My destination was a few hundred meters from the metro station, reached via graffiti-strewn culverts that doubled as a drug market at night, a square that was used as a flea market on Wednesdays, grocery shops in long, reclining buildings, and a police station housed in a squat, box-like structure. The high-rises, behemoths that could house anywhere from eight to fifteen hundred souls, were configured in large compounds named after the alphabet. The biggest ones were divided into three or more sections, built in semi-circular formation. From now on, the center of my life was going to be Compound E in the behemoth called Eekhoorn.
In 1966, when Grandpa was suffering at the hands of goons during the height of the state of emergency, Amsterdam’s ghetto, conceived as a garden of Eden, was being built to house people from Holland’s colonial past: Antilleans and Surinamese. Covered walkways connecting the main structures to garages were constructed, paths were paved, pipe water and flush toilets installed; and the apartment buildings oozed the arrogance of newness. The Garden was carved into parks, which rubbed shoulders with highways, metro lines and bridges and sprouted large bushes which burst with flowers in spring and summer. Towering above the bushes were trees that called to mind forests on the South American mainland, from where the majority of the immigrants would come. On summer evenings, the smell of flowers filled the paths, and one could hear the last birds singing and insects preparing for the night.
Dream realized, the Garden was peopled with dusky former colonials, who walked among the trees that hid the forbidden fruit and the grass that housed the serpent which would poison the whole dream. Akin to God, the Dreamer withdrew, and the Garden was invaded by addictive weeds and the vicious serpents of disillusionment, isolation and legalized crime in the true spirit of prime-time capitalism. Mountains of reports on the proliferation of crime, drugs and unemployment piled up in the government offices, but because it was all inside the secluded Garden, not much was done. After all, the soothing waters of welfare benefits were still flowing over the blaze, and the children attended school, and policing was mild. There was freedom of movement from the ex-colonies to the Garden, and everybody was free to do whatever they wanted, in the true spirit of democracy. “A reasonable balance” and “It could have been worse” were the mottos gracing the walls of the government offices. Indeed.
As I entered the ghetto I saw black men, women and children entering and emerging from the behemoths, going about the normal business of everyday life. I couldn’t help but smile. The shop attendants in the groceries were mostly black, Caribbean or African, with a sprinkling of Indians and whites. My new home had been recently painted a cream color with red strips on the sides, and it looked fine. The corridors inside were huge and long and windy, and some nooks ran with stale piss. Officially, eight hundred people resided in this behemoth, but unofficial figures ran up to fifteen hundred. Nobody knew exactly how many people lived here. I liked the idea of anonymity, the air of low-key lawlessness and the fantasy touch of the Wild West. I was feeling inviolable: bad things could happen here, but not to me. I had washed my robes in the blood of the bitter wars I had been through and felt that the lukewarm violence of the ghetto would not touch me. Here I could live a quiet life, responsible for and to nobody, and if I got tired of it, maybe I would return to Uganda.
My new home was a four-bedroom flat on the seventh floor. My landlady, Keema, was a thirty-two-year-old woman who had left Uganda and her moldy marriage and gone to Kenya before arriving here on a tourist visa almost ten years ago. Her network of old friends had helped her find work, accommodations and solace, and when her period of illegality ended, she got a Dutch passport and collected her three children. In this flat lived about ten people, most of them coming and going at odd times. When I arrived, there were six regulars. I rented the smallest bedroom, which was next to the sitting room and faced the toilet and bathroom. At night, the sitting room doubled as a bedroom for those who were passing through or had just arrived or had stayed over after a party. The only lesson my landlady seemed to have learned in life was never to turn people away. The place was a clearinghouse for those in transit to Britain, a hub for Ugandan exiles in the country and a party zone where birthdays, Christmases and all manner of obscure feasts were organized, because, unlike her friends’ white neighborhoods, the ghetto had no noise limit. Here you could blast your stereo and put the television on at such a volume that the furniture vibrated. If a neighbor was disturbed by noise, all he could do was to return the favor by organizing a party and making as much noise as possible. Police never looked into such matters. In fact, the white policemen never left their box-like structure at night. There were flat wardens in each building who were deputized. And favoring a laissez-faire mode of policing, they kept out of people’s hair as much as possible. If burglars struck at night, you had to hold on, hoping that the wardens would come in time to lend a hand. If you got held up by rough youths or some deranged junkie, you had to rely on your own resources. If you were stalked or terrorized by shadowy characters, you had to work out your own defense system. Consequently, quite a few people here carried knives.
Keema’s house was a popular place. There was always somebody coming and going. The kitchen was going at all hours, and the toilet seemed to flush non-stop, the gurgling cistern making noises reminiscent of Uncle Kawayida’s turkeys. The children attended school, and when they returned, they did their homework and went out to play. My landlady did not see them until evening, because she worked in a greenhouse outside Amsterdam and sometimes returned home late. She always arrived dog-tired and irritable, and if she found a cup broken or a misdemeanor committed, then she would explode into the tension-breaking rages of stressed parenthood.
Most misdemeanors were committed by her middle child, who was about ten. If something went wrong, Keema immediately suspected her. And if the girl did not move fast enough, Keema would whack her with an umbrella or with her hands. Her only son, who was also the youngest, was the apple of her eye. He was stubborn as hell and liked farting when visitors were around, but Keema either ignored the noise and the stink or found some way of excusing him. I took a special liking to the eternal scapegoat, and she exploited the situation. When she needed pocket money, she would come and dance for me, duplicating the pelvic thrusts of the American rappers she saw on television, and I would give her some money. I was far from her only victim. At parties, she would grind in front of male guests with an insistence that left female guests squirming with embarrassment, till she got rewarded. Keema never punished her for these rather provocative displays. She even seemed perversely charmed by them.
During the first weeks, I went to downtown Amsterdam a lot, visiting museums, the red-light district and other places of interest I had both read and heard about; but as the novelty of the city waned and I got used to its sights and sounds, I started staying in the ghetto. At home, I found myself playing my old role of nanny. The children often asked to be helped with mathematics, and I did lend a hand, but for the most part, they watched television and fought and argued and enjoyed their childhood. They made me think of Serenity and Padlock’s shitters, and of Aunt Lwandeka’s orphaned children.