SEAN OF THE CONGO

by Sean McCarthy

  After Mbonyunkiza had disappeared, Shaggy and I moaned at Ali’s choice of colleagues and prayed he wouldn’t return. Our wishes were surprisingly granted ...for a while.

  “Hello, Shaggy. Hello, Sean.”

  Now that he was here our latest crony at least made himself useful. Although you could purchase chips in Kigali, the flavour and texture was different. So, having overheard Shaggy pining for “proper” British chips, ‘Limpet’, as we later nicknamed him, pledged that a local place had similar fries, and offered to take us there. The thought of spending more time with Limpet didn’t swing it for me, but Shaggy’s chips yearning erased all barriers and in no time they were out of the door.

  When shortly they returned, I was in the process of taking a photo of Claver and Magolitte, the maid from next door. Seeing this, Limpet suddenly exited stage left, re–emerging five minutes later with some films, and asking if I’d care to exchange them for twenty dollars. We shook hands on a radically lower figure. After I’d paid him, though, I noticed something peculiar. Whilst attempting to covertly slip the proceeds into his wallet, turning his back as he did so, from my angle it was impossible to miss its bulging cluster of notes. Of course this affluence was no shock, his being a friend of the Hassans, but herein lay the conundrum. During Limpet’s exodus, Shaggy had whined not just about the “comparable, my arse” chips, but that he’d also had to buy a portion for his new buddy, who had claimed to have no hard cash on him. Admittedly, Limpet could have obtained his stash when he went for the films, but his actions left a nagging doubt.

  Whatever the truth, we would have to watch this one, especially when within seconds he was caught rummaging through our belongings, a sickly sweet ‘I’m not a thief, just nosy’ smile his defence. Yes, very dodgy, although our qualms about Limpet’s honesty were soon moderated when Ali rolled up and, after greeting Shaggy and me with a “Hi”, gave Mbonyunkiza a respectful ‘business acquaintance’ nod. Ali wanted us Johnny Foreigners to help him promote Pepsi by downing gallons of it at a variety of bars — his viewpoint was that if we were seen drinking Pepsi then the locals might follow suit. And so off we trotted, any remaining misgivings about Limpet’s legitimacy expunged when Ali asked him to join us.

  In due course our Arabian friend ran out of time, which was a blessing, as our bellies were painfully bloated by the Pepsi, and with a parting “I have to go, I have some calls to make” he dropped us back at the compound. Stuffed or not, with its being teatime, Limpet, still firmly attached to us, talked us into giving Claver a miss in favour of the neighbouring restaurant. We didn’t really want to go, what with the extra expense, but after all that Ali had done for us we felt obliged to humour anyone in his circle. Making the decision a bit easier was the fact that Sajid had informed us previously that this restaurant was the only local place he knew to promote a delicacy both Shaggy and I worshipped. Once inside we were thrilled to learn that it did indeed serve our raison d’être — ice cream, its exalted appeal now magnified by the combined lack of home comforts and Kigali’s immense heat.

  Having been spoiled in Nairobi by the Knickerbocker Glories, we were hoping for more of the same, so were suitably devastated when the dessert turned out to be ‘only’ sorbet — not that that stopped us ordering one each, to be eaten after our chicken and chips main meal. As if the ice cream let down wasn’t frustrating enough, the restaurant was typical of most of the eateries we visited in Africa. By this I mean that, as we would later discover, if you were the only two people in the place and had ordered merely a glass of milk each, they would still take longer than an hour to fetch them.

  We were pleased when the bill for the eventual meal finally came. Throughout our Pepsi–guzzling time with Ali, Limpet had said little, opting to abstain from the bulk of our conversations while he loaded up on drinks, and although he hadn’t proffered one “thank you” or shown any form of gratitude for the freebies afforded him, he didn’t seem as much the thorn in our sides as he had earlier. Not so at the restaurant, however, where any topic we did try to discuss was met by his telling us to stick a sock in it. That, or he’d verbally shut up shop, preferring instead to slurp his food nauseatingly and beam his all too regular ‘honestly, I’m not a scallywag’ smile. We were totally baffled as to why Ali chose to be linked with him, as the only things he seemed interested in were freeloading and provocation. This became all the more clear when, without warning, despite having half of his own fare in front of him, he stuck his fork into my chips!

