by Andrew Sharp
Monica returned to cashier four, passing on this indication of my credentials. Cashier four did not even look at his screen, he just spoke to Monica who then returned to the window.
‘Your account’s definitely cleared out. You’re heavily overdrawn. There’s been many transfers to the Divine Prosperity Assembly. There’s also a new standing order to them and you’re paying interest on the overdraft as well as an unarranged overdraft fee. Do you want to apply for credit? There’s a form by the door. Give it to cashier one.’ She side-mannered me. ‘She’ll help you fill it in if you have difficulty.’ She looked past me. ‘Next customer please.’
I heard two men in the queue exchange about me. ‘Better for his type to barter goats.’ I turned and fixed-eyed the floor as I shame-tailed out of the bank.
Outside, a safari jeep passed by. A tourist was taking pictures of the village with myself in view. Pictures from an up-and-coming town ‘in Africa’. In that moment I saw myself in his photo: a small man in an oversized suit, true, but outside a fine new bank in a busy growing village. He was perhaps engaged in a new commercial enterprise; was a symbol, surely, of Africa Rising, of The Coming Continent. But the picture would not tell of the perturbation in the little man’s heart, the cash-flow compromise, the not-yet-achieved objective that was always expected, but forever awaited.
I jumped at a hand thumped on my shoulder. Compelled to twist around, I found myself facing a bank guard in his black jackboots and cocoa-brown uniform, with Security loudly designated in white above his shirt pocket.
‘Yes?’ Was I arrested for going overdrawn?
‘You’ve stolen a bank pen.’
He jiggled on his feet like a boxer, as if preparing to catch me if I ran away. Passers-by stopped, hoping for an incident, the more injurious the better, to relate it on to all.
‘You’re mistaken sir. I merely forgot. I’m an upright man. I’ve experienced a distraction consequenting to an absence of mind.’ I hot-potatoed the black ball pen to him.
‘Don’t try that again.’ He gave me a Monica side look and turned away; stolen goods recovered.
The passers-by murmured in disappointment. I bent my head and took a side-track off the tar and wandered without aim. My feet disturbed the litter, and my shoes took on dust, but I did not resist. There was nowhere to go but home but how was I to ‘dear wife’ Dorothea now that I knew she had bankrupted us, had rock-bottomed us? I could not even afford to buy a bus ticket out of that dirty end-of-the-road village to find work. In truth, my trust in Dorothea had been shaken in one instance. I had shrugged about the brick and Dorothea’s persuasion, but now it was no shrugging matter. How distressing that I could not rely on others to exercise the same personal discipline in all matters as myself. Not even Dorothea.
A football punched me in the back. I took no notice but it caused me to remember that previously, a long time ago, I had my school friends to speak to, to divulge to, to go to for assistance or for distraction. Where were they now? Far away, they no longer knew me. Where was anyone in the village to plead aid and seek advice from? My exacting duties had left me no time to sit with the men on plastic chairs under a last tree in the village or to gossip in the road. You seek wisdom when you run out of money, but where were those to speak that wisdom to me?
I was magnetised towards the bar with its outsized stereo speakers. The blasting of sound might nullify the unwanted accusatory voice in my head against my lawful wife. A purchase of alcohol was excusable, even necessary. I had no exacting professional duties anymore. Nothing that required abstinence. But I found the coins that I had in my pocket too lonely to pay for any other than a small soft drink named Fruit Flavoured Pop-ade. I brooded in the corner of the bar in a half-light away from a window under the benevolent but watching eyes of the President, the founder of the prospective city. I sipped sparingly at both my Pop-ade and my thoughts.
I delayed returning home. I did not wish to extinguish our wedded delight by informing Dorothea of our poverty and its reason. I would certainly have to verbalise my genuine disquiets on the wisdom of the purchase of the bankrupting brick, symbol of unlikely blessings to come. She would be disturbed that by saying such, I would demonstrate a lack of faith, so enacting a self-fulfilling negation of those blessings. The fulfilment of blessings required the full maintenance of faith. Unbelief would block the blessing. Dorothea’s faith was unearthly and without logics, but it was as uncompromising in its demands on her as any of my previous employment duties on myself.
