Last Orders at Harrods

by Michael Holman

  Kibwana mopped his brow with a red silk handkerchief, which he carefully folded and returned to his jacket breast pocket.

  “Nduka plans to rig the elections. Nugilu will stand down, as a result of his talking sweet to her. And she will stand down at the last minutes, when it will be too late for any person to take her place.”

  It was not the first time Pearson had heard this claim. It had been the main topic of conversation during his visits to Harrods over the past couple of weeks. But Kibwana was the first senior politician to go public with the rumour, and this gave Pearson pause for thought.

  Anna Nugilu, the presidential election candidate of the main opposition party, the Democratic Alliance was a brave woman, as Pearson had discovered when he followed her on the campaign trail for the Financial News, or FN as it was known. She had first encountered the power and prejudice of a conservative male-dominated society when she was at her most vulnerable. She was still mourning the death of her husband, a London-trained dentist, when his will had been challenged by up-country relatives. Her soul had been hardened during the long and bitter dispute that followed, with relatives demanding that the will, in which her husband had named Anna as the sole beneficiary, be declared null and void. She had won in the end, and it was a battle that prepared her well for the brutal cut and thrust of Kuwisha politics.

  Her election in 1992 to the city’s central constituency was a triumph in itself. The defeated incumbent, the minister for rural roads, had a well-deserved reputation as a political thug in a party with many contenders for that title. She increased her majority four years later, and as the opposition continued in its fragmented attempt to overthrow President Nduka, she was emerging as one of the few politicians capable of leading a credible challenge.

  But if what Kibwana was saying was true, the challenge could be stillborn. According to the lawyer, the president was trying to persuade Nugilu to drop out of the contest at the last minute, which would leave the opposition in disarray. In return, she would be given a seat in his cabinet and an unimpeded run at the next poll – by which time Nduka would have retired.

  Kibwana, a bright and engaging man with a line in flowery rhetoric, denounced what he called “clandestine State House bargainings”, at which President Nduka was subverting democracy. The politician reached a climax:

  “They are to meet this week, before Uhuru Day, I warn the people of Kuwisha. They will plot to steal the erection.”

  The audience listened with massive unconcern.

  “Mrs Nugilu will step down at the last minute,” he said once again. “It will be too late to replace her. That is known for a fact,” he declared as barely a ripple of interest disturbed the listeners.

  One of the many office assistants stood up.

  “My first question is in four parts,” he began, and Pearson’s heart sank. As a rule of thumb, when the question was longer than the likely answer, it was time to go. Nobody else gave any indication of leaving, however. Instead there was a mass shuffling of rumps, and the audience seemed to settle down for a long haul.

  Newman Kibwana’s denunciation would be reported by the girl, who did occasional pieces for the BBC’s Focus on Africa. Reuters would consult the Associated Press correspondent, and something might appear on the wires. If Kibwana then turned the publicity to advantage, and played his cards right, he would be invited abroad by the British and American governments as part of their democracy-building programme, and would be on the list to meet the next visiting minister from London or Washington.

  He would either be described as “impressive” and held up by Kuwisha’s foreign partners as evidence of President Nduka’s decision to liberalise the political climate; or he would be used to show that the President’s failure to ease his authoritarian regime had created an angry and frustrated opposition, home to capable but alienated young professionals, who could well lead a revolution onto the streets.

  And there were more potential wrinkles to the story. Kibwana’s predecessor as party leader had recently stood down. A day later a story appeared in the Kuwisha Times, suggesting that his appointment as chairman of Kuwisha’s long promised anti-corruption body was imminent. This also was open to two interpretations. The cynics saw it as confirmation that the commission was a toothless bulldog and a source of state patronage that provided jobs for the boys; the optimists were heartened, treating it as evidence that the Old Man, as they liked to call Nduka, wanted to leave behind a cleaner, more honest administration when he eventually retired.

  To the best of Pearson’s knowledge, no ruling party on the continent had ever managed to reform itself from within. Nor, for that matter, did African politicians resign over matters of principle. Not that they did in Europe. But in Africa, principles were flouted with a frequency and a brazenness that defied belief.

