Behind Our Curtains

“Often, a mother looks her new born baby in the eyes and sees endless stars. Sometimes, she rubs her belly and feels empty” — Mothers, Keletso Mopai

Like many children in Kawa, my neighborhood, I have a crew. My crew includes Mose, Anjie, Max and myself.  We do many things together. One thing that bonds us is gossip. We have learnt how to do it from our house helps. We see how they mouth secrets to one another: How they cue with the tips of their mouths: How they roll their eyes when someone they don’t like files past where they are seated.  We are young but in us, are stories for days. We can tell you about which motorcyclist is eyeing which house help. Or about which shopkeeper uses charm to attract customers. Or about the grocer who cut her husband’s thing for cheating on her.  When I tell you that we gossip, best believe that we do it like it is our only business on earth. 

Mose has no father. His latest uncle is some man with a stretched, taut stomach. His mother insists that he should refer to these men as uncle. Out of all the uncles his mother has brought home, this one has stayed around for the longest. When we first saw him, one of our house helps animated the uncle’s walking style. She bulged her stomach out, knocked her knees, exhaling audibly like him. I can’t tell you how much the other ‘helps cackled. They laughed, laughed, laughed until my mother barked from her bedroom window, reprimanding them to behave like adults.  Mose suffers from asthma. His sinus is, on most days, blocked. He has a nasal accent. At first we thought that this accent was because he schools with white children. This was until his house help, who we hear is an unemployed trained nurse, told us that it is because he struggles to breathe. Her explanation made us pity him for a bit. Whenever Mose isn’t around, we mimic him, copying the lilt in his voice. “I harrr tharr man…” Our mimics are always a failure.  

Anjie is the only girl in our crew. Naturally, she is a shy one and you can tell from how she hides her face from anyone who gazes at her. If not for hanging out with us, she never leaves her house. She has flat foot, which causes her shoes to always wear down unevenly. We used to laugh at the structure of most of her worn down shoes. Not anymore. We had to stop because of how near her tears are. Her eyes are ever moist and with any slight provocation, they pelt down in torrents like heavy rains.  One day as we are seated on our stairs waiting for power to come back so that we can return to watching Nickelodeon, she opens up.  She tells us about how their house help crams fingers on her tiny breasts. How the house help puts her tall fingers into her thing, and rubs, hard, not caring that it hurts. Anjie weakly demonstrates as she narrates to us this story. She wryly chuckles. Then tries blinking away her ever-present tears. “Si you tell your parents,” Max tells her. Having known Anjie the longest in this crew, I know that her parents are always busy. They are never at home. I do not tell Max this. Mose is silent, his hands cupped on his mouth all through Anjie’s narration. I promise to report Anjie’s ‘help to my mother. 

Max, the talker, fears his father. He fears him so much that whenever he sees him coming, he always runs to their house, abandoning our games. I cannot tell you how many times we have had to cut short our hide and seek simply because we can’t find Max, only to realize he has left for their house. In such times, myself and Mose, always click our tongues, roasting his unhealthy hair that grows like green grams. Word is that his father beats them— him together with his mother. Nana, their house help says that Max’s father is an animal whose temper can’t be cooled. “Neke, that one is always in a violent mood.”  Max’s arms and shins are full of welts. At times when he comes to my house, he squats rather than seat. He is bubbly though; never will you find him sullen or quiet. Amongst us, Max will become the first to have speckles of beard sprouting on his chin. Me and Mose will still be wallowing, lolling around childhood while Max’s chest broadens, voice breaks. He will start snubbing us and then one day we will hear that he fought with his father. Then disappeared. 

The reason I am last to introduce myself is because I am the unseen one. I am bad at games. My performances in school are poor. Honestly, most times I feel like they only associate with me because our house is where they are welcome. When schools are open, we gather here in the evenings. When schools are closed, our gatherings are all day long. On some days we watch cartoons. Or movies. If my ‘help is not held up, she forces us to dance for her. She likes watching The Beat which starts at 5pm on weekdays. My ‘help always rewards the winner with a pack of Ginger biscuits. Max wins on most days. My mother never yells at them, never denies them food. Whenever mum comes from shopping, she always carries with her gifts for us. All of us without discriminating. 

You should know that besides my house being hospitable, it is strategically built in the middle of Kawa. This allows us see most of the things that happen in this neighborhood. Our translucent curtains and the wide windows allow us to peek through; to watch down the streets.  

