Last Orders at Harrods

by Michael Holman

  “What is it?”

  Ntoto took a sniff of glue, and removed the dark glasses.

  “I do not want to be called Titus any more.”

  Pearson was puzzled.

  “What do you want to be called then?”

  Ntoto looked Cecil in the eye.

  “I want to be called by my proper name.”

  Pearson was nonplussed.

  “What on earth do you mean, Titus. What’s wrong with Titus Ntoto?”

  The small boy was both nervous and determined.

  “I want to be known by my African names. My real name is Odhiambo Mboya Ntoto. I am an African.”

  He looked at Pearson, and said it again, like an incantation:

  “Odhiambo Mboya Ntoto.”

  Elbows protruding through the worn fibre of one of Pearson’s cast-off jerseys, and still wearing the old hockey shorts the journalist had given him months earlier, the boy did not look back as he rejoined the sinuous, shadowy circle.

  Shikkah boom, shikkah boom, shikkah boom.

  Pearson felt his stiff, inhibited limbs slowly start to relax as the bhang took effect, and twitch to the music. What began as a cramped shuffle became something close to a dance. Before he knew it, he had joined in the jigging and jiving procession around the fire, heedless of the acrid smoke and its effect on his linen jacket.

  Shikkah boom, shikkah boom, shikkah boom.

  For the first time since coming to Kuwisha, Pearson dropped his English reserve, and gyrated and cavorted around the blaze. The sense of despair, as bleak as any experienced by Conrad’s legendary Mr Kurtz on his African journey, began to lift. The fear that his plot would somehow be exposed melted away, and his anxieties seemed irrational. Titus and Cyrus had been the vulnerable players, and both were safe. Safe! Pearson took a long, deep pull of his reefer and put his heart and soul into the dance, joining in the conga around the fire. He was now singing along with the boys, and he found it oddly comforting:

  “Enjoy yourself – enjoy yourself, while you’re still in the pink – enjoy yourself, enjoy yourself, it’s later than you think.”

  The bhang-induced euphoria still held him in its grip as the taxi took him back to the Outspan, where he would collect Lucy and go on to the airport. Otherwise he might have noticed the two cars that followed him.

  24

  “When you hear the ghoghla drums, guard the maize harvest”

  By Africa’s grim standards, the death toll at the end of the rioting was not high, and the conditions that caused the fatalities were not unusual. The official count was thirty-seven, although the real figure was probably closer to double that.

  President Nduka was well satisfied with the outcome, and in a good mood, which was just as well for Ntoto and Rutere. But there were a few loose ends to be tied before he could drive to his farm, with its irrigated green paddocks, and talk to his cattle.

  One matter in particular continued to niggle the president. He wondered whether he was right to reconsider his plan to send mungiki thugs to kill Ntoto and Rutere.

  It had not taken long for Lovemore Mboga, the intelligence boss who doubled as State House steward, to piece together the childish plot. The lad who had trailed Mlambo had reported back, and the fat kitchen toto had confessed all. And Pearson had been traced through his car registration . . . it was all too easy.

  But it seemed that Ntoto and Rutere, the two young rats, worked for this woman, Charity Mupanga, who ran Harrods International Bar (and Nightspot), that popular Kireba watering hole. She was a strong woman, widow of the bishop. She could well cause trouble. Nduka was not happy. The old lion sniffed danger from this unlikely source, two glue-sniffing street urchins, two cunning leopard cubs. His instinct said kill them, but not yet, not yet . . . Nduka picked up the phone, and Ntoto and Rutere were reprieved. No car crash for them. Ferdinand Mlambo would not be so lucky.

  Putting down the riot had proved a useful exercise. The General Service Unit had been getting restless, “out of match practice” as the president had put it, and its officers had relished the opportunity to put their men through their paces. The looters had, in the words of the Unit’s commander, “been given a sound thrashing.” In short, there had been no reason for Nduka to delay the recording of his traditional Uhuru Day message to the nation as scheduled, although its actual transmission was delayed by an hour or two.

