The sun is overhead indicating that the time is a little past noon. Suleiman’s forehead gleams, and a few salty drops invade his eyes while others take a detour to the greater part of his face, dripping into the ocean’s water where his feet are buried. The humid Ukunda air would otherwise choke a stranger, but not Suleiman; today he is determined to collect thrice as many cowrie shells. Fifty five to be exact.
The waves are mighty today, and as they hit the shore, they threaten his posture. He places his left hand firmly beneath the water to support himself, and with his right he explores the sand for shells. He moves around every few seconds, oblivious to the environment around him. When he gets hold of a big shell, a cob-like set of yellow teeth emerge and transform his face.
He then opens the black plastic bag tied to his waist and throws the shell in. That’s the fiftieth shell so far, and he’ll be done in time to rush home for lunch.
Suleiman’s home is a mud-walled matchbox standing on a small semi-circular compound, off a murram road in the outskirts of Msambweni, several kilometres from the ocean. Its grass thatched roof is a storm away from collapse and the crevices in the wooden door have occasionally welcomed unwanted snakes, rodents, birds, and once Habiby swore she saw a squirrel. But despite the size and flaws of his abode, he and Habiby have patiently waited for finances to look up. They have been hopeful that divine intervention will find them; they have believed that good things come to those who wait. But now Suleiman further believes that gods help those who help themselves, and so he has taken matters partially into his own hands in order to build the perfect house for him and his wife – more for his wife – so that they can get to growing their family in an ideal environment.
From time to time, he traces the house on the ground outside their home: in this drawing there are three bedrooms, a kitchen and sitting room, with a latrine slightly further from the main house. In his mind, he pictures the stone walls, the red bricked roof, and a custom Swahili door.
Naskia kichwa,
tumbo na mgongo,
kifua na magoti
Lakini uhai
From outside the house, Habiby’s voice is like mountain water in a silver pitcher; the rightness of her tune with a pinch of hum lifts Suleiman’s heart. He tilts his head backwards, pointing his nose in the air, hoping to guess what his wife has cooked for lunch. The smell of fresh chapati and spices excites him. He pats his plastic bag, looks down at it and smiles, knowing that this time, he’s going to trade them for enough fish to sell for stones that will then build his precious Habiby’s house.
He finds her as he often does in the afternoons or evenings: bent, fanning the fire in the wood stove, her chest jiggling along. Her buttocks follow suit with no particular rhythm.
“Oh my beautiful, you sing so well. What did I do to deserve a woman like you?” He asks Habiby as he walks into the kitchen.
She giggles, and he watches as her bosom shakes. She is a woman of few words ‒ a trait he adores. “I hope you are hungry Sule” she says, and turns to check the stove. “I’ve made you chapati and samaki wa kupaka.”
“Oh my beautiful, you know I look forward to your meals. Why else would I be home this early?” Suleiman responds. He decides against revealing his plan. It will, after all, give rise to questions, and he has yet to tell her that he intends to build her a house. No, better to leave it as a surprise.
Later in the afternoon, hunger and sexual appetite satisfied, Suleiman is ready to get back to work. He hops on his donkey and travels through Msambweni township towards the busier, more humid side of the town.
The Moja kwa Moja Fish Market is bustling with an assortment of activities. There are groups of mamas sitting idly, each adding pellets of exaggeration to the false tale of the day. A teenage boy fumbles with a donkey, lashing it with a rubber whip. An old blind man sits on a stool above a sisal mat, his hand outstretched, gripping a metal cup. He shakes the cutlery to produce a catchy tune of clinking coins. A preacher shouts, cautioning sinners of the flames of hell. There are children laughing, shouting, screaming, though Suleiman cannot see them. Desperate fishmongers shout to get the attention of potential customers passing by: “Tilapia for five shillings. Prawns for twelve. Fresh octopus, still alive, for twenty.”
Suleiman arrives at Malkia’s shop and gives his customary salutation. She offers him tamarind juice in a plastic cup.
“How many have you brought today?” Malkia asks in Kiswahili, turning to face another customer who seems unimpressed by the fish prices. “No! No! Fish goes for five shillings, no more, no less. I am not a conwoman!”
Suleiman gulps down his drink as he waits for Malkia. He thinks of his sweet Habiby, the shape of her, the fullness of her breasts and her thighs, and how fitting it would be to see her in a space as large as her.
“Haiya! Bwana Sule! Are you even listening to me or have you come here to take up idling?” Malkia’s high pitched voice returns him to the present.
“I have them with me. Here.”
He props the biggest shells first – they total to eighteen. Malkia takes one at a time, observes them, blows into the open spaces, then lifts them to her ear. She previously stated – though she did so in a mere whisper, not really talking to Suleiman but to a shell she had in her hand at the time – that she does this to listen to the friends in the ocean.
“For the large ones I’ll trade you three fish for each. That’s the price.”
