My Driver

by Maggie Gee

  As soon as most of the passengers have poured out of the van, half a dozen street sellers pile in in their place. They are mostly children, but there’s one sullen young man. Vanessa is the whole focus of their selling. ‘Muzungu, muzungu!’ they shrill at her. ‘Soda, sweets, cigarette-y!’ She tries fruitlessly to avoid their eyes, which are pleading, but she feels that the atmosphere in the taxi, with its remaining four or five passengers, is turning against her, as she sits mute and charmless, clutching her bag with its pathetic remaining shillings, failing to perform her rich woman’s duty. No, she must buy something. Tentatively, she buys one boiled sweet, a hideous bright raspberry, and after a fearful scrabble in her pocket, hands over her last hundred-shilling coin, but the move is rewarded with a disapproving murmur, and she can’t face the sweet, which she drops in her bag. Now the sullen youth presses too close to her, waving his packs of roasted nuts right under her nose. ‘G-nuts packed by Christian Family’, it says. This time the Christian element is less welcome. He is saying something rude in his own language, and someone laughs harshly at the back of the taxi, and her legs are sticking to the plastic of the seat.

  Vanessa cannot bear it. She is getting out. It feels as if someone follows her. Despite the stunning heat, she miserably buttons her jacket, which makes her feel safer, and clutches her bag underneath her armpit. Although she has no useful money, she is horribly aware of both her passport and a hundred-dollar traveller’s cheque, at the bottom of the bag where she has concealed them, surely burning their way into public view. She walks as fast as she can manage (her left foot hurts every time she puts it down, but she struggles not to limp, not to look disabled) through a maze of hot metal and stinking petrol and drivers shouting their destination and ragged young men with hostile eyes. By pure blind luck she finds her way out, she is back on a crowded street again, and she knows she must make her way uphill, if she goes uphill she can’t go too wrong, for the embassies, the Sheraton, the diplomats’ houses, the rich, safe areas are all uphill –

  And then she feels a thrust or pull at her bag, and at the same time, a man starts shouting.

  The whole thing happened right before Charles’s eyes. He came out of the bakery with his bag of cakes and almost walks into a white woman, quite pretty, he thinks, if rather small and shrivelled, with something almost familiar about her, but then, all bazungu look a little alike – and then he sees a hand dart lizard-like into her bag, a thin, young black arm against the pale leather. ‘Ey!’ Charles shouts. ‘Omuube! A thief! We have a thief!’ As he tries to clutch the arm, which is surprisingly strong, whipping about in his grasp like an angry snake, a crowd clusters round them, shouting, indignant, and a green-clad matron grabs the thief’s shoulders and starts calling harshly for the police, but the man (who is really just a scared-looking boy) wrenches himself clear, arms pummelling, and butts his way out of the yelling kerfuffle, trampling on feet and winding people, then runs zigzagging away towards Owino, leaving the air behind him thick with insults. The crowd is inflamed with real anger, for in a poor country, theft’s as bad as murder.

  ‘God put the thief in my path,’ Charles tells Mary, ‘and of course, I saved the woman, and chased the man away.’ They are eating the cakes, in the sunset evening, which is when their front-room looks most attractive, with a pot of sweet, spicy, African tea. Mary’s cat, who is expected to fend for herself, but loves to salvage cake from the floor, watches each mouthful, transfixed and gleaming. (Her belly is swelling. Are there kittens inside? Charles does not voice this thought to Mary. She does not like stress, after a busy day.) ‘Is your tea fine, my love? I made sure to ask Mercy to have it ready when you came home.’

  ‘It is delicious, Charles. You have been a hero. Tonight I will be very kind to you.’ Charles neglects his plate so he can kiss Mary’s cheek, and she pushes the cat away with her foot. Her kabite had resisted the coming of the pet, but Mary explained she cannot tolerate mice, and now he accepts it as part of his new family.

  ‘Should I have stayed longer with the muzungu? She seemed to know nothing. She was from UK.’

  ‘I won’t encourage you to stay with any woman.’ Mary looks teasing, and is patting her hair, and she has removed her uniform jacket so Charles can feast his eyes upon her curves.

  ‘So you also are a little jealous, dear,’ says Charles, and they swallow their sweet tea, and smile at each other, and enjoy the calm silky sound of blades snipping as Mercy starts cutting down Trevor’s new curtains.

