Mdomo and the red t-shirt

Dar –es –Salaam 1997

“I feel sad;

Life has become so difficult

Words are failing me

I feel sad.”

REMMY ONGALA -Popular Congo musician based in Tanzania since 1970’s

Quoted from “Nasikitika” Songs for a Poor Man CD- Real World Records, 1993

“Here…in this zone …If you don’t show any respect…you loose a lot…you bullshit us… you die. A woman was trying to be queen… showing me no respect…a gang invaded her place. They took everything. Fridge. Jewelry…watches ….TV…clothes…you have to give respect… we control this area. I don’t have a job. No education. This is what I do. You understand? ”

Mdomo is talking.

His two lieutenants keep nodding. One of them, Mapengo, with a perpetual grin, is studying my face intently. My smile pretends to widen as the long speech drones on and on. Three of Mdomo’s upper teeth are missing and one is held by the reddish-black-brown gums. I am curious if their colour has been changed by the glowing sun hovering over us this afternoon or the fleas and flies flying above the noise of people selling goods around enveloping everything like a warm heavy dirty unbearable blanket. Now and then he will spit bits of green which I soon gather come from the “bangi” or marijuana he smokes to keep going.

Mdomo is the king of this jungle. The second lieutenant has a dead pan face. He is the opposite of Mapengo. He avoids eye contact, totally. Later, Sanjo, my friend, says this man is ruthless. He once cut off the tongue of a rival gang’s leader and hung it on one of the mango trees nearby. The dried piece of human flesh is still dangling on one of the branches, six months later, “even wild creatures are still scared to eat it.”

Trees of various sorts and size offer us a shade and tranquillity. Mangoes, Palms, Cashews, Jacarandas, even Bouganvillaea with showy red and purple bracts. Some have flowers, others fruits and dried seeds. Their job is crucial in the burning heat of tropical Dar Es Salaam, this harbour city , on east coast Tanzania.

Mdomo keeps his chatter.

He has a gift of the gab. No one else is talking. I guess it is partly awe and fear of him that make no –one else dare out-speak him. As if reading my mind, he turns the subject to my presence:

“We have been observing you. Watching you leaving the market with bags filled with food and things. A few days ago I was broke, my mother was sick I had no money. For the whole day I had not eaten. I was starving looking at your watch, brother…”

It is not an expensive watch

.

“But it’s a good one”

Just a cheap swatch.

“Yes. But swatch is Swiss made! Swiss watches are good…you could have been robbed…but I stopped it. We know Sanjo very well. He does not forget us when he gets something. He knows where he comes from. Don’t you Sanjo, man?” Sanjo shakes his head up and down almost ten times.

I have never seen my graduate friend who leads passionate debates at the University of Dar Es Salaam on globalisation and poverty against other academics so docile and submissive.

We are standing on the market of Msasani ghetto. On the other side is Msasani of the wealthy and foreign expatriates. Both worlds are close to the Indian Ocean beach where you can smell the sea salt and feel the waves of nature. We are perched on the edge of its poor and rich divide. Nearby the market stalls are bristling with food sellers. Shops are stack with locally made clothes from Zanzibar, Kenya, Zambia and other Tanzanian towns. Each shopkeeper is playing loud music, competing to air best old and up to date tracks. Sometimes as Mdomo yaps, the grinning Mapengo sways to the music. The orator carries on, as if possessed, his speech making his assistants dance.

Mdomo is making an indirect threat.

He and his friends terrorise everyone in this area. A neighbour of ours refused to bulge to their demands branding them thugs and robbers. One night five men came to his residence armed with guns and machetes. They helped themselves to the most valuable stuff in the flat. He ran out through a back window and sped to the local police station just 800 meters down the block. The arms of law came and caught the robber’s seconds before getaway. Weapons were drawn; gun shots were exchanged. Two of the robbers were arrested, others vanished. Within a week the two culprits were out. Now the victim is living in fear.

“All he has to do is give us a bit of what he owns. This is a socialist country. Socialism is not Russian or Chinese. Before the white man came to Africa we all used to share everything. We are socialist by nature. If you have three pineapples you give me one. If I have a thousand shillings I give you two hundred. You don’t offer me anything I take all your belongings. Simple.”

“Yes…simple” paraphrases the toothless smiling, Mapengo. His other pal still keeps his dead pan expression.

The irony of Mdomo’s confident speech is that everyone here knows he is the main thief. Everybody is aware they cannot mess up with him. What has he got that we all cringe under his powers? And why do the police tolerate him? Sanjo explains later that having him controlling things helps keeps the peace. If he is sent to jail they won’t know who is robbing. Chaos will reign. Strange logic, indeed.

I am imagining what I would like to do to Mapengo’s perpetual grin when the king’s voice taunts me again.

“Brother, I know what you are thinking. I can feel it” I don’t say anything. Is he trying to intimidate me?

“I know you are thinking, why don’t the police get me. Aren’t you, boss?” I still don’t say anything.

“I know you wish you had a gun. You would shoot me wouldn’t you?” I harden my face slightly but maintain my neutrality. You don’t want to antagonize a man alleged to have control over others even while in prison. They say he wields influence over the local MP and local politicians too.

“I know how you feel. I will tell you one thing” I look at Sanjo. He has a sheepish but sarcastic smile. His lips are trembling feebly.

“I will tell you one thing. You want to hear it?” I nod.