  The broadcast showed him at his best: his authoritarian streak combined with a near-avuncular presence: “On this day, Uhuru Day, my first and foremost duty is to you, my people. As usual, there have been many rumours, many of them promoted, I am sorry to say, by men and women who call themselves journalists. In fact they are no better than rumour peddlers, dangerous rumour peddlers, all too often misled by their foreign colleagues . . .”

  He rejected the stories that the grain market had been manipulated. These were the imaginings of his political enemies, who had “insects in their head”, as were claims that the upcoming election would be rigged.

  It was true that there was a danger that some citizens could go hungry: “Not even the government can control the weather.” So as father of the nation, it was only proper, he said, that he make the opening contribution of maize. And Mayor Guchu had been instructed to launch an international appeal for food and clothing on behalf of the people of Kireba.

  Guchu had calculated that the company he and the president controlled would make an extra million dollars, as grain prices on the local market had risen. In the course of the rioting it emerged that a UN food warehouse had been burned down. Rumours that it had been set alight by the ruling party’s thugs were dismissed by the president.

  Then he got down to business:

  “My first announcement is this: Mrs Anna Nugilu, leader of the opposition came to see me yesterday for a final session of talks about our two parties.

  “As you know, I have great respect for Mrs Anna Nugilu. We discussed the benefits of co-operation. I am happy to announce that Mrs Nugilu has agreed not to contest the presidential elections due shortly.

  “I am even happier to announce that, with immediate effect, Mrs Anna Nugilu will serve as my first vice president. Her main duty will be liaison with the World Bank, whose president, my friend Hardwick Hardwicke, has completed his first visit to this country. I am pleased to say that he has recognised the great reforms we have introduced in Kuwisha.

  “And I am happiest to tell you that I believe the search for my successor is over. The candidate for the presidential nomination of the party when I retire now will be . . .”

  At this point the camera panned from the president’s desk in State House, and across his study to where Anna Nugilu was sitting on one of the sofas.

  “Mrs Anna Nugilu. Subject, of course, to the approval of the party. After all, we are a democracy!”

  There was still more to come. President Nduka had saved the most dramatic part of his announcement for last.

  “Finally, people of Kuwisha, I must tell you that twelve months from today, on the next Uhuru Day, I intend to step down, having used my prerogative to call a presidential and parliamentary poll three years earlier than the constitution provides for.”

  The wits of Kuwisha had a field day.

  Anyone who acted with the slightest degree of impropriety or opportunism was called a “Nugilu”.

  Uhuru Day, the day on which Kuwisha experienced one of its worst riots since independence, would henceforth become known as “World Bank day.”

  And the phrase “World Bank” passed into the everyday language of the people of Kuwisha, as a synonym for something that did not work. Cars with flat batteries were “World Bank”, fridges that failed to chill the beer were “World Bank”, and traffic lights that did not operate were “World Bank”.

  Indeed, some cynics went so far as to suggest that Kuwisha itself was “World Bank” . . .

  When the British High Commissioner requested an urgent meeting, the president responded with alacrity. He positively relished the prospe
ct.

  “Tell him to come, right away,” he said to the cabinet secretary, who had relayed the request. “Tell him that old friends are always welcome.”

  The High Commissioner began by congratulating the president on what he called a “statesmanlike” Uhuru Day address.

  Nduka cut him short.

  “With the greatest respect, I doubt that you sought this audience in order to convey your government’s appreciation of my political talent.

  “I gather you are here to express your concern about abuses of civil rights over the last few hours. I can confirm that at least twenty-seven looters have been shot. You say that your government is anxious that the rule of law is respected.

  “The police tell me the looters were ransacking the shops of the Asian community. At least three of their women have been raped but Asian leaders have asked me to keep that confidential.

