Dizzy Worms

by Michael Holman

  These were thin pickings indeed.

  “I sleep like a dog, once I drop off. Been a bit worried though. Sometimes I miss London, sometimes I miss Kuwisha. The worst thing is when I am in Kuwisha I miss London, and when I am in London I’m missing Kuwisha. If you get my drift.”

  This was surely not what Mudenge had in mind.

  “Furniver says he sleeps like a dog,” she had told Mudenge, who shook his head.

  “Every person dreams,” he said firmly. “Everybody.”

  “When was all this missing London? When was he missing Kuwisha?” asked Mudenge.

  “As I said, when Furniver was in London, he was dreaming about Kuwisha. When he is in Kuwisha, he is dreaming about London. Very confused.”

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Charity realised their significance. This was the stuff of dreams that Mudenge had been seeking.

  It was now clear that Edward Furniver was in that no-man’s land, caught between the memories of his English past and the appeal of Kuwisha.

  Mudenge chose his words carefully.

  Charity should be aware, he cautioned, that Furniver was never going to rid himself of his elemental feeling of belonging to England; but Africa had surely surprised him with the generosity and the warmth of its embrace. He could not desert the continent. Africa was now dear to him.

  Of course, he went on, Furniver could never become a “white African” no matter how long he stayed. As a Kuwisha proverb put it, no matter how long a log lies next to the stream, it will never become a crocodile.

  And most men and women who claimed to be “white Africans” invariably travelled on a passport issued by Britain or Ireland or France, never sharing the trials and tribulations of someone who was obliged to travel on a passport issued by an African government.

  No, Edward Furniver would always be a white man who lived in Africa. Nevertheless, the relationship would be a close and intimate one, continued Mudenge.

  And when Furniver travelled, he would return to the continent with a sense of coming home, taken into an embrace of sounds and senses and shapes. Africa’s face and body would become more dear and familiar to him, ravaged though it may seem to others, and battered by misfortune, whether of its own or outsiders’ making.

  But he would hear, and smell and feel Africa’s welcome, said Mudenge the high-pitched hum of the Christmas beetle, the chirrup of crickets, the acrid aroma of the veld fire and the tang of the air after rain; the spread of the acacias and the msasas, the purple jacarandas, the gold of the winter grass and the steel-blue sky; the laughter, the handshakes and the embraces; the liquid vowel sounds of languages, all would be dear and familiar to Furniver.

  But at other times, Africa was a giant wounded beast, which Furniver would encounter at his peril. Although he was wellmeaning in his concern, he ineptly administered to its needs. He tried to comfort it in its distress, all the time aware that he could be knocked flying with a wave of its paw. And he would not know whether the action had been prompted by an involuntary spasm of pain, or whether the beast was affectionately trying to take him into his arms, unaware of its own strength.

  There was no need for Mudenge to say more.

  The consultation with Charity was interrupted by the appearance of Furniver himself.

  “D’you remember me telling you that old Ezekiel Mapondera negotiated a guaranteed price for his cement order?”

  Charity nodded: “That Ezekiel is very smart.”

  “What I didn’t tell you is that he promised to let you have any cement left over from his hen house. Well, the old boy has come up trumps. There is enough cement for six more toilets! Bloody marvellous! We can get to work right away!”

  Charity’s eyes filled with tears.

  “I say, steady on, my dear, no need to blub. I told you it would be okay. I’m as pleased as you are. Know what? I’ve been dreaming about the bloody toilets.”

  Mudenge looked at Charity.

  “One hundred ngwee, please.”

  He watched, slightly embarrassed, as Charity embraced Furniver with passion and enthusiasm, and then made a discreet exit.

  “Steady on,” said Furniver, offering Charity his handkerchief. “They are only toilets, after all . . . Anyway, it’ll take no more than a few hours to mix and pour the concrete. Then we’ll have the new VIP toilets.”

