Fatboy and the Dancing Ladies

by Michael Holman

  Furniver paused while his visitor caught up.

  “Conventional environment inappropriate . . .” he heard him muttering, “link-up with informal institutions breaks traditional workplace convention.”

  Furniver continued.

  “So when I came here and looked around, I got in touch with a chap who runs an investment fund, Whiteney Management. Between us we raised the capital – about twenty-five thou – and off we went. Maximum loan is 100, minimum twenty-five.”

  “Below the commercial banks’ ceiling, but still a significant resource flow . . . what rate of return on a hundred thou?”

  “Steady on,” said Furniver. “We have got bigger, more members, but 100 ngwee is still the maximum per individual. But if they make a joint application, it goes up to 500 ngwee. To borrow 1,000, need twenty members, and goes to committee. Anything less and it’s up to me.”

  “Records?”

  “No, thank God. No paperwork, or very little, thanks to the computer.”

  Furniver looked thoughtful, and added: “By the way, really should replace it. Already out of date when it was donated by a UK charity. Any chance you might know where I could lay my hands on one?”

  Mullivant rustled in his briefcase, and came out with a lengthy form.

  Furniver read it, and looked up.

  “But all I want is a computer, preferably new. Questions on this form are hard to answer. Anticipated cash flow in year 5 . . .”

  He broke off to pour the coffee.

  “Got to play by the rules,” said Mullivant.

  He handed Furniver another document, this time an application for technical help.

  “I don’t think we need ‘technical help’ ”, said Furniver, “unless that covers an office messenger.”

  His eyes lit up.

  “We could certainly do with a messenger.”

  Mullivant laughed.

  “Fortunately we have several UK-based computer experts. Now look, if you can sign this before I fly to Lesotho tomorrow night, it could well be cleared by April. Otherwise we miss the cut-off date for the programme budget. Real risk we’ll underspend. May I use your computer and printer?”

  He disappeared for a few minutes, and returned with a printout, which he handed to Furniver.

  “Just a suggestion: ‘An international consulting firm should be entrusted with a twofold purpose: to assist in the system design; and to reinforce the credibility and legitimacy of the following enhanced economic objectives.’ That should pull in decent response.”

  A series of questions were attached to the end of the print-out.

  “For example: What proportion of your capital falls below the productive rate of return?” Mullivant asked. “And how do you handle it?”

  “What we in the business call bad debts? About 1 per cent. Not in my hands. Committee calls them in, sorts it out. Which reminds me. Cephas Gulu. Did a runner owing 200 ngwee.”

  If he didn’t leave now, he would be late for the airport.

  “Must dash. Confirm his identity.”

  “I can give you a lift to the Outspan, got a taxi waiting . . .”

  “Much obliged, but I am off in the other direction. Hospital.”

  He watched as Mullivant left the office and picked his way through the muck and the mire to a waiting taxi.

  Furniver looked at his watch. He decided to take a chance on the traffic. There was time for a late breakfast. Kigali had anticipated him. Furniver sniffed the air appreciatively. Nothing like Kigali’s mushrooms, fried potato and scrambled eggs.

  Mullivant frowned. For the fourth time in a distance of 100 yards his taxi, bumper to bumper with four-wheel drives and matatus, came to a halt. The cars had just begun to move, slowly at first, before picking up pace, when there was a loud thump.

  The appearance of the face of a small boy, pressed so hard against the window that its features were deformed, accompanied by a lolling tongue which left a slimy trace across the car window, coincided with a loud hammering of the door panels. A cupped hand emerged, supplicating yet threatening, and grubby fingers smeared a path across the dusty pane of glass, not thick enough to keep out the dreadful sounds of heart-rending distress. Unintelligible moans came from within the skinny frame of the creature that in any other society would surely have been kept in an institution.

  With the passenger’s attention focused on this pathetic sight, it was the work of an instant for a second boy to open the opposite door and make off with the bag that lay on the back seat.

