The Burgundy Umbrella

A story by ALLY BAHAROON

As life continues to spiral and unravel, randomness seems to be the order of the day. We appear forced to surrender to the complete unpredictability of the world we inhabit. From way up above the earth, everything we do on earth seems so trivial and filled with distractions. The syndicated radio program from the National Radio Corporation comes to a close. 

Then the weather report chimes in, and the weatherwoman warns that this clear-skied day will soon turn stormy. How soon? No one ever knows, time is a fickle companion. I look around and notice the wauza chai preparing their portable teapots, soon to be mounted atop plates of smoldering coals, their rituals as ancient as the earth itself. I look up at the sky and see the clouds prancing past the vast light blue expanse, their movements a silent ballet, signaling the zenith of the day. The white puffs seem to float with increasing speed, their hurried dance casting fleeting shadows that make me feel dizzy, as if the world itself is spinning faster, caught in the throes of an unseen tempest. I look around the Gerezani streets. 

Built using thick walls of coral rubble set in lime mortar and plastered and painted white, with floors of coral blocks laid on cut rafters and mangrove poles, the houses in Gerezani stand close to the streets and even closer to each other. This makes the veranda and the street a place of jovial existence—a space for solitude and sociality. 

As I turn left after greeting Omari the tailor, I stand before a modest wooden kiosk with a tin roof, its sides darkened by years of roasting beans and brewing coffee. Mzee Farouk is a humble man whose generosity surpasses his earnings. Every morning, he prepares a large pot of spiced coffee. After pouring it into a dented silver thermos, he sets out a tray with small chipped ceramic cups, a bowl of dates, and a flask of warm milk. Then he waits. Any weary labourer or passerby in need of a moment’s rest finds themselves an honoured guest at the Mzee Farouk Coffee Retreat. Sometimes, he waits for ten minutes. Other times, even up to half an hour. The longest he waits is forty-eight minutes, during which he reheats the coffee twice. At last, a tired porter with calloused hands stops and accepts a steaming cup.

There is a congregation outside Mzee Saidi’s house on Nyamwezi Street. Mzee Saidi’s house is a square-shaped stony structure with a corrugated roof. It is slightly better than some of the other houses in the district, though it certainly does not rank with Mzee Adam’s palace– a grand residence with towering columns, intricate wooden carvings on its heavy Zanzibari doors, and a lush courtyard filled with fragrant assortments of jasmine and lavender . There are two men of different classes. In Gerezani, belonging to a lower class is not necessarily seen as a source of shame. It is a way of life with no name, simply accepted for being what it is. The people of Gerezani are not reluctant to recognize that there is someone poorer or richer than them. Some own cars, others own bicycles, and the rest own stones. 

The morning air is thick with the salted scent of the sea, and a faint drizzle begins to speckle the ground. I do not know when the day will change course, but I now know I need to get an umbrella from the mpemba around the corner. I never understand why that name for the Islanders ends up associated with a store. 

Pemba is the name of the northern island of the Zanzibar archipelago, a verdant jewel cradled by the Indian Ocean. The hardworking folks from there find ways to make a living, and even thrive, in all sectors of life, though rarely on their lush island, as if destiny has scattered them like seeds on foreign soil. I remember a boy I studied with during my elementary days, a quiet soul who bore the nickname mpemba with a resilience that belied his years. Our classmates loved making fun of his accent, a lilting melody that carried the essence of his homeland. Pemba folks are known to speak Swahili with an elongated tone, stretching the last syllable of a word like a thread of honey, golden and lingering. It is quite melodious, a song woven into speech. I mocked him once, just to see what it felt like to poke fun at someone, to wield the careless cruelty of childhood. He snapped back quickly, his wit sharp as a blade, taunting me about the size of my ears, calling me masikio ya tembo—  I do not have elephant ears, but his words leave me with a lesson in humility and the weight of unkindness. 

I often wonder what the island must be like, since I have met so many wapemba in Dar es Salaam and other parts of Tanzania. I reckon it must be a ghost town, where one goes to visit their elderly parents after being away for a long time. Of course, these parents could already be in the cemetery by then. 

Anyway, I start walking and head towards the mpemba shop to get my umbrella. I turn the corner and see Kurwa, a stocky man wearing a blue short-sleeve shirt with matching pants. He is seated on a green wooden bench. He looks to his left and then to his right at eerily equal intervals. He is the unofficial chairman of the Swahili-Somali Street Salon, where young men of different ages—all within a couple of years of each other—gather to discuss events of the day, the past week, the past month, and, when that is exhausted, the future. Predictions run wild on topics ranging from sports, deaths, community events, and so on. I say hello and continue briskly walking to my destination. 

