Dizzy Worms

by Michael Holman

  “Furniver is nose-picking!”

  Didymus Kigali got to his feet, but instead of climbing the few steps that led to the front of the pulpit, stood at the bottom on a raised platform that made up for his height and allowed the congregation to see him.

  Kigali’s sermon would be the highlight of the service. Rugiru wished that his wife Grace could have been with him instead of tending to one of their fever-ridden children. Two were already “in the arms of Jesus”, helped on their journey by Philimon Ogata, and a further two were studying abroad, one in England, one in Texas.

  Furniver looked on with admiration as Kigali made his way to the pulpit.

  Every day he saw Kigali as his steward, dressed in his starched white shirt, matching shorts that came to his knees, and white plimsolls. This time Didymus Kigali was in a suit, as befitted a senior elder in the Church of the Blessed Lamb, the fast-growing fundamentalist Christian sect affiliated to the Kimbanguists of Congo.

  It was a most unusual step for an elder to participate in a conventional church service, for it went against all the sect’s principles.

  One of the tenets of the Lambs’ faith was that worship of the Lord should not take place in a man-made structure. The hills are our altar, the trees our shelter, the skies our roof, as their creed put it.

  But not only was Kigali prepared to attend the service, he was ready to deliver an admonition.

  The congregation sat in happy expectation of what was to come: the bishop would lead the way, his conversational style in contrast to the delivery of Kigali. The difference in stature had been noted, the bishop of substantial girth and a light voice, whereas Kigali was modestly built but possessed a powerful bass.

  Brows were mopped, scratching was frequent, as were the coughs, but any physical discomfort was forgotten in the atmosphere of keen anticipation.

  As he approached the pulpit, Kigali passed Charity Mupanga and the two exchanged a murmured greeting. Kigali had shared her sorrow over David’s death and had also attended the funeral of her dear father, Harrods.

  No one knew for sure what year Kigali had been born, though he claimed to remember the great migration of the animals, at the time of the drought. This would have made him at least 70 years old.

  My, my! Charity clicked her tongue in admiration. Seventy years! Born not long after the arrival of “Europeans”, the white folk who came to Kuwisha and made farms on what they called “virgin land”, where they grew tea and coffee.

  Strange to think that her father and the mzungu whose death they were about to mourn and whose life they were to celebrate, were almost contemporaries. They could have known each other! Well, she looked forward to the bishop’s eulogy and to Didymus Kigali’s admonition. Perhaps they would try to explain how these two men could have such different lives, both rising to the top of their professions yet remaining so far apart on society’s scale of values.

  Her father, a young man from the bush, who had sought work in the city, had served the British High Commission for 35 years, entering service as a “brush man”, whose sole responsibility was to clear the driveway of leaves. By the time he retired, he was head gardener.

  And the British High Commissioner, even, called him mzee, the term of respect accorded to wise old men.

  Charity bowed her head, closed her eyes and tried to shut out the outside world, and to block her ears to the growl of traffic and the cries of the matatu boys. She felt at home here in the cathedral where her dear late husband David had delivered his last sermon. Was it really five years ago? It could have been yesterday, for the words came back to her . . .

  “They say there are no atheists in the foxholes of the front line of war. So is it in Africa, where those of us who live on the continent daily thank God, or Allah, or the ancestors, for delivering us from the perils that surround us.”

  It was a sermon that had touched the lives of everyone, rich or poor. With wit, charm, and compassion he attacked government incompetence and the endemic corruption that was destroying Kuwisha.

  And as the sermon’s fame spread, so did the sobriquet “bishop of the battered, shepherd of the shattered”.

  A few days later, Bishop David Mupanga was dead, killed in an accident of the sort he warned about in his sermon – or, as many believed, assassinated by the Public Relations Unit; members of which had been present throughout David’s sermon, ostentatiously talking into lapel microphones, murmuring behind a cupped hand.

