Kitafe

by Michael Ray

  ‘Not at all, but I’d like to know if he’s the next Che Guevara.’

  ‘Look, it really is time I went, if I don’t go now I won’t get to the car before dark.’

  ‘I should leave it until tomorrow, go first thing.’ Harding finished his coffee, ‘but I must also get back to work. I can drop you off at your office if you wish?’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll make my own way back.’

  ‘Worried about being seen in the wrong company?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I’ll drop you off at the police compound. You’ll only have a couple of blocks to walk.’

  *****

  Half an hour later, Graham arrived at the Standard Newspaper offices. As he entered, he could hear Bradley shouting at someone. Then Jenny, one of the junior reporters and a general dogsbody, ran past him, crying.

  ‘Graham, is that you?’ Bradley shouted.

  He gave up any thoughts of trying to get to his desk without being spotted, and poked his head around the door to Bradley’s office.

  ‘I thought you were meant to be covering a cricket match out in the sticks; get in here.’

  Bradley looked up briefly, disdainfully, as Graham entered and waved at the chair opposite.

  ‘Sam!’ Bradley shouted. A Somali runner promptly arrived and Bradley took a note from his wallet. ‘Buy a box of chocolates and deliver it to Jenny. I want a receipt and I want the change.’

  ‘Yes Mr Bradley sir, where will she be?’

  ‘You know where she’ll be, she’ll be at her home where she always goes. Tell her she still has a job and to get back here.’

  Sam left and Bradley’s attention turned to Graham. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘The car broke down.’

  ‘Then why aren’t you with it?’

  ‘I got picked up by Colonel Harding.’

  ‘The Colonel gave you a lift? What for?’

  ‘Because he saw a fellow traveller in trouble. Why shouldn’t he give me a lift?’

  ‘Harding doesn’t operate a taxi service.’

  Bradley took out a handkerchief and wiped the back of his neck with it then folded it, put it back in his pocket and looked at Graham suspiciously. ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘He took me to the Racing Club … against my will,’ replied Graham a little nervously.

  ‘You’ve been banned from the place haven’t you?’

  ‘That didn’t seem to bother him.’

  ‘So what did he want?’

  ‘He wants me to spend more time with James Obuya, my brother-in-law.’

  Bradley tapped a finger on the desk, sucked through his teeth then looked at Graham. ‘He’s the trade unionist who’s causing all the trouble isn’t he?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, ‘good idea, you can write an article about him. Get an interview.’

  ‘I’m a sports correspondent.’

  ‘You’re whatever I tell you. Congratulations, from this day on you’re also covering local politics.’

  ‘But I don’t know the first thing about it.’

  ‘Then learn on the job, it’s how you seem to have done everything else in your life. Now get out, and if I were you I wouldn’t mention going off for a drink with the Colonel to Amani.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because she’s black, you idiot and the blacks hate him. If she thinks he’s your new best friend, she’ll be after you with a panga … and phone one of your pals to find out the score of that damned cricket match. Write it up before you leave, five hundred words minimum.’

  ‘But I didn’t watch it, I’ve no idea how it went.’

  ‘I told you, phone someone who did watch it and use your imagination. Well, why are you still sitting there? Get on with it.’

  Graham left the offices two hours later, and by the time he got back home the light was quickly disappearing. He lived in a terrace of houses, built in a moment of British optimism for the enduring order of things. Originally, it was meant to house the Asian middle classes, but the war had interfered with the planned course of the Empire and now, as well as the Asians, many of the occupants were white immigrants. They were largely ex-servicemen and their families who after the war or conscription, didn’t want to return to Britain, but couldn’t afford the genteel life style traditionally owned by the incumbent Whites.

  ‘Hello Mr Theakston.’ A skinny, middle aged Indian was sitting on the steps leading to the entrance next to his, using the last of the evening light to smoke a cigarette. He offered Graham one.

  ‘Thanks mate.’

  He was fairly typical of the Indians who lived in the neighbourhood. Third or fourth generation, their forebears having been brought in by the British to build the railways and man the shops.

