Mission

by Philip Spires

  Lesley’s reaction was violent. Like a cornered dog she struck out. Breaking loose from his light embrace, she stared at him wide-eyed. “You don’t need a wife. You need some cross between a mother and a whore. How can you say all that? He’s not even in his grave! It’s not right, Charles. Look at you. You’re enjoying this. All you’ve wanted right from the start is for John to fail. It couldn’t have worked out better for you.”

  “Or for you. Admit it, Lesley, all you have lost is a headache.”

  “I loved him!” For some moments she eyed him with a mixture of bitterness and lust. Charles’s attitude to her husband was in some ways a public expression of what she felt herself but dare not admit and, like most people, when confronted with an impression of an unacceptable side of themselves, she deeply resented the experience. And the lust was never far from the surface whenever and wherever they met. Their relationship had started with sex and had continued with it, not just ordinary sex, but joyous rich physical love that fulfilled them both almost whenever they wished. But here, she was privately blaming him for the callousness that scarred her feelings. Then, slowly, she admitted to herself that he was right, accepted the fact and buried her face deep in his chest. Her tears were now surely those of relief. There would be problems to be overcome, memories to forget, but she knew that she would have to cope and, without a shadow of doubt, eventually succeed. She was stronger than he. Beneath the elegant and accomplished exterior that greeted the world, Charles was as frightened, unsure and self-critical as herself. If anything, he needed her more than she needed him, for she had learned how to cope with her limitations, whereas he was younger and had not.

  But there was one final blow to strike, one last detail which from the beginning had precluded her complete trust in him, and again she struck out. “It won’t work, Charles. I don’t know... we’ve been through this a hundred times. Why me? What do you see in me? You can have almost anything in life. Why me? Is it just because I’m married - because I’m an option that’s closed to you - that you want me?” The words bit through the tears.

  “Now you are being silly. You’re not married any more and I’m still here. You know what I feel. I’m not interested in anyone else and never will be.”

  And then they made love. She cried all the time, and laughed, and kissed, and screamed out her lover’s name when she shook with the deepest of pleasure. John, her husband, lay dead in Kitui, murdered in a fit of rage by his own father, but she had never felt more alive than this.

  ***

  “We had better call at the post office first, then,” said Charles, almost shouting above the rattle of stones hitting the car’s wheel arches.

  “You can leave me there if you like. There’s no need to wait. I’ll walk up to the offices. You can take the car and pick me up when you come back.” As he spoke, James Mulonzya kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Even after years of practice, he had never quite learned how to drive on a dirt road. A lack of confidence thus always rendered him rather nervous behind the wheel and his posture faithfully reflected his state of mind. Leaning slightly forward and with his short arms stiffened against expected jolts from the uneven road, he held on to the steering wheel with tightly clenched fists, every muscle in his body tense. Just as he began to speak again, they hit a series of corrugations in the road surface. Unlike a practised hand, who would have accelerated to bounce the car across the tops of the furrows, James Mulonzya slowed down, which only made things worse. The consequent shuddering passed through the car and into his body, causing his words to be uttered in a comic, trilling vibrato. “How long will you be?”

  “Only an hour or two. I want to pick up the cash books and just see how things are going.”

  “What do you think we’ll make out of this?”

  Charles thought for a moment. “About sixty thousand gross, this time. Let’s say thirty clear profit.”

  “And there’s still only half of the land planted?”

  Charles nodded his reply.

  James Mulonzya smiled and shook his head. “That was a really brilliant move you made. If it had been left to me I would have simply sold the lot. I never thought I’d see the day when Kitui land would become such a profitable farm.”

  “It’s not quite profitable yet,” said Charles quickly. “We have a lot of capital to recoup first. There’s the pump and the piping for a start and we’ll need those four or five more water tanks - big ones - before we can plant the whole farm.”

  “So when do you expect it to be complete?”

  Charles shrugged his shoulders. It depends on how things are progressing. If the contractors get on with the job, we can have the entire acreage under the plough next season. Any delays, of course, will cost us.”

  “How much is all this costing?”

