Dizzy Worms

by Michael Holman

  He wound down his window and expelled a gob of phlegm onto the verge, before closing it again.

  A succession of supplicants knocked gently but persistently on the windscreen – blind old men led by young boys, women who held out their babies, and cripples, with the more fortunate perched on tricycles, while the rest pulled themselves along on what looked like tea-trays with wheels.

  Suddenly Aloysius braked, and although they were barely moving, Digby was thrown forward by the jolt. It was the dreadful sound of steel on flesh that he recalled most vividly, along with the expression of pain on the face of a young boy as he was struck by the passenger side of the taxi.

  5

  As one man, the delegates rose to applaud the moving message from Hardwicke, which had been relayed with such feeling by Berksson.

  The reference to Tanzania had been below the belt, and it was quite unnecessary, he felt, to remind the audience of his association with the disastrous nationalisation of Tanzania’s sisal estates.

  He put aside his irritation, and launched into his own address: “In a very real sense,” he began, “we are all to blame for the tragedy that has threatened to tear Kuwisha apart over the past few weeks. And in the same very real sense, we are all citizens of Kuwisha.”

  “Speak for yourself,” muttered the Japanese aid representative.

  Unfortunately his remark was picked up by one of the microphones that relayed the proceedings to the national radio network. His new posting would be announced within days.

  “We need to pull together at this demanding period in the country’s history. We must move with the times,” said Berksson. “It is essential”, he went on, “to maintain the momentum! Let us forward development, and grow the foundations. This is a partnership of key stakeholders engaged in an ongoing consultative process which will lead to shared ownership of this great country, which is yet to deliver on its huge potential.”

  Nduka, who had listened impassively up to this point, grunted. Despite the promising start, Berksson was suspect. He would need to keep an eye on this impertinent diplomat whose reference to potential bordered on the offensive. Congo had potential, as did Sudan. Somalia had huge potential. A host of African countries had potential – a word used only to describe countries whose failures had become legendary and whose crises seemed endemic. Kuwisha might be in difficulties. The president was prepared to concede this. But potential? How dare the man use the word.

  “Stakeholders . . . ownership . . . consultation . . . participation . . . accountability . . .”

  Berksson was in full flight.

  “A wound on our conscience, an affront to our humanity . . . a symbol of our compassion . . . ”

  While the UNDP chief continued to work the audience, Nduka pondered the next steps.

  The riots had left many scores to settle, rewards to allocate, favours to repay, IOUs to honour, constituencies to reward or to punish . . .

  A list! He had to draw up a list . . .

  Kireba’s problem, if problem was the right word, was its desirable location. Unlike many of the slums elsewhere in Africa, which were invariably located a safe distance from the towns they served, and designed as dormitories for cheap labour, Kireba was as close to the city’s centre as it was possible to get.

  This fact made it a tempting target for any commercial developer. But it also attracted the interest of a far more powerful force who sought to improve the lot of the half-million people crammed into a space the size of a dozen Wembley football stadia: the international aid agencies, impelled into participation by the need to leave a better world.

  “Coordinated targets . . . strategic priorities . . . partnership of modalities . . .”

  Berksson was still in full flood, and Nduka continued to speculate on the benefits of letting the donors turn the slum into what they called a “low income” housing estate.

  A list! He needed to make a list of supporters who deserved a place in the new Kireba. It would not be free, of course – people who got something for nothing in his experience seldom appreciated their good fortune. A contribution to party funds would do the trick.

  The older he got, the greater the pleasure of making a list. It could be a list of bright young men who had crossed his path and had subsequently been “disappeared”; or it could be a list of projects that donors might now be prepared to finance, projects that would testify to his success.

  A new airport, perhaps, or a university, in his name; or a grand headquarters for the ruling party. A thought struck him. How about Nduka House, in the very heart of Kireba? That would teach those insolent slum dwellers a lesson they wouldn’t forget.

  Berksson was at last coming to the end and delegates were looking at their watches.

  “This vision is within our reach! Together we can turn words into bricks, turn promises into schools, and turn our dreams into reality . . . And so tomorrow, let work begin. A minute lost is a life lost. The bulldozers will move in tomorrow!”

