Dizzy Worms

by Michael Holman

  It would not be easy to rally the development agencies behind the Kireba project, but Berksson was determined to put his heart into the president’s scheme.

  “Bring me paper,” he growled. “Bring me paper.”

  It was time to call in a couple of IOUs from that Mauritius freebie, Commonwealth Finance ministers on global warming. Or was it the Maldives? Didn’t matter. How did the proverb go? Something about drums and drummers, pipers and tunes . . .

  He searched his mobile for names and numbers.

  Adams, that was it. Digby Adams. How had his DanAid colleague described the boy?

  “A tosser, but a tosser with talent.”

  The same description could apply to Japer, Jasper Japer, the acclaimed host of the previous year’s NoseAid appeal, and columnist with the leading London tabloid, the Clarion. Didn’t matter. He needed the talents of both of them.

  Berksson buzzed his secretary. Within a few minutes, she put him through.

  The bats were still wheeling and swooping above the Thumaiga Club pool when Furniver returned from the Gents, determined to stand up for himself.

  “Somebody has to do the job and feed the people,” he said, risking the wrath of his friend. “Even if that ad is gobbledygook and they pay their staff too much. Talking to Lucy the other day, and she reckons that a million people are at risk in the province . . .”

  “Balls,” said the OM, thumping the newspaper that lay on the table between them. “Absolute balls! Who is counting? Got a soft spot for the girl. Lot of guts, But how does she know? Millions! What she means is that an awful lot of people are hungry in North East Province. But no one knows how many live there, let alone how many of them are hungry. The last census was a bloody fiasco. Sending Kiyus to count Liyus simply doesn’t work. Both believe they are the biggest tribe, neither will take second place.

  “Apart from the fact they can’t stand each other, outcome affects the army. Ethnic balance, they call it. The number of Kiyus and the number of Liyus are supposed to reflect the population make-up. That’s the law. The last count was during the bad old days when we were in charge, and even then it was dodgy. Give me one, just one, statistic you can trust,” demanded the Oldest Member.

  He shook the paper like a dog with a rat. According to a front-page report, more than 5 million people had died in the war in the Congo.

  “Five million? Can you believe it? Truth is, we really haven’t a clue. When we say a million, we mean a lot. When we say 5 million, we mean a helluva lot. And when we talk about genocide, we mean that a helluva of a lot are dying, in an especially nasty way, in a very short time.”

  The OM took a long draught of his gin and tonic.

  “When it comes to most African statistics, one should pause for thought and add a bucket of salt. There’s an outfit that claims 4 million African children under age five die every year of preventable illness. Could be less, could be a lot more.”

  He shook his head and toyed with a handful of cashew nuts.

  “Gone off my feed,” the OM explained.

  Furniver felt obliged to come to the defence of the aid agencies.

  “NoseAid raised 5 million quid for mosquito nets. Isn’t that a good thing? Millions at risk and so on . . .”

  The comment just fuelled the OM’s wrath.

  “Why aren’t the governments leading the way? Buying the nets themselves. Anyway, how do you know that a million people die from malaria each year? Could be twice that, could be half that. The truth is, we don’t know. And how could we?”

  The OM paused long enough to take a swig of his G and T.

  “When we gave these chaps independence . . .”

  He started again.

  “When they won ‘the war of liberation’, as we must now say, the stats departments were the first to be run down. Then when it became clear that the place was going down the tube, the IMF and the World Bank demanded figures before they could help out with loans. Fair enough . . . by the way, how’s your cost of living wheeze going?”

  For several weeks Furniver had been preparing his own economic index, based on prices and sizes of market goods, and had put his ideas to the OM. Tonight, however, he was more interested in what the OM was saying.

  “Fine,” Furniver replied, “just fine . . .”

  “Bit hush hush, is it? Understand why. Damn sure it will show that most of the local stats are made up.”

  He held a finger to his lips.

