Dizzy Worms

by Michael Holman

  Even the spindle-legged marabou storks stopped delving in the piles of decaying refuse and sought the shade, abandoning their duties as the city’s garbage processors.

  Digby had not known Dolly for very long, but he had already become more attached to her than was perhaps wise. As he picked his case off the conveyor belt, he spotted his companion, receiving VIP treatment, being escorted across the hall by two airport officials.

  The paperwork was completed in minutes, and together the travellers headed for the exit, past the customs inspectors and into the massed ranks of taxi drivers in the arrivals hall.

  “So far so good,” said Digby. “All gone smoothly, wouldn’t you say?”

  Dolly was silent.

  Looking back, Digby wondered if some instinct, some sixth sense, a premonition perhaps, was warning her about the perils that lay ahead . . .

  It had been a stroke of luck that Digby Adams met Cecil Pearson, former Africa correspondent for the London Financial News, the night they both left for Kuwisha.

  Digby had noticed that a passenger immediately ahead of him at the check-in queue at Heathrow had been behaving rather strangely, alternately paging through a book the size of a novel and looking with an odd intensity at the check-in desk.

  Digby turned his attention to the other passengers, and passed the time trying to guess their occupations. About half of them he classified as tourists, concealing their professions with outfits that were deemed suitable for their East African destination. They either wore khaki-coloured trousers, equipped with numerous pockets; or sported safari suits with epaulettes, and pouches for camera film, a feature which had long been a sartorial anachronism.

  In a huddle of their own were a group of American evangelists, wearing cheerful bright-toothed smiles and T-shirts emblazoned with the claim that they were “Bringing Love and Hope to Kuwisha”. About half the rest, Digby decided, were visitors on business of one sort or the other.

  The balance was made up by a category in which he could now include himself, someone who worked at the sharp end of international assistance: aid workers. As he listened in to their conversations, places that once seemed obscure and remote came alive – Kisangani and Goma, Darfur and Entumbane, while acronyms such as UNWFP, Cafod and UNICEF had life and romance breathed into them.

  Digby could not help eavesdropping, fascinated by locations that were now going to become more than spots on wall-sized maps, with tiny flags representing the offices of UN agencies, or Oxfam, Save the Children, or UKAid. It was an intoxicating world of conferences and workshops, of breakaway sessions and consultative processes, of reports back and stakeholder participation, a world that Digby was about to enter.

  He had the feeling he was joining an exclusive club, a club whose members carried themselves with a confident diffidence, with an air of modest authority, appropriate to a profession that occupied the moral high ground, accepted into the ranks of practical dreamers, united in their determination to serve the interests of a continent that needed their help.

  He, too, would now proudly declare his occupation, his vocation, his very calling in life: “I work for an NGO.”

  As he moved slowly towards the check-in desk, he overheard conversations and exchanges of information about destinations that made his heart beat faster.

  “Your first visit to Kuwisha?”

  Two aid workers were exchanging credentials.

  “Yes, really looking forward to it . . . Live in Denmark . . . going to a workshop, in Kuwisha?” The words ended with an interrogative lilt. “Urban youth?” she continued, the pitch of her reply slightly more assertive.

  Her fellow passenger looked impressed.

  Urban youth was a subject of growing concern, and an even faster growing source of funds.

  “Presenting a paper on street kids? . . . Got a copy if you’re interested.”

  She rummaged in a bag, made of hemp, that hung on a leather strap from her arm.

  Digby looked over her shoulder.

  “Africa’s future or Africa’s problem: finding jobs for urban youth.”

  Digby resisted the urge to introduce himself.

  The odd behaviour of the passenger who had first caught his attention meanwhile continued. Digby decided to break the ice.

  “Got the time?”

  He replied civilly enough, but continued focussing his attention on the check-in desk.

  “Ten past seven.”

  As the man, mid-thirties, fair-haired, wearing a crumpled linen suit, checked his watch, it gave Digby the chance to take a closer look at the book. It turned out not to be a novel, or a handbook on Kuwisha, their East African destination, but the Airline Travel Guide.