  As Berksson ended his appeal, Nduka looked around for pencil and pad.

  For a moment he forgot where he was. Thinking he was in his State House study he called out: “Boy! Boy! Bring me paper . . .”

  Berksson was quick to comply.

  News of the plan to demolish Kireba brought many immediate benefits. Hotel bookings soared. Short-term lettings of properties in Kuwisha’s more salubrious suburbs boomed. And restaurants thrived as economists and sociologists, assorted consultants and multi-disciplinary experts poured into the country, determined to ensure that Kuwisha would have the benefit of their commitment to eradicate poverty. Specialists in the socio-economic consequences of urbanisation, proponents of privatisation of water supplies, advocates of a high-speed rail link from Kireba to the coast, lobbyists for a toll road on the same route, flocked to Kuwisha.

  All the residents of Kireba were expected to do was to accept their good fortune, and respond to questionnaires seeking their opinion on crèches and clinics, on shopping malls and markets, not to mention their views on gender bias in the workplace, or the prevalence of ethnic dominance as a factor in job allocation – two subjects being investigated by post-graduate students from the London School of Economics.

  For Charity Mupanga it meant that she had more customers than ever for her fried chicken necks, her avocado soup, her corn bread and her dough balls. Invariably the consultants’ day started with a cup of coffee at Harrods and ended with an ice-cold Tusker, before they retreated to their hotels to write up their reports and compare their expenses, arguing over per diems and hardship allowances, complaining to each other about the rising costs of educating their children in Britain.

  But among the visitors were a handful of men in brown suits who behaved strangely, as Furniver was the first to notice. While other delegations went to the trouble of actually venturing out and about, peering down the narrow footpaths of the slum – some, every now and then, some actually exchanging a few words with a resident – the “brown suits”, as he called them, never ventured far from the bar at Harrods. They scribbled notes, but asked no questions, having nothing to do with the locals, but all the while taking a close interest in the rudimentary toilets . . .

  “Just who are those chaps?” Furniver asked.

  Charity shrugged.

  “They will probably be working as locally hired experts for somebody . . .” she replied. “Why are you worried, Furniver?”

  “Because they make too many visits to the toilets.”

  Charity’s demeanour immediately changed from indifference to concern.

  “I hope they washed their hands?”

  “Not once.”

  “Not once?” she asked incredulously. “Not once even?”

  “Nope. Didn’t feel it as necessary, I suppose . . . All they did was to stand outside. Didn’t actually use the toilets, not sure that I blame them . . . Kigali says they are from the city council.”

  Charity now looked really worried.

  “That is not good,
not good at all. Mayor Guchu must be up to mischief. Something is not right.”

  Furniver shrugged. One day the man would get his comeuppance. The longer he was in office, the richer he became, and the richer he became, the faster the collapse of city services. Rubbish festered on street corners, potholes went unrepaired, water and electricity supplies became more and more erratic, while city taxes soared. One day Guchu would be brought to book. But who would bell the cat?

  6

  To Pearson’s surprise Lucy Gomball, the well-respected and widely lusted after resident representative of WorldFeed, was at the airport to meet him, although she hated early starts and emotional reunions.

  “I thought I told you not to come,” she said, emerging from behind the massed ranks of taxi drivers at the airport. “I thought we’d agreed.”

  Pearson took in her fair-haired, blue-jeaned, long-legged figure with relish.

  She gave him a perfunctory kiss on his cheek and wriggled free when he attempted a substantial embrace.

  “I said I’d spend a week in London during my home leave and we would have sorted things out then.”

  Lucy relented. The second kiss made his heart leap.

  After all the agonising about coming to Kuwisha for a brief holiday break, it seemed he had made the right decision after all. He had been wrestling with questions about his future since his return to London. Should he attempt to pursue his relationship with Lucy Gomball, or should he drop any hopes that it could turn into a long-term – he was reluctant to use the word permanent – relationship?

