1943

San Cassimally
5 min readJan 6, 2024

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Father brought chickens from Rodriguez (Unsplash)

In 1943 it was indeed a world war, and it had reached way down south in the Indian Ocean. In Mauritius there were shortages of almost everything, as we only grew our vegetables and raised some cattle and caprines. Even powdered egg had to be imported from the colonial power _ and buttons and matches.

Although the Colonial Office claimed to be looking after all our needs, cargoes to the island were often attacked and sunk by Japanese submarines, usually just as they were reaching Mauritian waters. Some anti-colonialist friends of father’s claimed that this was British propaganda, to whip up animosity towards the Axis powers, and to explain their lack of interest in our fate, but it was true that now and again goods from sunken ships landed on our shores.

My brother Khalil, 4 years older than me, allegedly the brightest boy in our neighbourhood suggested a foolproof way of stopping those ships being sunk. The impending arrival of a ship was usually announced on the monitoring station on top of Signal Mountain looming over the harbour, by flying the appropriate flag. This, Khalil reasoned out, was what made the Japanese submarine get ready for their dastardly action. So, he suggested that the RAF could send a Spitfire over to us, and we put up the flag when there is no ship coming in, getting the plane ready to fly out. The sub starts its prowl, the eye in the sky is watching its every movement, and when the time is ripe, boom! Bigger brother Ahmad explained to him that the RAF, engaged in the Battle of Britain did not have planes to spare. But this story is not about the war as such.

Father who traded with the neighbouring islands had gone to Madagascar on the sailing ship La Perle, an 80-tonner. It could take between five and ten days to reach Tamatave, depending on the wind. I was eight. And because of the perils lying in wait under the Indian Ocean, the ship was stuck there, and Father would be stranded for three months.

The onus was on Maman to put food on the table, to pay rent, and replace broken slates etc. Father had left a small lump sum, but that would have hardly lasted one week. Maman had bought a Singer with funds from a chit, called site in patois, and in periods of hardship, like the one we were experiencing at that time, she would be bent double on the sewing machine, until late in the night, earning a pittance making dresses for the rich ladies of the town. And it was my job to deliver them and collect payment. Not an easy task. The Chinese shopkeeper Kwite generously gave us credit for rice and oil and similar necessities. Although our rich neighbours were happy to lend us money, Maman was too proud to accept. Some butchers to whom father had, in the past, sold cattle or goats he had brought from Rodrigues, who probably owed him money, would begrudgingly either sell us meat on credit.

One life saver was the chickens. Father brought dozens of chickens from Rodrigues, most of which were sold a week after he arrived, but there were always a handful roaming our yard, meant for our consumption, for Eids or visitors from Reunion or Madagascar. Occasionally someone would entreat us to sell one to them, and we would agree, usually when someone needed a pair of shoes, or we needed medicine, and we the children hated having to let go of a proud rooster or a happy layer. So we did not starve. But this is not about chickens either.

It is a story about rent. We had been living in a small rented house in the Rue de Labourdonnais, for a quarter of a century, with the owner living round the corner. We had paid rent regularly, but lately we were in arrears. One morning a small frail very dark man, with a topi on his head arrived, and demanded to speak to Maman. I knew him as Abdul. She must have known who he was, and greeted him coldly. What did he want. He sent me, the man said, to ask you to pay what you owe. He sent you? said my mother. Who is he? The small man explained that he was a servant of the proprietor. You should have said, said Maman, only you said he. He could be anybody. No, the man insisted, he was Mr X. Tell him to come himself, said my mother, there’s no need to send his boboc. Boboc is a derogatory term with meanings encompassing slave, fool and pimp. Captanine, there’s no need to use such language, I am just a poor man like you_. Maman interrupted him. Who told you we were poor? We aren’t poor. Then just pay what you owe and I’m off your hair. Why did you say we were poor? The poor fellow began to stammer. Well, I- I- don’t know. You should think before you speak to well-born people, we’re not paupers; does not Mr X ever have financial difficulties? What about you? You look like the trousers you’ve got on don’t belong to you? And now you come here trying to lord it over us. Even as a child I knew that the poor man was doing nothing of the sort. When fair-skinned people are ashamed, they blush and turn red, but this dark man was turning blue. He would happily have turned tail and run away, but Maman was not going to let him off so easily.

Tell your master that he is a bloodsucker. We’ve paid his exorbitant rent for thirty years, never missing a single payment. Tell him to check that the total rent we’ve paid over the years must come to twice the price of this leaky house, and now he is threatening to have us evicted. In truth he had done no such thing.

Abdul was almost in tears as he turned back and left hurriedly.

After he was gone, we all tackled Maman. Although the smallest, I pointed out that she was dealing with poor Abdul no differently to how I myself was treated by the fine rich ladies to whom I had taken their newly-sewn dresses when I demanded payment. The two brothers challenged her as well. She listened in silence until we had all had our say.

Children, she said, Allah who understand everything will pardon me. I know it was wrong, but I had to find a way to stop further demands. Where am I going to find the money? I have to choose between paying the rent and letting you starve. You will only understand when one day you have children of your own. Abdul never came back

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San Cassimally
San Cassimally

Written by San Cassimally

Prizewinning playwright. Mathematician. Teacher. Professional Siesta addict.

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