  Charles took a moment to make some rough calculations in his head. “Four tanks, say, and the piping - plus labour - let’s say a hundred to a hundred and twenty thousand.”

  Mulonzya commented with a short, hacking laugh. “My goodness, I’m glad that you’re handling all the money matters. I don’t think my head is big enough to hold such figures.”

  Charles looked across at his father, his expression saying, “If only you knew.” James Mulonzya saw nothing but the road ahead, however.

  “So how long will it take us to get it all back?”

  “One season, if we’re lucky...”

  “What?” Mulonzya laughed and shook his head again out of sheer disbelief.

  “Yes, one season, if we’re lucky with the weather.”

  “But you don’t need rain. You’ve got the borehole.”

  “We still need the sun. And the more rain we get, the less we have to spend on running costs for the pumps and so on.”

  James Mulonzya laughed again. “There’s not much trouble with the sun out here.”

  “Don’t forget that we get quite a number of other benefits as well. We have only been running the project for two years so many of the extras are still developing. There are going to be a lot of spin-offs. And then there’s always the possibility of starting up similar ventures in other parts of the District. We take very little financial risk because of the way the project is managed and operated, so there is no reason at all why we should not seek to do it again whenever and wherever we want. I must say that I was sceptical at first, but now I have had time to see the thing operate, I am really very impressed with it. Of course, one of the major spin-offs will be political. You are seen to be investing in your home area. You are providing employment and helping development. It will do you the world of good.”

  “I hope so,” said Mulonzya with some concern. Chancing a glance to the side, he saw Charles’s eyebrows rise, silently asking for an explanation of his lack of confidence. “How many people will we be employing?”

  “About thirty. More, of course, at harvest time, but they will only be casual, paid on a piecework basis. Why? What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that I had an argument with that priest in Migwani. You remember, the one who was running that literacy scheme in Thitani with John Mwangangi. It seems that he knew quite a lot about Mwangangi’s plans for the farm and if my guess is right he’ll be doing his best to point out to people why our plans are inferior. He has certainly already picked up on the share ownership system which replaced the original cooperative idea.”

  “Our plans are not inferior,” said Charles dismissively. “We’re running it as a business. Everything is legal. There will be plenty of benefits for the people in that area.”

  “It’s not that, Charles. Mwangangi was never going to gain anything for himself from this investment. He was going to hand it over to a local committee as soon as he had recouped his capital and I think that fact is widely known.”

  “But it didn’t work. It would never have worked.”

  “That we will never know. Anyway this Mis
ter Michael will make sure that he finds out exactly how much profit we make and he’ll publicise it. If it’s too successful, it could actually do me some harm - especially when most of the produce is being sold in Nairobi or Mombasa.”

  “Nonsense,” said Charles with a shake of his head. “It’s a business. The better it does, the better for everyone. People will surely see that.”

  James smiled at this. “Remember, Charles, you handle the money and I do the talking. You know nothing of the bush. You’re a city gent. Believe me, if that priest presses me hard, he could do a good deal of damage.” Charles clearly remained unconvinced, but his father was adamant. “I think it would be prudent for you to lose the profits of the farm in those small companies you created. I think at last I understand why you insisted that we split up the group.” As the car approached the black tarmac of Kitui town, James Mulonzya again turned to the side to glance at his son. This time he was smiling.

  Both men sighed with relief as the noise of the dirt beneath the wheels was replaced by the smooth hum of tarmac. Mulonzya relaxed at last and settled his ample frame back in his seat as the car whined up the hill towards the town in the wrong gear.

  “Right then. Post office for me,” said James Mulonzya. “I’ll be in the D.C.’s office when you get back. How long will you be?”

  “About two hours. I’ll certainly be back before three. I want to get back to Nairobi before dark to give Lesley a rest. Her time is pretty full these days and she’s very tired.”

  “Oh yes,” said Mulonzya, reminded of an important, but thus far much neglected duty. “How is little Joseph?”

  Charles’s face shone with a father’s shining pride. “He’s wonderful.”