  Their last night at the end of his Kuwisha posting had been frustrating, and inconclusive. Lucy was laid low with a bout of malaria, and she had invited him to stay over in her home in Borrowdale. He had sat up most of the night wiping her forehead, bringing her tea and fruit juice, and dosing her every four hours. As dawn broke he fell asleep, still sitting on the side of her bed. A few hours later he was on the plane to London, where he had been offered the FN’s accountancy job.

  So it was that when a two-week break came up, he decided he would fly to Kuwisha. No one would have been surprised if their relationship had not lasted. Not for nothing was Nairobi known for its low morals and high living, and the question, “Are you married or do you live in Nairobi?” had more than a grain of truth. And even if the wiles of horny hacks could be resisted in Kuwisha, there were other formidable hazards to overcome if a relationship was to survive this hothouse atmosphere.

  It was only after they were half way into town that Cecil remembered Digby.

  “Met a bloke who will be working for WorldFeed,” he said. “He was on the same flight. Looked decent enough, but . . .”

  “Damn!” said Lucy. “Must have been Digby, Digby Adams, that’s it. I thought he was on the day flight. We’re putting him up for the night. My driver is supposed to meet him. Didn’t get a chance to read the email they sent. Apparently he’s travelling with this woman called Dolly. Blast.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll see him at Harrods,” said Cecil and went on to tell Lucy about his encounter with Digby at Heathrow a few hours earlier.

  “Why the ‘but’?” asked Lucy.

  “Treats women like animals. A shit, if you ask me. Amoral little shit.”

  “Talk about pot and kettle,” said Lucy. “What about those African Union bonks you confessed to? Remember? About how you would turn up at one of those ghastly African Union summits that you knew would be so tedious, self-satisfied and balls-achingly boring, that only fools and Afro-optimists from Scandinavia believe anything will come of them.”

  “Don’t remember,” said Pearson.

  “Oh yes you do. You told me how you’d look around at your fellow hacks – the hatchet-faced moanalot from the BBC, the AP woman with a ghastly laugh, the fat-arsed AFP stringer . . . and you’d think to yourself that you would need to be stuck in Goma for a month, and build up the appetite of a sex-mad hyena, to find any of them attractive.”

  “Rubbish,” said Pearson.

  “You told me that the first night you’d end up in bed with a World Bank report on Ethiopia. Then the next day, you felt a slight twinge in your twagger – only a slight one, mind – as you wondered whether the Norwegian press officer for Feed The Starving was a sleeper or a talker.”

  “Nonsense,” said Pearson.

  Lucy was merciless.

  “Let me jog your memory. You also told me that women divide into two categories, those who talk afterwards and those who fall asleep afterwards.”

  Pearson grunted.

  “On the third day of the summit something in you snapped, you said, your judgement was destroyed and lust triumphed. And on the evening of the final day, no doubt overwhelmed by relief that the bloody summit was nearly over, the worst happened.”

  “Meaning?” said Pearson.

  “Meaning”, said Lucy, “that the AU tedium had worked its malign magic and by that stage you’d discovered that the Norwegian is a talker who had extracted the most demanding amount of cock tax you ever had to pay – a ratio of an hour’s talking for every five minutes of what Charity calls hanky hanky.

  “You buggers have the sex drive of a randy baboon and the morals of a rabbit on Viagra. You go off on your trips and return to wives and girlfriends with limp dicks and piles of dirty washing. And you’ll do it once too often. The trouble is, Pearson, you’re all easy lays. So don’t give lectures about amoral aid workers – it doesn’t suit you.”

  She kissed him on the cheek as she swerved to avoid an errant matatu and Pearson knew that he’d been forgiven for his AU folly, although he has still under Lucy’s close surveillance.

  “Anyway,” said Pearson. “Whatever. I told Adams to come for tea at Harrods this morning. Bring Dolly, of course, introduce her and so on . . .”

  Lucy’s expression suddenly hardened.

  “Bastard! Here I was”, said Lucy, “thinking to myself that for once you behave decently with an NGO. Not because you needed a lift on their charter flight, or a ride in their car, or briefing that you dress up as your ‘eye-witness’ account, but just out of the goodness of your heart . . .”

