Amie in Africa Box Set 1

by Lucinda E Clarke

  “Yeah, isn’t it great? At last I can get around without having to hang about for the company driver. And you know, there isn’t a decent driver among the lot of them.”

  Amie had to smile, her idea of a good driver and Jennifer’s were probably quite different. She gave her new friend a hug and led the way into the house. She envied Jennifer her confidence and easy-going manner, so unlike herself when she’d first arrived in Africa. But then Jennifer called herself an army brat. While Amie had grown up in a stable home and lived all her early life in one town attending both primary and secondary schools with the same group of friends, Jennifer had been dragged all over the world by her parents from one army base to another. There was a new school every year, new people to meet, new friends to make and although this was her first time in Africa, she took it all in her stride. Yes, thought Amie, travel certainly changes people.

  “Come on in,” she ushered her visitor into the lounge. “Coffee?”

  “Yeah, for sure. Even in the hottest weather give me coffee, preferably by the bucketful.” Jennifer threw herself into a chair and opened her bag to search for a mirror and comb. “Mother said we must always keep up appearances, even in the hottest weather. She was such a stickler for etiquette. Probably something to do with coming from Boston, you know all the old, original families, the mainstay of America.”

  “I know the class system is alive and well in Britain,” Amie informed her, “but I thought these days America was all one big melting pot.”

  “Don’t you believe it. It wasn’t all that long ago they refused to let Jews, blacks or the Irish into high-end clubs and other places. Takes time to change mindsets.”

  “Yes, it does,” Amie agreed. “That’s one of the first things I learned when I arrived here.”

  “Now,” Jennifer changed the subject. “I need your advice on ... Oh, before I forget, why is there a crowd of young men lounging around outside your house?”

  “Is there?” Amie wasn’t too surprised. “Africans often sit around on the side of the road doing nothing very much, it’s a common sight everywhere. The workers like to lie out on the grass to sleep during their lunch break. Did you hear of the huge fuss a few years ago when a picture of them was published in a British newspaper? The caption claimed they’d been massacred. Whether the news photographer hung around long enough to see them all get up when the siren summoned them back to work, I don’t know.”

  “That’s just so typical of propaganda and half-truths,” Jennifer nodded. “Now what I really need is your advice on the protocol for the Club dance next week. Since it’s the first we’ll be attending, I need to know how formal it’ll be, what sort of dress, and does Patrick need to dust off his tuxedo? I can’t remember the last time ...”

  “Look,” Amie interrupted her, “did you see that?”

  “What?” Jennifer looked in the direction Amie was pointing.

  “There, that shadow outside.”

  “No, I didn’t see anything,” Jennifer frowned.

  “It’s gone now.” Amie felt foolish. She wasn’t going to share her fears with a girl she hardly knew. “Oh, I’m sure it was nothing, do go on.”

  “Well, as I was saying, it’s been a while since Patrick tried to squeeze into his formal attire and I’m sure he’s put on weight.”

  Amie listened to Jennifer chatter on, although her visitor didn’t seem aware that her hostess wasn’t concentrating on a word she said. I’m obviously letting my imagination run away with me, she decided. Jonathon had never seen any shadows, had no such silly feelings they were not alone, it was only her. She’d even tried to broach the subject again with Lulu, but the maid had looked at her with what could almost be described as contempt in her eyes, so she’d backed off rapidly.

  She was waving Jennifer goodbye, promising they would meet up for a drink the following Friday, when she noticed the small side gate. It was the gleam of something shiny winking in the sunshine that attracted her attention. When she looked closely, she could see that it wasn’t covered in rust, but had recently been oiled. Testing it, she saw that it opened easily, from both the inside and outside. Now who could have done that, and why?

  She questioned Teabag, the gardener, and Lulu, but remained none the wiser. Both of them denied all knowledge of who’d oiled the locks and hinges, and both swore they’d never used the small gate – ever.

