And then with a solemnity that underlined what came next, he announced: “And a uniform . . . free! One day, Ntoto, all this could be yours, with gratuity after five year service, a pension, even, for ten year service . . .”
Didymus Kigali, his voice trembling with emotion, rested his case.
Only then did it dawn on Ntoto that Kigali was not just showing off. The terrible truth was coming home to the boy when Furniver had appeared at the kitchen door, wondering what had happened to his early morning tea.
“Just as I went into the kitchen,” said Furniver, “Ntoto rushed out, blubbing away. Waterworks at full blast. And as he passed me I distinctly heard him say: ‘I want to be a pirate. Not a cricket man.’
“I said to Kigali: ‘What’s the matter with the boy? Why on earth would he want to be a pirate? And what does he mean, a cricket man, Mr Kigali?’ We were both stumped. Had not a clue.”
Charity had to admit that she, too, was baffled.
Furniver fiddled with his watchstrap, and shook his head.
“Pirate . . . pirate . . . not a bloody clue.”
20
Ferdinand Mlambo was in luck.
Just as he was saying farewell to Philimon Ogata, promising to come back later to discuss the offer of an apprenticeship in the funeral business, Ntoto and Rutere returned from their city trip. From behind the shelter provided by the Pass Port to Heaven Coffin Parlour, Mlambo watched as the boys reported back to Charity, and then disappeared into the bar, out of sight.
Mlambo stayed concealed, waiting and watching for his chance to slip in undetected. While he waited, the hubbub of Harrods washed over him.
“Tea with milk, corn-bread and relish.”
“Dough ball and tea, extra sugar!”
“Two Tuskers, quick!”
“Sweet dough ball, six.”
“Porridge and tea.”
Thick and fast the orders came, from women with babies strapped to their backs, shift workers returning from work, askaris setting off to work, from loafers and louts, chancers and tsotsis, from clerks and teachers, nurses and mechanics, the halt and the lame, the quick and the nearly dead.
Duty Mboya Boys, hands scrubbed in accordance with Charity’s instructions, ran back and forth with orders; others helped with the washing up, where unnecessary splashing was forbidden.
Finally there was a lull, and Mlambo moved smartly into the container that housed the bar, and rapped twice on the counter, just above the boys’ den.
He rapped again.
No reply.
Then a muffled voice called out: “Go! We are resting . . . not on duty.”
“It is me, Mlambo. I need urgent talk.”
Rutere appeared.
“Mlambo! Why are you here?”
Mlambo’s first and only prior visit to the den had been to press his claim that he did meet the residential qualifications for membership of the Mboya Boys’ football team, successfully arguing that although they were born in Zimbabwe, his aunt and her husband had lived in Kireba for five years, only fleeing when they, along with other foreign minorities, had been the target of rioting organised by thugs and bully boys from the ruling party.
“I need helping,” he said simply. “Helping, please . . .”
Construction of the den had been carefully monitored by Mildred Kigali. And when they installed the old paraffin can in which they made changa, she did not conceal her horror.
“Changa is evil,” said Mildred.
It was true that illegal home brewers who used formaldehyde or battery acid to hasten the maturing killed hundreds of drinkers. This, Charity readily acknowledged, was a thoroughly bad thing.
“But what must I do?” Charity had responded, hands on hips. “Street boys drink. That is a fact. All I can do is to make sure they drink clean changa.”
“In the Lambs . . .” Miriam began.
“In your church, no-one drinks. And how many street children are Lambs? Not one. Negative street boys are Lambs.”
Mildred admitted that much. But she hit back.
“To give boys soft touches,” said Mildred, “will not help on the day we are all summoned for judgement at the feet of Our Lord.”
“I am happy to leave judgement to God. And I, Charity Tangwenya Mupanga, will tell Him that my boys never, never made bad changa, which can kill their friends.”
Just in case, however, when their den was complete, she gave them a stern warning: “If I catch you using battery acid when you make changa, I will stop your dough balls. That will be the first time. Second time, you will leave. Finish.”