  Did a substantial opposition really exist in Kuwisha, Pearson wondered, as he hovered uncertainly in the canteen doorway, or was its main function to milk the funds of gullible donors?

  It was entirely possible that Newman Kibwana represented a fresh wave of African democrats, and that one day he would supplant President Nduka. It had happened, after all, in Zambia, where an obscure trade unionist had become president, even if he had then gone on to become a vain autocrat. Pearson paused, pulled both ways.

  Was the press conference one of dozens of such inconsequential events? Or could it mark a formative stage in the making of post-colonial Kuwisha? He took a further look at the BBC stringer, and decided it might just be the latter. He slipped in beside her, notebook in hand.

  “Could you give me a fill,” he whispered, unable to stop himself looking down her blouse.

  He learnt nothing new from her briefing. But the first glimmerings of an idea came to him, an idea that, if successfully implemented, could help shape the future of Kuwisha and bring the corrupt career of President Nduka to an end. At first he had dismissed the scheme as little better than an adolescent prank, something to be joked about with his colleagues as they sat on the veranda of the Outspan, drinking beer and gin and tonics. But the more he thought about it, the more tempting it became.

  There would be little risk for Pearson. He was about to return to London, where he would work on the foreign desk for a few months until his next posting. Most of his possessions were already in tea chests, and would be sent on to London. What remained could be squeezed into his canvas holdall. A few minutes later, having jotted down his London number on the back of his business card and giving it to the young woman, he left the press conference and continued on his journey to Harrods.

  As he drove, he continued to turn over the idea in his head, and by the time he reached the bar, had convinced himself: it could just work.

  5

  “The baringa nuts are always green when hunger strikes”

  Cyrus Rutere sucked his prominent and stained front teeth in disapproval, ran an exploratory forefinger around the rim of his nostrils, and looked around nervously.

  “Mungiki,” he muttered, “surely, it is mungiki.”

  Mungiki, the fastest growing political movement in Kuwisha, combined a religious fundamentalism with a political agenda: street boys with attitude, Pearson called them. If the lads from Kireba had an aspiration beyond survival, it was to own a car, and by fair means or foul, to have the money to run it. The mungiki’s objective, as far as it was known, was to put all cars into communal ownership, if not to abolish them altogether. There were disturbing stories about oathing ceremonies, sinister blood-letting events . . . Titus Ntoto and Cyrus Rutere – Cyrus in particular – loathed mungiki.

  The morning traffic on the city’s main road was far worse than usual. It was barely moving, and the floods were not entirely to blame. Once again the lights at the intersection of Independence Drive and Uhuru Avenue were not working. Somebody was sabotaging the system, smashing the traffic lights – but why? What was the purpose? It seemed to be happening at the start of every week, and the incompetent officials at City Hall were begi
nning to take notice.

  Even the policemen, on what they liked to call “traffic duty”, looked slightly shamefaced as they collected their fines for offences real or imagined.

  The post office on Kaunda Street was no more than ten minutes away, and the two boys continued to enjoy a breather in their journey from Kireba.

  Squatting on their haunches, at the foot of the lights, Ntoto and Rutere took in the noisy scene. Had Charity been there, she would have recognised the hunger in their eyes. If the foreigners who frequented Harrods looked at the residents of Kireba like tourists studying the game at a watering hole, Ntoto and Rutere were two young predators – wild dogs, perhaps, waiting for a kill.

  They would never dare take on the 4x4s by themselves, no more than a hyena would attack a healthy buffalo. These vehicles were too big, their passengers too powerful. The youngsters would have to wait until bigger animals got to work, such as sophisticated car thieves from South Africa, part of a network that stretched across the continent. And when the men had done their business, the boys could feed on any carcass they might leave behind, its engine removed, and as immobile as a disembowelled kudu.

