When I got into the airport, the guard guided me through streams of tourists to the back of the building, down a corridor that led to a pale-green room.
Staring through the window at the tourist, I asked, ‘How long? Has he had any water or tea?’
‘Two hours, baas,’ said the guard. ‘No water.’
‘Well, go make the man a cup of tea, for God’s sake.’
I walked in smiling, hand outstretched, greeting the man. ‘My friend, I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay in Bwalo, my name is Josef Songa from Bwalo Tourism.’
When he shook my hand, I leaned in, winked and whispered, ‘Sorry, our airport staff are being overly protective. Big Day coming, we want it all to go without hitches. Yes?’ I put on a thick African accent; it settled them, believing me to be a dumb bureaucrat. I mimicked Ruby’s verbal tic of tying off sentences with a drawn-out and friendly, ‘Yes?’
‘I’m Jack Franklin. I’m a British citizen but resident of Kenya,’ he said, like a soldier giving name and rank. His voice fluttered and he was too easy to read. The furrows of his brow told me he was a man in above his head, pushing what little luck he had, always owing more than he made. ‘Now, my good friend Mr Jack, most importantly have you had the most splendid holiday in this our marvellous nation of Bwalo. Yes?’
He nodded. Power is an exclusive spirit, possessing only one person at one time. You can’t see it move but, like wind, you can catch its effect. I watched it fill this man as he sat up, in control again; big men are used to being in control. ‘Good good, this is good. We welcome tourists and hope you’ll tell your friends of Bwalo’s beauty. Yes?’
‘Sure,’ he said, patronising now, the spirit shining in his eyes.
‘We’re going to let you go but we would like to know about this money. Because you see, bwana, we’re a poor people. We see a lot of cash-e, we think, goodness, so much cash-e. Yes?’ Looking at his red eyes, I wondered if drugs might be the issue. ‘Let me get you some tea and we can talk a little more as good friends do. Yes?’
‘Sure,’ he said flippantly, and I got up off my seat, turning as if to leave, then – using the back of my hand – slapped him precisely across the face.
He stood so fast his chair fell over behind him. Something shifted. The light on the security camera blinked. We stood, facing one another, watching for a brief moment. Then very slowly, he turned, grabbed his chair and sat back down. It’s ill-advised to do more than a light slap. The world was watching, more than ever, but usually a slap was enough to open up the mouth of a scared man. Now, in my normal voice, I continued, ‘Mr Franklin. You’re trying to catch a flight out of the country and you say you’re a tourist but you don’t have a bag, only lots of cash. We’ve detained you for hours without a charge or legal explanation and not once have you asked for a lawyer or an embassy representative.’ His eyes searched the space around me for the dumb bureaucrat who’d been sitting before him moments ago. ‘Our country is beautiful but our prisons are not. So, here is what’s going to happen. I’m going to get tea, then we’ll talk properly and you’ll tell me the full story of this cash. Cash always comes with an interesting tale and I know that you know what it is.’ I could almost hear his heart thumping as I tied off the end of the sentence with a sing-song, ‘Yes?’ I stared at him a long time, observing his fear, before asking brightly, ‘Milk? Sugar?’
‘Four sugars,’ he mumbled.
‘Like we Africans,’ I joked. ‘You like your tea so full of sugar the spoon stands.’ He didn’t smile but his shoulders relaxed a touch. Tension must be relieved, like teasing a fish on the line. If it’s permanently taut it snaps and you lose the catch.
In the corridor the guard was standing with the cup of tea ready and a fistful of sugar cubes. When I returned to the room, placing the cup in front of him, he spoke without prompting. ‘I did a courier job for a guy. Don’t know his name. Big guy, meaty, a yarpie or Zimbabwean, not sure, Afrikaans maybe, white guy.’
‘And?’
‘And he told me it was chemicals, not drugs, all very low-grade illegal.’
‘What chemical?’
‘Something to extract gold. Potassium something or other. I’m not sure . . .’
My phone began to vibrate, again and again, like an insect trapped in my pocket. Holding a finger up to silence him, I read the text, and it brought such relief that I smiled: ‘Josef. Can you meet me at Victoria Market? pg.’