  That evening, Vanessa sits in the Sheraton Piano Bar, drinking a Bell beer, which is wonderfully refreshing, her bandaged feet comfortably stretched out before her, sending an email to her son. ‘Today your mother has had marvellous adventures and proved the essential goodness of Uganda’s population! I had a stand-off with an African stork, about seven foot tall, which almost attacked me! Then I was caught in torrential rain! Later I was exploring a remote bit of Kampala, not a single white face for miles, of course, and a young man tried to snatch my bag, but a VERY smart Ugandan businessman in a pin-striped suit (rather handsome!), who I suppose must have been looking at me, saw what he was up to and shouted at the thief, and then a wonderful old Ugandan woman in green traditional dress (who I had befriended on the local bus) positively flung herself upon him, and the thief had to run for dear life! And afterwards the old woman insisted on walking me back to a safer part of town. I ask you, would that have happened in London?

  ‘Now, sweets, how are you, and Zakira, and Abdul Trevor? Kissy kissy kissy to my little man! Don’t forget, you must not SMOTHER him! Hugs and kisses from Mumsy/Gran.’

  She presses ‘Send’, but nothing happens. She presses ‘Save Draft’, and gets the ‘clock’ icon. All round her, other huddled laptop owners are also jabbing buttons in frustration. The network’s down; why has this happened to them? They have a right to good communications. It’s the twenty-first century. The whole world is connected. Except it isn’t. They stare blankly at their screens, which cast an ageing, ghastly blue light on their faces. Ghosts of human beings, drained by machines. Then the other lights go out, and the bar’s plunged in darkness; the pianist, who has been giving his all, with excessive use of tremolo and loud pedal, skids to a halt with an arpeggio that horribly misses its final note; but the generator kicks in, the light blinks and steadies, and there’s a soft explosion of shared relief and laughter before they return to the lonely cyberhighways where Vanessa’s email has been lost for ever.

  And out in the suburbs, where there are no generators, and everyone’s used to daily power-cuts, Mary and Charles, in total darkness except for brief swoops of homing car headlights through the window, decide they will not light a candle because it is so nice to go to bed. So very nice to be together, close to each other in the warm kind night.

  PART 2

  Outsiders

  9

  In Mongbwalu, in eastern DRC, to the west of Uganda, the hills are beautiful and fertile. But thousands of men cannot see the hills. Their heads are bent over mud and sand, sieving and sieving for flakes of gold, rare and tiny on the tip of a finger, there, there, and a few stop and stare as one happy man holds his up to the light: something at last, after two days of sieving. Ten dollars’ worth of gold to feed his family. You pay a dollar a day to sieve for gold, but in other mines, there is forced labour. In Bunia, close to the Ugandan border, a day away by car, three days on foot, there are hundreds of tiny shops buying gold: a calculator, a pair of scales. When a shopkeeper’s collected a few thousand dollars’ worth, he flies to Uganda and sells what he has to an Asian working in a suburb of Kampala, who swiftly spins the dish of gold flakes into a bar of gold the same size as the finger which the first man held up to the sun, to marvel at the bright fleck which will support his family. The gold will be exported by Ugandan firms to rich countries: Switzerland, South Africa. Some will make fairy-tale wedding rings for happy couples: some will make watches (for time is money, unless you are a miner sieving the mud): some will make ingots, to wit
hstand inflation, for gold is safe when economies wobble. President Museveni has honoured these firms in his Presidential Export Awards. Uganda must not be a poor country! Uganda must move into the future.

  But Mongbwalu has been fought over half-a-dozen times in the twenty-first century: ethnic Hema against ethnic Lendu, the RCD and the MLC against the UPC, Rwanda against Uganda against Kinshasa, the FNI against the UPC, in a constantly shifting pattern of alliance: but somehow, the gold always gets out. Throats have been cut, chests torn open, intestines dragged forth, Achilles tendons severed, babies macheted and thrown in latrines, but somehow, the miracle of gold keeps on coming, the miracle of money spreading round the globe, at each leg of the journey growing cleaner, brighter, until it is so dazzling that everyone falls silent.

