was coming from this early in the morning, Jamal would give a louder sniff as rejoinder and agree forcefully: “These Pakis! Cooking twenty-four hours a day!” He might grin with his large mouth, brushing with his fingers his shiny black moustache in amusement. Altogethera friendly, not to say gregarious, fellow. One to begin conversations, not end them. Everyone at Sixty-nine knew him.
Jamal had been a lawyer back in Dar. More precisely, a junior but important constitutional expert in the government. Someone who had advised on the criminality of shady shopkeepers and corrupt cabinet ministers, helped to produce amendments and draft papers on emergency procedures, was now emerging from a Don Mills elevator, clutching the same briefcase that had hidden secrets of state but was now hiding samosas destined for sale at the nearest tuck-shop. The irony would be lost on Jamal, because for him there was new ground to conquer.
Jamal was the only son of a mathematics teacher who was part Persian and dreamt of a new Africa. In 1950, Jamal’s father, influenced by the liberating optimism of the postwar era, founded a magazine of ideas called
Atom
. Its focus was the future, and its faith was the commonly espoused belief that Africa would in a few decades be like America. In one of its issues it favoured African independence, going so far as including on that subject an article by an African and another by an Indian from India. As if that was not enough, in a later issue the idea of racial integration was given serious thought. If the previous generation of pioneers could have intermarried or cohabited, so went the argument, what stopped the new generation from “mixing with our African brethren?” The community elders were perturbed, and so perhaps were the police. There was alreadysome agitation by the Africans in neighbouring Kenya. It was suggested to Jamal the elder that perhaps the articles in his magazine should first be vetted by some committee so that nothing untoward or damaging was published. He should consider including recipes and jokes, brainteasers; the look of the magazine could surely be improved, there was money available. He refused. Thence began his downfall. A pretext was found to dismiss him from the community-run school: he did not have an education diploma. His decline was further aided by his own ineptness in all matters worldly. His wife took up support of the family, from which burden she found relief only after many years.
Atom
folded when its printer refused to donate his services any longer.
The boy Jamal (nicknamed “The Persian”) was bright but misunderstood, an attention-getter, coarse and loud, tolerated by friends, an irritant to teachers. He could finish school only by going up-country, barely surviving two years of rigour away from the city. It says much for the final examination system, in which you simply put down your number on your paper and allowed yourself to be judged by anonymous examiners in Cambridge, that Jamal passed with flying colours the Higher School Certificate exam and was given a law scholarship by a ministry of education with no contact with the shopkeepers. The country was independent by then.
After finishing his degree he was recruited by the government. A brilliant political career surelylay ahead of him. He had already shone in student politics. He was outspoken, though charismatic and bright. He only had to play it right, to move up. But then the infamous nationalization of rental properties took place, the Great Betrayal that rocked the Asian community. Ways were now sought to mislead the government’s grasping hand. Those who had despised his father came to him for his help. How they bowed and scraped before him, practically offered their daughters now, they who would not let him sit in their cars and would look to see if he had washed his feet when he came with their sons to their homes. And how Jamal had felt contempt at these cheap attempts to buy his
Jamal had been a lawyer back in Dar. More precisely, a junior but important constitutional expert in the government. Someone who had advised on the criminality of shady shopkeepers and corrupt cabinet ministers, helped to produce amendments and draft papers on emergency procedures, was now emerging from a Don Mills elevator, clutching the same briefcase that had hidden secrets of state but was now hiding samosas destined for sale at the nearest tuck-shop. The irony would be lost on Jamal, because for him there was new ground to conquer.
Jamal was the only son of a mathematics teacher who was part Persian and dreamt of a new Africa. In 1950, Jamal’s father, influenced by the liberating optimism of the postwar era, founded a magazine of ideas called
Atom
. Its focus was the future, and its faith was the commonly espoused belief that Africa would in a few decades be like America. In one of its issues it favoured African independence, going so far as including on that subject an article by an African and another by an Indian from India. As if that was not enough, in a later issue the idea of racial integration was given serious thought. If the previous generation of pioneers could have intermarried or cohabited, so went the argument, what stopped the new generation from “mixing with our African brethren?” The community elders were perturbed, and so perhaps were the police. There was alreadysome agitation by the Africans in neighbouring Kenya. It was suggested to Jamal the elder that perhaps the articles in his magazine should first be vetted by some committee so that nothing untoward or damaging was published. He should consider including recipes and jokes, brainteasers; the look of the magazine could surely be improved, there was money available. He refused. Thence began his downfall. A pretext was found to dismiss him from the community-run school: he did not have an education diploma. His decline was further aided by his own ineptness in all matters worldly. His wife took up support of the family, from which burden she found relief only after many years.
Atom
folded when its printer refused to donate his services any longer.
The boy Jamal (nicknamed “The Persian”) was bright but misunderstood, an attention-getter, coarse and loud, tolerated by friends, an irritant to teachers. He could finish school only by going up-country, barely surviving two years of rigour away from the city. It says much for the final examination system, in which you simply put down your number on your paper and allowed yourself to be judged by anonymous examiners in Cambridge, that Jamal passed with flying colours the Higher School Certificate exam and was given a law scholarship by a ministry of education with no contact with the shopkeepers. The country was independent by then.
After finishing his degree he was recruited by the government. A brilliant political career surelylay ahead of him. He had already shone in student politics. He was outspoken, though charismatic and bright. He only had to play it right, to move up. But then the infamous nationalization of rental properties took place, the Great Betrayal that rocked the Asian community. Ways were now sought to mislead the government’s grasping hand. Those who had despised his father came to him for his help. How they bowed and scraped before him, practically offered their daughters now, they who would not let him sit in their cars and would look to see if he had washed his feet when he came with their sons to their homes. And how Jamal had felt contempt at these cheap attempts to buy his
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