She leaves no room for negotiation. Suleiman is content. It is a fair trade.
Malkia throws fish from her display table into a large nylon mesh bag. He counts them as she does so. Not a single person must con him if he is to build Habiby a house. Fifty four fish. The smaller cowrie shells are of lesser value, but from the remainder he receives thirty fish.
The sun is equidistant from the sky and the ocean when Suleiman is on his way to the mine at Kisite. He has enough time to make the trade and return home to be with his precious Habiby.
The mason on duty at Kisite is quicker at trading. A man of less words, he is somewhat easier to deal with. Within twenty minutes, Suleiman is given a porter and an mkokoteni full of construction stones. The load is a worthwhile trade, and more than enough for the perimeter foundation of the stone house.
He straddles his donkey, the porter follows close behind. The two men don’t speak to each other. Chirping crickets soon fill the silence.
They arrive at Suleiman’s house as darkness slowly covers the sky. “Shukran brother. Place them in that corner.” The brawny man offloads the stones, one in each hand, and places them where instructed. Suleiman watches as the man disappears into the darkness.
The next day Suleiman wakes, ready to begin construction. Habiby has made him black tea and kaimati. She hums a sweet tune and he tries to find the words to sing along, but has no luck; of the two of them, she is more gifted in the melody department.
“Oh my sweet, I once told you I will build you a house, one bigger than this. You remember?” He asks, lifting the kaimati to his lips.
She blushes. “I have patiently waited, and will continue to, because what matters is that we are together.”
He sips his tea, not daring to take his eyes off his wife.
“Your patience has been well received, and today I start the work. And the house, it will be only for you, my sweet.”
It is unbearably humid, but Suleiman’s unwavering spirit makes him focus on the task he is about to undertake. Habiby’s house will be a fortress, Suleiman can already picture the bungalow. He will ensure it will be well-ventilated, for when Habiby gets pregnant again and again. Time is of essence, and if they do not begin the baby-making soon, she may become barren or she may assume Suleiman to be incapable. No! He will build the house and make babies with his sweet. Determined, he steps outside and the scorching morning sun greets him.
But there is nothing where the stones were the evening before!
Suleiman circles his house, sure that where he first checked was indeed the site the porter had offloaded the stones, there is still nothing!
“Oh no no no. Who dare steal from Suleiman?” He whispers to himself.
He folds one arm across his chest and props the other to hold his chin.
“I will find the thief who stole from me and make him return ‒ no, pay ‒ for my Habiby’s house. No one can steal from Suleiman.”
His donkey brays, its hooves clanking against the Ukunda Street concrete as he makes his way to Moja kwa Moja Fish Market. Suleiman’s frustration is at its peak. His thoughts are on the possible culprit. He is a quiet man; he has no need for gossip or quarrels in the larger Ukunda area. Why would anyone want to steal from him? Who would want to delay his plans.
He finds Malkia washing her stall before she sets up for the day.
“Eh! Bwana Sule. Who would have thought that you were one to be found on this side of town this early? I haven’t even made tamarind yet.”
He is unable to respond.
Wait. What is wrong Bwana Sule?”
“I have a request.”
“Tell me.”
His face is a bowl of agony and confusion as he tells of the previous afternoon leading to his arrival home with the porter and his morning to find missing stones. He continuously mentions that this pursuit is all to make his sweet Habiby happy.
Malkia listens intently, nodding. “Have you reported to the chief?”
“Malkia, we both know that he will ask for proof and the justice time will take weeks, maybe even months! Without proof, this is a pointless pursuit”
“How do you want me to help you then?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I had another option.” And he proceeds to request that she take him to the caves.
Suleiman and Malkia walk along the shore leading to the Msambweni caves hidden at the corner of Ukunda beach, by a thicket of mangroves. Seagulls caw as the two approach and Malkia informs Suleiman that the birds are on guard for incomers and are in their own way, letting Mzee know that he has guests.
Guilt ascends. He has sweet-talked Malkia into bringing him to the one place he vowed he would never come to. The guilt is suppressed when he thinks of Habiby in a stone house.
Suleiman knew that Malkia was drawn to cowrie shells because she presented them to Mzee. For what reason, he wasn’t sure. But he suspected it was witchcraft, though he would never say it out loud. Malkia had been apprehensive about taking him to see the old man, warning him that dark magic was something a person could not get out of once immersed in it. But he pleaded with her, and she eventually agreed.
As he walks behind the slender woman, he thinks for a moment that he considers her a friend. She is, after all, helping him; her friend.
The light dims with every few steps. Suleiman feels invisible eyes watching them. In his plastic bag he has a few cowrie shells, smaller than the ones he traded to Malkia, but good enough for Mzee, he hopes.
Suleiman’s needs strike him again. He needs to build the house. He is ready to trade for that.
