Fatboy and the Dancing Ladies

by Michael Holman

  FATBOY AND THE DANCING LADIES

  Praise for Last Orders at Harrods by Michael Holman

  “One of my novels of the year.”

  Alexander McCall Smith

  “Rather like Evelyn Waugh on acid meeting Alexander McCall Smith, veteran Africa journalist Michael Holman’s book Last Orders at Harrods is an explosion of pure reading joy . . . For the sheer joy and vitality of this book Last Orders at Harrods gets my vote as book of the year thus far.”

  Cape Times, South Africa

  “In this satirical feast, Holman hits his mark every time as he exposes the humbug and also humanity of life in modern Africa. With a Dickensian cast of characters in the troubled nation of Kuwisha, and a plot worthy of Waugh, this is a cracking fictional debut. Full of humour, home truths – and anger simmering beneath it all – this is a book that must be read.”

  Aidan Hartley, author of Zanzibar Chest

  “Gripping, informative, satirical . . . a road map though the social, economic and political landscape of Kenya.”

  Sunday Standard, Nairobi

  “Some devastatingly hilarious moments . . . a satire that should be required bedtime reading at Gleneagles.”

  Scotsman

  “Michael Holman’s new Africa novel is the fiction world’s answer to Jeffery Sachs’ The End of Poverty, combining cleverly drawn characters in the curious and poverty stricken nation of Kuwisha with a broad political narrative, exploring the causes of Africa’s woes and questioning the wisdom of the West in its continual quest to bring Africa under control.”

  University of New South Wales, Australia

  “This wickedly satirical novel is also a serious critique of Africa’s troubled state.”

  The Guardian

  “Last Orders at Harrods successfully gets under the skin of African society and politics in a way that is both insightful and amusing without being patronising. Mr Holman cleverly characterises both some of the continent’s most notoriously corrupt leaders and some of the most resilient ordinary Africans for whom life is a daily dignified struggle; often by rolling several characters, situations and realities into one thoroughly enjoyable read!”

  John Githongo, former permanent secretary, Kenya

  “Michael Holman’s beautifully realised comic first novel.”

  The Economist

  “Michael Holman’s excellent and witty debut novel . . . elevated by his skill at pitching entertaining characters into his tightly constructed, pleasurable plot.”

  Financial Times

  “An immensely important book that fearlessly slaughters sacred cows, cuts through the rubbish and tells it as it is. The plot is educated farce, in the way that Tom Sharpe’s novels are, but the message is deadly serious.”

  Geographic

  “A corrupt dictator, menacing secret police, a bumbling British journalist – and the big-hearted bishop’s widow who runs the Harrods International Bar (and Nightspot) on the edge of ‘East Africa’s biggest slum’. These are the spicy ingredients in this sharply written novel set in the fictional country of Kuwisha, lent a wolfish satire by its overtones of Evelyn Waugh’s African romp Scoop. The author, a veteran Africa correspondent, reveals an intimate knowledge of the rogues, the chaotic chancers but also the innate enthusiasm of the continent. The hack here is Cecil Pearson, hunting for stories while pressing his rather amateurish charms upon a canny young aid worker named Lucy. She, meanwhile, is delighted by the thought of an outbreak of cholera, because of the work – and press attention – it will garner for her. Meanwhile, Harrods’ owner, Charity, is being threatened by the London store demanding she change the bar’s name. As a World Bank visit to the country turns into a riot, Pearson finds his naïve adherence to the truth in his reports is a distinct handicap. Jolly good fun.”

  Daily Mail

  “The book is charming in its telling of Africa’s unique foibles and nuances, in the style that Alexander McCall Smith has recently popularised, but behind the eccentric and ebullient characters there lies a far more steely gaze . . . here lies the book’s real strength. It is a precariously difficult path to tread, the thin line between satire and polemic and Holman skirts the problem very effectively. His narrative is a confident one, the characters breathe life and the scenes are wonderfully coloured with detail in the manner that only a journalist could – here comparisons with someone like Jonathan Swift are perhaps not inappropriate.”

  South Africa Times

  First published in

  Great Britain in 2007 by

  Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd

  This ebook edition published in 2012 by

  Birlinn Limited

  West Newington House

  Newington Road

  Edinburgh

  EH9 1QS

  www.birlinn.co.uk

  Copyright © Michael Holman, 2007

  The moral rights of Michael Homan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-85790-223-8

  Print ISBN: 978-1-904598-79-4

  Version 1.0

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  To my dear and courageous mother:

  a long way from Gwelo

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Heartfelt thanks to: Gabrielle Stubbs, who lovingly cares for me; Patrick and Patricia Orr, who provided a haven at Jinchini, (Jinchini.co.uk) on the Kenya coast, where Patrick Mwongela Munyao and Omari Masud’Dago made sure I had little else to do other than write; Chris and Janet Sherwell, whose hospitality in Guernsey helped me get over a hump; John Githongo and Mary Muthumbi, who represent the best of Kuwisha; Alan Cowell, whose courage is inspirational; Ann Grant, who continued to encourage me; as did JDF Jones, Quentin Peel, and Sandy McCall Smith; and Robyn Scott and Mungo Soggot; to Elina Tripoli, Dr Patricia Limousin and Professor Marwan Hariz, who between them renewed my battery and revived my morale. And I much appreciate the backing of Rye Barcott and the expertise of Salim Mohamed, president and manager respectively of the Nairobi children’s association, Carolina for Kireba (cfk@unc.edu).

