Beyond the jacaranda trees that surrounded the swimming pool he could see rain clouds building up, and a hush settled over the grounds. Pearson relished the prospect of real rain – not the grey, miserable precipitation of Europe. In Africa the elements seemed to be orchestrated by an Almighty conductor who marshalled wind, thunder and shafts of lightning, bringing them together in a glorious release of plump drops of water that hit Kuwisha’s dry earth like tiny grenades which exploded in puffs of dust. Seconds later, pedestrians scurried for cover as gutters became streams, and streams turned into ochre-foamed torrents.
Now this was rain, thought Pearson, this was Africa.
Cecil adjusted his trousers. He had reached an awkward age: old enough to notice that his waistline was expanding, and young enough to do something about it.
This was not the only sign that the watershed birthday marking thirty-five years was fast approaching. He was discovering that he agreed more often than not with his dad. For a start he no longer resented the fact that his father had named him after Cecil John Rhodes. And he was starting to share his father’s view that professionals were ruining football. What was more, his taste in clothes was becoming as conservative to the point of eccentricity. The shirts Pearson wore were hand-made by Turnbull & Asser in London’s Jermyn Street, always in the same shade of blue; and his socks were always pink, in tribute to his hero, the late Joe Slovo, South African guerrilla chief and leader of its communist party.
And ten minutes later the wondrous display was over, and the sky was blue again.
12
“Phauw!”
Charity’s nose wrinkled as she detected a familiar sour-sweet fragrance that hung like a spider’s web, gossamer-fine, in the bar’s rudimentary kitchen. It was the subtle perfume of bhang that lay beneath the stale odour of cigarettes left behind by customers who had dared to ignore the hand-lettered “No Smoking” sign. Could the culprit be Willard Luthuli, the cheeky youth who sold wooden giraffes to tourists? Luthuli smoked more bhang than was good for him; on the other hand, he had been nowhere near the bar.
She sniffed again.
“Mildred!”
She had long suspected that her elderly friend was going deaf, but she would not have put it past Mildred to pretend. All too often it seemed that Mildred heard what she wanted to hear, and screened out the rest.
“Mildred!”
This time the call was more urgent. Mildred Kigali gave a table a final wipe, and hurried over.
Charity beckoned from within the bar, where the sweet aroma was strongest. The two ladies, the one buxom and in her mid-forties, wearing a blue and white striped apron, and the other wiry, lean and elderly, head covered in a red scarf, together sniffed the air, judiciously and deliberately.
The older of the two nodded in confirmation: there was indeed no doubt in her mind, none whatsoever. The smell was unmistakable. Someone had been smoking bhang. While it couldn’t be ruled out, it was most unlikely that one of the circle members had sneaked off for a quiet draw. Anyone who attended the monthly meeting was self-evidently of independent mind and would smoke bhang openly.
“Could it be an Mboya Boy?” asked Mildred.
“There were no Mboya Boys on duty last night,” said Charity, a trifle sharply.
She did not want to provoke Mildred into one of her fulminations against the gang – none of whom, as Mildred never tired of pointing out, was a Lamb.
And if there had been a duty Mboya, why should they act against their own interests, even when they were in a drug-induced stupor from sniffing glue? They were cheeky enough, that was for sure. But why? Why would they risk losing the chance to have a square meal in return for helping out with chores at the bar?
It did not make sense.
And while she did not support moves to legalise the drug, she felt that Kuwisha had far more serious and pressing problems than the use of the plant that grew like a weed between the coffee bushes and tea bushes, and together with tourism made up Kuwisha’s struggling economy.
The serious area of difference between the two ladies was alcohol, over which there was much debate. Mildred would ban it if she could; Charity felt there was no harm if consumed in moderation.
Mildred must have been reading her thoughts, for she gave a disapproving “Tsk.” People no longer understood the difference between right and wrong. Her old friend Charity should be tougher and stricter with the Mboya Boys. Instead she spoilt the rascals, especially Ntoto and Rutere.
