The fury, The jam, The slap (Part 1)

Image representation of a typical morning traffic jam in an African city.

The fury, The jam, The slap

Part 1

“We need money for fruits, sugar, we need money for food…” 

“Food? Money for food?” Mr. Kara interrupts her. They are both whispering but loud enough to hear each other. 

“Yes, money for food, shall we not eat, shall your child not eat?” She retorts. 

“But we have food at home…” 

“Home?” she interrupts him. 

“Yes, home, there is food, is it not?” 

“You see, you see that is the kind of person you are, careless man, very careless man.” 

“Careless? I thought we are talking about food,” he says. 

“It is never about one thing with you,” she retorts back, “I slept in the hospital with your sick child and now you want me to go home and cook and come back here again, you are a careless man, in fact you are insensitive, you don’t care, you never, you have never cared how I feel about things.”  

He doesn’t reply. They remain quiet for a moment. Mr. Kara is sitting down, leaning against the wall. He is between hospital beds. To his left, there is a woman sleeping on a bed with a child. If you looked around, that is what you would see mostly; mothers and their children, some sitting, some sleeping, some walking around. To his right, his wife is sitting on a bed, his boy sleeping, he broke his leg the day before this one. 

Mr. Kara is dressed in a white Kandura, an old Kandura, stained and wearing out. He pulled it up to his waist when he sat down to expose his brown Khaki shorts. His black flip-flops on his feet are tearing. He looks tired. He looks stressed. 

“You don’t care,” his wife is resuming, “If you cared we would not have slept here, you were supposed to pick him up yesterday,” while pointing to the boy sleeping by her side. “Men, men, I can stop going to the market and just stay home looking after our children.” 

He was supposed to pick up the boy. He should have picked up his boy. In fact, he was headed there, to his school, to pick him up. He just had to drop off all his customers in his matatu first. He was going to pick him up on his way back. When he came back the boy was not at school. That is when he received the call. His boy had been knocked by a bicycle walking home. He had gone over it again and again to his furious wife. All night. 

“Eh! Is that what you want, I stay home take care of children and you provide?” she was carrying on, now no longer with the hushed tone. If the other mothers and their kids in the beds nearby were listening. They could hear her now. Everything. 

He was thinking about his matatu now, yesterday a boda-boda guy hit his side mirror, broke it. The boda-boda guy never stopped. Ran away. How was he going to repair it? He had no money. 

“Hey, are you listening to me?” His wife was still on it. “Of course, you cannot let me stay home and look after the children, you cannot provide, take care of us with your matatu…” 

What about the boy? His boy, he thought. Will he be alright in time? There was a soccer tournament coming up at his school in a few weeks. He had played with him over the weekend in the past weeks. He was becoming good. He wanted him to improve his dribbling skills. He has potential, he thought. Perhaps one day he can play well and become a professional. 

“Oh God! You are not listening; you never listen to me…” his wife was carrying on. 

Then he remembered the bills. The hospital bills. Oh God, that. He had to go to work, there are bills to pay and rent was coming up too. This world. When do these needs ever stop? He stands up. 

“Now you are leaving, did you even hear what I was saying?” she asks. 

He starts to straighten his Kandura. 

“We need fruits, sugar, money for food,” she mutters, “I’m not going back home to cook, I’m telling you, I’m not going back home. Your boy will starve.” 

He puts his hands in the pockets of his Kandura. The pockets are soiled, browned on the edges due to hands that keep going in and out. His hands wiggle around in the pockets, then come out at once, the right hand holding four folded notes. They aren't folded, they are roughed up together into a ball. They are dirty notes. 

“You are a stingy man, that’s not enough,” She says. 

“This is all I have,” he replies, “and I’m not giving it to you all.” 

“That is four thousand shillings, even if you gave it to me all it's not enough. We need fruits, sugar and money for food.” 

“I will come back in the afternoon with fruits and sugar.” 

He starts to unfold the notes, the dirty notes. He hands her two of them. She takes the two thousand shillings. 

“What food can I buy with this two thousand shillings?” she asks. 

“Woman, stop it, stop it,” he is getting vexed, quickly notices everyone turned around to look at him when he shouted, “just get breakfast,” lowering his voice, “let me go look for money and will come back and then you can have more food.” 

Outside on the street. The morning sun casts a gilded, yellowish glow, illuminating everything brightly. The wide streets are choked with a parade of cars. They are narrowed into arteries of congestion. The usual morning jam sets the stage, kicking the day off.  

