by B. Nyamnjoh
“It must have escaped Dustbin, for Puttkamerstown is generally a cold place, all year round. It used to be worse before the university was created. Since then, there has been a population explosion that has made the town slightly warmer. Lots of people farting into the air…”
“Where did you say we were going?”
“I thought I should welcome you with a drink and something to eat, if that is OK with you.”
“Good idea.”
“Let’s go to Mountain Valley, a place I know well.”
“Mountain Valley?”
“It’s a restaurant, a drinking place, and also …” he laughed.
“What?”
“It is also a resting place.” He was smiling mischievously.
“Resting place?”
“Yes, where men and women go to rest.”
“You mean sugar daddies and sweat mamas… where they bring their catch?”
“I couldn’t have stated it any better.” Dr Wiseman Lovemore thought to himself, this woman is dynamite, much more than meets the eye.
“Interesting, definitely a place worth discovering. The perfect start to my fieldwork.”
Mountain Valley was a walking distance from Mountain View. Rich in vegetation including a healthy abundance of flowers both wild and tended, the landscape attracted Lilly Loveless. If there was one thing in Mimboland to command her resilience and plead for forgiveness for all the sins of Sawang, she was sure it was the scenery of Puttkamerstown. There was the overarching Mount Mimbo, with all its hypnotic majesty, impressive and mystical like the chariot of the gods, to crown it all. Luckily the skies were clear, allowing the mountain to throw off its dark and white blanket of rain clouds and reveal the fullness of its beauty to welcome her eyes, marvel and sense of spectacle. She felt good, like a tropical flower that cannot blossom without the sun. Instinctively, she made the sign of the cross, and thanked the stars, which was significant, for she was neither Christian nor religious. A worshipper of nature maybe, nothing more.
Dr Wiseman Lovemore told her of the mountain race, an international event that takes place every year in the month of February, and that entails running up to the top of the 5000 metres high mountain and back. She was impressed by his lengthy account of how a local female participant who habitually races barefooted and hardly looks her age had been crowned “Mountain Hare” for winning more times than anybody can remember. Lilly Loveless felt tempted to take part in the next race, even if it meant only going as far up as the Upper Eden or Stop One, of what Dr Wiseman Lovemore said was a three-stop-race to the top. The mountain was full of gods, she was told, who needed constant attention, and who were known for showing displeasure once in a blue moon by coughing out red hot fire so vicious it could swallow whole villages.
Lilly Loveless had the feeling Dr Wiseman Lovemore was addressing the anthropologist in her by talking of gods and fire instead of volcanoes. She made no comment as a social geographer.
They walked past several relics of Muzunguland colonialism, which Dr Wiseman Lovemore, not a tourist guide by any stretch of the imagination and neither overly romantic about the past or keen on sightseeing, did his utmost to bring home to Lilly Loveless, whom he was determined to impress. There was the Bismarck Fountain, which had long ceased to flow, just like Bismarck after Willem II became Kaiser. There was the prestigious Lodge, initially constructed by Puttkamer as a birthday present for a daughter of the soil who had mastered the needs of his heart. A significant symbol of power or powerlessness in a way, the lodge had been passed down first to the Prime Minister of West Mimboland, then to the President of the Federal Republic as a federal palace, and finally to President Longstay of the United Republic as a Regional rest house, which in effect meant an end to occupancy, as Longstay hardly ever saw the need to venture into the periphery. He is famously known to have proclaimed recently when the country was up in flames with thirst for various freedoms: “Democracy is a very expensive disease; we feel better when it is cured. As long as Nyamandem breathes, Mimboland is alive.” To mark the solitude, disuse and neglect the Lodge now enjoys, the clock which had been faithful throughout the history of colonial presence ceased to tick in 1972. It is rumoured that President Longstay dreamt with such conviction that federalism was a wasteful nightmare that the clock ceased to tick in evidence. So, tourists, when they get close enough, can see that the clock’s hands are stuck at 5.45 – dawn or dusk they can’t tell, but who cares?
