Dizzy Worms

by Michael Holman

  “Mr Kibwana, will you set out your case?”

  Kibwana was good. Very good.

  “I, too,” he began, “have taken tea served by Mrs Charity Mupanga, and I too share the general esteem of her dough balls.”

  “But I count myself lucky,” he continued, “that given the state of the toilets I did not have any trouble with my stomach afterwards.”

  The magistrate was not amused.

  “I must warn you, Mr Kibwana, that this is a serious matter and there is no room for jokes.”

  Kibwana seemed about to reply but checked himself.

  “I will set out the State’s case as briefly as possible. A bar is a public place. There should be toilets. There should be water for washing hands. There should be a licence for a television which is watched by the public. But above all, there should be toilets.

  “But there are no toilets. Or, for I must be fair, there are holes in the ground which are treated as toilets. They attract flies, and spread disease. No one can disagree with that. Our client, Mayor Guchu, seeks only to apply the law in the interests of the public.

  “I wish now to call the inspector of public health who visited the site and has reported on the conditions he encountered . . .”

  Charity gave Furniver’s hand a squeeze and stood up.

  “Your honour, I do not want to waste the time of this court. I have read the inspector’s report. I do not challenge the finding. But I move to dismiss the case, and seek costs.”

  “Mrs Mupanga, you must give reasons.”

  She pretended to confer with her team. Mudenge had assured her that Kibwana would be unable to resist taking the stand.

  “Try it,” he urged, “just try it. I know Kibwana – he is a show-off.”

  “Can I ask for Mr Kibwana to be a witness?”

  Whatever his personal sympathies, this was too much for the magistrate.

  “Mrs Mupanga, Mr Kibwana is here in his professional capacity . . .”

  Kibwana intervened. As Mudenge had suspected, while he was a clever man, he was unable to resist showing off his cleverness.

  Making a great play of removing his wig and gown, he said to the magistrate: “If it is of any help to Mrs Mupanga, I will take the oath and enter the witness box. Anything that serves justice has my support.”

  “Very well. It is most unusual but the court nevertheless thanks you for your public spirited gesture. Please take the oath.” Kibwana was sworn in.

  “Mr Kibwana, you want Harrods closed. Is that correct?” asked Charity.

  “No, that is not correct. I have no view on the matter. I am simply here to make the case for the State.”

  Charity persisted. “Do you have any interest in the outcome?”

  “Madam. The Kireba Residents’ Association has done me the honour of electing me their chairman. Since office holders must have residential status, I have accepted a plot allocation.”

  “The KRA are a front for Nduka,” whispered Mudenge.

  “You and Miss Patience Kola . . .” said Charity.

  “That is enough, Mrs Mupanga,” said the magistrate. “I cannot allow this questioning to continue. It is not relevant to the case.”

  “I am sorry, your honour, I have just one or two more questions.

  “This order of closing is for Harrods International Bar (and Nightspot)?”

  “Yes,” said Kibwana.

  “Not for any other place in Kireba?”

  “No.”

  “Not for the closing of the Drink Cheap Shebeen? Where they serve changa that poisoned many people? And which has no toilets?”

  “No.”

  “Not the Lazy Licka Saloon Entertainment Bar, where they fry their dough balls in bad cooking oil?”

  “Enough, Mrs Mupanga. Come to your point or this hearing is over.”

  “I want to be certain, your honour. The paper says you want to close Harrods International Bar (and Nightspot). That is what this paper says?”

  Kibwana gave a theatrical sigh.

  “Yes.”

  “And no other place?”

  By now Newman Kibwana was getting irritated.

  “Can you read, Mrs Mupanga? Or should I read for you?”

  Charity could have cheered. Kibwana was about to fall into the trap so carefully prepared by her team the night before.

  “Please read,” she said.

  With a sigh of irritation, Kibwana read out the closure order for Harrods.

  Charity drew herself up. “Phauw! Why are you beating a dead horse, Mr Kibwana? Harrods is already finished. It is closed. There is no more Harrods. It is air force. It is over. And that is why the case should be dismissed, your honour.”

