He had got halfway to Harrods before he realised that he had forgotten to check the fax machine, which had gone off the night before, when he was in his bath. He turned on his tracks, and let himself in to the office, and went upstairs, puffing slightly with the exertion. Not for the first time, he vowed to cut down on “bitings”. As he expected, a fax awaited him.
“Bloody hell!”
He read it a second time.
It had come from London, sent in the name of Rupert Fanshawe, a senior partner in the firm of Fanshawe and Fanshawe.
Furniver’s heart sank.
He was no lawyer, as he was discovering. And he was beginning to realise the price of the folly into which he had led his dear friend. Charity was sure to lose, and lose heavily. Costs would certainly be awarded against her, and they would be punitive. It stuck in his gullet, but he and Charity would have to throw themselves on Fanshawe’s mercy, and the sooner the better.
He read the fax yet again, but there was no mistaking the message.
There was no time to lose. He stuffed the sheet of paper in his briefcase, and set off for Harrods.
On the way he rehearsed what he would say:
‘It is all very unfair,’ he would tell her, ‘but it is the law. The lawyers acting on behalf of the London duka are right. You can’t blame them. Harrods in London was the first to use the name, and that gave it the undeniable rights to use it. Could the bar not be called Charity’s International Bar (and Nightspot), for example? Surely this made sense?’
Furniver was sitting in his favourite chair, moving his itching bottom from side to side – rather like Lucy’s dog Shango sliding along the living room carpet, attempting to dislodge the worms with which the creature was frequently afflicted – when Charity came round the corner.
The morning rush was over, and she could take a breather before getting ready for lunch.
“Have you seen my rats?” she asked. “They have missed breakfast.”
But she did not press the matter. While it was unusual for the boys to miss breakfast, it was not unprecedented.
“I have been watching you, Furniver. Why are you talking to yourself? And you seem to be very uncomfortable in that chair . . .”
He opened his briefcase, and pulled out the file on Harrods, gave an apologetic cough, and handed over the fax that had arrived the night before. He decided to hold back on his carefully rehearsed case for capitulation. The fax would surely speak for itself.
But as Charity read the single sheet of paper, her eyes narrowed and she sucked in her breath, danger signals that he had come to recognise.
“Am flying out on the next available BA flight. I will phone on arrival to arrange a meeting in your chambers. Rupert Fanshawe.”
Any thoughts that Charity may have had of compromise were knocked on the head.
“Furniver!” she barked. “I have decided. I have been reading and reading that registered letter. Now this fax. It is beastly rude! They have no right to do this. I will not change the name. I will not. Why should these London people care? Everyone in Kireba knows it is the name of my father. And not even white man’s law can change that. It is a fact. I am just tired, tired and sick of all this trouble.”
Charity paused for breath.
“Let this man come. Tell his cheeky London people that they must stop bothering me with these stupid letters. Tell them that . . .”
Charity slapped a fly that had dared to settle on one of her scrubbed wooden tables.
“We will tell him that Charity Tangwenya Mupanga, who runs Harrods International Bar (and Nightspot), says they must stop this nonsense. Or else . . .”
She looked thoughtfully across the vista of corrugated iron and plastic sheeting that stretched before her, and considered the worst she could wish on them.
Furniver waited, apprehensive and fascinated, his own firm intention melting.
“Or else when we go to court, here, in Kuwisha, we ourselves will ask for that thing called damages. We will ask for damage money because my father’s name and my name has been damaged.”
She chuckled fiercely.
“And you tell them that the widow of Bishop David Mupanga, bishop of the battered and shepherd of the shattered, a man whom your people in England respected so highly they made him a member of the Leeds Working Club, tell them that I, Charity Mupanga, the first daughter of Mwai Tangwenya, I am prepared to pay the dogs who in this country call themselves judges, to be sure of justice. Tell them in your special language, but tell them, Furniver, tell them.”
Charity wasn’t finished.
