by Michael Ray
Kitafe
by
Michael Ray
Published in 2015 by Wild Thyme Publishing www.wildthy.me
Copyright © Michael Ray 2015
The author or authors assert their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author or authors of this work.
All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
ISBN for epub 978-0-9926777-6-3
Any income I get from the sale of this book is being donated to War Child.
www.justgiving.com/Komba/
One
East Africa 1962.
‘Sod it.’
Graham sat down in the shade of a fever tree and stared at his shoes; black leather, worn soles and as appropriate for Africa as a pair of sandals in the Arctic, but he’d always had shoes like them and anyway, couldn’t afford new ones. The same went for the rest of his clothes. His jacket, now tossed to one side, was the gift of a grateful nation, issued at the end of his conscription; a time in his life when he’d learnt nothing except how to keep his head down. Not from enemy fire but the spite of NCOs who had quickly identified Graham’s usefulness as a victim, an example of the mediocrity to be avoided by the rest of his squad in their quest for military excellence.
Unfortunately, the nation’s gratitude had been financially constrained. The jacket was cheaply made and five years of constant wear had left it held together by patches and Graham’s inelegant attempts at needlework. He took off his shoes and socks and spent a couple of minutes studying a collection of newly formed blisters. Concluding that his feet probably had a few more miles left, he forgot about them, lit a cigarette and lent back against the tree.
His time in the army had brought one reward. A fellow recruit had been earning pocket money by writing humorous articles on army life for a local paper back in London, and helped Graham do the same. He’d sent a few pieces off to the Manchester Argos and, to his surprise, not only made a few bob but was offered a job as a junior reporter on his return. It didn’t work out, the brief glimpse of the world afforded by his military service left him unenthusiastic for a future spent in a northern city. Even at the end of the fifties, Manchester was a grimy place, still suffering from a postwar hangover. The only highlights of his new career were wet Saturday afternoons, standing beside a muddy third division football pitch, with a damp notebook and a pencil stub. So he’d gravitated back to East Africa where he’d spent his National Service, answering an advert for an experienced reporter willing to swap the security of a half decent wage packet for a place in the sun. Neither he nor Mr Bradley, his new boss, had held any illusions about his experience, but then what Mr Bradley was really after was someone who was cheap, who could turn out a thousand words in an hour and who could make the dullest subject sound interesting. In that, Graham excelled.
On the other side of the road a small girl played, skinny and clothed in cotton rags the same colour as the dust she knelt in. She had a few small sticks, pretend goats, and was moving them around, quietly singing to them. She’d looked up on Graham’s approach then ignored him, instinctively realising he was no threat and returning to her toy herd.
‘Bollocks.’
He wiped his forehead, his hand coming away covered in a film of red dust and sweat; eleven in the morning and already dying for a beer. Apart from the girl’s quiet song, the air was still, the only sound an occasional rustle of dry, yellow grass in the sparse breeze and the buzzing attentions of hungry insects. A few hundred yards away a group of zebra sheltered under another fever tree, tails swishing and ears twitching to keep the flies at bay. Like the girl, they didn’t consider him a threat and he watched their stripes wobble in the heat, wondering whether muddy football pitches were that bad a deal after all. He took a drag, lent his head back against the trunk and watched the loops and circles of a few vultures riding the thermals high above. Well, they may have been vultures; they certainly appeared to be keeping an optimistic eye on him. He closed his eyes … just rest them for a few minutes … probably wasn’t a good idea to doze … the vultures might mistake him for lunch … and he started to nod off.
The girl abruptly stopped singing, the silence bringing Graham back to Africa. She stood up and he followed her gaze out to a cloud of dust, and then the sound of a motor car.
‘Salvation and about bloody time,’ he muttered to himself, pulling his socks and shoes back on.
The car got nearer, and this time the girl saw an approaching danger. She picked up her sticks and skipped away from the road, through a field of dusty red soil and dried out maize stalks to a hut, turning to watch from the protective shelter of its doorway.
Graham rose to greet his saviour then recognised the car; a new, dark blue Mercedes, a mass of lights and chrome at the front and sharp fins at the back. There weren’t many cars like that around this part of Africa. He swore under his breath and stepped away from the road, anticipating that it would go straight past and leave him coughing in a cloud of dust. Instead, it slowed and came to a halt next to him. The driver, wearing an army uniform and dark red beret, got out and opened a rear door.
‘Morning’ Graham said. The driver ignored his greeting and motioned for him to get in, but he hesitated.
‘Please get in Mr Theakston,’ a voice said from inside the car, ‘or do you wish to walk all the way home?’
Graham considered the options; he didn’t have any.
In the back was an extraordinary looking man, perhaps fifty years old, with a barrelled chest that appeared to support his bald head without the assistance of a neck. The rest of the back was filled with a large radio in the centre of the rear bench, and a selection of handguns and an automatic rifle mounted on the back of the front seat, leaving just enough room for another passenger.
‘I thought that was your old Ford left up the road, you must have walked, what, nearly five miles? In this heat you must be exhausted.’