They came to the colonial graveyard, which Lilly Loveless said she must see, but which Dr Wiseman Lovemore was cold about, given his conviction that the dead must not be disturbed. So he stood by the main road while she went to see. She counted the number of graves, wrote down in her notebook the names on the tombstones, and placed the colourful leaves of a nearby plant on the grave closest to her as a symbolic wreathe.
“There are twelve of them,” she said, upon rejoining Dr Wiseman Lovemore. “What do you imagine they died of?”
“Illness, probably. Malaria,” he didn’t know for sure. “There was a war between the local population and the Muzungulanders who came seeking their land and taking over their lives,” he added. “But there were not that many casualties. So it must have been to the mosquito that they finally succumbed.”
“Probably. I’ll find out from the Archives.”
“Much as nature lured the Muzungulander to Africa, nature also had a way of cutting down to size their fantasies. If it wasn’t disease, it was tough terrain that made it particularly difficult for them to penetrate and humble the heart of darkness. And many fell by the wayside, thanks to these hazards.”
“If there is any truth in what you say, the Archives will be able to tell me.”
“I can see you swear by the Archives,” said Dr Wiseman Lovemore, half mockingly. “I’ll show you the Archives tomorrow. It is too late to go there today, as it is long past office hours.”
“No hurry.”
“It is curious isn’t it?”
“What?”
“That your Muzunguland forefathers in Mimboland should survive the war but fall to the mosquitoes. This means that both were involved in the liberation struggle. We might never have had our independence had the mosquitoes not joined in the struggle,” he chuckled.
“Interesting perspective,” was all Lilly Loveless could say. She had never thought of things in that light.
“Do you know why they fell to the mosquito?”
“No,” said Lilly Loveless. “Do you?”
“I read somewhere that when they came, they did not manage more than a bed of radishes, when all sort of vegetables do so well here and elsewhere in the region,” said Dr Wiseman Lovemore. “They depended on tasteless tinned foods instead of scratching the soil to grow food…”
“What has that got to do with dying from mosquitoes?” Lilly Loveless interrupted.
“Can’t you see? Dependence on canned foods means that your forebears did not keep gardens, and no gardens meant that they lived surrounded by bushes, and therefore mosquitoes.”
“Clever thinking,” Lilly Loveless agreed.
“Their failure to domesticate their surroundings led to the mosquito showing them pepper, which is why I believe there ought to be a monument in honour of the mosquito, in every African country,” he went on.
Lilly Loveless was a bit irritated.
“Yes,” he insisted. “We need a monument to the mosquito, in the public square!”
“That reminds me.” Lilly changed the topic in exasperation. “Could we pass by a pharmacy for me to pick up some mosquito repellent spray?”
“My pleasure.”
2
Lilly Loveless did not wake up until about noon. The unpleasant experiences of Sawang had given her nightmares, pushing sweet dreams of the beautiful moments of Puttkamerstown towards dawn. She lay in bed an extra while, listening to the welcoming sound of music by birds perched on trees just outside the window of her room. This is a real paradise for tropical desires – a pla
ce where dreams, reality and fantasies converge, she told herself, getting out of bed with reluctance.
She hurriedly took a shower. Normally, she would dwell in the shower for longer, getting to know and relate to her body, but that must wait for later. She pulled on a pair of white trainers and put on over her head a brown short sleeve shirt, which she decided was best left hanging loose. Then she rushed out of the room and down the stairs to the reception, with her rucksack over one shoulder.
A smiling young man with a sweet face had taken over from the girl of the night before.
Lilly Loveless could see she had missed breakfast. She had also missed an appointment with a possible landlady. Dr Wiseman Lovemore had put her in touch with a colleague of his they met at Mountain Valley last night, who had a Boy’s Quarters to rent, and they had agreed she would pass at 10:30am to see the accommodation.
“Any message for me?” she asked the smiling receptionist.
“Yes, two in fact,” he replied, fetching the messages.