“These stupid threats by this lawyer are duck’s water off my back. We will fight them, and my dear father will be with us.”
Charity took Furniver’s stunned silence for assent and support.
She spotted a customer trying to slip away without paying, and shouted after him.
“One more time and you don’t come again!”
Charity popped into the kitchen, poured herself a mug of tea, and sipped as she looked over Furniver’s shoulder while he unhappily drafted their reply. It would be faxed to Kuwisha’s Intercontinental Hotel, where Rupert Fanshawe said he would be staying.
“My client still hopes that the matter can be settled amicably,” it ended. “As evidence of her goodwill, she has asked me to invite your representative to join us on his arrival in a meal of roast chicken necks and Tusker, a locally made beer of exceptional quality, at Harrods International Bar (and Nightspot), Uhuru Avenue.
I await confirmation of your acceptance.
Yours faithfully,
Edward Furniver”
“Good, very good,” she said, taking him by the elbow. “I knew you would agree. We will explain everything to the man from London when he comes. Meanwhile, we are correct to invite him to eat with us, even though he is a lawyer. That is a proper thing to do. We will eat here, at Harrods. He will be ashamed when he sees that we are decent Christian people, who work hard.”
A thought occurred to her.
“Can you get roast chicken necks in London?”
Damn and double damn! Furniver was about to explode, but held himself in check. Chicken necks! How could Charity bother about chicken necks at a time like this? Nevertheless, he gave her question careful consideration. Washington DC probably, New York possibly, but London? He shook his head.
“Unlikely.”
Charity’s low opinion of the great metropolis was confirmed. It was clear that the prospect of offering hospitality had cheered her somewhat, and Furniver did not have the heart to keep to his plan.
“I will make a special dish of chicken necks for this man from London,” said Charity, determined that whatever faults Kuwisha might have, its reputation for generous treatment of strangers would be sustained.
“Then we will talk business.”
Titus Ntoto and Cyrus Rutere, two stick figures in the lush central Kuwisha landscape of purple bougainvillea, red-flowered flame trees and green lawns, made their way along the winding road that climbed the hill on which State House stood.
Built by the British administrator in 1923 and converted into the country’s centre of government at independence in 1971, from afar it gleamed like a wedding cake. The nearer one got to it, however, the less impressive it was. The ornate iron entrance gates were rusting, the drive to State House was potholed, and the sentry boxes needed coats of fresh paint. Scraggy peacocks stalked the overgrown lawns, their screeching the bane of the lives of radio reporters trying to record President Nduka’s answers to questions at the many press conferences held in the State House gardens.
His colonial predecessor had overseen the construction of a nine-hole golf course, and the president, who shared his love of the game, had ensured that in contrast to the unkempt lawns, the fairways and the greens were impeccable. The seventh hole was a few feet from the road, and the boys made a brief diversion, so they could experience the pleasure of feeling their bare feet on the soft, recently watered grass. A greenkeeper
working on the fairway of the adjoining hole soon spotted them, and waved his fist, and they returned to the road.
Security was tight, and consisted of a series of barriers, the first manned at the main entrance by shabbily turned out soldiers. But they seemed less than vigilant, for much of their time was taken up in negotiations with vendors, mainly ladies, whose wares included chickens, bowls of groundnuts, plastic packets of tomatoes and plump mangoes, and bottles of cooking oil, carried on their broad and long-suffering backs, along with their babies.
Cyrus was getting nervous.
“Are you sure it will work, Ntoto?” he asked, resisting the temptation to nibble one of the roasted corncobs. Privately, Ntoto was far from certain.
“You are invisible, Ntoto,” Cecil had said. “No-one will notice you, or inspect your bag – provided you behave as you are expected to behave.”
“What muti (medicine) did Mr Cecil give you?” Cyrus demanded.
“He didn’t give me anything. I have said to you already – he just told me two stories. One about Mboya, the other about a wedding in Johannesburg,” Ntoto replied.
Cyrus looked sceptical.