A man shadowed over me and then sat himself opposite. I lifted my eyes to see Mr Makata, the hotel chef, sunglasses parked on his forehead. His shirt shouted out a bold orange and green pattern and he was rotating a gold watch on his wrist as if he liked to feel its splendid weight.
I stood to leave.
‘Thanks for your respect,’ said Mr Makata, ‘but please … sit down again.’
I sat, resignedly.
‘How are your job applications going?’
He had surely come to mock. ‘There are few.’
‘As I told you.’ He signalled the barmaid.
I started to excuse myself, but he said, ‘Sit and relax. Don’t fret. You’re in luck. I’ve an opportunity for you.’
I was silent, still minded on our destitution, on Dorothea’s part in it.
‘I’m not merely the head chef at the hotel, I also run a profitable business, in fact an international business.’ He paused proudly. ‘Believe me. Transcontinental. Global.’
He signalled the barmaid again who hurried her bottom to come over with a large beer and a pink cocktail with a green straw and floating cubes of melon. I thought he was to offer one of these to me, but no.
He placed his phone on the table and said, ‘I have to keep a watch for overseas calls, you’ll understand.’ Then he leant forward. ‘I happen to be looking for an additional part-time worker.’
‘As a chef?’
‘You were a chef. Now you’re an unemployed man requiring cash. Believe me, there’s no more chef work.’
‘Exactly what sort of worker would this worker be?’ Would I have to dance for tourists?
‘Before I give away privileged business information, I need to know that you’re discrete.’
‘Discrete is one of my core qualities. I’ve no wish to know anything apart from what’s required to do my job. It was the principle under which I worked for Mr Bin.’
‘Absolutely correct and reassuring.’
‘But you said part-time. With respect, I need full time.’
‘If you proved a reliable and long-lasting employee then you could move to full time. The bonuses are good —if you moved to full time.’ He leant forward further and spoke softly, causing me to lean forward as well. I could not help hoping that we would not raise suspicions with the President, looking down on us, watching. ‘I’m in export. It’s a growth market. China, Vietnam, Cambodia. We even have European partners and intermediaries. To serve our customers we have channels … routes … dispatches … transits… relays.’ He nodded proudly. ‘We have bearers … consignments … carriers—’
‘May I ask what you export?’
‘and mules.’
‘Mules? They are in demand in the East?’
‘What?’
‘I was asking what you export?’
Mr Makata waved a nonchalant hand. ‘Produce.’
‘What sort of produce, if I might enquire?’
He lifted a finger at me. ‘Mr Mlantushi, you’ve just said that you’re discrete! That you’re not a nosy man. Now you’re asking me what sort of produce we export!’ He looked up and saw that we were alone … apart from the President. ‘But I see I can trust you. We harvest natural products from hereabouts. We’re organic produce exporters. We also side-line souvenirs for free-minded tourists. The nation … the people … must benefit from our natural resources. Otherwise
the National Park is just a useless wasteland. Don’t you agree?’
I delivered him a concurring nod. ‘What then would be my position?’
‘I see you in the transport division. Two wheels in our logistics empire.’
He had not mentioned dancing. Logistics? It sounded mathematically inclined and somewhat specialised. My grades in maths were never good after my father died. Transport? ‘I cannot drive.’
‘But you can cycle. Does anyone know that you’re no longer employed by the Ben guide?’
‘Not as yet. Only Mr Bin and my wife.’
‘Let it go no further. Listen here. I’m going to rely on your discretion —which you’ve promised me. Yes? I can see you’re a man of principles. In my business we also have our principles. If you’re a man of principles, then you’ll fit in well. The most important principle is confidentiality.’
‘Another of my core qualities.’
