Poached Eggs by Farah Ahamed
Volume 3 | Issue 4 [August 2023]

Farah Ahamed

Volume 3 | Issue 4 [August 2023]

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 ‘Marry me Nuru,’ Jaffer said in his precise, measured tone. ‘Together we’ll build our future in a new Kenya.’

He was standing opposite her desk at the Chambers where she worked. She’d met him several months earlier and they’d struck up a friendship.

Nuru had a Pitman’s Secretarial Diploma and a driver’s licence from the first Ladies Driving School in Nairobi. With her natural beauty and qualifications she felt she deserved a man who really appreciated her.

Jaffer was a confident, self-made, business man. He was shorter than Nuru, already greying, and had very ordinary features. But he was able to charm her with his big dreams. He spoke excitedly about Kenya’s future, saying he believed everything was possible.

Nuru’s family were not happy with her decision to marry Jaffer; they had received many marriage proposals for her from professionals; a lawyer and a dentist.

But Nuru was adamant about Jaffer. ‘He appreciates my ambitions and intelligence,’ she said.

Jaffer employed Maria to help Nuru with the household chores.

‘I’d like to go back to working at Mr Seth’s Chambers,’ Nuru said, after a couple of days.

‘You can’t do that Nuru,’ Jaffer said, standing at the front door, his hand on the door knob. ‘People will say I can’t afford to take care of you.’

‘But Mr Seth’s ringing me today to confirm my start date.’

‘Then tell him I said the wives of prosperous men don’t work.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’m late Nuru; there are important people waiting to see me.’

She proffered her cheek, but he ran down the steps, and drove off.

When Jaffer got home, Nuru was lying on the bed with a migraine. He took off his jacket and hung it on a chair. ‘Today I accomplished everything I intended ahead of time,’ he said, loosening his braces. ‘It’s all about proper management.’  He pulled off the metal shirt sleeve holders and his tie. ‘You have a headache, Nuru, because you’re not organised.’ He took some papers from his briefcase. ‘So, I’ve made a list-.’ He pointed to the first page. ‘Prepare breakfast. Supervise Maria. Lunch. Siesta. Make dinner. Entertain Jaffer. Sleep.’

‘I see,’ Nuru said, turning the page.

‘This is our weekly shopping. 10 carrots. 4 onions. 10 tomatoes. 4 loaves of sliced white bread. 1 chicken. 2 pieces tilapia fish. 6 cartons of milk. 7 apples. 14 eggs.’

Artwork – Manjima Gupta, 2023

‘What if we need other things?’

‘You’ll tell me, and I’ll prepare an additional list.’

‘How can you be sure we’ll need only fourteen eggs?’

‘I’ll have two every morning.’

‘What about me?’

‘They’re not good for you. My mother said eggs give women health problems.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘This is your budget for the week,’ Jaffer said. ‘Two hundred shillings for vegetables, two hundred for fruit, two hundred for the bakers, two hundred for the butchers, two hundred for groceries.’

‘But they don’t all cost the same.’

‘True, but you’ll bargain in the market. Every shilling counts.’

She looked at the next page. ‘A menu for breakfast, lunch and dinner?’

‘Yes. For breakfast on Mondays I’ll have an omelette, scrambled eggs on Tuesday, boiled on Wednesdays, poached on Thursdays, and fried on Fridays. At the weekend, I’ll be  spontaneous.’ He took the papers from her and placed them in a red binder labelled; Nuru’s Duties.

‘Keep these safe.’ He put the file on the bureau. ‘Ring my mother and get the recipes of my favourite foods and put her instructions in the file. And here’s a calendar for you, too.’

‘What’s this for?’ she said.

‘You can mark your unclean days with a red cross so that I know in advance when you won’t be sleeping here. You’ll be in the spare room.’

‘Unclean?’

‘You know what I mean, impure.’ He made an impatient gesture with his hand. ‘I don’t want you making things dirty here.’ He unhooked his braces, sat down on the arm chair and removed his wallet from his trouser pocket and pulled out some notes. After counting and squaring them, he put them back. Then he took off his shirt, and undid his trousers.

He came and stood near the bed, wearing only his socks, shorts and a white, ribbed cotton vest. ‘You’re one lucky woman, Nuru.’ He smiled and tucked his vest into his shorts and pulled them higher around his waist. ‘I’m always one step ahead.’

‘You’ve forgotten nothing,’ she said.

‘There’s one more rule,’ he said. ‘A final, important, unwritten one. It’s quite simple; I like the same thing in bed no matter which day of the week.’ He caressed her cheek gently.

She imagined the mauve jacarandas falling on her; she’d heard it brought good luck.

*

The following evening in bed, Nuru turned the pages of The Daily Nation Jaffer had given her.

‘Please be gentler with the pages, you’re bending the edges and I have to return it to the office,’ he said.