  “Where I’m from, that would be deemed rather bad–mannered,” I reprimanded, which would perhaps have been more effective had the scene not caused Shaggy to erupt into a writhing spasm of laughter.

  Without apology, the troublesome one just popped my chips into his mouth and flashed another sugary sweet smile.

  Aghast at Limpet’s rudeness, I was even more flabbergasted when his fork again headed towards my platter. This time, however, I was ready for action and clasped his wrist, squeezing it a little harder than necessary before letting go.

  “Sorry about that,” I offered, with limited sincerity.

  Limpet, though, didn’t flinch. He just gave me another irritating smirk — then tried his luck for a third time.

  If it was war he wanted, no problem — I thwarted him again, and with my fork hand snaffled some of his chips. Ha!

  The outcome? His treacly grin turned at once to a look of sheer contempt, the cheeky sod.

  By this time Shaggy was doubled over howling, and I was truthfully torn between wanting to join him and doing my nemesis some grave mischief — never before, ever, had I wanted so badly to get hold of someone’s head and then pound their face, over and over, into a plateful of food, if not the table beneath. But I resisted the urge, and to appease my growing rage instead decided on a mode of retribution that probably shouldn’t be disclosed here, but what the hell.

  From the moment we had walked into the restaurant I had been struggling with the consequence of the Pepsi, the result being that I was desperate to release what my old dictionary described as ‘a small explosion between the buttocks’. Any doubt about whether I should employ my choice of revenge was extinguished when, after Shaggy had managed to stifle his hooting, the sound of Limpet’s slurping attained a new level of repulsiveness. ‘Two can play at being uncouth, Bucko,’ I thought to myself, whilst in his direction I let fly with a classic silent assassin. To my utter horror, however, rather than the noiseless waft I had intended, the now–quiet restaurant was treated to a considerably thunderous ‘faaaaaaaart’! Oh, the humiliation. In particular since everyone stopped eating and stared (most notably the lady to our right, who gave me a ‘do excuse yourself to the bathroom’ frosty glare). Everyone, that is, except two people. One was Shaggy, who was now hanging off the table with further tears of laughter streaming down his face. The other was Limpet, who, stone me, didn’t bat an eyelid — he just shot me another sugary smile, and then continued slurping. Still, at least I managed to get to the end of my meal without his cutlery finding its way in there again.

  It wasn’t until he saw the bill being brought over that our insolent guest disappeared, so no surprise there. Or that he had again offered no parting thanks. We did, however, agree to meet him at two o’clock the following day. Lost our minds? Not likely, for what Limpet didn’t know was that Ali had agreed to take Shaggy and me out all afternoon, so we wouldn’t be anywhere in sight at two o’clock.

  When Ali arrived the next day he told us to watch out for Limpet.

  “We’ve already gathered that much!” I griped. “But since you’ve mentioned it, why do you bother with him?”

  “Me? I don’t know him.”

  “Huh? He isn’t an associate of yours?”

  “No, I’ve never even seen him before.”

  Confused? Welcome to the club! Either way nobody knew who the hell Limpet was, though it dawned on me that he must simply have walked in off the street as bold as brass, inducing us to guess he knew Ali. Of course this sti
ll left an unanswered question.

  “So why did you ask him to join us?”

  “You were talking to him, I thought you’d made a friend and had invited him back. I was being hospitable.”

  “Well can you go back to being a dour, unfriendly git,” I joked.

  Whoever mystery man Limpet was, at least he wouldn’t be vexing us again, especially since we had left without him: to guzzle more gut–popping Pepsi. This time our bellies ached so much that by teatime the only food substance worth trying to swallow would be the sorbet. So we left Ali at one of the hotels (making calls) and headed back to the restaurant, hoping we would be able to walk off the gas — more than ever after my last performance.