They come to a large opening, presumably the centre of the cave. A dim light pours from a dying lantern. A black cat, slowly licking its fur at the feet of a man. The man sits on a stool staring at one of the walls. He seems unbothered by his guests, Suleiman thinks. His dreadlocks slip through a leather turban, his bare chest contrasts the protruding belly below. He wears a leather skirt from his waist to his knees. He is barefoot.
“You’ll let me speak first.” Malkia says.
The Mzee turns to face Suleiman and Malkia. She bows lightly as she walks towards him, and the man remains still.
“Sijambo Mzee! I have brought you a visitor.”
“Can the guest not speak for himself? Is he a bubu?” Suleiman is slightly irritated. He does not like to be called dumb.
“I apologize, Nabii. I thought to make the introductions first. Out of respect.”
“Speak!” the Mzee commands Suleiman
“Eh.. Jambo, I am here to request for justice through your ways.”
“My ways you say? Which are those?” The Mzee asks, one eyebrow arched as a smile spreads across his thin lips. He laughs suddenly.
“I‒I do not mean to offend you Mzee. My troubles are endless, but what I desire more than anything is to build my beautiful wife a home. I work hard. I try. We do not ‒”
“If it’s counselling you want, you have come to the wrong place.” He pets the cat which jumps onto his lap and stares at Suleiman. Its eyes are glowing a ruby red. Suleiman forgets what he wants to say.
Malkia says, “He is a victim of theft.”
“Woman, be quiet. Respect when men are talking.” Mzee says.
“My earnings for the day were stolen and I need to find the thief. I need your help to find the culprit. He cannot steal from me; not with all my hard work.”
“My ways require payment.”
“Yes Mzee. I am aware.”
Suleiman takes out six shells from his juala and slowly approaches the Mzee.
“Cowrie shells?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“I heard that they are of great use to men like you.”
“Men like me? No one is like me, Suleiman,” The Mzee’s voice dips a notch.
How does he know my name?
“I am a man of wisdom Suleiman. You must trade something of greater value. Blood for peace, blood for blood, blood for truth. Fair trade.”
“Do you want my blood Mzee?” Suleiman asks.
The Mzee laughs.
“It seems you didn’t tell him how we work around here” Mzee says to Malkia. He turns to Suleiman. “You must give up something you care about in order to receive something you care about.”
“I just want to know the thief that stole my earnings.”
“Then go to the chief.”
There is silence for a moment. Then, “I can help you Suleiman, but you must give me something you value; something that will be of use to me.”
Habiby? The stones to build Habiby’s house? Suleiman would never give up his precious. Anything but the two.
Habiby’s angelic voice wakes him the next day. This time it is masala tea and boiled eggs for breakfast, but food is the last thing on his mind. He had barely slept the night before, tossing and turning while consoling himself about the trade he made to get the stones back. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw sadness. As he takes in the mud walls of his room, light reflecting through the few cracks in the wall, he remembers once he heard a fisherman say: “When you make a deal with the devil, insomnia takes over you.”
He lets go of the thoughts and sprints to the door to see if his stones have returned.
A man kneels at Suleiman’s door, shirtless and sweaty. His eyes are closed and he cries nisamehe, forgive me. A thick, black banger is clasped in his hand. It takes a moment for Suleiman to realize that he is looking at the porter from two days before.
“You? You ‒ you’re the one who stole from me?”
The man continues to sob.
Suleiman rushes past the man to the place where the stones should be. There, like they hadn’t been touched in the first place, are the stones. He looks to the sky in earnest gratitude. He hears Habiby’s voice amidst the pleas. The man is still kneeling at the door.
He finds his wife wiping her flour-filled palms on her leso. Confusion creases her forehead into lines as she tries to make sense of the situation.
Nisamehe.
“Why is this man holding a penis in his hand?”
“Eh!” Suleiman shrieks.
“Look! He’s holding it.” an alarmed Habiby insists.
Nisamehe.
“Sule, what is happening?”
“My beautiful sweet, he stole from me. He had to pay!”
“What did you do?”
Nisamehe.
“I consulted a witchdoctor. It was the only way. A fair trade.”
Habiby shakes her head. “What did you trade?”
“Habiby, please understand. I did this for us.”
Habiby looks from Suleiman to the banger in the porter’s hand, disgust and anger crunching up her face.
“How dare you trade your fertility for stones, Suleiman?” her eyes widen.
“They’re for our house, my dear Habiby. Your own house…”
“What stupid house is more important than children?” She screams.
Suleiman is momentarily shocked at her words and the daggers that shoot at him from her eyes.
“Don’t worry, at least we are still together, and I can still please you…”
But Habiby yells at him, her anger boiling over for the first time in years. How dare he believe that she will stay with him after he resorted to witchcraft? After he had disregarded her desire for children? When she is finished yelling, then wailing, she asks that Suleiman stay away from her, and then she leaves.
Suleiman is speechless for a long time after. Looking at the stones, he wonders at the use of the justice which, even though had been served, invited misfortune to take a ruthless whack at him.
