Adam Zameenzad was born in Pakistan and spent his early childhood in East Africa. His first novel, The Thirteenth House, won the David Higham Award for best novel of 1987. He is also the author of three other highly acclaimed novels: My Friend Matt and Hena the Whore, Love, Bones and Water, and Cyrus Cyrus. He lives in Kent, England.
Copyright © Adam Zameenzad 1988
The right of Adam Zameenzad to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the below publisher of this book.
Published by Ziji Publishing Ltd. in 2016
www.ziji publishing.com
First published in Great Britain by Fourth Estate Limited 1988
First published in the United States of America by Penguin Books 1993
Distributed by Turnaround Distribution Services Ltd
www.turnaround-uk.com
Telephone 020 8829 3000
ISBN: 978-1-908628-12-1
CONTENTS
Part I
THE SPIRIT DANCE (a beginning of sorts)
One Meet Matt, Hena, Grandma Toughtits and Golam
Two The Poor Naked Man
Three The Big Bangs
Four Gonta, At Last
Five The Spirit Dance
Part II
GOLAM’S COW (two years later)
One The Missionary’s Balls and Aunt Tima
Two The Outsiders
Three White Folk and Farts
Four Murder in the Mountains
Five Golam’s Cow
Part III
HENA THE WHORE (one year later)
One The Last Dance
Two The First Rain
Three Stealing the City
Four Black Balls Pink Balls
Five Hena the Whore
Part IV
SPIRITS OF SHIT (going home)
One Tunnel Trouble
Two The Miracle
Three The Black Cat
Four The BASTOs
Five Spirits of Shit
Part V
MY FRIEND MATT (a beginning of another sort)
One An Old Friend and Some New Plans
Two Hena Rules
Three Dust, Ashes and Dallas
Four End of the Line
Five My Friend Matt
In memory of Little Mama Walters and her five children: the un-named, BB, Benjamin, ET, and Chu Chu, all of whom died within six months of her death. Also for Itsy and baby Charlotte. May their bodies make the Earth more fertile for the hungry.
In the hope that at some stage in the life of this planet no man or woman will have to experience the shame of writing another book like this one again.
Part 1
THE SPIRIT DANCE
(a beginning of sorts)
One
Meet Matt, Hena, Grandma Toughtits and Golam
My friend Matt is a real smart-ass. He knows everything. Everything: why birds fly and men don’t – their shit is deadly for the ones below; how mama rhino punishes baby rhino – by hiding its hide; when is the worst time to pick your nose – after you’ve picked your ass; how to tell the size of a man’s dingus without looking – by holding it; where the Spirits of the trees and the Spirits of mountains meet for their nightly dance – at each other’s bases. He also knows when cows will and when cows won’t; which water-holes are deep and which water-holes are shallow; where the dead go when they die; which clouds are rain clouds and which raise dust… The list is endless. The list of all the things Matt knows. I just mention some of the more important ones.
And, he’s only young! Of course he is a year older than me, which makes him ten. Not exactly what I’d call a child, but still fairly young.
Fairly young for a smart-ass, that is.
He’s always right, too. Well, nearly always.
Even when he isn’t, he ends up making you feel stupid. Like it was your fault for believing him in the first place. Like he was joking and having you on and you got took.
But we don’t mind. At least not so’s you’d notice. For no longer than three bats of an eyelid, as he is a true pal and will lay his life down for a friend. And when all’s said and done, that’s what truly counts. Ask Grandma Toughtits if you don’t believe me.
She is another one who knows everything. Only more as she is old. About four hundred and seventy-three years old. Mam says it’s only seventy-three. But I like to think it’s four hundred and seventy-three.
I like to think that for I never ever want her to die.
Neither does Matt nor Golam nor Hena nor any of the other children in the village, as we like to pull her tits.
They hang so, Grandma Toughtits’ tits, and flap so, like living leather. She refuses to cover them up in what she calls ‘modern fashion’. ‘Vulgar’ she calls it; hiding what the spirits have made and ‘lifting it up’ to look like what it’s not.
She runs after us when we pull her tits, screaming and shouting and threatening to strangle us with her waist scarf. We run for a while and then pretend to fall over so she can catch hold of us. Which she does. Then she hugs us hard and rocks us in her arms and gives us her best made sweets and tells us stories of good Spirits and bad Spirits and good mountains and bad mountains and good men and bad men and good rains and bad rains and good animals and bad animals and loves us to bits. We never ever want her to die.
Matt says she will. Smart-ass. I hate him. But I’m also his best friend.
Golam is his other best friend. The three of us are best friends. Matt says that’s how it should be, for all the best things in life come in threes. One head with two eyes, one nose with two nostrils, one dingus with two balls, one mouth and one asshole with two cheeks each – and so on and so on.
One Matt and two friends. Golam and Kimo.
Kimo is my name.
Hena is also our friend but sort of different from a friend. We like her and we don’t like her.
No-one knows how old she is but I expect she’s at least nine, nine and a half.