“I suppose I’m too late for breakfast.”
“Breakfast is not part of the room,” the young man explained, “but we can make you breakfast anytime, and charge you accordingly, the same way we do lunch and dinner.”
“Just a cup of strong black coffee will do,” she replied, and made her way to the restaurant, situated by a disused swimming pool.
There she sat and read her messages to the sweet music of the birds.
The first message was by the landlady who, not wanting to interrupt Lilly Loveless’ sleep, chose to leave her cell phone number for her to call and make a new appointment. The second message was a missed call from Dr Wiseman Lovemore. He said he was waiting for the shops to open to pick up a SIM card and prepaid airtime for her before coming. He also wanted her to call him, if possible, to specify how much airtime to buy.
He’ll sort something out, she thought. Any amount of airtime should suffice for a start. She just wanted to be able to call her mom to let her know her daughter arrived safely in Mimboland. The rest could be sorted out later. She decided to just enjoy her coffee and wait for him to come. And, changing her mind about breakfast, Lilly Loveless ordered a Spanish omelette and some toast.
Her mind went back to last night at Mountain Valley, a truly social place which she would like to visit again and again just to watch the comings and goings of men and women, young and old, for drinks and dinner, and for lots more, as was repeatedly whispered in her ear, in a mischievous sort of way, by Dr Wiseman Lovemore. That “lots more,” was what she was here to uncover, understand and perhaps explain, and she would leave no stone unturned to do just that. She remembered asking Dr Wiseman Lovemore where some of the customers who flocked in disappeared to, once they had ordered their drinks and roasted meat or chicken, grilled fish or something else to eat.
Enjoying the way the conversation was going, he expounded: “Like I said before, Mountain Valley is more than just a restaurant or a drinking place. It is also a resting place. The restaurant and bar are a front for the real business of the place, which takes place in the rooms behind – 20 or so in all – for between 3000 and 5000 Mim dollars an hour. The rooms all have fancy names like Bijou, Aroma, Begonia, Blissful, Pure Delight, New Dimensions, Fantasy Space, Passions, Tia Maria, and Simply Gorgeous. And there is always a long waiting list,” he laughed. “Clients who want little more than a quickie can go for half an hour, and pay much less. But that depends on the mood of the guy behind the counter.”
The culture of resting at Mountain Valley, like everywhere else in Mimboland, Lilly Loveless was told, demands that the couple arrive like perfect strangers, and leave like perfect strangers. First, they walk or drive in separately, preferably to a pre-booked room under their aliases if they are regulars or really big guns protective of their identities. Everything is served them in the room, and when they are through, they take side doors, or walk out through the front door, not as a couple, but separately, and at long intervals. If you are not a regular or a big person, and if you have little to fear, then you go through normal registration at the front desk where a key is given to you.
These were early days, but it was her hunch that Dr Wiseman Lovemore was not an easy character to pigeonhole. One thing about him of which she was convinced was his very calculating nature, even when most helpful and friendly.
She recalled how, as soon as they were seated, Dr Wiseman Lovemore opened his bag and handed her a paper that she could almost swear he had brought along to the airport to welcome her with.
“What is it?” she inquired with her eyes, taking the paper.
“Mbomas and Girls in Mimboland: Why Married Men Date University Girls,” he pointed to the title.
She started flipping through the paper, but stopped abruptly. A golden rule in fieldwork: one must not allow the ideas of an insider analyst to influence one’s outlook as an objective observer. She would start her research first, test her own hunches, and then, read the paper with a more critical eye.
Dr Wiseman Lovemore beckoned at the waiter to serve them.
“What do you take?” the waiter asked Lilly Loveless.
“A Baobab for me, hot,” Dr Wiseman Lovemore said, and started an annotated tour of the various beers for Lilly Loveless but was interrupted with: “A Mimbo-Wanda please, well chilled.”
Impressed, he asked her where she knew the beer from.
