Broken Gods and Preying Devils

A story by SALAMA WAINAINA

Mornings are a chorus of sounds. 

The spoon clinking against the cup. The gate creaking open, then grunting to a halt. The lazy moos of Mr Mwaura’s cows sneaking past the thick hedge, onto the well-trodden path, leading to the bus stage. The shrieks whenever Ma Hamisi’s turkeys puff up and start gobbling. 

But there is a rhythm to the chaos. Once, the turkeys did not gobble, and Ann missed the bus. 

Today, Mr Mwaura’s cows did not moo, but Ann did not notice because she was thinking of winning. She was thinking of getting to the stage first. Her yellow skirt ironed to a crisp. The pouring of too much pilipili in her viazi karai. The quick, shallow breathing through the mouth. The pride in taking the heat, unlike everybody else. The lining up first to board the bus. The singing along the loudest to Bembeleza by Marlow, as the blue school bus meanders through the town. 

I like to play games, but Ann does not like it when I take people from her world and toss them into mine. She digs her nails into her palms whenever I get too creative, as if my games are a headache. Yesterday I was doing an example of stuffing Mr Jonah’s mouth with those his stupid notes. Then she dug her nails into her palms, so I stopped. She fears new ideas, this one. 

Sometimes, I leave Ann to her day, then come back in the evening. I keep her company as Don’t Mess With an Angel airs, and she has to do her homework in her bedroom. She knows the voices of everyone in the telenovela, and the volume is always loud. So, during the break, when everyone says they hate Miguel for not being nice to Marichuy, Ann can join in without pretending. This is good because everyone knows pretenders are worse than murderers. 

*

I am taking a nap when Ann starts screaming inside-inside, and I think maybe Joe called her Chiriku, again. The screams do not stop, so now I start to think that a train is coming; sometimes they whistle before they pass. Everybody loves the trains because the teacher stops talking, and sometimes everyone in class holds their breath until the train passes. The scream gets louder, and now I cannot even think anymore, so I look with Ann. 

James is being dragged out of the class by the teacher of English, Mr Jonah. Miss Veronica, the class teacher, is at her desk right by the red steel door, eyeing herself in the mirror in her wallet. Her wallet is yellow, like her blouse and like the school’s walls. Yellow is an ugly colour that no one looks good in, except for Miss Veronica. 

She sees James and sighs, “Ah ah, what now?” Her voice is flat as if already bored by the day, or by James, who is always doing things he shouldn’t, or not doing things he should. Like last week during Catechism classes, when the Catechist excused himself to talk to Sister Zena. James tiptoed to Virgin Mary’s statue and then licked her elbow. Then he danced like this, like that, like a madman, his bum on her toes. I was tickled by the dance, and by how Ann pretended not to be amused. 

Ann would have reported James, but she did not like the Catechist because he called her Tausi once. It was during dance practice for the Thursday morning mass. They were to practice for four songs, but they were stuck at two with only 15 minutes left before the evening assembly. Even Amina, the lead dancer, had tried showing Tonia the leg step for the chorus to Alfajiri Yakupendeza, but no! That girl just kept knocking her legs together. So when Tonia asked to be shown again, Ann ignored her. Twice. I told Ann to step on Tonia’s toes, but she ignored me. Twice. I bargained for an eyeroll; she yielded, but she did it facing the wall. 

I proceeded to propose a good, firm shove into the wall, when the Catechist interrupted and told Ann to stop being a proud peacock: “Usiwe Tausi.” 

First of all, pride is a cardinal sin. Secondly, how dare he? Oh, the nerve of that man and his bald head! So now he is hell’s prefect? All this because stupid Tonia has two left feet? Who sent him? The devil? This is where Ann dug her nails into her palms, so I shut up. 

Amina, Ann’s best friend, said the Catechist was jealous, “His Tonia doesn’t have any badges.” 

Oh, this Amina. Just brilliant.

Outside, the sound of a cane landing on James’s behind is loud, and Ann distracts herself by counting the flowers on the window’s glass. She knows they’ll be 50, but still she counts them in fives, then sevens, then nines. Shortly after, James limps back to his seat and Mr. Jonah resumes the lesson. The bell rings, the lesson ends, Ann goes for the porridge break, and me, I find other things to do.  