  On the way we passed a few men holding hands. This was nothing new to us, since it was the first ‘other worldly’ thing we had noticed here in Rwanda. It had no sexual overtones, but in their culture was a universal expression of friendship. Que sera, sera, as far as Shaggy and I were concerned, but having grown up in a town where you had to chew granite, not hold hands, to be accepted, it was still an odd thing to witness, even after five days. And I wasn’t the only granite–chewer.

  “I’ve got a confession to make,” said Shaggy, staring at two gents walking past hand–in–hand.

  “No need, mate,” I cut in. “I’ve got your drift. Go on then, I’ll give you five minutes. But if they don’t fancy you, don’t come running to me for relief.”

  “Very funny. Anyway, I didn’t know whether to mention this or not, because I know you’ll take the piss, but when we went for some chips yesterday, that Limpet kept trying to hold my hand.”

  An age later and I was still squirming with mirth at the thought of man’s man Shaggy having to fight off Limpet, while at the same time hastily trying to think up a great comeback, but succeeded only with, “And did you?”

  “Did I bollocks! Tell you what an’ all, if that slimy toe–rag pops up and comes anywhere near my hand, he’s going to get it.”

  “Marriage?”

  By now we were both laughing.

  “It’ll be funny if we get to the restaurant and he’s sat at the same table,” I added.

  “You’ll definitely know he’s at the table behind us, because a fork will zip past your shoulder and into your chips.”

  “He’d better not try sticking anything into my chips again, or I’ll let him have it.”

  “All three inches?”

  Our giggles had hardly come to a close when by chance we caught sight of Claver. Feeling generous, and using makeshift sign language as we had whenever we’d wanted to ‘speak’ with him, when we learnt he was on a break we volunteered to treat the put–upon teen to some sorbet, which he’d probably never had before.

  Five minutes later and but forty paces from the restaurant…

  “Holy shit.”

  Our tranquil walk was disturbed by the recognition of something unappealing before us. Alas, that certain something also saw us.

  “Trust him to be late,” replied Shaggy.

  “Hide your hands,” I joshed.

  Limpet skipped over to us, so I promptly explained that we were going to the restaurant and couldn’t stop to talk.

  “If you want real ice cream, I know somewhere,” he professed.

  Although exceedingly dubious, given yesterday’s ‘comparable fries’ twaddle and the ensuing proceedings, goaded by the only thing in the world that would have made us bother with him, we ice cream fanatics reluctantly followed the shady one for what seemed like miles, until we arrived at a place that made your typical greasy spoon look like the Savoy. I wasn’t best pleased and, convinced they didn’t serve ice cream, shot Shaggy a look that said ‘someone is going to get hurt’.

  Sure enough, once we were inside the shack, it came as no surprise to discover it didn’t sell ice cream, or sorbet.

  Even so, we were here now.

  “Thanks for leading us here, Mbonyunkiza,” I said, unsure of how to go about politely telling him he was less welcome than a stray dog at a game of skittles, so offered a plain, “We will see you later, bye.”

  “It is okay, I have some free time. I shall come sit with you.”

  Groan.

  Unable to rid ourselves of Limpet (short of the increasingly tempting solution of smacking him one), we relented, and parked ourselves at the closest table and scrutinised the menu. We chose the only food they appeared to have beyond bushmeat and palm grubs.

  “You speak the local language, Mbonyunkiza, so please order me some chips and gravy. Shaggy wants chips, gravy and rice, and order Claver the same, but I haven’t much money, so if you want something you will have to buy it yourself. You understand that? You’ll have to pay for your own meal.”

  Limpet nodded, and went ahead and ordered the food.

  When it arrived, true to form there was a fourth plate, consisting of chips, rice and gravy, the latter of which was served in separate bowls, so that each person could pour at his own discretion. In the twinkling of an eye, Limpet emptied every last drop of his gravy on to his chips, and then, in what was almost the same movement, picked mine up and made ready to drink it.

  ‘On your bike,’ I thought (okay, perhaps something a bit stronger), swiftly reacquiring my bowl with an accompanying, “I think you will find that that’s my gravy.”