‘Here’s the job description. When requested, you’ll cycle along the track towards the Ben guide’s house. As if going to work. At a designated point along the way, you’ll stop and collect the produce. It’ll be in a box under a bush off the track. You strap the box to the carrier on the back of your bicycle. You return along the road. You drop it at a house in the village. Very simple logistics. No paperwork needed! In fact, we don’t do any paperwork due to our principle of confidentiality … and to comply one hundred percent with government regulations regarding data protection, privacy … blah blah.’
‘This box. What does it contain?’
He picked out a melon cube from his cocktail and sucked it. ‘The produce. I’ve already told you. The organic produce. Don’t fret —you’ll not be carrying anything dangerous.’ He chortled. ‘Far from it.’
‘But what if I’m stopped and asked what’s in the box?’
‘Have you ever been stopped before?’
‘No. Only by elephants.’
‘Then why would you be stopped? You have a legitimate reason to be cycling down the track.’
I thought of the negative bank balance, of the brick to be paid for, of the lack of chef positions out here in the sticks.
‘You’ll be paid discretely. Cash in an envelope. You can decide if any tax is due. The company of course has no wish to cheat the state. We have our principles. It’ll be up to you.’
He leant back, picked up his cocktail and squinted down the straw and sucked. ‘Ahh! So chilled and soothing. Easy to afford when you’re in international logistics.’
I put upon myself to consider an extreme and almost implausible hypothesis: that Dorothea was correct to question the road that I had taken in my life. Maybe she spoke truth. Her suggestion of a substitute career concurred with one of my father’s sayings, Do not let what you cannot do tear from your hands what you can. Surely this was my exact situation. I should not designate myself as a one career runner. Perhaps I could excel in another vocation, which I had no imagination for at that particular time. Logistics was no doubt an up and coming field. It was surely profitable; the proof was Mr Makata sitting easy, sucking on his iced cocktail like a spoilt but happy kid. Was Dorothea not to be adulated for her nimble thinking? A praiseworthy wife indeed.
Then I recalled the sweat that I had sweated in my training to be a chef, the study and experimentation, the exacting work schedule, the employers I had had to put up with. Mr Makata had offered employment whose only skill was to be able to pedal a bicycle. Bicycle logistics. I would not be creating dishes for the happiness of diners. I would be riding into the wilderness again with its merciless predators and irritable beasts. I would not have escaped or succeeded.
Then I heard my father say again, If you have not yet arrived at your destination, keep walking, the destination is still ahead.
‘I’m grateful for your kind offer of employment in logistics, but I’m devoted to the pursuit of a career as a chef. I shall therefore decline.’
Mr Makata thumped down his glass, slopping the gloop-green drink onto the table. He stared at me. His lips twisted. ‘Come now, Mr Mlantushi! Is there something wrong with you? You’re wedded to a make-believe you’ll find kitchen work. My job offer’s unbeatable. The cash is mountainous … on produce delivery.’ He put his finger under his watch bracelet and sprung it.
‘I’m eternally and solely committed to the culinary arts.’
‘You’re half-witted!’
I shook my head.
He surveyed me as if he was looking at a blindfolded man attempting to ride a bicycle along a rough and twisty path. Trying to understand such a phenomenon. ‘Let me try to help you. Here in this country … everyone has their dreams and everyone is optimistic, no? Everyone believes that good times are coming as early as tomorrow. We all dress to show our faith in this, no?’ He indicated his self. ‘But you … in your clerk-in-the-office outfit … you’ll never achieve. Why? Because you don’t let the dream find you. You think you know the dream. But I’m telling you that we only know what that dream is when it arrives. When we hit lucky. Today, you’ve hit lucky. Your dream has arrived!’
I stayed comported.
‘Very well.’ He made a dismissing gesture with his hand. ‘You’ll have to multi-occupation like everyone else. Smallholding … agent for sim cards … small loans. Bicycle taxi service. Barber on Saturdays. By the way, my offer’s still on the table for your pink sofa. Now you’ll certainly need to sell.’