  “Right then, we’re here,” said Mulonzya as the car slowed to turn left in front of Kitui’s shining new cathedral. As they rounded the apex of the bend, however, they found the road ahead blocked. On their side stood a stationary car and on the other a large herd of cows meandered slowly towards them. Mulonzya braked suddenly and the car skidded to a halt uncomfortably close to the car in front. Without needing to think, Mulonzya reacted immediately in the manner which common practice, both taught and conditioned, would predict and he gave a hard prolonged blast on the horn. In the seconds that followed, both James and Charles spoke, but events progressed too quickly for words to register.

  “He’s not even seen us. It’s that priest.”

  “There’s someone in the road...”

  “Hey, mzungu, get out of the way!”

  “He’s going to drive over him...”

  And it was done.

  “Ah...Ah...Ah…” stuttered Charles. “I could see him. He was just sitting in front of the car. His legs were sticking out at the side. The white man must have known he was there.”

  James Mulonzya had already got out of the driving seat and set off toward where the injured man lay, beside the priest’s car. By the time he had walked the few yards, he was already one of a small crowd and, as minutes passed, other bystanders were drawn to the scene so that by the time the old man finally died on the roadside, some forty people or so had gathered. Mulonzya exercised the prerogative of his seniority and took charge, a manoeuvre that all others allowed, a position that no one present dared to question. While the old man’s breath still gurgled in his crushed chest, Mulonzya publicly gave up hope for him and turned his attention to Michael. So that everyone might understand, he used Kikamba to address the priest.

  “You are unlucky, it seems, Mister Michael,” he said gravely. “You are unlucky that I was here. Had I not been here you might have got away with this.” He shook his head and wagged an accusing finger. “We have come to expect ‘strange’ behaviour from you - drunkenness, lechery, disrespect for our culture and our way of life...” A few shouts of agreement with each point pierced the tense silence that had enveloped the onlookers. “...But who would have believed that a man of God could do this?”

  Michael, too stunned and shocked to answer, simply stared at the dying man. “I say it again, Mister Michael, you have been very unlucky. If I had not been here, you might have got away with this.”

  With a gesture toward the dying man, he half-turned to face the crowd before continuing. He spoke softly, but with an assurance and confidence that convinced all. “I know that man, and I think also that Mister Michael knows him. He is called Munyasya Nzoka and he is from Migwani town. He has served his country well. For many years he was a distinguished and decorated officer in our army. When my own father was attacked by thieves in the Emergency, it was this man who brought the culprits to justice. Until his illness, until he lost his mind, he worked unselfishly to bring about the betterment and development of his home town. Only I, myself, can testify to the many achievements of this man. But now everyone should listen, because this is very important.” He spoke more quietly now, hardly above a whisper, as he looked down at the dying man. Mulonzya’s voice, however, was harsh and bitter, its condemnation aimed squarely at Michael.

  “For some years, Munyasya Nzoka has been too ill to work. After an accident he lost his mind and entered a second childhood. Now it is common knowledge in Migwani that this man feels he has a vendetta against Mister Michael. I myself saw him - completely without provocation - spit in the priest’s face, so much did he hate the man.” Even quieter still, barely louder than breath, he continued. “And it is also common knowledge in Migwani that it was this man who set fire to Mister Michael’s house some weeks ago.” Mulonzya now looked up to face the still bemused and speechless priest, but his words publicly addressed the fast-choking Munyasya. “You saw this man, Mister Michael. You knew he was there in front of your car. Everyone else saw him, including myself, and so must you have done also. I think you did this on purpose, but even if you did not, we will all remember this. Wherever you go, people will remember what you did here today. For many, many years they will remember this old man here...”

  Munyasya spluttered loudly and spat blood. Momentarily all eyes were on him, but then returned their gaze to Mulonzya as he continued, “… and when they think of him, they will remember that you killed him, and they will judge your ‘Christian’ claims accordingly. Here, today, Munyasya Nzoka has helped us to see an important truth. He has helped us to see that our country’s future is in its people and its traditions, not in great works such as this.” Here, Mulonzya gestured to the giant cathedral behind him. “One life is worth a million churches. We will remember this forever, and here, by the side of this road, so that we never forget our duty to people as we face this great building, I will place here a plaque dedicated to Munyasya Nzoka. All who will enter this great church in the future will then remember this old man, and will remember that simple humanity should always be their first concern.”