  The first lad gave a final demented shriek, and set off in the other direction, both boys waving bulging, foul-smelling plastic bags, the notorious “flying toilets” which provided a disposable method of relief for Kireba’s residents.

  The best bang-bang team in the business had struck.

  Having seen Mullivant off, Furniver went downstairs, sat in front of his office computer and looked gloomily at the screen. He had intended to finish his annual report, but his heart was no longer in it. Breakfast would be ready soon, though.

  Furniver wondered whether Charity would insist on a Christian marriage. He could live with that, provided the words used were not too specific, and they didn’t burn things like incense, and water wasn’t splashed around. But becoming a Lamb? Now that was another matter.

  Goodness knows what they got up to at the circle. He had come to like and respect Kigali, and the prospect of Charity becoming a member of the Lambs had, until now, never bothered him.

  First things first, he thought. He had yet to propose to her, although he thought he had made his position perfectly plain.

  Their courtship had proceeded at a pace that almost satisfied Mildred Kigali’s concern for convention. A kiss on the cheek had broken the ice after weeks of daily handshakes; an embrace was the next milestone; though what had really broken the ice was the episode of the jipu, that wretched fly.

  For months, Furniver had been verging on making a formal proposal. Whether he had it in him, he was far from certain. He could hardly have been more forthright as he expressed admiration for the way Charity had tackled that grilled corncob, at supper, during their first chaste weekend on her shamba.

  “Your teeth, Charity. White. Teeth, strong teeth.”

  The recollection of Charity ripping through the sweet ears of roasted maize on the shamba that weekend produced powerful emotions in Furniver’s breast.

  “Next time,” he vowed, “next time.” Provided, course, there was no nonsense with the Lambs.

  “Breakfast, suh?”

  Furniver looked at his watch. He had half an hour in which to do justice to his favourite meal.

  18

  Furniver pushed his breakfast plate aside, poured himself a second cup of coffee, resisted the temptation of a cigar from his supply of Davidoff No 2, and then changed his mind.

  “What the hell,” thought Furniver, and lit up.

  With Kigali’s breakfast under his belt, a decent cigar and two fine cups of coffee, he was ready to face the rest of the day. More importantly, to tackle the Lambs.

  Breakfast was, by mutual consent, the time when Furniver and Kigali discussed the issues of the day, with each man giving careful consideration to the views of the other.

  While they did so, both men got on with their business, the white man tucking in to his meal, washed down with a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee, while Kigali polished the brass handles on the windows of the first-floor flat.

  At first Furniver had found Kigali’s close attention to his breakfast needs embarrassing and finally demeaning. He hardly had to think of butter or marmalade before Kigali would interrupt his polishing, and pounce, pushing them closer, or topping up his coffee.

  A lifetime of domestic service had left its mark on Didymus Kigali. Physically it had produced a permanent deferential crouch in a man who would have had to struggle to reach five feet six inches even if he stood ramrod straight.

  Psychologically it seemed to have left Kigali in a state of permane
nt servitude. But when Furniver attended a service of the Church of the Blessed Lamb he hardly recognised the confident, eloquent and persuasive speaker that kept a huge audience hanging on his every word.

  His “cricketer’s” outfit had been replaced by his Saturday best – smart blazer, grey slacks and a green tie that Mildred had bought him to mark his first Admonition.

  But it had been before he had seen this unexpected side to his elderly steward that Furniver had complained to Charity.

  “Just want him to let me get on with it . . .”

  He had expected sympathy, but Charity rebuked him.

  “Kigali is doing his job,” she said firmly. “He is one of the best stewards in Kuwisha. You must respect that.”

  It did not take long for Furniver to accept her advice. The longer Kigali worked for him, the more Furniver appreciated his talent. Had he been given the chance, thought Furniver, Didymus Kigali would have managed an international hotel . . .

  Furniver found these sessions engrossing – but they also gave rise to a secret suspicion that gnawed away at him. Until recently he had been prepared to marry Charity unconditionally. But the more he discussed with Kigali the doctrine of the Lambs, the more uncomfortable he felt at the prospect of Charity converting to the faith.