  “Some of the ringleaders of the unrest have been detained under the state of emergency I briefly imposed.”

  He smiled. “Of course I don’t need to explain its provisions to you. Emergency powers were first used by the British when Kuwisha was a colony and you were a young district officer here.

  “I have acted properly under the powers invested in me. I hope the ringleaders will be executed. They were abusing the civil rights of the people of Kuwisha. Is this the abuse you were referring to?”

  The high commissioner was determined to give as good as he got. He looked at the man in front of him, with so many faces, so many personalities, who could be so charming, and could be so ruthless. What did he have to lose by speaking frankly he asked himself? He heard a small voice in his head saying: “Quite a lot actually – there’s the military agreement which allows us to use Kuwisha’s military facilities, five billion dollars’ worth of British investment, and 30,000 Asians who are British passport holders who we’d have to find a home for if Kuwisha were to collapse.”

  Nevertheless, the high commissioner decided to let rip.

  “I have it on good authority Mr President, that most of the bodies in the central morgue have gunshot wounds which suggest they were shot in the back. I don’t challenge the right of the state to discipline those suspected of attempting to overthrow legitimate authority, but was it necessary to arrest their wives, sons and daughters, Mr President? And before leaving for this meeting I was told that several of the bodies of the looters bore marks that suggested they had been tortured. I suggest that an independent examination would bear out my concerns. But with respect Mr President, I doubt that your judges, whatever their intellectual qualifications, are morally equipped for such a task.”

  For a moment he thought he had gone too far. But it seemed that Nduka was enjoying the exchange.

  “You British, always you claim the moral high ground. Yes, it is possible that some of my judges are corrupt. Let us not mince words. But who are among the worst offenders? The chaps you sent out, whose salary you help pay, the chaps sent to help us natives maintain standards.

  “Now let us talk about morality, High Commissioner.”

  He took a sip from the glass of water beside him.

  “I assume that the Vosper patrol boats you sold us a few years ago were to assist Kuwisha in the defence of civil liberties? Nothing to do with the jobs the order saved in that marginal constituency in the north of England?”

  “Kuwisha has always been a friend of the West. I do not think that you people are a friend of Kuwisha.”

  President Nduka took the notes he had been making, and deliberately and slowly tore them in half.

  “With the greatest respect, as you people say, I am telling your government to take a running leap.”

  Later that night the high commissioner re-read his telegram to London, signed it, and passed it on to the communications officer. After a resume of the developments of the last twenty-four hours it went on:

  “The President, who responded promptly to my request for a meeting, clearly shares our anxiety about civil rights and law and order. He expressed his own deep concerns in characteristically forceful terms, and emphasised the importance to Kuwisha of long-standing ties with the UK and the value of military treaties with HMG and Washington.”

  “The 40-minute meeting also provided the opportunity to raise questions about the maize contract set out in my earlier note. We agreed that much of the British press coverage has been unhelpful. The president acknowledged that the privatisation of the maize board had allowed some unscrupulous traders to take unfair advantage of Kuwisha’s widening food deficit, and he informed me that Mayor Willifred Guchu will head a commssion of enquiry. Fortunately Podmore has already established a close and cordial working relationship with this controversial but able figure. (See my earlier telegram)

  I recommend that we interpret the President’s passionate response to HMG’s concerns as an emotional and heartfelt demonstration of the significance of UK-Kuwisha links, and of his determination to maintain close ties with Britain.”

  Back at the Intercontinental Hotel, Hardwick Hardwicke and Jim “Fingers” Adams had packed their bags.

  Hardwick Hardwicke had no doubts that the riots had been a seminal lesson for the government. Nothing could dent or penetrate the carapace of his tireless optimism. President Nduka, Hardwicke believed, had undergone a painful lesson.

  “He got his ass kicked,” he had told Fingers.

  Hardwicke was nevertheless relieved that Dr Nduka was still in charge at what was generally seen as a critical and delicate stage of Kuwisha’s transition to good governance and a sound economy, a view shared by Britain’s foreign office.