The boys had given her a blank stare.
To mark the opening of their den, Charity gave the boys a small suitcase Furniver was about to throw out. She had painted their initials on one side, in big letters, and on the other a single word: “SAFE”. It was in this case that the boys stowed their possessions, including pictures or photos that had impressed them.
Rutere pulled back the retaining latch of the bar counter and ushered Mlambo through the entrance of the den, where a makeshift lamp – a length of string in a cola bottle – threw out a guttering, flickering flame, revealing Titus Ntoto, with heavy lidded eyes, pupils dilated from glue sniffing.
Past differences were set aside as Ntoto and Rutere listened to their companion outline his plan for revenge. There were still problems to resolve, but the more Mlambo considered his plan, the more feasible it seemed to him. There were only two possible snags. The prospect of State House security guards opening fire – and far more likely, of Chief Steward Mboga himself taking a pot shot – did not seriously bother the boy.
What did concern him, however, was the prospect of running through the city central park, his butumba there for all to see, and his balubas bouncing. Any self-respecting mungiki gang member would soon spot that the runner was not circumcised, and mark him down as a candidate for an initiation ceremony in which a jagged piece of glass and a rusty nail would be the instruments of choice.
It was Ntoto who asked three or four questions, all short and to the point.
Finally he nodded.
“We will talk more, on the roof, while we peel vegetables.”
Just as Mlambo was backing out of the den, Ntoto called out: “Don’t tell anyone about the oil lamp. Mrs Charity says it is banned, strict. Fire.”
21
The boys left the den, and using the beer crates as a step, scrambled to the top of Harrods. They made themselves comfortable on a pile of old sacks taken from the bar, but just as Mlambo was about to begin, Ntoto asked him to wait.
The gang leader jumped down from the roof, disappeared into the kitchen and emerged back on the roof with a dough ball, which he presented to Mlambo, the gift carefully wrapped in a page of old newspaper.
“Extra sugar,” said Ntoto, “I put extra sugar.”
Mlambo almost wept with gratitude. He was about to cram the dough ball into his mouth, and then changed his mind.
“I will eat later.”
They all sat cross-legged on the flat roof while Mlambo began the first part of his extraordinary tale. If Mlambo was a good storyteller, the boys were a good audience, making expressive noises, clicking their tongues and sucking their teeth at appropriate stages.
“Here is my story . . . and then I will tell you my plan.”
He started with his account of how Lovemore Mboga had summoned him to the pantry and announced his punishment. Slowly, his audience captivated, he built up to the climax. “And then this Mboga, he reached to my ear, and began to pull, pull and as he pulled it hurt all the way, inside, terrible hurting.”
The boys sat wide-eyed. “He had pulled out my name, Ferdinand Mlambo, and it struggled, but that Mboga, he is strong, and he put it in a box, which he has buried, and he said: ‘You are Mlambo no more.’
“And Mboga told me that his dog would piss on the name Ferdinand Mlambo, and it would rot, and then he gave me a new name.”
Mlambo could not bring himself to speak the
new name, and to his dismay he felt tears well up, alongside fresh anger.
“Say it,” urged Ntoto, “say your Mboga name.”
Mlambo said something, but so quietly that neither Ntoto nor Rutere could hear it.
“What? What?” said Rutere, and then corrected himself: “Pardon?”
This time Mlambo made an enormous effort.
“He said I am called Fatboy, only Fatboy, forever Fatboy.”
The revelation was greeted with sharp intakes of breath, and they passed a glue tube round, each taking a deep sniff. Shocked clicks then greeted his disclosure that he was expected to be an informer. “I must report to Mboga after the staff meeting this Friday morning,” continued Mlambo, “or else he will beat me.”
“That is true,” said Rutere, with a shudder. “He will certainly beat you.”
“There is more I must tell you,” said Mlambo.
“About mungiki?” asked Rutere anxiously, but Mlambo had already risen to his feet, the better to act out the tale that followed.