“Air Mimbo,” she said, flipping through the paper to please her host, but avoiding the contents. “Good title,” she commented. “What did you write this for?”
“Initially for an ‘African Social Problems’ conference in Johannesburg, three years ago.”
“Three years ago?” Lilly Loveless was dumbfounded.
Why was this guy presenting her a paper three years old, in this day and age when old knowledge is no knowledge?
“Do you have the published version?”
“Published what?” Dr Wiseman Lovemore couldn’t believe his ears. “There is no published version,” he added with a sudden laugh. “As a matter of fact, the paper was never presented. It has never been presented. I could say there is a history of misfortune to this paper.”
“How is that?” she asked, perplexed.
“I never made it to the conference in the end, no visa, no sponsorship, no … a catalogue of problems,” he cleared his throat and took a sip from his beer. He resisted the urge to tell her how discriminatory the administration of the university was. He even did not tell her what he loved telling every visiting scholar he met, how unqualified the Vice Chancellor and Registrar (known more as VC and Reg respectively) were to run the university, as, according to him, they owed their positions more to politics than to scholarship, and were determinedly against research and independence of thought. She will have to find out for herself, eventually, that research was most under-funded here at the University of Mimbo, and that the little money that was made available by the reluctant government in Nyamandem, was used by the VC and the Reg to service their appetites, to build a following amongst sons and daughters of the soil, and also to divide and rule amongst ethnic others. In this way, the little crumbs of funding that came through were more a source of conflict and tension, than of any real service to the university and its mission.
He continued with the story of his paper: “Since then, this same paper has been accepted for presentation at three other conferences, but each time, something happens that stops me from going,” he sounded miserable. “The last time, it was the VC – an excruciatingly ordinary-looking vindictive little creature with overbearing breasts the size of Frankenstein pawpaws hanging over the campus like a thunderstorm, as you are going to find out when you meet her – who decried the paper non-scientific, after asking to see a copy. She is a Clinical Psychologist who last read a book or thought a thought when she did her Msc.”
Lilly Loveless listened with curiosity and incredulity. She could see that Dr Wiseman Lovemore had no respect for his boss, but still, why would a VC take an admin
istrative decision on a scholarly paper? What are peers for? Shouldn’t confrontation of ideas be the golden rule of scholarship? Intoxicating! Mimboland is full of Mimbo-wonders, she told herself, playing on the name of the beer she had fallen effortlessly in love with.
“Two months ago, I came closest to finally presenting the paper somewhere. Right here at Mimbo, at a faculty seminar, thanks to a new dean with new ideas about university life.”
“What do you mean?” Lilly Loveless couldn’t understand why he should speak in terms of coming closest to presenting his paper in his own university when that is where he should have started. Isn’t it one’s immediate peers who should tell one how good or bad their scholarly work is? Aren’t they those who, satisfied with your performance at the local level, should encourage you to test the scholarly waters further afield?
“I know,” Dr Wiseman Lovemore smiled. “That’s what one would expect in a normal university.”
“Are you saying Mimbo isn’t normal? That I have come to the wrong place?”
“I’m not saying more than I am saying, which is simple,” he smiled again, took up his glass, tilted it a bit, and looking philosophically into it, went on: “Just when I was about to mount the podium and give the lecture of my life, there was an electricity blackout.”
“What!” she exclaimed. “I can see what you mean when you say you haven’t been lucky with the paper.”
“When power was re-established shortly after, I found myself alone in the Amphitheatre.”
Lilly Loveless couldn’t believe her ears. She almost thought he was joking, but he looked serious. Either he was good at being serious about joking or at joking about being serious.
“Colleagues and students had all seized the opportunity to escape the burden I was about to impose on them in the form of a lecture, was the nagging feeling I had then.”
“You mustn’t blame yourself. How can you call your scholarship a burden? What are universities for?”
“It would appear, at least judging from experiences here, they stand for everything but scholarship. Sometimes I feel students and academic staff are in the way of administration, and research in the way of what everyone seems to prioritize.”