‘Good morning, Colonel.’
’I left the army years ago, I leave that form of address to the washed out Sahibs at the Club.’ The Colonel smiled, ‘I’d rather you called me Harding, most people do, at least within earshot, and kindly put that cigarette out. I have no wish to accompany you in any suicide bid.’
Graham scraped the remains of his cigarette into the road and closed the car door. He didn’t find Harding’s smile comforting, quite the opposite and he sat nervously on the edge of the seat. Harding gave an order and the car started off, the acceleration pushing Graham back into a more relaxed position.
From her doorway shelter, a serious-looking little girl watched his departure then went inside.
‘You may call my driver Abdul,’ Harding said.
Graham looked in the mirror and saw Abdul’s eyes staring at him. ‘Morning Abdul.’ Abdul continued staring at him but didn’t reply. ‘Not too friendly is he?’
‘No? Well I don’t think he likes people very much, particularly if they’re white.’
‘You’re white.’
‘And he probably doesn’t like me very much, but then I don’t particularly like him. What we have though, is something much more important in a working relationship, respect. Tell me, what were you doing out here?’
‘Covering a cricket match.’
‘Of course, you’re a sports reporter aren’t you Mr Theakston?’
‘For what its worth and now I’m going to miss the match.’
‘Oh I’m sure you’ll be able to make up something
convincing. How is your wife?’
‘Well, thank you.’
‘Good, good; she comes from an interesting family.’
Graham looked quizzically at him, he’d rarely considered Amani’s family to be of the slightest interest.
‘In particular that brother of hers, James Obuya isn’t it?’
Graham nodded warily, having worked out the direction the conversation was taking.
‘Do you see much of him?’
‘Not a lot; I wonder, could you drop me off at a garage?’
‘A pity,’ Harding continued, ‘Mr Obuya is such an interesting man.’ He leaned forward and spoke a few words to his driver in Swahili.
Despite having lived in Africa for the last four years, the last two with an African woman, Graham had never quite got the hang of the language, though he understood the words Racing Club.
‘I’ve asked him to take us to the Club; you’ll be thirsty no doubt after your long walk.’
‘I’d much rather sort out the car.’
‘Nonsense, you’ve got all afternoon to do that.’
He looked in the driver’s mirror, Abdul was still staring back at him. It seemed Abdul could drive without bothering to look at the road. ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not go there.’
‘Of course you’re barred, persona non grata.’ Harding smiled, ‘don’t worry, I’ll vouch for your good behaviour.’
‘I wasn’t barred for bad behaviour.’
‘My apologies if I’m wrong, Mr Theakston, but I thought it was something to do with being inebriated and attacking Major Fuller with a billiard cue.’
‘If everyone who got a little tight was barred from that place there would be nobody left; besides, I hardly touched him. You know perfectly well why they got rid of me.’
‘Well, it doesn’t pay to upset the mores of our white brethren by marrying a black woman.’
The car continued along the track, fast enough for the suspension to float over the uneven dirt road and within half an hour they’d arrived. Abdul got out smartly, opened the door for Harding then came around the car, but Graham was already out. He’d never felt comfortable with subservience, having spent most of his life at the wrong end of it.
Harding stepped briskly up to the entrance with Graham a few steps behind. For all his bulk he still carried a military bearing, unlike Graham who looked more like a recalcitrant goat being led towards the kitchen. Every few months his wife liked to visit her surviving grandparents, and at some stage in the day he’d invariably meet the head of the goat that they’d just had for lunch; the bloody stump of its neck resting on the draining-board by the sink, slit-eyes staring accusingly at him. They always reminded him of pictures of the devil at the Church School he’d attended; they always made him feel uncomfortable. He felt uncomfortable now.
Harding continued past the Concierge who, seeing Graham, came out from behind his desk to block his entrance.
‘Is there a problem?’ Harding asked.
‘I’m sorry Colonel, Mr Theakston is barred.’
‘Mr Theakston is my guest, I think we can overlook it this one time.’
The Concierge looked from one to another, his impulse to obey club rules struggling with the authoritative bulk of the colonel. It was a mismatch, Harding didn’t even wait for the result and guided Graham through the foyer.
‘You see,’ Harding said; ‘to keep the respect of one’s fellow men, it is occasionally necessary to tread on their toes and remind them of your weight.’
‘You mean like kicking a dog just to show it who’s boss?’
‘Far more subtle than that, by deliberately flaunting the rules of this fine establishment, I’m challenging them. If they don’t rise to that challenge, which they won’t, then I’ve gained a few points and strengthened my position a little.’
‘Today’s lesson in power then. I’ll remember it in case I’m ever persuaded to go into politics.’
On their entrance to the bar, a few elderly Whites, sitting on bar stools, stopped talking and stared.
‘Good afternoon Major, Mr Paterson,’ the Colonel said, receiving gruff, muttered responses. Harding motioned Graham to a table away from the bar and waved a waiter over.
‘You’ll have a beer I would imagine?’