  ‘How are things then Sef?’

  ‘Things are very well, thank you Mr Theakston.’

  ‘Still keeping the wheels of the railway rolling?’

  ‘Oh no, for the last year I have stopped being a railwayman, cut backs.’

  ‘Oh, sorry mate, I didn’t realise.’

  ‘There was not so much future in the railways; anyway, now I am a tailor. I have borrowed some money from my father-in-law and now have a fine Singer sewing machine. You want me to make you a pair of trousers, maybe a shirt?’

  ‘Not just now, no money.’

  ‘One day I will start a shop and call it Harrods, in homage to your fine shop in England.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be honoured. You’ve got relations in England haven’t you?’

  ‘I have cousins in Leicester. They are also tailors like me.’

  ‘Shame about the railway. I like railways, Cairo to the Cape watching Africa roll past you.’

  ‘Ah yes, that was always the dream. It’s why my Grandfather came to this country, but it will never happen. First, you give India away and soon Africa will fragment into independent countries, so all squabbling and no trans-African railway.’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased about India.’

  ‘Of course I am pleased that now my people run their own country, but look at the idiots they’ve put in charge. Look at the mess they’ve made, thirteen years and they’re still fighting amongst themselves. Look at Pakistan.’

  ‘That’s hardly India’s fault.’

  ‘It’s what Jinnah wanted. They should have listened to Ghandi and made it all one country, none of this bloody East and West Pakistan nonsense, what foolery is that?’

  ‘Nigeria has just got its independence and it’s going to happen here soon, whatever the Majors at the Racing Club might think.’

  ‘That will be a sad day and I think also a bad one for me and my family.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘These black fellows, they have no love of Asians.’

  ‘Or Whites for that matter.’

  ‘But you have your Army to protect you. Who is going to protect us? No one.’

  ‘Don’t worry mate, if it gets nasty I’m sure the Governor won’t leave you to the dogs.’

  Sef put out the stub of his cigarette, carefully placed it in a matchbox then stood up. ’Perhaps you are right, I hope you are right, but deep down I am not so certain. Now I must go, my wife will have the tea ready in a few minutes. I hope you have a pleasant evening Mr Theakston.’

  ‘And you, mate.’

  Graham took a final drag of his cigarette, tossed the stub into the drainage ditch that ran alongside the road and went inside, thinking how wonderful it would be to have a wife getting the tea ready at six every evening. When he was a kid his mother had, but Amani often worked evenings at the hotel; anyway, cooking was something done by a cook. She was a business woman and cooked infrequently, reluctantly and badly. He’d never had the courage to point out that strictly speaking she was just a hotel receptionist. He went to the kitchen and looked in an old biscuit tin for some spare change. Nothing, so he went into the bedroom and found a few coins in his spare trousers. He briefly thought about leaving a note, but Amani would know where he�
�d be so he didn’t bother and headed off to the Stardust for conversation and a beer.

  It wasn’t far, a five-minute walk down to the end of the road then uphill for ten minutes, away from the centre of town. The occasional car went past and dogs barked in the distance, but apart from that the evening was still and warm; the smell of flowers alternating with the smell of sewers. He passed by the well-kept gardens of the middle managers in the railway and in other businesses; the white middle-class who lived along the hill. Wealthy enough to afford three servants in the garden and three in the house, leaving nothing for their bored wives to do other than socialise with each other. Their children’s needs catered for by ayahs, their cooking by the cook and their gardening by the gardeners. Back in Blighty they’d have done it all themselves, with only the assistance of a few mechanical devices and a daily. It wasn’t surprising that the sales of bottles of gin and crates of tonic water were so strong.