  “For you, Furniver, they may be toilets only. But for me, they are dreams, fine, fine dreams! Now let us find the rats. The matatu will be waiting . . .”

  The sugar stealing had stopped. Charity confessed herself baffled. The day after the last theft, Ntoto had handed in a key, found, he said, in the mud alongside the stepping stones that led to Furniver’s flat.

  Mudenge had scratched his head, equally perplexed, when Charity told him.

  “No result, no fee,” he said wryly.

  Both of the boys knew that it would soon be time for them to move on. Whether or not the mayor was able to pin the blame for his humiliation, sooner or later, motivated by vindictiveness as much as anything, he would track them down and they would be disappeared.

  The two teenagers who had never known childhood retreated to their lookout in the eucalyptus trees, sniffed from their glue tubes, drained the last of their changa, and drew heavily on their cigarettes of bhang. Usually the combination lifted their spirits, taking them into a never-never world in which fantasy ruled over reality.

  This time it was different.

  “We are too old to play like children,” said Rutere, with the wisdom of his 14 years.

  Ntoto agreed.

  “There will be no more ack-ack,” said Rutere.

  “It was a stupid game anyway,” said Ntoto.

  For the next few minutes the boys discussed the merits of ack-ack, devised to pass the time at Harrods, a combination of hide and seek and kick the can.

  “A very foolish stupid game,” said Ntoto.

  Rutere took a closer look at his friend and realised that Ntoto was fighting to hold back tears.

  “You were the best player,” said Rutere. “Do you remember when Pearson cheated?”

  Ntoto grunted.

  “Journalist,” he said, as if the word both described and explained Pearson’s shortcomings.

  “We must leave,” said Rutere, “I am sure. Even if the pump boy says nothing, I think Guchu will come and pick us when we are sleeping.” He looked about him nervously. “And before Mrs Charity can help us, we will have been disappeared. Mrs Charity herself, she knows this.”

  The boys looked around. They took in the dam in which they had splashed; the State House security fence through which Fatboy Mlambo had scrambled; the new Zimbabwe toilets, clad in gleaming new sheets of corrugated iron; and the railway track that ran through the slum and which was the nearest thing Kireba had to a road.

  “Have you got your shoes?”

  Charity had given Ntoto a pair of handsome black shoes, resoled and as good as new, for his last birthday. He wore them only on special occasions.

  Ntoto nodded.

  “In the box.”

  “It was a good present from Mrs Charity,” said Rutere.

  Ntoto agreed.

  “Very good.”

  From the Pass Port to Heaven Funeral Parlour came the sound of hammering as Philimon Ogata tried to keep pace with the ever-increasing demand for his services.

  A light burned in the Klean Blood Klinic. Results Mudenge was working late again.

  Rutere drained the last of the changa.

  “Things that are good always must end,” he said.

  “Have you got our photographs?” asked Ntoto.

  Rutere nodded, and pointed to the cardboard box that contained the photos of their heroes.

  “They are safe,” said Rutere. “We must go back now.”

  He looked anxiously at his friend, far from convinced that Ntoto was ready for the move that awaited them.

  “Mr Furniver says I can learn to be a mechanic.”

  Ntoto said nothing.
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  “You too, Ntoto, can learn . . .”

  Ntoto shrugged.

  “We will go together,” he said. “I hear them calling.”

  The boys made their way across the wasteland, picked a path through the flying toilets and, dragging their feet with exaggerated reluctance, made their way to the matatu that would take them, together with Charity and Furniver, to the shamba.

  They were about to get into the matatu when Charity sniffed the air.

  “What was the last thing I said to you boys?”

  There was no reply.

  “I said you must have a very good wash,” she said sternly. “You, Rutere, you smell like a dead dog.”

  Ntoto giggled.

  “Yes, Rutere, you smell like a dead dog,” she continued.

  “And you, Ntoto, you smell like a dead hyena. Go! Wash properly!”

  The boys washed, enthusiastically debating what creature was most offensive, dead dog or dead hyena, while Charity and Furniver sat on a nearby bench, looking out over Kireba.

