Born of the day-to-day frustrations of life on the breadline, of competition for menial jobs and places to sleep, the train of humanity gathered pace. Loafers and idlers, vagabonds and wastrels, and time wasters and chancers, the talented and the unfulfilled, the capable and the hapless, all thrown together, were embarking on a journey that was driven by despair, fuelled by greed.
The rioters stomped through Kireba on their way into town, knees raised high, imitating the South African dance of protest known as the toyi toyi. The office of the Kireba People’s Co-operative Bank, where Furniver listened apprehensively to the hubbub outside, secure under the protection of vigilant Mboya Boys, was directly in their path. But as the mob, its numbers growing with every step, drew closer, its ranks parted and reformed and the building was left untouched.
By the time the howling, baying cavalcade was within reach of the city centre, the Asian community’s early warning system had gone into action. The steel shutters went up on the windows of their shops, and units from the Presidential Guard, based in the grounds of State House, began rolling out of the barracks in their armoured personnel carriers to take up positions along Uhuru Avenue.
With a roar, now more like the sound of a huge wave crashing on the sand than a train gathering steam, the rioters fell on the city. The calculating and sensible ones grabbed what they could, whether television sets which they balanced on their heads, or ’fridges, radios, or a bunch of dresses, and made good their escape. But they were in a minority. The rest of the rioters were gripped by a frenzy of rage in which an urge to destroy dominated . . .
As for the University’s students, usually good for a riot, the timing was bad. They were scattered around the country, most of them at their homes for the holiday weekend. But those who remained could hardly believe their good fortune. Within thirty minutes, they had left their seedy halls of residence, and converged on the road that ran past the campus and led to State House. As far as they were concerned, any motorist was fair game. Rocks in their hands, grievances in their heads, they set about ambushing any and every car that passed.
Like his colleagues, Cecil had left Kireba before the demonstrations turned violent, but with a better excuse than most. He was desperate to see Lucy Gomball before he left. Bags packed and ready for the flight to London, he had all but resigned himself to the loss of his tape recorder – though he was not sure whether to be alarmed or angered by the failure of Ntoto and Rutere to meet him at the appointed time outside Harrods.
His mobile rang. Lucy’s car had broken down, and she was stuck at home. Could he pick her up, and they could go on to the Outspan for a gin and tonic. After the drink they could go out to the airport together. And almost as an afterthought, she added that WorldFeed were getting reports of a riot in Kireba that was speading; some claimed it was a coup.
“Hold tight, I’m on my way,” said Pearson.
“Don’t make a thing of it, for God’s sake. Just come and pick me up. Silly boy!”
Cecil’s heart pounded. Seldom had Lucy spoken to him in such intimate tones. His mouth went dry, and his imagination went wild. Perhaps he and Lucy had a future together after all, and the more he thought about this prospect, the more it pleased him.
He began to sing:
“Tea for two,
And two for tea . . .”
The journey from Lucy’s Borrowdale home to the Outspan became increasingly hazardous. Twice gangs of looters emerged out of the dark as Pearson was forced to slow down by makeshift roadblocks. Twice Shango, who had to be restrained by Lucy, barked furiously, forcing the youths into a brief retreat and giving Pearson precious extra seconds.
“Good boy,” said Pearson. He wanted to pat the dog, but decided against it. The brute would probably bite him.
Normally the greatest threat to life and limb on the roads of Kuwisha was the other drivers. This evening, however, there were palpable signs of the tension that suddenly and briefly seemed to be threatening to destroy Kuwisha’s capital. At one intersection, rocks and small boulders the size of footballs covered the ground where the students had rioted. Suddenly a rock came out of the evening gloom and smashed into the rear window.
Pearson pressed the accelerator down to the floor. Another stone skidded off the windscreen, and Shango began barking furiously. A third rock crashed through the front window, catching Shango a passing blow on his shanks. Faces loomed out of the night, shouting and screaming, and the wheels skidded as Pearson stamped down on the accelerator.
Lucy cried out: “Keep going! Keep going!” and the tension in her voice made it shrill. It was then that Pearson realised it was going to be touch and go.
The room was bleak and cheerless, although the chairs were comfortable enough. It was Pearson’s turn to speak, and the dozen or so in the group looked at him expectantly. For a moment he felt lost and unsure, and then the reason for his presence came flooding back to him: it was the weekly session of Afroholics Anonymous.
He stood up, but the words he wanted to say, and which he was expected to say, wouldn’t come. Encouragement flowed from all sides, reminding Pearson of his high school rugby days. He felt worse than incompetent. He hated the game, and feared the physical contact but dared not admit it to the teachers who ran the practice sessions, and who urged him on: “Tackle low, Pearson, tackle low. Pass the ball, laddie, pass the ball, get stuck in, for God’s sake, Pearson, get stuck in.”
Far from enthusing him, their exhortations had paralysed him. Once again, he seemed back on the rugby field, frozen by fear.
“GooddaymynameisCecilandIamanAfroholic,” he blurted out.
He could have cried with relief. He had done it, he had said it, said it aloud, and now he would say it again.
“Good day, my name is Cecil, and I am an Afroholic.”