I arrive and soon realise that the mpemba has closed his shop for dhuhr, the afternoon prayers. The term “punctuality” is a foreign concept to the folks in Gerezani. No one has a habit of being punctual with their schedule except prayer. Those who miss the prayers at set times in the congregation are noticed over and over again. Seeing this temporal absence of the mpemba, I grab the opportunity to take a moment and ponder the type of umbrella I want. Maybe I should go for the classic one—wooden-handled with a canopy of microfiber fabrics—or perhaps the pocket one that is easy to carry around—small, portable, and lightweight—or the bubble umbrella, which is transparent and helps one see where they are headed. Honestly, with the way my bank account is set up, I just want the cheapest one that will get the job done, effectively and cost-effectively. It has been a tough year, and the last thing I want is to spend the remainder of my savings on a tool I will only use for rainy days, literally. Speaking of rainy days, here come the drops. I already feel one on my ear, then another on my toe. 

I hear the bells of the Hindu temple on the opposite side of the street. Only a handful of Hindus are in Gerezani at this time, and they all congregate at the Baniyani place, as the other folks in Gerezani call it. It is a colourful place, covered in orange and yellow paint. During Holi, the temple is strewn with red powder all over its compound. I see the children playing within the walled temple as I peer through the gate. The guard lets me take a peek every now and then, even though he is told explicitly not to let any golos near there. 

Mzee Hemedi is a short, loud man from Pemba who came to Dar es Salaam as a boy after the First World War. He was taken in to help an old Arab man who owned cattle on a big farmhouse on the city’s outskirts. After proving his loyalty over thirty-one years, he was given enough money to open a butchery. He is stubborn about opening it in front of the temple. It is the only place the old Arab man owned after his death. He resists threats from the temple administrators, who even complain to the district attorney. 

Nothing can persuade Mzee Hemedi that there are people on Earth who worship the very thing he slaughters and sells for his livelihood. He does not understand. Nor does he want to. I remember his naivety was the cause of a ruckus in Gerezani a couple of years ago. It was during Eid Al Adha, when Muslims sacrificed cattle to honor Prophet Abraham’s servitude to Allah, Mzee Hemedi slaughtered two cows and divided the meat for charity. He gives some to his relatives, some to the poor, and some to his neighbors. He walks up to the house of his Baniyani neighbor, Rinko, and offers the meat, not knowing his neighbour is a vegetarian. As he hands over the fresh cuts, he smiles and wishes him Eid Mubarak. Rinko asks what the meat is, and Mzee Hemedi casually replies, “Nyama ya ng’ombe.” I remember Rinko bursting out in a cry of plea, “Mungu wangu! My God! He killed My God!” Mzee Hemedi looks confused and shocked at the screech of ingratitude. He quickly takes back the pieces of meat Rinko throws at him and decides to give them to the approaching ragged mendicants instead. 

I visited Mzee Hemedi’s butchery last month. He clearly lacked the skills required to be a butcher. Flies buzzed freely around the exposed meat, which sat on a wooden counter stained with years of use and never properly sanitized. More than once, I saw him pick up meat after scratching his beard. His old age impaired his vision and depth perception. His hands were covered in cuts due to his terrible hand-eye coordination. And he struggled to concentrate or pay close attention to tasks. Abdul, his naive assistant, is employed to help him because Mzee Hemedi had neither the stamina nor the strength to stand for long hours or handle heavy pieces of meat. 

It starts to drizzle, and the wind picks up slowly. The branches of the mango tree beside the store begin to dance gently in response. I look around and notice a sleeping man snoring melodiously on the other side of the street. I figure it is Magarawa, Gerezani’s finisher. He is often called upon when social gatherings have leftover food, and there is no hungry person in sight. His appetite is well-appreciated, and he does not seem to mind being regarded as a human garbage bag. He takes pride in it. It has not always been him alone. He had a partner in finishing food around Gerezani, but he died a couple of years ago after choking on a chicken bone due to laughter. Magarawa is often heard grumbling between ingestions, saying, “Eh, bwana, chakula hakitupwi.” He is often courted by young single ladies but never seems too keen to be in a relationship nor to get married, much to the disappointment of his aging parents. I wonder if Magarawa escapes the predictability of a settled life. Maybe he enjoys knowing that his sustenance can pop out of nowhere— perhaps he is in love with the chaos of chasing. 

The mpemba finishes his prayers and hurries back to the store as he sees the line-up of exasperated customers waiting for his return. He pushes through and opens his doors to start handing out a measure of sugar to a young boy, baby Pampers to an elderly lady, and today’s newspaper to a middle-aged woman who seems quite anxious to read the second last page. Perhaps it is the lottery. 

“Enhe nikusaidiaje?” The mpemba asks how he can help me as he hands a young girl a packet of cigarettes. I recognise her. She is Hawa, the naughty schoolgirl who keeps bumming out in classes. She was once heard railing that the school tortures small children into memorising lies decided by proclaimed victors of wars long past, cramming facts that were arbitrarily chosen by white men with dirty beards, and calculating mundane numbers for no purposeful results. She got expelled instantaneously. I wonder if she is now puffing her stresses away. 