*

I like to rummage around Ann’s memories and see what I missed after I leave her to her world. Once, in a box labelled ‘Saturday Afternoons’, I found Bibi, Amina’s grandmother, and her voice before her face drooped, and the left side of her body froze. Then her words became heavy, falling from her lips a little bit too early, or later than they used to. Bibi calls Ann Karani because of how beautiful she is. She says—said—it so softly before laughing and telling Ann and Amina to work hard so that they get big jobs, and buy her all of Mama Yusuf’s bhajia. Like last Saturday and the ones before, they laugh, wipe the drool from Bibi’s chin and tell her they will. 

Ann likes this name, unlike Joe’s. Me, I find Joe’s existence offensive, and I think he is a stupid cow. Also, he looks just like one. Ann barely speaks enough as it is, except to answer a question no one else knows the answer to. Like when Mr. Jonah asked “What is the difference between an English teacher and a teacher of English?” That is when she comes alive, and I see literal fireworks go off in her head, like they are now. It is no longer Mr Mutuku and his Science, it is Mrs Mong’are and her Christian Religious Education. 

Ann loves CRE because she gets to show off. She reads books like 1 Chronicles, those lists of returning exiles in Ezra and memorises that long lineage of Jesus’ family. She does not like that women are not included, so she made them a special list, but she is not ready to brag yet. She has like 8 Marys and 6 Miriams there, so she feels stuck. She just knows Rahab would never ever give her precious little girl a bland name. Even Amina agrees, though she thinks the name should be Halima. I have been suggesting Marichuy and Ann has been telling me to shush. 

*

It is the first lesson after lunch break. Mr Malonza is talking about the Chonyi and the red soils of Chanagande and Chasimba. James is outside frog-jumping. I dive back into Ann’s boxes. I am in the sixth box when Ann turns her voice inside, again. If only this girl would actually scream out loud. Just one time! One time! 

I stop my things and join her. 

It is Tuesday today, so it is Mr Jonah’s composition writing remedial. The thin, tall man, his hair combed in a neat afro, stands in front of the class, “...and nobody get kidnapped today. Write something else. Ann! Why am I repeating myself? Outside, now!” 

Ann stands up, still screaming inside, and leaves the class. She almost steps on James, who is now on his knees, right by Miss Veronica’s now vacated desk, scribbling hurriedly. Ann sighs, leans on the table, and waits. 

Ann retraces her day: she did all her homework, finished all the classwork, wrote all her notes, and napped in the Muslim room during break, as usual. Or was that it? But Miss Fatma did not mind it, even when Ann showed up without Amina. Was that it?

When Mr Jonah walks past Ann, he smells of chalk and sweat. 

“Now you backbite your teachers?” He lowers himself into Miss Veronica’s chair that wobbles slightly. His afro is unmoving, even as he shakes his head, his eyes glued on the fear settling on Ann’s brows. Ann is confused. Fear creeps to the back of her throat and settles there like a stone. 

“Finish your work inside, call Marion,” Mr Jonah tells James, who springs up like a chick running from a hawk. Marion’s name throws the lid off of one of the boxes I usually ignore. I generally do not care for what happens on the walk home after Sunday Mass, but today my principles have to wait. 

Marion walks out of the class. Her steps are light, but their soft thuds amplify Ann’s fear, making her heart throb in her throat. Marion stands next to Mr Jonah so that both of them are now facing Ann.

“Start,” Mr Jonah instructs.

“Okay. So, we were walking home from church, and we reached Bushra’s shop. It was lunchtime because the Mwadhini was praying at the mosque. We saw you standing there, and you had this red shirt on. And we tried calling you, but you didn’t hear, so we gave up. Then Ann started to say your shirt was as old as your Man-U, no wonder you guys are always losing.”

“Is that it?”

“No, no. There’s more. Everybody laughed. Then Ann said the shirt looked like it would disappear into your skin if it rained.” Marion’s sentences are slow, and her eyes are fixed on her index finger that is tracing her palm lines; one by one, then all over again, over and over again.

“And you, did you laugh?”

“No.” 

The stone in Ann’s throat grows and starts to burn. Myself, I am frantically tossing things out of the box to get to that Sunday afternoon. I find snippets. 

True: Mr Jonah is talking to someone across from Bushra’s General Store, his back to Ann and her friends. 

True: the shirt was as old as advertised. Older, actually. 

I keep digging. 

“It wasn’t me,” Ann’s voice is barely audible, even to me.

“You! Shurruppp! I’ll get to you,” the afro turns to Marion, “Sure?” 

“Yes. I said it was wrong.” 

