John Goldbach - It Is an Honest Ghost

The reading was out back, in a large beautiful sunlit courtyard. It was bright and I was glad to be wearing sunglasses. There was a stage at the back of the courtyard, with large leafy plants on either side of a podium, and a DJ spinning records while people milled about, sipping on drinks.

I bumped into Stanley at the bar, which was just inside the building, though the back was open-air, so you could still see the stage from the bar.

‘You’re drinking red wine,’ I said, while he sipped from a plastic-stemmed cup.

‘The wine’s free,’ he said.

‘Wine it is,’ I said, and picked up a pre-poured cup from the bar.

There were some introductory remarks given by Kenneth’s sister, May, who emceed the event, welcoming everyone, thanking the Alliance Française for hosting the event, and then the readings began. Stanley and I stood at the back but could see and hear everything; I took some notes.

The first reader was Doreen Baingana, a writer from Uganda, now studying in the U.S., who read a story from her collection, Tropical Fish , which had recently won the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize. The reading was excellent and moving and Stanley said, ‘You should read her book. It’s really very good.’

‘I’ll pick it up.’

The next quote-unquote reader was a truly dreadful spoken-word poet whose name I never bothered to write down. It was simply a bunch of shouting, et cetera, and strangely juvenile anti-Americanism; even though none of us were fans of the Bush administration, it was clear she was painting with a broad, sloppy brush. A few times, she punched her chest like Céline Dion, without the gifted voice.

While waiting out the spoken-word poet, who was onstage far longer than the first reader, Stanley took the opportunity to refresh our wine.

After the poet had mercifully stopped shouting and left the stage, Chimamanda Adichie read from her new novel, Half of a Yellow Sun , and she was wonderful.

‘That was great,’ I said to Stanley, when she’d finished.

‘Chima’s incredible,’ he said. ‘Did you read Purple Hibiscus ?’

‘I did,’ I said. ‘I liked it a lot. Kenneth told me to read it.’

‘It’s a wonderful novel,’ he said. ‘Coetzee blurbed it!’

People ambled around the courtyard talking, drinking, laughing, while two young women set up some of their musical gear. One of them, DJ Flora, got behind the turntables and started spinning some records, and then she introduced MC Karen, a long-legged young woman in black jean short-shorts and a black crop-top, worn brown leather boots with a small heel, and close-cropped hair. Her almond-shaped eyes were large and both smoky and shining, her smile radiant, as she demanded the crowd’s attention. The large group, too, stopped all conversation to watch DJ Flora and MC Karen.

Like a prizefighter, MC Karen belted out her rhymes, in English and Kiswahili, from what I could tell, singing, too, beautifully, between her hard-hitting raps. Her confidence was astounding, and she mesmerized the courtyard full of people.

‘This is amazing,’ I said to Stanley, ‘like, truly amazing!’

‘MC Karen and DJ Flora are terrific.’

‘You know them?’

‘A little,’ he said. ‘They play around. They’re playing at the party after at Club Afrique.’

‘The music’s so good,’ I said. ‘They’re — wow!’

‘ Moto Kama Pasi ,’ he said. ‘Hot as passports … ’

DJ Flora and MC Karen only played three songs and then the music stopped, but people hung around for another hour before we went to the nightclub. The sun had started to set, but I kept my sunglasses on, as I felt extremely sensitive to the light. Stanley went off to talk to some friends and I hit the books table to pick up some things.

Two young people manned the table: a young man and a young woman, both enthusiastic.

I bought a green-and-yellow hardcover copy of Chimamanda Adichie’s new novel, Half of a Yellow Sun , a Kenyan edition, and I also bought a hardcover copy of Doreen Baingana’s Tropical Fish . The young woman at the books table gave me a complimentary copy of an anthology of East African short fiction and a tote bag for buying two hardcovers.

The nightclub was close by on Museum Hill, but it still took a while to get there because travelling on a shuttle with people is slow no matter what. We sat in the parking lot for approximately twenty minutes to drive five minutes. But I wasn’t complaining. We were all high on the music we’d just heard. It’s what everyone was talking about while we waited for the bus to fill up and on the short ride.

The bus pulled up to the club and we waited while a man opened a gate. We disembarked and lined up and were given tickets to present to a doorman down a hallway before entering the large nightclub.

The large room looked almost empty, though there were people there, many in fact, but the room was so big that it still appeared almost empty, and a band played on the stage: guitar, bass, drums, keyboards, a few horns, several singers, dancing and singing, women and men. There were very few people on the huge dance floor. But we were a large group, so the club started to feel a little fuller.

There were several bars — one on each side of the dance floor and a small bar in the back, a VIP lounge — so I sat on a stool at the bar to the left of the entrance and waited for a bartender. I saw they had Heineken and ordered one from the bartender, after he served the many women waiting first. I was relieved to not be drinking Pilsner. Although I enjoyed the beer, my stomach felt tender. Heineken seemed like a safer bet, even though it was a bit pricier.

Mark and Jason sat down on stools with me and ordered Pilsners.

‘Jason’s going to come to Lamu with us,’ said Mark.

‘Right on,’ I said.

‘It’s my favourite place on earth,’ said Jason. ‘You’ll love it, so laid-back, no cars, donkeys, beaches, dhows … Ah, it’s the best.’

Jason seemed so familiar in his instant likeability — charming, funny and kind.

‘The second I get there I put on a kikoy ,’ he said, ‘and that’s that.’

‘What’s that?’ I said.

‘It’s like a wrap,’ said Mark, ‘a sort of beach wrap.’

‘But much nicer,’ said Jason. ‘They’re Swahili kikoys and they’re rectangular loom-woven cloth and very colourful with different, beautiful patterns and they can be used for anything: a beach towel, for a baby,’ he said, miming a baby wrapped in the garment, tied around his neck and held in his arms. ‘People use them as turbans and tablecloths and curtains, headscarves, wraparound skirts.’

‘They’re pretty cool,’ said Mark.

‘And they’re 100 percent cotton and dry very fast.’

‘I’ll definitely get one,’ I said.

‘I mean, you can get one here in the markets, but they’ll be better and cheaper in Lamu. I can’t wait to lose the jeans and put one on.’

I felt a buzz in my pocket and patted myself down, finding my Nokia; it was my first text from Boris, the only person who had my number: Man b there soon u ok . So I wrote back, All good at club c u soon .

The dance floor began to fill up, a lightshow spinning on the stage and on the floor.

Jason said, ‘Lamu’s pretty much dry, though, on account of it being a predominantly Muslim island, so we should stock up before we fly out.’

‘Good idea,’ said Mark.

‘We’ll hit a Nakumatt downtown,’ said Jason. ‘It’s a supermarket chain.’

My tongue kept digging into the side of my cheek, where I felt a canker sore. I swigged some beer to distract my tongue.

‘I have to hit the loo,’ said Jason, and he stood up from his stool.