by Lesley Lokko
Her first glimpse of Maputo was the long, golden arc of sandy beach that separated the city from its southern suburbs. The plane banked gracefully over red-tiled roofs, occasional splashes of swimming-pool blue and larger dark green patches that looked like parks. The houses were densely packed together; she could just make out the long black tongues of roads before everything disappeared under the thin layer of cloud that hung suspended above the city. It was the rainy season; she’d been told to expect high, humid temperatures during the day but cooler breezes at night. The conference was due to last three days – there was an extra day added on at the end for sightseeing, then it was a late afternoon flight back to Johannesburg, an overnight stay at the airport hotel and the early morning flight back to London.
She followed Susan and Jean off the plane and walked down the rickety steps on to the tarmac. After the dim interior of the plane, the sunlight was almost blinding. The breeze lifted; palm trees stirred; she caught the whiff of woodsmoke at the back of her throat, the scent of carbon monoxide and the sound of car horns … the sensations rushed at her, one by one. They were shepherded quickly by the ground staff into the air-conditioned terminal building, where everything disappeared once more into the same cold, arid plasticity of airports. There was a young man in a startlingly white shirt and beautifully pressed khaki trousers bearing a sign with their names creatively misspelt. The three women nodded and smiled as they came through the doors.
‘Bom día,’ he said, flashing a dizzyingly brilliant smile. ‘Welcome to Maputo.’
The radiance of water and the radiance of sky; two elements endlessly flashing out there on the horizon, whichever way you turned. On the last day of the conference, Julia declined the invitation of a guided bus tour and went instead with Susan and Jean to the edge of the city, the shore. A tongue’s lick of hot, humid air hit them as soon as they stepped outside the air-conditioned lobby and emerged on to the street. Laughing and chatting excitedly at their release, they hailed a cab and piled in. Julia’s shirt opened patches of damp under the arms as she clambered into the back seat. The thin trickle of sweat between her shoulder blades thickened, slowly making its way down her back. The driver drove slowly along Avenida 25 de Setembre, explaining local landmarks to them in his sing-song broken English. The police station. The bus terminal. The international school. Another police station. Julia listened to him with half an ear, gazing instead at the horizon, now reduced to a single, unbroken white line against the diminishing contrast between water and air. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and the heat was intense. They wound their way around the peninsula and found themselves on Avenida Julius Nyerere. Next along was Avenida Mao Tse-tung, then Avenida Kenneth Kaunda. They swung right on to Vladimir Lenin … all ghosts of the socialist past, engraved in the streets and avenues of the capital city. How her father would have thrilled to see this, Julia thought to herself suddenly.
At a junction crowded with cars and vans and jostling pedestrians, Jean recognised the signs for mercato, the central market, and shouted for the driver to stop. They got out and were immediately swallowed up in the throng. Julia bought a cup of crushed ice and watermelon juice from a roadside vendor, marvelling at the bicycle-with-a-cooler contraption from which he extracted plastic cups and bright red juice with ease. The cold, sugary drink was a physical release from the sticky heat – she gulped it down and asked for another. They strolled through the mercato, picking up souvenirs for those back home, a postcard or two, a small roasted plantain with a handful of peanuts … It seemed to Julia, haggling amicably over the price of a pair of silver-and-ebony cufflinks that she thought Aaron would like, that the real purpose of the conference she’d just attended was out here, in broad daylight, in the voices and gestures of the market women in whose name they had all come. Underneath the fierce sun, gesticulating and smiling in the manner of those who had no common language, it was hard to believe in the grim statistics they’d spent three days hearing – a life expectancy of forty-one years for women; infant mortality rates of 289 per thousand births; fifty-four per cent of women enrolled in primary education … she’d sat with hundreds of others in the same overcooled rooms, listening to the same voices with growing despair. Yet there was very little despair in the open-air market around her. The women were resplendent in brightly coloured swathes of patterned cloth; some turbaned, others – the younger ones – with braids that fell to their waists and swirled about their faces as they deftly slipped produce into a bag or counted out change. The contrast between the earnest, painfully politically correct academics and politicians and the vibrant, exuberant market women who laughed and joked with their customers was hard to comprehend. Inside the conference hall, African women were portrayed as submissive, passive victims of circumstances far beyond their control. Out here in the city and in real life, it seemed to be the opposite. There was nothing remotely passive about these confident, laughing women. In the little shared language available to them, they asked about children, husbands, lives … they knew about produce, prices, making money, births, marriages and deaths – pretty much the same as women everywhere. Julia turned away from them in confusion and collided with someone. For a brief second she was brought cheek to damp, sweaty cheek with one of the market queens. There was a guffaw of laughter and a chorus of voices, ‘Desculpé, desculpé! ’ as everyone around her laughingly apologised for something that was actually her own fault. It was all so different from the irritated ‘tut-tutting’ that would have gone on in a London department store if she’d bumped into someone by mistake. She gathered her postcards and gifts and with a last smile and a wave hurried to join the others.
