'Safari has died'

Today I called my carpenter to check on the shelves he told me would be ready last month. An unfamiliar voice answered the phone. "Is Safari there?" I asked. The reply was muffled. It sounded like he said, "Safari has lied."

Then he said, more clearly: "This is his brother. Safari has passed away."

I'd spoken to Safari on Monday. This had become a weekly or biweekly ritual since I met him in October and contracted him to build me a coffee table. I'd call and he'd answer, "Yes, boss!" I'd say how are you and he'd say, "Fine, boss!" I'd ask how the work was coming and he'd say, "Very well, very well." It would take a few more moments to establish that while the work might indeed have been going very well, it was also going very, very slowly.

In January, after about 10 weeks, Safari finished the table he'd said would be done in two. It was gorgeous - a rich, dark-stained mvule wood, elegantly carved in the Swahili style and inlaid with bone. It was just the sort of coastal Kenyan look I'd had in mind in October when I happened to see his little tin-roofed kiosk at the roadside, with the name "Malindi Furnitures" carefully stenciled at the top, and pulled my car over to wander inside.

I liked the table so much that I sent a picture of it to my parents:



















Similar wood and workmanship would cost two or three times more in the U.S. My mom asked if she could have one shipped to her. I immediately asked Safari to make a set of matching shelves to fill out the room. The last time I saw him, last week, the shelves were about halfway done, with the sanding, staining, carving and bonework left to be done. "You don't work quickly, but I guess it's worth the wait," I said. He beamed. "It will last your lifetime," he said.

Bhargavi was visiting over the weekend and we drove past his shop on Sunday, but it was closed. That was strange, I thought. Sundays are usually busy for him, with lots of foot traffic from the nearby shopping complex. On Monday it took me several tries to reach him by phone, and when he finally picked up he didn't sound the same. "I'm sick, boss," he said. I asked if he was seriously ill, but he said he would be OK after a few days.

Safari's brother said it was chicken pox that killed him. Put aside for a moment the insanity that something like that can kill a strong, middle-aged guy, because as I've come to realize, people in Kenya die every day from afflictions we think of as routine. His brother said the family was preparing to take his body to be buried in Malindi with his ancestors, and asked if I could help with the arrangements. I'm traveling out of the country this weekend, I said, but I could help out when I returned.

"And don't worry," he said. "I know you have paid some money. We will organize to have all your work completed in the next few weeks." I started to offer some platitudes about the work not being important, but I stopped. I want those shelves even more now, and I know this sounds maudlin, but I think Safari would have wanted that too.