I sit at my desk,
minding my own business, at peace with the world and, for a change, the world
at peace with me. There are no bombs exploding down the street, no lunatics
with Kalashnikovs wondering the street taking potshots at everything that
moves, no delayed aircrafts with silly excuses of late incoming flights. The
house is deathly quiet, the family lost in slumber; only the humming of
refrigerator in the kitchen and ticking of two clocks disturb the earthly
stillness of this chilly morning here in Sanford, FL; a cup of hot chai keeps
me warm. I am well rested, jetlag from multiple flights to multiple cities /
countries beaten silly. Why, I am ready to battle the world!
My cellphone rings loud,
shattering the peace, startling me. I peer at the number on the screen; a call
from Tanzania? Huh, who could that be now?
Hello? There is crackling and
whining on the line. Hello? I repeat.
Kisukaali? Asks a quarrelsome, quivering voice. This is Mullah.
Sallam aleykum.
Oh, it is Mullah
Mchungu; I tense. Now why is he calling? From Dar? This call must be costing
him plenty. Is he all right?
Sallam Mullah, habaari,
how are you? Is everything okay? Are you in Dar? To my ears, anxiety sounds clear in the tone of my voice.
Aree ghaando, why do you
care? Of course I am in Dar. Listen, calls from your end are very cheap, please
call me back. This call will bankrupt whatever little charity money I steal
from my son.
The line goes dead. I
stare at the phone, dumbfounded. What an obnoxious turd! He must get his head
examined if he thinks I am going to call him back. In the end, it is I who
needs my head examined. Doubts, worry, guilt and curiosity all combine to make
me return the call in less than five minutes. And he knows it, knows I will
call, what with the trap he has slyly laid out.
Ah, Kisukaali. So easy
for you guys to make these calls from the US, nai? It is pure robbery from us
here in poor Tanzania. Listen, I need your help. I want a nice girl.
I very nearly drop my phone
and scald my tongue from a sip of hot chai I have just sipped; did I hear him
right? Mullah Mchungu, for those of you that don’t know him, is an ill-mannered
grumpy old man of very mean disposition. The only reason I have anything to do
with him is pity for his old bones, the disregard and neglect he gets from his
only son Ali who lives right here in Sanford. I am about to lose my temper and
yell some choice words at him when he, as usual, interrupts.
Ah, Kisukaali, he chuckles, don’t get your chuddy in a tight twist,
I know what you are thinking. I wouldn’t know what to do with a girl, nice or
mean, even if you could find me one. That would be a herculean task for my age
of seventy-seven, nai?
Well, what the hell! I
am convinced the old man has finally lost his remaining marbles. I don’t know
what to say; so I keep quiet and we breathe down on each other’s receivers for
a moment.
Hello? You still there,
Kisukaali?
Yes Mullah, I am
confused. How can I help you, exactly?
Aree Ghaando, I told
you, nai? I want you to find me a nice girl from India or Afghanistan, or from
wherever else you keep hopping around the world all the time. A nice, susheel,
Allah fearing, respectable, reasonably educated, reasonably pretty, not too
tall...not too short or plump either, English speaking, who respects her
elders, obedient and a good cook. Can you do that for me?
I didn’t think these
species of humans existed any more but I bite my tongue.
Mullah, I am sorry, but
I can’t help you in this regard, I
say carefully. I am not in a position of a matchmaker. But out of
curiosity, why do you need such a person, what for?
Mullah Mchungu does not
respond for a while; I can imagine his face darken in ire and irritation for he
is easily prone to such emotions.
What for? What kind of question
is this? Why would anybody want a girl like this? For marriage of course! My
grandson is now twenty-one. Remember Zain Ali? My son Ali’s son from his
earlier marriage? For him. I want to find a nice girl for Zain before he gets a
nasty Khoji one in the US or Canada or the West generally. His father is
actively looking for a girl for him and I want to disrupt his search. That
witch of his new wife is trying to hook up her cousin, another witch I am sure,
and I want to stop her at whatever cost.
Geez, am I wasting my
good money and excellent disposition for something so bizarre? I need to end
this madness pronto.
But Mullah, I can’t
really see how I can help. Girls, especially one that fit your criteria, don’t
grow on trees. Sorry, I can’t help you. You would be better off approaching
many women in our community that do this service. I can find out whom in Dar
and will let you know. Okay?
But I don’t want someone
from our community, Gaando! I don’t want another Khoji troublemaker! Grumps Mullah Mchungu, would I be butting heads with you
otherwise? You can help others but not this old dying man. If Ali’s wife
succeeds in her plans, I will surely suffer and I’ll hold you responsible. All
I want for the remaining days of my life is to see Zain with a good wife who is
uncorrupted with Western or Khoja values, who may serve me a few years so I can
get some peace while I die...
Well, I’ll be damned;
whatever is wrong with a Khoji?! This conversation is getting nowhere and I
suspect my temperament will hit a short fuse if I continue with this exchange,
something my upbringing will not allow towards an elderly person. So I vaguely
promise I’ll put a word out to my contacts overseas and see where we get, then
hang up.
So any of you who know
of a nice, susheel, Allah
fearing, respectable, reasonably educated, reasonably pretty, not too
tall...not too short or plump either, English speaking, who respects her
elders, obedient and a good cook girl, well, you’ll be doing a good service to
Mullah Mchungu by contacting me.
Note: For varied reasons, I have replaced
actual caller’s name with the character of Mullah Mchungu, a figment, perhaps,
of my imagination.
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