  The abiding memory of that day, however, for Charity at least, had been the looks of confusion, shame and ultimately joy on the faces of the half dozen members of the Special Branch Unit whose full-time job was to monitor David’s movements.

  At the end of his sermon he had stepped down from the pulpit and embraced the men who had surrounded the pulpit in a heavy-handed attempt to intimidate him.

  “Let us pray,” said Didymus Kigali.

  And then, without notes, he began to speak, and his rich, resonant tones filled the chapel.

  27

  “We are here to say farewell to a man of opposites,” Kigali began.

  “To some, who saw him only as the retired district commissioner, he was a racist. But to Boniface Rugiru he was a good friend, and he trusted Rugiru to make the arrangements for his final journey. And when I last looked at him, Rugiru was a black man. To some, the Oldest Member was a racist. But if he were a racist, why did he leave his money to Kireba? Why did he insist on dough balls for the street boys?”

  There was an outbreak of clapping from the boys. They were now prepared to accept that they would, definitely, be given dough balls. If Didymus Kigali had said so it must be true.

  “There is one thing that cannot be doubted. The Oldest Member was never corrupt. This I know for sure. When my father had two cows stolen, he went to seek justice from the local district commissioner, the man we knew as the Oldest Member.”

  There were whistles of astonishment from the audience. This was the first time Kigali had disclosed a personal link with the deceased.

  “Never did my father have to pay for justice, like the people have to pay the magistrates today. Never. True, the deceased did not say sorry for serving the British, but he did learn our language. Never did he express regret for serving as an officer in the colonial army that tried to crush our nationalism – although he fought bravely for freedom in the war against the Nazis.”

  “Never,” echoed the congregation.

  “Never,” said Rugiru. “Never. Never did he stand up and say that colonial rule was wrong.”

  “Never,” the congregation roared back.

  “But together we defeated the British. Together we gave them a good hiding. Together we hit them for a six.”

  The mood changed in an instant, and the congregation let out a collective roar of laughter, apart from the street boys, who looked baffled by the proceedings.

  “Today we suffer from a different disease,” Kigali continued. “The British have gone. Gone forever, though every now and then they send their dogs to mark the territory they think they own.”

  Mr Kigali then imitated the action of a dog lifting its leg, his expression solemn.

  The congregation burst into applause, and roared its approval.

  “Colonialism has been defeated! But corruption has taken its place, and it destroys our lives. Our brother was indeed a racist – but he was not corrupt. Like you and like me, he was a flawed man, but he was an honest man.”

  Kigali then reached into the pocket of his suit and took out a piece of paper, which he waved at the congregation.

  “I expect”, he said, “you know what this is. It is the last sermon of my dear brother in Christ, the late Bishop David Mupanga, whose words are as important today as when he first uttered them.

  “Let me remind you of what he said. He said there are no atheists in the trenches of war and suggested that that is why we so often thank God if we live in Africa. But whether we live here, or whether we are regular visitors, we thank God, or Allah,
or the ancestors, for our many deliverances, with fervour and humility.”

  The congregation murmured its support and understanding and Charity shut her eyes and imagined herself back amongst the congregation on that day, listening to the rest of the sermon delivered in David’s confident, deep voice.

  “We thank God when we arrive safely at our destination, whether by car or train or ferry or aircraft. We thank God that the car’s brakes did not fail during the long journeys on Africa’s potholed roads; we are grateful that our driver spotted the lorry that was parked ahead without tail lights; and we give thanks that the over-loaded ferry did not sink.”

  “Thank God,” said the congregation.

  “We give especially heartfelt thanks when we arrive safely at our destination after travelling at night, unmolested by the armed robbers who make their living along the highways, who so often seem to be dressed in uniforms stolen from the army or the police force.”

  “Thank God!” cried the congregation.

