Podmore continued to study the menu, while attempting to light a cigarette. The match flared briefly and died. Podmore flicked it away, and tried again, with the same result. The third time, the match head broke off, fizzed across the table, and landed on Digby’s napkin. By the sixth match, the cigarette was lit.
Podmore took a notebook from his jacket and jotted something down.
“That’s it. I’m downgrading the buggers.”
Digby looked puzzled.
“One of my rules on Africa. Podmore’s Principles. The matchstick business came to me when I realised there was a connection between the state of the country I happened to be in and the quality of locally made matches. In South Africa, they’re pretty reliable. Seldom need more than one match to light your fag. Though I’m keeping my eye on them,” he added darkly.
“As for Kuwisha, I had them down as four to five sticks to light a cigarette, not good, but better than the African average. Not any more.”
He took a mouthful of Tusker.
“I’ll announce it at the European Union meeting this afternoon. As from 4 p.m. today, Kuwisha is a six-stick state. And that means trouble ahead . . . are you sure you won’t share some asparagus? They do a marvellous vinaigrette here.”
“Certain,” said Digby. “Really must go. Look for Dolly.”
“I’ll get you a taxi.”
As they walked through the hotel grounds to the rank, Podmore kept talking.
“Let me tell you a story, but you didn’t hear it from me. Crocodile and a hare were both on the banks of a raging river. The hare was trapped because he could not swim. The crocodile, could, of course, swim, but needed somebody to guide him across, so fierce was the flood.
“ ‘So, how about we help each other out?’ said the crocodile. ‘You can’t swim and I need help in navigating.’ The hare thought long and hard. Self-interest would surely rule the day.
“So they set off – with the hare riding on the crocodile’s back, giving directions. Half way over, the crocodile flipped the hare off his back and crushed him between his jaws.
“ ‘Oh my God, why did you do that?’ said the hare, as he breathed his last. ‘Can’t help it,’ said the crocodile. ‘This is Africa.’ ”
Digby got into the cab.
“Sorry to miss the asparagus, but I owe it to Dolly. My place is by my goat.”
36
Titus Ntoto and Cyrus Rutere sat atop one of the containers that made up Tangwenya’s International Bar (and Nightspot) and looked out over Kireba as the sun began to set. Although they were safe, their celebrations were muted. All they could do was watch as the huge trench diggers rumbled away, night and day, excavating the deep ditch that would effectively slice Kireba in two.
Though they could only guess at the consequences of Guchu’s humiliation, their instinct for survival alerted them to impending peril. Like animals cut off from the main body of the herd by an advancing bush fire, they felt a growing unease.
In the meantime, however, they had full bellies, a brew of changa that had just matured, glue in their bottles and a dough ball to share whenever they wished. All things considered, life was good.
The boys scrambled down from the container. Usually they were not allowed to sit at the tables.
“For customers only,” Charity explained to those who wondered. “When they buy a cup of tea, they can sit. Until then, they are kitchen workers. And anyway”, she said matter-of-factly, “they smell.”
The rule had been relaxed, however. Although no one said as much, this was probably the last time they would all be together at the bar.
Rutere belched, a long and rumbling outbreak that made the others around the table instinctively withdraw. He patted his stomach.
“We have eaten well,” he said.
He belched again. “Beg pardon,” he added, just before Charity would have ordered him to say so.
And then, as if by way of explanation, he said: “Goat meat . . . Very sweet!”
Digby, who had arrived just a couple of minutes earlier, winced as the smell of Rutere’s meaty eructation drifted under his nose. He had to face it. A goat from England could not be expected to survive the hazards of life in Africa, which ranged from intestinal worms to hungry street children.
Add to that the reports of mobs of goat-fearing youths, determined to round up any strays, and Dolly’s fate seemed sealed. He had let down WorldFeed, let down Dolly, and above all had let down the good people at WorldFeed who had placed their faith in him.
He was about to rebuke Rutere when he felt something tugging at the hem of his trousers. Digby could hardly believe what he saw. The amber eyes of Dolly looked up at him soulfully, and gnawed on the cord that led from her neck, under the table, to Rutere and Ntoto. The boys burst out laughing.
“Our friends found your Dolly,” said Rutere.
“Foolish!” added Ntoto. “You know nothing about goats. It is not Dolly goat – it is Billy goat!”
Overwhelmed with relief, Digby could not resist giving her a hug and planting a kiss on the end of her golden nose.
Pearson looked on disapprovingly.
“Always thought he had a thing about goats,” he muttered. “Mark my words, it’ll be donkeys next,” he said to no one in particular.
The group sipped Tuskers, and fruit juice and milky tea, sitting in companionable silence, which was broken by Furniver.
“A round of Experts?” he asked, but there were no takers. Instead, they were all preoccupied with the knowledge that Life was soon to carry them to different destinations.
The future of Harrods – or Tangwenya’s – was tied up with that of Kireba. The new Zimbabwe toilets might win a respite from the mayor’s attention, but sooner or later the bar would have to bow to the inevitable.