  “Don’t get you.”

  “You just want to meet Dolly! That’s the only reason you were so friendly. You just can’t help it, can you? Led by your twagger!”

  “So what’s up on the aid front?” Pearson asked, breaking an awkward silence.

  Lucy shrugged.

  “Have a look at the papers. On the back seat.”

  Lucy narrowly missed an oncoming bus, packed with commuters, arms protruding through its windows like pieces of straw from a loosely packed bale.

  Pearson reached behind him, and paged through the papers, while Lucy continued: “Full of Nduka’s plans for Kireba. That and the warning that North East Province will soon be in a food deficit situation . . .”

  “I assume that means they are hungry.”

  He started to read: “Millions of innocent civilians are at risk of starving in a humanitarian crisis unless the international community acts to avert this looming catastrophe . . .”

  “Shit!” said Lucy. “I told them to cut that line out.”

  “They did – I made it up.”

  Lucy ignored the provocation.

  “There’s flooding in the central province. Land clashes in the south, scores killed; teachers threatening to go on strike in the west, drought in the east. As for Kireba, they all seem thrilled by the news of Nduka’s scheme. Everyone claims they own their hovels, and demands compensation. Cement prices have gone out of sight – like cement itself. There’s not a bag to be had. Overnight. Just like that. I checked on the way out to collect you. So,” Lucy continued, “situation normal. Cock-ups all round.”

  “I bet WorldFeed is getting excited about it,” said Pearson.

  “Read for yourself,” she said, “it’s all there.”

  Pearson studied a statement, run on the front page of The Nation, issued by a US non-government organisation.

  “M
aize production this year will stand at 15 million bags, against a demand of 35 million bags . . .” he read out. “The poor output is blamed on Kuwisha’s prolonged drought . . . Maize is the staple food for 96 per cent of the country’s 40 million people . . . Farmers need to plant proper seeds, depending on the climate, as well as better storage and handling facilities, said a spokesman for the NGO that is heading a crisis committee of the biggest aid donors.”

  “You agreed to this? Including the bit about seeds?” asked Pearson. “And the papers say that WorldFeed is backing the Kireba project . . .”

  “Don’t get on your high horse, for God’s sake,” said Lucy, hooting as she passed an over-laden matatu, smoke trailing from its exhaust. “Told you, Pearson. Nothing has changed while you’ve been away. Facts the same. Two-thirds of Kuwisha is arid, yet the population has doubled in 25 years. Can you believe it?”

  “We’ve been through this before,” said Pearson. “No one worries if the buggers can’t feed themselves. They’ve learnt that the UN and the NGOs will make sure they don’t starve to death. And you chaps still measure success by lives ‘saved’ and tonnes of food shipped in, most bought from US farmers. And now US agri-business want to sell Kuwisha its seeds.”

  “Don’t bang on,” said Lucy.

  Pearson hadn’t finished.

  “So who announces the food ‘crisis’? Not the president. Not a minister. But a bloody NGO! Poor bloody Kuwisha! You lot have cut off its balls.”

  Lucy shrugged.

  “Show business. What do you think about the Kireba project?”

  As Lucy raced with taxis and dodged motorbikes, she brought Pearson up to date with developments since the rioting.

  “The really big news is Nduka’s promise to transform Kireba. The UN and the World Bank will lead . . . and WorldFeed is on the steering committee.”

  “And you bought this; actually signed up with Nduka?”

  “What do you expect us to do, Pearson? Sit on our collective arse and say it can’t be done? That corruption makes it impossible? That project money will be milked? We’re damned if we do, and damned if we don’t. We are in Kuwisha to help, whatever you claim. Either we get stuck in, knowing the risk, and get into bed with Nduka and his pals, or we do bugger-all but say that sleaze makes life impossible for donors in Kuwisha. The first time we say this in public, we make the front pages. The next time it’s old hat, boring, boring, boring, and what we say is on page 94 – and then what do we do? If we lose our firsthand, front-line experience, whatever we say is devalued. So yes, we opted to take part, knowing the risks.”