Nancy Chislett

I shake my head and lean against a wooden wall.

“It’s not Marrakesh rancid, but that’s not the problem with you, mate. It’s the bag of bricks been dropped on your head called culture shock.” I nod with eyes shut. “When they tire of Spain, the British pay big money for that sensation. You should see the old ladies around Marrakesh’s Djemaa El Fna. They hide in the tea shops and revive with pincushion pastries.”

We troop forward. The path fills with people. Their faces pass and looks are exchanged and some are indifferent and others seem sore. Mostly, I’m keeping my eye on Paul. I don’t know how he knows where to go in this labyrinth. But then, he knows so much. Like how Africa is a continent, not a country. That the population in Nairobi rises by as much as a million per year. That terrorist attacks and terrorist hreats explain the extra security everywhere. That businesses sell goods in single-use plastic and that’s the garbage everywhere. And some people wash away during heavy rains, when the floodwall collapses along the shore of a river.

We come across a door. It’s fabric that reminds me of what Indian women wear. An elderly man parts it and lets me pass before stepping out. For a split second, I glimpse his existence—a mattress stowed in the corner. The fabric door drops. I step past a group of serious young men bent over a chess game. Their eyes lift as Paul approaches, fall on me, and return to the board.

A woman with two small children tucks one under each arm and scurries down the path. When I turn to see where we’ve been, I see I am being watched. A boy, maybe five years old, wears a grey suit stained with mud. Clasped in his hands is a handful of plastic bags. He doesn’t speak. Just holds the bunch out to me. Paul is getting further ahead. I turn away.

Finally, a clearing. Sparks from a fire zip through the air. Paul looks past me and pans right. The alleys are tight again, and I can’t see past him until we are free. Another slope, and soon we’re standing on a mound speckled with grass. Somewhere, a woman screams. Paul moves toward one of the hovels with a pallet-like door. There’s crying coming from inside. Something in his face changes. I glance around. No one is doing anything. The door bursts open. A young black woman flees with something in her arms. The crying inside continues. It’s coming from a young woman lying in the shadows. The taste of iron is in the air. The lower half of her dress is wet with blood. Her eyes find mine. An older woman wipes the woman’s forehead with a dripping cloth. I hear moaning. It’s weak and guttural. I realize it’s me. Mooing like a sick calf.

“Sorry, mate,” Paul says. “There’s a doctor’s strike.”

He takes me by the elbow and leads me out. I totter sideways. Paul takes me to a quiet spot and claps my cheeks. “This is it, isn’t it?” His voice goes high on “it,” as in, “beautiful, isn’t it?” He releases me and shakes his fist at the sky. “This is the real shit. When’s the last time you didn’t worry about a bunch of soul-deadening minutiae? Rent. Bills. Here, all that recedes.”

I drag a sleeve across my eyes. “It’s nuts that people live like this,” I say.

“It’s perfect sanity. When corrupt politicians are done with you, it’s the only sane response.” His finger wags at the bypass. “Out there is nuts. I knew when we met, I said to myself, ‘Now here’s someone who can roll.’ You’re not hung up on the details.” If this is Paul’s idea of a pep talk, I’m not sure it’s really about me. His eyes are two burning suns. “I mean, most well-to-do Kenyans wouldn’t come here. Now look at us. Anyone could kill us. We’re living on 100 percent trust. Have you ever felt so awake?” His enthusiasm is hard to resist. I find myself watching his body, his face. The constant hum of his mind. Can he see me in him?

“Welcome to the watering hole, son.”