Less than a dozen words, yet so hard . . .
The audience, who had sensed his difficulty, now applauded his courage. Cecil had broken the ice. He plunged on, rumbles of support from the other members of Afroholics Anonymous giving him strength. For the first time, the faces started to come into focus, and many of them seemed familiar.
“I would like to tell you my story.”
He began hesitantly, but gathered strength and conviction as he pressed ahead:
“I am an Afroholic,” he repeated, with even more confidence this time.
“For years I have been compulsively and obsessively writing about Africa. But a couple of months ago, I discovered Afroholics Anonymous. I was staying in a run-down hotel where room service stopped at midnight, where phone lines were poor, and where the laundry promised back on the same day was delivered the next day – and there was too much starch in my shirts.”
There were sympathetic murmurs, and from someone in the back row came a snort:
“Typical, bloody typical,” and there were murmurs of agreement from around the room.
Cecil warmed to his task:
“The business centre ran out of paper, and shut at 8 p.m. The minibar stocked only the local beer, and” – he paused for effect – “my room did not face the sea.”
More cries of sympathy or shock, fellow feeling or dismay came from his audience.
“While searching in the drawers for the in-house movie programme, which I later found under the laundry list, I discovered a pamphlet that was to change my life. I would like to share it with you,” said Pearson.
“Afroholism, the pamphlet told me, is a progressive illness, which can never be cured, but which like some other diseases can be halted. Many Afroholics feel that the illness represents the combination of physical sensitivity to Africa and a mental obsession with living there, or visiting it, or writing about it, which regardless of the consequences, cannot be broken by willpower alone.”
Again, there were murmurs of agreement, and one member seemed to be weeping.
“Afroholics Anonymous is a fellowship of men and women who share their experience, strength and hope with each other so that they may solve their common pr
oblem and help others to recover from Africa.”
Pearson was disconcerted to spot Hardwick Hardwicke, in the audience, nodding sympathetically. And surely that was Fingers, sitting next to him? Odd, how very odd, he thought to himself, but continued nonetheless.
“The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop talking and writing about Africa. The men and women who consider themselves members of AA are, and always will be Afroholics, even though they may have other addictions.”
Pearson felt that he was starting to run out of steam, and was in danger of losing the thread:
“I write compulsively about a dying continent. I relish news of death, I get my kicks from disease and disaster. I am the journalistic equivalent of a necrophiliac . . .”
He did a double take. Was that Lucy, coming towards him, getting closer and closer? Surely she, of all people, wasn’t a member of AA?
Pearson suddenly felt nauseous and dizzy. As his stomach began to heave, he decided to close his eyes, and let nature take its course. How strange that the insistent voice of Lucy Gomball seemed to be murmuring to him, while her tongue was doing something delicious to his ear.
Despite his nausea, it made his spine tingle with pleasure.
He began to wretch and heave, and he decided to open his eyes. As he did so, the room seemed to spin around him, and then disappear, and Fingers and Hardwicke slid down holes in the floor, which had opened up under them.
He retched again as he realised that the Afroholics’ Anonymous meeting had been a figment of his imagination, the product of an hallucination. His last rational recollection was Lucy screaming “Drive! Drive!” and Shango barking.
Cecil lifted his hand to his head, and it came away red and sticky. He winced.
He must have been hit by a stone, flung by one of the rioters. His surroundings came into focus, and he looked into the blue eyes of Lucy Gomball.
“Tosser,” said Lucy, in a matter-of-fact tone that melted Pearson’s heart. She dodged the jet of vomit that spurted from him in a convulsive heave, and restrained the slobbering Shango, who in an unprecedented display of affection had been anxiously nuzzling the journalist’s ear.
“Move over,” she said, brushing away the nuggets of glass from the shattered windscreen that lay like a coating of frost over the front seat.
“I’m driving the rest of the way,” said Lucy angrily.
“I told you not to go past the students’ hall of residence. Those buggers throw stones for the same reason that Shango pisses on lamp posts,” she said, grinding the gear as the wheels spun on the gravel verge. “They can’t help it, they’re just marking their territory.”
The rest of the journey to the Outspan, where Pearson would spend his last few hours in Kuwisha, went without incident.
Word of the riots soon reached the dingy conference room at the Ministry of finance, where Fingers and his Kuwishan counterpart, the permanent secretary in the ministry, were drawing up the final communiqué. The unrest, as it was called, became a factor from which both sides could and would seek to take advantage.
For the Kuwisha government negotiators, it was evidence that the pain of structural adjustment measures imposed by the World Bank and the IMF was becoming intolerable, that the economic performance targets were too tough. For the Bank, the riots were evidence of frustration over the government’s incompetence, over the corruption that was slowly strangling the country.
But behind the largely good humoured exchanges between the team from the Bank and the officials of the ministries of finance and of planning, was a cold-hearted analysis of the country’s prospects. Much was at stake for Kuwisha: on the outcome of these talks rested hundreds of millions of aid dollars.
