Echo of an Angry God

by Beverley Harper

  ‘Yes.’ The woman smiled widely. ‘He is my husband.’ She was young, perhaps in her mid-twenties. Her peppercorn hair had been braided into dozens of tiny pigtails, each held by an enormous ribbon. The cornflower blue of them matched a cotton dress which strained over the bulge of advanced pregnancy. She was barefoot. Her smile revealed very white teeth and dimples set in one of the sweetest faces Lana had ever seen. ‘My husband will be here very soon, you come inside.’

  Lana followed Mrs Kadamanja into the house. It was obvious that the Kadamanjas had little money to spend on luxuries but everything inside was scrubbed scrupulously clean. Brightly coloured cotton curtains added a cheerful look to the drabness of unpainted cement-rendered walls. The linoleum floor was almost invisible under an array of coir and reed mats. ‘You sit.’ The woman pointed to a sofa.

  Lana sat. The three small children, the eldest of whom, a girl, couldn’t have been more than five or six, hung around their mother’s skirt and gazed at Lana with wide-eyed curiosity. Under this unwavering scrutiny, Lana tried to make conversation. ‘Is Mr Kadamanja at work?’

  ‘Work?’ The woman seemed puzzled by the question.

  ‘Yes, his job.’ It occurred to Lana that if Moffat Kadamanja was at work she might have to wait hours for his return.

  The woman’s face brightened. ‘My husband no work today.’

  Lana nodded encouragingly but nothing more was forthcoming. ‘My name is Lana,’ she said slowly. ‘Lana.’

  The woman repeated it, stretching the first syllable attractively.

  ‘What is your name?’ Lana asked.

  ‘Frances,’ the woman said shyly. Lana suspected she would also have a tribal name but decided not to ask. It was hard enough making simple conversation.

  ‘That’s a very nice name.’ She looked at the older girl. ‘And what is your name?’

  Frances shook her head and answered for all the children. ‘She not speak English. She will learn it at school.’ She pointed to the smallest, a girl about two. ‘This one Betty.’ Frances turned to her only son and pushed him forward. ‘This one George. Same as Moffat’s grandfather. Same as old King of England.’ The pride in her son was evident and Lana remembered that Africans regard sons with special affection. The older girl was then introduced. ‘This one Ruth.’

  ‘Does she go to school yet?’

  ‘No.’

  Well, that’s another subject down the drain. Lana wracked her brain. ‘When will Mr Kadamanja be here?’

  ‘Soon.’

  Lana was getting desperate. She couldn’t sit and say nothing. She patted her stomach. ‘Another baby?’

  Frances giggled and nodded.

  ‘When will it come?’

  ‘I do not know. One month, maybe two.’

  A car pulled up outside and Lana prayed it would be Moffat Kadamanja, adding a mental postscript that he could speak reasonable English.

  The tall, good-looking and well-dressed man who walked into the house came as something of a shock. He was the same person who had asked her to leave the gardens of Capital Hill.

  Moffat Kadamanja dominated the small room, not so much by his physical size as by his bearing. He was a man of obvious confidence, whether from arrogance, ability, or something else, Lana had yet to find out. Whatever it was, he was an authoritative figure, something she had sensed yesterday. ‘Miss Devereaux.’ He extended a hand. ‘Moffat Kadamanja. I thought it must have been you yesterday. Did you know you were being followed?’

  ‘Are you sure?’ A chill went through her. Surely Tony Davenport wouldn’t dare.

  He nodded. ‘Two men were watching you from the car park.’

  ‘White men?’ She could have kicked herself. ‘I mean . . . it’s just that a white man has been following me.’

  Moffat Kadamanja ignored her sudden embarrassment. ‘They were African.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asked again. Who would follow her? Perhaps he was mistaken.

  He permitted himself a small smile. ‘I believe I know Africans when I see them, Miss Devereaux.’

  Lana stared at him, suddenly afraid. What the hell was going on? Who would be tailing her?