  Plainly unmoved, Limpet just gave me that same sickly sweet smile he’d used the day before — then tried snatching it back. Luckily I was one step ahead of him and blocked his grabbing mitt.

  “I—told—you—that—was—my—gravy,” I said, through clenched teeth.

  “I thought it was mine,” came the lying reply.

  “You’ve—just—poured—yours.”

  Limpet again beamed that stupid grin, but heeded the reprimand and went back to eating his own food — but I couldn’t let it drop. Not only had the guy been a total ball–ache from the second we had met him, but once again he started making the most awful slurping noises (with food that he would no doubt try to wriggle out of paying for). No, I couldn’t let it drop, and a few squelches later my fury rose, to the point that Shaggy sensed something was about to go down and began to chuckle.

  “You are going to pay for your own meal, aren’t you?” I enquired.

  Limpet shook his head — ! — and then carried on slurping.

  “So you’re expecting me to pay for it? Even though I said I can’t.”

  This time Limpet had the nerve to say he hadn’t brought any cash (now where had I heard that before?), while again flashing that infuriating smirk. One that no doubt was supposed to say ‘Oh well, no hard feelings’ but actually registered as ‘Tough shit’.

  Oh really?

  “If I’m paying for that meal,” I resumed, “I’m bloody well going to eat it!” and I quickly snatched his plate: an action that caused Shaggy to burst out into his usual bout of wild hysterics, while non–English–speaking Claver just looked on stunned. But Limpet refused to learn his lesson and tried to retrieve what had been his plate.

  “Get your hands off, it’s mine!” I asserted, gripping the dish like mad with both hands.

  So he made a big grab at my plate instead.

  “Touch any single thing on this bloody table again,” I snapped, my arms and hunched body now frantically trying to shield everything against Limpet’s incessant grabbing hands, “and I’ll damned well pull your balls out through your bloody gob!”

  Shaggy was nigh–on dying with fits of laughter by this time, while a perplexed Claver felt compelled to ask Limpet what was going on.

  “He wants me to ask why you did that?” said Limpet.

  “you seriously can’t answer that yourself? tell him it’s because you’re a fucking wanker!!!” I exploded.

  By now Shaggy’s bellowing had gone into overdrive, but when Limpet yet again tried to take hold of my plate, he had to send in the reserves and desperately gulped for air. Finally realising I wasn’t in the mood for games and categorically wouldn’t be handing anything back, Limp
et brusquely ended Shaggy’s guffawing — by sticking his fork straight into his chips. Of course that was his death knell — touching Shaggy’s chips was tantamount to strolling through a pride of hungry lions having first basted yourself.

  I offered a ‘he who laughs last’ wave as a frogmarched Limpet went sailing out of the door and, thankfully, into posterity.

  Tuesday, 20th June. After a lazy week in Kigali, it was time to depart. Our game plan was to catch a bus to Gisenyi, near the border, then walk over to the adjacent town in Zaire, Goma. From here we would be able to make our way to Kisangani, our Congo start–point. To do any of this we had first to collect our visas, so yesterday we had gone back to the consulate, as directed. Worried that the official in charge of transactions would make up some lame excuse and hold on to our passports unless we paid a bribe, to our surprise and relief, no further payment was asked for — possibly because the sweetener was included in the titanic fee.

  With our passes now granted, all we needed to do was get to the relevant bus stop. It wasn’t far and would have been only too easy to walk to, but Ali insisted he drive us there. He wanted to say goodbye.

  “Keep these if you like,” he said, producing a stockpile of Pepsi–sloganed T–shirts.

  Being kind or merely helping to promote his business, I suspected a mixture of both. But hey — these were items we may need, for free, so I wasn’t complaining.

  A couple of profound handshakes later and Shaggy and I were off, in an African ‘matatu’ minibus. And whilst it was predictable that the driver fancied using up one of our surviving seven cat lives, given his Kenyan cousins, the stakes were also off in terms of the matatu getting a puncture — since the tyres hadn’t a fragment of tread left on them — which is precisely what happened. At least they had a spare, although that was just as bald.