Open Writing

Chapter 9 continued
‘Only a Gun Can Make me Go’

Jamila did everything I could have wanted to make me happy, including
having herself HIV tested. She proved such delightful company
that I decided not to return to London. What would have been
the point? I had no job there. I wasn’t enamoured with Brixton, and
there were associations with Denmark Hill which I wanted to put
firmly behind me. I got a pal to pack up my stuff in Railton Road
and to settle up with the landlord so there was nothing to hold me
back. My friend got to keep my bike for his efforts.

As the weeks rolled by I settled into an existence which suited me
very well. I introduced Jamila to my Nairobi friends, and I got to
know some of hers. We quickly developed a great social life which
included our share of clubbing, eating out and partying. I avoided
Nyangalika Nyama and other previously prominent watering holes,
for I had no wish to tarnish the sense of well being which my new
life with Jamila had brought to fruition.

Some weekends we hired a Land Rover to go on short safaris. I
took her to Lake Naivasha where we camped at the water’s edge. At
night we listened excitedly to hippos chomping lush grass around
our tent. We went to see the millions of flamingoes sifting and filtering
crustaceans and green algae on the mud-fringes of Nakuru. For
Jamila’s birthday, we visited the Maasai Mara. While having a picnic I
produced a rather grand cake. I’d been hiding it as a surprise.

Before
the birthday girl could taste it, the entire creation was demolished by
a band of Maasai children who had surrounded our vehicle. For a
tribe which proclaimed the benefits of milk, butter, honey, blood
taken from live cattle, and the occasional piece of meat, I’ve never
seen cake disappear so fast.

Our favourite getaway was Mombasa. The overnight train ride
was fun and there were always people on board whom we knew.

Once on the coast we enjoyed sleeping rough at the isolated Twiga
Beach and swimming naked at low tide in our favourite deep, cool
rock pool.

We visited Amboseli for a distant view of the snow-capped
Kilimanjaro, and to gaze at the park’s elephants grazing contentedly
on verdant grassland. These were places Jamila had never before encountered.

It seemed odd to me that this might be so until I realised
that Kenya had become a playground, not for the vast majority of its
own nationals, but for tourists, indigenous whites and rich Asians.
Others were fully occupied scraping a modest living, if they were
lucky.

It was time to vacate the flat Jamila had rented from Raju Singh.
We signed a lease on a small stone house situated in Peponi Grove,
close to the forest. The bottom of our garden had several Jacaranda
trees and when we moved in the grass was covered in a welcoming
carpet of blue blossom. Before long we acquired a bush dog. We
called him ‘Teapot’ and he also became an important ingredient in
my life (perhaps less so initially for Jamila given her long held aversion
to things with sharp teeth).

I’m explaining all of this as a way of introducing to you, the fact
that Amina began to fade from my mind. At first I felt an enormous
burden of guilt about this. Then I started to question whether I had
ever truly loved her. Perhaps I’d confused the emotion with lust, for
there’s no doubt that at the time, I had wanted her more than any
other woman on earth. Simply put however, I became progressively
more deeply committed to Jamila in the here and now, and felt my
affection for her grow with each passing day.

Love wouldn’t pay the bills. I had to devise some way of earning
money. I rented premises on Kenyatta Avenue and had the place fitted
out as a coffee bar. Later I employed a jazz trio which played at
lunch time. Before I knew it Jamila’s was getting a reputation as a
trendy place to eat and drink. Within a year we had moved the club a
block down the same street to accommodation which was big
enough for live African bands and dancing. Jamila brought her own
sense of flair to the arrangements which, combined with my business
acumen, produced one of Nairobi’s more successful entertainment
venues of the time. We did well enough for Jamila to terminate
her employment with Brickman’s lot so we could both concentrate
on our growing business ‘empire.’

I suppose it was natural that I should still keep half an eye on
events in Somalia and any news coming from there. By then it was
curiosity more than anything else.

It seemed that the country was deteriorating
all the time. One morning my attention was drawn to the
Daily Nation headline on its inside page: SOMALIA: BARRE
OUSTED. There was little by way of a story attached:

‘26 January 1991. Reports from Mogadishu suggest that factions led by
Warlord Mohamad Farrah Aidid and his rebel group known as the United
Somali Congress, have invaded and finally taken control of the capital. Government
forces have been killed in large numbers and the integrity of the army
has broken up. Former President Siad Barre who held power continuously since
1969 has been forced to retreat to his southwestern stronghold of Gedo, which is
also the power base of his Marehan Clan. Barre is expected to try to consolidate
the remnants of forces still loyal to him with a view to restoring his Presidency.

He is quoted as saying “When I came to Mogadishu ...... there was one road
built by the Italians. If you force me to stand down I will leave the city as I
found it. I came to power with a gun; only a gun can make me go.” It seems that
he has fulfilled his own prophesy.’

I wondered at that moment where Amina might be; whether she
had survived her perilous journey to the north. If so, Berbera was
likely to be her home for the foreseeable future; she and her family
were bound to have concluded that Mogadishu was beyond redemption,
and its social fabric might even disintegrate further.

In July of that year, Jamila announced that she was pregnant. It
was one of the happiest moments of my life.