  Ten minutes later he arrived at the Stardust’s car park, a dusty dirt patch surrounded by a dusty wall and lined with dusty tropical trees and shrubs. A few cars were parked under the trees and a couple of spear-wielding askaris hung around. Apart from guiding the cars to a suitable space and accepting the occasional tip they had little to do. Club legend had it that in its early years an askari had speared a leopard, but it was just legend. The club was the last place any self-respecting leopard was likely to be found. It was one of the older buildings in the area. Originally built at the turn of the century. It had been the social hub of the white community; somewhere big game hunters and their clients could meet, somewhere farmers from up country could find a real bath and a bed with springs when they came into town for supplies. Between the wars though, a new community had taken it over, socialites and wealthy landowners. On the back of their wealth, it hit its heyday until a couple of years before the Second World War when they abandoned it for the new Racing Club and its race track. Now, in it’s shabby old age, the Stardust catered mostly for the also-rans in local society, a group which Graham comfortably fell into. Even if they could afford to go elsewhere, other journalists still went there, just to be with their own kind.

  ‘Beer Graham?’

  ‘Bless you mate.’

  Graham arrived at the bar and sat on a free stool, taking the proffered beer from the barman. The provider, Jonathan, was a foreign correspondent for the Daily Telegraph, occasional columnist for Picture Post and, on the odd occasion it showed any interest in East Africa, the New York Times. He was, as an old Africa hand should be, rarely seen without a well-worn linen jacket and light cotton shirt. He’d been knocking about the continent since the twenties, gaining insight and experience of the way that the British and others ran their colonies. Consequently he was now well-versed in the best ways to produce a story without putting yourself at any risk or being too far away from a bar, though he had gained a lot of grey hair and two failed marriages in the process.

  ‘Bradley still giving you a bad time, dear boy? You should work for a real paper.’ He opened his cigarette case and offered it to Graham.

  ‘Thanks mate,’ Graham said, taking one and lighting it with the proffered flame. ‘I did once, back home. It was bloody awful; a whole winter with running eyes, running nose and a sodden, virus-ridden handkerchief.’

  ‘Then why not look for a couple of strings? With the slow disintegration of the European Empires, there’s plenty of interest in Africa.’

  ‘And you think Bradley would let me go moonlighting on the side? Not a hope in hell.’

  ‘So leave him.’

  ‘When I’m ready, when I’m ready.’

  ‘Should you ever need a reference …’

  ‘Thanks mate.’

  ‘He arrived in the late twenties you know, not that long after I did.’

  ‘I thought he was born and bred.’

  ‘Not at all, he arrived all but penniless, but had the good sense to marry the owner’s daughter.’

  ‘And was given the Standard as a wedding present?’

  ‘Something along those lines. He was quite a decent fellow at first, until the pressure got to him.’

  ‘Marriage or newspaper?’

  ‘A little of both. I first met him in South Africa in twenty-five, during Edward the Eighth’s grand tour of his West African dominions. He was only twenty one or two, barely out of university.

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘I used to be based in Sierra Leone, covering West Africa. The royal tour started off in the Gambia and ended up in South Africa.’

  ‘Exciting stuff.’

  ‘Kept me busy for a couple of months but, believe me, you get fed up with all the tribal dancing. Apart from glad-handing the great and good, there was little of any interest to report on. Bradley went back to London and I thought nothing of it, until he turned up three years later when Edward decided he needed to see what his empire in East Africa looked like. By that time I was based here.’

  ‘So you encouraged him to stay?’

  ‘Not at all, exactly the opposite, but he took a shine to the place and hung on for a couple of weeks’ holiday, met Cecilia and didn’t go back.’

  ‘I wasn’t even aware that Bradley was married, he’s never mentioned having a wife.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he will, she left him just before the war and ran off to Cape Town with a hotelier. He managed to hang on to the newspaper though.’

  ‘Not surprising he’s bitter then.’

  ‘He should never have married her, She was one of the fashionable set and I think she found him exotic, travelling with the King and all that; quite a good looking chap in those days as well. Still, much water under the bridge. Have you joined our sweepstake yet?’

  ‘Sweepstake?’

  ‘For the next country to gain independence.’

  ‘Who are you backing?’

  ‘I’m going with Sierra Leone, for old times sake. Paul reckons it will be Algeria.’