Through our peeking, is how in his end we see Steve (the estate’s madman) turn into ashes. It is behind our curtains that we will see Steve’s mother tighten her grip on the edges of her skirt, a glob of mucus running down her nose as she screams: leave my son, please leave him. It is while still standing behind our curtains that we will see police officers throw teargas to scatter the assembly of a ragging mob. It is here, that we will all confirm the words of my grandmother: he who is not taught by his mother is taught by the world.  

Then, we will grow silent, so much that I will hear my heart drooping. 

1.

Our teachers say: every village has a mad one. Kawa, despite being a rich neighborhood, has one.  He is ragged with ashes lacing his light skin. You should see the wiry hairs on his chest; a chest that is always bare. The hair on his head is scribbled; here, there; with strong tufts that give him semblance to dissidents like Dedan Kimathi. His actual name is Steve. Our house helps have nicknamed him Oyiye because of how much he eats, they say. 

 Steve drinks his urine. We have seen him do these many times. Whenever he is pressed for a short call, he normally searches for a disposed bottle, pulls his thing out, pisses into it, then gulps it down. After, he never misses to shout: garbage out, garbage back in.  We chorus with him. The roughness of his voice spikes the ears of my mother. Mum does pull my nose anytime she finds me chorusing to Steve’s shouts. 

If you think drinking his piss is the worst, sorry. Truth is Steve doesn’t have manners at all. You see that dumpsite with all the filth from Kawa? That is where he goes for long calls. Any time he does, he sticks his fingers in his butt hole, smells, licks them. Should we tell you that he releases mound of feces? We’d rather see him drink urine than licking the speckles from his poop. 

Apio, Steve’s house help, says things about him. From the way she gestures whenever she is gossiping with our ‘helps she seems so disgusted with Steve. It is through her that we know about the story of how he became a mad man.  

I remember how one day, when Anjie, Max and Mose had dispersed to their houses, Apio came to our house, her teeth clenched as she blurted out to my ‘help how uncomfortable Steve made her feel. She said that Steve liked itching his private parts in front of her. It is on this day that she told my ‘help about how Steve plucks his pubic hair anytime food was served. The growl, the defeat, the surrender of her voice still echoes in my head as she narrated how Steve had lost his mind.   

“Long, long time ago when Stevo was still a young boy just like Mokaya,” I turned to them at the mention of my name. “His mother used to be like us, did laundry for people, cleaned houses, took care of children. Her struggle was apparent until some day she got introduced to a church that promised to turn her rich. The church asked for a sacrifice and since she had conceived Steve after being assaulted by one of the men she cleaned for, she decided to offer him in exchange for riches. The church instead of killing him took away his mind.”

“Apio if you get another job, you leave.” My ‘help consoled her. 

2.

“Steve”

“Oyiye”

We shout his name whenever we see him walking down the streets. We are cock sure that he cannot see us. Our curtain sheaths have an extra layer that conceals us from him.  We shout his name again and again.  If he looks up, Max hastily draws the curtains causing the rails to make a raspy sound. Unless my mother or my house help catches us, we don’t normally stop. Excitement is ever smeared on our faces as we sing Steve’s name. We grin, laughing at how he squints his eyes, roving them to try finding where we are hiding. 

There are days when he blurts back: Whoever you are, come out and face me. 

Some grocers are afraid of him. So afraid that they abandon their stalls until he goes away. Our ‘helps who are ever standing by the balconies after chores always scamper to get back inside anytime, they hear his loud, callous voice. One time a woman who had just moved in tripped and fell when she noticed that Steve was right behind her. 

On some days, though, Steve is relaxed. He is unpredictable. 

3.

Three days before Steve is killed Anjie goes missing. Before she goes missing, we are all together in my house, our eyes cast on the TV. We are still because my mother has commanded that we keep quiet as she is watching the news. The president walks onto our screen, a lady who is older than all our mothers walk after him with files hugged tight to her breasts. She wears a grey suit with black stockings tucked into her black high heels. The president walks on a red carpet, she walks on his left, off the carpet.  See Mama Steve, my mother points at that lady. “Which Steve?” “Si the same one you are always teasing.” We gasp in shock. First by surprise that Steve’s mother is standing next to the president. Secondly, we fear that Steve might appear on our screen, walk out of it and come grab us for always shouting his name. I look around; to Max, to Anjie, to Mose. They are all quiet with their eyes fixated on the screen, waiting to listen to what the president is about to say. 