  Even nearer Uganda, there are more soldiers. This one is sick, now. Very sick. When the prisoner escaped from his prodding and stumbled forward three or four paces till he fell and died where the others’ knives pierced him, they realised he was no use any more. They left him in the shade, but the sun has moved. He cannot see: the light is too bright. He is shivering, but his brain is boiling. A family of colobus monkeys look down at him from a hole in the canopy, and whisper to each other, agitated, anxious, black and white paws nervously flickering, flowing white tails waving like feathers, nostrils quivering, then bound away from the gag-making smells of minerals and men, gold and oil, blood and faeces.

  Waking in Kampala. White, so white. The duvets and pillows are snowy, dazzling. It stretches away from her half-open eyes, a long slope of sunlight, young and hopeful. She does not remember, and then she remembers. She is Vanessa. She is in Uganda. The bed is wide: such a wide, white bed. The bed is luxurious. The bed is empty.

  She is in the last third of her life on earth; this Vanessa only rarely remembers, and never in the morning, with the sun so bright. When she first wakes up, she is beautiful. Her son has grown up, and anything could happen.

  Today the other writers are due to arrive. Some of them, she admits, rather minor, but one or two of them quite worthy companions. She has a passing interest in Geoffrey Truman, who she has sometimes glimpsed in the distance at parties, and of course, his craggy features are quite well-known. He has sold a few more novels than Vanessa, true, but she surely has a certain cachet that comes from not compromising her art. He will be aware of her reputation; perhaps he has noticed her reviews. Yes, he is slightly younger than her, but luckily, she thinks, she looks young for her age.

  She springs out of bed, slightly twisting her knee, and begins her ‘Salute to the Sun’ from yoga. As she comes up again from her deep bow, she catches her reflection in the sun-dazzled mirror, her neck very white, her blonde hair shaken out in a fluffy puffball by gravity, her athletic shoulders, which are still youthful, though possibly the very young are less bony (the mirror cuts her off at hip level, so she doesn’t have to focus on her legs, which she knows are the teeniest bit skinny and bandy).

  Naked, her lower half’s a stripped wish-bone.

  The thought pokes uncomfortably into her mind, but just as quickly, she shoves it away.

  Bones, she tells herself, are elegant things. People always tell her she has good bones.

  The other writers from the UK are less well-known. Deirdre Mullins, who is frankly second rate. Probably invited at the last minute. A northern man said to be a gifted poet. Graham Somebody. Quite literary. The name escapes her. An exiled Chinese playwright she’s never heard of. Then there are the black ones. Fair enough, this is Africa. Including a ‘rap poet’ called Banga. But can you, really, call rap writing?

  Quite soon Vanessa, by now dressed and showered, a little dizzy from her anti-malarials or possibly from quarts of strong coffee at breakfast, is standing in the lobby feeling slightly apprehensive as she watches the other writers check in. Of course some of them have come on the same plane, but they seem to know each other well already. It suddenly reminds her of starting school; the others paired off, herself still lonely.

  At the low table nearest the reception desk, a dreadlocked figure is holding court, sprawled along the dark leather sofa with his luggage, little gold glasses, a rainbow-knit scarf tied loosely round his neck. There’s an open bottle of whisky in front of him. He’s laughing loudly and talking fast. Vanessa can’t help feeling intimidated, but she reminds herself she too is a writer, she is here by invitation of the British Council, she is probably the senior writer here –

  Not that she is older. Just – senior.

  Right, she will go and introduce herself to Banga, who is talking to a quite straight-looking man, fair-haired and fattish, in a dark suit and tie. Perhaps his manager?

  A few seconds later, she is mystifying the young man with the whisky (a musicologist from Kenya, Dr Alex Saitoti, who will be giving a paper on ‘Poetics and Jazz: from the Inside Out’) by hailing him as ‘Banga!’, while seizing his hand. ‘I’m Vanessa Henman, your fellow writer.’ He doesn’t look as pleased as she expected him to. It’s almost as if he is shaking her off, but she says, even louder, ‘VANESSA’, with her biggest smile, baring her new white teeth (not as new as they were: bought with her earnings from The Long Lean Line).

  ‘Vanessa? You must be Vanessa Henman. I’m Peter Pargeter. So good to meet you.’ The man in the suit next to the dreadlocked African swiftly takes charge of her unwanted hand, and the situation, with the easy grace that tells her, yes – ‘I’m from the British Council. Director, Uganda. Welcome to Kampala.’ His hand is soft, and furred with blond hair.