The atmosphere is enveloped in a cocktail of sounds—incessant honking, the purring of engines starting and going off and the hollering of matatu conductors soliciting for pedestrians, the pedestrians, some pacing the pavements, some waiting. It’s a dizzying, chaotic scene. But that is how mornings get here. No one is amused or disturbed. Everyone is looking for a way just enough to get by. 

Mr. Kara, in his Matatu, finds a way. He squeezes himself into the jam. The windscreen of his matatu is dusty. It is also banged. It has visible marks of cracks in the middle. Before he can get in well. The traffic officer on the side, signals him to pull aside. He stops. He fidgets. No, it can’t be.  

The mirror, the mirror. The damned boda-boda rider broke his mirror. The traffic officer has noticed the broken mirror. It is hanging as if on threads. It is falling down soon. Finds a way. Parks by the pavement. 

“Good morning Afande,” through the matatu window, he attempts a smile. Sun rays bounce on his bald head. 

“You know why I stopped you.” The traffic officer stepping closer. 

“Ahhh…afande…ah…”panic and fear, flash across his face. His lips are shivery. 

“The mirror, I stopped you because of the mirror,” traffic officer says casually. 

“Oh, oh, the mirror,” he replies timidly, scared. 

“Let’s make it simple,” the traffic officer stepping closer, leaning with his one hand on the window. “It is either a ticket for the broken mirror…” 

“No, no Afande,” Mr. Kara interrupts him. 

“Let me finish, okay, let me finish,” the traffic insisting, Mr. Kara nods, “it is either a ticket for that broken mirror or lunch for me, it is up to you.” 

Mr. Kara reaches for his Kandura pockets, but only two notes come out. Folded, rolled together, dirty notes. 

“Afande, this is all, this is all I have,” he begs. The traffic officer checks him out. Takes a look at the notes. They are dirty notes. He quickly snatches them from his hands. In a wink of an eye, slips them into his pockets. 

“Get out of here, remember, I get you again, I’m giving you a ticket,” the traffic officer says. 

“I will fix it Afande, I promise,” Mr. Kara replies, the traffic officer just steps away. 

This day, how many things have to go wrong? He is mad. He hits his hands furiously onto the steering wheel, causing a loud honk but no one notices. It is loud everywhere. 

She sat in her brand-new Benz. A recent lavish gift from Freddie, her husband. They had married last weekend. She felt trapped in the morning cacophony. Sitting down in her Mercedes was like being on an island, in a sea of stuck metal. Nothing moved at all. She had barely moved. Had been in the same exact spot almost for an hour. She glanced at the car clock and sighed. Time was slipping away. Fast. Her boss was not going to have any excuses this morning. There was so much going on lately at work. 

Mr. Kara watches the traffic officer walk away. The traffic officer signals another car to come over. Thief. He thinks to himself. How is he now to get fuel for his matatu? He is infuriated. He starts his matatu. He is looking for space to squeeze himself. What about the food? He was supposed to go back to the hospital. He had figured by midday, he will have made some money with his matatu. But now how? How was he going to get fuel? His wife is going to be mad and then go on and on and on. 

The morning heat was intensifying. She rolled up her windows, shutting out the smog and the din. She could feel a sense of safety pour over her. She switched on the AC. Seeking further solace. She connected her phone to the car Bluetooth speakers. Immediately an Azawi playlist started off. 

Infuriated. His mind was in the hospital. His mind was on fuel. His mind was on his sick boy and the bills and the soccer tournament his boy was likely to miss. He did not see the Mercedes in front of him while he squeezed his matatu back onto the street, into the immobile traffic. His foot stepped onto the pedal hard. 

The soothing rhythms were beginning to calm her frayed nerves, her body instinctively swaying to the slow beats. But then, a sudden loud bang. Boom. She jerked forward slipping out of her reverie. Almost hit her chest on her steering wheel. It was the seat belt that intervened. 

She was confused. She paused the music. What had happened? She turned around frantically to see what had happened. For clues. An irate matatu driver behind her car was signaling agitatedly for her to step out. Oh my God! Had the fool knocked her Mercedes from behind? Had he? She thought she was going to kill him if he had. He will pay for it. She has to find out. She exited her vehicle. 

It was horrifying, the sight—the front of Mr. Kara’s matatu was fused grotesquely with the rear of her Benz. She'd been rear-ended. Mr. Kara was already outside, animated, walking about, explaining to those that were starting to gather about. He claimed loudly that the accident was entirely her fault. His performance was a theatrical display, demonstrating with wide, sweeping gestures how the collision had occurred. She just stood. Horrified. Watching. 

