Open Writing

Chapter 12
Crash

For so shapely a young woman, I was fascinated to witness Jamila’s
transformation. At first there was little evidence of her pregnancy.
Indeed, up to five months gone and she was still not showing.
Not so friends would notice, anyway. Many joked that we had invented
her condition. And then so quickly, as if auditioning for a
part in ‘Alien,’ her belly started to swell like a pumpkin. The baby was
soon trying to bash its way out with kicks which sent Jamila into little
spasms of delight. I was obliged to listen in at such moments, ear
pressed to protuberance. Jesus! This was going to be a little devil, I
thought.

Jamila was as calm as you like, quietly going about buying half a
truck load of ‘extras’ that only she felt we needed for a new-born before
its gender had been determined. She quickly organised her bed
in one of Nairobi Hospital’s ante-natal wards for the estimated date
of delivery. During the entire pregnancy she had few troubling
physical side effects. No mood swings that I could detect, nor insomnia,
dizziness, excessive fluid retention or that sort of stuff. As
far as I know, there weren’t even episodes of morning sickness. Jamila
was positively sparkling with the experience of having a child.

She wanted to continue devoting time to the business as well,
right up to the eleventh hour. The new all singing and dancing Jamila’s
had become an even greater success. Plenty of money was
coming in, and with a good supporting team to run the place, neither
of us could claim to have had an onerous workload. The club became
talk of the town. Joseph Kamaru was our first big signing and
his name really put us on the map. Before we knew it ‘personalities’
started to frequent. We’d even had Oburu Odinga (plus girlfriends
and his retinue of bodyguards) in on two successive Saturdays.

As time got closer for the birth I felt like Stanley Ipkiss, leading
actor in The Mask, metamorphosed into manic super-hero, dashing
from pillar to post, ‘helping’ with this and that, conscious of a new
sensation – a heart which was trying to thump somewhere other
than the centre of my rib cage – not unlike Stanley’s in fact, in his
Mask-induced efforts to court the lovely Tina Carlyle.

I wanted this abnormality to end, but the symptoms only intensified
when Jamila’s contractions began in earnest. Even she lost some
of her cool on the way to deliver, stuck as we were in traffic on
Uhuru Highway. I could only dither in my flustered state. What she
wanted, needed, was for me to drive maniacally the rest of the way
on the pavement, or any such drastic action designed to demonstrate
‘manhood.’

‘Idiot! Fool! You can’t even get me to hospital! Why did I ever
have anything to do with you. I might have known a Scottish mzungu
would fuck up.’

I assumed she was joking. Wasn’t she? I knew that even African
women occasionally castigated their menfolk when the moment of
giving birth drew near. Naturally I believed, and told her, that if she
hadn’t seduced me in the first place, she could have avoided her discomfort.

Her darkening mood brought to mind an old calypso song
which a past Bajan friend of mine had once played almost continuously
until he (and I) knew the lyrics off pat. It became a party piece
at some of our less sober Shakespeare Road soirees:

I am not a qualified physician
And I don’t want to give this injection,
But Dorothy is begging for trouble,
She insists that I give her this needle.
But darlin’ one ting I want to know,
Don’t blame me where this needle go.
I push it in,
She pull it out,
I push it back,
She start to shout:
‘Dr Kitch, it’s terrible,
I can’t stand the size of your needle.’

Recalling the less than subtle lyrics brought a wicked smile to my
face and a subdued cackle, unappreciated by Jamila who continued to
spit like an angry cat.

When finally I got her to hospital, labour lasted less than an hour.
Out plopped a beautiful girl. I say ‘beautiful’ in the loosest sense.
Parents are usually besotted with their creations but in truth when
the little thing emerged into this world, she looked more like Winston
Churchill after a hard night overindulging his favourite tipple of
whisky and soda. In spite of appearances, and the unborn kicking in
her mother’s womb, Jamila wanted to call our daughter Dalila, which
in Swahili means ‘delicate, gentleness is her soul’. You can see why I
lodged a ‘no’ vote. The similarity in their names, I thought, would
lead to confusion at least, or people taking the piss. In any case I was
over-ruled. Jamila and Dalila it was to be.

I know that adults are supposed to bond quickly with their babies
(or is it babies with adults? Or perhaps the process is simultaneous).
However, I confess to having experienced some difficulty in this regard.
And judging by the behaviour of Teapot the Terrier, our family
dog, I think he did too. Dalila was the epitome of a wide mouthed
‘bawling bairn’ of the sort occasionally portrayed in ‘The Broons.’

When her screeching was at its height, Teapot would sit at the back
door, praying (crossed paws over nose), if dog’s have a god, that I’d
take him out for a walk in the woods. Any hint of movement in that
direction would create a mad skidding across the kitchen tiles in anticipation.

As the first few months crept by, the draw of those euca-
lyptus trees became an essential retreat for me and Teapot. Jamila
was often left alone to canoodle with the sprog. Yes, it was selfish of
me. I’m just relating how it it was.

With sleepless nights the new norm, you can imagine my delight
when Jamila announced one morning that she wanted a second baby.
Help! Of course I objected but she had a couple of significant
weapons in her armoury. A long lasting huff for one, and the old
standby: a freezing of normal intimacies. In such circumstances a
man has limited choices. Include among these secret visits to the local
‘massage parlour,’ and/or extensive use of the hand. Neither appealed.

Jamila even quoted me a traditional song to underline her
demand:
Eee, one child is not enough,
One child is inadequate,
Eee, when the war drum sounds
‘tindi, tindi!’
Who will come to your rescue –
One child?

So she got her way. We started trying for another kid. By the time
Dalila was one year old, a second baby was on the way. Soon we
were behaving like any other household with another child in prospect.

We started the search for more family friendly accommodation,
and a bigger car. Jamila had her heart set on a Peugeot 405 station
wagon. I justified the purchase by telling her she could have it for
her forthcoming 29th birthday. We agreed to import the vehicle ourselves
from Belgium, which at the time was the cheapest source for
European cars. I’d also secretly planned a huge party for Jamila, at
the club. I invited two hundred guests but had plenty of time to organise
things.

A week before the event we heard from Customs that our new
car had finally arrived in Mombasa. As it happened I was in the middle
of a negotiation to secure the Maroon Commados for the party.
With all those people coming, I had to have the best. The Commandos
had recorded with CBS Kenya and had a string of African dance
hits. They would be just perfect for the event.

When Jamila and I discussed who should collect the car I made
some excuse or other about having to get tax papers in order. This
left her with the pleasant and familiar task of taking the overnight
train down to the coast. She would clear the car from Customs and
stay a long weekend with friends who had a lovely little house a short
distance from Diani Beach. On the Monday morning she would then
drive back to Nairobi. Dalila stayed in the capable hands of our
newly employed nanny.

I drove Jamila downtown to the railway station and gave her a
gentle hug and a kiss before waving her off. I stayed on the platform
until the diesel locomotive had chugged its way out of sight. If there
was one thing Kenya Railways could never be accused of, it was hurrying.
Travel on their trains, they said, was an experience not to be
rushed but savoured – assuming we discount the one which fell off a
viaduct into the lagoon below, drowning scores of its passengers.

Returning home I felt that life was good. Dalila would get over
her testiness. One of these days I’d get some sleep. Then a thought
occurred to me which should have registered a long time before.

Wasn’t it about time I offered to marry Jamila?