  The magistrate intervened, with an edge to his voice that suggested he had lost all sympathy for Charity.

  “This is foolish talk. Mrs Mupanga, I myself took tea at Harrods last month.”

  “No, suh, not at Harrods.”

  It was time to play the only ace in her pack.

  “Harrods was closed, many months ago, suh, by lawyers from London. I can show you all their letters telling me I must close my bar. Those cheeky men from London said they owned the name Harrods, even though it’s the name of my late father, and I had to close Harrods.”

  She flourished a file, which had the correspondence between the London lawyers and Edward Furniver, who had acted as her representative in the case.

  “Harrods is closed already,” she said.

  Charity handed the file to the magistrate, who studied the contents.

  “Mr Kibwana, Mrs Mupanga appears to be correct. These papers confirm that Harrods ceased trading.”

  “With respect, your honour, Mrs Mupanga is wasting the court’s time.”

  Charity drove home her initiative.

  “Suh. I submit, your honour, that the State has been lazy. The place you call Harrods no longer exists. It is now called Tangwenya’s International Bar (and Nightspot). And when we launched, we had a special offer of 10 per cent off Tuskers. If Mr Kibwana knew his business he would know that Harrods is gone. No more. Finished.”

  She then began the paragraph that she had prepared the night before.

  “I submit, your honour, that this is a sad case of mistaken identity. If the order is against Harrods, there must be another place in Kireba of this name. The place I run, where the food is so good it waters your mouth, is called Tangwenya’s International Bar (and Nightspot).”

  “On these grounds, Mr Magistrate, I call for the charge to be dismissed. At the very least I appeal for an adjournment until Monday. Then the government must do its work properly. In the meantime let them stop harassing me.”

  “I am sorry, Mrs Mupanga . . .”

  Charity’s heart fell – and then lifted.

  “As much as I would like this case to come to a speedy conclusion, the court cannot reconvene on Monday. We are on duty elsewhere. May I suggest the following Wednesday instead. Mr Kibwana?”

  Newman Kibwana made a final effort.

  “I will take instructions, your honour, but it would not surprise me if my client sought satisfaction in a higher court.”

  Josiah Buruna looked at him coldly.

  “First, Mr Kibwana, you have to finish with my court, and you will only be finished on Wednesday next week.”

  As Charity left the court she was surrounded by men and women who were determined to celebrate a rare and wonderful victory. Provided the rains held off, by next Wednesday the concrete base of the Zimbabwe toilets would have set, and the structures put in place. The mayor would then surely have to think again.

  A group of young men from the Mboya Boys’ football team hoisted her up onto their shoulders and paraded around the red-earthed yard, singing as they did so: “Mupanga tosha! Mupanga tosha!”

  “Let us celebrate!” cried Charity. “You are invited to come and enjoy a discount at Harrods.” She paused. And amidst much laughter corrected herself. “Tangwenya’s – at Tangwenya’s International Bar (and Nightspot). With
a free dough ball with first orders.”

  That night Charity and Furniver looked back over the day’s events.

  “Well done, my dear,” said Furniver, giving her hand a squeeze.

  “What have I done well, Furniver? What?”

  “You have bought time. And in that time, much can change. You know,” Furniver continued, “the English say you can win a battle but lose the war.”

  Charity nodded.

  “But sometimes you can lose a battle and win the war. You have won a battle – now you must fight and win a war.”

  Charity squeezed Furniver’s hand in response to show her love, but she was not going to let him get away with these masculine sentiments.

  “That is the language of men. Fighting, always fighting, talking of war and such stupidity.

  “We have too many dizzy worms in Kuwisha. Too many dizzy worms.”

  The sun rested on the horizon, like a luscious, juicy mango ready for plucking. An evening breeze provided respite from the usual stench, and carried the distant sound of the BBC time pips and the jaunty strains of “Lillibullero”.

  Charity Mupanga looked across the valley, crammed with shacks and shanties, and beyond, over the dam and above State House, and further to the distant hills soon to disappear from sight as dusk changed rapidly to darkness.