Mildred’s views on discipline and today’s youth were passionately felt and forcefully expressed: hard work and a sound thrashing were good for them. And should there be any hint of rebellion – which she had seen on the faces of the Mboya Boys, oh yes, there was cheek in their eyes, and as far as Mildred Kigali was concerned, eyes were windows into the soul – it should be quelled.
And Mildred had no doubt, no doubt whatsoever, about the course that should be followed. It was time they joined the Lambs.
She wondered if Charity would lead the way. My, my, what a great day that would be! What a catch for the Lambs, to have the wife of the late bishop, Bishop David Mupanga, no less, join their ranks.
And Kigali himself, he could baptise her. And then surely the street children of Kuwisha would follow, like the children that followed the piper. Furniver, also, would follow, Mildred was sure. Men were men, all over the world.
Her reverie was interrupted.
“Mildred!”
Charity had just noticed that something was missing.
“The needles! Where are the needles, Mildred?”
13
“I don’t mind telling you,” said Furniver, “I was absolutely terrified.”
The mid-morning sun was beating down, and the crown of his head, where his hair was thinning, was starting to turn pink.
He, too, had risen early, and after a couple of hours’ work on his bank’s annual review, had made his way along the muddy path that led from his flat to Harrods, wrinkling his nose as his footsteps released an array of disgusting smells from the accumulated filth that lay below. It was time to lay a path, but it would cost a fortune in dough balls.
“Good morning, my dear.”
Charity gave him a small kiss on the cheek in return. She was never demonstrative in her affection, but Furniver had no doubt: something was up. There was definitely a hint of disapproval in her attitude, but for the life of him, he could not put his finger on what might have caused it. Unless it was those Lambs putting pressure on her to join them.
Furniver settled into his favourite wicker chair, near the thriving purple bougainvillaea, and took a sip of coffee, made from beans grown on Charity’s shamba, and roasted and ground within the past hour.
Charity beckoned to Mildred, who was keeping a close eye on the kitchen, where Titus Ntoto and Cyrus Rutere were washing dishes ahead of the next sitting for breakfast. “Come, Mildred, come join us. It is time to talk about last night.”
Furniver had just started his account of the previous evening when Lucy Gomball, looking particularly attractive in jeans and T-shirt – “all tits and teeth” as a frustrated Telegraph correspondent had once put it – emerged from behind the bar.
“Hi guys! Pearson’s been let out, just collected him. He’ll join us later.”
Charity let out a hoot of delight.
“Dough balls on the house!”
“Puna rang with the news, and said he can stay on to cover the donors’ do,” continued Lucy.
“Can somebody lend me my taxi fare? Left the house without a cent.”
Furniver handed her the money. Lucy was back inside a minute, face screwed up in disgust.
“God knows what I stepped in,” she said, picking up a pencil-long stick lying on the table, and scraping something off the sole of her trainer. “Sis!” she said, and flicked the stick away. “So what’s up?”
“That,” said Charity coldly, “was my toothbrush.”
Lucy turned red with embarrassment.
> “Oh shit, I’m so sorry, Charity.”
Charity gave Lucy’s hand a forgiving squeeze.
“So where is Pearson?” asked Furniver.
“Just dropped him at the Milimani. He’ll join us as soon as he can.”
Furniver took advantage of Lucy’s arrival to pop into the Zimbabwe-designed toilet, briefcase in hand, and he emerged a couple of minutes later, looking dishevelled. He felt Charity’s eyes on him, and he blushed.
“Jolly fine toilet, no flies. Jolly good. Just um, checking.”
Amidst further expressions of relief about Pearson’s release, Charity turned to Furniver.
“Start again, so Lucy can also know.”
In a sentence or two, Furniver brought Lucy up to date about the events of the night before, and continued.
