Fatboy and the Dancing Ladies

by Michael Holman

Japer’s intervention undoubtedly saved Mboga from the first needle. It missed the steward by inches, just as Japer grasped Mboga’s arm with one hand while trying to attract the attention of Mullivant and his camera with the other.

  “Now, take it now,” he cried, just before the needle sank into his upper right arm.

  Mlambo coolly took fresh aim, and let fly with the second, which found its mark, like a dart in a bull, in Mboga’s chest.

  “Run, Mlambo, run,” shouted Ntoto and Rutere as the ranks of onlooking street boys parted and closed behind the former kitchen toto. Their urging was not needed, and Mlambo made his getaway without obstruction. No-one was prepared to risk being hit with the contents of those plastic bags; and no-one wanted to risk the plague called HIV-Aids.

  The trio had agreed to meet on the roof of Harrods. Ntoto was the first to arrive, followed by Rutere, and a few minutes later Mlambo, still panting.

  “You are an outlaw,” said Rutere.

  Mlambo shrugged.

  Ntoto reappeared, clutching a brown paper bag, a half-full bottle of Coke, a twist of mbang, a half litre of changa, and three fried chicken necks. And for the next thirty minutes they ate and drank and sniffed glue, and laughed as Mlambo retold his tale.

  Smoke drifted across the rubbish dump, and a dog scavenged nearby. Below them customers crammed inside, discussing the matters of the day – the rising cost of school fees, the cost of living. Every now and then came a mention of the tokolosh, but the story was rapidly losing its appeal. The ring road was more important . . .

  Drunk with triumph as much as with changa, the trio began to dance, arms interlocked. Silhouetted against a moon that was close to full, they shouted their defiance of the world outside Kireba, and chanted: “Kiss the arse, Mboga, kiss the arse of Mzilikazi Ferdinand Mhango Mlambo.”

  41

  Lucy felt feverish, a bout of malaria perhaps, and she took to her bed, grateful for Pearson’s concerned presence. They had the house to themselves. The Nomads had left on the evening flight to London and the Pastoralists, who were off to Lokio at dawn the next day, were already abed and asleep.

  The FN’s foreign desk had rung Pearson on his mobile. They were asking for an analysis of recent events in Kuwisha in 500 words, from Hardwicke’s dramatic speech to rhino aid and the unfortunate fracas involving street boys and the NoseAid ambassador.

  Pearson had brought his laptop into Lucy’s room, and had drafted the story at her desk. The computerised filing facility didn’t seem to be working, no doubt because of rain, and he was now put through to the FN’s last remaining copytaker to dictate the copy.

  Before he started, they exchanged observations about the weather in Kuwisha and London, and when these courtesies were done, Pearson got down to business.

  As Lucy drifted in and out of sleep, phrases from his dictation floated into her consciousness, and periods of lucidity were interspersed with her own fever-driven imaginings.

  “Geoffrey Japer . . . Agonising time . . . brings home . . . millions dead, modern plague . . . street boys victims . . . corruption a cancer . . . NoseAid . . . rhino relief . . .

  “Land of contrasts . . . hungry majority . . . cavorting Kuwisha cowboys snort cocaine . . . rolling acres, tea, coffee, as eye can see Green lawns Outspan Hotel, Thumaiga Club, shrubs, hibiscus, fresh flowers, leather armchairs, deferential servants, silence please, gin and tonics, make a fortune, market rates, old buffers dying breed . . . sunset Africa glorious, Rift Valley, White Mischief, Happy Valley, ancient hunger, yearning, loins swelling, heat, rains, red earth steaming, did she do it, are you married or do you live in Kuwisha . . . noble spear-propped Masaai guards, blah blah blah, cowboys languid, arrogant yah, perched high four-wheel drive yah, flicks hair, cripples begging . . . Girlfriends blonde, tanned yah, back at carnivore lion’s liver, yum, sniffing coke, taking dope yah, Mombasa Gold and golden beaches, blah blah blah

  “Third generation Kuwisha now, upper classes, trips abroad, lotus-eating artists’ colony, beads, south coast, north coast, beach, white sand, blah blah, exhibitions, divorces, street boys sniffing glue, potholes, raining, sewers overflowing, President Nduka, blah, corruption, elephants’ ivory, white tribe, time warp, gin, cocaine, once more, again.