‘We’re thinking of having a quick drink at one of the roadside bars before we have to leave,’ Susan said to her as she drew level with them. ‘Jean and I don’t much fancy the thought of meeting everyone in the hotel again – not on our last night. I’ve had enough, to be honest.’
Julia smiled, relieved. It had been her good fortune to meet up with Jean and Susan. ‘Same here,’ she agreed. ‘I’m all for skipping it.’
‘Fabulous. Our kind of girl.’ They began to thread their way through the crowd. Roadside bars were the one thing Maputo didn’t appear to lack. They were everywhere. Susan marched boldly towards one nestled between what appeared to be two makeshift bus stops. There was a free table covered in a red-and-green-checked plastic cloth. A small boy hurried over with two extra plastic chairs. They sank down gratefully – a second later, three already sweating bottles of ice-cold beer had been produced. ‘Cheers,’ Susan said, lifting her beer. The bottles made a satisfying ‘clink’.
‘Cheers,’ Julia murmured. ‘Welcome to the real Maputo.’
‘You did what?’ Aaron’s voice carried with it all the outrage that could possibly be corralled into a single word thrust down a crackling international phone line.
Julia rolled her eyes – at her own reflection in the mirror. ‘It’s perfectly all right, Aaron. I was with Susan and Jean.’
‘And who the hell are Susan and Jean?’
‘I told you the other night. They’re the two other women from the conference I’ve been hanging out with. They’re very nice. They’re both Americans. Susan’s an economist and Jean’s a historian.’
‘I don’t care what they do. They led you off to some … some underground bar in a slum?’
Julia had to laugh. ‘It wasn’t an underground bar. And it certainly wasn’t in a slum. It was in the central market.’
‘Julia, it’s no laughing matter,’ Aaron said sternly. ‘You weren’t supposed to leave the hotel. That’s what it said in the conference pack, remember?’
‘Oh, Aaron! It’s perfectly safe. People are amazingly friendly and—’
‘Don’t be so naïve, Julia. You’re in Africa, for God’s sake. There are wars on. Anything could happen. You’ve got to be more careful. You can’t just wander off on your own like that. You could’ve been mugged, or worse.’
‘Aaron, I’m in Mozambiqu
e, not Sierra Leone. There’s no war going on here. You’re being ridiculous.’
‘I’m the one being ridiculous?’ Aaron’s voice rose in indignation.
Julia sighed. ‘Look, let’s not argue. This phone call’s costing me a fortune. I’ll ring you when I get to the hotel in Johannesburg tomorrow, all right?’
‘All right.’ Aaron’s tone was sulky. Julia made a few further conciliatory remarks and then put the phone down before he could irritate her any further. A sudden uneasiness at the thought of returning to London stole over her. She’d been away for almost a week – she ought to be pleased to be going back home. To Aaron, if nothing else. But she wasn’t, and she couldn’t say why.
