His parents, his four sisters, his three brothers, his uncle and aunt who still lived in Zimbabwe, they all knew that if he played his cards right, there was a good chance that Ferdinand Mlambo could rise to the rank of State House steward.
It was a busy life, and Mlambo had little spare time. But the leisure time he had – usually on Sunday afternoons, when the president was inspecting his prize-winning herd of cattle on his country estate, a two-hour drive from State House – was spent with his friends, playing for the Mboya Boys United Football team.
As he slept and dreamed, Mlambo’s feet twitched. He was reliving the day the Mboya Boys had won the Lardner-Burke cup, named after a philanthropic white settler who had backed the African nationalist cause during the colonial era. By general agreement the cup final was the climax of the football season in Kireba. This year’s game between the Mboya Boys, nicknamed the Never Sweats in tribute to their casual style of play, and the Lily Whites, a church team renowned for their thuggish tackles, had attracted a decent crowd.
As many as 500 had gathered around the pitch. A further 100 or so, plastic beer cups in hand – Charity had banned glasses after a particularly nasty brawl – watched from the comfort of Harrods.
At 2-2 and with ninety minutes coming up on the referee’s watch, extra time seemed inevitable, and the Lily Whites were closing ranks. The sleeping Mlambo’s feet were now twitching furiously. The Lily Whites had reckoned without the formidable trio that was at the heart of the Never Sweats. From well inside his own half, Titus Ntoto looked around, and swept the ball to the head of Cyrus Rutere on the left wing. Rutere nodded it down into the path of Mlambo, who from his sweeper position had thundered down the pitch in a do-or-die effort.
He lashed out, the ball ended up in the net, the crowd roared, and the referee blew for full time. The Mboya Boys whooped with delight, and Mlambo led the team’s charge as they sprinted the fifty yards or so to the safety of Harrods, pursued by angry supporters of the Lily Whites. The team took shelter behind the imposing presence of Charity, who, arms folded across her chest, interposed herself between a baying knot of Lily White supporters and the panting boys.
Mlambo jerked awake, his heart pumping furiously, sweat beading his forehead, and vowed to smoke less bhang.
In real life, Charity had shooed the pursuers away, and invited the coach of the losing team to drown his disappointment in Tuskers. In the dream however, there was no such happy ending, and Charity had offered him over to the furious Lily Whites, tugging him by one of his ears, gripped firmly between thumb and forefinger.
Mlambo tumbled out of his nest. Deep down in his superstitious soul, alarm bells were ringing . . .
Edward Furniver had not intended to spend so long in Kuwisha. He had seen himself as no more than a well-intentioned stranger who was passing through.
The son of a British diplomat who had married an English teacher, Furniver had come a long way from the City of London, where he had made a modest fortune over twenty years as an investment banker. He had learnt, baffled and hurt, that Davina was determined to divorce him only when a letter arrived from her lawyer while she was on holiday in the Antibes – with the lawyer, he later learnt. He gave in without a struggle, took early retirement, and decided to travel the world, beginning with Africa.
It was, he acknowledged, a somewhat irrational act of defiance, and a perverse identification with the hapless continent that was synonymous with debt, disease and disaster.
“It’s on the bones of its arse,” as a colleague contemptuously put it.
But soon after stepping out of the cocoon of BA’s business class comfort into the clammy heat of Lagos’ international airport – his first port of call on a journey that would take him to Kuwisha – he experienced what he came to call Africa’s “serendipity factor”
He had been waiting for his luggage to come through when he was enthusiastically hailed like an old friend, and his hand pumped.
“Bugger off” said Furniver firmly and calmly, just as Africa hands had advised him.
“Go away, just bugger off.”
This blunt approach was, all agreed, the only way to deal with the assortment of rogues found at Nigerian airports – ticket touts, currency dealers, and 419 con men.