  “Blah!

  “Read that last sentence back, please,” said Pearson, and after a further exchange about the weather, ended the call.

  “Get in,” said Lucy.

  “No,” said Pearson. “It’s the malaria talking.”

  “Love you,” she mumbled.

  “How much?” asked Pearson.

  But Lucy was already asleep.

  It had been a quiet meal, not the silence of companionship but the silence of a couple under strain. Finally Charity could stand it no longer – though the consequence of confirmation would break her heart. She reached into her apron pocket, pulled out the bottle which she had found in his briefcase, and said simply: “Furniver, why!” Open and frank, Furniver had decided, that was the best policy. He looked her in the eye, and made a clean breast of things.

  “Every bloody morning, front of the mirror, less and less, each day.”

  Charity was baffled. What on earth was the man on about? Surely he couldn’t be talking about another jipu?

  “Finally I went and had a word with ‘Results’ Mudenge.”

  Furniver gestured towards the half-full bottle.

  “Followed instructions. To the letter. Rubbed it in, massaged the old scalp, whenever I could. Been using it regularly. Notice any, um, difference?” he asked hopefully.

  Charity could have wept with relief. Instead she hugged him.

  “You don’t mind?”

  His heart leapt when he heard her say: “Make me a happy woman, Furniver . . .”

  And then sank, as she continued: “Let me get your money back from that skellum, Mr Clarence ‘Results’ Mudenge. Results indeed! There is nothing wrong with your hair.”

  She ran her hand over his thinning locks.

  “Anyway,” she chuckled, “it is longer than mine, even.”

  Furniver blushed.

  “Furniver,” she declared, “please, I am sorry for not trusting you . . .”

  “Potholes,” said Furniver, “just potholes, not a road-block, old thing.”

  For a moment, Charity was baffled.

  “What? What? Beg pardon?”

  And then she remembered.

  It was a reference to a prayer, written by her late husband, intended for the street children as well as parishioners, which she had once read to Furniver.

  To her surprise, he took her hands in his, and began:

  “When you rise, each day at dawn,

  Praise the Lord for this fresh morn.

  And keep in mind these lessons few,

  This way you will your soul renew:

  Look both ways crossing street . . .

  The lines, banal though they were, always made her eyes prick with tears. She joined in, and together they recited the last few couplets:

  “Or else you could your Maker meet!

  Don’t overtake on corners blind,

  Keep sharp lookout for who’s behind!

  Wear your seatbelt, check your tyres;

  Tell the truth, for God shuns liars.

  And on the potholed road of life,

  Respect the vows of man and wife!

  Now clean your teeth, wash your face!

  May you stay safe in our Lord’s embrace.”

  Charity hooted with laughter when Furniver, screwing up his courage, had told her about his own fears.

  “Never naked! Really, Furniver! Yes, I say no steamies, never before marriage. Never! But after?”

  She winked, hugely and lewdly, and Furniver blushed to the very roots of his thinning hair.

  As Ntoto was quick to acknowledge, Rutere had been absolutely spot on in his suggestion as to how the airport departure should be handled.

  Needless to say, neither boy had any experience of airport departure formalitie
s, or flying. For Ntoto this was all the more reason for turning up early, even if it meant waiting. But Rutere did not agree.

  “We must arrive nearly late,” he insisted. “Otherwise there is too much time for checking. You must think like an exchange boy. Don’t give the customer time to check. You say quick, quick, police are coming!”

  Both Charity and Furniver had wanted to come out to the airport to wave farewell, but when the boys had looked so uncomfortable at the prospect they settled for a hug and a handshake which left Rutere mightily embarrassed.

  At the airport on the evening of the departure, Rutere and Ntoto and Mlambo peeked through the glass wall opposite the BA check-in. The boys could see Podmore was waiting at the counter, as promised, looking increasingly anxious.