  I am also grateful to Neville Moir for his patient support, and Nicky Wood for her sharp-eyed editing; to Lionel Barber, editor of the Financial Times, Robert Thomson, editor of The Times, and Patrick Smith, editor of Africa Confidential, for allowing me to draw on articles I originally published in their papers; to Peter Bale, former editor of Times OnLine, for urging me to get back on my soapbox; Marie Johansson for her insights into aid; and to Hutch at Hutch@pukkape.com, whose computer skills are legendary.

  I hardly need say that the country of Kuwisha, and the characters that inhabit it, are products of my imagination. But the sect named after the Congolese preacher Simon Kimbangu, and described by Michela Wrong in her classic account of President Mobutu sese Seko’s Zaire, In the Footsteps of Mr Kurtz, is a matter of fact and not fiction, as is the Kimbanguist belief that believers should never, ever be naked.

  “Sometimes at midnight, in the great silence of the sleep-bound town, the doctor turned on his wireless before going to bed for the few hours’ sleep he allowed himself. And from the ends of the earth across thousands of miles of land and sea, kindly, well-meaning speakers tried to voice their fellow-feeling, and indeed did so, but at the same time proved the utter incapacity of every man truly to share in suffering which he cannot see. ‘Oran! Oran!’ in vain the call rang over oceans, in vain Dr Rieux
listened hopefully; always the tide of eloquence began to flow, bringing home still more the unbridgeable gulf that lay between Grand and the speaker. ‘Oran, we’re with you!’ they called emotionally. But not, the doctor told himself, to love or to die together – and that’s the only way. They’re too remote.”

  Albert Camus, The Plague

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  Epilogue

  PROLOGUE

  The sounds of approaching dawn woke her. For a few minutes Charity Mupanga lay in the delicious warmth of her bed, and listened to Africa preparing to face a new day.

  She could hear cousin Mercy, nurse at the only clinic in the slum called Kireba, stirring next door. The man with the hawking cough could only be Philimon Ogata, waiting patiently for the rattle of tin mugs which would signal the start of business at Harrods International Bar (and Nightspot). Soon his bad-tempered mongrel dog, banished from the bar’s premises, would begin to bark. Across the still-dark valley drifted the chatter of askaris returning from their duties in the adjacent city, and exchanging ribald comments with the women setting out from hovels and shacks to hawk vegetables, or to clean homes and offices.

  Kireba, East Africa’s biggest slum, was rousing.

  Closer to where Charity lay, on the other side of the wall, came the sound of running water, and whispered exchanges as kettles were filled from the tap by the clinic, and the clink of knives and spoons being set out for the first rounds of morning tea – only five ngwee, including a thick slice of Charity’s excellent corn-bread.

  The duty boys, Ntoto and Rutere, her little rats – though woe betide anyone else who used the term – were going about their business: Titus Odhiambo Ntoto, leader of the Mboya Boys, the slum’s toughest gang, and his friend, Cyrus Rutere. Barely 14, they were the lucky ones in a growing army of feral children, orphaned by Aids, the plague that consumed the future. Thanks to Charity, they could sleep unmolested, under the Harrods’ bar counter, and enjoy one good meal a day – providing, of course, they did their chores.

  The rasp of brush on nails as the boys prepared for hand inspection was followed by giggles. Then came a hiss from Ntoto: “Shish! She’s sleeping . . .”

  Charity rose, and dressed quickly, putting on her favourite green cardigan, with the worn elbows, for though it was midsummer, there was an early morning chill in the air.

  Before stepping outside, there was one daily ritual to perform. She took a dab of Vaseline from the jar kept on the bedside table and rubbed it into her skin, leaving her face smooth and gleaming, cheekbones accentuated. It was a face with character, handsome rather than beautiful, boasting strong white teeth and a ready smile.

  Now she was ready.

  Some thirty yards away the three shipping containers that made up Harrods, arranged as an E without the middle stroke, loomed like an elephant emerging from the morning mist. One container served as an eating room, the opposite one was a bar, with a counter made of old wooden railway sleepers which ran the length of the container; the third was the kitchen, where a gurgling second-hand fridge, connected by a cable to a power outlet in the clinic, kept the local Tusker beers cold, while the cooking was done on three gas stoves.

  All three containers had windows cut away, and Charity could see a candle that flickered from within. A match flared, as the boys lit the gas stoves.