“Naomba mwamvuli mmoja,” I reply as the drizzle is gaining speed. 

“Upi?”

“Hiyo ya classic,” I point to the one I want. As the mpemba reaches into the back of the store to pull out my desired umbrella, I turn around and see two men, dressed in traditional Arab garb, walking towards the store. They are stopped by a third man. One of the other men holds his outstretched arm and increases his pace towards him, who quickly shifts the bag handles in his right hand onto his left. He leaves them after saying hello. The two men continue chatting. Their mouths move quickly, and their vivid gesticulations underscore their respective concerns. The strong winds carry the conversations to my ear; one of them telling the other about the promise of the new government, and the latter burdening the former with the troubles of his failing marriage. They seem to be a classic duo of simultalkers. These specimens do not interrupt each other but rather talk when the other person takes a break between sentences. It is one of the strangest conversational phenomena I have ever heard. I often wonder if simultalkers actually listen to the other person’s story or maybe they just wait for there to be a pause in the noise coming out of the person’s face hole. It is odd. The stories have no connection nor do they relate in any way. 

My thoughts are interrupted by the crackle of the plastic cover being unwrapped. The smell of crispness bursts into my face. A brand-new burgundy-coloured classic umbrella, straight from the factory. I ask for the price as I reach for my wallet. “Twenty thousand shillings,” a cut-throat price one would expect from an opportunist. I haggle with him down to half. The wind grows louder, and the rain knocks hard against the roof of the store. The mango tree’s dance acquires a new frenetic pace. A continuous splatter on the concrete roofs. 

The mpemba hands me the umbrella, and I stretch out my arm. I stumble as I lean towards the mpemba, but before my hands can clench the umbrella handle, he lets it go. The burgundy mwamvuli canopy fills with a puff of wind and flaps upwards, hitting the edge of the steel roof before venturing out in full flight into the gloomy sky above us. The mpemba looks on with his mouth agape. I look upward in disbelief too. Gasps from the two men who were now only a few steps away from the store. The umbrella becomes a smaller and smaller crimson dot until it finally disappears amid the ever-darkening clouds. 

Then the sky lets loose. People rush to the nearest shade and hover around each other for cover. The two gentlemen reach the ledge quickly enough and stand under the canopy of the store. People in the vicinity were startled by drops of unwanted water. No one likes to be thrown underwater unless they have sought it themselves. 

The mpemba looks at me and then glances down at the cash I hold in my hand. He demands his money. “I am not paying for an umbrella that I do not own,” I reply assuredly.

“You stumbled and let it slip through your hand,” the mpemba accuses me, his tone sharp and defensive.

“That is not true! You let it go before I took it in my hand!” I shout back, not wanting my rebuttal to be lost in the gushing sounds of the rain.

“So, you think you can just come here and con me?” He steps forward.

Just as I brace myself for an escalated confrontation, I feel a hand on my back. It is one of the two men who had been chatting nearby. This bearded gentleman steps in between us, his presence calm and commanding. He looks directly into the fiery eyes of the mpemba.

“I will pay for the lost umbrella,” the man declares, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Give me three more umbrellas. One for the young man here.”

I watch in stunned silence as the transaction unfolds. The mpemba, momentarily deflated, retreats to fetch the umbrellas. I am handed another crisp burgundy umbrella, its handle cool and smooth in my grip. This time, I hold on to it with certainty, my fingers tightening around it as if it were a lifeline.

“Ahsante mzee wangu,” I thank the man with a slight bow of my head. He nods briefly before he and his companion walk past me, resuming their strolling discussion as though nothing had happened.

I stand there for a moment, the rain still falling around me, though its intensity has lessened. I smile to myself, bemused by the turn of events. Money, it seems, has a way of diffusing tension and fostering benevolence. Perhaps one day, I too will have the means to parade around town, throwing money at problems to solve them with ease.

As I walk away from the store, the storm calms further, and the sky begins to brighten. The air feels lighter, the world around me quieter. I remember the radio program’s closing words and chuckle softly. The unpredictability of life is indeed difficult to keep up with; it twists and turns, leaving us scrambling to make sense of it all. Yet, in moments like these, I am reminded of the resilience of the human spirit. We navigate the chaos, often clumsily, but always with the hope of finding our footing.

The burgundy umbrella in my hand feels like a small victory, a symbol of the unexpected kindness that can emerge even in the most turbulent times. I open it, the canopy unfurling with a soft whoosh, and step into the drizzle that remains. The streets of Gerezani glisten under the faint sunlight breaking through the clouds, and I feel a strange sense of peace.

Being human is hard work, and we are all doing our best. Sometimes, that is enough.