  As the check-in line grew shorter, and the last call for the flight to London came over the public address system, his agitation became more apparent.

  He walked nervously back and forth, looking at his watch, clutching documents with one hand, an overnight bag in the other.

  Rutere, who had grown quiet as Podmore became more agitated, said quietly: “It is time to go.”

  The three boys huddled together.

  Good luck wishes were exchanged.

  “Don’t forget to be a geography boy,” said Ntoto.

  “Let me test you quickly,” he said, playing the part of the foreign tourist: ‘My sister, she is a student in Manchester.’ ”

  “ ‘Welcome to Kuwisha, suh. Phauw! In Manchester? My brother lives in Manchester. If you lend me 100 ngwee, he can repay you.’ ”

  “ ‘I will be in Manchester and I will visit her.’ ”

  Despite the tension, the boys laughed.

  Ntoto watched through the window. His friend was dressed in jeans and shirt, with shoes, all new, donated by the British newspaper. His heart beat faster.

  Podmore gestured angrily as the Mboya Boy, who had decided to carry his shoes, approached. A BA steward came up and pointed to his watch. Podmore took his ward to the check-in desk, still gesturing. Then to the onlookers’ enormous relief, together they went through the gate to the departure lounge.

  It had gone just as Cyrus Rutere had predicted.

  That Rutere, thought Ntoto, as two exhausted boys fell asleep in an abandoned waste container, that Rutere was certainly very intelligent.

  42

  The NoseAid Fundfest was, as always, a great success. Several careers were saved, many were extended, revived or – as in the case of Geoffrey Japer – enhanced. His plea, made live at peak time on national television, had been eloquent and persuasive.

  If he had seemed subdued, or preoccupied, it was put down to his heavy workload and his newly discovered passion for the welfare of Africa, and the burden of responsibility for its recovery he and other like-minded celebrities now carried.

  Above all, he awaited the outcome of an Aids test following what the Clarion called “a brush with death”.

  Japer had become something of a national hero, thanks to a photo that had taken up most of the paper’s front page. It showed his hand tugging Mboga out of the path of a dart-like needle, a split second after he had shouted a warning, and just before he interposed his body between the man whom the paper identified as the Outspan’s head waiter, and a gang of street children who had been rehearsing a Masaai initiation ceremony that had got out of hand.

  On the night of the marathon Fundfest, the hit of the evening was a street boy from Kuwisha. Introduced as Pius Makuru, the lad’s face seemed vaguely familiar to Japer.

  “Haven’t I seen you before?”

  “My brother, suh. Works as kitchen toto at Outspan, suh. He greets you, suh,” replied Pius.

  Podmore’s walk-on part, given in appreciation of his help, was a well-deserved reward. Getting the travel document ready in time had, he told the audience, been a damn close thing. The photo of Pius Makuru had arrived at the last minute. Were it not for the diplomat’s good offices and the personal guarantee of the Clarion’s editor, the document would have been ready too late . . .

  As Podmore left the stage, he raised a clenched fist in the air:

  “Save a rhino, save a child . . .”

  Japer himself had a decent voice, in fact a pleasing baritone, and together the NoseAid ambassador and the boy from Kireba sang their hearts out.

  Led by Pius, his angelic face caught in a single spotlight, and joined after the opening couplet by Japer, looking uncharacteristically solemn, the duo moved the heart of the nation; and the entire cast of pop stars, celebs, wannabes, has-beens and newsreaders, joined in a rousing finale to the evening:

  “Together, together we stand

  United, all children demand.

  Together, under one sky

  United, we join in this cry –

  Help children like me,

  Let rhinos range free,

  Forgive debt that we owe

  So we all can grow;

  And each builds a home

  And let rhinos roam

  Together, united we plead

  Together, help meet our need.”

  Overnight their song became a best-seller and NoseAid’s national anthem.

  Did Japer really rescue an innocent head waiter from “a crazed Masaai mob”, as the Clarion’s story claimed? Who cares?

