“What have you been up to?” Zaak says to Cambara, the portly words rolling out of his mouth in the manner of a roly-poly corpulently dancing across a round floor. “I am happy for you. You’ve achieved what you set out to do. Good for you, my girl. You’ve acted in a grown-up way, as I suggested. I doubt you would’ve recovered the property or gone on to produce your play if I hadn’t pushed you when I did. I said so to Auntie Arda.”
She says, “You abandoned me to my own fate, so I would act grown-up, is that it? You were rude to me so I would set myself higher goals and achieve them? That’s a new one on me. Have you sold that to my mother?”
“And she bought it,” he says. “Now why have you abandoned me? Why have you not been in touch to let me know of your successes?”
She says, “It is not that you need anyone’s company when you have your bundles of qaat.” Everyone nods their heads, appreciating the one-liner. But no one dares to laugh, except Raxma, who lets out a mild guffaw.
“When did Arda call you?” Cambara asks.
“Earlier today.”
Whatever game her mother is playing, Cambara does not wish to let Zaak know that she has any idea where her mother is and hasn’t been in touch either. This will only add more venom to her and Zaak’s longstanding quarrels and will do nothing to improve their chance of making up with each other for the sake of Arda. There is time yet, though. She will question Raxma about Arda when they are alone later, and all will become clear.
“Okay, Zaak. Time I returned to work.”
“I won’t stop you,” he quips and starts to turn away, feeling that he has darted back at her as much venom as she has thrown in his direction.
She says, “Did you bring along your bundle to chew while you wait? The way some of us bring a book to read when we are in the dentist’s office?”
“You’re being nasty,” he says, grinning. “It ill suits a host to be wicked to your guests. Be nice to me when I am on your property. Please.”
“Listen who’s talking.”
“Precisely,” he says, looking around and trying to make contact with his audience, his winning smile spreading.
She has had enough of him; her voice says it all. “I have some urgent work to attend to,” she says. “Could you give your coordinates to the lady with the writing pad?” and she points at ScriptWoman. “Since you’ve honored us with your visit to the property, I’ll now invite you to the opening night of my play. You can sit in the front row, next to your favorite aunt Arda.”
She turns her back on him fast and marches away toward the stage, where all the others are gathered, patiently waiting. It takes some time before a couple of them manage to wipe the grin off their faces and a little more before they are ready to resume their rehearsal. As Qaali steps forward to continue from where she left off, several eyes focus on the bulky back of a potbellied figure blocking what little there is of daylight with his fleshy plumpness. Zaak gone, Cambara sits next to Raxma, half listening to Qaali reading her part with more panache.
“Where is Arda?” she asks Raxma irritably.
“She’s broken her journey in Nairobi, where she intends to sleep off the jet lag,” Raxma explains. “We parted at the airport, she to take a taxi to a hotel, I to board my onward flight here. She’ll be here early tomorrow. Kiin has offered to fetch her from the airstrip.”
“That woman is going to be my death,” she says.
“Take it easy, Cambo.”
“How can I when there are Zaaks and Wardis?”
“Forget about Zaak; he is a fool.”
“How can I?”
“Get on with your rehearsal, Cambo.”
“Give me a minute.” Cambara sits where she is, her eyes closed, as if this might afford her a look inside of herself, so that she might draw on her inner strength, which she is certain is there.
“Thanks, Raaxo,” she says a few minutes later, ready to get on with her rehearsal. “You’ve been a darling. As always.”
They soldier on rehearsing until late, by which time everyone is too exhausted, and the young women volunteers, including ScriptWoman and TeaWoman, have gone. Raxma takes over their jobs, moving about with formidable efficiency, never indicating for a single moment that she has arrived only a few hours ago. She won’t hear of Cambara’s suggestion that Dajaal drive her to Maanta. “Isn’t that what friends are for: to be by your side when you need them? I’ll be here until we are done for the day.”
The next day when least expected, Zaak makes a dramatic entrance, walking ahead into the hall with a figure immediately behind him, he like the first of two vehicles tied to each other by an invisible rope, the one with its engine alive and running, as it pulls the other, namely the figure of a woman.
Zaak is carrying two heavy suitcases. He stops frequently, breathing heavily and wiping away the sweat just as often, halting altogether now and again, only to pick up now one suitcase, now the other, all the while conscious of the figure behind him, who is silently urging him to go on despite it all. As he comes forward, taking one foot at a time, pausing, and then continuing, everyone onstage falling silent and turning in his direction, Zaak seems to want to curse but dares not, again because of the figure goading him on subtly from behind. At one point, he puts down the weighty suitcases and then absentmindedly moves forward, tripping over one of them, awkwardly falling, and almost somersaulting. As he collapses into a heap, he makes an unearthly noise, something like lightning cracking, as if in pursuit of the thunder it is chasing across a cloudy tropical sky.
In contrast to Zaak, Arda presents herself well-groomed, bright-eyed, lively, and full of post — jet lag perkiness. She walks tall and large, swathed in an elegant frock of light cotton, the fan in her hand actively in motion, stirring the air about, the smile on her face obtrusive to the point of appearing false, especially to those who know her very well. Her skin brown, and, seemingly, too young for her age, she has a rested aspect to her, a jauntiness that borders on the nervous. In the scheme of things, she is upset, because it is Zaak who determines her forward progress.
The scene before Cambara strikes a distant chord in her memory, reminding her of one of her favorite plays, Waiting for Godot. The mystery, the despair, and the uncertainty of human existence, all of which she discerns in Zaak’s and Arda’s faces, bring to mind Samuel Beckett’s Pozzo, who drives Lucky by means of a rope around the latter’s neck. The day hasn’t been kind to Zaak, whom, you can bet, Arda must have bullied and shamed in private on the basis of what Raxma told her. Now Arda is deliberately putting Zaak in his place in public, in the presence of the very same men and woman in front of whom he humiliated her daughter.
Raxma appears to be enjoying herself, watching the proceedings. Cambara, however, feels sorry for Zaak, thinking that the poor fellow doesn’t even have a stool on which to sit, as does Lucky in Godot. As far as she knows, his transgressions notwithstanding, Zaak remains a nephew to Arda, and that means he is also of the same blood as hers. Maybe the midday heat, it being siesta time, the exhaustion pervasive, and the stress unbearable, is making Cambara start to see things, conjure up discordant images of a Pozzo-and-Lucky drama of desolation.
It’s even clearer the moment they come near the stage where Cambara, Bile, Qaali, Gacal, and SilkHair are that there is bad blood between Arda and Zaak. Not only do they keep the same physical distance as before — Arda spurring him on, Zaak plodding wearily forward — but Arda is in a rage, and she wants everyone to know it. She halts all of a sudden, just as Zaak acts in a mutinous manner, refusing to take a step farther and also to lift the two suitcases. Arda says firmly to Zaak, “You’ve been rude, behaved in an unacceptable manner, hurled invectives in all directions whenever you’ve felt like it. It is time you apologized.”