Few believed that the people of Kireba could resist the change that was gathering momentum, the remorseless flow of goodwill that was about to engulf the slum as it was engulfed by the world of aid and development. Instead they remained silent, each lost in their own thoughts. Radios came to life, lanterns flared, voices drifted across the valley of shanties, and the sound of children playing for a few moments seemed to prevail.
Lucy seldom expressed her affection in public, but now she trailed her fingers through Pearson’s hair, and she gave a small murmur of sympathy when they encountered the bump left behind by the rioter’s stone the year before.
She had now been in Kuwisha for four years. Long enough to know the questions to ask about aid, long enough to realise that she did not have the answers.
For both Lucy and Cecil, it was time to go home. Time to leave Kuwisha to battle against, or alongside, the army of foreign experts and consultants that occupied the country. There was a new generation, a generation of Digbys, that would take their place.
“We meant no harm,” said Pearson, as much to himself as to the group.
“Did we do any harm?” asked Lucy. “We were the workers who followed the circus through town, shovelling up after the elephants. Did we do any harm?” she asked again.
“We didn’t do much good, that’s for sure,” said Pearson.
“All your editorials, news stories and features, Pearson, did they amount to a row of beans?” asked Lucy.
“About as effective, I suspect, as your projects, and the briefings and press releases that you issued in the name of WorldFeed.”
But the comments were said in a tone of detachment and neither of them took umbrage at what the other said. They had reached a rare agreement. Neither had much to boast about.
Whether this truce would last, whether it would sustain a life together, who could say?
But as dusk fell at Harrods, and the strains of “Lillibullero” drifted across from Rugiru’s shack, and the smell of woodfire and roasting maize filled the air, it seemed to Pearson that a long-term partnership with Lucy was well worth a try.
“What I missed when we were apart”, said Pearson, “was the wonderful intimacy of our rows.”
“What?” said Pearson. “What’s the matter? It’s true, I really missed them.”
“Hmmm. Look at me, and say that again.”
Pearson looked into Lucy’s blue eyes and then had to break away, unable to hold her gaze.
“All right,” he said. “I miss the wonderful intimacy of our rows . . . as Joe Slovo said in his letter to Ruth.”
“I knew it,” said Lucy.
“Knew what?” asked Pearson.
“I knew that you filched that phrase from somewhere. You may be good with words, but you’re not that good.”
Pearson later told Charity about the exchange.
“When somebody knows you so well . . .” he tailed off.
“Did the words come from your heart?” Charity asked.
“Sort of . . .”
“So what did you do next?”
“I asked if she would stay with me in London.”
Furniver seemed to choke on his mango juice.
“Hanky hanky before marriage? You’d better not tell Didymus, he’d have a fit! Why don’t you come out with it and ask the girl to marry you?”
Pearson was uncharacteristically lost for words and blushed.
“Actually I did, just now.”
“And you, Lucy, tell us,” ordered Charity. “What did he say?”
It was Lucy’s turn to blush.
“He asked me to marry him.”
“And?” Furniver and Charity asked in unison.
“Well, I said, sort of, yes. In a way.”
“So what are we waiting for?” asked Charity. “Mr Kigali!” she beckoned. “You are needed.”
“There is only one condition”, said Mr Kigali, “and that is that you are married in the open air because we Lambs believe that the hills around us are God’s own church and the mountains are his altar.”
Charity clapped her hands with enthusiasm.
“We must strike with the hot iron. Let Mr Kigali give us a blessing from the Church of the Blessed Lamb and we will sing a good hymn. Mr Kigali can then marry you on this spot, now.”
Mildred looked on, delighted.
“Mr Digby, sing!” ordered Charity.
Both Cecil and Lucy looked uncomfortable, as if feeling trapped into a ceremony that would in fact be binding by the law of Kuwisha.
Furniver took pity on them and tried to intervene.
“Give them a chance, Charity . . .”
He got no further.
Charity looked at him, eyes narrowed.
“Hanky hanky comes only with marriage,” she said firmly. “Only with marriage! I am giving them a chance, a chance to have their union blessed in the eyes of our Lord.”
Furniver and Charity volunteered their own wedding rings for the ceremony and Didymus Kigali presided over the exchange of vows.
The simple ceremony took just a few minutes.
“Amen,” said Kigali.
“Digby,” Charity barked. “Get ready! It is time to sing.”
Cecil took Lucy’s hand in his. To his surprise she was smiling and the look of worldly scepticism that was usually there on her face had disappeared.
“Sing, Digby, sing!” urged Charity. “You know you sing well for an Englishman.”
Digby gave an embarrassed cough. It was a long way from the front line of the battle against poverty in which he had enlisted. But who was he to deny Charity’s order?
He made a faltering start.
“What a friend we have in Jesus . . .”
From the newly installed Zimbabwe toilet came help as Aloysius Hatende, who, before driving Lucy and Pearson to the airport, had answered the call of nature, added his baritone to the singing with all the confidence of a seasoned churchgoer.
“. . . all our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privilege to carry everything to God in prayer!
O what peace we often forfeit, O what needless pain we bear,
All because we do not carry everything to God in prayer.”