To Furniver’s astonishment, the ‘tout’ had laughed approvingly, and made a number of derogatory remarks about Nigeria. The penny finally dropped. He realised that the man he was being so firm with was in fact a Lagos-born, London-based mini-cab driver, who had carried Furniver to various destinations. The man had been on the same flight to Lagos, on his annual visit home.
He insisted on seeing Furniver safely to his hotel.
Yet for all the serendipity, Furniver soon came to appreciate that for most of the continent’s people, life was fragile, cheap, dangerous and unpredictable. And for an outsider like himself, a close relationship with the continent was like making friends with a feverish wounded giant: you could never be sure whether the blow that might fell you as you tried to bring relief was a reflex response to a spasm of pain, or a clumsy gesture of gratitude.
From Lagos he flew to Cape Town, and worked his way north, until ending up in Kuwisha, where he saw an opportunity to put into effect a plan he had been considering for years. Microbanking – lending small amounts of money to people too poor to obtain commercial bank credit – was, he felt convinced, part of the elusive answer to Africa’s woes. Boredom was the final impetus. Having looked around the continent for somewhere he could put his theory into practice, he decided that Kuwisha was as good a country as any. And Kireba was as good a place as any to start. If the concept could work in a country drained by endemic corruption, sapped by years of mismanagement, demoralised by failure, and let down by its leaders, it could work anywhere.
The Kireba People’s Co-operative Bank was a great success. Despite its impressive name, it was no more than a society which lent small amounts of money, drawn from the combined savings of its members, to individual members, who would almost certainly be turned down by any regular commercial bank, on the grounds that they lived in Kireba. Successful loan applicants had to do little more than to satisfy Furniver that they would put the loan to good use, and would, in the judgment of a panel of their peers, repay it. By most standards, the loans were so small as to be small change. But they made a tangible difference to the lives of the recipients.
The intricate scale models of bicycles, lorries and cars made out of wire by street children, for example, needed nothing but skill, imagination and a pair of pliers to construct. Pliers, however, cost the equivalent of a house steward’s weekly wage, which was a handsome sum when compared to the pittance earned by a parking boy. A loan sufficient to buy pliers and a bundle of wire could turn an unruly adolescent into a self-sufficient worker who could earn enough to repay the society’s low interest loan in a few weeks.
For the past three years, Furniver had been general manager of the co-operative he had founded. Administration was simple and cheap. Put the details into a computer, and push a button every so often, and that was all that was required – plus, of course, the peer pressure. It was something that left Furniver troubled. In theory, it meant that the borrower’s friends would express their disapproval should the borrower default. Self-interest played a critical part. They too wanted a loan, or possibly were recipients of a loan themselves. The former would have to wait longer for money to become available; the latter would have to pay a higher rate of interest.
This was what in polite society was meant by peer pressure. In Kireba, as Furniver had belatedly discovered, the term was usually a euphemism for a sound hiding administered by the local vigilantes. It worked very well, he had to admit. The demonstration effect of the beatings – one unfortunate defaulter was never seen again – was so effective that the society’s ratio of bad debts to loans outstanding was the envy of his commercial bank colleagues.
From a modest base of 500 members and capital of 500,000 ngwee, provided by an obscure inte
rnational charity, the society had steadily grown. There were now nearly 3,000 members of whom 500 were borrowers. The results in Kireba were as evident as green shoots in a desert. Shoe-cleaners, watch repairers, tailors, vegetable vendors, coffin makers, hairdressers, corncob hawkers, model makers, curio sellers, all owed their start in commercial life to the bank’s modest loan.
It showed, said Furniver, that it was possible to transform a community with a modest amount of capital, spent in ways that were decided by the locals. With a hand-operated pump and a few thousand feet of plastic piping, women could be released from the daily, backbreaking burden of carrying water. Provide a loan that was enough for the purchase of a locally made, fuel-efficient stove, and hundreds of trees could be saved.
The moment of truth was approaching. Despite the soak in the hot bath, the bump was devilishly itchy.