She regained her composure. She walked around to examine the damage more closely. She felt the anger build into a ball in her throat as she assessed the situation. Having assessed, she stood leaning on one side of her Mercedes. Mr. Kara came around. He was animated, furious, motioning with his hands how everything had occurred.  

He was trying to exonerate himself. He was trying to show she was the one that had been at fault. The cars in front of her had moved a few centimeters, almost a meter. She should have followed, pulled a bit forward, just a bit to create space for him. 

Matatu drivers! She hissed to herself. They are never in wrong. Finally finding her voice, she stated her demands firmly to the matatu driver. She wanted to be paid for the repairs. There was nothing to say further. There was nothing to explain. The whole scenario spoke for itself, he was in the wrong. 

He could not believe his ears. How could he possibly afford to repair a luxury car? This woman was unbelievable. Preposterous. She should have pulled forward. Had she not driven in the city’s traffic jam before? It was her fault. It was her fault. He had no money. His wife, his boy were in the hospital. They had no food. They wanted fruits. They wanted sugar. His matatu was now one for the garage. He felt a surge of fear mixed with anger rush through his chest. 

The crowd had now formed around them into a tight cluster. It was as if it was there to catch a street show, buzzing, murmuring with mingled voices of conjecture and shock. He stepped closer, asking her to repeat her demands. She did. He did not think. He raised his right hand. She did not see it. He brought his hand down, hard. He struck her across her left cheek—a sharp, stinging slap that echoed through the murmurs of the crowd. The crowd went quiet for a moment. Stunned. 

Stunned, she briefly lost her balance, leaned heavily against her car. What was that? Had he slapped her? How could he? She felt her cheek burn. She felt rage coil tighter in her throat. No one, no one in life had ever dared bring down their hands on her. Tears flashed in her eyes. She was not crying. It was the rage reaching her eyes. No one had ever slapped her. 

Mr. Kara stood in front of her. He did not move. He was shocked. He stood there as if he were part of the crowd himself. What had he done? He had never in life slapped a woman. Yes, he had had incidents like these, not accidents, incidents like these of confrontation, of argument but with fellow men, with whom he had ended boxing or slapping or kicking but those were men not women, not women. 

Words were forming in his mouth. Words, seeking her forgiveness. Before he could find his tongue, the boda-boda riders moved on him. Seized him from behind. Put him on his knees. They held his hands in the back. The crowd, especially the women roared with a cheer. Justice was taking action before their eyes. The men watching, stood quiet. Satisfied. 

On his knees, he started to say words. She stood in front of him, heaving with anger. A tear streamed down her one cheek.  

He told her he had never beaten a woman. He told her he did not know what had just come over him this time. He told her he was having a bad day. Perhaps it had gotten to his mind and drove him crazy. He told her about the boy in the hospital, leg broken, he was supposed to play in some school tournament but now he did not know if he will. He told her about the boy’s mum with him in the hospital. They were waiting. He was supposed to go back with food, with sugar, with fruits. He cried. Tears soliciting for mercy lit his eyes. He begged for forgiveness. 

The boda-boda riders still restraining him. They positioned his cheek. They motioned to her to come over and slap him back. Get her revenge. The crowd cheered on, the crowd chanted. She'd never been struck like this in her life. She approached the restrained matatu driver.  

The crowd stopped a bit, held their breath. She raised her hand high. The crowd’s eyes moved along with the motion. She brought down her hand hard, struck his cheek. The crowd roared. She felt relief drench itself on her. She had slapped him back. His jaw slackened out of position. That had been sweet. The boda-boda riders still restraining him, motioned for her to hit him again. 

The crowd roared, cajoled her to strike him again. Two for one, they insisted. She had heard him. She had received his pleas in her heart. She had checked him out. He looked a mess. What if there was a boy with a broken leg? What if there was a wife waiting for him? Waiting for him to go back with fruits, with sugar, with food. She motioned for the boda-boda riders to let him loose.  

The crowd sighed with surprise. The traffic officer that had just taken Mr. Kara’s money reappeared, pushing through the crowd to the center of it. 

The boda-boda riders let him loose. They were disappointed. She reached. She told him to go find his boy and wife if really they existed. He was about to elaborate, show they indeed existed. She did not want any more of it. He had to drive his matatu backwards from her rear. Her insurance was going to take care of her Mercedes. She thought to herself. The traffic officer found them. She took him aside. Mr. Kara got back to his matatu. The crowd started to disperse, one by one. 

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