Marion did say it was wrong—but not to Ann. She said it to Jacintah. 

I say no, this lie has to be corrected. I grab this grain of truth and press it onto Ann’s thoughts, willing her to find the words to pick apart Marion’s lies. 

“I did no…”

Ann is silenced by a slap. The tears she has been fighting start flowing freely. Marion jerks back, trembling, and runs back into the class. Mr Jonah gets up and marches into the class, dragging Ann by her sweater, sniffles and tears and all. He makes Ann apologise to the class for being a rotten egg, then he makes her unpin her blue ‘Best Student’ badge and the red ‘Head Girl’ one. Then he tells Ann to kneel, facing the class, until the Prep bell rings. When it does, Amina rushes to Ann, pushing Marion and Jacintah out of the way before they could start their pretend apologies. 

Joe taunts, “Chiriku is now Rotten Egg.” 

Amina throws the blackboard eraser at his head. She misses, narrowly, but Joe shuts his mouth and leaves. 

Ann and Amina pack up. Well, Amina does, before locking up the class. All this while, Ann’s vision is blurry with tears that now refuse to fall, instead wanting to climb and pour from her head. They walk home in silence, parting with a sad hug that is stiff and painful to us all.

*

I have never seen this before, this ocean of confusion swirling in Ann’s mind, drowning everything, even her own voice. She keeps her head down till she gets to Mr Mwaura’s hedge. She looks around to see if anyone is approaching. Someone is. She does not care. Ann screams into the hedge, her voice blending into the posho mill grinding two houses away. The stone in her throat dislodges itself. The woman approaching, sack of charcoal on her head and baby on her back, walks on undisturbed.

“Am I stupid or am I weak?” Ann questions herself.

I hesitate, unsure how to proceed. I see her shame looking for a box to squeeze itself into. I say no. I take it. I carve it into stones. It screams its resistance, but I am god of this world; Marion cannot and will not defeat me here. I make her eat the road till she cannot chew its gravel anymore, then I rain the stones on her till she is a river of red. 

Ann starts to smile but grimaces instead; her left cheek is still painful. I dive back in and dig out Mr Jonah, whom I pull apart the way someone pulls a thread before biting it, and squeezing it through the needle’s eye. By the time Ann does her homework, takes her supper, and goes to bed, nothing is left. Not even that his stupid afro. 

*

Morning comes with all its noises. The eating. The walking. The Our Lady of Mercy students clustered in groups. Their uniforms yellow like the morning sun, disturbingly yellow. Babycare rubbed on their faces, little suns dancing on their cheeks. 

Amina sees Ann, walks up to her and hugs her, squeezing her so tightly that Ann laughs despite herself. Amina hands Ann some viazi karai, Ann hands her some mitai. They talk of Marichuy and Miguel in Don’t Mess with An Angel, and the market that burned at night, its black smoke still visible from the road, as the bus flies them to school. They talk about everything, except yesterday. 

Amina does not ask why she is not wearing her sweater despite the slightly chilly morning. She gives Ann hers and its green ‘Best in IRE’ and purple ‘Best in Science’ badges. Then she wears Ann’s bare one. 

Ann does not participate in the day. At all. Even Mrs Mong’are noticed that her hand did not shoot up to answer: “Who replaced Judas as the 12th disciple?” 

Even the Catechist noticed, “Those are not yours. Where did your badges go?” 

When the English homework exercise books come back, Ann has scored everything and written in red is Mr Jonah’s Excellent!!!! Ann rolls her eyes and scoffs, causing Amina to look at her, then her book. Under their noses is a small piece of paper folded many times over. They unfold it and read: I am sorry for hurting you. Tako Jano, I don’t want people to know you’re my fav. Forgive me. As always, show no one. XOXOXO.

*

A train flies past without its warning whistle, trapping words in Ann’s throat. Her body starts burning as her anger morphs into disgust, into anger, into fear, into disgust. Her mind is scattering. 

First, it is that name Tako Jano—a bird with a yellow bum. Two, what is it with these people? Ann does not care about birds. Whether they are real and beautiful, or white and ugly, like the origami Joe makes, and everybody pretends as if they are guests at that wedding in Cana. Just folding paper like this and like that? Paper? Something that dissolves in water? Enough about that. The birds. The thing is, Ann hates them, except for Bibi’s bird. Me, I enjoy them. But it is not me who got pooped on my head during lunch. That was Ann. Then, the insistence of that rat-headed teacher of English to use the name. That, and those little notes of his that feel like a chain around Ann’s neck. There is more than just the bird and the notes, but it is easier to be offended by Tako Jano because Ann can explain why it insults her. 