Before considering the problems that this text invited into my life, I simply felt a deep and clear sense of relief. PG: Patrick Goya. Alive. I knew it.
He looked confused as I said, ‘I have a colleague who will take over from me. You tell him everything you know.’ Then I left the room and told the guard that I was sending David to finish the interrogation. As I walked down the corridor I texted back: ‘On way.’
When I called David, he immediately asked, ‘Did he confess anything?’
‘He’s just small-time, David. But, look, something important has come up. Can you take over and finish the interview? You might be partly right about Horst. Sounds like this man has smuggled something in, chemicals, drugs probably, for a man who fits Horst’s description.’
‘Good, good,’ he said.
‘But listen, David. Don’t hurt this man. We don’t want any incidents. And get someone to tail Horst; don’t let him out of our sight. But if it’s some small drug deal, let it go until after the Big Day. We can’t have any scandal, understand?’
I ran: out of the dark airport, blinking into the bright steel day, and drove in the opposite direction of town, waiting to see if a car materialised behind me. It was almost impossible to tail someone on the airport road where only a handful of cars moved sluggishly along the thin rail of tarmac that crumbled on either side. As I obsessively checked the rear-view mirror, I caught glimpses of myself, shocking glimpses, of a sick, old man. I’d aged enough now to see my father in my face. Though I’d no memory or photographs of him, I instinctively knew I was now staring at him. That I’d grown into him, with my sunken eyes, my grey-green skin, dusky as an artichoke. He’d have looked as exhausted as this after a hard life, a village life, raising children and farming a tiny scrubland until he died of malaria not long after I was born.
When I knew I had no tail, I turned towards town, driving via the back roads, wondering how I could help Patrick. Was he in need of a little money? That I could do. But what if he asked me to let him stay at my house, to risk my life, Solomon’s life, to invite Jeko in to kill us all? But for all the fear, I still felt a strong sense of vindication that I’d been right, he was alive, and a small sense of assurance that all was not lost, Tafumo wasn’t killing again, Jeko wasn’t vanishing men and women and children.
My phone rang. It was an unknown number. Assuming it was Patrick – and about to warn him not to talk over the telephone – it took a moment for me to register that it was actually Essop, chatting brightly, ‘My friend, how you feeling? Where are you? Did you get your bad tooth sorted?’ Trying to get off the phone, without raising suspicion, I said happily, ‘I’m much better, Essop, thank you, just busy.’
Essop wasn’t the suspicious sort and he wittered away as I pulled the car into an alley, walking cautiously towards the market via the back streets.
‘You sound busy, Josef, so I won’t keep you. Shame we couldn’t do sundowners in the end.’
‘Soon as this Big Day is over we’ll drink a proper drink together. I promise.’
‘OK, my friend, till then.’
I put the phone back in my pocket and came out of the alley. The market was thick with hawkers and tourists haggling for carvings and batiks. Sugarcane husks carpeted the floor, flies swarmed around the hot yams, stalls lined both sides of the street, facing each other, packed with carvings of elephants, lions and warriors arranged on flax mats like some over-populated chess set. I was about to text Patrick to get a bearing on where he was in the market but through the streams of people I spotted the back of him, his tall frame toweri
ng over the short Bwalo people. I saw no obvious threats, no soldiers, none of Jeko’s Young Pioneers. Patrick was dressed badly, no longer in a tailored suit but in a dirty T-shirt and embarrassingly tattered shorts, some sort of disguise. His feet were bare and exposed and he looked pathetic and primitive.
People moved into my path as I walked and I gently pushed them aside; one man started to protest but as soon as he saw it was me, the only man in a suit in this shabby market, he bowed and started apologising. I told him to shut up before he drew attention, then I saw Patrick – who’d noticed the commotion – moving away, skipping past people, panicking that he’d been spotted. I reacted fast, jogging through a tunnel yawning between us as the crowd parted, and I finally got within reaching distance and he turned, collapsing to his knees, prostrate, his face close to my shoes, begging, ‘Sorry, minister, sorry, sorry, I do not know why I am running.’
I touched his dirty hair and when he looked up I saw that this man wasn’t Patrick. He was just a man with Patrick’s figure who’d seen me and run, like any man should when they saw the likes of me coming.