  “Hush hush! Say no more. Lips sealed, tight as a monkey’s arse . . . Where was I? Oh yes . . . That’s when guesses and thumb sucks came in. It suited both donors and the government, IMF and World Bank – they pretended to monitor the terms of their loans, and our chaps pretended to meet the conditions, but spent the cash on homes in London. Result: complete cock-up. The fact is”, snorted the OM, “there is barely an African statistic that is not the product of a statistician’s thumb suck, a politician’s self-interest, UN guesswork or an NGO’s wishful thinking.”

  The Oldest Member coughed again.

  “Here endeth the first lesson. Don’t trust the stats. More to say, but feeling a bit off colour.”

  That night Digby Adams fell into his bed at the WorldFeed house, exhausted. And although he slept soundly, his dreams were vivid and colourful.

  Chicken necks had come to life, walking across the table tops at Harrods on stunted bandy legs, and singing hymns. Small boys pelted them with dough balls and flying toilets that whizzed through the air, bursting on impact and releasing thousands of business cards that settled like confetti as he and Dolly pranced and danced to a band of Tuskers, each bottle blowing a trumpet.

  But when he awoke the next morning, his spirit was high, his enthusiasm undiminished and to his amazement and delight, his safari suit, socks and pants had been washed, ironed and returned neatly folded, awaiting him alongside a tray of tea.

  Africa, he decided, was where he belonged and where he was needed.

  It was only when he had poured a second cup that he saw the message, written on a scrap of paper attached to the day’s papers:

  “Mister Digby, Please call Mister Berksson, urgent, at UNDP.”

  Digby rang from the old Bakelite phone that was in the hallway, and was put through to Berksson immediately. Ten minutes later the two men had agreed to a proposal that would change the face of Kireba.

  15

  “Furniver, have you noticed anything strange about my rats?” asked Charity.

  He thought carefully.

  If anybody was behaving a trifle strangely, surely it was Charity, what with her growing concern about the men in brown suits, an extraordinary interest in toilets and her preoccupation with the flavouring of yesterday’s avocado soup. Furthermore, what Furniver called her time of the month was fast approaching – the stock-taking exercise that Charity loathed. He had no intention, however, of saying any of this – but there was no safe answer.

  A breath of criticism, real or imagined, about her rats, as she called Ntoto and Rutere, and Charity would be down on him like a ton of bricks; but if he had nothing to offer he would get terrible stick, for it would be seen as evidence of his indifference to their welfare.

  “Apart from the fact that Rutere is picking his nose more often, I can’t say I have.”

  He took a sip of his coffee and paged through the manual he had bought the previous evening.

  Charity began spluttering in fury.

  Uh-uh, thought Furniver. Here it comes!

  “How can you call Rutere a nose-picker?”

  Charity drew herself up, puffed out her chest:

  “Rutere is not nose-picking. If you look, you will see that his finger does not go inside the nose hole. Never,” said Charity. “Never. Since he first came, that Rutere, and asked to work in the kitchen, he has been the boy who always washes his hands. Always! I put him in charge of all the kitchen totos, in charge of hand washing. A very important job. Now tell me, Edward Furniver, would I, Charity Tangwenya Mupanga, owner and manager
of the best bar in Kireba, the best place to water your mouth, official, put a boy who is a nose-picker in charge?”

  She wagged her index finger to underline her point, and her voice rose as the enormity of the accusation struck her anew: “Edward Furniver, I ask you, would I put him in charge of hand washing for kitchen totos?”

  In the three years Furniver had come to know, admire, respect and love the formidable woman before him, he had learnt one enduring lesson. When she called him Edward Furniver, it was time to abandon all positions, however sincerely held, and to beat a retreat.

  This time his retreat was neither fast enough or far enough.

  “All I can say is thank God you make them wash their hands before working in the kitchen . . .”

  Furniver got no further.

  “No more nonsense, Furniver. Using his finger is Rutere’s way of showing that he is thinking. He is a clever boy. He is not foolish. Edward Furniver, how can you say he is nose-picking when you yourself said that he is the cleverest boy not to have gone to St Joseph’s school. Tell me! Now you call him stupid! Shame!”