  “We live with risk, some more than others, but we all live with it, whether it is the risk of Aids, or the risk of a car accident because we lack spare parts, or the risk of malaria, or even worse, catching malaria that has learnt to defy pills. We thank God.

  “We thank God when we have the energy to face the day, that we do not have bilharzia, or other intestinal worms or parasites that suck the vitality of their victims.

  “We thank God when a child enjoys a birthday, and we thank God if he or she survives the hazards of being young in Africa. We thank God if our children are lucky in Africa’s lottery. We thank God if they are not one of the 3 million children who die each year from preventable diseases before they reach the age of five.

  “We thank God if they emerge numerate or literate. We are particularly thankful if it is a girl who survives, because for her the hazards of life are much greater.

  “We do not despair because that is a cardinal sin. We try not to succumb to fatalism but instead, if one is a Christian, one soon learns from the wisdom of another faith, and utters a precautionary word that reminds one of human frailty: Inshallah – God willing.

  “We thank God for a decent meal because most of the 700 million souls who live on our continent go without adequate nourishment.

  “We thank God if we live in peace because millions of us have lives made hell by war. We thank God if we have clean water to drink, because most of us do not and we consider ourselves fortunate if we do not have to walk miles to fetch it.

  “We thank God if we are not a refugee, on a continent where millions have been forced to flee their homes, seeking sanctuary within or without the country that is our home.

  “So in Africa we thank God, or Allah, with unusual frequency and we are especially thankful if we end the day alive and well, with a meal in our stomachs, with a bed to sleep on and our loved ones safe. Above all, we thank God for our friends.”

  And with these words, Didymus Kigali, elder in the Church of the Blessed Lamb, stepped away from the pulpit and took his place in the front row.

  President Josiah Nduka turned to him and, hand outstretched, leant across and muttered in Kigali’s ear:

  “Well done, Kigali. Good stuff. As you say, corruption is a great evil.”

  28

  Mayor Guchu, rolls of flesh bulging above his collar, made his way to the exit of the chapel, where he and other VIPs waited for their cars to turn up. He was surrounded by his security guards who looked longingly at the street boys, like obedient guard-dogs spotting stray cats.

  “Mupanga!”

  Guchu’s call reached the ears of Furniver and Charity who were shaking hands with departing mourners. At first she ignored the cry from the man she loathed.

  “Mupanga!”

  It was not so much called, as hissed – a remarkable achievement, given there was not a sibilant syllable in her name.

  “Mupanga!”

  Then one of Guchu’s aides, a man in his mid-forties, slim, medium height, eyes concealed behind dark glasses, mobile phone in a pouch attached to his belt, took up the cry: “Mupanga!”

  This time the syllables were enunciated carefully and separately as his tongue rapidly licked each corner of his lips, flicking to one side and then the other, like a lizard in anticipation of its prey.

  “Mu-pang-a!”

  The syllables emerged into the open air, where they hung, redolent with contempt.

  As Guchu looked on, with a smirk on his face, the aide handed her a brown envelope, with her name typed below the words that had been printed in large bold letters: Official – City Council.

  Charity had been half expecting some form of retaliation or punishment for the fact that she had long been a thorn in the side of government. There were two weapons frequently used against “dissidents” by the ruling party of President Nduka: tax returns were inspected with especial thoroughness, and foreign currency transactions were scrutinised. If the letter of the law was followed, it was an offence to possess any currency other than ngwee unless it had been purchased at a bank.

  Charity had taken great care to keep her tax obligations up to date, and the accountant who checked the books of Kuwisha’s co-op bank, ran a sharp eye over her returns for nominal fee.

  As for foreign currency transactions, she was equally careful. Every now and then a foreigner who visited her bar would pay for food and drink in dollars, or leave a donation. These dollars Charity then exchanged for ngwee with Furniver, at the official rate. The receipts were kept in the cash box, under the bar, ready for inspection, should it prove necessary.