“So there I was. I had been taking a turn round the bar, reading the notes for that talk on inflation I was due to give the circle. Just about to knock on the door and this thing, this creature, like a dwarf, hiding among the beer crates, suddenly starts screaming its head off. Right in front of me. Gave me a hell of a fright. Dropped my torch. Told it was a bloody tolothingy . . .”
He looked around for help.
“Tokolosh,” said Charity Mupanga.
“That’s it, tokolosh. Heard it scream: ‘Tokolosh! Tokolosh!’ Terrifying! Sort of goblin, you say? Bit like a leprechaun, maybe. Hangs around at night, doing mischief. As in Ireland.”
He took another sip of coffee.
“Then the door flies open. Just there.”
Furniver pointed to the entrance to the bar.
“All hell breaks loose. Bizarre! Half the women who come out ask me where the damn thing is. The rest keep going, screaming blue murder. I had no idea what was happening, dropped my notes of what would have been a pretty decent talk, got trampled in the rush . . .”
He paused. And then he shook his head.
“Don’t believe in spirits, but frankly cannot explain what happened. Call it a tokolosh or whatever, there certainly was something there. No doubt. Scared the pants off me. Got to admit it.”
“What do you think, Lucy?”
Lucy Gomball, securing her blonde hair in a pony tail, decided that she would keep her head below the parapet. Her head said one thing, and her heart said another.
On the one hand she was certain that a tokolosh was a figment of the beholder’s imagination; on the other, she had little doubt that many in Kuwisha firmly believed in the existence of the creature. And if people believe in something strongly enough, perhaps it did exist, after a fashion, in their heads?
It was Charity, however, who was openly doubtful.
“Why should a tokolosh shout ‘Tokolosh!’ ”
Mildred, who by common consent had been the heroine of the evening, displaying a coolness that was a credit to her advanced years, and whose account was eagerly awaited, gave her a pitying look.
“These tokolosh, they are clever. When it saw Furniver, it was afraid of being caught. So it shouted, and made confusion. People ran out of the meeting, and the tokolosh was able to escape.”
The two women agreed on one thing: what was remarkable was not so much the presence of a tokolosh. They were common enough, and the old generation took care to close windows and doors at night to stop the creature from entering, often in the guise of a goat or a pig or, more usually, a donkey. But neither could recall ever hearing of a tokolosh behaving in this extraordinary way.
The table fell silent.
“Too bad about the talk, really sorry,” said Furniver. “Dropped my notes, got mud all over them, but I remember the joke. Rather good. Want to hear it?”
Mistaking the silence at the table for consent, Furniver began.
“A minister from Kuwisha visited his counterpart in Nigeria, and admired the Mercs and the huge home. ‘How did you manage to get all this?’ the minister asked. His host gestured through the window at the new hospital that was going up. ‘See that? Ten per cent commission.’ A few months later the roles were reversed, and the Nigerian minister was the guest . . . And the house in Kuwisha was even bigger, with more cars . . .
“He pointed out the window. ‘See that hospital?’ The Nigerian looked and looked and said: ‘Hospital? I can’t see any hospital.’ And the Kuwisha man said: ‘100 per cent commission.’ ”
“Next we must hear Mildred,” said Charity, and gave Furniver an affectionate pat on the top of his head.
Phauw! There it was again! The scent that Boniface Rugiru had detected at the Thumaiga Club was surely the whiff of local gin. Sooner rather than later she would have to tackle him.
Just then Lucy’s mobile rang.
“I’m on my way,” she told the caller. “The office. Reminding me that this NoseAid chap is arriving this morning. Would you be a sweetheart, Ed, and collect him from the airport?”
“WorldFeed should send a car,” said Furniver. “After all, NoseAid gives you a fortune every year – you should be meeting him.”
Lucy pouted.
“If you can’t go, I’ll have to send a driver. I haven’t finished the briefing paper, and he’s off to the rhino place later this morning.”
Furniver looked at Charity.
“I don’t waste my time with loafers,” said Charity firmly.
“I say, Charity, bit harsh surely . . .”