A week had elapsed since Furniver had worn those unironed underpants, and this was the generally agreed incubation period. Furniver shuddered. He now had no doubt that he was the unwitting host to a jipu. This abomination of Nature must have laid its eggs on his underpants while they were outside drying. Once on Furniver’s frame, the eggs flourished in the sweaty warmth of his buttocks, where they burrowed below the surface of the skin. And now at least one of those eggs was turning into a maggot, which would flourish, wriggling and irritating as it prepared to pop out.
Furniver moaned in self-pity.
He took comfort, however, in remembering the other half of the advice given by the Oldest Member.
“Should the worst happen, old boy, sack the native, and then suffocate the blighter,” said the OM. He chuckled grimly. “That’ll teach ’em.”
At the time, Furniver could not help feeling shocked. While he had soon got used to the reactionary views expressed by many of the settlers, the suggestion struck him as a bit extreme, even by their robust standards. With great politeness, and taking his courage into both hands, he indicated his reservations:
While there was certainly a case for drastic measures, said Furniver, on the whole, all things considered, and in this day and age, he would be most reluctant to do away with his steward simply because the fellow had failed to iron his underpants.
The Oldest Member had nodded sympathetically, and regretfully.
“You’ve got the right attitude, young man, but you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. I don’t blame you. Perfectly reasonable. And you’re probably right.”
The OM checked himself.
“Said probably right? Huh! Definitely right. Getting to be a bit of a liberal in my old age.”
He gave a dry chuckle, which became an extended cough as he got carried away by his own joke.
“Just wish more youngsters shared your views. It would only be what the bugger deserved. Might have got away with it in the Old Days.”
His pale blue eyes misted over with happy recollections of pre-independence Kuwisha.
“No, no, old chap, this what you do: you smear Vaseline on the place where the eggs of the bloody jipu have burrowed their way in. Damn maggots then won’t be able to breathe. Get ’em when they come out for air. And you sack the native, preferably after giving him a good talking to behind the kia.”
The OM beckoned the bar steward.
“Know what I mean?”
Furniver had no idea what the OM meant, although he could guess. A kia was the southern African term for the hut at the bottom of Europeans’ gardens, which housed their cook and gardener. He knew that much; and he suspected that a “talking to” might not involve much talking. He decided not to ask. Life was complicated enough.
The Oldest Member took a swig from the gin and tonic that had just been delivered, and patted Furniver on the knee.
“You’re sound. Sound chap. Not like some we get here. Bunch of left-wing tossers. Word of advice. Don’t go round broadcasting your views. Keep them in the family, so to speak. Let off steam over a G and T with me. Not popular with the local Johnnies. As for the bloody aid workers . . .”
The Oldest Member stood up, shook Furniver warmly by the hand and tottered off, muttering to himself:
“Bloody good idea, nonetheless, damn sensible. Improve their ironing, that’s for sure . . .”
Furniver had another scratch. It was time for action.
13
“Only dogs can tell the difference between hyenas and jackals”
Hardwick Hardwicke’s initial impressions of Kuwisha, were far from favourable. The World Bank President watched the billboards and hoardings slip by on the journey from the first meeting at the central bank back to their city centre hotel.
If the advertisements for patent medicines were any indication, Kuwisha was a nation beset by headaches and malaria, intestinal worms and thin blood, vitamin deficiencies, and an unpleasant variety of liver ailments and kidney problems, while the skins of its citizens were either too dry or too dark. The cures on offer included petroleum jelly and skin lightening creams, pills and potions that would enrich your blood, beers and stouts that would improve your sexual prowess, and soft drinks that would provide access to a world of suave and handsome young men surrounded by attractive women.
Hardwicke nudged Fingers, and pointed out one particularly lurid poster.
“That’s your problem, Fingers.” He guffawed. “That’s why you sleep so much. You’ve got worms!”
