McGrath Through the Leopard's Gaze

1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-1-913090-30-2
Verlag: Jacaranda Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 424 Seiten

Reihe: Twenty in 2020

In her captivating memoir Through the Leopard's Gaze, Njambi McGrath details the harrowing circumstances of her life as a young girl in Kenya, who one fateful night was beaten to a pulp and left for dead. Thirteen-year-old Njambi, fearing her assailant would return to finish her, courageously escaped, walking through the night in the Kenyan countryside, risking wild animals, robbers and murderers, before being picked up by two shabbily dressed but safe men. She buries the memories of that fateful day and night, and years later ends up in London with a British husband and children. Then one day a simple unassuming wedding invitation arrives in her mailbox causing her to have to confront the remnants of a past she had thought was behind her. This is a book about survival, and courage when all else fails. It's a searingly honest examination of human cruelty and strength in equal measure.

Njambi McGrath is a Kenyan born, UK based comedian and author. Amongst her amazing accolades, she was voted 1 of 5 top female comedians to watch by Fabolus Magazine 2012. She has been called the Important Voice by The Times and her comedy has been called 'Trailblazing' by The Guardian. Njambi was nominated Best Newcomer Black Comedy Awards 2012 recently won the 2019 NATYS Award. She has also appeared on BBC World New Years Comedy, BBC Radio 4 Saturday Live.

Autoren/Hrsg.

McGrath, Njambi

Leseproben

Unexpected Visitor

It was nearing morning when the two men whose faces I could not recall dropped me off dishevelled and still bleeding; my pink night-dress clinging to my thin hairy legs. A combination of dust and their overpowering stench of stale sweat and pesticide lingered in my nostrils long after they were gone. The men had understood; things were better left unsaid. The driver spoke only once when we reached the intersection to ask where I wanted to be dropped. A destination was the last thing on my mind. I forced my adolescent brain to think. ‘Kiambu,’ I replied at last. The driver changed the indicator from left to right, and drove on until we eventually pulled up to the terminal.

We arrived as Kiambu awoke. For those arriving from the tranquil countryside, Kiambu town was an assault on the senses. The orchestra of impatient horns; the thud of the barrels unloading from brewery lorries; turn boys touting for passengers, each shouting louder to capture the attention of commuters. Smart city types hopped onto the towers of asphalt whose eroded bases were now filled with dirty rainwater. Shiny films of rainbow coloured grease from the aging vans floated on top of the stagnant water, giving them a magical look. The commuters hurried to the waiting matatus whose engines revved like old timers recapturing their youth. Some hopefuls challenged themselves to open the morning paper to escape the assault of music blaring out of oversized speakers. Market traders were alighting from the country buses, their baskets laden. Impatient drivers hooted at the matatu drivers stopping in the middle of the road to pick up passengers. An already overcrowded matatu stopped for a rather large woman. The turn boy instructed her to climb into the front seat. The four passengers already sat at the front shifted their buttocks so that only one cheek took up the seat space. The driver sat in his place as if folded in two, eating a large juicy pear, the syrup dribbling through his fingers. His elbow was clenched inwards to secure the driver’s door. The woman climbed in, squeezing herself, forcing a thin man out of his seat, leaving him suspended above them. The turn boy heaved against the door until it closed, helped by another man. The woman’s large flesh smeared on the window as the turn boy slapped the side of the van yelling, ‘—let’s go!’ The driver tossed the core of the pear into the street and sped off.

The chorus of chaos crashed into my eardrums like glass crashing on a concrete floor. As we drove into the matatu terminus, the calm that had engulfed me shattered. The bumpy ride with the men had been eerily soothing, like the calm before the storm. When the car stopped, the man on my left jumped out of the truck, rushing to the back to get my suitcase. He hopped over a muddy puddle narrowly missing one and splashing on a scornful woman. He placed my suitcase along the wire hospital fence decorated with dusty purple bougainvillea that struggled to grow, the few dwarf leaves only just clinging on.

I shuffled my bottom along the seat until I got to the edge and swung my legs out. It was the first time I caught sight of my legs. My feet were covered with wellingtons of mud from when I had waded through the muddy patch whilst crossing the river. The moonlight was dim, not enough to see where I was going. I had miscalculated the jump, landing in the edge of the stream, frightening slumbering frogs. I had stood for a minute listening to the waterfall and the pump, convinced I had heard a different noise.