  Although Furniver had got used to Charity’s flights of fury, he still made the mistake of trying to defend himself.

  “I never said the boy is stupid. I just wish that when he thinks, his finger is kept well clear of his nostril.”

  Like a storm that had blown itself out, Charity’s burst of anger abruptly ended.

  “Furniver, you are right. Rutere is doing too much thinking these days. He is too young to have all these thoughts in his head.”

  Charity sucked air through her teeth in a way that indicated concern.

  One day, thought Furniver, one day I will ask her how she does that. The mechanics were easy. Anyone could suck air through their teeth, whether through front teeth or side teeth. The great mystery was how to achieve the impression created by the sound, which conveyed irritation or contempt, concern or satisfaction, and subtle gradations of the same.

  Just like his house steward, Didymus Kigali and his repertoire of coughs – the interrogative, the placatory, the apologetic – the sound of clicks made with tongue and teeth, sounds of air sucked in, or expelled, they all extended the capacity to express oneself, almost as if one spoke another language.

  “Furniver! Furniver!” she said sharply, seeing him start to drift off. “It is more than a problem of nose-picking. Yesterday, even, there were no words when they shared a dough ball. It is not right. Best friends are fighting, always fighting. How can young boys, teen boys even, say polite things all the time? Saying thank you, and please, and begging pardon?”

  She knew she was right to be worried; for if the riots had strained the friendship of Ntoto and Rutere, could any friendship not built on tribal identity, survive the stress and strain of politics in Kuwisha?

  The squall had passed and Furniver knew that it would be a good time to change the subject.

  “Found Rutere under my taxi the other day”, he said as if nothing had happened, “checking the brake wotsits . . . The next day he was back again, this time under the bonnet, like a rat down a drain, tinkering away, as happy as a pig in the proverbial.”

  Charity grunted non-committedly, wondering what was going to come next.

  “I thought I’d give him this.”

  He held up the battered old manual.

  “Found it in the sale box last night, in the library, at the Club.”

  He handed it to Charity for inspection.

  She read out the title: Maintaining Your Car: A Do-It-Yourself Guide.

  “With any luck the boy might become a decent mechanic,” said Furniver. “The only way out of Kireba is to learn a skill or a trade and there will always be a need for mechanics. And judging by the number of old bangers that are kept on the road, there must be some pretty smart garage chaps in Kuwisha.”

  “Furniver,” said Charity, “you are dreaming again . . . and this is one of your dreams that I like very much. Rutere is a lucky boy to have this fine book.”

  They handed it over to Rutere when he turned up for kitchen duty. A scowling Ntoto could not resist making derogatory comments about his friend’s ambition. Rutere, however, ignored the jibes.

  “One day,” he said, “I will be in charge of your car engine, Mr Furniver, suh. And I will keep it in the very best condition.”

  “Jolly good,” said Furniver, feeling somewhat embarrassed. “Now get lost, Rutere, I’m trying to work.”

  Ntoto and Rutere, the latter clutching the manual, took their breakfast of ugali and relish to their favourite perch in the eucalyptus trees, where they were able to monitor the comings and goings of visitors, whether aid workers, UN officials, or members of Guchu’s staff on reporting missions to their boss.

  “That bulldozer, it is like an animal, every night taken back to its compound,” observed Rutere.

  As he spoke, the mayor’s vintage Rolls Royce, polished and gleaming, drew up on a rise overlooking the slum, like a predator surveying the land before a potential kill.

  “Guchu’s car,” said Rutere. “He loves it more than his women . . . They call it Guchu’s best friend.”

  Ntoto studied the Rolls, barely a hundred paces from where they were concealed, its paintwork aglow, silver door handles shining. With the boys looking on, watching his every move, the plump, besuited figure of Mayor Guchu himself emerged from the car. Hands on hips, he surveyed the slum that spread out before him. There was something odd, distasteful, almost sexual in what happened next.