I left him and footed home, pride strengthening my steps. I had stayed loyal to my calling despite the greatest temptation under the most urgent circumstance. My resolve was as strong and obstinate as Dorothea’s faith. I would not give up. But as I approached our house, my congratulatory thinking ended. How was I to indicate to my wife the necessity for monetary discipline without breaking our married bliss?
I rehearsed my style of approach.
‘Dorothea, dearest wife, truest companion, joy of my eyes, balm of my soul, I nevertheless have to raise with you a small but most distressing matter. We have no cash in our bank account. We are cleared out and cannot—’
‘Dearest husband, where is your faith? Did I not tell you? Rock bottom first, then a thousand-fold.’
Or I could try: ‘Wife, there’s no excuse in earth or, for that matter, in the holiest heaven to gamble all our money away on maybes and—’
‘Husband! Gambling is of the devil, giving is of God. What are you implying and where is your faith?’
Or maybe: ‘Let’s go humbly to Pastor Cain and explain my temporarily altered employment position, which is consequenting our fiscal health. I’m sure he’ll be happy to take back the brick … complete with gloss paper and ribbon. Still reusable. He’ll excuse us from giving him this impoverishing type of love.’
‘Certainly not! Love should never be withdrawn! In any case, Pastor Cain will rightly say, where is your faith?’
I slow-opened the door to our little house in expectation of personal difficulties. The unbreakable vase of our married bliss was to be tested. Would it shatter or bounce? I was bodeful. Maybe it was wisest to say nothing and keep the peace. I hoped that my father was in error when he said, In marriage each has a buried flint and each has a buried stone. Do not dig them up and strike them together. It will start a fire.
Chapter 10
I had no time to speak, Dorothea came to me in an excited condition. She had my mobile phone in her hand. She pressed it on me and then her eyes rolled to the ceiling and she lifted her hands to the ceiling and supplicated in another tongue.
‘Hello?’ I said, putting the phone absently to my ear whilst fixated on Dorothea’s unexpected conduct. My voice, I heard, was disinterested and faint. True, I had the other matter on my mind.
‘Mr Tushi?
Dorothea’s babbling ascended the melodic scale. I could not hear the speaker. Could she not see that I needed to attend to the call? I had to quit the phone and calm her, st
op her jabbering. Such behaviour was for the Assembly and should not be brought home; its rightful place was amongst other ululaters and wailers, incited by a bellowing preacher. I had to bring a stern and dignified peace to our private room and I needed to prioritise. First to snap Dorothea from living her life in the blessings of tomorrow, then to make plain to her the overdraft of today. And I would not take the ‘dearest wife’ approach of previous practice. I would take the ‘there is no excuse’ line to demonstrate that I, for one, was not spineless in such matters. Only then could I attend to the caller who was perhaps wishing to sell me a loan, my financial status having been sold on by the bank.
I said to the caller, ‘Please ring later.’
Dorothea quit babbling immediately, her eyes stopped rolling and she looked straight at me. ‘No, no, speak to her! You must speak to her!’
I heard the person shout down the line, ‘For — sake, talk to me, will you?’
Dorothea nodded vigorously.
‘Yes, hello, I’m here, Mr Mlantushi.’
‘At last! I’m Chantella’s mother, Mrs Zeto Camlyn.’
Surely, a wise-cracker in bad taste. Dorothea started up again, but then uttered a high-pitched scream and fell, raptured, slain, as was her habit at the Assembly. I was about to press the red terminate-call icon but, most fortunately, she fell into the pink sofa and was mute.
‘What was that? Sounds like some creature just pegged in agony.’
‘Everything’s in order,’ I said.
‘If you say so. Look, you’re just the fella I’ve been looking for. If —big if— Chantella’s to be believed.’ She spoke with speed. ‘We’ll need to wangle you through immigration, but I’ll leave that to my company minders. They’ll take care of all that malarkey.’
I made no sound. Dorothea was still unconscious. Only a bird alarmed outside.