  With eyes narrowed the boys looked on as the vehicles with a bewildering range of acronyms emblazoned on their frames moved slowly past, hooting their frustration. The names meant little to the boys. All they knew was that they were big and influential: Danida and UNDP, Difid and UNIDO, Noraid and Christian Aid, Oxfam and Save the Children, part of a parade of international concern and compassion, the hieroglyphics of their involvement displayed on door panels that served as escutcheons of the aid business. The organisations they represented pursued every cause – apart from obesity – that involved or afflicted mankind in general and Kuwisha in particular. Female genital mutilation, environmental degradation, child abuse, renewable energy, gender discrimination, intermediate technology, health care for nomads, promotion of the informal sector, the welfare of pastoralists, teaching illiterates: it seemed that not a concern was neglected and not an interest group unrepresented.

  Within the air-conditioned interior of their vehicles, usually on the back seats, sat the men and women who did so much to help the frail economy of Kuwisha tick over. They were rich targets for the street vendors, who were making the most of this opportunity.

  On a normal day they would be sprinting alongside a customer’s car as it gathered pace, handing over the purchase, delving for change, and dodging oncoming traffic. Today the street boys were moving at a leisurely pace, up and down the marooned vehicles, whose occupants had become a captive market. They went from car to car, sidestepping the water-filled potholes, moving back and forth, to and fro, as alert to a flicker of curiosity or interest as an auctioneer on a slow day at market, as assiduous and as persuasive in their patter as life assurance salesmen, as they good-humouredly touted their wares.

  Festooned with fake mobile phones from Taiwan and hose pipe attachments from China, calculators made in South Korea and sunglasses from Portugal, foreign magazines from around the world and flashing key rings from Hong Kong, plastic sandals made in Taiwan and shoulder bags claiming to be made in Italy, locks and screwdriver sets from eastern Europe, cartons of fruit juice from South Africa, these determined sellers tirelessly made their pitch . . .

  Only the melting popsicles and the packets of peanuts, the hapless chickens dangling by their feet, the cobs of roasted maize, the twists of bhang, and the local newspapers were made in Kuwisha. And of course the emeralds, displayed in glass test tubes, green embers glowing in beds of cotton wool, supposedly smuggled into Kuwisha from nearby Tanzania, and sold to gullible tourists, who would eventually discover their true origin.

  The barks of the matatu boys, those barefoot conductors who clung to the side of their overloaded taxis as they solicited customers, added to the hubbub. They shouted the details of the route, collected fares, abused their rivals, propositioned pretty girls, and now swore in frustration as they thumped the sides of their battered vans, decorated with biblical exhortations.

  “God will provide”, “Shun the Devil’s work” and “Blessed are the meek” declared the hand-painted slogans.

  Their passengers, packed as tight as rows of corn on a maize cob, sweated patiently. The drivers leant on their horns, and gesticulated angrily. Time was money. The journey from Kireba to the city centre should take twenty-five minutes, perhaps thirty-five minutes on a bad day. At this rate it would take at least an hour, twice the time, which meant half the number of fares.

  “Why pay if there is no delivery?” asked one furious driver, and his passengers nodded in agreement. Why hand out bribes to get your matatu licence if city hall could not keep the traffic moving? A deal was a deal. This shoddy behaviour gave corruption a bad name.

  Ntoto and Rutere, elbows resting on their scabby knees, digested their breakfast and watched this world go slowly by.

  “It is surely mungiki who have broken the lights,” said Rutere. He loudly cleared his throat and spat into the gutter, as if underlining a statement of the obvious.

  Ntoto grunted sceptically, but was distracted for the moment by a pressing task. He was running his fingers through his hair, scratching every now and then, looking fixedly ahead of him as his probing fingers pursued their quarry. Suddenly activity was concentrated on a spot above his left ear.

  “Eh-heh!” he exclaimed with satisfaction.

  For a couple of minutes, Rutere put his concerns about mungiki aside, and looked over his friend’s shoulder, like a matatu commuter peeking at his fellow passenger’s newspaper. He watched engrossed as Ntoto cracked between the nails of his right thumb and index finger whatever creature he had found in his peppercorn curls. Titus examined the result closely, before flicking it away and continuing the conversation.