  The readers of the Clarion will never know, nor does it matter. The brash tabloid, voted newspaper of the year, has launched a new appeal – Toys for African Tots. And there is a new competition, in which the winner is the entrant who gets closest to answering the question: How many stamps were originally stuck to Phoebe’s delightful frame?

  Japer’s relief at the outcome of the Aids test was overwhelming.

  “Such a little prick,” he said, “I hardly felt it.”

  His doctor tried to make a joke of it:

  “That’s what all the girls say.”

  “And if I haven’t got it, nor has that Boga chap?”

  “If he has, he didn’t get it from the needle.”

  “And the boy? The one who threw it?”

  “Can’t be sure.”

  The doctor, who together with his young family had watched NoseNight, walked Japer to the door.

  “What an evening,” said the doctor, “what an evening. As for Pius, that boy really can sing.”

  “Big lad, isn’t he?” said Japer.’ ‘Wants to be a footballer. Told me after the show. We got talking about this and that, about our families and so on. I told him about my sister, who lives in Dulwich.

  “Turned out that young Pius has a cousin who’s a student at some technical college nearby. Apparently this cousin is having difficulties raising the fees, so I gave Pius a few quid to pass on. Amazing thing, you know, Africa and the extended family business. But what a coincidence!”

  This time the postcard arrived within days: “Greetings from London”, it read, and was signed simply: “Ferdinand”.

  It was time to celebrate their stunning victory over Mboga with a few cups from their latest batch of changa.

  “It is fresh,” said Rutere proudly, “fresh, like Mrs Charity’s food.”

  Altogether it was enough to make the boys light-headed.

  The establishment would pursue them, of course, but the forces of law and order would enter the maze that was Kireba at their peril.

  “To Mlambo,” said Ntoto, taking a swig from the plastic container which he then passed to Rutere.

  “Mlambo,” said Rutere, and gulped down the remaining mouthfuls.

  The persistent ring-ring of the old telephone in the hall of Lucy’s bungalow forced Pearson awake, and he stumbled down the corridor, bath towel wrapped around his waist.

  He picked up the receiver.

  “Good morning, Pearson.”

  The cheery tones of the president’s press secretary turned Cecil’s bowels to water.

  Early morning calls seldom brought good news in Kuwisha.

  “Have you seen the papers?” asked Punabantu.

 
“Hold on a mo,” said Pearson, “they should have arrived . . .”

  “Just read them, Pearson, read them carefully. When do you go back to London?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “Good,” said Puna, “very good.”

  “I’ll ring back as soon as I have had a look . . .”

  Punabantu interrupted him.

  “No need. Just read.”

  He rang off.

  The stone floor of the kitchen was cold under his bare feet as Cecil unlocked the back door and picked up the day’s newspapers from the box in which the security guard placed them every morning.

  Just then, Lucy’s steward came in to prepare tea, and Pearson took the papers into the living room.

  Ill-health and old age were taking their toll on the Ngwazi, who had already indicated that he would step down before his term was complete. But he continued to circle above the Kuwisha political arena, like a hawk eyeing chickens on the ground, occasionally swooping on an unsuspecting bird.

  “Crack-down on Forex Deals”, read the headline in the Daily Times. “President Promises Currency Probe”. “NGOs and Expats to be Quizzed”.

  Pearson read on. Newman Kibwana, “high-flying permsec” who was still in London after his appearance on the NoseAid Fundfest, had been recalled for “urgent consultations”, said the papers.

  Across town at Harrods International Bar (and Nightspot) Charity Mupanga took a sip of her early morning tea, and read extracts from the newspaper to a distressed Mildred Kigali, dwelling on one story in particular: “Kireba newtown given OK”.

  She remembered Furniver’s quip after President Nduka had reshuffled his cabinet: “What do you get when you shake a can of worms?”.

  “Dizzy worms,” muttered Charity, “dizzy worms.”

  At least the new toilet, designed in Zimbabwe, was working.

  43

  News travelled fast in Kireba, and word of Mlambo’s arrival in London had already reached Charity. At first her reaction was one of outrage. The boys had cheated, as far as she was concerned. Perhaps Mildred had been right. They should have been given up to the Lambs, after a sound talking-to behind the kia.