  Next day Amie bought a length of thick chain and a large lock and secured the gate. Now let anyone try to get in or out, she thought with satisfaction, and indeed for the next few days not one shadow slipped past her peripheral vision. Problem solved, she congratulated herself.

  And then it started all over again and Amie began to wonder if she was going mad. Maybe all the stresses and strains of the past were catching up with her. Was she suffering some kind of delayed post-traumatic stress syndrome? Did she need some serious psychological help? Not that there were any such facilities in Apatu, the local people just got on with their daily lives and worked their way through their feelings, or at least, that is how it seemed. They were tough, they put up with so much probably because their day to day survival was paramount. They didn’t have time to sit and worry and feel sorry for themselves, well the women didn’t, Amie wasn’t so sure about the men. It was up to the women to care for the children, keep the fire going, prepare and cook the food, tend to the vegetables and crops, and bring in the cattle and goats. A large part of their day was also spent in collecting water. The lucky ones around the town didn’t have too far to go. The government had installed taps at the end of each street, but it still took a lot of effort. You could see the women and girls balancing containers of all kinds, from ancient jerry cans, oil tins, buckets, and on one occasion, a baby’s bath on their heads, as they walked gracefully back to their houses without spilling a drop.

  Amie had tried it once, when Pretty had her day off and she was sure no one was watching. It was incredibly difficult. Despite experimenting with a variety of containers, not once could Amie walk more than a couple of steps without them sliding off her head spilling water in all directions. Finally, soaked through, she’d given up. Since she’d seen some of the girls as young as nine or ten, heads held high, walking gracefully with their hips gently swaying from side to side, she decided that it was something you had to learn over time, and from a very early age.

  Amie threw herself into helping at the Club. They suggested she go on the committee and organize events, but she declined, explaining that her work at the orphanage took up a lot of her free time. Who was she kidding? With Lulu to do all the housework, and Teabag muddling about in the garden, she had all the time in the world. Her life was one of a pampered, spoiled woman more in tune with the Victorian era than the twenty-first century.

  The truth was she just didn’t feel up to it. Her nerves were beginning to fray, she was losing her temper easily and jumping at every little sound. If it had been something she could get a handle on, something concrete and solid, then no problem, but this was only inside her head; it didn’t really exist in the real world, did it?

  She threw herself into helping Mrs Motswezi at the orphanage. Already three other women had moved in acting as both house mothers and teachers. The numbers of small children increased every day as word got around there were kind ladies who would provide shelter, food and even more importantly, education.

  It never failed to amaze Amie the thirst that even the very young African children had for knowledge. They saw it as a way out of poverty, a stepping stone to a good job and building a future for themselves. They were prepared to walk miles, come rain or shine, often without shoes or suitable clothing in the winter, just to get to school. The sight of little ones only four or five years old skirting busy roads inches away from the speeding traffic, was enough to give you a heart attack.

  Some found their own way to the orphanage in small groups with an older child dragging the little ones behind. A few were brought in by families, distant relatives or concerned citizens who
had rescued them from street corners or shop doorways. Some families could no longer afford to feed their offspring, though where they imagined Mrs Motswezi got the food from to feed so many, was a question no one thought to ask.

  Most of the new arrivals were hungry, malnourished, dirty and nervous. One of the most difficult tasks was to persuade them to part with their clothes, even for a short while, and allow strangers to give them a bath and wash their hair. The pitifully few clothes they wore were their only possessions and they clung on tightly to their threadbare shorts and dresses. Often, they were covered in sores, cuts and bruises, and Amie learned that however gentle she was, bathing was not a pleasant experience for them. One or two children had even run away after grabbing their dirty clothes and some food, and raced off back towards the city centre.

  There was nothing that could be done about those poor little mites, but hope that hunger would entice them back later. Mrs Motswezi’s main concern was the probability they got in with one of the local gangs, who would teach them to shoplift and sniff glue or methylated spirits. Several gangs had sprung up in and around Apatu, reminding Amie of Dickens’ Oliver Twist. Only this was now and not Victorian London long before the slum clearances and establishment of the social service departments.

