‘Marry me Nuru,’ Jaffer said in his precise, measured tone, ‘and together we’ll build our future in this new independent Republic.’

He was standing opposite Nurbanu’s typewriter and she was sitting at her desk at the Chambers where she worked. She’d met him several months earlier when he’d come in to meet one of the lawyers and they’d struck up a friendship. Nuru had a Pitman’s Secretarial Diploma and a driver’s licence from the first Ladies Driving School in Nairobi. She felt with her natural beauty and qualifications she deserved the care of a man who would cherish her. Jaffer was a self-made, successful business man. He was short, dark and stocky and less educated than Nuru, but she accepted his proposal because he was someone who appreciated her; why else would he speak about her and Kenyan politics in the same sentence?

Saam – The First Clap

I whistle raag Bhairavi and rap both tablas, and check the tautness of the rough leather straps, and tap the tablas once and twice, and listen to their tone and echo, separately and together, and using a small hammer I strike the straps and edges of each drum, one at a time, rotating and knocking at the pegs until every stroke gives off an even tone, and with  the heel of my hand I apply pressure to the drums in a rapping, sliding motion so that the pitch changes and matches that of the tanpura humming in the background, and I adjust the wooden block between the drum and the leather strips and move it up and down and along the side to regulate the tension of the drums…

I rolled down my window and watched the street vendors stroll between the stationary cars, tankers, matatus and buses. I had a strange impulse to drive straight into the car in front, just for the satisfaction of knowing I’d made an impact for once. I gripped the steering wheel.

Dilip and I were stuck on Mombasa Road driving to the city center of Nairobi from our offices near the Jomo Kenyatta Airport. We’d just passed the golf course on our left and the old East African railway station on our right. I fiddled with the knobs for the indicator lights and switched off the engine.

A street seller sidled up to the car carrying Kenyan flags of all sizes, the black, red and white fabric flapping around his face.

“Madam, do you need flags, sunglasses or a photo of the president?” he asked…

To tell you the truth, I don’t like to remember that day, or the days that followed, but the memory of it is fresh. I can recall that hot afternoon vividly and in detail, when that man showed up at our doorstep. I suppose I could blame him or my parents for what happened later, even though you could say they had nothing to do with it…

Dr Patel knew that a man of his talent could not remain Deputy Head of the HR Department at Amber Investments for the rest of his life. He was destined for greater heights. As he manoeuvred his Toyota Corolla through Nairobi’s traffic on Waiyaki Way, en route to the office, the question of how to impress the Directors was uppermost in his mind. A few people had mentioned he was ready for promotion, though of course he’d dismissed the idea with a modest wave.

He rested his elbow on the open window and drummed lightly on the steering wheel, trying to ignore the music blaring from the packed matatu in the next lane, and the exhaust fumes of the diesel tanker in front. Before long, he wouldn’t have to drive, he’d be driven.

Ahead, the lights changed to green. He jammed his foot on the accelerator as he circled the roundabout and honked at a car trying to overtake from the left. The lights turned red, he braked and just missed a vendor who dashed across the road, carrying a board with fake designer glasses…

A few years ago, I lived in Kampala. One of the things that struck me was the large number of Kaloli marabou storks, perched on the roofs and treetops, like sentries guarding the city. I felt they were policing me. At the same time, a friend was going through a breakup after an affair. The two ideas somehow came together when I started working on the story.

While writing, it occurred to me to experiment with second person pronouns. I thought the use of ‘You,’ could offer a certain accusatory tone, while ‘We,’ could give a ‘holier than thou,’ loftiness. I also wanted to play with the idea of a Greek tragedy; where the passivity of the chorus is set up as distinct from the activity of the main character. In my story, while the tragic protagonist acts in defiance of the limits set by society, the chorus expresses judgement of her, and its verdict ultimately pushes her over the edge.

I rolled down my window and watched the street vendors stroll between the stationary cars, tankers, matatus and buses. I had a strange impulse to drive straight into the car in front, just for the satisfaction of knowing I’d made an impact for once. I gripped the steering wheel.

Dilip and I were stuck on Mombasa Road driving to the city centre of Nairobi from our offices near the Jomo Kenyatta Airport. We’d just passed the golf course on our left and the old East African railway station on our right. A street seller sidled up to the car carrying Kenyan flags of all sizes; the black, red and white fabric flapping around his face. “Madam, you need flags, sunglasses or a photo of the President?” he asked.

I shook my head, avoided his gaze and looked at the traffic ahead…

Dr Patel ran his finger along the back of his collar and down the length of his tie. Smoothing out the striped navy blue and yellow silk with its embroidered Club crests, he rolled the tie half way up his shirt, then unrolling it, pressed it down on his belly. He made his way to the front of the reception hall that was filled with tables covered in white cloths, ornate flower arrangements and candelabras, till he got as close as he could to the head table. There he pulled out a chair and sat down to wait for the bride and groom, as if he were part of their family.

He was, as usual, too early. He was particular about timing. He hated being kept waiting himself, and so he made a point never to be late. But no one in Nairobi’s high society appreciated the finer aspects of his character, his sense of propriety and his polished etiquette. Dr Patel sighed, caressing the silky fabric of his tie, from the knot to the bottom. He was glad he’d decided to wear it, even though the famous crest and stripes design was never recognised and no one had ever asked him about his membership with the Club…

“Rashid knows all these intimately, their contours, markings and curves,” Fatima said through the smoky haze of patchouli. I hadn’t expected to be meeting Rashid’s sister on my first visit to his home, although he’d mentioned her quite a lot over the few months we’d known each other.

“It started with these, which I inherited from my father,” Rashid said, going over to the mantelpiece. He picked up a statue. “You know Cleo; everybody does, and her brother, Ptolemy, over there. She’s crafted in clay, and moulded in poly-stone, and he’s made of the finest porcelain. They’re both hand painted with real, gold paint.” He cradled the object in his arms and caressed its belly. “Cleo’s very special.”

“Yes, she is,” Fatima said, rubbing her abdomen. “Please make yourself at home Simran.” When I’d shook her hand a few minutes earlier, her palms and fingers had caught my attention; they were like those of a child, petite with baby-soft skin. Her hand was limp and she’d withdrawn it from mine in an instant…