Beginnings Page 2

  My mother was particular about everything. She always wore navy pants, a white blouse, and flat black pumps, and she’d wear this same outfit whether she stayed at home, was at work or went to the market. But in the back of her wardrobe were two Sri Lankan saris, one made of dark pink lace and the other of peacock blue chiffon, both of which she kept folded and sprinkled with mothballs. “They’re for special occasion days only,” she used to say with a firm voice whenever I begged to see them, touch them.

  In contrast to my mother, the women in the market made every day a special occasion day. They wore full-length, printed kangas, making the markets a bright canvas of eye-popping colors. Canary yellows and navy blues mixed with emerald greens and flowing reds. Inexplicably, lime green lines interwoven with yellow polka dots looked beautiful. On their heads, the women donned wraps with oversized bows, their colors and styles jumping out, shouting out. Like these clothes, nothing was muted in the market. The women bustled around with their wares, cleaned their displays, called for their kids, and bartered their goods loud enough for the world to hear.

  It was these beautifully dressed women who manned the markets of Africa. They’d sit on roughly hewn wooden stools behind their stalls, fanning themselves with newspaper and gossiping with their neighbors. The men were quieter and normally sat with bottle of beer at a makeshift pub under a corrugated aluminum shelter. I never saw them do anything. To my child’s mind, the women were the bosses of the market. How could they not be?

  Buying anything from these bosses of the market involved certain rituals. At our arrival, the stall owners would clap their hands in greeting and offer rooibos tea. The buying happened much later, after a chat about the weather, everyone’s families, and the latest news of the day. My mother would sip her tea and browse the wares, while my father would try to make a deal on whatever we needed.

  But the market women were a formidable force and he was always outnumbered. First, they’d gasp in horror at his suggestion. “Be serious, Bwana!” they’d say and call their girlfriends from nearby stalls to come and see this reckless foreigner who’d named such an irrational price.

  My father detested haggling and was sure everyone took advantage of him, so he’d stand with his hands behind his back, looking officious in his tan safari suit, sticking to his price, a price he thought was supremely reasonable. The African women towered over his diminutive frame, debating, laughing while he refused to budge. I used to think he’d stand like that till dawn, if not for my mother’s trick.

  Once she felt the deadlock had gone long enough, my mother would walk back to the car and pick up her tray of fairy cakes. Then, in front of the curious women, she’d open the cover with a flourish and a “Ta-da!” My mother, a chemist, was unassuming by nature, until the day she discovered Julia Child on TV. After that, she couldn’t help imitating her idol, especially when she gleefully uncovered her baked goodies in front of a group of lively spectators. With oohs and ahs, the women would jostle each other and gather around to check what kind of cakes my mother had brought that day. These small cakes with colorful swirls on top became our currency at the market.

  Later, when we got home and I emptied our baskets of groceries, I’d find buried at the bottom a ripe mango or two, a bottle of oil, or precious cinnamon sticks. Gifts from the bosses of the market. I wished every day could be market day.

  Chapter THREE

  Visiting Chanda was like going to the circus. I never knew what to expect, but I always knew I’d have a grand time.

  Chanda’s father was a miner whose name she did not know. She only knew that he was from Zambia and had moved back to his country when she was just a baby. Her mother, Mrs. Ngozi, was the market hairstylist. Every morning, she laid out her shiny, polished tools on her bench as early as five, before the hustle of the day began. There, she sat all day, cutting and snipping, straightening and braiding the hair of the market women.

  I’ll always remember the day I met Chanda. That Saturday afternoon, my mother decided it was time to trim my uncontrollable mane. “You’re starting to look like a jungle girl,” she said, looking me over with her hands on her hips. That day, she left me in the care of Mrs. Ngozi while she went off to sell cakes at the bread booth. Mrs. Ngozi got down to snipping, and in fifteen minutes had tamed my hair.

  “There, done!” she said, with one last stroke of her comb.

  That’s it?