  ‘We must talk, you and I,’ Kadamanja said. ‘Not here. I don’t want my family involved in this.’

  ‘Of course.’ She rose quickly. ‘Where do you suggest?’

  He smiled again. He had a small gap between his front teeth. When he smiled his face became boyish, as though he had just shed a good ten years. ‘My bar,’ he said. ‘I have friends there. Come.’ He turned and walked outside. He had not said one word to his wife or children.

  Lana went to Frances. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I hope your new baby brings you much happiness.’

  Frances looked at her as though she were mad.

  ‘We will take your car,’ Kadamanja said when she joined him outside. ‘What happened to it?’

  ‘I have no idea. It happened while it was parked.’ No point in worrying this man with the truth – at least, not yet.

  He eyed the damage. ‘Pepani,’ he said shaking his head. ‘Sorry,’ he repeated in English. He walked to the passenger’s door and opened it. ‘You drive,’ he ordered.

  Yes sir! She knew he was not being rude, he was simply used to making all decisions when women were involved. She grinned inwardly at her about-face. If a white man had issued orders she’d have challenged them. This man barks out two words and I scamper to obey. She supposed it was because she knew it wasn’t arrogance on his part, just a masculine assurance that his decision was the right one. It was the African way, the traditional way, and she found it easy enough to accept.

  She was glad he was in the car with her. She would never have found the bar on her own. It was less than two kilometres from where he lived but the network of potholed tracks they traversed to get there left her totally lost. Apart from giving directions, he made no attempt at conversation. He said but one word when they arrived. ‘Lock.’

  Lana locked the car.

  The bar room had no pretensions of grandeur. A square, with curtainless, burglar-barred windows at the front, the bar along one wall, a jukebox halfway down another, and some cheap metal and formica tables with vinyl-covered chairs placed randomly around the room. Ashtrays were the metal floor type, half-filled with sand. Cigarette and beer advertising plastered the walls. Whoever laid the black and white floor tiles had completely lost the plot about halfway up the room as their neat synchronisation went haywire, never to be found again.

  The barman greeted Moffat like a long-lost brother. Half-a-dozen women eyed him invitingly. One of them sauntered over and, although she spoke Chichewa, Lana recognised two words. ‘One hundred Kwacha.’ Moffat simply laughed, slapped her behind and, without asking what Lana wanted, ordered her a beer. ‘We can talk here.’

  He led her to a table at the back of the room. ‘Hey, Bambo, who is your friend?’ one of the women laughingly called in English.

  Moffat replied in his own language and, in response to Lana’s querying look, explained. ‘They work here.’

  ‘All of them? What on earth is there for them to do?’ She blushed suddenly at the stupidity of her question.

  Kadamanja saw her realisation and smiled. ‘It’s our way,’ he said, with no embarrassment. ‘Every bar has hostesses.’

  One of the girls brought over two ice-cold Carlsberg Greens. There were no glasses and no money changed hands.

  ‘Don’t you worry about AIDS?’ Lana couldn’t help but ask, knowing the disease had reached epidemic proportions in central Africa.

  ‘Of course. They are checked every two months.’

  Fat lot of good that does! But Lana said nothing. Death, by any means, was treated with fatalistic acceptance in Africa. A very old person who had run the gauntlet of disease, wild animals, poverty and political instability was always well-respected. A winner in life’s game of chance. AIDS was simply the most recent Russian roulette of Africa and Lana knew she’d be wasting her breath.

  She loo
ked at this man sitting across the table. Did he have any answers for her? Would he tell her if he did? His father and hers had been together fifteen years ago. Both had died in unexplained circumstances. This fact alone made her feel connected to him, as though he were a distant relative. Would he feel the same way? ‘Was I really trespassing yesterday?’ As opening gambits went, it wasn’t much but Lana wanted to get a feel for Kadamanja before saying more.

  He smiled. ‘Technically, no. I saw you out there and thought you were trying to make contact with me.’

  ‘I was told not to. In fact, I had no idea where you worked. How did you know it was me?’