  Just as Digby was about to ask why it was being studied so attentively, the passenger reached the check-in desk. He watched as the man, whose luggage consisted of a single wheeled case that was small enough to be treated as hand baggage, exchanged a few words with the woman behind the desk.

  Digby was next, with an old-fashioned suitcase that was a much-loved survivor of his boarding-school days, and a carryon canvas bag containing a surprise for Dolly, including some mini Mars bars, one of her favourite snacks.

  “Keep chocolate away from her. If she gets as much as a sniff, she goes crazy,” her minder had warned Digby at the hand-over in Oxford.

  Digby, ever the professional media manager, had stored the information. Perhaps this fondness for chocolate could be turned into a joke for the press conference that was due soon after their arrival in Kuwisha.

  Rather to his surprise, his fellow-passenger had waited for him.

  “Sorry if I seemed rude. I was concentrating. Keeping an eye on the check-in staff. Watch their body language. If the plane is overbooked, you can tell before any announcement, provided you’ve been looking out. For a minute or two things looked dodgy, so I was using the guide to work out alternative routes. For example, there is an Emirates flight to Kuwisha which leaves tonight, gets you in three hours later than BA.”

  “So what?” Digby was inclined to say, but decided to hold his tongue – Cecil was clearly a seasoned traveller. Instead he raised a subject that preoccupied economy class travellers the world over: “Any tips on how to get upgraded?”

  “You need to work at it. Wear a jacket, dress the part.”

  He gave a disparaging glance at Digby’s outfit of trainers and multi-pocketed trousers.

  “I’m Cecil, by the way, Cecil Pearson. Pearson of the Financial News.”

  The two shook hands.

  “Seen your by-line,” replied Digby, the traditional response from a journalist, or indeed anyone in the information business who wanted to flatter a hack, but who had never read a word of what they had written.

  “See we’re on the same flight to Kuwisha. I used to be based there when I did Africa for the paper. Great job, but a dead end. So when the accountancy job came up, I threw my hat in the ring. At the heart of the FN.”

  He sounded a trifle defensive.

  “And you?”

  “Digby Adams. WorldFeed, media consultant, profile manager. I’m going out with Dolly, a sort of goodwill ambassador, to sharpen the WorldFeed image. Trip is sponsored by UKAid. Actually the idea came from the chap in charge of the East Africa operations in Kuwisha. Got his name somewhere . . .”

  After a brief search, he located a notebook in one of his pockets, and lifted a rubber band that was attached to the moleskin cover and which held the pages in place.

  “It’s the sort that Hemingway used,” he said.

  Turning to an earmarked page, he read out a name.

  “Podmore, Dave Podmore, head of UKAid, at the British High Commission. Good sort, been one of our supporters for ages. He’ll keep an eye on Dolly once I’ve handed her over.”

  “I bet he will,” said Pearson, with an edge in his voice.

  Digby shrugged.

  “Don’t mind. Really. I’m not jealous. Though I know what you mean. It’s all too easy. One gets close, gets used to
one other, gives them a few chocolates, and before you know it, they’re eating out of your hand.”

  Although what Digby said may well have been perfectly true, Pearson felt a shiver of distaste for the matter-of-fact tone. His disapproval must have been picked up, though the cause was misunderstood.

  Digby added, apologetically: “I know it’s a bit of a stunt, but it’s got a serious purpose.”

  Pearson nodded again and decided to change the subject.

  “What were you doing before ’Feed?”

  “Had a spell with TAF after an internship with HARE. Once I get Dolly off my hands, I’ll be advising on an audio-visual project for DanAid, about the redevelopment of a slum – place called Kireba. You probably know it . . . Think we’ll call the film A Future Called Hope . . .”

  He saw the look on Pearson’s face, and hastily added: “It’s just a working title. Suggestions welcome.”

  “How long have you been with WorldFeed?”