“Please, Ed,” Lucy wheedled.
Furniver sighed, and was rewarded with a kiss from Lucy.
“What about the rest of my story?”
“We can hear you and Mildred after lunch,” promised Charity, and the group broke up.
Furniver looked at his watch. He would have to leave soon if he was to get to the airport in time to meet the flight, such was the state of the city’s traffic. He could make it, provided he kept short the meeting he had promised to a chap from UKAID, Mullivant, Dr Adrian Mullivant, who had asked him to spare an hour to talk about the Co-operative Bank’s work in Kireba. These days the airport journey, which used to take twenty minutes or so, could take very much longer. Most visitors saw the city’s horrendous traffic jams as a sign of a booming economy.
Furniver had his doubts.
The jams were the result of a declining, corrupt state, he told his colleagues at the Kuwisha Economic Society. Roads were deteriorating, and huge potholes were common; ageing cars were kept on the road, their frequent breakdowns holding up traffic; the town council was corrupt and incompetent; and broken traffic lights went unmended. Only the four-wheel drives could be certain of completing their journey, and every self-respecting politician and aid worker, journalist and consultant had one of the petrol-guzzling beasts.
Furniver returned to the flat, hoping that Mullivant would not be late, while Charity headed for the kitchen and summoned the duty boys who were kicking around a football made of plastic bags and string.
“Ntoto! Rutere!”
The lads, plastic glue bottles bouncing at the end of string tied around their necks, ignored her.
She called again, sharper this time.
Still no reply.
Then she realised her mistake. What were the names of those football people the boys so admired?
“Beckham! Rooney! No loafing. Kitchen duty.”
There were chicken necks to prepare, dough balls to fry, not to mention fresh bitings, avocado soup to get ready, beans that needed soaking . . . and if young Rutere had forgotten to restock the fridge with sodas and Tusker beers he was in deep trouble.
Back in his office, Furniver frowned at the notes he had made. He hated compiling the annual report. Paperwork was a waste of time, but it had to be done.
He had made a useful start earlier that day.
“Long snakes, short ladders,” was the headline. He was tempted to add “and dizzy worms” but decided against it. It was probably a mixed metaphor. Pity. But somewhere he would work in the story about the US ambassador to Zaire, who had been asked about the significance of the president’s latest cabinet reshuffle.
&nbs
p; “What do you get when you shake up a can of worms? Dizzy worms.”
About summed it up, thought Furniver. He settled to his task:
“Long snakes, short ladders: A review of the year in Africa . . .”
Only every now and then did Edward Furniver allow himself to think about the continent’s plight and each time he did, regretted it. Once a year, however, he was obliged to submit a report to the London-based fund that supported the bank, in which he had to put the operations in Kuwisha in a wider context.
From his desk in the spare bedroom that served as an office, Furniver looked over the sprawling slum teeming with life, full of energy as its hard-working residents went about their business, and looked at what he had written.
“Looking back on the past twelve months has left us little the wiser about the continent’s prospects. Often it has seemed as if unseen hands were playing snakes and ladders across Africa.
“News from this part of the world has been as unpredictable as a throw of the dice. Snakes marked famine or flood, corruption or coup, Aids or civil war, writhe across the board, alongside ladders marked cease-fire and peace deal, debt relief and multi-party elections, foreign investment and trade deals.”
Furniver sucked his teeth. This was good stuff!
“Or is it on the verge of recovery, undergoing a transformation as profound as any in its history as it comes to terms with a traumatic past, enjoys the benefits of debt rescheduling and write-off, and gets to grips with the economic and technological revolutions that are reshaping the global community?
“In the continent’s struggle for revival there is no single, simple front line, no single battle, and no homogeneous Africa with an all-embracing culture or a collective identity. It is not possible in a region with more than a thousand languages and as many ethnic groups, all living on a land mass that could accommodate China and Europe, India and the United States, with room to spare for Argentina and New Zealand.
Fatboy and the Dancing Ladies Page 8