75
JOSH
Johannesburg, May 2000
Josh strode impatiently through the arrivals hall. After seven weeks in the bush, the smell of coffee wafting from the small Café e Vida stand located halfway down the corridor was unsettling. He had one night in the Intercontinental located just across the road from arrivals and then it was the long eleven-hour flight back to London – and to Niela. At the thought of her, his pulse quickened. He’d been away almost two months. There had been times out there in the thick humidity of the bush around them when it was almost impossible to believe in her, or her small, neat flat in London … or in London itself. It was the end of May; he’d seen on the news the night before that it was still cold. That too was hard to believe in, although Johannesburg was certainly cooler than Cabo Delgado.
He crossed the road and walked quickly up to the check-in desk. Ten minutes later, he was walking down a thickly carpeted hallway, his single rucksack swinging from side to side on the back of the young man in uniform who was escorting him to his room. ‘Here you are, sir,’ the young man said, sliding the plastic card into the slot. He opened the door and quickly ran through the checklist of amenities – minibar, TV, shower, patio doors … Josh had been through it all a million times before. ‘Can I get you anything, sir?’ He paused at the door.
‘No thanks,’ Josh said, sliding over the obligatory ten-rand note. The young man’s grin was thanks enough and he slid silently from the room.
Josh walked over to the window and drew back the drapes. The material felt luxuriously soft in his hands, which, for two months, had held nothing but nylon rope and coarse sheets that were always damp with sweat … yes, a night spent in luxury was probably a good thing before he touched down in London once more. He walked over to the shower, stripped off his dusty, tired clothing and stepped in.
Half an hour later, his hand still going to his freshly shaved jawline as if in disbelief, he walked into the lobby and made his way towards the bar. The tinkle of a piano came to him from behind the potted palms and the Japanese-style screens; the room had the soft lighting and neutral, fashionable decor of hotel lobbies everywhere. He pulled out one of the leather bar stools and slid on to it. ‘Gin and tonic,’ he said to the barman. ‘Double.’
‘Very good, sir. Ice and lemon?’
He nodded; a few seconds later, an expertly mixed drink was slid across the marble top towards him. He took a sip, feeling it burn its way down his throat pleasurably. There were a few men sitting alongside him; their eyes were fixed either on the drink in front of them or on the doorway. Josh recognised the stares: men who had either seen too much or too little. All they were able to focus on was the half-empty glass a hand’s reach away or the young prostitutes with their tight, round backsides and long fake tresses who sauntered in and out of the lobby under the watchful eye of management. He watched the man next to him eyeing one of the girls further down the counter as she preened beside a customer; her sequinned skirt was split from ankle to thigh. The ridiculously firm flesh shone blue-black in the soft lighting, a slick, polished surface like marble. Her companion’s fat hand was stamped proprietorially on it; he looked as though he might bite the head off anyone who so much as looked at her. Josh turned his head wearily. He’d seen it all before. The next night she would be in with someone else. For the price of a handbag, a cell phone or a month’s supply of corrugated roofing sheet – depending on your preferences and most pressing needs – the girl’s undivided attention was yours.
‘Josh?’ A woman’s voice suddenly cut across his thoughts. He turned. A young woman was standing to his left, eyes wide with surprise. She looked familiar but he couldn’t place her at first. ‘Josh Keeler?’ He nodded, wondering where the hell he’d seen her before. She was smiling at him, her face breaking open in welcome. ‘Julia! I’m Aaron’s wife.’ The confusion that ran through him was so great he almost dropped his drink. Aaron’s wife? What the hell was she doing in Johannesburg, of all places? Her own surprise seemed to equal his. ‘I can’t believe it! What a coincidence … this is incredible!’ She turned to the small group who were standing some way behind her. ‘This is my brother-in-law,’ she said, gesturing towards him. ‘I can’t believe it! What are you doing here?’