  She looked more closely at her tormentor. There was something familiar about his face. Where had she seen it before? Then she remembered. The man at the shoulder of the mayor at every public function, standing so close that they appeared to share the same neck.

  Of course! It was Cedric “Two Head” Moyo, special assistant to Mayor Guchu.

  “So what nonsense is this?” she asked.

  “Read. It is the law. Just read . . . Mupanga.”

  Guchu’s sidekick had chosen his moment well. As he handed the envelope to Charity, he moved alongside Mayor Guchu, who was waiting for his Rolls Royce to arrive.

  It could be seen in the middle distance, about to pull out of the garage where it had been fed by Titus Ntoto.

  The encounter in the cathedral porch, as they trooped out from the service, had taken Furniver by surprise. A tall man, in his seventies, with a mop of silver hair, approached him.

  “Knew your uncle.” He held out his hand.

  “I say!” exclaimed Furniver, with the enthusiasm with which one greets a stranger who seems to know you.

  He bought himself more time.

  “I say!” he said again.

  Things were getting desperate. Thank God he had been in Africa long enough to set aside some of the characteristic English reserve.

  He embraced the man. It was essential to retain the initiative.

  “Wonderful to see you here,” he said. “Wonderful.”

  He waited for a clue.

  “Oliver was absolutely right.”

  For a moment Furniver wondered if he was in the right place. Then he realised that the man who was almost universally known as the Oldest Member had been called Oliver by his contemporaries.

  “Spitting image of your dad. Hell of a man. Could kill a fly at ten paces with his sjambok. Did he ever tell you about the evening when we were posted to Somabula? Gather you’re a chip off the old block, eh? Oliver told me about how you wanted to deal with your boy and the jipu.”

  Furniver winced.

  “First, take your boy behind the kia,” said the stranger, hooting with laughter. “Know what you mean, nudge nudge and all that. Oliver seemed to think you wanted to go a bit too far. He was always a bit on the liberal side. Got soft in his old age. Suffocate the blighters. Improve their ironing no end.” He hooted again.

  Suddenly it all fell into place.

  It could only be “Flogger” More
land. And he knew for certain that he had never met him before in his life.

  It would have been discourteous to cut the conversation short, and Furniver had no wish to offend an old settler. He was running out of small talk.

  “How did you get here?” he asked.

  “Came up from the coast,” said Flogger. “First time I’ve made the journey for ages, and it’ll be the last time. Absolute hell.”

  Furniver gave him an encouraging lift of expectant eyebrows.

  “The experience proved something or other. It’s the closest thing I know to running a piss-up in a brewery. If you can’t make a decent fist of managing a railway, which should be faster than the road route, cheaper than lorries and a great tourist lark, something is seriously wrong.” Flogger paused. “And I blame the UN.”

  Furniver’s curiosity got the better of him.

  “Sorry, don’t quite follow. How can you blame the UN for a local cock-up?”

  “If the silly buggers allow their railway line to be run by foreigners there are no opportunities for the locals.”

  Furniver prodded him for more.

  “I took the 1900 from Mombasa to Nairobi, which was running, or to be precise standing, 30 minutes late. On board was the usual gang of rat-catchers: a couple of Brits complaining about the warm beer and a Swedish student – not to mention a Frenchman old enough to know better, travelling with a lithe young companion. Then something in me snapped,” said Flogger. “It was not that the beer when it finally arrived was warm; or that the toilet had no seat, soap or paper; or that the whole train was filthy from the first-class section to the third-class carriages. It was my fellow foreigners that made me so furious. They found it ‘quaint’. And the others said it was ‘all rather unusual’. One told the rest of the carriage that she’d travelled on ‘more challenging trains’ in India. It made me feel bloody ashamed,” said Flogger. “I resented Kuwisha being patronised by tourists, however well meaning. I don’t want to read guide books which talk about ‘hearty cooked meals, served by white-coated attendants’, who ‘make eating in the dining car an experience in itself’.”