  All around Apatu, people were too busy rebuilding their own lives to worry about the homeless children roaming the streets. Only a few like Mrs Motswezi cared enough to take them in. Amie often wondered what had happened to those who may have escaped the rural village where the rest of the Motswezi family had lived, but she was fearful of asking in case it raised bad memories for her friend.

  Once the children’s scrapes and scratches had been patched up, the next task was to ‘civilize them’ as their benefactor called it. Amie was amazed to see that the first lesson was learning how to queue nicely, without jostling, pushing and prodding.

  “This is the first thing you teach them?” she’d asked amazed.

  Mrs Motswezi gave her a long stare before replying. “Yes, but of course. It is most important they know how to behave properly. I will have no punching and pushing forward in my school. They must learn to behave like civilized people and wait until it is their turn. That is the most important start.”

  “And dare I ask what lesson number two is?” Amie couldn’t help smiling.

  The older lady drew herself up to her full height of a little over five foot and replied. “Next they must learn to wash their hands before they eat food and, of course after they have ...” she indicated the bush area behind the school. Africans rarely discuss bodily functions and certainly not sex.

  Amie knew no toilets had been built yet, so the children, as they’d always done, merely disappeared out of sight when they needed to relieve themselves.

  “Then,” Mrs Motswezi continued, “they must learn to eat nicely and not have their mouths open. That is disgusting and too many of my fellow people do that and it is not nice at all. When you chew your food, it must be in private.”

  It was all Amie could do to stop herself giggling. There had to be a starting point she guessed, looking at the ragged crowd of little bodies in front of her, shuffling into a disorderly queue for the water basin and small bar of soap. One at a time they inched forward, unable to stop themselves from leaning into the person in front of them, all eager to wash their hands and dry them on the small towel that Amie handed to each one in turn. Glancing at it, the towel was now dirtier than ever as one little soapy hand after another grabbed it and scrubbed their tiny fingers before handing it back.

  Then they scampered off to claim a plastic plate and mug, and noisily queued up at the food table for a spoonful of sudsa (maize meal porridge), a spoonful of vegetables swimming in a watery stew and a small helping of orange juice.

  Before the first civil war, the orphanage had received donations from several European and American church groups, but Amie doubted that many would be funding them now, at least for the moment. Until the rest of the world felt the present government was stable, they wouldn’t be rushing to donate their hard-raised money into the hands of possible insurgents.

  Amie had promised though to try and contact a few organizations on behalf of the orphanage so they could start to improve the facilities. Now it was the dry season and the tents were adequate for maybe another month or two, but they wouldn’t stand up to the heavy downpours that the farmers so desperately needed.

  Lessons were held out of doors, usually under the trees which provided a modicum of shade. Small easels served as blackboards and writing was practised in the dirt with a stick. It just wasn’t possible to compare their education with a first world country, thought Amie as she helped a little girl try to write her name for the first time. She remembered the neat rows of desks, every pupil with their own pens, books, colouring pencils and so on. These children were just too thrilled to be shown how to write their own names in the dust using a broken twig.

  In the banks in town it was quite common for the elderly to make an uncoordinated cross on documents they certainly couldn’t read, and for more important contracts they would be told to press their inked thumbs onto the papers to imply consent. It left them wide open to abuse and fraud, and as in most African countries, fraud was rampant.

  While she gazed at the crowd of young children pushing and jostling as they queued up for their afternoon juice and biscuit, Amie told herself that she was not going to get emotionally involved with a particular child, never again. It only brought heartache and sorrow. She would do all she could to help make life a little better for these poor orphans but never, ever would she think of them as her own. She’d had a special bond with Angelina, she’d felt it from the first moment she’d laid eyes on her and she doubted that would happen again.