  The old man spluttered again. He coughed up blood again as his body retched its final paroxysm of pain and then, after a final retching fight for breath, he was dead. The onlookers crowded towards him. Some bent down at his side while others at the back craned their necks for a view. Momentarily, everyone had forgotten Michael. The priest, still shocked and unnerved, took no more than a second to get back in his car. Then, having left the engine ticking over, it took no more than another second for him to put it in gear and drive away by pushing a determined way through and past the assembled group of people, some of whom instinctively tried to bar his way by pressing down on the car’s bonnet. Only a second or two later, however, with wheels spinning and tyres squealing on the tarmac, the car broke free as Michael’s utter panic convinced all that standing in the way of his now admitted guilt might be dangerous. As the car sped away up the road, slowed to cross the junction at the top of the hill and then disappeared through the gateway into the Bishop’s compound, no more than two hundred yards in all, everyone watched whilst Mulonzya, thinking quickly, added the commentary. “You see? He has run away. He knows I have spoken the truth.”

  Then, whilst a small grou
p of people clustered round the dead man, the rest of the crowd with Mulonzya at its head set off in pursuit. For some reason, only an instant later, Mulonzya was suddenly reminded that Charles was there, still sitting in the car. Unexpectedly, he stopped dead in his tracks at the front of his mini-procession and turned round to look towards where he expected to see his own car and son, still parked at the roadside. Those who had followed him were, of course, taken completely by surprise by this unexpected manoeuvre and several people who followed one another too closely stumbled noisily into the person in front, giving the whole group the appearance of a caterpillar coming to rest. James Mulonzya craned his neck to look over the heads of his followers to a spot just beyond the dead man, where he expected to see his own white Mercedes, but he saw nothing. It had gone. Neither he, nor many of the others present at the roadside had noticed a few minutes earlier that the car had sternly pushed its way through the crowd and set off at speed along the main road with Charles at the wheel. Clearly, thought James, it was still business as usual for his son.

  Janet

  The doorbell sounded its two notes, a C and the A below, with a mild tremolo within the digitally sampled tubular bell sonority, prompting Janet to react immediately. A conditioned response found her untying the vertically striped blue and white butcher’s apron that had been protecting her smart casual entertaining clothes, preventing tomato splashes from the pasta sauce she had just invented. Accompanied by the merest of sidelong glances towards Rosita on her left, she said, “That will be them now,” and nodded towards the heavy skillet on the gas ring to indicate that its contents would benefit from further reduction and would need some attention. It was a practised perfection.

  After over twenty-five years of married life shared with David, she was now physically unable to hear the sound of the doorbell without privately replaying the story he always told to guests about the ‘bing-bong’ of these notes. Apparently, they are the same tones that are used as a call sign in the cabins of British Airways flights, used to attract the attention of the hordes in economy before in-flight announcements. Once, when he was en route to New York, the system broke down and one of the stewardesses had to be called to the microphone to sing ‘bing-bong’ every time a meal, a duty-free sale or a progress update was to be announced. His words again ran involuntarily through Janet’s mind as she climbed the steep stairs from the basement kitchen, the staccato rasps of her leather-soled boots on the ridged non-slip edging only slowing their brisk rhythm as she reached the top. As was her habit of years, she paused briefly at the mirror near the base of the three carpeted steps, which separated the house’s lower rear extension from the ground floor to check her appearance. She had changed since arriving home from school and so did not see the dark pink and blue floral skirt, slightly flared towards the hem just covering the tops of the black, moderately heeled boots she preferred for her winter walks to the underground. Neither did she see the formal pleated-front white blouse or the complementary floral chiffon at the neck. The work outfit had been replaced, but the enduring memory of her daily check of its correctness in this very place was still there, suffused over the actual picture of the tropically patterned blouse she wore tonight, tucked into her most comfortable pair of denims. The boots are still there, however, poking out beneath the now faded blue, being always more comfortable than anything else she owned. She patted her hair a little at the side. It was greying now, but catching it up in a bun at the back with a giant spring-hinged black grip seemed to minimise the extent of its aging.