  ‘I’d have thought he’d be backing this place, it’s his country, or will be once they’ve kicked us out. The French have been fighting in Algeria for six or seven years, I don’t think they’re going to roll over, they’ve invested too much in it.’

  ‘I feel you are mistaken, Graham.’

  He turned as a hand landed on his shoulder. ‘Evening Paul.’

  Paul, a young, smartly dressed African whose dress sense seemed to owe more to Henley than his forebears, held up three fingers for the barman who lined up three bottles in response.

  ‘Cheers mate,’ Graham said, topping up his beer.

  ‘De Gaulle would love to find a way out.’ Paul continued. ‘It’s a bloody mess there, literally. Rebel groups fighting rebel groups, French fighting French, French fighting rebel groups … awfully confusing.’

  ‘And there I was thinking he was going to keep it forever French,’ Graham said.

  ‘That may have been what he said, but then he’s a politician and all politicians lie as a matter of course, more so if they’re French. I would be prepared to wager that he’ll do a deal behind everyone’s back then announce independence as de facto before anyone can complain. I think he’ll do it soon.’

  ‘Forever the cynic, so who’s taken this dump?’ Graham asked.

  ‘Are you referring to the home I love?’ Paul asked.

  ‘Home? You’ve spent most of your life in England.’

  ‘Studying hard to become a good Englishman.’

  ‘Didn’t work mate, they forgot to soak you in bleach. So who’s got the fatherland?’

  ‘No one as yet,’ Jonathan replied, ‘but for twenty shillings the ticket could be yours.’

  ‘Sorry, I need to eat and drink, in reverse order.’

  ‘I’d have thought it would be a fair bet,’ Paul said. ‘It can’t be that far down the list, half the continent has already escaped the heavy hand of European subordination.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ Jonathan replied. ‘Have you seen the far end of the airport recently? They’ve
brought in a squadron of Hawker Hunters and there are more troops here than they’re letting on. Westminster is keen to hold to a few of its dominions; besides, there’s no organised opposition yet.’

  ‘Are you forgetting Henry Ngai?’ Paul asked.

  ‘The Army of Christ’s Inquisition?’ Jonathan said. ‘Oh I don’t think so. I find it difficult to take him seriously. The last time they attacked anyone, the score was twenty nil. He sent them into bat with spears against an armed police station; crucifixes around their necks to keep away the bullets, and the promise of a first class ticket to heaven if the crucifixes didn’t work. No one’s going to follow him with that sort of life expectancy.’

  ‘On the contrary, Jonathan, he’ll learn and he’ll gather more support.’ Paul replied. ‘There are more than Hawker Hunters parked in the airport, you must have noticed the surveillance aircraft? At least two modified Canberras, light aircraft going in and out like bees from a hive. They’re concerned.’

  ‘Surveillance planes aren’t much use if Ngai’s tucked himself away under some trees,’ Graham said.

  ‘He’s not alone and you can’t hide large groups of people. They’ll always leave tracks in the dirt and they’ll always have to be near water. Besides, there aren’t that many trees in the North where he’s got his power base,’ Paul said.

  ‘Power base? A motley group of dysfunctional natives with crosses around their necks for protection and Stone Age technology for arms,’ Jonathan said.

  ‘I’d thank you not to take the name of my fellow countrymen in vain, apart from which you’re incorrect. They might not be as worldly and educated as their white overlords, but they’re not stupid. They’ll learn from their errors, and given enough time, they’ll get themselves organised.’

  ‘If that’s the case we’ll have a problem,’ Graham said.

  ‘What do you mean “we’ll have a problem,” bwana?’ Paul replied.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re planning to join the revolution?’

  ‘Certainly not, I’ve got far too much sense. I shall stand on the sidelines and closely monitor the situation; then, when the time is right, I shall jump in the required direction.’

  ‘I blame the missionaries,’ Graham said. ‘At least when I was a kid, they only tried to persuade us that God made everything bright and beautiful. As far as I remember there was nothing about making you bulletproof.’