  Guchu caressed the bonnet of the car, sliding his hand along its jet black surface like a farmer stroking his prize cow. As Ntoto watched, saying not a word, a look came into his eyes that Rutere recognised, one of frustration and fury combined. Long experience told Cyrus that this was not a time to question his friend. When Ntoto was in one of these moods, it was best to concentrate on finding ways to bring him out of it.

  “Let’s go fishing, Ntoto . . .”

  Titus Ntoto was as happy as a street boy could get, paddling and splashing in the muddy shallows of the dam which had once been the home of the Kuwisha Sailing Club. He watched as Rutere made his way over some stepping stones towards him. In one hand he held the car maintenance instruction manual; in the other a fishing hook made out of a bent pin, cork and line of string.

  “This way, Rutere!” he called out.

  The boys spread themselves out on the bank, put the makeshift tackle together, and watched the cork for any sign of a fish that might have taken the bait. Ntoto picked up the manual.

  “Be careful with that,” said Rutere. “That is very, very important information. It tells you how cars work, and how you must look after them, and not let bad things happen to them.”

  Ntoto, whose ability to read did not match that of Rutere, struggled with the table of contents.

  “How to make sure your battery does not go flat . . . how to make sure your brakes always work . . . how to make sure your steering is always reliable . . . When I grow up, Rutere, I will pay boys to look after my car,” scoffed Ntoto. “I don’t need a book like this.” He made as if to throw it in the water, much to Rutere’s alarm.

  Ntoto read on: “Always check your tyre pressure. Always make sure your tyres have a good tread . . .

  “What is this nonsense, Rutere? It is useless.”

  He was about to toss it at Rutere’s feet when a section must have caught his eye. But this time he read it to himself, his lips moving as he formed the words. And as he read, his face changed, lit up by whatever it was he had discovered.

  He changed his tune: “Phauw, Rutere, this is a very interesting book indeed . . .”

  It must have been a good half hour later that Ntoto made the announcement that Rutere feared might never happen.

  “I am now ready to make Guchu squeal. First, Rutere, we must collect sugar. At least three kilos.”

  “And where do we get this sugar?” Rutere asked. “It is very expensive.”

  Ntoto shrugged. “Where do you think
, Rutere? From the kitchen at Harrods. We steal it.”

  Rutere was shocked, as much by the matter-of-fact indifference displayed by his friend at the prospect of stealing from their protector, as by the hard and tough expression on his face.

  “End of this playing nonsense,” said Ntoto. “It is time to do business with Guchu.”

  16

  Getting the key to the padlock of the shipping container that held the stores turned out to be easy, far easier than Ntoto and Rutere had expected. But what impressed and disturbed Rutere was not only his friend’s cunning and guile, but evidence of a streak of gratuitous cruelty.

  Mildred Kigali’s back had been turned, and it was simple for Ntoto to seize the opportunity to extract the key from the padlock that secured the container in which valuable items, including sugar, were stored.

  The timing could not have been better. Didymus Kigali had summoned his wife for lunch. Mildred had responded like the old-fashioned spouse she was to the call from an old-fashioned husband, who expected immediate compliance. A second after the call came, Ntoto slipped the key into his trousers.

  “Phauw!”

  Mildred looked at the padlock with an expression of mild surprise, for she had no recollection of taking the key. She patted the pockets of her apron. Nothing. She was about to ask Ntoto, who had busied himself washing his hands, when Didymus called yet again, a note of impatience in his voice.

  “I’m coming,” Mildred responded.

  With a couple of backward glances, just in case the key had dropped to the ground, she set off on the short journey to Edward Furniver’s flat, above the offices of the bank.

  What happened next made Rutere uneasy. Other street boys would have stolen the key, and that would be that. But Ntoto displayed truly exceptional cunning . . .

  Mildred’s journey to the flat required some concentration. For a few perilous steps one had to keep to the stepping stones that had been installed by the Mboya Boys under Furniver’s directions. One misstep and you could end up in the evil-smelling mire that only polite people called mud. Mildred was half way across when Ntoto called out.