I took Solomon’s hand and walked on. As we walked, my hearing became so sensitive that the world seemed to scream, shaking my skull, blurring my vision, crickets wailing as the metallic click and slide of rifles rang out, and we kept walking, walking away from the rising sun, our shadows stretching out before us, losing all feeling in my body except for the warm clutch of Solomon’s hand in mine as we turned a bend, moving out of sight of the soldiers, chasing our shadows to safety.
Charlie
Click!
‘Hey, Willem, did you know leopards mark their favourite trees by scarring the bark?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. Well did you know that an elephant has a hundred thousand muscles in his trunk?’
‘Now that I didn’t know.’
‘Pretty cool, eh? Where are you off to?’
‘Golf course to play some holes.’
‘Ah that’s great. See you there. Mum, Dad and I watch the Big Day from the course.’
‘Really?’
‘Yah, really. Mum says we’re not allowed to go to the stadium because we have to get everything ready in the hotel and every single year I beg her to let me go but she just says . . .’
‘What sort of time do you go and where do you sit?’
‘Whenever really, not sure. Sometimes we sit on the first tee, it’s the best view looking down into the stadium. Are you super-excited? What do you think of the Big Day?’
‘I think I’m ready for it.’
Click!
Hope
The doctor took out his black bag: another myth. Supposedly filled with sing’anga muti. In fact it contained amphetamines, hot chemicals that Tafumo scorched his organs on. The doctor inserted the needle; fluid sank as Tafumo’s head rose on its thin neck and a man appeared behind the cloudy gaze. Initially he loathed the lucidity, unwittingly pulled from his snug psychosis, but soon the concoction took hold, spreading like fire, his suit filling out as he whispered, ‘Ngwazi.’
He admired himself in the mirror – examining his reflection as if reacquainting himself with an estranged relative – before we walked through the palace, led by Boma. Among the many faces, I spotted Essop. I smiled at him. He looked exhausted; his quick smile tight and formal. The staff lined the palace doors as we emerged into the crisp light. I searched the faces but failed to find Josef.
Tafumo nodded to everyone, walking and talking, smiling and full of power. He’d hibernated all year, preserving himself, not even wasting energy on clinging to reason, but letting himself drift into effortless insanity to prepare for the day he’d rise again. Miraculous to behold: the power of will. He waved to his staff. Following his line of sight, I saw that he was looking beyond them to his palace; waving away the thing he loved above all else. In the car the chemical rush slackened and he gazed irritably through the windows, watching his palace shrink. He used to walk the streets, talk to his people. With only one soldier to protect him, he’d visit the market and ask people their problems. Over time he went out less and less, more and more soldiers shadowing. Now he rose only once a year to check his kingdom, to show he was still the father of the nation.
Boma sat across from us and Essop sat next to me, silent, unmoving. The windows trapped our pensive reflections as Tafumo looked out on the plains of his country, its blank blue skies, its once green fields bullied to dust by drought. With tightly crossed arms Tafumo cradled himself in the corner as we politely ignored his panic. Part of me wanted to take the old man back to his bed.
A boy burst out of the bush, jogging alongside the car, screaming, ‘Ta! Fu! Mo!’ His fist, tight as a berry, beat the air with each syllable. ‘Ta! Fu! Mo! Ta! Fu! Mo!’
The car slowed, the boy stopped and stared, captivated by the sight of God. Tafumo lowered his window and gave the child a fragile wave that ignited rapturous dancing. As we drove on Tafumo turned to watch the boy dissolve in the distance, then he whispered reverently, as though referring to some great man he had once loved, ‘Tafumo.’
Sean
I caught a lift on Des’s pick-up truck with a horde of Viking backpackers. Standing up because it was too full to sit, pillared by smiling Bjorns and Stefanssons, we travelled down the road and, with the lake twinkling at me through the gaps in the bush, I thought, this is it: my last Big Day.
Even after an hour standing in a pick-up truck, I remained elated; sun gleaming like a new penny and me basking in my miraculous escape. Lady Luck was smiling down. We were waved through checkpoints, me hidden in a blond cloud of Scandinavians. Either the soldiers didn’t have my name on their list or they just didn’t see me. I was the luckiest bugger in Bwalo.
