by Terry Morgan
CHAPTER 12
Truck driver Mitchell's job was a collection from Freetown Airport freight area and another delivery to Rocki General Supplies in Sani Abacha Street for the attention of Mr Moses. "It is two hundred boxes," said Mitchell's boss, Mr Suleiman at Mambolo Transport Enterprises as Mitchell was leaving.
"But I can only fit one hundred and forty boxes in the truck and ten on the front seat," said Mitchell. It was only three weeks since his long and troubled drive to Sulima and Mitchell was concerned he might need to go again.
"No problem. You take one hundred this morning and one hundred this afternoon. Anyway, maybe these boxes are smaller."
"But if Mr Moses wants them taken to Sulima I will be gone for four days, maybe eight days." said Mitchell. "We need a bigger truck."
"No problem," said Mr Suleiman, "Just deliver the two hundred boxes to Rocki General Supplies. Let us see what Mr Moses wants."
"I don't like Mr Moses," said Mitchell, "And he doesn't like me."
"That's because he's a fraudster, a crook and a skimmer, Mitchell. All skimmers are like that. They don't like people. They only like money and they always want more. Now, go. Do not be late. And here is the money to give to the customs man if he is difficult today. We will add it to Mr Moses' invoice."
The hassle at the airport freight terminal was never as bad as the sea port and Mitchell's papers were all in order. Two hundred boxes of water purifiers it said on the documents. The supplier, a company called Ecoteck from Bologna, the manufacturer, Guangdon Trading, China and the buyer - Rocki General Supplies, Freetown Sierra Leone. It looked straightforward and the boxes were, indeed, much smaller than the last consignment. Mitchell loaded them into his truck by taking them one by one off the pallets they had arrived on and saw that every box had the same blue letters on the sides just as the last delivery he had made to Rocki General Supplies.
But working alone in the humid early morning heat Mitchell was now sweating heavily. He was ready to go but water was what he needed first and there was a plastic bottle on his driver's seat. It was just as he drained the last drops from the bottle that he heard someone shouting. "Stop, stop." Granville, the warehouse manager was running towards him.
Mitchell jumped down, threw his empty bottle onto his seat. "Yessah?"
Granville came up, panting. "Big mistake..... they give you wrong pallets. These boxes are for not for you. You must unload them. These boxes are still waiting for collection by someone else. Your boxes are still inside the warehouse. They arrived last night Swissair from Italy. Big mistake. I already slap Tamba. Very careless. Too much girlfriend. He still drunk from last night I think. Too much poyo. I slap him hard."
"OK," said Mitchell, "So you want me to unload my truck again?"
"Yes, we will bring the right pallets out here for you on the fork lift truck. Please start now."
"OK," said Mitchell and started to unload the two hundred boxes once more and re-stack them on the empty pallets. Half way through, the fork lift truck appeared, made four visits and dropped another four full pallets alongside Mitchell's truck. Mitchell looked at them, covered in clear plastic film. "My boss, Mr Suleiman, must buy a bigger truck, I think," he said to the forklift driver. "One for loading pallets. Mambola Transport business is growing too fast."
"These boxes are very light," said the forklift truck driver, "It is easy for you. You should not complain so much. Just do your job."
"Yessah," said Mitchell wondering if the forklift driver was Tamba, the one who had already been slapped at least once. But, indeed, the new boxes did feel much lighter. Mitchell was able to carry three at a time instead of one at a time and within half an hour he had re-loaded the truck. Then he went to look for Granville to make sure everything was now in order. He found him in his office drinking ginger beer and eating benny cake in his office.
"I have reloaded the new boxes," he said, wondering if he might be invited to partake of a drop of ginger beer. "Is the paperwork OK?"
"Yes," said Granville with his mouth full. "No problem, it was the wrong boxes but not the wrong paperwork."
"I'll be going, then," said Mitchell, lingering just a fraction, his mouth as dry as the dust lying on Granville's desk.
"Ok, no problem." said Granville and took another bite of benny cake.
This time, Mitchell drove his truck slowly and carefully along Sani Abacha Street, knowing full well how upset other traders became if their businesses were interrupted. This time, also, he reversed the truck up to the metal doors of Rocki General Supplies without trouble and knocked twice on the metal door. Then he knocked harder. At last the little door inside the bigger door creaked opened and Mr Moses appeared. Mitchell felt a waft of cool, air-conditioned air on his face and feet. "You are late," Mr Moses said looking up at Mitchell's truck with a 'McDonnell's - the Queen of Whisky' sign printed on the new tarpaulin.
"Yes, sir, sorry Mr Moses. There was a problem at the airport. They gave me the wrong boxes."
"Ffff...ahh," said Mr Moses. "I will open the main doors. Bring them inside. There should be two hundred and fifteen boxes."
"Ah, no sir, two hundred boxes. It is two hundred. The papers show two hundred. I will show you."
Desperately hoping nothing else was wrong, Mitchell returned to his cab, retrieved the paperwork from the dashboard and showed it to Mr Moses.
"Two hundred boxes, Mr Moses. You see? From Italy. Swissair. And they have blue writing just like last time. It says UNICEF."
"OK, I will check everything when you have finished."
"Do they need to go to Sulima, Mr Moses? Because, maybe I don't need to unload them but go direct to Sulima."
"They are not for Sulima."
"They will be staying in your warehouse, Mr Moses? If not, can Mambola Transport help with anything more?"
"No."
It took Mitchell another hour to unload the two hundred boxes and stack them on the floor inside Mr Moses' cramped and dusty warehouse. Occasionally he stood in the doorway with his shirt open to let the air-conditioned air pass inside but he never dawdled for long in case Mr Moses saw him. Finally, he finished and went in search of Mr Moses. He found him sitting inside the small, dark, inner office with a strip light on and the air conditioning unit rattling. He knocked, Mr Moses got up, opened the door and stood there, the cool air streaming from the inside like the meat cold store that Mitchell had once delivered to. "I have finished Mr Moses. Two hundred boxes with UNICEF printed on the outside. Please can you sign here."
"I will check first." Moses closed the door behind him but Mitchell had already seen a cramped office, a desk piled high with files and paper, filing cabinets and shelves, box files and a trash bin overflowing with more paper. He also saw a crate of unopened Coca Cola bottles and a 'fridge with more files stacked on top. But Mitchell followed Mr Moses through the warehouse to the boxes he'd just stacked so neatly.
"Open one."
Mitchell took a box down, took his truck keys from his pocket and used it to score along the brown tape seal. He pulled open the flaps and stood back.
"What is this? It is empty. Just newspapers. Open another."
Mitchell repeated the operation.
"It is nothing but old newspapers. Italian newspapers. What is going on? Where are the water purifiers?"
Mitchell, seeing the look on Mr Moses's face backed away.
"What have you done?"
"Nothing, Mr Moses. Maybe big mistake at the airport, but I only did what I was told."
As Mr Moses checked another box, Mitchell ran from the warehouse, jumped into his truck, started the engine, drove off and hit an umbrella. But he didn't stop to apologise.