  She turned over a maize cob roasting on the brazier between them and Furniver took a sip of his beer.

  Mudenge had counselled patience, dreams take time to surface – but life did not wait for dreams.

  It was time for some frank talking.

  Charity looked into her heart and once again it seemed the answer was “No”. Much as she loved Furniver – indeed, precisely because she did love him – she could not live in England and be the same person.

  And if this were true of her, why should it not be true of Furniver? Did he not find the heat oppressive, as oppressive as she found the summer greyness of England? And did he not hate the mud?

  As to other differences between their cultures, she could live with them: the extraordinary fact that Furniver’s children were growing up without knowing their father; the apparent absence of an extended family, poor thing; and the general arrogance of their pink race, who believed that the world began in London.

  For the second time Charity lacked the resolve to give Furniver the bad news.

  35

  A dozen or so of the foreign correspondents based in Kuwisha gathered at Lucy’s Borrowdale home for the long-anticipated briefing on the role of the new ambassador. They sipped cups of coffee, kept a wary eye on her notoriously bad-tempered dog Shango, and, whenever possible, looked down the front of her T-shirt.

  Digby had turned up as arranged, and when he saw the assembled journalists was ready to turn tail.

  “Any news on the goat?” asked Lucy.

  “You mean Dolly?” said Digby.

  “Yes. The goat,” said Lucy, in a tone that brooked no challenge.

  “Couple of sightings, still alive according to some of the boys. But Rutere and Ntoto don’t seem to be very hopeful.”

  Digby sniffed the air.

  “Don’t want to be rude, but what is that awful smell?”

  “Shango’s meat, just delivered.”

  “No wonder that dog’s breath clears a room,” said Digby, mournfully.

  “So what do I tell them?” He looked over his shoulder at the assembled press corps. “I can’t tell them I’ve lost the goat. Half of them would never believe me, and the rest would never forgive me – and they’d all take the piss out of me . . .”

  He appealed to Lucy.

  “What can I tell them? As it is they’re expecting George Clooney.”

  Lucy looked at him without a shadow of sympathy. “I don’t care what you tell them,” she said. “But somebody’s got to tell them something – and you’ve got to do it.”

  Digby thought long and hard, and was thinking about making a run for it, when a car drew up carrying David Podmore.

  “Oh Christ,” said Digby.

  Podmore came into the room, his bottom wagging, like a Labrador with a bone.

  “Sorry I’m late. Held up by this Kireba rebuilding project.” He rubbed his hands together. “Where’s Dolly? Been looking forward to meeting her.”

  His nose wrinkled. “What’s that frightful pong?” he asked. “Not Dolly, I hope?”

  Digby took him to one side and, blushing with embarrassment, confessed to his loss.

  “What should I do?” asked Digby.

  Podmore looked thoughtful.

  “Two principles, old boy, when dealing with the reptiles. Never tell them the truth. They won’t believe you. Or they spill the beans, breaking deadlines, ignoring embargos. Second rule. Never admit a mistake.”

  He thought for a few moments.

  “I’ve got an idea.”

  He went through to the kitchen and re-emerged with a bulging plastic bag, and thrust it into Digby’s hands.

  Shango growled.

  “Look out for that dog,” said Podmore. “He’s an evil, cunning brute. Right. This is what you say . . . and this is what you do.”

  A few minutes later Digby composed himself for what would be the toughest test he’d encountered in his distinguished but short career. He stood up in front of the journalists, his expression sombre, his eyes mournful.

  “Thank you for coming. The good news is that George Clooney and Mia Farrow have sent a personal message of support for our work in Kuwishaland, and hope to visit with us in the near future.”

  The announcement was greeted by a rumble of complaints, and the sound of notebooks being closed.

  “The sad news is that I had hoped to introduce you to the WorldFeed roaming ambassador, Dolly. I am sorry to say that while she is present in the flesh, her brave spirit is elsewhere,” said Digby, his voice cracking under the evident strain.