“Yesterday just before sundown, I came here, to Harrods, very slowly,” he walked on the spot, exaggeratedly lifting his knees and cautiously placing his feet, “and no-one could see me.”
His hand shaded his eyes as he looked around.
“Soon I saw where I could hide.”
The boy huddled his shoulders and seemed to shrink in size.
“I saw that between the gas for cooking and the empty beer crates, there was a place.”
The boys looked over the edge of the container, and Mlambo pointed to the spot, a few feet from the bougainvillaea.
“For a time I was sleeping. And then I was digging, like a dog, so my hand could lift the bolt on the other side . . .”
“Why?”
“In case for stealing,” said Mlambo simply, and it was a motive Rutere and Ntoto could well understand. It was the work of a few minutes to remove a loose rivet at eye level which gave him a view of what was happening within.
It was from this vantage point that Mlambo, fascinated and horrified in equal measure, forced himself to watch the extraordinary events that unfolded.
It was a natural break in his long story.
Mlambo carefully unfolded the paper in which Ntoto had wrapped the dough ball. “You cut for three and we choose.”
Rutere dropped down, and returned with a sharp knife from the kitchen.
After examining the dough ball with all the concentration of a diamond cutter presented with a raw unpolished stone, Ntoto made his incisions, knowing, of course, that as the person who wielded the knife, he would be left with no choice.
One generous gesture deserved another.
“You have the sugar, Mlambo,” said Ntoto, and Rutere nodded his agreement.
Mlambo funnelled the grains that had detached themselves from the dough ball into his mouth and licked his lips. And when satisfied that not a morsel remained, resumed his tale.
22
David Podmore, First Secretary (Aid) at the British High Commission, was longing for a smoke. What was the point of having your own office if you could not have the odd fag? His unlit cigarette dangled from his lips, placed there in the hope that someone would put their head round the door, spot it, and say in the priggish tone of the converted: “By the way, no smoking, old boy.”
But nobody had, and his act of petty rebellion went unnoticed.
His telephone rang.
“Podmore,” said Podmore.
There was a pause at the other end of the line.
“Podsman?”
How long had he been in Kuwisha? Three years . . . and the bugger still could not get his bloody name right.
“Dave Podmore here,” he said, pretending he had not recognised the gravel voice of the president’s press secretary. He lingered over his surname, stressing the last syllable.
“Ah, Podsman, my brother!”
The genial greeting immediately alerted the British diplomat, who halfway through his tour realised that tone and substance were seldom related when President Nduka’s press secretary was doing business.
In a couple of sentences Punabantu passed on the unwelcome news. Podmore’s face fell.
“Really? You’re not, are you?”
He nevertheless tried to match Punabantu’s jovial note.
“Letting him out! You’re getting soft, you lot!”
Puna laughed.
“Goodbye, Podsman.”
“Podmore,” said Podmore, but Punabantu had rung off.
“Damn and blast.”
He had to move fast.
The arrest of a British hack was an irritation; but the release of a British hack could prove far more problematic for the High Commission. Both events could do much damage, and neither was desirable.
Only that week, there had been good news: a UK company had been awarded the main contract for the Kireba project, and the last thing needed was anything that encouraged outside interest in a country that was renowned for corruption and a tender process that was less than transparent.
“Bugger!” said Podmore.
Fortunately, he had enjoyed a spell in the notorious Foreign Office news department in London, where British diplomats were sent to learn the art of dissembling. While there, one principle had been drummed into him.
In any crisis ask yourself, or better, ask somebody senior enough to carry the can if all went pear-shaped, the question: what are the interests of HMG? And the next step was to get your retaliation in first.
Podmore moved quickly. It was time to lay a few false trails.
He picked up the phone and dialled an agency bureau chief.