He and Fingers had been met at the airport by Marcus Reuttman, the Bank’s resident representative in Kuwisha, whose three-year term was coming to an end, and whisked away to the Intercontinental Hotel in a black Mercedes provided by the Ministry of Finance. The meeting with President Nduka was next, confirmed at the last minute. There was no time to lose.
As they drove Reuttman outlined the programme that had to be crammed into less than forty-eight hours: apart from the meeting with President, finance ministry officials and sessions with local World Bank staff, there would be a visit to a pilot housing project in Kireba which was intended to be the start of a massive upgrading exercise, final negotiations on a $300m infrastructure loan, and possibly a press conference before departure.
Hardwicke read the draft, prepared by Fingers, now wide awake, of what would be his main speech during the visit.
Kuwisha, Hardwicke believed, provided the opportunity to establish a test case, to create an African precedent. The meeting with President Nduka was expected to be the highlight of his east African tour, and he was confident that it would mark the start of a new, frank and constructive relationship between Kuwisha and the Bank. But he was determined not to come across as an easy touch.
“The Bank is not a bountiful provider; it is not an infinite source of funds; nor does it have a monopoly of ideas,” Hardwicke was due to say.
“If anything, we are a catalyst, a supporter of fresh strategies, drawn up after consultation and debate . . . For many years, Kireba has been seen as a symbol of what is wrong . . . yet it can be seen as an example of hope . . . empowerment of civil society . . . citizens an inspiration of how people who are poor in resources but rich in ideas, can aim for the stars . . .”
Hardwicke paused, his marker pen in hand.
He turned to the man who had again fallen asleep in the adjacent seat in the back of the car, breathing heavily through part-open mouth, and nudged him in the ribs.
“What’s this, Fingers: ‘. . . can aim for the stars?’ Sounds like bullshit to me.”
Fingers shifted his position, and opened his eyes.
“Bit of poetry,” said Fingers. “Take it out if you don’t like it.”
Hardwicke turned to the itinerary for his visit.
“Kireba pilot housing project . . . Meet Mboya Boys United Football team . . . remind me, will you? Who the hell are the Mboya Boys?”
The Mboya Boys United Football Club was more commonly known with varying degrees of fear, envy and admiration as the Mboya Boys. They had taken their name from a Kenyan politician, Tom Odhiambo Mboya, a young and articulate trade unionist who seemed to represe
nt the best of a new generation of African leaders, but who had been assassinated in 1969, before he reached the age of forty.
No-one seemed sure just how the boys fastened on the name Mboya. Lucy had quizzed Ntoto while the boy was having a mango juice and a fresh bread roll baked by Charity, during a lazy Sunday morning.
“Tell me, Titus, why the name Mboya?”
Her curiosity had irritated Ntoto. He did not like being called Titus for a start. He played dumb, pretending not to have heard.
Lucy appealed to Charity.
“Tell him to talk, to answer me.”
“If he does not want to talk, he will not talk, and I cannot make him talk.”
Ntoto stood silently, and shot Charity a grateful look.
“You can show her.”
Charity disappeared into the back of Harrods and emerged with a plastic bag that contained Ntoto and Rutere’s most precious possessions, and handed it to Titus.
He returned it.
“You show her,” he said, looking at his feet.
Charity pulled out a creased and grubby local newspaper article, a photo of Nelson Mandela cut out of a magazine, and a black and white photo of a man with a smiling, chubby face. She handed the cutting to Lucy.
On a continent with few heroes, Mandela and Mboya were the boys’ role models.
The Mboya Boys Club had been created for one reason – the boys’ passion for football.
It had been the initiative of Titus Ntoto, in order to qualify for membership of the Kireba football league, brainchild of a young US marine captain, who spent many of his leisure hours working in the slum during his posting to Kuwisha.
Access to the league cost nothing. Nor could it be bought with ngwee. But – and here was the ingenious feature – teams had to earn a certain number of community service points, starting afresh each year, if they wanted to keep up their membership. The points system had been so designed that unless a team took part in at least one community event, such as clearing rubbish, they would be unable to qualify.
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