Life-changing Money

Mudi checked his watch yet again, and then again almost immediately. The man had said 3 o’clock, but this was "African time," so Mudi knew it could be another hour, even two. Still, he could not stop grinning. He had fantastic teeth, pearlescent and white juxtaposed strongly against his black skin. Neema began to fidget beside him.

“It’s been a long while now.” She gave him a frustrated glance that was very fitting for her age: the snotty, self-obsessed teenager phase.

“Don’t be spoiled, you know everything takes time.”

“You’re just happy because you get to go to college now and leave us all behind.”

“I’m not happy to leave.” Mudi's tone was sure, but his unrelenting grin was indicating otherwise. Neema rolled her small, dark eyes.

Five years her senior, Mudi had grown up in the home across from Neema's family home. Their childhoods were fatefully intertwined, almost entirely spent in a small collection of three near-identical mud houses on the outskirts of Moshi, Tanzania. In the center of the homes, there was a communal fire pit that all the neighbors had built together. They cooked there, boiled water, made memories, and said “hello” to the passers by. It was nice living off of a main road because most traffic was foot traffic where they lived, making them known to much of the town and providing an easier route to the school.

The houses, built by the families and cared for generation after generation, were sturdy: mud brick melded into mud brick, making them somehow, quizzically, more packed up tightly after a good rain. The recycled wood from old carts and crates that made up the thin front doors gave each house a small uniqueness from the others.

“You are.” Neema looked away. Although her exterior presented differently, she was heartbroken. This was not because she particularly needed Mudi around, but because he would be doing something now without her. As of late, she had a jealousy brewing towards him. “You’re just lucky, I guess.”

This was the first time Neema had probably ever thought this of Mudi. In truth, Mudi had not led a charmed life. When Mudi was six-years-old, his parents had deserted their Maasai tribe almost immediately after the birth of Mudi’s younger sister, Manka. Mudi’s mother had cried nightly at the inevitability of Manka’s castration, a Maasai tradition that would not die despite protestations from many other Western cultures and even neighboring tribes. Mudi’s family planned their escape and, later that week, moved into the house near Neema to save little Manka from the traumatic ritual that may have proved deadly.

Despite their efforts, Mudi’s family had all since died for one reason or another. A true fighter, Mudi kept the specifics away from his mind. Africa was full of life, yes, but he knew it was also full of death. And so, that left only Mudi. And, oddly, that was why Mudi was lucky in a way.

Mudi’s mother had only been half-Maasai. This, of course, was likely why she knew so much more about female castration than most women of the tribe. Like his baba (father), Mudi’s babu (grandfather) was born and raised Maasai. Mudi’s bibi (grandmother) had joined the tribe from the outside world, meeting and falling in love with her husband even though he was already married to many other tribal women. He could not forget the beauty of the “outside woman” and asked her to stay in his village as his newest bride. For whatever reason, be it love or a handsome bride price of many cows to her family, Mudi's bibi accepted. Once Mudi’s mother was castration age, Mudi’s bibi used to tell his mother of the changes happening in Africa. Mainly, the health risks involved with genital mutilation. Mudi always felt proud of his grandmother for educating his mother that way, enough so she might leave and have a better life for her family, however shortly lived.

This was, of course, not precisely why Mudi was lucky. Mudi was lucky because his grandmother’s brother, Daniel, a Christian, had come into a good life through his work as an educator. He taught at schools and churches, he knew very good English and helped with tourism, all which paid him handsomely and often in United States dollars. So, when Daniel died, having no wife or family of his own, he left a sum of twenty-thousand United States dollars to Mudi. And that, Neema felt, was why Mudi was lucky.

Presently, Mudi was waiting to get picked up by a taxi of some sort and brought to college, all of which he could now, miraculously, afford. This way, Mudi would be able to become an educator, too, or perhaps work as a doctor. Mudi would be able to be whatever really. He didn’t even need college with that kind of money. Neema ran her foot slickly against the clay dirt, kicking up a foul-smelling dust.

“Don’t do that,” spat Mudi. They both knew the smell, it was the remnant of feces and trash they burned every few days on the side of the road.

“I wouldn’t go to college, you know.” Neema said, snidely. “If I had the money, I mean.” Mudi didn’t respond, he just stared down the road. “I’d buy a proper house in town, more ng'ombe and mbuzi.” She spoke the Swahili for cows and goats. She liked to speak Swahili when she was making a point. “You’ll forget who you are.”

Mudi ignored her still, and they stood in silence until Hussain, a boy who lived in the middle home, came to the pit, a kettle in his hand full of water from the river.

“You’re still here?” Hussain laughed.

“Acha, Hussain-y” Mudi shot him a look.

“He’s impatient.” Neema yawned while Hussain’s younger brother, Teacher, emerged carrying his little black book.