  It turned out that Digby’s current job was the latest in a list of attachments to some of the blue-chip aid agencies – Take Africa Forward, Helping Africa Recover Economically, Securing Africa’s Future by Enterprise.

  “Gosh!” said Cecil, impressed despite himself. It was the aid industry equivalent of a decent Oxbridge degree, topped off by a spell at Harvard. What was more, the chap looked absurdly young.

  The conversation moved on to other topics.

  “Tell me more about your time with HARE,” said Pearson. But as Digby began to reply, the public address system broke in.

  “This is a security announcement . . .”

  “. . . make stakeholders aware . . .”

  “. . . will be destroyed . . .”

  “. . . and will hand over tomorrow morning. Quite a relief . . . though I’ll miss her . . .”

  “. . . last call . . .”

  “. . . so the best way was to take Dolly out to Africa myself. A sort of trail-blazing effort. Link up with WorldFeed, get some publicity.”

  “Expect you’ll meet my friend Lucy Gomball,” said Pearson. “Resident representative of WorldFeed . . . My companion, partner thingy . . .”

  Pearson seemed about to say more, but must have thought the better of it. Had he not been keeping an eye on the checkin counter, Cecil might have asked Digby to repeat his side of the exchange that had been made unintelligible by the security announcement. But his uncertainty about the flight, his effort to get upgraded and Digby’s mention of a female companion all combined to inhibit him. Instead he played safe, and followed the long-established rule of the foreign press corps in Africa.

  Should a colleague refer to a member of the opposite sex, or appear in public with one, it was best to assume that questions about the relationship were seldom welcome and never sought. The female companion could be a fiancée, mistress, daughter or wife – or more likely than not, someone else’s wife.

  So Pearson, though curious about Dolly’s credentials and history, limited himself to a simple question:

  “Has Dolly checked in?”

  “Oh yes, couple of hours ago. Press briefing, photos and so on. We’ll have another, proper session in Kuwisha, and introduce her as an ambassador for African growth.”

  He was going to say more but just then a BA official called out.

  “Excuse me, Mr Pearson . . .”

  “See you on the other side,” said Pearson, grabbing his green canvas wheel-on bag.

  “Where are you heading?”

  “Been upgraded – business class,” said Pearson. “Tell you what, let’s meet tomorrow at this bar I go to. In that place called Kireba – Harrods. Every taxi driver knows it. Bring Dolly, if you like. About ten. I’ll see you there,” he added.

  He handed Digby his business card.

  Cecil Pearson, it read, Accountancy Editor, Financial News. He had scribbled a few words on the reverse of the card.

  “Here, show this to Charity, Charity Mupanga, she owns the place. Her mobile number is on the back.”

  Pearson then disappeared through the Fast Track entrance.

  “What’s your phone number?” Digby called out after him, but it was too late.

  2

  The sun was well above the horizon when Charity Mupanga, manager and owner of Harrods, the most popular rendezvous in Kireba, spotted the two boys, legs like sticks and with the pot-bellies of old men, glue bottles strung from their necks, rummaging in a pile of rotting vegetables.

  She put two fingers into her mouth. The piercing whistle reached the pair, and the taller of the two held up a hand in acknowledgement, while the other boy waved a large manila envelope.

  They broke into a trot.

  “We have it, mama!”

  “For sure!”

  “The stamp is from Zimbabwe.”

  “The post office woman wanted 50 ngwee . . .”

  “Too much . . .”

  “Dough ball! We have earned a dough ball!”

  Titus Ntoto and Cyrus Rutere raced towards her, bare feet slapping as they deftly hopped from stepping stone to stepping stone, placed where the mud was thickest.

  “Furniver!” she called excitedly. “I think they have come. The plans, my rats have brought the plans.”

  Edward Furniver, former London banker turned manager of the Kireba People’s Savings and Investment Club, looked up from his newspaper. He took a sip of coffee, and replaced the mug on the plastic table in front of him.

  “Hang on a mo. First listen to this. It will make Harrods famous . . . or should I say, more famous. It’s by The Nation’s restaurant correspondent,” he said. “Half-way through the article there is something rather nice.”