Mr Jonah baptised her Tako Jano almost a year ago when her skirt got blown up by the wind as she addressed the morning assembly, revealing her yellow biker shorts. Miss Fatma tried to cover her with her jilbab, but everyone still laughed. And, just over Miss Fatma’s shoulder, Mr Jonah watched, stroking his beard, and a smile on his lips. 

The class is interrupted when the Catechist comes to pick up his daughter, Tonia, for a hospital visit or something like that. That girl is always coughing or sniffling or scratching; always so sickly. Maybe that is why she cannot dance. 

The Catechist stands by the door waiting, and I am taken back to when Ann was in class 5, and he was addressing the school: “My door is always open.” This was after Faith refused to kneel on the gravel downhill from the water-drinking area. Miss Veronica, the teacher on duty that week, sent her home for being rude. Faith’s mother came within hours, collected her daughter’s belongings and left with her child. 

I picture the Catechist’s office and the empty corridor leading to it. An idea sprouts, and I guide it into Ann’s thoughts. She thinks of Jericho’s walls, the shouts and Rahab’s scarlet cord.

*

The mornings roll by slower than they should. Miguel and Marichuy break up, then get back together. Then all over again. Marlow is still on the radio singing, but now Bembeleza has become Pii Pii, and sometimes the driver hoots to the chorus, as the bus flies past the new market stalls erected on the charred ruins of the old ones. Even Amina’s Eid and birthday came and went. I haven’t been counting, but many weeks have passed. 

It is one in the afternoon on a Wednesday and Ann is at an assembly. The air is buzzing with speculation: “An assembly after lunch, since when?”

A police car pulls into the school, and parks between the blue-and-cream church and the headteacher’s yellow office. The headteacher approaches the policemen, shakes their hands and leads them to the assembly where the Catechist stands. On his right, the class teachers of the three senior classes stand clustered together. In the Catechist’s hand is a thick brown envelope, visibly wrinkled, and a rubber band tightened around it. 

Two other policemen get out of the car, Mr Jonah handcuffed between them. Confusion erupts: “What is happening?” 

Ann looks at Mr Jonah: his clothes dishevelled, shoes dusty and afro bumpy. 

Shame fits him, she thinks. 

It really does, I say, the handcuffs too. Even better than stuffing his throat with his dumb notes. 

Ann agrees. 

The Catechist harrumphs. Silence descends. “It is a sad day today.” His eyes rest on Ann briefly; he nods tensely, then continues to address the assembly of class 6, 7, and 8 girls, all of whom were taught by Mr Jonah. “Thanks to everyone who came forward. I…I’m very sorry.” 

Grace in class 8 nods, and Zainab in class 6 steals a glance at Ann. Marion, too, turns to Ann, then Amina. Ann smiles at her, softly though reluctantly at first. Amina only meets her gaze; she still does not like Marion. I did say Amina is sharp-sharp, didn’t I?

*

It had been difficult passing the envelope around, but Ann and Amina did it, then Marion and others joined. They did it during break, during morning walks to the bus stage, and the afternoon walks from Saturday tuition classes and evening walks from preps. Then came the scheming on how and when to slip the thick envelope into the Catechist’s office. Break times, which are usually noisy and chaotic, almost guaranteed invisibility for a few seconds for Ann to slip the envelope under the door. 

We were wrong. The door creaked open, and Ann was caught almost lying flat on the floor, struggling to squeeze that fat envelope under the door. So Ann had to stand up and speak up. 

The Catechist sat on one side of his desk. Silent. Ann sat on the other side, pulling a loose thread in her sweater, watching it unravel as she spoke. The Catechist remained silent and unmoving for a while after Ann finished speaking. Then he broke the silence, offering Ann some Tropical sweets. She went to pick one, but her trembling hands knocked the bowl over. He picked all the sweets up, and handed her the full bowl. Then, he slumped into his chair and buried his head in his hands, oblivious to Ann mumbling, “Thank you,” and leaving. 

*

Later, when Miss Veronica returns the badges, Ann smiles. She says, “Thank you.” Then she throws them inside her desk, behind the empty Tropical bowl. 

A whistle pierces the air. Ann pulls her sweater over her head and holds her breath.