‘It says all voters should be registered,’ she said. ‘When can we do that?’

‘Nuru,’ he said, taking the paper from her. ‘We’re one and the same, so there’s no need for you to vote.’

‘You can’t say that, we’re different people.’

‘Not anymore, you’re part of me.’

‘But it’s one person, one vote.’

‘Never mind what it says; you’re my wife, we’re one unit.’ He folded the paper and put it under the bed. ‘And from now on, no more English. It’s the language of our oppressors, and we’re independent now.’

‘So what do we speak then?’

‘Gujrati. It will even make our bond stronger.’

‘But I think in English.’

‘Think whatever you like, Nuru, but from now on use ‘tame’ and not ‘tun’ when addressing me in Gujrati. It’s important you refer to me with proper respect.’

He switched off the bed side lamp. ‘Come to me, Nuru,’ he said, reaching for her. ‘Show me what a good little wife you are.’

*

‘Could you buy me a car?’ Nuru said one evening while they were eating dinner.  She’d spoken in English.

Jaffer pretended not to hear and carried on eating.

She put her driver’s licence on the table next to him. ‘I paid for the lessons myself,’ she said in Gujrati.

‘I’ll take you wherever you need to go.’ He ate his rice and daal with his chubby fingers. ‘Nothing beats my mother’s cooking.’

Nuru moved the rice around her plate with her fork. On the radio the newscaster was giving an update on the elections.

‘KANU’s going to win,’ Jaffer said.

‘You can’t be so certain. Opposition parties like KADU also have support.’

‘We’re a one party state, there’s no space for challenges.’ He licked his fingers. ‘Kenyatta’s right; we need centralised authority to keep people in line.’

Nuru went to the kitchen and scraped her dinner into the bin.

‘Is that my mother’s cooking you’re wasting?’ Jaffer said, coming to stand next to her.

‘I’ve lost my appetite.’

He belched. ‘What can I take for indigestion? I think I’ve overeaten.’

Artwork – Manjima Gupta, 2023

*

‘Dr Stockley sent these for you,’ Jaffer said, placing several volumes on the coffee table; Encyclopaedia of Diseases, Reader’s Digests, a novel by Virginia Woolf. ‘I told him married life keeps you busy, and you don’t have time to read, but he insisted. Ask Maria to bring the others from the car.’

Nuru went through the books and arranged them in piles dividing them by subject.

‘Don’t waste your time Nuru,’ Jaffer said, ‘just display them on the shelf according to height, that’s how they look best.’

In the afternoons Nuru lay on her bed reading. She could hear Maria singing in the garden. She felt she could die of suffocation.

*

Nuru watched Jaffer stir the sugar in his tea.

The newscaster on the radio was interviewing people on the street about the elections.  Jaffer turned it off. ‘You aren’t listening to me,’ he said.

‘Sorry, what did you say?’

‘I said, where are my scrambled eggs?’

‘I was distracted for a minute and they got burnt.’

‘For God’s sake Nuru, when will you learn? You’re still speaking in English and today you’ve ruined my eggs. You really know how to spoil a man’s mood.’

She kept quiet thinking of the eggs hidden under a plate, waiting for her in the kitchen.

After Jaffer had left, Nuru found the newspaper he’d forgotten. In the Letters section, a man had written complaining to the Editor that his wife was supporting the opposition party, KADU. He wanted advice.

Nuru sat at the kitchen table with the newspaper and the plate of scrambled eggs. She sprinkled salt and pepper onto them, and while eating composed a letter.

Daily Nation, Nairobi

27^th March 1963

 Dear Editor,

 On the eve of Kenya’s first elections, when women have an equal right to vote for the first time, it is important they know how to navigate their limits.

 I wonder if the Daily Nation would be interested in publishing a weekly column: ‘The Women’s Guide’? I enclose a sample for your consideration.

 I hope to hear from you.

 Yours faithfully,

Mrs Nurbanu Muljiani

Encl.

 Kenyan Women Know Your Place 

1. If your husband tells a witty story, be sure to laugh; his jokes are always funny. This will make you delightful and desirable.
2. Never question your husband; he knows best. Be quick to admit you know less than him. In your thoughts be plain and simple; let your natural sweetness shine through.
3. Before he arrives home make a hot or cool drink, and arrange a comfortable pillow in his armchair. Change your dress, apply lipstick and dab on perfume. Soothe him with your delicate demeanour.
4. Allow him to talk first; what he has to say is more important than anything you can offer. Listen attentively and reassure him with a pleasing voice.
5. Never discuss politics; your foolish and dangerous thoughts will embarrass him and arouse his contempt. Appearing over- educated, and expressing opinions will lead to stress and premature aging.
6. If your husband has heart burn, mix one teaspoonful of Eno’s Fruit Salts in a glass of water. His overindulgence is a measure of your prowess as a cook.