“Have a good flight,” said Digby. “Travel light, hand baggage only, and wear a suit. That’s my tip if you want to be upgraded.”
Pearson wondered if Digby was taking the piss.
Lucy got into the taxi.
“Come on, Cecil, we’ll be late.”
Pearson was about to step into the taxi with Lucy when he remembered that he had a question.
“Just one thing, Digby. When you said that there was an agreement between the BBC and KTV, you hinted that there was more to come.”
“Absolutely,” said Digby. “Thought I had told you. I had a meeting with Berksson to tie up the deal today.”
“So just what is this deal?” asked Pearson.
“That song, the one used by NoseAid on their appeal night . . . We sang a few lines – Together, together we stand, United, united our land.”
“Don’t – it was bad enough the first time I heard it sung by weather forecasters and newsreaders.”
Digby beamed: “Berksson and I have arranged for the Kibera Orphans’ Choir to sing a new version.”
“Hang on,” said Pearson. “What choir? The Kibera Orphans’ Choir? Never heard of them.”
“You will,” said Digby, “you will. We’re collecting names of members now. Limited to Aids orphans, obviously. Here is the press release I’ve drafted. And I have asked Sing Africa Proudly to help out, get it started . . .”
Pearson read the release.
Rehearsals would begin in the next couple of days, and WorldFeed was ready to underwrite a European tour.
“Did you know about WorldFeed’s backing?”
Pearson looked accusingly at Lucy.
“I told you. Marvellous news. WorldFeed originally offered our support in principle and HQ have now said OK.”
“You haven’t heard the best bit,” said Digby. “The proceeds from record sales and choir appearances will go to an orphans’ crèche in the new Kireba centre. Let me sing the first lines of the new version. What’s the Swahili word for ‘together’?” Digby asked.
“Torusha,” said Pearson, making it up on the spur of the moment.
Digby began to sing:
Torusha, together we stand
Torusha, Kuwisha, our land
Pearson looked at his watch.
“Gotta dash. Plane to catch.”
Their taxi was about to drive off when Digby called after it.
“The president agreed, by the way.”
“Agreed to what?” asked Pearson.
“Didn’t you know? He agreed to let us call the crèche after him . . . the Nduka Crèche for Orphans – Aids orphans, of course.”
“Obviously,” said Pearson, “obviously.”
37
It had been a tiring week and an exhausting day for President Nduka.
His schedule, which would have knocked the stuffing out of a man half the president’s age, had left him tempted to take a nap. Meetings with the British High Commissioner and the Chinese trade delegation that morning had been the last straw.
His study was in near darkness, with the only light provided by the fire in the hearth, lit some 30 minutes ago by the kitchen toto.
The president breathed in deeply, relishing the aroma of veranda polish, wood smoke and Jeyes fluid.
There was something he had to do before he could rest.
He took out a fountain pen.
There were some lists he enjoyed compiling.
A Cabinet minister led the way, followed by three provincial officials, trouble-makers the lot of them.
He rang his head of security, who impassively studied the names.
“They are to join the shadow cabinet,” Nduka chuckled. “Phone when you have made the arrangements.”
The man nodded and left the room.
Nduka was tired, tired as an old dog. He rested his head on his forearms.
“Boy! Boy! Bri
ng me my honey water.”
But his voice had been reduced to a whisper.
“Where is my honey water?”
The phone rang, several rings, and then stopped.
The small, slight man at the desk stayed motionless. Ngwazi, who Mounts All the Hens, Life President Dr Josiah Nduka, had made his last list.
38
Minutes after Lucy and Pearson had reached the airport, Pearson’s mobile rang. After a brief exchange, he turned to Lucy.
“There’s a rumour that Nduka has died. The paper wants a leader.”
“I’ll see you in the duty free,” said Lucy.
Pearson sat down at his laptop and bashed away.
“If Kuwisha is to overcome the formidable challenges that lie ahead, all sides must play their part. With the right policies, consistently applied, and rigorously monitored, Kuwisha could yet become Africa’s model state.”
“Come on, we’ll miss the flight.”
Lucy ran her eyes over the leader.
“Isn’t that pretty well what you said last time?”
Charity and Furniver sat alone at a table at Harrods, like hosts at a dinner party after the guests had departed. Charity returned to a vexed concern, prompted by Mudenge, who had pressed Charity for more information.
“Like most men,” Charity had told Mudenge, “he does not say much, especially when we spend more time together. Before he would talk about missing London. Then he talked about missing Kuwisha when he was in London for his divorce. He is very confused.”
Furniver responded to her questions with an easygoing tolerant way that was one of the reasons she wanted to share the rest of her life with him.
“Dreams, old thing? You still on about my dreams? My latest dreams?”
Furniver was mildly surprised.
“You still want to know? I’ve told you that dream about your, er, um, teeth, every now and then. Freudian. Castration complex. Or could be an oral fixation . . .”
Charity interrupted.
“Furniver!” she warned. “No nonsense, no stupid talk.”
“Truth is,” he said, “head touches pillow, out like a light. Sure I dream, but dashed if I can remember.”
Dizzy Worms Page 21