  Harrods – or Tangwenya’s, according to the freshly repainted sign – would be in good hands during the time they would be away on the shamba. Cousin Mercy, whose course in public health was not due to start until the summer, would be an excellent caretaker.

  But who could say whether the Kireba they knew would still be there when they returned. Everything, anything was possible. No condition is permanent, as the slogan often emblazoned on matatus put it.

  And perhaps Charity was right. Ultimately corruption would destroy corruption. Perhaps it would also bring a halt to the Kireba project. The cement shortage continued, and prices were rising by the day. The water supply problem went unresolved, although the mysterious death of a plot owner who had taken his case to court did nothing to help resolve the dispute over upstream water rights of the river that ended up trickling into Kireba’s dam.

  The source and the cost of the additional power supply the project required remained uncertain. And matters weren’t helped by a newspaper investigation which revealed that at least seven Cabinet ministers had claimed ownership of plots in Kireba. Meanwhile the road lobby and railway lobby remained at loggerheads – though both agreed that Kireba should be the country’s new transport hub.

  Only Anders Berksson was happy as estimates of the cost of the project rose steadily.

  For the first time since his arrival in Kuwisha, the UNDP budget had overrun the initial estimates as the suppliers became increasingly brazen in their demands for exorbitant payments, and the claims from the international consultants more imaginative.

  Berksson’s conversation with Digby had been most productive. The suggestion that Nduka be asked to lend his name to the proposed crèche was brilliant. The orphan choir would sing their hearts out.

  The UNDP boss sat down and began composing his monthly report to HQ.

  Dusk was falling, and lengthening shadows softened and blurred the hard edges of the tin shanties. The sun slipped below the horizon, and a breeze allowed the fragrance of roasting corncobs to take the place of the usual stench. Candles glowed, and paraffin lamps were lit, and as 6 p.m. came round, the BBC time pips could be heard.

  Furniver began to recite lines from a favourite poem.

  The pip doth toll the end of parting day,

  The lowing goats wind slowly o’er the lea . . .

  Charity responded, without missing a beat.

  The night guard homeward plods his weary way,

  And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

  “ ‘Elegy in a Country Churchyard’, Thomas Gray. The missionaries at Wedza secondary school”, said Charity, “made sure we learnt it by heart.”

  They both laughed.

  A car backfired, or it could have been a gunshot, and made them start.

  “Tell me, Furniver, when will all our nonsense end?”

  Didymus and Mildred, dressed in their best, each carrying a small case with their worldly possessions, came into sight.

  “All done, Mr K?”

  Didymus Kigali waved a fat envelope in the air.

  “Ready, suh. We are ready for the shamba.”

  It was Furniver’s turn to have cold feet, as he recalled a breakfast exchange with Mr Kigali, nearly a year earlier. Under the impression – false, as it turned out – that Charity was contemplating converting to the faith of the Church of the Blessed Lamb, Furniver had asked his steward to explain a central tenet of the Lambs’ doctrine.

  Never was a member to go naked, whatever the circumstances.

  With Furniver’s prompting, and the occasional question, which would prompt a flourish of Kigali’s yellow duster, the steward explained. He began by pointing out that Christ himself had retained what Mr Kigali called his smalls, all his life, from baptism to crucifixion.

  “With you so far,” said Furniver.

  “Thank you,” said Mr Kigali, clearing the breakfast table. “Do you want more toast?”

  Furniver shook his head. Mr Kigali continued.

  “In the presence of our Lord, it is essential to be decently dressed.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “And is not our blessed Lord all-seeing?”

  Kigali snapped his duster as if punctuating his point.

  “There is no arguing with that,” said Furniver.

  There was no reference, Kigali went on, in the entire scriptures to Christ ever divesting himself of his smalls.

  “Never. Never,” he said firmly.

  Furniver posed the question that he’d been too embarrassed to raise until now.