She put the letter and article in an envelope and asked Maria to take it to the post office. Inside her tummy, the scrambled eggs gave her a warm, fuzzy feeling.

*

The next morning in the kitchen Nuru took the tray of eggs from the fridge. She took one egg and rolled it in her palms feeling its smooth surface. She broke two into a bowl and whisked them into a foam. She could hear Jaffer coming down the stairs. She poured the mixture into a cup, tipped the froth into her mouth and swallowed.

She wiped her lips with a tissue.

‘It’s Wednesday.’ Jaffer tucked a starched napkin under his chin. ‘I’ve been looking forward to my boiled eggs.’

‘They slipped from my hands.’

He flung off the napkin. ‘You’re impossible, Nuru.’

‘I could use tomorrow’s eggs and prepare them for you?’

‘No, you’ll disorganise everything,’ he said, leaving the table. ‘There are two eggs for each day, so leave it at that.’

Nuru placed her palms on her stomach; the raw eggs were swirling like a whirlwind.

*

The next day at breakfast Jaffer said, ‘I’ve been thinking about our country’s future. It  needs active citizens and it is time we make our contribution.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ she said. ‘Today’s the day we’ll vote.’

‘Don’t be stupid, Nuru, I’m talking about having children.’ He left the room and came back with the calendar. ‘I’ll do my duty on the days marked with black stars, and at the end of the month we’ll tally the score, and record the number in the corner. That way we’ll monitor our progress.’  He put the calendar next to her plate.

‘What about voting?’

‘Where are my poached eggs?’ he said, looking at the table.

‘They rolled off the counter when I took them out of the tray.’

His eyes bulging with fury. ‘What do you mean? Eggs don’t have wheels.’ He left the room, swearing.

Inside her belly, the eggs were doing rock ‘n roll.

She called Maria to come and clear the table. ‘Where’s the nearest polling station, Maria?’ she said.

‘At the primary school in the market, Mama.’

*

Nuru walked with Maria to the market through the gullies of kiosks selling fruits and vegetables. Near a rubbish heap, an old woman was sitting on a low stool in front of a stove. She spooned githeri from the pot onto a tin plate and served it to a man.

‘We need women in government, like Makumbi in Uganda, and Lameck in Tanzania,’ she said.

‘Women should stick to cooking and bearing children,’ the man said. ‘Kindly leave the business of running our country to us men.’

‘It’s only a matter of time. Soon the women of Maendeleo ya Wanawake will have power.’ The woman stirred the pot. ‘A flag blows in the direction of the wind. And the winds of change have begun.’

*

Artwork – Manjima Gupta, 2023

At breakfast, Jaffer stood looking at the table. ‘Jam, butter, toast and tea,’ he said, enunciating each word. ‘But again, no eggs. What’s going on, Nuru?’ his tone was menacing.

‘I overcooked them by mistake.’ Her voice was calm. ‘I had to throw them away.’

‘God help me.’ Jaffer thumped the back of the chair. ‘What kind of woman have I married?’

‘Mistakes happen.’

‘Not in my house, they don’t.’ He walked out of the room, cursing her. He returned in a few minutes. ‘Nuru, Maria says you went to the market yesterday, why? According to my schedule it wasn’t market day.’

‘I went to vote.’

‘Nuru,’ he shouted. ‘Stop meddling in politics. Don’t interfere, do you understand?’

*

That night in bed Jaffer said, ‘I don’t like being defied Nuru.’ He pointed to the Daily Nation. ‘Look even KADU has merged with KANU.’

Nuru turned the pages to the advertisement for a Morris. ‘That’s the car I want.’

He snatched the paper from her. ‘More Mini-magic, what nonsense. You can’t even handle eggs without an accident, never mind a steering wheel.’

She fell asleep listening to Jaffer’s snores, dreaming she was driving a white Morris around Nairobi. Her arm was resting on the open window, and she was wearing fashionable dark glasses and an elegant scarf.

*

Nuru sat on the sofa reading Mrs Dalloway. She enjoyed Woolf’s writing, it gave her ideas. She looked up when Jaffer came in. ‘You’re home early?’

‘You’re the talk of the town, Nuru,’ Jaffer flung the newspaper down next to her.

‘I wanted it to be a surprise.’

‘When Dr Stockley praised your column in The Daily Nation, it came like a bombshell. I had no idea what he was talking about. I was so embarrassed. And when I read your piece, I’ll tell you what really annoyed me.’

‘Yes?’

‘The title. Don’t you think it should be: ‘The Rules According to Jaffer’? After all, I’ve taught you everything you know.’

‘I’ll have a word with the Editor,’ she said. ‘By the way, there’ll be no eggs for the rest of the week.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I was preparing a recipe from your mother this afternoon and had to remove the eggs from the fridge to reach something behind them. I’ve no idea how, but I dropped the entire tray.’

 

~End~