  Thank goodness the foolish fuss about the name of her bar had been settled. She still found it outrageous that a London duka could own a name, wherever in the world it was used; and she still resented the fact that she had had to change it . . . now its official name was Tangwenya’s International Bar (and Nightspot). May her late father, after whom the bar had been named, Harrods Mwai Gichuru Tangwenya, rest in peace.

  The business undermined her belief in British justice. At least the lawyers no longer bothered her with foolish letters, with strange words like “pursuant” and “sub judice”.

  The last letter from them was especially unpleasant, she felt, even though it had been accompanied by a cheque for £200 “for the welfare of the orphaned boys”.

  She had asked her dear friend, Edward Furniver, manager of the Kireba savings bank, to explain some of the phrases.

  “What does this mean, ‘without prejudice’?”

  She pointed to the offending phrase. “They think I am dead, yes?”

  Furniver nodded.

  “Killed by rioters? And that Harrods was destroyed, by looters?”

  He nodded again.

  “But I cannot find any sorry in this letter? Where is any sorry?”

  Furniver had tried to calm her.

  “I think that to say ‘without prejudice’ is as close as a lawyer gets without actually saying sorry . . .”

  It was still a struggle to persuade her to keep the cheque, but she eventually agreed to spend half on drugs for the clinic, while half was to be invested by Furniver on behalf of the rats.

  But Charity Mupanga had had the last word.

  “For officials from London, we will call my bar Tangwenya’s. For customers, they will always be welcome at Harrods.”

  Charity had crossed herself, smoothed down her blue and white apron, and disappeared into the kitchen . . .

  It was getting lighter.

  Ogata greeted her, coughed again, cleared his chest with a long rasp that shook his frame, and spat.

  A few yards away from where he sat, patiently waiting for a cup of good, sweet, milky Kuwisha tea, a smoky fire came to life in a hut made of plastic bags.

  Clarence “Results” Mudenge, proprietor of the Klean Blood Klinic, was stirring. He too would join the queue for early tea and dough balls, the best value in town.

  “Mo’ningi.”

  Mildred Kigali had promised to arrive early, and she was as good as her word.

  The wife of Didymus, house steward to Furniver, could be irritating, particularly when she pretended to be deaf, and when she proselytised on behalf of the Church of the Blessed Lamb. But she was a good and loyal friend, and as active a 70-something as there was in Kuwisha.

  “Morning, Mildred. Did you sleep well?”

  Charity laid down the chewed, bristle-ended stick that served as a toothbrush.

  Time for work! No loafing! There were mouths to feed, jobs to be done, and important matters to resolve

  1

  “Africa,” said the Oldest Member, stretched out in his green leather armchair in front of the fireplace at the Thumaiga Club, favourite watering hole of the elite.

  Dusk had fallen, and the sudden shift from bright sunshine to soft half-light, and then abrupt darkness, caught the last players on the golf course by surprise. The click of steel on ball gave way to conversation as the group entered the bar, nodding at the OM as they ordered their rounds.

  “Africa,” he said again, and sighed, his outstretched feet nudging the day’s papers, dropped on the floor next to the chair.

  The front pages had much the same headlines: “UK Aid Minister Backs Rhino Debt Link”, declared one. “World Bank Pledges Rhino Aid”, announced the other.

  “Indeed,” said Edward Furniver, wondering just what point his host was trying to make. He took
a handful of roasted cashew nuts from the bowl on the drinks stand. Furniver was in no hurry to get back to his modest flat above the bank’s office in Kireba. And while there were aspects of the Thumaiga Club he heartily disliked, there was something soothing about Kuwisha’s leading social venue. Old values – dressing for dinner, signed chitties rather than cash, and a black ball for undesirable candidates for membership – were maintained with unbending enthusiasm by the successors to their colonial counterparts. Whatever their differences, they shared the same belief in rule through committees.

  An evening at the club was like being in a protective cocoon, where mementoes of the past kept out the realities of the present. He soaked up the atmosphere of down-at-heel gentility, where the sanctity of the Residents’ Lounge was preserved by alert waiters, who courteously but firmly expelled visitors who dared to intrude. He loved to sink into the leather armchairs, flick through an old copy of Country Life, and wonder who had gone to the trouble of collecting what seemed to be the complete works of Dornford Yates. The last entry in the notebook attached with a piece of string to a stub of a pencil was dated a decade earlier: “Residents Only”, said a note on the dusty cover. “Two books maximum”.

  “How about one for the road?”

  The OM’s voice boomed around the bar, now nearly empty, the golfers having departed. Boniface Rugiru, the long-serving bar steward, took the orders for another round.

  Rugiru was a member of the “too late” generation, for whom independence had come just a few years too late. He missed out on a place at one of the hitherto segregated state schools that had opened their doors to black students; and without a secondary school certificate he had no chance of getting a job in a civil service that was open to black citizens of Kuwisha.

  Instead he ended up behind the bar at the Thumaiga, a chief bar steward at the height of his profession, and earning a pittance. But if he was bitter, he didn’t show it. Instead he radiated a quiet confidence – a big man with an easy smile, proud of the seven children he had brought up to respect their elders and to fear God.