The crippled man was the first sight to people alighting the buses. He usually sat at the junction of Kiambu Road and Hospital Road. He crawled on his abdomen, his bottom sticking out like the abdomen of an insect, two long withered legs sticking out on either side of his hips. When he moved, he resembled a giant spider, hauling himself by his oversized muscly arms. On his hands, he wore flip-flops emblazoned with Samara bed and breakfast, making them look like feet. His flip-flops were meant for the right leg. He slid his hand from the flip-flop to raise his begging bowl in my direction, his eyes weeping with pity.

help me sister please.’ I looked at him. I had no money. He sneered at me and shouted, ‘That’s why your husband beat you.’ I turned away, lifting my oversize suitcase, and began to walk.

‘I am only thirteen,’ I whispered to myself.

The impervious clouds finally gave way, the sun’s rays beaming on my angst. I walked into the grounds of the General Hospital as uniformed workers marched out, their eyes droopy with the night shift. Two policemen hovered around a navy truck waiting for the driver to stop. The two harried officers rushed to the raised back of the truck, covered with beige canvas with plastic panes from which a face peered. They slid the latch noisily and opened the door, which continued to swing back and forth. They jumped in the lorry and emerged carrying the lifeless body of a woman. One held the arms while the other carried her by the legs. Her head was bent unusually far back, her wig nearly sweeping the floor. I stood to stare. They were hurrying towards the mortuary where we collected Uncle Njiru’s body on the morning of his funeral. The policeman at the head end walked almost too quickly, stalling in the process and stepping on her wig, pulling it off.

‘wait, put her down,’ he said. He lifted the wig and placed it back on the dead woman’s head so that the long hair was at the front, covering her face. He then parted the hair, so her face was visible, before resuming her transportation. The policeman at the leg end used his leg to knock on the door. After a few moments, the doors swung open, letting out the pungent smell of death. I wondered about that woman. What took her life away? Did she start her day worried like the people in the matatu, hurrying to get to work on time for fear of upsetting their boss? What if her boss was angry with her, only to find out the reason for her lateness was because she had died? Would he or she feel ashamed, shocked or relieved?

My suitcase was burning my hand, prompting me to move on. I walked past casualty and approached the maternity ward on the other side of the mortuary. Through the smeary windows, I could see the new mothers holding their wrapped-up bundles of joy. I wondered what life awaited those bundles of joy. At what point do these parents go from loving their babies to being their abusers? When does the love become frustration, impatience and violence? I wondered what expectations those parents had for their children. African parents were laced with insatiable hunger for education, but would their babies have read the manual for high achievers? I shifted my suitcase from my right hand to my left hand. The mortuary was slightly obscured from the maternity ward. The beginning of life and the end of life; the bitter irony of those walking out from hospital with their bundles of joy or those walking out with solemn sorrow to bury their loved ones. I thought of the dead woman carried by the police. What kind of life had she had? Had she fulfilled the aspirations her parents had had when she was their bundle of joy? Why had her life been curtailed so soon?

It was a chilly morning when I walked up the steps to Maitu’s two-room house. The row of staff quarters was right up against a wire mesh fence. The thin fence separated the well and the sick. It allowed the well and the sick to peer into each other’s world. The well would stare at the sick and wonder what illness they suffered from. The sick looked into the world of the well, wishing their halted lives would resume. Some lives were halted only temporarily and some permanently.

In the daylight, my nightdress seemed very short and see-through, prompting a few strange looks from people. In my haste to leave, I had forgotten to wear shoes and realised just how numb my feet were from wading through the dew and mud, which were now caked, giving the appearance of wearing socks.

Maitu’s house was raised and the door sat at the top of the fifth step. I hesitated briefly at the bottom of the stairs, coaxing my weary legs to walk up. Was every step I took, a step to freedom or was it the distance from which I would fall? I had not considered the enormity of my decision until I climbed the steps leading to Maitu’s door, fingers curled in, knuckles protruding, about to knock, then it hit me. ‘What if Maitu can’t take me in?’ I thought suddenly, fearful she would send me back to face his wrath. She had only just found a job in the casualty department of the General Hospital and could barely afford to look after herself, let alone me. For the first time since my unconsciousness, I felt panic rising from deep within. Maitu would put me in the matatu and send me straight back to Baba. The prospect of going back to Baba’s house was unthinkable. I put the suitcase down, sank on the step, buried my face in my hands and began to weep. I would not let Maitu send me back to Baba. The thought of being back in Baba’s house made me cry out louder.

‘Njambi!’ My torment was interrupted. I raised my head to the direction of the familiar voice. Maitu approached the staff quarters from the maternity block. She was in the light beige uniform worn by the hospital subordinates. Her head was covered in a floral headscarf. Eyes rounded and full of panic, Maitu broke into a half-run half-walk, forgetting the eggs she carried in her pockets. They were clearly visible...