She don’t know everything, like Matt and Grandma Toughtits, but she knows quite a lot. More than Golam and me put together.
She always knows what anybody is thinking whether they let on or not.
Most of all she knows what she wants and how to get it. No matter what, no matter how. Of course it’s easy for her on account she is rich. She can eat as much as she wants whenever she wants and no questions asked. And she has lots of things. I can’t tell you what most of them are for I don’t know myself what most of them are.
Her Dada won’t let us near them.
We do most things together. Matt starts us off, usually; Golam and me follow, usually. Hena turns up somehow – if she wants to.
Like the other night, not long ago, when Matt comes running to me. It is long after sundown. Nothing new in that. No one knows when Matt sleeps, if ever.
It’s not sleeping that makes him so thin and small, says Grandma Toughtits, but Matt don’t care.
He likes to wander at night finding where birds nest and where animals sleep. He sees the pathways of the stars and meets other wandering Spirits and learns from them. And comes to conclusions.
‘Let’s bunk school tomorrow,’ says he.
Now that is new.
Unlike the rest of the world, Matt loves going to school. He’s such a smart-ass he loves to show off in front of the Master – and the rest of us!
H
e knows the language of the North and he knows the language of the South; he can read and write the language of the South; he can read and write the English language and he speaks another language of the white man. He can add, take away and multiply; and he knows all there is to know about science.
Of course he can’t sing or dance half as good as me. And that, says Grandma Toughtits, is the best learning of all. But she don’t like flash talk so I best not go on about it.
‘Let’s bunk school,’ says Matt, all out of breath for having run all the way to my house.
‘Why?’ go I.
‘Why!’ he goes, ‘why – because we’re going to Gonta, you knucklehead, that is why.’
Just like that.
Not, ‘Will you come to Gonta with me?’ or ‘We could go to Gonta, maybe tomorrow,’ or ‘I hear Gonta looks good this time of the year,’ or something polite like that. No sir. But straight out, ‘We’re going to Gonta, you knucklehead.’
Now Gonta is the next village, some twenty hours walk to the west of us. I’ve heard of it, but no more. It’s near enough to the big city to be quite famous. Or so I’ve heard. The thought of going there is truly exciting, but I try not to show it. I try to show my strength. Like I have a mind of my own.
‘Maybe I don’t want to go to Gonta tomorrow,’ say I, trying to hold my excitement from showing. ‘I’ve got history in school tomorrow and I like history.’
And that is the truth. History is the only lesson I like at school. All those stories. I like them. I don’t believe them, but I like them.
Matt believes them but don’t like them.
He finds them scary. He finds them scary, because, he says, they’re real. Me, I find pretend stories more scary. Stories about ghosts and ghouls and monsters.
Matt’s more afraid of real people. He won’t admit it to no one. But he is. I know it for I know him.
‘You don’t want to go to Gonta tomorrow?’ says Matt with that naughty note in his voice which makes me prick up my ears, wondering what’s coming next. ‘You’ve nothing to worry then, have you,’ he carries on, still with the same voice, ‘for we are going to Gonta tonight.’
‘Tonight?’ I shout.
I mean, I know he roams around like a nameless Spirit most nights, and many is the time I’ve walked with him – but going to Gonta in the middle of the night!
‘Why that’s many days’ walk away,’ say I, making it out to be further than it is. Just so it sounds more impossible.
‘No it isn’t,’ goes Matt. ‘We’d be in the heart of Bader if we walked that far.’
Bader is the big city further west.
Matt carries on. ‘Gonta can’t be more than a day or two away.’
‘That’s far enough for me,’ I reply, trying to be difficult.
I can walk if Matt can. After all I am twice his size. Nearly.
But I am being difficult.
‘If we take the path,’ Matt carries on, ‘and leave the big road, we can cut it by a good few hours.’
Now that truly puts the wind up me. The path goes through thick copses before the desert, then up the mountains. No one goes there these days on account of the strange stories we hear.
‘But…’ go I.
Before I can think up of what to say Matt puts in, ‘I thought your legs were the strongest in the village!’
Now I should know better than to rise to such talk, but I do.
Just like he hopes I will.
But so what. After all, I do so want to go.
‘What do we tell Mam and Dada?’
‘I don’t know about you, but I told Ethlyne to tell Dada not to worry. That I’ll be back Monday. Tuesday at the latest!’
Ethlyne is his kid sister.
‘Tuesday!’ I pipe back. ‘But that’s days from now.’
‘We only miss a couple of days of school,’ he says.
It is Thursday.
It is also the least of my worries. Missing school, I mean. But I let it pass on account I do so want to go.
‘You still haven’t told me why we’re going to Gonta.’
After all that’s not the sort of thing one does every day. I reckon not many elders have been to Gonta in all their born days.
‘You’ll find out,’ is all he says.
I am so annoyed I nearly decide to stay back.
But I go. I go but I sulk, which suits him fine for I don’t ask no more questions. I never do when I am sulking and he knows it. Smart-ass. I hate him.
