Literary novel|Midnight Bird at the Equator|Ryo Iwasaki

Midnight Bird at the Equator

"The water passes between the lips and goes down the throat," he said and turned to the waiter.

He took a glass of wine from the tray. The expatriates had gathered around him.

"Once that happens, we become bonded with Africa for the rest of our lives."

"Do you like the book?" he asked in his customary chatty mood.

I saw his eyes read the weight and remembered that I had put a book on the counter. It was a story of Ghanians, set in Ghana and written by a Ghanian author in elaborate English. I had been struggling with it for a few days.

"I'm not too impressed," I said with disinterest.

My opinion should not matter to him; Kenyans read the newspapers avidly, but I had never seen any read a book.

"Probably you did not understand his work."

Countless people pass by me and precipitate to the vehicle. As I also try to reach the bus, I get more and more entangled in the mass that is becoming denser. The flow is so forceful that I can only move as it wishes me to. People would knock me down to the muddy ground and run over my body, if that is what it takes to get to the bus. I am about to be flattened and suffocated. I fear for my bag, shoes and breath. ... The moving mass comes to a halt, and disintegrates into pieces. The bus has departed, leaving most of us behind. I retreat to the far corner of the terminal and watch buses come and go. An hour later, only few of us are left and I walk in a measured pace to a bus. Each passenger gets to occupy one whole bench meant for two persons. The bus waits for more customers, but after a few minutes it decides to leave with empty seats. I reach home, exhausted, and head to the bathroom to wash my hands and face. When I open the tap, it makes gurgling sounds and no water comes out. The kitchen sink turns out to be the same. I wonder what is going on and walk out of the kitchen. In the dining room, I find a piece of paper on the table. It is from the apartment manager to inform me that we have no water supply as of two in the afternoon.

I was in a café this afternoon, and the waiter happened to be a Somali immigrant. He told me that he used to teach science back at home, but had taken up the job in order to support his family. His dream is to save enough money so that they can join him here. He thinks his children will have much better future in Italy.

"But they won't grow up as Somalis,'" I said.

He shrugged and said that he missed the way of life that his people preserved for centuries, but not the fighting. It is almost midnight. If there is any bird chirping, it is lost in the sounds of explosion, exclamation and laughter. I am tempted to close my eyes for a very long time so that I would see neither the misery of this world nor that of myself. I do not know which to choose. For the moment, I am closing my eyes. I hear the birds near the Equator sing as if to pierce through the air.