“I didn’t choose to be a thief. I was a good in the classroom. The teachers didn’t give me a chance. We were six children. My father didn’t have enough money for our clothes nor school books. We never had enough to eat. My mother never had enough food to cook. When I started playing football everyone used to say I will end up playing for the National team. But nobody sponsored me. I would have been in Europe now playing for Real Madrid. That’s my team. Real Madrid alongside the great players from Brazil and France and Cameroon. Soon I started to steal. Then came the prisons. Then came the killings. People had to be silenced. This is my job now. I am working now. Please, make me happy…”

Mapengo , his grinning second in command, stretches out empty hands. The nameless third man is not even blinking.

“That T-shirt you were wearing the other day” Which T-shirt is he talking about?

“The one with a woman’s legs on it”

"Woman, what woman?"

“Some woman’s legs, big shoes…”

"What colour was it ?"

“Red. I want it, please…make me happy” My mind race through my T-shirts. The only red T-shirt in my suitcase is the one with the artist formerly known as Prince. Yes. Prince wears shoes with thick soles. I am almost laughing. Does Prince look like a woman to this gangster?

I search his face for clues. A large scar runs from the left eye to his ear. Thin hands, long legs and a bass voice that has a ringing twang, a tone of fearlessness. I have met killers before but they never brag about it in broad daylight as residents go about their normal chores. Mdomo is surely showing off. But , but , but? I ask him why he is telling me this.

“Because I have heard about you. You are the travelling guy. You have been all over the world. Like a sailor. You have lived in Europe, in South America.” He is striking that familiar, melodious chord again.

Each moment since I came back home I had to be “reminded” that I was away. That “being away” has a value. Whether I was accepted in those countries that I travelled to, it does not matter. Whether I was poor or living a subsistence life as a second citizen, a foreigner, an exile , it does not matter. I must be having something of value, of difference.

Mdomo goes on.

“You remember Bob Marley? He never forgot where he came from. Reggae music started in the ghetto.”

"Which Bob Marley song is his favourite?"

“Redemption Song. Just Bob alone with his guitar. That is someone talking to me. Singing to people like us. Alone. We steal. We beat up people. We kill, we die in jail. But deep down we live alone. I am alone…”

He is mum for a while.

The noise of the busy market around us surrounded by the fleas, flies and music is still buzzing with selling and buying. We are all of a sudden as silent as an island in a stormy ocean. Then I sense it coming. A knife appears in the dead pan thief’s hand.

“You heard what the Captain just said?”

His voice is softer, lifeless, his mouth which stinks of burnt wood is close and the chest heaving non stop. He seems like a man struggling to keep above raging waters. Ruthless yes, fearless true, but I sense a man with not much stamina. In a desperate situation I could easily take him. But this is not the time to gamble with men who depend on threats for a living. The knife is glittering under his palm, hidden below his long sleeved shirt. I am fascinated, actually.

A tingling laugh travels around my being bringing back memories of other world wide encounters. I look back on four gangsters pointing guns and knives to my face (as one of the passengers) in a bus in Brazil. I recall how cool and unruffled I was, never panicking under duress. I remember that drunk racist who told me to do a “monkey dance like Africans in the jungle” somewhere in a north England pub. I reminisce the blood that was shed. I am reminded of the attack by a gang of youths who wanted to take my girl friend in a Stockholm subway.

And this is the year that Diana died in a Paris subway, chased by hungry, voracious photographers. This is the year that my mother died too. No, I am not ready to kick the bucket, yet. I won’t accept any intimidation. I can’t help letting my chuckle spill like a cup of boiling water, down the sandy floor full of fleas and flies.

Laughter, like a virus, they say, is contagious. Mapengo’s grin turns to a loud guffaw. He was waiting for this , the hilarious sadist. Man with a knife of course ignores it all.

“Red T-shirt…that’s all Captain wants. Otherwise you taste this…” Only the two of us can see the knife. Mdomo is saying something to Sanjo. Mapengo’s teeth are still unfurled. The dead pan killer is caressing my hand with the opposite side of the knife’s sharp blade.

“OK” I say, beckoning Sanjo we leave.

“Did you see the knife?”

“What knife?” Sanjo asks

“You mean you didn’t see the knife?”

“Who had a knife?”

“The silent crook”

“You mean Makali? I am not surprised”

Hours later, I have scooped the red Prince T-shirt out and laid it aside ready to keep my promise with those robbers. On the following day I reluctantly hand it over to Mdomo, who smiles with the relish of a little boy waiting to feast on a pack of sweets.

“Open it up, check it out”

“I trust you, don’t worry” he says, ever the boss. Unfolding the package, he spreads out the outfit. I am watching his face.

“Where is the woman?”

“That’s what I was wearing”

“Red T-shirt, big shoes…You are right. But this is not ( his voice trails off into a disappointed whisper)…this- is- not- a -Woman!”

“That’s the Red T-shirt you meant”

“Are you playing with me?”

“This is the Red- T-shirt you saw me with”

“I want you to give me the Red T-shirt with the woman, not this strange guy. Who is He?”

“It is the same man you thought was a woman”

“Wait a minute. Are you saying something was wrong with my eyes?” I tread forward and stretch my hand.

“Hand me the T-shirt. Step back.” I walk a few paces ahead of him and show him the T-shirt, from a distance.

“Do you see what I mean?” He is silent, contemplating.

“I see what you mean… I don’t like it. I don’t like this. Is this man a-”

“A what?”

“You know what I mean? “

I try to look puzzled.

“His hair is combed funny, his clothing…is he a homosexual?”

“I don’t know. He is a very good American musician” He sticks his tongue out.

“Have you got another T-shirt with a real woman on it?”

“Oh yes”"Bring it another day. No hurry. OK?"