  His eyes were deep and unreadable. ‘The man who contacted me said you were beautiful. You are.’

  Lana nearly blushed again. The compliment was given with absolute sincerity and not a shred of innuendo. ‘Thank you,’ she managed.

  ‘I was going to ignore you but then I saw the men following you.’

  ‘I had no idea they were there.’

  ‘Yes. That was obvious.’

  ‘Why did you come out?’

  He seemed to reach a decision. ‘May I speak frankly?’ When she nodded, he went on. ‘I do not know many white people. I work with a few but that is all. What I have seen of them – please do not be offended – there is a kind of arrogance with them.’

  Lana squirmed inwardly, remembering her attitude yesterday.

  Kadamanja saw her discomfort. ‘Do not worry please. You were right to be angry yesterday. I expected it. We were being watched. I did not wish to appear friendly.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ll get to that. First I must say what is in my heart. It is this. If you come to seek vengeance then I cannot help you.’

  ‘Vengeance!’ The thought startled her. ‘No, Mr Kadamanja, I do not wish to get even. All I have ever wanted was to know what happened.’

  He was watching her closely. ‘A great injustice was done. It would be normal for a white person to want to punish those who were guilty.’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  He shook his head, smiling. ‘Africans are different.’

  Lana said quietly, ‘I don’t believe you,’ and was totally unprepared for his reaction. He threw back his head and laughed heartily.

  ‘Miss Devereaux,’ he said finally. ‘The things I saw in you yesterday are still here today. That is good.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Honesty and determination,’ he told her promptly. ‘Bravery and caution. Yesterday I went to see you because I was afraid you would be arrogant. If you had been then we would not be here now. Yes, I want to know what happened. Yes, of course I want whoever was responsible to be punished. But, Miss Devereaux, not at my own expense or that of my family. If you want my help we will do it my way, the African way. That is what is in my heart. What do you say to it?’

  Lana knew she was being tested. She tried to work out what it was that Moffat Kadamanja expected of her. Then she thought, ‘To hell with that. If it’s honesty he’s after, he might as well have it undiluted.’ Besides, she realised Kadamanja would quickly spot any attempt on her part to be anything other than completely up front.

  ‘Mr Kadamanja, I do not know the African way. I only know my way. I won’t be satisfied until I know what happened to my father. When I find that out I’ll deal with the rest of it. Whoever was responsible for what happened to both our fathers is clever and dangerous. If your way is better than mine then we’ll do things your way. If not, well . . . I suppose we’ll just have to argue. That is the best I can say.’

  He was nodding. ‘The truth shines from your eyes. You have spoken well.’

  ‘I speak from my heart. And I’ll tell you something else. You and I are connected, I can feel it. We are after the same thing. I would like to work with you on this.’

  ‘We may only learn some of the truth. The rest may be lost to the passing of the years. It will be enough for me, but will you be satisfied?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lana said soberly. ‘For as you have already observed, I have a need to understand. I believe you called it arrogance.’

  ‘Is it not arrogant to expect to know everything, as if it is your right?’

  ‘Mr Kadamanja, it is my right and it is yours too.’

  ‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘The truth has many moods. You can never know the whole truth for, as hard as you try, you will find you are running in circles around a ball which spins faster than you can run. You should be content with the truth as you know it.’

  ‘You know,’ she said, smiling, ‘that makes more sense than just about anything else I’ve heard.’

  Her comment surprised him. ‘I did not expect that from you.’

  ‘Because I’m white?’

  He nodded, saying nothing.

  ‘Our fathers . . .’

  He nodded again. ‘Yes, our fathers.’ He glanced away briefly. ‘In Africa we call our friends brothers and sisters. We will become brother and sister, you and I. I feel this strongly.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘It is not so strange that we should.’ Then he laughed. ‘Although your mother and mine might be surprised.’

  Lana laughed with him. This man was nothing like she expected and everything she had hoped for. ‘Please call me Lana,’ she said. ‘I know Malawians are formal but, under the circumstances . . .’

