A KIND STRANGER IN CAPE TOWN SOUTH AFRICA

 

I was nearly recruited into jihadism. Well almost. This story is not for the faint hearted. If you like short quick ones, stop here. Go make yourself a cup of coffee. Or stand outside your balcony and shout hello to your neighbors. The rest of you come along. Let's test your concentration span. 

We just had to talk. The man had a Michael Jordan shave. I keenly watched his greying goatee as I tried to figure out his accent. Distinctly not South African. He fitted my stereotypical ideal of an Alqaeda operative or a member of a Zimbabwean cult living in Nairobi. Clean shaven head and a long goatee. We were stuck in a small electronically controlled space regulating entry and exit out of a small local South African Bank . We should have entered the space one person at a time but for some reason we stepped in at the same time and the doors locked. It felt like being in a cattle dip track, doors securely locked behind you and with only one possible direction for movement. He had just been directed next door to Western Union from where I had been sent to the bank. I wanted to exchange dollars for rands, he wanted to send money. I never asked where. 

So why did they chase you out. He is the first to speak. Well, I reply, I wanted to change dollars to rands but they want to see my passport. Oh, he says, you are better off making your change down the road. Here they give low rates and then take a commission. I see. I reply. Noncommittal. Then i add. The place down the road is better then. I can drive you there if you want. My antenna went up. Memories of the Berlin Russian con man came flooding. So I tried to hedge off. But they will want to see my passport which I left in my hotel. There is a Chinese lady opposite KFC. She won't ask. Come on let me drive you there.

A click on the door and we knew someone had let us out. He must have noticed my hesitation. Here is my ID. He showed me a green identity document which indicated Congolese citizenship. He said, In case you are killed, then you can say this is the man who killed me. The contradiction hit me straight up. Well I would be dead by then anyway. We both laugh was we continue walking. He is leading the way to the parking lot and I am seemingly impulsively following even though every ounce of myself says this is risky. Could he be a terrorist? The thought crosses my mind once or twice. Who finds a total stranger and then offers to drive him around in search of a Chinese woman who runs an underground Forex?

We get to his car. It's a fancy BMW. But it could do with some paint work. The roof especially. It seems to have been overcome by heat. It's dull and peeling off in patches. There is an informal parking attendant watching over his car. I will be right back. My guide says to the attendant. They are obviously familiar with each. He opens the driver's door and motions me to the front passenger's seat. There is a can of Ginger beer on the can holder. Could it be drugs disguised as beer. I will not take a sip if it's offered. I promise myself though I am now seriously doubting my will power to say no. He puts the car into reverse and eases out of the parking lot and into the highway. 

So where are you from? Kenya. I reply. Oh Kenya, he says. It's great what your judicial system has done with that electoral body of yours. These commissions think they are part of government. Someone needs to put them into their place. He bellows in derision. I am not sure I entirely agree. I think the Kenya case is a little more complex but I don't want to begin an argument. I grunt something vague. I speak some Swahili. He says. I am tempted to switch to Swahili. I resist the urge. I don't want him becoming too familiar. But Swahili is not a language, he says. 

I am outranged. What do you mean Swahili is not a language. I try to appear teasing but am serious. Every language in Africa has a group of people who speak nothing else but the language. Every language transmits a body of traditional knowledge for its people. Swahili has no indigenous group. It's amazing, my historical details have completely evaporated. All I can remember is that Swahili emerged out of the encounter between the costal People and arabs. But what languages did the coastal speak before. Swahili is not like Kalenjin, Kikuyu or Luo he says. Don't tell me Kiswahili is an African language because it's not. But there is a group of people at the coast who only speak Swahili. I insist. Yes but there is no ethnic group called Swahili. Suddenly I am not sure. Is there? Is there not? I am feeling cornered. Are the Swahili one of the 43 tribes of Kenya? Is there even a group of people called the Swahili. I just can't seem to remember now for some reason. Then I remember Ngugi and decolonizing the mind. There are people who say that Swahili is better as an African language because it was never a colonizing language. 