Town was spotless, everything ready, the stage set. As we drove along the main street I saw a policeman push a legless cripple on a skateboard down an alley. The cripple protested, waving his hands uselessly. Returning from the alley a moment later, the cop tossed a cigarette back at the beggar. The pick-up dropped off the grinning Vikings on the main street, then Des dropped me at my house and said, ‘Have a great Big Day, Sean.’
When I got to my gate, I was so shocked I just stood for a moment taking it in. The lawn was mowed. The meandering vines of the bougainvillaea were clipped. Jacaranda pods no longer peppered the grass. And the shocks didn’t stop in the garden. When I walked into the house, the kitchen gleamed like a scrubbed pot and the concrete floor was polished to its original cardinal-red. The cat sat in the hall looking as confused as me.
I grabbed him and sat on the sofa as questions vaulted over one another: Why had Stella tidied up? Was this a trick? What’s the angle? Had she cleaned up in order to put the house on the market? Or did she have forgiveness in her heart? Was this her way of saying sorry? I heard a creak, and there at the bedroom door stood a sleepy Stella. She smiled. Good start. She came and sat with me. Still good. Better still she put her hand in mine. She smelt of sweat and sleep as she nestled into my neck. ‘Sean, what are you . . .’ She sounded unsure what to say and then finished with, ‘You came back? Where were you sleeping last night?’
‘Stella,’ I said, kissing her forehead, tasting her sweet sourness. ‘Trust me when I tell you that I’ve just had the wildest ride of my life but I’ve learned that I love you, my little chongololo, and no matter what happens we’re going to make it, you and I. Now listen, I don’t want you to freak out here but I think there is going to be a coup. So I just need to tell Stu and then we’re off. You and I, riding into the sunset; well the sunrise, I suppose, but . . .’ She looked at me like I was out of my mind and I asked, ‘The soldiers at the bar? Did you give them my name? Did they interrogate you?’
‘No, I ran too, we all ran, no one has been back to the Flamingo.’
‘I know we have said some hurtful things but do you think we could start over?’ As I waited for her reply, I wondered if I was dreaming; it had been so long since Stella and I had held a conversation of this length without violence breaking out. She kept nodding in a sleepy way, so I added, ‘You cleaned the house.’
‘Yes,’ she said bashfully. ‘Well I paid some people to do it.’
‘Of course you did. I forgot we had nice floors under all that rubbish. Now, how about I make us a lovely cup of tea,’ I said, getting up, causing the cat to leap to the floor.
And, as if the surprises would never cease, she stood, pulling me gently back down to the sofa, and said, ‘I’ll make a tea for you, my young man,’ manoeuvring around me. I watched her go, then I got off the sofa, keen to begin packing.
I started in the study. But when I walked in I noticed Royal and all my books were already boxed up and the room was swept and tidy. Strange. I shouted, ‘Hey, Stell, why’s my study packed away?’ gathering what few pages of my writing were worth keeping – a sad few – as well as tossing some books into a bag. On the way to the kitchen to quiz Stella, I passed the bedroom door and saw something move in the darkness. I let out a surprised yelp. Stella ran out of the kitchen down the corridor towards me but I held her back, whispering, ‘Someone�
��s in there, get back, I’ll deal with this. Come out, you fucker, I’m armed and ready.’
The government had come for me; the soldiers or one of Josef’s henchmen was standing there with a panga ready to cleave my skull in two. As I was about to step into the room, I wondered how many men they’d sent. I ignored Stella as she screamed for me not to go in.
And it wasn’t until I burst into the bedroom, and saw through the open window this fella running across the lawn hoisting his trousers up, that I realised what an idiot I’d been. The way he limped I thought initially was due to holding up his trousers but, watching closely, I saw he had a bend in his back, causing him to lope across the lawn. When I came back out of the bedroom, Stella was standing in the corridor frozen, as if fixed to the floor.
‘Are you fucking kidding me, Stell? Who was Quasimodo and why’s everything packed up?’