The men in the room – there was not a single woman – knew each other well, and for the most part respected each other. Yet each joke came with a barb, and there was a story behind each witticism or verbal sally. For the insiders of the aid business, every line of the communiqué that would emerge from the talks, drafted paragraph by paragraph, was a battleground. To the uninformed eye the official statement would emerge as a bland resume of discussions; but to anyone with an insight into “donorspeak” the result spoke volumes.
The statement eventually emerged in the form of a communiqué, issued on behalf of the government of Kuwisha. Fingers rang Cecil on the journalist’s mobile, and ensured that a copy would be faxed to Outspan, where the representative of the only foreign newspaper that was interested in the outcome of the talks was waiting agog with excitement.
Lucy ran her fingers lightly over Pearson’s freshly bandaged head and peered over his shoulder as he sat on the Outspan veranda reading the two-page statement.
Cecil’s response was hard to gauge. Sometimes be broke out into chuckles, sometimes he cursed, other times he nodded with enthusiasm, and highlighted particular passages. Finally Lucy could take no more, and demanded a translation.
“Can’t see what you’re so fussed about. Says nothing, really.”
Pearson attempted to explain.
“In fact, it’s pretty tough. Not as tough as I would like, but still, pretty tough.”
Lucy looked sceptical.
“Explain something. You think it’s tough. But I get the impression that the meeting went rather well. Listen to this.” Lucy took the statement from Pearson and read aloud:
“ ‘Mr Hardwicke complimented the government on the sustained implementation of efforts to stabilise the economy.’ That seems pretty positive . . . Yet you say that the Brits and everyone else will be cutting aid to Kuwisha.”
Pearson laughed.
“What you’ve read is pure donorspeak, sweetheart. Look for the weasel words. For ‘efforts’, read ‘should have tried harder.’ ”
“What about the next sentence?” Lucy asked, and again proceeded to read it aloud:
“ ‘Donors noted in particular the sharp reduction in the budget deficit, the reduction of inflation to single digits, and the recovery of economic growth to 3 per cent in 1994.’ ”
Pearson tried to avoid sounding patronising.
“The weasel word here, Lucy, is ‘noted’. In this context it is the equivalent of a heavy sigh of exasperation. Let me show you.”
He recovered the statement from Lucy:
“ ‘Donors also noted’ ” – another heavy sigh – “ ‘government’s success in strengthening the financial sector, initial implementation of civil service reform, and recent progress in implementing privatisation.’ ”
Cecil handed the World Bank statement back to her with two words underlined – “initial” and “recent”.
“Two more weasel words, used very cleverly. ‘Initial’ shows that the donors doubt that what has been started will be continued. And ‘recent’ is the way donors show their frustration that it has taken the government of Kuwisha so long to get round to putting promises into practice.”
Lucy was now starting to get the hang of it.
“So when the statement goes on about ‘the need to accelerate efforts to clarify the operating environment and targets for strategic state owned companies’, they are really very unhappy with the government?”
“Indeed,” Cecil replied. “ ‘Clarify the operating environment’ can mean only one thing: ‘Stop corruption.’ ”
“And ‘misappropriation of public resources and the need to reinforce the independent role of the Auditor General’ is another go at graft,” Lucy chipped in.
“Precisely,” replied Cecil. “Then they really cut up rough: ‘Donors expressed the strong hope that there would be positive developments that would allow them to provide a volume of external support commensurate with Kuwisha’s development.’ ”
The lights on the veranda seemed to grow in strength as in a matter of minutes, dusk became night.
“Good God!” exclaimed Lucy. “So that’s why you think that the donors are cutting aid?”
“Absolutely,” Cecil said, looking smug.
“And there’s more. Fin
gers has done a good job: ‘Donors hoped that the outstanding issues would be resolved quickly to facilitate rapid agreements with the Breton Woods institutions on further balance of payments support.’ ”
“Presumably that means: get a move on and reach an agreement with the IMF,” said Lucy. “But why do they not just say so?”
The sound of the rioters receded as they made their way out of Kireba and towards the city centre, and Edward Furniver was left alone with his thoughts.
The rattle of a key in the front door broke into his reverie. A clatter of cups from the kitchen followed, and Charity Mupanga appeared with a tray of tea and a plate of chocolate biscuits.
The visit should have raised his spirits, but the effect was mixed. He was delighted to see her, but despondent that she could not stay for long. There was much to get off his chest. For a few minutes, the two of them sat quietly, talking of this and that.
He pushed the letter he had typed across the table and listened with half an ear to what she had to say, for he had already come to a decision. He sipped his tea, and took a deep breath.
“My dear,” he said. “I have something to tell you. I am very sorry . . .”
Charity reached across the table, took his hand in hers, and squeezed it gently.
“I know, Furniver, I know.”
“You do not know, Charity,” he said firmly. “I should have warned you about these lawyers. Instead I played a game . . .”
“We have both played foolish games. We forgot David’s warning.”
For a moment, Furniver was nonplussed.
“Sorry, Charity, don’t quite get you? What do you mean?”
“Remember the prayer David wrote for the children?
‘Don’t overtake on corners blind,
Keep sharp lookout for who’s behind’?”
Furniver’s confusion deepened. The thought occurred to him that the strain was proving all too much for Charity. She repeated the lines, and added:
Last Orders at Harrods Page 23
