag, worrying about Stacey, and feverishness from the shots. I took in the greens and beiges and reds as we got further away from the downtown core. The foliage thickened the closer we got to the hotel.

We turned onto Milimani Rd. and there was the hotel. I memorized the route we took, in an attempt to orient myself, knowing it wouldn’t work.

II

The hotel bar-slash-restaurant was packed with festivalgoers: journalists, painters, musicians, students, poets, novelists, editors, et cetera. I stood with a bottle of water in my hand, wearing a blue sport coat, a black polo, jeans and sneakers, talking to no one, taking in the room. Anita Khalsa, a festival organizer, said a few words, as did Kenyan literary force Kenneth Karega, a brilliant and charismatic writer Boris had introduced me to in Montreal the previous year. Here, in Nairobi, he was a star. And it was clear when I’d met him in Montreal that he’d be a star worldwide within a few years. But both Anita and Kenneth kept their opening greetings brief and the party began. Due to the vodka drinking in Martin’s backyard the night before, I decided to abstain from drinking alcohol and to stick to waters. Besides, I needed to rehydrate. I still felt dizzy and generally discombobulated, though I was doing my best to pull it together for the party, and I was enjoying the atmosphere, too. There were people of all ages and from all walks of life. And everybody seemed happy to be at the party, at the festival, and I was happy, too, even though I felt off .

‘Are you a writer?’ a beautiful young woman in a yellow dress asked me and I was taken off guard.

‘Sorry?’ I said.

‘Are you a writer?’ she repeated. ‘Are you here for the festival?’

‘Yes, I’m here writing an article about the festival.’

‘Oh, that’s nice. Where are you from?’

‘I’m from Canada, visiting from Montreal.’

‘Montreal!’ she said. ‘I couldn’t handle the snow.’ She shivered and it did look funny, with her in a beautiful silky yellow dress, while the hot sun still shone over Nairobi.

‘Ha, yes, it’s bad,’ I said, ‘especially this time of year. Are you from here?’

‘Yes, I grew up in Nairobi, near Westlands.’

‘My name’s John,’ I said.

‘Hana,’ she said, extending her hand, which I lightly shook.

‘Do you write?’ I said.

‘Yes, but I’m studying,’ she said. ‘I attend the University of Nairobi, where I study creative writing and literature. I’m a student of Kenneth’s.’

‘Oh, that’s great,’ I said, but then Hana was called away by one of her friends on the other side of the restaurant.

‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘We’ll talk later, John. Nice to meet you.’

‘Nice to meet you too, Hana.’

Mark approached me and said quietly, ‘She’s cute.’

‘Extremely,’ I said.

‘It looked like you liked her.’

‘I did. I’m not used to beautiful women approaching me out of nowhere.’

‘Who is?’ said Mark. He took a sip of the Tusker in his hand and said, ‘My buddy from Chicago, Jason, should be here soon. I want you to meet him. He’s been living in Kenya for the past year and a half, working with the Peace Corps. We’ve been friends since we were little kids. He’s a great guy. I told him to just show up for the opening.’

‘Right on,’ I said. ‘That’s awesome you have an old friend here.’

‘Oldest, maybe even.’

‘Have you had a chance to say hey to Boris yet?’

‘Only for a minute,’ said Mark. ‘We’ll have to hang out more later.’

‘When are you reading?’ I said.

‘I read a couple of times. But I’m teaching one of the poetry workshops the festival’s putting on, too, which will be both here and in Lamu. For locals, the workshop’s pretty much free. For visitors, it’s a little more but still inexpensive. I’m not really getting paid,’ he said, ‘but all my travel and accommodations are covered and I get a small, a very small, stipend.’

‘I doubt I’ll break even on this adventure, but it seemed worth it.’

‘Definitely,’ he said. ‘When do you get to travel to Kenya! This is my second time and I’m glad to be back.’

‘Other than the jetlag and so on I’m super happy to be here.’

‘The jetlag’s annoying,’ said Mark. ‘But it goes away.’

‘Also, I’m having a bit of a reaction to my vaccinations or something,’ I said. ‘My arm’s all bruised and I’m pretty out of it, a little off.’

‘That’ll go away, too,’ he said. ‘You just need some real rest.’

‘That’s why I’m drinking water,’ I said, slightly holding up my bottle.

‘Yes, hydration!’ he said and took a sip of Tusker.

Mark started talking to a literature professor from the University of Nairobi and I discreetly made a few notes for the article in a small notebook I had in my pocket. Really, in many ways, the article was Boris’s idea, an excuse for us to get to Kenya, and then Nina had insisted that we take their daughter to visit her grandparents, which was fine by all, though before we left Nina had become regretful about her decision to send Tanya, that is to say, to be separated from Tanya, separated for the first time for more than twenty-four hours since Tanya was born eight years ago. Nina warned me: ‘John, Boris will wander off or check his email and forget to watch Tanya.’ She’d cornered me in their home, backing me up against the wall. ‘I’m counting on you to watch her, too,’ she said, a finger in my face. ‘And if anything happens to Tanya, I’m also holding you responsible.’

She wasn’t kidding, I knew that, so I simply nodded.

The magazine back in Canada wasn’t giving us much space, so I was basically going to write a gloss of the literary festival and some of its participants. Boris would take beautiful photos of some of the writers and various artists and landscapes. It was an easy gig, though not well paying.

Boris found me and said he’d just talked to the writer from Esquire , Elizabeth, at the bar and she was being put up in a luxury vacation home when we hit Lamu, she’d told Boris, though she’d been asked to write a sort of review of said vacation home, as it and homes like it were available year-round for rent with staff, et cetera, to the super wealthy. But she was writing profiles of some of the festival’s participants, too. Esquire was doing a whole Africa issue, she’d told Boris, and supposedly it was being guest-edited by Bono and The Edge.

‘Well, thankfully our piece won’t be held to such high editorial scrutiny,’ I said.

‘No kidding,’ said Boris. ‘Elizabeth is cool, though.’

‘I’m sure,’ I said.

Boris said, ‘Hey, tomorrow Sveta’s going to pick me up around ten-thirty and we’re taking Tanya and Alexi to, like, a small nature reserve, with giraffes and monkeys and such things. The kids like it. You’re welcome to join us … ’

‘Definitely,’ I said. ‘I’m in.’

‘Good. It’ll be, well … it’ll be okay,’ he said. ‘You don’t like it?’

‘The kids do. You can pet a giraffe. Why do I need to pet a freakin’ giraffe!’

‘Don’t judge me if I pet a giraffe,’ I said. ‘That’ll be hard for me to resist.’

‘It’s pretty cool to get so close,’ he said.

‘Boris!’ we heard, ‘John!’ We turned around and saw our friend Stanley — a local poet; journalist for the Standard , writing two columns, one under a pseudonym and one under his given name; a tv personality, I was once told; a short-story writer; novelist; and gossip blogger, I was once told, too, though I’m not sure — standing with his arms opened wide to embrace us both, looking dapper in a dark corduroy sport coat and straw hat with a black band.