  He paused: “Meet Dolly!”

  He tossed the plastic bag onto the floor in front of him.

  “At least, meet what’s left of her . . .”

  Shango pounced on the bag, growling furiously, and even hardened hacks recoiled as he buried his snout in the bloody intestines that spilled out.

  It was a slow news day and foreign news desks across London were looking for a decent colour story. The Daily Telegraph and The Guardian both got to work.

  “Aid worker’s ordeal,” ran the Daily Telegraph headline in the story that appeared the next day.

  “Starving children in Africa’s most notorious slum yesterday ambushed aid worker Digby Adams on his way from the airport to the city centre, driven by hunger and desperation. Their target was a rare breed of goat that ironically Adams had brought to help the people of Kuwisha . . .”

  “ ‘They tore Dolly apart, the poor, starving little blighters,’ said Adams, visibly moved at a press conference yesterday. Adams, a veteran of Africa’s aid business, told the Telegraph: ‘Never have I known such ferocious hunger. It was worse than Darfur, worse by far than the Eastern Congo.’ ”

  “He made it clear, however, that what he called a ‘grim episode’ would only reinforce his determination to free the people of Kuwisha from what he called ‘the yoke of poverty’.”

  “ ‘I see myself,’ he said, ‘as a foot soldier in the front line of the battle against disease and deprivation.’ ”

  The Guardian report took much the same line, except it blamed external debt for the economic conditions that led to the children’s attack.

  When Digby met Podmore the next day, he was effusive in his thanks.

  The First Secretary shrugged. “It was nothing,” he said. “By the way, have you ever thought about working in the Foreign Office? There’d be a role for you in news department. Let’s talk about that over a spot of lunch?”

  David Podmore settled back in the wicker chair on the veranda of the Fairview Hotel, took a long draft of his Tusker, smacked his lips and surveyed the scene.

  “Look,” he said. “Just look around you.”r />
  Digby followed his instructions. From their table on the veranda they had a clear view beyond the road and the university onto the purple hills that marked the start of the Rift Valley. In the foreground, vendors sold batteries, plastic knick-knacks, screwdriver sets and apples; at the taxi rank, drivers of rundown, rusting and battered taxis solicited for custom; ice-cream sellers had insulated cartons strung from the handle bars; newspapers were being sold on the corner; and everybody seemed to be talking into a mobile phone.

  Podmore called for a menu. “Look around,” he gestured. “See what I mean? You are looking at the indigenous, wananchi, masses, povo, men and women in the street, call them what you will. What do they have in common?”

  He leant forward, and lowered his voice.

  “They all work bloody hard. Problem is, they are all affected by the politics of the foreskin. Divides the whole country. When will they find more to their politics?”

  “You’ll have to explain the foreskin bit,” said Digby.

  “Luolanga are circumcised; Kuolanga are not. Or is it the other way round? Doesn’t matter. One lot won’t vote for the other. And it goes further and deeper than that. It will be the basis on which the office messenger got his job.”

  “Good Lord,” said Digby. “Sounds like Northern Ireland.”

  They studied the menu.

  “S’pose you’ve seen the papers?” asked Podmore. “Lot of fools playing silly buggers at your office in Oxford, at WorldFeed.”

  He pointed to the headline in the Nation.

  Goat link to N-East drought

  Animals blamed for warming emissions

  “Seems that a radical breakaway faction from WorldFeed calling themselves Vegetarians for Ensuring Africa’s Liberation are demanding a halt to your goat scheme.”

  “Apparently they got hold of a research paper prepared for a global warming summit that claims that the drought in the north-east is caused by tens of thousands of the blighters, all farting away. Between ourselves our chaps are getting reports of mobs rounding up goats in several villages.”

  “Any word on Dolly?”

  Digby shook his head.

  “Let’s face it,” said Podmore. “She’s probably being prepared for the pot as we speak. Fancy the asparagus? No? Don’t be put off your tucker, old boy. This is a tough part of the world . . . sure you won’t change your mind?”