Moses Isegawa - Abyssinian Chronicles

After the television, Serenity decided to buy himself a house of dreams: he purchased a library of books from a desperate Indian man who had been rejected by the British, the Canadians and the Americans and was preparing to go to Pakistan. The dreams came with their own history of violence: half the collection belonged to a man who, weeks before, had eaten rat poison, slashed his wrists and bled to death among his books, ruining quite a few, which had to be burned. Serenity’s new acquisition arrived on the back of the puke-yellow Postal Service truck which had brought him to the city. The driver still sported Elvis sideburns, and when he complained that the chests were too heavy, his voice boomed as though it had passed through a fat clay pot.

Serenity discovered Oliver Twist, Madame Defarge, the Artful Dodger and many more ghosts in the Dickensian jungle, but it was the American jungle that stole his heart. American writers, with their migrant’s fascination and obsession with money, success and power, spirited him off into a world of dreams where likeable rogues had it all. Ensconced in their penthouses, they cut deals, sipped champagne, participated in orgies with perfect-bodied nymphos and indulged in excesses just this side of madness. They gambled, raced sports cars, flew private jets and went on lust-sodden cruises in the Caribbean. Serenity lapped it all up and turned it over and over again in his head, angry that it was all out of his reach.

Serenity was shocked to discover that character was not a monolithic rock which stopped moving somewhere in one’s late twenties, anchored by a wife and children, policed by friends, relatives, colleagues, extended family and strangers. He found himself in flux, and he became aware of unreleased sexual energy in his body. Temptation, liberated by the turbulence of recent events, coursed through him like malarial bacteria waiting to explode into full-blooded fever. He could not remember the last time he had been in bed with a woman whose body attracted him with its power, grace and elegance, combining sight, smell and touch to create a feast of sensory satisfaction.

What was he supposed to make of Loverboy? Was he the reincarnation of the man who had seduced Serenity’s mother and led her to her death? If not that, what did the young man represent? Youth, freedom, innocent flirtation? Or uncommitted love? Serenity was swept back momentarily to his bachelor days when he had raided a few marital beds and partaken of ungratified sexual reserves there, free to come and go, free of responsibility for the women, free to give and take what he wanted without a thought for tomorrow. He resolved to watch the Boy carefully. At the same time, he remembered his wife’s bridal aunt, seeing her rise from the tombs of unpursued possibility with the supercilious grace of a bored goddess.

The imminent departure of the Indians kicked off furious rows in many an office. At that time an office bully lured Serenity into a trap.

“Do you believe that all the Indians are going to leave?” the bully badgered.

“Yes.”

“Catholic, put your money where your mouth is. Some of us believe that you are just pretending, pussyfooting as usual.”

“They have to leave. Amin is serious.”

“Amin can’t do that. The economy will collapse. Britain will bombard him from the air. He can’t take the chance on an embargo. He is also afraid of America: American warships are stationed in the Indian Ocean very near here. My bet is that a reprieve is imminent within a month. Amin is just scaring these people, trying to show them who is the boss. He probably wants more money from Britain and America.”

Why wouldn’t Britain and America succeed in stopping Amin? Why wouldn’t Amin back down? Serenity had no foolproof answer. He could only trust his hunch, but Cold War politics and the fight against Communism being so hot and unpredictable, should he? He decided to go for broke.

“Britain and America won’t intervene,” he said bravely.

“They will shit on him till he suffocates and relents.”

“No, they won’t.”

“Amin will be hit so hard he will even call back the few Indians who have already left.”

“No, he won’t,” Serenity insisted.

“I give you five hundred dollars if you win; you give me the same amount when you lose.” The man licked his index finger, passed it across his throat in a beheading motion and pointed it in the air, gesturing his oath.

All eyes were on Serenity now. Five hundred dollars was a lot of money for a civil servant: if he lost, he would be in trouble for months. The books and the television and other things would have to go. Why should he cave in to this bully? Self-respect? The thrill of tottering on the brink? The indulgent fantasy of doing what people did in books and got away with? He rolled his head like a calf trapped in a quagmire. He struck the table: once for accepting the challenge, twice to vent disgust, thrice for courting Lady Luck. Much to his dismay, the bully pulled out of his front pocket a typed agreement on yellow paper. It had been a setup. He signed the paper, and a neutral party pocketed it.

It was the fear of losing his bet and the possibility of Amin changing his mind that kept Serenity lecturing Padlock on international politics, global relations, the world economy and the strengths and weaknesses of Western capitalism, caustic subjects which filled her with bile. Padlock tolerated the barrage only because they had agreed never to break the sacred code of despotic harmony in front of the children. By delving into the murky waters of Cold War politics, with its polarization, pragmatism and reincarnation as the Scramble for Africa, Serenity hoped that fate would pick up the tremors in his voice, the fear in his thorax and the fire in his gut, and side with him.

Padlock, on the other hand, felt like shutting her husband’s irritating mouth with a vicious slap or a whack with her guava switch. On and on he went, damaging the secret power of despotic silence, committing the unforgivable sin of interrupting the news reader, postponing night prayers and the holy rosary, and shattering her peace of mind.

This relentless assault on her mental faculties by Serenity’s obsession with politics reminded her of one crucial matter: her divine duty to break me. She was setting the stage for the first major explosion. She built up an index of misdemeanors, which she recited in full every time she was dissatisfied with my conduct. These days she left many of my sins unpunished. Her tone took on the truculent whine of gathering disaster. She kept on reporting my misdemeanors to Serenity, who, sadly for her, was so wrapped up in the ramifications of the wager that he could not honor his end of the bargain by taking immediate physical action. The more he disappointed her, the more determined she became to see my day of destruction. She started reporting every other evening, at the same time, just before the all-important eight o’clock news, when the stinking antics of the box irritated Serenity and caused a lull in his political soliloquies.

One afternoon, after most of the Indians had gone and the bully had paid Serenity one hundred dollars, the one and only payment he made, the puke-yellow Uganda Postal Service truck returned. This time the tailboard spilled forth a fridge-cum-oven, a mighty spring bed, a box of black tea cozies which were in fact Afro wigs, a few other bits and pieces, and something which greatly fascinated me. It was two-legged like a billboard, had a rectangular shining face and was so burnished and smooth that one could see one’s face in it. I watched the driver’s hairy hands carefully to see if his palms became wet after touching the gleaming surface. With bated breath I waited for him to wipe his hands on his khaki overalls, but in vain. A smile on my face, I went near Serenity, hoping to touch the object in order to sate my curiosity, but Serenity just growled and said, “If you touch it …”