  I wanted more. Much more. I pointed at a little girl playing hopscotch in front of the booth, the girl with broken red sandals on her feet and shoulder-length braids decorated with multicolored ribbons. Every time she skipped, those braids flew in the air like a mini-rainbow. I wanted the same skinny rainbow braids.

  Mrs. Ngozi shook her head. “Impossible, my dear. Your hair doesn’t have kinks like hers,” she said with her hand over her mouth. I was sure she was laughing at me, but that wasn’t going to stop me. I crossed my arms, and gave her my most stubborn pout—the one that worked so well on my father.

  “Oh my, oh my. You want hair like that-a-girl? My Chanda?” She pointed at the girl, who was now watching me with a pixie glint in her eye.

  I nodded.

  Mrs. Ngozi ruffled my hair and shook her head. “Not sure it can be done.”

  “Please, Mrs. Ngozi,” I said. “Please?”

  She shook her head again gently, but I didn’t budge from my stool.

  “Are you going to sit and sulk till I do, little one?” she said.

  I nodded.

  “Okay,” she said with a sigh. “Okay. If that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get.”

  I beamed at her, uncrossed my arms, and sat up straight to let her do her job.

  “What will your mama say, huh?” Mrs. Ngozi said, massaging my hair vigorously with shea butter oil. “Did you think about that?” I sat as still as I could, while my head jerked from side to side as she pulled my hair apart with fast, skilled hands and with such force it brought tears to my eyes. I blinked them away quickly, hoping she wouldn’t notice. “She’s gonna think I’m messing with her baby’s hair, that’s what,” Mrs. Ngozi muttered, more to herself than me. “She will kill me, and then you, you stubborn girl.”

  It took a whole hour before the final ribbon-tying stage began. By then, Chanda had gotten bored of her solo game, and was watching her mother work her magic on me. She gave me a cheeky grin and put her tongue out. I didn’t dare move, not wanting to interrupt her mother’s work.

  Once Mrs. Ngozi’s work was done, she swiveled me around on the stool. Round and round I went, my new braids with their colorful ribbons swirling in the air. My very own mini-rainbow. I couldn’t help giggling. Chanda jumped up and down laughing. “You look so funny!” she said, pointing at my head.

  “Oh yes?” Mrs. Ngozi said to Chanda. “She looks exactly like you now.”

  Someone bent down to touch my hair. “Freshi, freshi!”

  Mrs. Ngozi turned to her friends, who were now gathering around to see what the fuss was about. “Will you look at that? I didn’t think I could do this with Wahindi hair,” she said.

  “Nice job!” one woman said, clapping her hands.

  “You’re so talented.”

  “Maybe you should try Muzungu hair next!”

  “Bomba!”

  Mrs. Ngozi looked away with a bashful smile. “Asante,” she said with slight dip of her head.

  “Asante!” I echoed with a big smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Ngozi!”

  “You little devil,” she replied, pinching my cheek. “Now go tell your mama you forced me into this. Go!”

  I looked over at Chanda. “You wanna come with me?”

  Chanda didn’t say a word but came right over and took my hand. Hand in hand, we skipped through the crowds, toward the bread booth, our colorful braids flying in the air.

  “You tell her it’s free, you hear!” Mrs. Ngozi shouted after us.

  Chanda knew the market like the back of her hand. She knew where everything was and said hello to everyone we met.
Except for one person.

  At the edge of the market, near where the chickens and goats were tethered, was a grumpy man who sold everything from candy and chocolate in eye-popping wrappers to beautiful shoes of every color and shape you could imagine. His stall was chock-full of curiosities you couldn’t find anywhere else—expensive curiosities we couldn’t resist drooling over.

  This man, with a belly like the buddha, wore a long white nightgown, in contrast to the bright and colorful shirts the other men at the market wore. On his head was a white scarf held down by a thin black band. His skin was lighter than the others, so I assumed he was a foreigner from somewhere up north.