“Still not talking, eh, Teacher?” Mudi asked. Teacher shook his head violently. In their village, Teacher was considered an odd kid. He had decided to take a vow of silence once his voice had started cracking. He found the teasing he received in class as relentless and the uncertainty of when or where it might happen had given him immense anxiety. So, he saved up money his mother had given him for the market, extra shillings every week until he had enough to buy a little black book. Realizing he could not communicate without one, he stole a pencil from his classroom without getting caught. To conversate, he now only wrote in the book, his way of controlling the world around him perhaps. But it was backfiring for poor Teacher because he wasn’t learning how to speak English at all. The other kids had begun to learn the English alphabet in school, but Teacher’s vow of silence excluded him from participating. He would write words down but not remember how they sounded, so even when writing, he favored the few Swahili words he knew how to spell.

“I was telling Mudi that I’d never spend the money he got on college.” Neema said, boastfully. Hussain looked up from the water, hanging above the fire, which had just begun to boil.

“That’s life-changing money around here. Even in the city, you know. I might think to spend it on a trip somewhere. Dar es Salaam is too far by bus for Mama to let me go. I could visit Baba at work there but she says I’m not ready for the commute. Not yet. I don’t think she likes the idea of me in the city. It’s not as wholesome there, she thinks. But how would she know? I’d spend some of it on a plane ticket. Go without her, eat city food and buy high-fashion clothes.” Hussain smiled broadly at the thought. Teacher began scribbling fiercely in his book.

“That’s nice but I’m set on an education.” Mudi shrugged.

Usiende. Teacher held the words up to Mudi, imploring. Don’t go.

Mudi shook his head. “Teacher, this will be good for me. I have nothing here.”

Teacher shook his head back at Mudi and pointed fiercely to the page where he had written the words.

“It’s out of your hands.” Mudi turned away, suddenly annoyed with all of them.

Teacher did not mind the rejection. He scribbled again.

This time the book read Haturudi, which means You won’t come back.

Mudi crouched down then and looked at Teacher in the face. “Is that what you’re worried about? I will come back, Teacher. You’re my family here. I said I had nothing but I don’t ever mean it. No one has nothing.”

Teacher stared at Mudi, speechless.

“So, is it a daladala picking you up or a pikipiki?” Hussain asked flippantly.

“What do you think, Hussain-y? I always wanted to ride on a pikipi-”

Desperately, Teacher lifted his leg and stomped down heavily onto Mudi’s foot, Mudi howled, “Kutomba wewe!” The curse words filled the air. Teacher, distressed, began to loudly cry. Hussain, breaking from watching the water bubble, looked up at Mudi, angered for a moment.

“Hey enough, Mudi, okay? You know he's weird. He’s just trying to say he’ll miss you.” Hussain could barely get the words out before Teacher ran at and pushed his brother, angrily, causing Hussain to lose his balance. Both toppled down and stumbled back up, dirty. Neema stood still, almost smiling at the uncomfortable scene.

“Lucky, lucky you, Mudi. You’re going to miss all of this.” Neema quipped. Teacher disappeared back into his home, black book clutched so tightly his dark knuckles looked nearly white with anger.

Moments later, in the distance, a black motorcycle was visible on the dusty road. Those travelling the road by foot quickly got out of the way, knowing that drivers always had the right of way on African soil. Mudi’s smile returned, larger than before.

“That’s him.” Mudi turned to Neema who looked suddenly afraid.

“You’ll come back, right Mudi?” Her voice was soft, weak. He hadn’t seen her care about anything in a long time. His heart twisted a bit.

“Neema, you know this town is my home.” As he spoke, a tear raced down her cheek. Hussain patted Mudi on the back.

“Wewe ni ndugu yangu.” The words came out speedily, indifferent after the dramatic events that had preceded them, but Mudi knew Hussain meant them. You are my brother.

The pikipiki came rolling up. The man on it smiled. He was skinny and his eyes were a burnt yellow.

“Mudi?” He asked it to Mudi knowingly, seeing his backpack.

“Yes.”

“Njoo. Don’t touch the engine with your leg, it’s very hot. You’ll burn it.” The man said firmly.

Mudi climbed on the back, holding his hands with a terrified desperation to the metal knapsack holder behind his seat, Mudi's backpack resting on top of it, heavily. Teacher watched, peering out of the door to his hut, still crying. The motorcycle took off, kicking up the putrid dust. They all saw Mudi disappear.

Neema sat a long while after by the side of the road, smelling the scent of the burning garbage, unsure of her future. All she really knew was that Mudi was the lucky one.

It was weeks before they heard about Mudi. The motorcyclist had not taken him to college. He had driven him to Arusha where a few men were waiting. They killed Mudi with a machete and stole his bag full of the money. The life-changing money.

When the news returned to the village, Neema cried for months, unable to look at Mudi’s mud house, beautiful in its poverty. Hussain bought a knife of his own and began to stab at the ground, loudly grunting. Practicing. He sometimes cried, too. Everyone cried, except for Teacher, who stared at his little black book, unflinching. He searched the pages over and over. Usiende, haturudi. He searched the words for the powerlessness they had.

No voice, he thinks, flipping the pages again. Each page mocks him, he has no control.