Patrick wasn’t here – he wasn’t anywhere – it was a trick. Looking around – expecting to see soldiers, or spot that Homburg hat bobbing above the crowd towards me – I felt faint, and in the dark swoop my senses retreated deep inside my body, the world stretching away, as I stumbled back down the alley.
Jack
The first man who came in was grey as death. He looked bad but smelt worse. His face hollowed out, the whites of his eyes bloodied like a burst embryo in an egg. His suit was expensive, shoes shinier than glass, but his face was wrecked. He had what we used to call as kids a nappy-head, hair dense and messy as moss. However, he came in smiling and shaking my hand, talking in this pidgin English about how everything was going to be fine and had I had a good holiday, and sorry about how heavy the airport officials were. Then just as I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking I wasn’t going to go to prison, he stood and slapped me across the face. His voice changed and he was suddenly a well-educated official threatening me. In a panic, I told him half the story, the one I was told by Willem, no mention of names, or the gun. But before I really got started, he looked at his phone and left.
Josef
As I drove back to the airport, I considered calling my Ministry and asking them to track the text message that I’d been sent. But I knew whoever sent it knew what they were doing and it would be blocked. There was also the possibility that it was someone in the Ministry, someone high up, who had sent the text. Deleting the message, I tried to think why they wanted me to go to the market. Did they want me out of the way? Who was behind it?
Parking in front of the airport, I was relieved to escape the sharp daylight as I entered the cool building. I pushed through the crowd to the immigration rooms. Marching down the corridor I knew something was wrong as soon as I turned the corner: the guard wasn’t there. Jogging to the door I saw through the window that the suspect was gone. My knees melted as I walked into the room and sat down, looking across the desk at the empty chair. I shut my eyes, placed my elbows on the desk and lowered my face slowly into my hands and in the warm silence, my face wrapped in my palms, I heard a mild electronic whirring and glanced up to see the security camera, its light blinking.
I stood up and stormed through the airport, screaming, ‘Where is the guard that was at Room 6? Tell me! Tell me! Where is he!’ Tourists looked bemused and airport officials tried to help, their faces twisted with fear, but no one had any idea what I was talking about. Then I spotted the guard, far across the concourse with many people between us. He looked as if he was sneaking away, so I shouted, ‘Where is he?’, my voice echoing across the large space as people turned to stare.
I ran over and dragged him back by his arm, taking him down the corridor to the small room where the suspect had been. I pointed at the empty chair. ‘Where is he?’
‘You took him, minister,’ he said. ‘The man came and told me you wanted to take him. I let him go with them. They said it was your order and . . . the man came and he told me . . . the quiet man, he had a document you gave him, a release form, it had your name on it and so . . . so . . .’
The guard backed against the wall, as I yelled, ‘It was David. Was it David? Tell me now.’ He looked at his shoes, as I screamed, ‘Get me the tape! Get me the tape! From the security camera. Get it. Get it!’
He was shaking his head. ‘Sorry, minister, but the camera in the room, she is broken.’ I remembered the red light. He was lying: someone had got to him first, someone he was more scared of than me. ‘Listen,’ I said slowly. ‘Look at me and don’t stare at your fucking shoes . . .’ I moved my face into his, almost touching him. ‘Tell me who did this. Or I’ll do far worse to you than David did . . .’
The guard and I both turned when we heard the footsteps and there stood David at the end of the corridor. I walked towards him so fast he instinctively retreated, stumbling backwards until I caught up, grabbed his shoulders, and David started talking: ‘What’s wrong, minister? I thought you were gone? Are you ok?’
‘I’m in better shape than Jack Franklin, if that’s what you are asking me,’ I shouted and David did a passable impression of a confused man.
I shook him a little. ‘Don’t fucking play the fool, David. How dare you take him out of the room. Where is he?’
David acted well, I’ll give him that. ‘I have not touched him, minister. I’m only just arriving now. I had to make sure a guard was on Horst. I’ve just arrived, I’m telling you, minister, telling you the truth, please, please look at the tape.’
I shook my head, releasing David. ‘What do you think you’re doing, David? Do you think you’re more powerful than me, that you can play games with me? I’ll crush you, David, I will . . .’ When he tried to defend himself, I screamed over him, ‘I don’t want to hear from you until the Big Day is done! And we will review your situation! I don’t know what you are up to, David, but you are suspended with immediate effect. Now get out! Get out of my fucking sight!’