  We always found him in the same position, legs crossed on his mat, mumbling to himself, counting a string of beads with his left hand, and flipping an ancient green book with his other hand. For someone selling nice things like sweets and shoes, he wasn’t a very nice man himself. If he caught sight of a child near his stall, he yelled and cursed till his face turned red.

  “He eats kids for dinner,” Chanda whispered to me one day, and broke into peals of laughter at my horrified expression. I didn’t fully disbelieve her.

  But we couldn’t help ourselves. This shop had all the wonders to stoke a little girl’s curiosity. Every Saturday afternoon we snuck behind a nearby tree stump and gazed at the rows and rows of shoes on display, salivating over them like they were diamonds, telling each other which ones we’d buy if we simply had the cash.

  All I owned was a pair of black school shoes and a pair of brown house slippers. All Chanda had was her one pair of broken sandals tied together with brown string. We both dreamed of the ruby red sandals stacked in the corner of the shoe rack. “That’s what I want,” I said, pointing at them. “Me too!” Chanda said.

  Late on Saturday afternoons, when the market was getting ready to close, we’d hang behind the old man’s stall just a bit longer. We hung around because that was when mysterious things happened here. Every Saturday afternoon, we’d find a row of beautiful young women standing in front of the stall.

  Some were alone, some were with their parents, or so we thought. At first, we were sure they were waiting in line to buy those fancy shoes, and jealously wondered what special deal he was giving them. But we noticed the girls never looked happy or got to pick their shoes. They stood like lifeless dolls, while the man pointed at some of them, one by one. Then, the older people would walk up and get papers from him. Sometimes, we saw money being exchanged. Sometimes, the chosen girl would collapse to the ground and cry. It was a strange scenario every week, and we never figured out what it was about.

  Chanda was sure the girls were being chosen to become the old man’s wife. “All of them?” I asked, to which Chanda had no answer. I thought the girls were being chosen to become fashion models in magazines. “Why do they look so sad then?” she asked me, to which I had no answer.

  Talking about this with Mrs. Ngozi only made her furious we’d ventured to the forbidden part of the market.

  “Those are bad girls,” she said, wagging a finger at us. “I don’t want you anywhere near that place.”

  “Why are they bad, Mrs. Ngozi?” I asked.

  “Child, those girls are exiled from the village.”

  “What does exile mean?” Chanda asked.

  “Go play, and stop asking silly questions. If you go there again, I will be very angry.”

  And that was that. Asking my parents brought threats of me getting banished to my room forever if I stepped near that area again. But Chanda and I had little will power to stay away from the only stall in the market that carried the most beautiful things we’d ever seen.

  Chapter FOUR

  Every night when my mother tucked me into bed, I imagined Chanda sleeping between sacks of hay and beans at the market.

  I imagined her waking up to cockerel crows in the morning and playing among the stalls, all day long. What a dream life she had, I thought. It was a year later, when Mrs. Ngozi invited my family for supper, that I saw how Chanda really lived.

  Their home was a one-room hut with mud walls and a corrugated aluminum roof, an hour-and-a-half walk from the market along a potholed road. They had no electricity or plumbing, and used candles inside the house at night and a common well in the center of the village for water. Their stove was an open fire pit outside their main door.

  That afternoon, while Chanda and I played, Mrs. Ngozi hauled out a pumpkin, carved it into pieces and threw them into a large blackened pot simmering on the fire pit. While my parents chatted with her, more vegetables and chili were mixed in.

  After letting the food boil for five minutes, Mrs. Ngozi brought out a mysterious pouch from inside the house. She measured a tablespoon of the coarse brown powder, and let it fall like a waterfall into the bubbling pot. I squeezed in between my mother and her to peek in. The smell of saffron and cinnamon filled my nose. The air smelled earthy, spicy, and sweet. A half hour later, we sat under the shady banyan tree next to their home, feasting on sweet potato pumpkin stew served on bent aluminum plates. It was an evening I’d never forget.

  On our way home, my mother turned to my father and said, “It’s always those with the least who give the most, isn’t it?”

