followed Rajan to Karim and Abdia’s home, bearing a gift of chapati rolled in a paper torn from his math book. On another day, he brought a liter of milk in a soda bottle; another, an egg cracked open in a minor accident along the way. After a few weeks, Rajan realized he could not only understand the boy perfectly, but could even engage in short conversations. Leila sulked at Rajan’s new subject of affection. Abdia and Karim totally ignored the boy. By the end of the term, Rajan was fluent in Kikuyu.
* * *
“My grandfather wanted me to give something back to society. Instead, I gained something. A language that made me a proper Kenyan,” Rajan told Mariam that night. “He was smiling from ear to ear when he came to fetch me at the end of the term. He did not say what he was happy about, but he seemed proud that I had survived, and as a bonus had acquired a new language. So the trip to Ndundori was a preparation of sorts for what lay ahead . . .”
“How do you mean?”
“If I didn’t speak any local language, I feel like my art wouldn’t be as authentic. I would just be another muhindi.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I am Indian, am I not?”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “My skin color has . . .” He paused. “At least in the past it had political implications. Whites at the top, Indians after them, then Arabs, and finally Africans. That’s political privilege.”
“What’s changed now?”
“We are waiting to see, but with independence, Africans will be at the top.”
“And . . . ?”
“I don’t know. Indians in the middle? Whites at the bottom?”
“What do your friends say?”
“Which friends?”
“Your bandmates.”
“Era, of course, has been my friend since I was five or six years old. We don’t have political conversations. He’s simply my friend.”
“Does he feel the same way?”
“How do you mean?”
“Does he consider you his friend without condition?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then what’s this pressure about speaking local languages?”
“You got me wrong, it’s not about my friends; it’s about myself. I want to be more than just an Indian. I want to be a Kenyan immersed in other cultures.”
“I can’t believe this,” Mariam said softly, shaking her head.
“Why? I’m telling you the truth.”
“I’m not questioning the facts of your story. I just can’t believe you went to my village. I grew up right next to that school!” she exclaimed. “As a matter of fact, my foster family started the school.”
“Really!? Then you must meet my grandfather, he surely knows your family.”
“I said foster family.”
“What’s the difference, it’s still your family!”
“Not quite. That’s why the word foster comes first.”
“Which means?”
“They are a family of sorts.”
“A family of sorts. My goodness, where did you learn to speak like that! Seriously, though, who is your real family?”
“I wish I knew!”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Yes, I am. I don’t know and I don’t care. Well, I do care, but I don’t know.”
“Which makes you . . . ?”
“Mkosa kabila.”
“Be serious.”
“I am. I have no tribe.” After a moment, Mariam added, “I have no family.”
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