  “It is not sense,” he said to Rutere. “Why would these mungiki break the traffic lights, and then sweep away the glass?”

  Rutere shrugged.

  “We know the mungiki break things, just to break them.”

  “Yes,” said Ntoto impatiently. “Yes, Rutere, but why should they sweep? And why always green that is broken?”

  It was all very puzzling. Whoever had smashed the traffic lights seemed to have cleaned up afterwards, leaving only slivers and shards of glass at the foot of the lights.

  Rutere found it hard to relax. Shuffling and slithering amongst the vendors were an unusual number of the city cripples, vigorously propelling their wasted and distorted bodies between the cars and the puddles and the matatus and the municipal buses. The lucky ones sat atop a device that looked like a tea-tray on wheels, using a stick to pole themselves along the tarmac. The rest made do with bits of carpet or cardboard.

  Ntoto and Rutere watched quietly, curiously, as the vendors patrolled the lines of cars, and the cripples solicited for coins. They were joined by elderly bent-backed blind beggars, leaning on knobbled sticks, and towed by small boys, palms outstretched, who added their voices to their masters’ pleas for coins, and offered singsong incantations and praises to those who responded.

  One of the cripples approached Ntoto.

  “Look out! Look out!” Rutere hissed, spotting the boy as he pulled himself towards them, his backside protected from the rough tarmac by a rubber mat made from strips of old car tyres. With each thrust of his powerful arms, the teenager’s tattered grey shirt rose, revealing a catapult tucked into the waistband of his khaki shorts. Ntoto did not move; but Rutere remembered his grandmother’s warnings, and edged away.

  Only the other day the nurse at the Kireba clinic had tried to reassure him that being a cripple was not infectious.

  “Don’t be foolish, Rutere,” she had admonished. “Only ignorant people blame the spirits. Polio is the cause of legs that don’t work. You are very lucky. Thanks to Charity, you have been vaccinated.”

  But Rutere was far from convinced. He remembered that his granny had lectured him, just before his parents’ disappearance in the terrible Kireba riots in the late 1990s
, about the dangers of bad muti and the powers of hostile spirits. He conceded that the nurse might know about vaccinations; but his gran knew about the world, and the mysterious forces that shaped it. He would take no chances.

  He looked fixedly at the culvert in front of him, and rearranged a few pebbles.

  Ntoto greeted the boy, whose muscular upper torso made his wasted limbs, as thin as the legs of one of the storks that perched on Kireba’s rubbish dumps, look especially fragile.

  “Business good?”

  The cripple glanced sharply at Ntoto, and then shrugged.

  “Not bad.”

  “People tell me mungiki are the ones who are breaking the lights,” said Rutere, not looking at the boy.

  The cripple seemed to agree:

  “Mungiki are everywhere.”

  Rutere gave Ntoto a condescending look:

  “See? I told you.”

  The lad, about the same age as Rutere, was about to dispute something, but had second thoughts. Instead he asked Ntoto about the Mboya Boys’ chances of winning the final of Kireba’s Under-15 football cup. A fellow cripple, watching from a distance, called out, and the boy slid away. As he moved off, he deliberately let his wasted legs trail close to Rutere, who jumped out of the way, cursing and muttering under his breath.

  “Mungiki!” exclaimed Ntoto, and sniggered.

  “Let us go. What are you doing, Rutere?”

  “Collecting rocks. In case . . .”

  “Mungiki are not here. They did not break the lights,” said Ntoto.

  “I am sure,” he added, as Rutere looked sceptical.

  “So who broke the traffics?”

  “Not mungiki.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It was not mungiki,” was all Ntoto would say, and for the time being at least, Rutere had to be satisfied with that confident assertion.

  Edward Furniver, manager of Kireba’s only savings bank and normally a late riser, had begun his day unusually early, woken by persistent knocking on the downstairs door.