For the first time in his life the weather has taken on character. It
is like a person with moods - and what moods. He knew a girl once,
whose behavior was unpredictable and often cold. One moment she would
be smiling and talking happily - then of a sudden she would withdraw
behind a cloud of gloom, frigid and impenetrable. They had gone to
school together and she had had no friends, gaining a reputation on the
playground as being too much like a toubab, too withdrawn into herself.
Under the unrelenting heat of the Sun at midday she had seemed a
strange thing, a pillar of ice un-melting, self-contained and refusing
to join the great deluge of melted waters about her. Now he feels like
the opposite of her, transplanted from the great communal warmth and
heat which now seems unbelievably comfortable to this place where the
weather is a person and goes into wild moods of hostile silence. The
cold gets past his every attempt to hold it back, seeming at times to
have found a secret way into his body so it seems its source is
internal and emanates from within him, from his very bones. To the
point where the thought of a warm room fills him with craving. At night
when he has trouble sleeping he draws the blankets tighter around him,
and feeling the warmth all about him beginning at his toes is comforted
and grateful. Thankful for small mercies. Back home after a while the
heat had receded into the landscape, barely noticed except when it was
brought up to save a dying conversation. Here when he is outside the
cold stands out sharp and at the center of his attention, making
everything else become blurry and unimportant. It makes him sad and
miserable, the useless sun in the sky seeming but a poorly-wrought
imitation of the one at home, producing a weak light and no heat,
failing to blind the eyes of irreverent gazers who would look directly
upon it. How unlike the Sun back home, King of all it looked down upon,
merciless Tyrant around whom days were formed.
He
had called his mother, in the first week. One day after work, coming
back from the Senegalese man's shop, his place of employ. Past
one-dollar stores and stores with Touba in their name, joining then
leaving crowds of people spontaneously formed, waiting at roadsides for
a light to change and give them leave to cross. Then dispersing as the
great host of cars (here he saw more cars than he had ever seen in his
life in one place) coming to a stop, powerful things of metal seeming
to be barely controlled by the fragile men and women who sat within
them. His eyes meeting theirs as he crossed as quickly as possible,
still not trusting that the line which held them back would not break
and have them roll with a great crunching onto the mass of people
walking across the road. At home he had retrieved the phone card where
he had left it in a jeans pocket, and dialed the number. The first time
it had not gone through, before he read the back of the card and saw
that the dialing codes changed here. You entered different digits,
before you entered the country code. Then her number. Mobile phones had
been introduced about five years earlier, and by the end of the year
everyone had one, carrying them around clutched in their sweaty palms
like life support systems. He had never called his mother, though he
had memorized her number. He had never had occasion to, the distance
between them never expanded enough to warrant the service of telephone
lines and network antennas.
When she picked up her voice sounded distant, and as if originating from a hollow place in the Earth.
"Hello... hello... hello"
"Hello"
"Hello"
The
trick was to speak then let the other person speak, to resolve the
delay created by the distance. He had been told that the voices which
travelled across continents over phone lines had at one point to go
under the Sea, in giant cables each bigger than a Man which lay on the
Sea floor. He had imagined them as he imagined all machines, tools of
metalic architecture, man-made and lacking in emotion and warmth - in
fact the very opposite of these things. Deep beneath the Sea, with
curious fishes swimming by them. It is this image that had come to him
as he listened to her speak then, trying to figure out who the call was
from. Except as he imagined her voice traversing the undersea cables
they became of a sudden imbued with life, cold steel springing into
action. The surprised fishes. Life lines linking continents, the only
connection between this cold country in which he felt so lost and the
warmer lands of his origin, where he had belonged so well he had never
noticed the fact of his belonging, coming to take it for granted,
coming to cheapen and think it of no value, when he thought of it at
all...
"Who is it? Samba?"
He thought he could detect a rise in the inflection of her voice as she spoke his name.
"Yes -
Ya it is I" he tried to say past a suddenly-blocked throat he had to clear before he could speak.
"Samba!",
she exclaimed and even in spite of the imperfect job of transference
carried out by the deep sea cables he heard the happiness in her voice,
and his heart leapt. The skin of his face suddenly become heavier, his
brows bunching together, his eyes narrowing - what was this liquid that
filled them? This drasted cold, that made eyes watery...
She was calling out behind her to his sister, to come to the phone.
"Hurry!
Maybe his card will finish - it is Samba!", then back to him again:
"Samba! How are you doing? You are there? You have arrived?"
A
torrent of questions. He said nothing about the things that had run
through his mind, of the trials he had lived through - what makes a Man
but his lack of complaint? What other way can he earn title as head of
a family without a father. And so he replied that all was well, to all
her questions, and told his sister that he was doing OK, that he had
started work.
"And prayer - do you pray?", his mother asked,
taking the telephone back (he could hear his sister complain in the
background, and their bickering made him smile past the wetness in his
eyes). He lied without hesitating.
"Good", she said, "it is the
only thing that will save you" - and once more she commended him to
God. "You have been my good and only son", she had said, when the
one-minute warning on the card came on and he informed her, "God will
not abandon us". And as his sister took the phone to say goodbye there
was a click.
This had been the first phone call. He had called
many more times after that, trying to at least once every two weeks,
but none had ever been like that one, the opener. Back home his mother
and sister had formed a female circle from which he was excluded. A
domestic companionship he could not even begin to understand the rules
of. Doing the household tasks together everyday, surrounded by a layer
of conversation they had built and refined over the years, so it
covered them lightly but did not hinder their movement through the
house's backyard. A comfortable blanket which protected them from
boredom and brought them together under its folds. A blanket invisible
to men. And so they had always seemed to him to form one unit, as if
their family after his father had died was of two: himself, and his
mother-sister unit. Since his arrival this unit had become even more
mysterious, even more obscure. The telephone such an imperfect device,
providing the means of conversation yet at the same time accentuating
the conversations' defects, in ways eyes and faces had been hiding for
centuries. The long silences filled with Ocean noise. The conversation
become a series of questions and answers, not even having the comfort
of being linked by a narrative. Back home the fact of his living with
them had been enough, so they could go days without a proper
conversation. Now here he saw for the first time clearly how
disattached they had become from him, how almost nothing existed
between them save for the fact of their being related, and even this
barely sufficient. It made him dread calling (though he would not admit
this even to himself, pretending tiredness or using the different
timezones as an excuse to put it off). It made him sad.