The Gunny Sack Read Online Free PDF Page B

doorstep, feet planted solidly on the street, making paan in her lap, sees all and remains quiet.
    Some days later Nanji Kara and wife and eldest daughter-in-law came with the proposal.
    “What widow?” cried Dhanji Govindji in anger. “Henh? What widow, there are no widows here. What, you have already buried him, you have said the rites for him? I don’t remember.”
    “But Mukhi,” said the dutiful bahu, and here came the barb, “how long will you keep another’s daughter in your home against her will?”
    Mukhi Dhanji Govindji, who had not seen deep enough into Moti’s heart, fell into the trap. “Of course, it is up to her. I will ask her. That is all I can do.”
    “That is all we ask for,” said Nanji Kara. “The girl has no parents.” And the troupe stepped out.
    Dhanji Govindji quickly went inside to reassure his daughter-in-law. “Moti,” he said. “Moti, no one asks you to go. This is your home. You are my daughter. We will look after you and your son. The matter is closed.” He patted her head.
    “Bapa, I would like to accept, with your permission,” she said, still looking down.
    “Well, if this is your wish—”
    That night he pleaded with her, he begged her not to go. But Moti was adamant.
    First Moti had to be declared a widow. A witness was quickly found who claimed to have seen Huseni hanged. Then as mukhi, Dhanji Govindji gave his daughter-in-law in marriage to Rajan Nanji Kara. Rajan and Moti left the next day for Voi in Kenya. “The British have built a railroad,” said the elder Nanji Kara, “and business is booming there.”
    “I had two eyes once,” Dhanji Govindji would say wistfully until the day he died. “Now I have only one.”
    Tell me, you who would know all … What was she like, this gentle one, this Bibi Taratibu given to my ancestor for comfort on lonely, breezy African nights when mango and coconut trees rustled and crickets chirped and the roaring ocean echoed with reminders of a distant homeland? From what ravaged tribe, gutted village, was she brought to the coast, and did she not also think of her home, her slaughtered father and uncles, her brothers and sisters also taken away …
    She demurs, my gunny sack. Slave women, she says, wore a colourful cloth round their bodies, under the shoulders. She must have been dark dark, because she came from the interior. And technically she was not a slave, because the British Government of India had forbidden its subjects to keep slaves. Other than that? Surely there must have been something between this slave woman and her son Huseni, for he kept on seeing her against his father’s wishes, against respectability. Did she know where he went? Did Dhanji Govindji seek her help? No, most likely he had her house watched.
    One day she too left Matamu and was never heard from again.

AS STRONG AS BHIMA.

    They were the days of magic and spells. Of Bantu medicines, Arab djinns and Indian bhuts … you could find them all on trees, in graveyards, or under one roof running their nocturnal rounds, doing good or evil at their masters’ bidding … It is still a world of magic and spells. Everyone remembers that afternoon, a few years ago, when African Stars played Young Albion at Dar’s Illala Stadium. An old, undernourished white cock left the sidestands at half time and ambled to the edge of the field, waited uncertainly like an old veteran at a road crossing, then began to cross it, to the tumultuous encouraging roars of one side and hopeless finger-wagging pleas by the other. “Jamani …” said the announcer on radio. “Jamani!” screamed the announcer, the pitch in his voice rising to a fever … “kuna ajabu linatokelea hapo!” There’s a wonder at work here. The following day the Albion players anxiously searchedthe alleys of Dar for medicine that would reverse the jinx. The verdict? Change the name. Thus was born the Azania Football Club of Dar es Salaam.
    And now … even here … this gaping hole