“Surely, he must have given you some muti?”
Ntoto looked at him scornfully.
“We don’t need special muti,” he said.
“We have our own muti – our brains. Let me tell you the stories, Rutere . . . But first I will tell you everything that happened in Pearson’s office . . .
Cyrus listened, asking the occasional question. When Ntoto had reached the end of his account of the time in Pearson’s office, he looked sceptical. It seemed he was about to comment, but decided against it.
He tugged at Ntoto’s sleeve.
“Now tell me the stories,” he demanded.
“First,” said Ntoto, “I will tell you the story about Mr Tom Mboya. Pearson says it is a true story, and Mr Mboya tells it himself, in his book about his life,” said Ntoto, as they strode on to State House, which like most strategic installations was located close to the barracks of the presidential guard.
“This is what Pearson told me, exact: One day in 1951, before he became a member of parliament, long before he was killed, at a time when his country was run by the British, Mr Mboya was working by himself, in the government Health Department. He was testing milk.”
Rutere nodded.
“The Europeans who worked with him were away,” Ntoto continued: “So Mr Mboya was in the office, by himself, in charge . . .”
He paused to give the point emphasis.
“Mr Mboya was in charge, and a European lady came in with some milk to test. She looked around, but did not greet him.”
Rutere looked shocked.
“Mr Mboya said to her: ‘Good morning, madam.’ She said nothing. So he said again: ‘Good morning, madam.’ Still she did not greet him.”
“Phauw!”
Rutere was astonished. How could she have been so rude?
“Instead she looked around, looking, looking, everywhere,” Ntoto continued, putting his hand to his forehead, and making peering gestures.
“And then she asked: ‘Is there anybody here?’ ”
They walked on for a few more paces.
Cyrus looked thoughtful.
“So although Mr Mboya was there, and she spoke to him, she did not see him?”
“Not properly. She saw him, but not as a full person,” said Ntoto.
“That is the end of the first story. Let me tell you the second story, and then you will understand even better,” he said, kicking a round pebble that lay in his path.
“Here is Pearson’s second story,” said Ntoto.
“There was a big wedding, a very big wedding in Jo’burg, between two famous people.”
“What were their names?” asked Rutere.
“I do not know,” replied Ntoto, “but they were white people.
“The newspapers wanted pictures, but all the photographers were European, and they were stopped by the security guards. Then one editor had an idea, a very good idea. He called in his kitchen toto and taught him how to use a camera. The toto was then sent to the wedding with a bunch of flowers, in which the camera was hidden. The guards let the toto through, without bother. They did not treat totos as real people. They did not search him. The next day, Rutere, photographs of the wedding were in the newspaper,” said Titus.
“And that is a true story. And it is the story that gave Pearson the idea. We can go to places that adults cannot go. We are not seen as proper people even, we are just seen as useless Kireba boys who smell like dogs, and who are treated no better than dogs,” he said bitterly.
There was silence as Cyrus digested the two stories.
“Phauw!” he said, “Phauw!”
He could not resist adding: “I still think it would be better if we had muti.” But that was all he said – and Titus Ntoto knew the lesson of the stories had got through . . .
As the two boys approached the first security check after the main entrance to State House, a car hooted at them, and Ntoto and Cyrus leapt onto the verge with cries of alarm.
Although they didn’t recognise the car’s occupants, it was the World Bank mission, on the way back to the hotel after their meeting with the president. The black Mercedes was forced to slow down by the bumps in the road, known to local taxi drivers as sleeping policemen, and as the car drew level, the Kuwisha driver lowered his window and smiled benevolently at the boys.
“Out of my way, dog turds.”
Ntoto hissed with anger, but contained himself.
“Do you know why your wife eats so well?”
The chauffeur could not resist. He slowed down, almost stopping alongside the boys.
“Why, you little snot-bag?”
“Because your brother gives her a bowl of ugali (maize meal) every time she sleeps with a soldier.”
Cyrus rocked with laughter.