Mama, kwani Mama Steve works with the president?

I ask, interrupting the silence. Mother puts her index finger over her closed lips. I keep quiet. On the bottom of the TV, we see the word ‘PANDEMIC’ running over and over as the president speaks. The agape in my mother’s expression tells us that things are bad. Worst even. She phones one of her friends. Then two, three, four before calling my grandmother. In all these calls she urges them to keep safe: this thing seems deadly, she says to them. After she is done making her calls, I ask her again if Mama Steve works with the president. She tells us that Mama Steve is the one who writes speeches for the president. I don’t know what speeches are but I do not ask. The other three seem to know what it is.

  If she works with the president, why is her son walking around like a son with nobody to care for him? This question swirls around my head. Mom is already tired from the news. I pack this question in the folds of my mind, perhaps to ask it some other time, another day. 

On this evening after realizing that Mama Steve works with the president, Anjie decides that she is going to report her house help to her. We all know that the president is powerful, therefore, Mama Steve has to be, too. Anjie is tired of how her ‘help forces her to lick her smelly, bushy thing. She is tired of the discomfort that comes from the scratches of her ‘helps nails whenever she slips her fingers in. Anjie wants Mama Steve to save her from the trap of this abusive house help.

And so, when we disperse to our various houses, she doesn’t go to hers, she goes to Steve’s house. This is the last time we see Anjie alive. Her ‘help searches for her everywhere. She reports this to the police officers who come to my house to ask us a few questions. Word spreads around Kawa and some starts glaring at my mom with bad eyes, claiming that she is hiding Anjie. “Produce her,” their voices flicker through into our house. My mother dazes at how these accusations are gaining traction. She locks herself away and for the first time is mean to Mose and Max. “Go play in your house,” she scorns at them. 

The search for Anjie and the accusations at mum goes on for a week. The police come around the neighborhood occasionally. They are investigating, they say. On the seventh evening right as the sun is going down, Apio appears at our door wailing like the world is ending. Her veins pop. She heaves; her chest rapidly pumping. Her loud scream draws the attention of the neighborhood.  People assemble; panic etches on their faces. “What is it again?” is the question everyone is asking.  Mothers hold their children close, afraid that any of them could disappear. Apio starts, snorting as she talks. Amidst her cries we hear her say: It’s Steve. He killed her.

For a minute, maybe even less, everything goes quiet. The cemetery kind of silence. We are transfixed. Apio hiccups as she searches for air.  

Buda, the revered old man, asks her to pardon what she has just said. Apio does, this time narrating how she found out. She waves Anjie’s dress at us. It is damp with blood. She found it under Steve’s bed just this evening while cleaning. She had been sniffing a bad, choking, stench for a couple of days but kept ignoring, thinking that it probably was the dumpsite. Only this evening did she decide to clean. Come see, there is more. My mother shouts that I should get back to the house, Max and Mose follow me in. Once inside, we stand by our window, watching the movement of this mob. Their faces wear pain.

 Later we learn that Anjie’e body was stuffed under Steve’s bed. The TV will later describe it as a cold murder. 

What we hear next after they leave Steve’s house is the chants of men. With their voices raised, they say it in unison: he has to pay. Our mothers walk behind them. With the dim, fading splits of sunset, we see tears glistened on their faces. The air in Kawa is congested. We can feel the somberness from everyone. They drag Steve out of an old car where he is hiding. This evening, none of them is afraid of him. The men handle him with no mercy. His mother arrives just in time as they are matching him to the playground. 

He has to pay is all we are hearing.  We spread further apart the curtains to see clearly what is happening down there. Buda slaps Steve, another man joins, then all of them are hitting him. Afande, our watchman, rolls a tire to where the crowd is. Mama Steve yells. She yells again and again and again. The mob rages: He has to pay. They wet him with paraffin. They strike a matchbox on him. Steve’s body burns as we witness. His mother rolls on the ground, crying for help but no one listens to her. No one cares that she works for the president.  

We hear the police siren from a distance. They throw teargas at the crowd. We see the crowd scattering in haste except for Mama Steve. My mother straightens the curtains as soon as she gets in. We sit on the couch next to this same window. Silently. Our hearts droop with fear. It is Ma who breaks the silence, parts the phlegm gathered on her throat and in a thin voice says: sorry for your loss.

And this becomes the story of how we lose Anjie.