  “It is a painful business, implementing reform,” he said to Kuwisha’s finance minister as they made their farewells. “You just need to watch for inappropriate allocation of state resources,” he said, amidst convivial laughter.

  Like the press, Western diplomats were divided in their analysis. David Podmore had little doubt that there had been an attempt to overthrow Nduka by the middle ranks of the military. Officers no longer enjoyed a subsidy of cooking oil, his military sources revealed, and tribal tensions within the presidential guard had come to a head in advance of the coming elections.

  The French suspected the British of fomenting dissent, and then tipping off the president, thus ingratiating themselves with the man. The British suspected the French of doing much the same thing – but with the objective of overthrowing Nduka, and persuading his successor to buy the out-of-date French-built Mirage fighter jets rather than the out-of-date British-built Hawks that were on offer.

  Yet another explanation about the riots came from the aid workers in WorldFeed and the other non-government aid organisations. They claimed that the rioting was what they called “a spontaneous expression of anger.” The people, they said, could no longer tolerate the brutal cuts in subsidies of basic foods, carried out at the insistence of the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund.

  25

  “The bird that picks the meat from the crocodile’s teeth leaves no droppings”

  Lucy’s parting with Cecil at the airport the night before had been unexpectedly difficult. She had not expected him to be nervous, but he seemed insistent that they agree to meet in London.

  “Soon?” Pearson asked.

  “Soonest,” she had replied: “Promise.”

  There was good news when she got home. A message from the head office of WorldFeed expressed enthusiasm about her proposal for a partnership with the Bank and the UN Development Programme. Before going to bed, Lucy switched off her mobile phone; tomorrow would be a busy day. Within seconds of her head hitting the pillow, she was asleep.

  The next morning she set off for Cambridge House. Somewhat to her surprise, Mayor Guchu’s Range Rover was parked outside the building, under the watchful eye of half a dozen of his security people. She walked down the corridor to the Financial News’ office, humming to herself, her spirits buoyed by the prospect of throwing WorldFeed’s support behind the Kireba water project.
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  She was early for the meeting with Newman Kibwana, but there were one or two things to collect from Pearson’s office. In his rush to leave, he had forgotten a large brown envelope packed with assorted slips of paper and blank invoices. The nondescript collection of unclaimed expenses was probably worth several hundred pounds.

  Her humming ceased and her nose wrinkled as she encountered a waft of carbolic soap and urine from the men’s toilet. She passed the offices of the Japan Television News Agency, where the agency’s correspondent was talking animatedly to a colleague.

  She was approaching the canteen when she heard familiar voices. To her astonishment, Newman Kibwana and Mayor Willifred Guchu were sharing the podium, and Guchu was winding up some sort of appeal. Lucy stopped. It must be really important if it could bring two such sworn enemies to share a podium.

  “Never again,” Guchu was saying.

  “Never again,” Kibwana repeated solemnly.

  Lucy looked into the room:

  “Never again will the citizens of Kireba be subject to these horrors. Today we stand together, Newman Kibwana and Guchu, putting aside our political differences, for the sake of the people of Kireba. Clean water will change their lives.”

  A young woman scribbled assiduously, and messengers and office workers listened, and looked bored.

  “Tomorrow night,” Guchu continued, “we fly to London to prepare for the fanfare overseas launch of the project that will change their lives, for ever . . .”

  “Already the two of us, Kibwana and Guchu, have discussed the Kireba Water-Aid Project. As you know, it has the support of the World Bank and the United Nations Development Programme. If we mobilise together, with their help, the first tap carrying clean water will be ready in three months.”

  Guchu spotted Lucy, caught her eye, and smiled. Newman Kibwana, now clinging to the lifeline thrown to him by President Nduka, nodded a welcome at Lucy.

  “Ownership,” Guchu was saying. “Ownership is what counts.”