All her sweetness turned so quickly to rage. ‘You stupid fucking old man. Can’t you see what is happening right before your nose? I didn’t think you would be stupid enough to come back. I thought you were gone for good. I was just stalling you, so David would have time to leave before I told you everything was over . . .’
‘Who the fuck’s David?’
‘David is the man I’m leaving you for. And he has already warned me that something is happening and David and I are running away together, with each other. We were waiting for the right time to run, which is early morning, and then we are off. Without you, you old man. You are finished to me.’
A sad sound escaped my mouth, ‘Oh,’ and Stella looked at me with such pity.
‘And you’re selling the house, that’s why you cleared it up, packed up my stuff?’
‘Your shit, my house, everything is being sold so that I can start a fresh life.’
I should have turned and left at that moment; should have simply gone peacefully. It was clear to me that Stella, to her credit, at least had the good grace not to try and pretend she wasn’t shagging another man. I stood there stunned by just how foolish I’d been. Stella must have started cleaning up the house a day ago, before we had even clashed at the Flamingo; it had all been decided already. She’d cut me out of her life and all that had been between us was now behind us. So I should have accepted all of that and done the same. I should have nodded bravely and, with a certain stoical dignity, turned and said something like, ‘It’s been a wild ride, my dear, best of luck to you and your new beau.’
But of course I didn’t, couldn’t, I just couldn’t. So instead, I screamed, ‘I wish I’d never met you, you mad bitch.’ And though it did bring a certain rush of satisfaction I knew, as soon as the words were out, that it was a bad move. It triggered Stella’s temper and she was off: calling me every name under the sun, reaching such high pitches her voice kept cutting out, becoming so overpowered by rage that her English ran dry and in its place poured a shit-stream of the most violent, colourful Chichewa any Irishman ever heard.
Knowing it was only a matter of moments before she remembered her feet weren’t glued to the ground, I jogged into the bedroom, grabbed clothes – which were already stuffed into removal boxes – and located my passport. In the meantime, Stella had rushed into the kitchen and was back in the doorway, now armed: a carving knife – which I noted was gleaming clean – in her right hand, her mouth wide open but no sound coming out. It was apparent that leaving me was now no longer enough; she wanted to kill me too. So I slowed down, held my hand out to show I was retreating, not advancing. I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked backwards towards the door, never moving my eyes from the blade. We stood either side of the corridor, so there was distance between us, at least ten feet of safety. When she found her voice it wasn’t words that came but a long pained squeal, as I finally got to the front door and said, ‘I hope I never see you again, you crazy fucking banshee.’
It was about the right tone for the ending of a miserable relationship. She raced at me, growing louder and larger, the blade flashing like a propeller. I jumped out of the house, slamming the door, locking it from the outside. Buying enough time to get on to my old bicycle and pedal like a bastard.
Still, she nearly caught me. Tumbling out the window and chasing after me, she almost swiped my rear tyre but the hill’s incline and gravity’s kind hand pushed me past her reach. As I picked up speed I glanced back to see her standing in the street, in her nightie like some tired child with a carving knife in her hand. After the screaming and chaos, I found myself pedalling through quiet streets, my bell clinking gently. Town was deserted, as the entire population congregated at the stadium. I rode hard towards the Mirage, flagpoles flicking past, road stripes blazing in the dawn light.
Charlie
Every year I begged Mum to let me go but every year she said, ‘We always watch the Big Day from the first tee, it’s tradition.’ I replied, ‘Dad said tradition’s a dumb habit repeated to fool people into thinking it means something.’ Mum raised her eyebrows. ‘Well isn’t your father just the fount of all knowledge.’ The main road held a chugging line of hot shimmering cars. Dad let me use his binoculars and through them I could see down into the belly of the stadium where the great crowds churned. Up front, near the stage, dancers jiggled. Little boys were stuffed into miniature versions of the same suits as their dads and all the girls were wrapped in green and gold chitenges, topped off with bright swirling headscarves. A voice echoed out of the loudspeaker: ‘Welcome, Bwalo, to the Glorious Day of Our Splendid Independence. To help celebrate this momentous day we have a superstar come all the way from the United States of America, greatly talented singer and incredible, marvellous artist!’ People hollered and clapped and the announcer said, ‘So put your hands together for Mr Truth.’ With my binoculars still glued to my eyes I watched as Truth rose up on a platform right in the middle of the stage, singing as his dancers shimmied around him. They wore long African dresses and looked strange without their miniskirts. When Truth finished his song, he said, ‘I’d like to thank His Excellency King Tafumo. I’d like to sing a song we call “Beautiful Africa”.’ The cheer of the crowd reached us in ever-louder waves. I couldn’t really hear what Truth was singing but I heard Mum saying, ‘What’s with Americans and their bloody razzmatazz.’ Dad smiled, happy Mum was talking to him again. Instead of answering, he leaned over and gave Mum a kiss. I said, ‘Ack, you guys, that’s too gross.’