May be, he says. I don't claim it's not a useful language but it's not an African language. We tend to downplay the Arab influence in Africa. For some inexplicably stupid reason I begin to deconstruct my own argument. You are right, in Uganda for example, Swahili is viewed as a language of oppression because it was the language of soldiers. Oh ya, he laughs, if you come to Congo, Swahili in some parts is seen as the language of Rwandese invaders. 

We in Africa need to be ourselves. He goes on. Now am really puzzled. The man speaks with the eloquence of a professional scholar yet I can't help thinking he must have a loose screw in his head. Who rolls out a complete treatise on identity to a complete stranger. He is not done yet. Why do we need to be constantly validated by other people. And professors are the worst. Giving speeches in international conferences in return for validation. They have PhDs. What is a PhD? It's something you do so you can be validated by those who award it to you. But who really are you? Look deep into yourself, who are you? If you were striped of all these material possessions and accessories, who are you? PhD... he repeats with derision and for a moment I think he is going to spit contemptuously. He doesn't. I wonder what he would do if I told him I have a PhD, I am a professor and I have just come from delivering a speech at a fairly international gathering of academics. 

We get to KFC sooner than I anticipated. He was talking. I was listening. Watching his turns to make sure he wasn't going off the main roads. We sit down in the KFC to keep our free parking before crossing the road to the Chinese lady. The guy seems to know everyone along the way. I have been here for a very long time. His response to my query on how come everyone knows him. They greet each other familiarly with the Chinese. He says something that sounds like make believe Chinese. They shake hands and snap their fingers. African style. Then he moves over to leave me face to face with the Chinese lady. You want change? She asks. I give her 100 US dollars and she immediately gives me the equivalent in rands. It's a better deal than the bank. No receipts. No questions. 

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Shall we get a cup of coffee? I asked when we got back to KFC. I felt I needed to show gratitude. We went through the swing doors. There was a cacophony of noise as different customers made their orders. So what would you like to take. I asked. I am fasting. He said. What? This is not Ramadan period is it? I am thinking. In that case let's leave it it. I wanted to buy you coffee. He leads me back to the sitting area and we take our seats while continuing with our animated conversations. Am still tying to place this guy. A Muslim or a cult member? I decide to ask. Why are you fasting? Religious? No. he seems to snap. I have to be careful. Fasting doesn't have to be religious. It's self denial. You can fast anything. Food. Water. Women. Your car. Anything to teach yourself that you are not defined by extraneous things. Am more curious. Do you fast alone? No, we are a group of like minded people. We agree on what to fast on a regular basis. Does your family fast with you? Not my children. We teach ideology to children, they can choose to practice later. Am fascinated. The material world suddenly looks quite vain. 

Hi Ucheeee.. How are you doing meeeen? Long tiiiiiiiiiiime. Before I know it, Uche- I have just learnt his name, is chest thumping a tall, slim light skinned man with a South African accent. I stand up. The light skinned man introduces himself. i forget his name immediately. It's South African. I can neither pronounce it nor spell it. I stretch my hand and say my name. So what are you up to Uche? Light Skin asks. Am around bro, doing this and that. They talk animatedly. I listen as they catch up. I learn several things. They went to university together. Uche was from a fairly rich background and had a way with all the beautiful girls in college. He is now into mining and has been on various work assignments to Australia, USA and Sierra Leone. Light Skin was from a humble background and used to envy Uche. He is now a lawyer working for a spirits manufacturing company. He is filling forms. He wants a visa to Canada.

Bro, (sounds like bra when they say it) you are working for a spirits company? You are poisoning our land. Uche teases him. Ya bro, I am the bad guy, I am sorry. They are talking. I am listening. They are both married now. Light Skin tried his luck with several stunningly beautiful girls in college. It did not work out. He met his luck outside college. Uche could have had any girl he wanted, says Light Skin. Why didn't you bro? Asks Light Skin. 

I soon realized I was being defined by material possessions. Uche says. My father's material possessions. I had to break and be me. Don't marry a woman because of her physical beauty bro. That is something that health complications can take away just like that. He snaps his fingers. Marry her for who she is. Beauty is a bonus. I am still ruminating on these ideas when we bid each other bye back at the mall where we had met. He does not ask for my name or contacts. Neither did I his. Just an encounter of ideas. Was he real? I am not sure.