  She seemed to be taking an unhealthy interest in the sect. And while he had not indicated his concerns to anyone, he was starting to wonder what Charity and her friend Mildred actually did at the circle’s monthly meeting. Surely she was not really contemplating becoming a Lamb? If so, their relationship was surely heading for trouble.

  The tenet that especially disturbed him, currently under discussion with Kigali, was fundamental to conversion to the Church of the Blessed Lamb: members of the sect were never to be naked. And clearly this was of considerable importance to Kigali, who seemed to be speaking in capital letters when he repeated the injunction, not once but twice:

  “Never naked, suh. Never naked.”

  So it was that at breakfast that morning, Furniver had asked Didymus Kigali to explain and defend this article of faith adopted by the Lambs from their fellow worshippers in the Congolese sect, the Kimbanguists.

  “Right, Mr Kigali, fire away.”

  The steward intensified his dusting, and began by pointing out that Christ himself had retained what Kigali called his “smalls” during baptism and crucifixion.

  Furniver nodded.

  “With you so far . . .”

  “Thank you,” said Kigali. He put down his duster, and started clearing the breakfast table.

  In the presence of God, he continued, it was vital to be decently dressed.

  “And is not our blessed Lord ever present in our lives?”

  Furniver nodded.

  “And is He not all-seeing?” Kigali demanded, snapping his duster.

  It was less of a question than an assertion, and Furniver grunted, a noise that could be taken for assent.

  “Eh-heh,” said Kigali.

  Never was there any reference, none whatsoever, in the entire scriptures, to our Blessed Lord divesting himself of his smalls, maintained Kigali.

  “Never.”

  Furniver had one question.

  “Man and er, woman . . . Never naked . . . Even after, er, marriage?”

  “Especially after marriage,” said Kigali with all the certainty of an elder of the Church of the Blessed Lamb.

  “Especially after marriage,” he repeated firmly.

  A true believer would never under any circumstances, undress completely, always taking care to retain their underwear, whether in bath, shower or bed.

  Furniver’s heart sank.

  While he was as tolerant as the next man, a chap had to draw the line somewhere. And while Edward was a man who had not been favoured by any particular faith, he could not see himself living happily with a woman who made a solemn promise never, ever, to go naked . . .

  19

  “Since when,” asked Edward Furniver, “did Ntoto want to be a pirate?”

  It was after lunch and Charity, who had finished supervising preparations for the evening meal, looked astonished.

  “A pirate? How can the boy know about pirates? That Ntoto, he is watching too much television.”

  “Well, that’s what he told Mr Kigali this morning. Pretty clear he has set his heart on becoming a pirate.”

  Charity looked sceptical.

  “Bang bang boy maybe. But pirate?” She shook her head. “Never.”

  “Well, I heard the boy myself.”

  “Tell me again, what happened?”

  Patiently and methodically, Furniver went over the events of the past few hours. He had, he told her, risen earlier than usual. As she knew, it was that time of the year when he had to write the bank’s annual report, and the deadline was more pressing than usual, for he had foolishly agreed to talk to a delegate to the World Bank donors’ meeting.

  “I was on my way to the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee when who should I find, already hard at work, but Mr Kigali. He seemed a bit put out.”

  “You would have been cross, Furniver, if it had been round the other way, and he, Kigali, had come early into your office for dusting.”

  Furniver acknowledged that Charity had a point.

  By his standards it had been very early that morning, intruding on a time that Kigali could usually be certain he had the flat to himself for half an hour.

  And it was thirty minutes that he put to good use. It gave him a chance to read the newspapers before taking them to Furniver with a pot of tea; and from that pot he had already poured his own first cup of the day, into which he had put two spoons of condensed milk. The radio played in the background, a combination of news and music.