  Those with the least? Chanda’s playground was the entire market. She had a friend in every corner, she skipped and ran around all day, and she got to eat under a banyan tree. What wouldn’t I give to live like that? She had everything a girl could dream of, except those ruby red slippers from the old man’s stall.

  “Mama,” I said, looking down at my boring black shoes. “I think I need new shoes.”

  “New shoes?” my mother said. “What’s wrong with the ones you have?”

  “They’re getting old,” I said with an overemphasized sigh.

  “But we got those only six months ago.”

  “I want sandals, Mama.”

  “Goodness, child, first you go get your hair braided without telling me. Now, you want sandals? What’s got into you?”

  “Sandals are more comfy and I know where we can find nice red ones.”

  “You don’t need more shoes.”

  “Even for my birthday?” I said with a pout.

  “But your birthday’s not for three months.”

  “I can wait.”

  “Well….”

  “Promise you’ll get me red sandals? Please? Papa?” I knew appealing to my father meant better odds.

  “Well, if you really want—,” my father started.

  “We’ll see,” my mother interrupted.

  “For a birthday present, why not?” my father said. I knew he’d not want to antagonize my mother, and I also knew he knew how to convince her. He looked at me via the rearview mirror. “If that’s going to be your birthday present this year, will you promise to do your homework every night?”

  “Yes!”

  “And promise not to bother Mama about shoes again?”

  “Promise!” I grinned. My mother was silent, but I knew I’d won. Those pretty shoes will be mine soon. But I wasn’t done yet.

  “Papa, can we get a pair for Chanda too?”

  Silence.

  “Her sandals are broken. She has to tie the straps every time.”

  My mother made a funny noise up front. It was neither a yes nor a no, but it told me she was listening.

  “Then Chanda can walk to school without trouble too,” I said.

  “Hmmm,” my father said. My mother cleared her throat, but didn’t say anything.

  It was then that something strange struck me. I saw Chanda only on Saturdays and had no idea what her weekdays were like. Whenever I brought a book with me, which I always did, she’d ask to borrow it after I was done and devour it within hours, only to ask for more. The strange part was she never had her own books and never complained about her school or homework, like I always did. She seemed to live her whole life at the market. In fact, she had an obsessive interest in hearing about my school, which I, in turn, hated to talk about, es
pecially on weekends.

  “Which school does Chanda go to?” I asked out loud.

  “She doesn’t,” my mother said, looking out the window, into the distance.

  “How come? I thought everyone was supposed to go to school,” I said.

  “Asha, my dear.” My mother paused and let out a sigh. “We send you to school so you can get a good education. You are a lucky girl.”

  “But I hate it. I just want to play in the market like Chanda.”

  “How can you say that?” my father said, throwing a hand up in the air. “You’re learning in English. You will get an American high school diploma and even get to do British A-levels. Do you know what that means?”

  “Yes, Papa,” I said in resignation. I’d heard this lecture before.

  “This means you can go to any university, anywhere in the world.”

  “But the girls are mean to me,” I said.

  “Why do you let those silly girls worry you so?” My father was looking at me in the rearview mirror, his forehead lined with concern. “Keep your head down, study hard, and you’ll see the fruits of your labor before long. Who knows? When you grow up, you will become a doctor or an architect or maybe even an astronaut. Imagine, Asha, how proud that would make us.”

  My destiny had been defined since birth. It was doctor, architect, and astronaut. In that order. My preference, of course, was to become either a martial arts fighter or a baker, but my parents would have none of that. To join a respected profession was, to them, the pinnacle of existence, and to go to school was the only job a little girl had.

  I was now a pro at going to schools. By twelve, I’d attended five different schools in four countries—Tanzania, Kenya, Zambia, and Nigeria, not counting a three-month stint in Namibia and a single month in Zimbabwe where my parents worked at a uranium mine. This meant I had to continuously adjust to different classes, to different teachers, and it hadn’t been easy.