“You heard that Pearson has been released? Jolly good news . . . not that we expect any thanks . . . just doing our job . . . half the commission been working on his case. By the way, a word to the wise,” said Podmore. “Stay clean on the forex front. We’re told there’s a crackdown. If you get caught, not a thing we can do to help. Not a sausage. Even though the ngwee is over-valued. Got to manage somehow. All we can do is to arrange consular access, that’s all . . . anything to do with Pearson’s arrest? What? . . . Absolutely not. No idea . . . though I had heard . . . on the record? . . . no comment. Off the record . . . well, you know how the system works, as well as I do. Suggest you ask Pearson.”
Podmore put the phone down.
That should do the trick.
23
Mlambo resumed his story.
“My head was heavy from smoking, so after I had made a hole, so I could look, I was sleeping. Then there was noise. Too much,” he said disapprovingly. “Noise of women, singing and laughing inside Harrods.”
“Was it a naming ceremony?” Rutere asked.
Naming ceremonies were important occasions in Kuwisha, and Mlambo crossed himself. When it came to Christian faith and local beliefs, he took no chances. At a naming ceremony, he would lead the chanting; at a christening he would uncap a vial of water taken from the nearest river, as he had been instructed by his gran. Before a football match he would burn a crow’s feather in both goalmouths, and bow his head as reverentially as any of his team-mates, when they gathered in a huddle while the coach called on the Lord to bless them.
“Naming ceremony, maybe.”
He continued: “This noise woke me, and I looked through the crack and watched, but my legs were already getting ready for running. There were many ladies, some with babies on their backs. Then I saw Mrs Mildred as the head of the dancing; and then she took the knitting needles from the wooden case made by Mr Ogata. And I saw, with these eyes that are my own, with my eyes I saw . . .”
He stopped, overcome it seemed, by the extraordinary nature of what followed.
“What? What did you see, Mlambo?”
Rutere was almost squeaking with anticipation, and Mlambo did not let him down.
“Mrs Mildred, she pushed each needle into two paw-paws on the counter. Next, Mrs Mildred called Mrs Charity to join her, and they danced and danced around the tables, an
d other ladies followed them, all dancing, dancing. It was, for sure, I think, the dance of the Lambs.”
His audience were stunned. Like Edward Furniver, they had displayed little interest in the activities of the circle. But it was a very different matter if it involved the Lambs, for rumour had it that the sect was planning to enter a team in the under-15 league.
“Or . . .”
Mlambo held up his hand.
“We must not jump conclusions . . . it could also be that it was women’s business.”
Mlambo’s knowledge of the rites and ceremonies of the Church of the Blessed Lamb was limited. But as he watched Mildred lead a conga round the bar’s interior, brandishing the paw-paw capped needles, he knew he had witnessed an important dance.
“If it was women’s business, what were they dancing?” asked Ntoto, though he could readily guess the answer.
Mlambo looked very uncomfortable.
“Women business.”
All three boys were uneasy. Female initiation dances were not a proper subject of discussion.
“Phauw,” exclaimed Rutere, wide-eyed.
Mlambo shifted from one comfortable buttock to another. Storytelling, he discovered, came naturally to him.
“With my eye, I looked and watched. Eh! What I saw! My gran . . .”
“What? What?” urged Rutere.
Mlambo appeared to fight an inner battle for control of powerful emotions, bit his lower lip, gathered himself, and continued, describing how he had seen Mildred Kigali dance with almost improper abandon, brandishing the paw-paw capped needles.
He had little doubt about the significance of what he saw.
“It was muti. Very strong muti. It was so strong, that the needles helped Mrs Mildred dance, like a young girl.”
“How could you know if it was good muti?” asked Rutere, uneasily.
“If it had been bad, it would have been fighting Mrs Mildred, because Mr Kigali is a deacon of the Church of the Blessed Lamb,” replied Mlambo confidently.
Rutere nodded. That made sense.
Mlambo continued his tale.
“When Mrs Mildred put the needles on the counter, she was so close I could have touched her arm. And when she went to start the meeting, I could see the needles.”
Fatboy and the Dancing Ladies Page 12