  He nodded. ‘I am Moffat.’

  ‘It’s an unusual name. Scottish?’

  He was delighted. ‘Yes. My father chose it. He was very fond of reading about David Livingstone. He called me Moffat after Livingstone’s wife.’

  ‘Why didn’t he call you David after Livingstone himself?’

  Moffat regarded her gravely. ‘My father was born in the Zambezi Valley at a place called Shupanga. That is where Mary Livingstone is buried. The old people tell of her gentleness. The stories are passed down. Mary Moffat-Livingstone was buried under a huge baobab tree. It is still there.’

  ‘That’s lovely.’ Lana felt she had been handed a precious memory. ‘Your father was Jonah.’

  ‘Yours was John.’

  The glance which passed between them ran deep. Friendship and kinship. Bonded by tragedy, they were partners in their quest for the truth.

  Their hands touched and held. His hand was warm around hers. ‘I will tell you everything I know. It is not a story which has an ending. It has no real beginning either, since I do not know some things – they died with my father. It is always so, is it not?’

  Lana did not need to respond.

  ‘I am my father’s only son,’ Kadamanja began. ‘He died when I was sixteen. From the time I was ten my father expected me to be a man. Nothing too big you understand – he was a very fair man. Cutting wood for my mother, tending the goats, protecting my sisters, just small things like that. He was often away but saw how proud I was to help and one day began to tell to me of his work. Some of the things I speak of now are things my father told to me. I expect you to honour the confidential nature of them please.’

  Lana nodded.

  Moffat took a long haul on his beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and called out for two more beers. ‘My father worked in government for fifteen years. He started as a clerk with Trade, Industry and Tourism, became a financial assistant in the Education Department and was finally promoted to administrator with Local Government. He served this country proudly and never, not once, gave the old Congress Party any reason to be dissatisfied.’ Moffat finished his beer in one swallow and clicked his fingers impatiently for the next two bottles. Lana hastily took a swig of hers, offered to pay for the second round but backed down immediately when she saw the look on Moffat’s face.

  ‘When a man who worked for someone very high up in the government made contact with him early in 1983 my father became quite worried.’

  ‘Who? A Minister?’

  Moffat shrugged. ‘That is one of the things which died with my father. Perhaps he did not know himself.’

  Lana frowned. ‘Surely his concern
indicates that he did.’

  Moffat nodded. ‘That is what I think too. I only know one thing for certain. The name of the man who approached him.’

  ‘Did your father tell you?’

  ‘He told me some things, yes. But now I am a man I realise he did not tell me everything. I was sixteen then. It is possible that my father did not trust me with all he knew.’ Moffat looked unhappy at the thought. ‘Those were very difficult times in Malawi. A lot of unexplained things happened – people were frightened.’

  Lana squeezed his hand. ‘I understand that. Can you tell me what you know?’

  ‘I have always regretted that I did not pay more attention.’ Moffat broke their hand contact abruptly and picked up his beer. ‘I was sixteen. What did I care?’

  She watched him tip the bottle and swallow with obvious enjoyment.

  ‘This is what I remember,’ he said, picking up her hand again. ‘My father was instructed to assist with PAGET’s geological survey of the lake. He was to report back only to a Mr Edward Phiri.’

  ‘The man who approached him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What kind of things did he have to report?

  ‘Edward Phiri was not interested in the survey as such. It was who your father spoke to that concerned him.’

  Lana nodded slowly. ‘I see. That work was supposedly top-secret. President Banda had not been informed. The reason given was that he wanted nothing to spoil Lake Malawi. We, that is PAGET, assumed that if anything were found then the President would have to be told. No-one in London was happy about the secrecy. There must have been a leak somewhere.’

  ‘That explains something which has worried me for years. I could never understand why my father was sent to spy on yours.’

  ‘He didn’t tell you?’

  ‘I don’t think he knew. He was just following orders.’

  ‘So did he report back as instructed?’

  Moffat looked happier. ‘No. Not once.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’