I write a note saying I have to go out ‘exploring’ for a school topic – pretty clever I think – run a string through it and put it round little brother’s neck. I’ve to pull his head up sharply to do it, but nothing wakes him so there’s no worry. He reads well so he’ll tell Mam and Dada. How they’ll take it I’ll learn when I get back.
I pull my trousers on and throw my shoes in my sling bag, just in case. Even though it is summer. I fling my shawl across my shoulder – it can get a bit chilly at night, especially over the mountains – and tiptoe out of the sleeping hall into the open air; one step ahead of Matt just to prove my legs are bigger, and stronger, than his. He don’t mind. Or if he does he don’t let on.
We get to the little tree at the back end of the village behind the little hill. Our regular meeting place.
The little hill is hardly taller than a house but once behind it no one can see us there. And if we crawl up to the top we can see almost everyone and everything down below for the village is flat as bread. It is extra black. There are clouds in the sky which cover the light of the stars with oily grey shawls. That and the cold silence between us make the short walk long. It’s hard to believe we go that way every day at least once. It is like walking through a stranger’s house.
When we get to the little hill Golam is already there waiting for us. That cuts me even more. It means Matt spoke to him before he came to me. Then I think. It also means he left Golam to make his own way. Me, he brings with him. This cheers me up, but I still decide to keep to myself.
Golam grins from one end of the jaw to the other. He has big white teeth and the happiest smile you ever saw. When he smiles his whole face changes. Changes from a simple clay mug to a lovely china cup. In the dark all you see is the teeth and the whites of the eyes but you can feel the happiness. I can’t go on having the hump after that.
But before I have the chance to say a word, a sharp voice says, ‘You took your time, didn’t you!’
Spirit of Shit. I nearly jump up the hill.
I should’ve expected it but I haven’t.
It is Hena.
She has a large bag by her side and she is sitting in the most comfortable part of the slope where there’s a little dimple in the earth to hold her bumsey-wumsey. She is resting her arm on a curvy rock that sticks out on one side.
We don’t like Hena on long travels. We don’t like Hena at all for long times. We end up running around doing things for her. Doing everything for her. Of course she does things too. But she does things she likes to do. We’ve got to do things she likes to do. We can do what we like when she’s not bothered about what we’re doing. But if she don’t like what we’re doing or needs something else done we’ve to stop doing what we like doing and do what she likes doing. Even Matt can’t do nothing about that.
Sometimes we’re doing what we hate and she wants and don’t even know it. We even begin to like it. Sometimes. Sometimes we pretend we like it and end up believing we like it. Mostly we don’t but still we do it.
My bad mood returns.
‘What’s she doing here?’ I ask myself but get no answer.
‘What’s she doing here?’ I ask the tree. He just waves his arms about helplessly.
‘We’re not taking her?’ I ask the Earth. It spits dust in my eyes.
‘Are we?’ I ask Golam. He shivers from head to toe, his lips move but I hear no words. Only a sigh.
‘Are we?’ I ask Matt.
‘You tell me.’ He turns on me. ‘She has the hots for
you.’
‘Then how comes she’s always around you lot?’
‘Children, children, don’t fight on my account,’ rises the shrill voice of Hena at its sharpest.
It pierces my ears like a needle of north wind.
Something in the way she speaks, and the word ‘children’ – in front of Matt at that – tells me she is at her worst.
She gets up, practically falls down as she lifts her bag from the ground, steadies herself and starts walking towards the village. I act relieved but my Spirit tells me she has something up her sleeve.
She hasn’t. Not up her sleeve. She has it in her bag.
Matt has it figured out.
‘You wait,’ he nudges me in the rib, left side third from the bottom where some people have their waist. ‘You wait,’ he goes again and nudges me again with his thin sharp elbow. It is like getting an injection in the bone. ‘She’ll stop before she’s twelve steps gone and pull something out of her bag and squeak.’
I don’t count the steps but he isn’t far out.
Hena stops, pulls a torch out of her bag, lights it up and flashes it around. ‘Useful, this,’ she goes, ‘especially when walking further than the bat flies.’
She waits for a reaction.
We are impressed but say nothing.
‘Especially on a night as black as this,’ she carries on. ‘Especially through the woods.’
I am about to waver and speak but Matt squeezes my arm. It is surprising how strong his bony fingers can be.
Hena puts the torch in the bag, fumbles about inside it and comes up with a big round clock. Its numbers almost glow in the dark.
She comes closer to Golam and says, ‘Can you see what time it is? I’ve got something in my eyes.’
She knows how Matt always wants a watch.
He has a thing about time. It charms him like a flute charms a cobra. To have a watch round his wrist and to know the time at the turn of a hand is one of his dreams.
Of course you can’t wear that heavy thing round any part of your body. But still, it does the time.
‘It has an alarm bell, too,’ adds Hena as we’re still shut up.
My Friend Matt and Hena The Whore Page 1