  Often the children would crowd around, pulling at her clothes, searching for her hand, chattering away in Togodian nineteen to the dozen. Amie only understood a few words but that didn’t deter them rattling off sentences, the words shooting out like bullets. These were the more outgoing children, not the majority. Most sat silently, following instructions from the adults, often huddled on the ground lost in some memory. Yet they were kind to each other. Amie saw little of the bullying that was now talked about so often back in England. Older girls would mother the younger ones, their maternal instinct fully developed in their earliest years. The boys would rough and tumble until Mrs Motswezi, or one of her helpers, shouted at them. The children obeyed immediately. None of the orphanage workers would think twice about giving the troublemakers a sound smack over the head, or a good, hard shake. No one would think to argue or complain. Amie was convinced she would never resort to corporal punishment, but here it was accepted as the norm. Maybe, in comparison to what many of the children had witnessed, it was seen as nothing. Those who escaped punishment would gather round and gently tease the offender or give them a hug, and within minutes everything was back to normal and they would all be playing together again.

  They watched her drive in through the gates. One of them was getting impatient. He wanted to act now, but their instructions only mentioned Amie and Jonathon – no one else was to be involved. Collateral damage was a big issue, and for reasons unknown to him, were forbidden in this case. But he felt they had waited too long, already there was a guard patrolling the premises during the day. It was going to make their job more difficult.

  As she drove home earlier than usual due to a blinding headache, Amie had forgotten the vague disquiet she felt around the house. It was just her imagination and she would have to ‘snap out of it and pull herself together’ as her mother used to say. There were no shadows floating around the garden, the house was not haunted, and only old buildings were inhabited by ghosts.

  She’d left strict instructions with Lulu to keep the gates firmly closed and to let no one in, so as she drove around the corner, she was both surprised and angry to see the smaller gate was wide open.

  She leapt out of the car, walked swiftly into the garden and looked around
. At first all seemed quiet and peaceful then she heard voices from the back of the house. Taking a deep breath and walking as quietly as she could she rounded the corner to see four men sitting under one of the palm trees. Initially, they didn’t see her, they were too busy giggling and chattering like a bunch of schoolgirls. Something made one of them turn around and with a squawk he leapt to his feet in alarm.

  The others followed and before Amie could stop them, they’d all taken to their heels and made for the gate as fast as their legs could carry them. For a moment Amie stared at them in astonishment. What was going on? She didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  The door to Lulu’s room opened and yet another man appeared adjusting his clothing while a voice called out from inside. Amie recognized Lulu’s dulcet tones. She walked over and looked round the door.

  Her maid was sprawled on the bed, naked from the waist down while she counted some filthy dirty Todogian dollar notes before shoving them into a tin on the shelf above the bed. When she saw her Madam observing her from the doorway, she screamed. She seized the blanket, covered herself and leapt off the bed pulling her skirt on over her head with one hand and grabbing the broom, which was leaning against the wall at the foot of the bed, with the other.

  “Not so fast,” Amie was furious. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” She held up her hand. “No, don’t tell me I can guess. And what bride price do you think you’re worth now? Pack up your things and leave. I’ll pay you what I owe you and I don’t want you round here again. Do you understand?”

  Lulu hung her head and stared at the ground. Amie suspected she wasn’t ashamed of what she’d done, but of getting caught. Getting caught was a much bigger crime.

  “But Madam, it is only this once and the man he tell me he hurt me if I do not ...” and Lulu began to sob loudly. She wasn’t giving up without a fight.

  “I don’t believe a word of it,” Amie was quite unmoved. “This has been going on for weeks!” Yes, it all made sense now. The shadows just out of sight, the feeling she was not alone, the instinct there was something lurking in the shadows, the haunting. It was nothing supernatural at all. The gate had been deliberately oiled and left open, the men sitting outside were part of the queue and, Amie realised with relief, she had not been imagining things and going mad. It all fell into place.