  He read from the newspaper:

  “But for a surprisingly good meal, which is excellent value for money – indeed it puts many establishments in this city that charge several times the price to shame – I heartily recommend lunch at Harrods International Bar (and Nightspot). If you try the avocado soup you won’t be disappointed. The bar is run by Mrs Charity Mupanga, widow of the late and great Bishop Mupanga. And a word of warning: her dough balls are exceptionally, mouth-wateringly good.”

  Charity seemed lost for words and then declared: “Please, Furniver. Read that again. Wonderful! Harrods is the very best place to water your mouth. That is now official. I will write that now, on the menu board.”

  The boys, still panting from their exertions, looked on as Charity took delivery of the envelope they had collected from the post office.

  “Come, Furniver! Come and read what’s inside. I think there is something special. You will remember that I told you about my plans for good toilets in Kireba?”

  Furniver nodded. If the truth be told, Charity had a thing about toilets.

  “Well,” she said, “there is a man in Zimbabwe who is a first-class expert on toilets without water, but with no flies.”

  She shook her head in wonder. “Just think, Furniver. No flies.”

  Charity opened the envelope, confirmed the contents and broke into a celebratory shuffle around Furniver’s table, hips swinging, bottom swaying, in a manner that left Furniver slack-jawed with appreciation.

  She brandished a magazine in front of him.

  “Bush Latrines Monthly, the best in the world on bush toilets.”

  “Not much competition, I would have thought,” said Furniver, but not so loud that she could hear.

  Charity, hands shaking with excitement, flipped through the contents of the magazine and then pointed to a page.

  “Read this, Furniver. Read this. You will see my name, Mrs Charity Mupanga. Twice in one day we see the name of Mrs Charity Mupanga. In writing! First in the newspaper, now in the magazine. Official. Truly, it is a day when letters are red.”

  Furniver took the proffered magazine and examined the contents. There was a letter to Charity from the editor himself, as well as the blueprints she had ordered for the construction of the Zimbabwe toilets.

  Furthermore, the journal had printed a note submitted
by Charity suggesting a modest but useful change in the construction of the Mark Two Latrine, involving a slight adjustment to the filter.

  Charity stabbed her forefinger at a headline: “ ‘The VIP, an invention from Zimbabwe’. Please read, Furniver.”

  He obeyed her instruction:

  “One smart idea is the Ventilated (Improved) Pit Latrine, in short: the VIP – which was developed as the ‘Blair Latrine’ by Peter Morgan, who has been living and working in Zimbabwe for over 35 years, researching and developing water and sanitation technologies.”

  “Thirty-five years! A toilet specialist! My, my, what a fine man! I would like to meet this person. Do you know him? Mr Peter Morgan?”

  Charity seemed to believe that mzungus in Africa all knew each other, and she looked surprised and disappointed when Furniver admitted he neither knew of Mr Morgan nor his admirable work.

  Charity clucked, sighed, shook her head and continued.

  “Anyway, there is a drawing of this first-class latrine.”

  They spread out the blueprint on a Harrods table.

  Diagram showing effect of vent pipe on functions of pit latrine

  “How exactly does it work?” Furniver asked.

  “Listen, just listen.”

  She took back the magazine article, and read aloud, all the while prodding with her forefinger the illustration that accompanied it.

  “The major advantage of the VIP over a normal pit latrine is that it comes with a ventilation pipe” – she looked up – “which of course is covered with a fly screen on top. This means fewer flies and less smell.”

  She continued to read, but slowly and more loudly than necessary, as if instructing a dim street boy.

  “Over half a million VIPs have been built in Zimbabwe. They work without water, are cheap to build, and have low maintenance costs.”

  She paused.

  “And flies are trapped. I hate flies. Much worse than worms, which are harmless, as you know. But flies . . . Now Furniver, I must tell you, I have ordered materials for six VIPs. They will arrive any day. But first, we must finish digging the holes . . . and cement, we must lay the cement, just as the instructions say.”