Sean
When I got to the Mirage, Beauty greeted me at reception. ‘Happy Big Day, Mr Sean. The master, the missus and Charlie are all on the golf course watching our glorious day of . . .’
‘Thanks, Beauty,’ and I was off, past the pool, up the fairway to the first tee. As I ran, I wondered if Stella had already gone with her Quasimodo, breaking for the border, her house just an empty shell, nothing left but a stunned cat warming itself by a pyre of my burning books. I’d need to book in for an STD test as soon as I was clear of the country. Goodness me, straight out of Cork Airport and first stop the STD clinic where some sanctimonious GP would shove a stick down my cock’s eye. What a fine mess you’ve made for yourself.
As I broke over the first hill, I caught a glimpse of the stadium looking like a boiled sweet smothered in ants. In miniature on the stage, young women were clapping along to Truth, the daft Yank, pogoing about in his baggy trousers. When you imagine a coup you think of tanks rolling through darkness. You don’t envisage postcard skies, cartoon sunshine and some wee guy popping about on stage. I broke over the hill and spotted three stripy deckchairs: Stu in the middle smoking; Fiona beside him; Charlie on his feet, binoculars stuck to his eyes. I shouted to Stu but the ruckus from the stadium muffled my voice. Something darkened my periphery and I turned to see Willem moving towards me, golf club in hand. ‘Willem, listen, all hell’s about to break . . .’ The noise of the stadium was cutting my words right out of the air. I started to yell and, with the woozy sense of a dream, he kept nodding and coming closer. ‘Willem, all I can tell you is . . .’ He was still nodding, his face in a forced expr
ession as I noticed something strange about his golf club – this man, this drunken companion, this tourist, was carrying a rifle – he was so close now – and I knew more clearly than I knew my own name that he was the man sent to kill Tafumo – the mercenary – and the last I saw, in the second before blackout, was my vision filling with Willem’s freckled fist.
Hope
We drove a convoluted route. He believed it was in order to show the glory of his capital. Really it was designed to avoid the shantytown swelling like cancer to the east of this weary city. When we got to the stadium the car stopped and we walked through tunnels of soldiers. Deafening blasts of noise and ecstatic faces flickered through the gaps. Tafumo switched off his hearing aid, plunging himself into silence. Dancers pounded their feet; all these beautiful women with their shining faces raised to Tafumo like sunflowers. Their round bosoms, bums and bellies were adorned with his warped face, which kept swimming up from everywhere like a nightmare. It was twenty foot from the back to the front of the stage. Longest walk he took these days and every year it got longer, stretching away from him. At first he stood at the back like an old man come to see a show. Deep in his muted world the crowd must have sounded like a distant storm. Then he moved his feet and with each step they shouted louder, until he placed his hands on the podium. He stood for a long time, as if deciding if his people were still worthy, still loved him as much as he needed them to. Then he raised his hand and, one finger at a time, his fist bloomed as the crowd roared, ‘My food, my tongue, my soul!’ This delicate gesture conducted them to hysteria then, with elegant timing, he brought his fist down and they fell silent. The microphone sent out a screech and the nation was still. In that peaceful moment I saw beyond my natural vision, down the roads, past my waving tree, over the silver spine of the lake, as thousands crowded around radios in bars and huts listening to warm static seeping into the brief silence of a nation awaiting its king.
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