  Vanessa warms to Peter Pargeter’s deferential manner, and turns her attention away from Banga, who’s obviously ignoring her because she is white, and pretending he hasn’t even heard of her. Peter Pargeter must know her work fairly well, so she starts straightaway to discuss the coming evening, when there’s a Welcome Dinner and Ceremony.

  ‘I’m wondering how long a reading you’d like this evening. I mean I’d like to keep something in reserve, as it were, for my event on Thursday, if that’s OK.’

  ‘This evening?’ he says, looking puzzled. ‘This evening? Oh, I see. No, that’s really very very kind, but this evening we’re having a reading from Veronique Tadjo. Wonderful writer as I’m sure you know. From Cote d’Ivoire. A star.’

  ‘Ah,’ says Vanessa. ‘Yes. I see.’

  (I am a star, she thinks. I could shine.)

  ‘In fact she’s over there,’ says Peter Pargeter. ‘Just arrived. I must go and have a word. If you like, I’ll introduce you –’ He gestures vaguely at a striking woman with fine features and tumbled black curls, standing at the Reception Desk at the hub of a laughing, lively crowd.

  ‘No need,’ Vanessa breaks in, scenting advantage. ‘She’s with Bernardine Evaristo, who I know very well. Bernardine!’ she cries, giving Banga up and racing Peter across to the group, where she rises on tiptoe like a ballerina to kiss her slightly startled black acquaintance. ‘How lovely to see you, Bernardine!’

  ‘I know I know you, but I’ve forgotten –’

  ‘Vanessa Henman,’ says Vanessa, mortified. ‘Vanessa! We read together in Ipswich.’

  ‘Oh yes ...’ But Bernardine still looks vague, or jet-lagged. Still she’s smiling at Vanessa pleasantly enough. ‘Do you know Veronique Tadjo? Veronique, this is – Valerie Henman.’

  ‘Vanessa,’ Vanessa corrects her, sharply, but she beams on Veronique, and pumps her hand. ‘I am really looking forward to your reading.’

  ‘Do you work for the Council?’ Veronique enthuses. ‘Thank you so much for inviting me.’ Before Vanessa can disabuse her, Peter Pargeter has arrived, and embraces Veronique, who turns the full force of her attention on him. Vanessa is left with Bernardine.

  ‘So how are you?’ she asks her, a little less warmly.

  ‘Oh well, well. Got two new books coming out. How about you, what are you working on? You’re a poet, aren’t you?’

  ‘Novelist,’ says Vanessa, miserable. She dreads being asked what she’s working on, for she’s been st
uck on a novel for over a decade, and though it is a very major piece of work (she is sure it will be fairly major), other people’s publication rates are so excessive, they are churning out stuff almost every year, probably because their standards are lower. Which makes her look lazy, or ... less creative. Yet no-one could be more creative than she.

  She changes the subject with a sudden lurch. ‘I love Kampala,’ she tells Bernardine. ‘If you like, we could go for a walk, this afternoon. I could give you a little guided tour.’ At least she can call on her knowledge of Uganda.

  ‘Actually Veronique’s got friends in Kampala,’ Bernardine says. ‘The two of us are meeting them for lunch, sorry. Maybe we could have a walk another day.’ Perhaps she sees the wistfulness in Vanessa’s face, for she adds, at the last moment, ‘You could join us.’

  And the hours that follow are pure delight. What fun it is, sitting out in the hot sun on the green lawn outside Ekitoobero, all the writers together – all the African ones, who were the ones that really counted, and her, a veritable honorary Ugandan – long Bell beers bright as salt in their hands, blue sky and big white clouds overhead, toucans clattering in the eucalyptus, white jackets of the waiters echoing the clouds. Vanessa one of the writers! Accepted! Alongside Veronique Tadjo and Taban Lo Liyong, two of the best-known writers on the continent! It is all as she had imagined it would be. They drink to each other: they laugh: they feel free. They toast all artists, outsiders, exiles – Joyce, Beckett, Wole Soyinka, Ngugi W’a Thiongo, Bessie Head – despised by governments, but loved by each other, ‘and by the people’, someone adds, ‘so in that sense, we aren’t marginal.’ Though Taban has reservations about Ngugi, and someone else can’t stand Ulysses, in that circle of sunlight on chinking glasses, it all becomes worth it to Vanessa, her marginal life as a literary novelist, her writer’s block, her commercial struggle. It’s glorious, in with the other outsiders.