  In the remaining ten minutes, before Furniver surfaced, he would complete small chores that would otherwise go undone, or at least be delayed, such as the odd bit of sewing. Only when these rituals were complete did Didymus Kigali, husband of Mildred, house steward to Edward Furniver, and elder in the Church of the Blessed Lamb, feel ready to start the day.

  So Furniver’s cheery greeting prompted an entirely understandable irritated cough of acknowledgement, which he was fairly confident that had it not been so uncharacteristically early, Furniver would have recognised.

  “We spoke about this and that, for ten minutes or so. Then,” said Furniver, “there was a knock on the door. And there was Ntoto . . .”

  Charity interrupted.

  “I had sent him with fresh corn-bread.”

  “Jolly good it is too,” said Furniver, realising that he had been remiss in not thanking her immediately. “I left him and Mr Kigali to it, went up to the office. Pottered around, went back to the kitchen, and something had been going on with Ntoto . . .”

  For Titus Ntoto, Kigali represented the values of pre-independence Kuwisha. The steward’s very uniform angered the boy. The old man kept his outfit immaculate, his starched white shorts flapping above his wrinkled brown knees, white knee-length socks, and spotless plimsolls. Kigali even applied Blanco to the shoes last thing at night, placing them at the door of his house, like sentries.

  Ntoto, of course, had only seen cricket on the small television Furniver had donated to Harrods, and even then very infrequently, for the sport had no appeal for him. It was Cyrus Rutere, keen of eye and sharp of tongue, who spotted the similarity of the outfits and described Kigali as looking like a cricketer.

  And it was Rutere who popularised the term, invariably referring to Furniver’s steward as “the cricketer”; and any Mboya Boy who evinced an interest in domestic service was contemptuously accused of wanting to be a “cricketer”.

  Meanwhile Ntoto had kept his eyes fastened on Kigali’s plimsolls when the door opened.

  “Mrs Charity sends this corn-bread for breakfast . . . maybe you want me to clean your plimsolls, suh?”

  Mr Kigali gritted his teeth. He was starting to suspect Ntoto of cheek. If he had told the boy once, he had told him a dozen times.


  He, Didymus Kigali, would entrust no-one – not even Mildred – with the task of cleaning his shoes. It was an act he found therapeutic, contemplating the ways of the world, last thing at night.

  Ntoto knew this full well. But this boy was cunning. How could Kigali complain to Charity that the boy was “cheeky”? Because the boy offered to clean his shoes?

  Ntoto then started to scratch, an act that he well knew worried Kigali, who dreaded an invasion of head lice.

  But Didymus Kigali was a fair man. For all the boy’s cheek, he had something, there was definitely a quality that could be channelled into great things. And he, Didymus Kigali, could open up a fine career for Ntoto.

  “Show me your hands, boy.”

  After checking that Ntoto’s hands were clean Kigali made his move.

  “Come, come inside, Ntoto. I want to show you a very good kitchen . . .”

  Kigali pointed to a spot where Ntoto should stand, and then set about opening the cream-coloured doors of the waist-high cupboards that ran the length of one wall. And as he opened them, he listed their contents, lined up in serried ranks, like toy soldiers.

  “Polish.”

  “Brushes.”

  “Laundry.”

  “Drinks.”

  “Flies.”

  “Shoes.”

  “Cooking.”

  Tins of Brasso sat next to bottles of bleach, stoep polish was lined up with shoe polish, black and brown, Blanco sat alongside Jeyes Fluid, jars of sugar and salt lined up with tins of tea and coffee, while bottles of gin and whisky stood alongside crates of tonic and beer. Brushes and brooms stood to attention, and mops and cleaning rags lay in their allotted places.

  Didymus Kigali beamed at Ntoto.

  “Smell, Ntoto, just smell!”

  Kigali sniffed an intoxicating mix, as enthusiastically as a day-tripper making his first excursion along the beach. With immense pride, Kigali made a gesture that embraced every bottle and container, every spray and every abrasive as if he were a circus trainer who had established his mastery over the beasts parading in the ring.