Introductions were made: Susan, Jean, Alison, Khadija. He shook hands with them in turn. A conference – they’d been at a conference. Explanations were offered; this one was the head of such-and-such programme at the World Bank; that one was the director of this and that … He nodded at each, wishing only that they would hurry up and leave him alone. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask Julia what she was doing in such company, but not only would it have seemed rude, perhaps, but it occurred to him that he didn’t really care. The last thing he felt like doing was making small talk with the wife of one of his brothers. Especially this one. What was it Diana had said about her? ‘That accent. Jumps out at you like a barking dog.’ He felt the ghost of a smile cross his lips but he suppressed it just in time. It wasn’t her accent that bothered him – on the contrary, he found it rather refreshing. It was so at odds with her cool, polished appearance. No, it was the way he’d seen her looking at Niela that one time they’d met, her cold blue eyes passing judgement on someone whose life and circumstances she couldn’t possibly even imagine. He slid off the bar stool. ‘Sorry, ladies … if you’ll excuse me. I’ve had a long day.’ And with that and without so much as a backward glance or a goodbye, he strode off.
Julia’s cheeks were flaming as they watched him walk out of the bar. ‘Sorry about that,’ she muttered, lifting her glass to hide her face. ‘I’ve only met him once. He wasn’t quite as rude the first time but he was close. No bloody wonder they don’t get on.’
‘Mmm. Well, he didn’t seem especially thrilled to see us,’ Susan said diplomatically. ‘But perhaps he really did have a long day. Oh well. Drink, anyone?’
‘Hell of a good-looking guy, though,’ Jean mused. ‘Ooh, yes please. I’ll have a very large whisky, thanks.’
They carried their drinks off like prizes and found a table underneath the palms. ‘Cigarette?’ Susan pulled out a packet.
Julia shook her head. Then she changed her mind. ‘Oh, I’ll have one. I tell you, he doesn’t half get my goat.’ She lit up, savouring the taste at the back of her throat. It had been years since she’d smoked, and although she rarely missed it, there were times, like now, when she craved one.
‘Gets your goat?’ Jean asked, frowning.
Julia laughed wryly. ‘It’s a northern term. He gets on my nerves.’
‘Oh, ignore him. We’ve had a great conference, we got to meet each other … forget about him,’ Jean said with a smile.
Julia nodded. Jean was right. She took one last puff on her cigarette, stubbed it out and banished Josh Keeler from her thoughts.
By 10 p.m. the restaurant was almost empty. Julia sat alone for a few minutes after the others had gone to bed, toying with the remains of her drink. She too was tired but she found herself curiously unwilling to go upstairs to her room. She wanted to savour every last minute of what had been the most interesting week of her life. She’d been transported straight back to the heady days of the Pro Bono Publico at Oxford. Curiously, too, the whole conference and the conversations it had generated brought her mother-in
-law to mind. This was what she’d dreamed about as a young girl watching Diana on TV and thinking about the power and grace of the law. She couldn’t believe she’d been gone for only six and a half days; it felt like a lifetime, as though everything about her life had changed. In a way, it had. She’d discovered a whole world outside the narrow confines of the law as she’d understood it – six days in the company of passionate, articulate and fiercely intelligent women had given her another perspective. She’d been one of the youngest presenters in Maputo, but to her great surprise, it hadn’t made a jot of difference. At Bernard, Bennison & Partners she’d become so used to the double disadvantage of age and gender that the realisation in Maputo that neither meant anything to anyone had come as a complete shock. In six days she’d discovered there were multiple ways to be a professional woman, from the Diana types, brisk, brusque, rake-thin and stylish, to the homely, motherly ones, often dressed in ethnic clothing, to the serious intellectuals from places like Princeton and Oxford with their short haircuts and always dressed in black. There were others, too; women from places as far afield as Bangladesh and Bahrain, the latter in their long black gowns with beautifully composed faces partially hidden by their veils. She’d had lunch on one of the days with a group of Nigerian women who were simultaneously wives, mothers, policymakers and activists. She’d come away awed by the complexity and richness of their lives. She’d met lawyers in Maputo, but what really struck her was the way they adapted the law to suit the demands of working for and on behalf of women worldwide. For someone like her to become a successful barrister would mean she would have to work twice as hard and twice as long as anyone else. She was painfully aware that her accent and her background worked against her and that her marriage to Aaron Keeler had provoked more jealousy than anything else. Diana would never lift a finger to help or advise her and—