The driver scowled, wound up the car window, and drove on.
“What’s so funny?” asked Hardwick Hardwicke, looking up from his files.
“They are making a joke about the president,” said the driver.
Hardwicke nodded, and looked meaningfully at Fingers, who was in the middle of deciding whether he would use a three or a two iron off the fifth tee.
“You see? The old bugger is on the run,” he said: “He’s losing the confidence of the people.”
The car accelerated, leaving the two boys in its wake.
At the security barrier, Ntoto and Rutere were cursorily searched. As Pearson had confidently predicted, there was much greater interest in the bag of maize cobs. One cob per roadblock was the rate, and once they had paid this levy after some tough bargaining, they were nodded through. There were still two checkpoints to go, but the procedure was much the same, although at each subsequent check there were fewer soldiers, and more men wearing suits and dark glasses.
By the time they reached the last one, there were only three soldiers, but half a dozen civilians, all wearing dark glasses and all carrying mobile phones. It was at this point that Ntoto and Cyrus for the first time felt afraid, and with good reason. These men were thugs, and Cecil’s theory was about to be tested.
“Right,” said Ntoto.
He took a pinch of pepper from the packet Pearson had given him, sprinkled the grains in the palm of his hand, raised it to his nostrils, and sniffed deeply. Rutere was caught napping by the explosive series of sneezes that followed, and took the brunt of the blast.
With a shudder of distaste, he did his best to wipe off the bits of recently chewed corncob and saliva with which he had been sprayed from head to toe.
“Good, that is very good, Ntoto,” said Rutere, and taking great care to avoid the yellow stream that dangled from his friend’s nose, shoved Titus in the chest.
It looked like a typical adolescent quarrel which was degenerating into a scrap, with each boy taking it turn to push the other, chins jutting forward and bodies braced for the anticipated punch tha
t would turn a scrap into a fight. Suddenly without warning, Cyrus slapped Ntoto across the face, and uncharacteristically Ntoto burst out crying. First quietly, then huge, racking sobs as Cyrus slapped him again. Ntoto ran up to one of the plain-clothed security officers, and clung to his leg like a tick on a cow, and appealed for protection. By this time the snot gathering at his nose was spectacular.
“He has taken my corn,” squealed Ntoto. “He has taken my corn.”
The security officer tried to shake the diminutive figure loose, with no success. But what made him increasingly alarmed was the viscous thread of mucus that was now dangling precariously from Ntoto’s nostrils. Before the irate man could wrench himself free, Ntoto delicately used the forefinger of his left hand, blocking first one nostril, then the next, like a professional football player expressing his anger over the referee’s decision, and cleared his nose with two powerful snorts.
The snot flew unerringly to its targets. One load attached itself to the cuff of the security officer’s jacket. The other clung to his red silk tie, providing a striking contrast in colours.
With a moan of disgust and fury, the officer shook Ntoto off, flinging him several feet, his mood not helped as his colleagues chortled.
“Get going, you loathsome toad,” said one, in between guffaws, as the victim used a leaf to scrape off the snot, almost whimpering in his disgust.
“Go! Go! Go, before he kills you.”
Titus and Cyrus scuttled through the last roadblock, still clutching their sacks of the remaining maize, and exchanging blows until they had rounded the corner of the bougainvillea, within sight of Mlambo’s hut.
They collapsed with laughter.
“It worked, it worked.”
Pearson had been right. They had been treated as what he had called “pieces of nothing”, and the anger in their hearts was truly invisible, but surely it would grow.
21
“Beware the tick bird that cleans the crocodile’s teeth”
At about the time the president had been looking out over Kireba and contemplating its fate, Lucy Gomball and other NGO aid workers were at the World Bank’s city office, listening to a briefing from Reuttman’s deputy on the proposed upgrading of the slum. It was high on the agenda for the Bank talks with Nduka and his officials. Should the negotiations prove successful, the pilot scheme under way would be followed up by a $250m Bank loan.
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