  “Man and, er, woman . . . never, um, naked . . . even after, er, marriage?”

  “Especially after marriage,” said Kigali with a touch of steel in his voice. A true believer would never, he went on, under any circumstances, go naked, always taking care to protect their modesty by retaining their underwear whether in bath, shower or bed.

  Furniver’s heart sank. Although he was as tolerant as the next man, a chap had to draw the line somewhere. And while he did not favour any particular faith, he could not see himself living happily with a woman who had pledged never ever to go naked, no matter what her merits.

  Furniver knew that now was an opportunity to put the record straight.

  Mr Kigali got there before him.

  “I can see you are worried, Mr Furniver, by the ‘never naked’ doctrine. You need not worry. Some Christians believe in what you call transubstantiation. You believe that the bread and wine you take at communion become the body and the blood of Christ.

  “In your church there are some who do not believe this. I must tell you that we Lambs do not believe in this and some of us find it rather strange. But just as some Lambs will never, ever go naked, I know that some Lambs do not follow this law. However, they are still members of our church. And they are still Christians . . .”

  He beamed benignly at Furniver and Charity.

  Furniver realised that this was the moment of decision.

  He looked at Charity.

  She nodded.

  The ceremony was as short as it was simple, conducted by Kigali, witnessed by Mildred and Rutere and Ntoto, both smelling strongly of Lifebuoy soap.

  As Furniver took Charity’s hand, he thought his heart would burst with joy. A huge smile broke across Charity Mupanga’s face and Edward Furniver was reminded of dawn in Kuwisha.

  EPILOGUE

  Never could Boniface Rugiru have imagined that 50 years after he had begun work as a 12-year-old toto at the Thumaiga Club, he would be back in the very same room he had once cleaned, performing a sad task for its departed occupant.

  There was not much left to sort: the Oldest Member’s books that would become part of the Club library; clothes that were to go to Kireba; a graceful hare, cast in bronze and caught in mid-flight was also left to the Club.

  All that remained was a single drawer in the writing cabinet, which contained a handful of photographs, a notebook in which the OM had kept an occasional diary and a copy of
a book entitled The Souls of Black Folk.

  The photos of old girlfriends were tossed into the fire in the hearth, which had been lit by Rugiru. One of them had a striking resemblance to Bunty Benton. Rugiru tried to recover it for a closer inspection, but he was too late, and the flames consumed her. After reflecting a while, he followed these with the photograph that had caught his attention that morning, so many years ago, when he was first alone in the room.

  The two young men, who were awkwardly shaking hands, with a tray of tea between them, were immediately recognisable as the Oldest Member, then an up-and-coming district commissioner, and Josiah Nduka, dressed in the fatigues of a guerrilla commander.

  Rugiru examined the diary. The last entry, dated the day before he had died, had been written with a shaky hand.

  “They still work on the principle of Pooh Bear and his hums. Sing the first line loudly enough and quickly enough, said Pooh, and the second will come to you before you know what’s happening. I can hear the blighters all singing their hearts out, ‘Aid for Africa, aid for Africa’. The problem is they sing the first line with enthusiasm, and often, I still cannot hear the next lines.”

  Rugiru picked up the book, published in 1903. It was a collection of essays by an African American writer, W.E.B. Du Bois, who looked out from the photograph on the jacket. The book fell open at a page where a passage has been underlined.

  Rugiru read it aloud:

  Between me and the other world there is ever an unasked question: unasked by some through feelings of delicacy; by others through the difficulty of rightly framing it. All, nevertheless, flutter round it. They approach me in a half-hesitant sort of way, eye me curiously or compassionately, and then, instead of saying directly, How does it feel to be a problem? they say, I know an excellent colored man in my town; or, I fought at Mechanicsville; or, Do not these Southern outrages make your blood boil? At these I smile, or am interested, or reduce the boiling to a simmer, as the occasion may require.

  To the real question: How does it feel to be a problem? I answer seldom a word.