Graham nodded his head, ‘thank you.’
‘Good, and I shall have a passion fruit juice, with a steak sandwich … no make that two. No doubt you are hungry?’ He didn’t bother to wait for an answer. ‘I’m glad to have stumbled across you as I did.’
‘You are?’
‘Of course, it’s always gratifying to help a fellow man in trouble. We were talking about your brother-in-law.’
‘I told you, I hardly ever see him; anyway, why are you interested? He’s only a union official.’
‘Ah yes, the union; he goes off to some redbrick university in South Africa and hangs around bars, absorbing college politics when I imagine those funding him would far rather he attended lectures. Then he returns to our quiet little country and starts organising the workforce, thereby irritating the sensibilities of our fine industrialists.’
‘You don’t think the workers here have rights?’
‘Of course I do, though those gentlemen at the bar would doubtless disagree. In this instance however, what I think is unimportant. I am employed by the politicians, I am not one of them.’
The sound of women’s laughter came from outside the bar, but stopped as those responsible entered. Two women looked over to Harding and Graham, exchanged a few words and left.
‘We’ll put this place out of business if we stay here any longer,’ Graham said.
‘Oh I shouldn’t be too concerned, it’s not as if they’ve got anywhere else to go; anyway, we were discussing your brother-in-law. You know Mr Theakston, I think it’s a tragedy the way that modern families fragment. It’s not like during the war, everyone offering support and working together. I really think you should pay more attention to them; perhaps invite James round for supper?’
‘So I can spy on him for you? You’re kidding.’
‘I don’t kid, but no, I don’t want you to spy on him, I want you to get to know him a little better.’
The club manager appeared and having first spoken to the Major at the bar, came over and addressed Harding.
‘I’m sorry Sir, it’s Mrs Dryden, she asked me to point out to you that your guest was barred from the club.’
‘And now you’ve told me. Would you like a signed confirmation to take back to Mrs Dryden?’
‘Er, no Sir, that won’t be necessary.’
‘Good.’
Harding turned back to Graham, ‘another beer? It can go on my account.’
‘If you think it’s all right.’
‘Another beer for Mr Theakston and a coffee for me please, Evans, and could you see what’s happened to our sandwiches?’
‘Yes sir, of course.’ The manager left, passed on their order to the bar and hurried in the direction of the kitchen.
Harding turned back to Graham who was watching the retreating Evans; he looked a little uncomfortable.
‘What, are you worried about Mrs Dryden? I should imagine she encouraged her husband to get you barred in the first place. You know why the Mrs Drydens of this world are so upset about your wife?’
‘An attachment to white supremacy? The thought of a white man sleeping with a black woman?’
Harding laughed, ‘You’re joking of course, half their husbands are screwing the housemaids, hardly worries them at all. They look on their husbands’ infidelities in the same way as they would if he were taking the dog out for a walk, with the added advantage that it cuts down on their marital obligations. But then one of their kind goes and marries a black woman and suddenly the city is full of competition. Those young black girls are no longer just doing the housework and giving their husbands the occasional carnal perk; they’ve got to be taken seriously.’
‘Look, this is very good of you, but
I really must get back to the car.’
‘Of course Mr Theakston, of course, but not until you’ve finished your beer and eaten your sandwich. How is the newspaper business?’
‘Well enough I suppose.’
‘Interesting that you brought up politics earlier; of course, you know your brother-in-law is starting to cause agitation?’
‘You mean asking for compensation when someone gets an arm torn off at work? I don’t call that agitation, I call it common decency.’
The Colonel nodded his head, ‘of course and as it happens I agree with you; unfortunately those in power don’t. There will be unrest and then … well you know what happened in India.’
‘You mean independence, the shrugging off of the mantle of imperialism?’
‘I mean independence followed by chaos and hundreds of thousands killed. We don’t want that sort of thing to happen here. Ah good, our sandwiches. Tuck in then.’
Graham needed no encouragement, the lack of cigarettes had given him an appetite. ‘So what do you want from me?’ He asked through a mouthful.
‘I want you to talk to Mr Obuya, to befriend him, to discover how his mind works.’
‘So you do want me to spy on him. Why don’t you get a Black to do it?’
‘And have to worry about allegiances? Even amongst my own men there are few I’d trust, and Mr Obuya knows them all, every name; besides, the good ones are all Somali and they’d never get within a hundred yards of him. You can, Mr Theakston, you’re in the right clan.’
‘Mancunian?’
‘No, you’re his brother-in-law, you’re part of their family.’
Graham turned and glanced quickly around the room; several other groups had arrived, though all made a point of sitting well away.
‘Don’t worry about them, even if they overheard anything, who would they tell? Besides, Mr Theakston, they’re all gazelles and we’re lions. They browse grass and they fart a lot, they don’t have claws like you and I.’
‘That’s as may be, but I’m not a spy. Get one of your men to do it.’
‘As I’ve already told you, I just want you to get to know him better.’
‘Why, you think James is the next Ghandi?’