For just a second, I thought he might actually take a swing at me. He stood shaking with anger but instead of lashing out he suddenly looked broken, his body twisting as he slumped, exhausted. Then he turned. Watching him limp away, I felt my phone vibrating as texts and messages arrived one after the other. There was a list of missed calls from the Mirage and four texts from Solomon asking me to call him. I checked my voicemail: one from Stuart saying, ‘Sorry, Josef, but something has happened with Solomon but um . . . I wonder if you . . .’
I called the hotel but the receptionist said she didn’t know where Stuart was. I called Solomon; he didn’t answer. The corridor tightened around me. Something had happened. Had the text been a test? Had Jeko sent it to see if I’d help Patrick? Had someone broken into my house and found my folder? Were people there now, tearing it down to find evidence of my sedition? Was I about to go to whatever place Patrick had gone and Levi before him? Was Jeko in my house, his grey hand wrapped around Solomon’s neck?
I drove back to town with my hand on the horn, leaning out of the window, screaming at cars to pull over. They all did; no one stopped a government Mercedes. I drove erratically, heat beating off the road, twisting the world out of focus. Parking at the main entrance, I ran through the lobby and shouted at the receptionist, ‘Where’s my son? Where is he?’
She pointed to the office and there he was: Solomon sitting quietly at the desk. For a second I just took him in, sitting there, alive: my son. Soon as I entered the office, Stuart stood and launched into a stuttering explanation, ‘Um, Josef, thanks for coming, look, um, Charlie has lost . . . Solomon may have been in our house and . . . so . . . we think some property might be missing from our house.’ Needing more time to control my breathing, I didn’t reply, simply nodded as Stuart stuttered, ‘I-it’s j-just a toy, a little recording device, a present from someone and we are not sure . . .’ A large window dominated the office and daylight was streaming through, blu
rring everything; Solomon, Stuart, even the furniture seemed coated in a fine layer of glowing dust. Horst’s idiotic portrait stared down. I noted that he had illegally hung his portrait higher than Tafumo’s.
The brightness dimmed a touch as I fought to gain control of my breathing and – realising that Stuart was waiting for a reply – I finally found my tongue.
‘Solomon. Did you steal it?’ I stared at my son, playing the furious father when all I wanted to do was wrap him in my arms, ecstatic that my fears were not realised, that he was alive.
Stuart shifted awkwardly then said, ‘That’s fine, Solomon, it’s all . . . let’s just leave it and get on with our day, sure you and your dad are busy and . . .’ I raised my hand to silence Stuart. ‘Solomon, what do you have to say for yourself?’
There was a long defiant silence before Solomon pointed at Stuart and shouted, ‘We are richer than them. Why would I steal from people who are poorer than us?’
In the shocked hush that followed, I saw the arrogant glaze on Solomon’s face, my son, my blood, perfectly reflecting my own pride and cruelty.
I grabbed his arm and shouted, ‘You say sorry to Mr Johnson! How dare you talk like that! How dare you!’
Ragged, wild and out-of-control, the sound of my voice brought tears to Solomon’s eyes, as he muttered, ‘Sorry, sorry, Mr Johnson, I am sorry, I am sorry,’ his breath catching in his throat.
I left Stuart frozen, still standing behind his desk, mouth open with shock, as I yanked Solomon across the lobby, my brain churning the phrase over and over and over: burn the folder, burn the folder, burn the folder.
Sean
The night had chewed me up like sugarcane, sucked me of goodness, and spat me into the dawn. I woke up exhausted and confused. Stu had kindly lent me some fresh clothes, which were perfectly folded at the foot of the bed, and as I changed into them I tried to remember yesterday. I glimpsed only slim flashbacks among vast tracts of blackout: being fired, fighting Stella. I was suddenly arrested by an image of Stella on the kitchen stoop, staring down a rifle sight, waiting for me to return. It was time to tidy my act up. I left the hotel room determined to have a sober day, to deal methodically and clinically with each of the many problems lining up in my life.
Please Do Not Disturb Page 17