Dizzy Worms

by Michael Holman

  “The key, Mrs Mildred, you have dropped the key.”

  Mildred, who denied that she was going deaf, may or may not have heard . . . But as it transpired, the object of Ntoto’s call was not Mildred but Charity, who was busy serving customers.

  On her return, Mildred had searched her pockets, and looked on the ground, and it was at this point that Ntoto intervened.

  “Mama, you dropped the key on your way to Mr Kigali. I called to tell you when you were crossing.”

  “Yes, Mildred,” confirmed Charity, “I heard Ntoto call.”

  Mildred shrugged.

  Perhaps she had dropped the key . . . But the prospect of sieving through the filth was not one that appealed to her. And it would cost a fortune in dough balls to get a street boy to do it. Better get a new key cut . . .

  Then came the gesture that infuriated Mildred, a gesture that was quite unnecessary in Rutere’s opinion. Knowing that the old lady was watching, Ntoto made circular movements with his forefinger, held against his head, while rolling his eyes and winking at Rutere.

  If looks could kill, Ntoto would have been a dead boy . . .

  Equipped with the key, it was a simple matter to carry out the opening raid on the sugar.

  “How much do we need?” asked Rutere.

  Rutere was shocked by the amount that Ntoto said they had to steal.

  “At least three kilos,” repeated Ntoto.

  “More if we want to make changa.”

  What the boy had not reckoned on, however, was that Charity was preparing to check the stocks earlier than usual, and the missing sugar was immediately spotted.

  Charity was not sure what irritated her most: that almost certainly the boys were stealing her sugar, although she could not prove it; or her response to the problem. She was reacting just like a white madam, angered by a thieving houseboy who watered the gin and put tea in the whisky. Much to her chagrin, she had concluded there was nothing for it but to consult Results Mudenge.

  “I feel very foolish,” she confessed to Mudenge when she went for a consultation at his Klean Blood Klinic. Results raised his eyebrows and initially said nothing. Years of experience had taught him that the most effective way of getting information from a client with troubles was to stay silent, look sceptical, and wait for the customer to elaborate.

  “I am sure the street boys are stealing sugar,” Charity concluded, “and I don’t know how to stop them. But I do not want to be always watching, and using colonial tricks to catch houseboys.”

  Mudenge shrugged and broke his silence.

  “Dogs bark, goats have ticks, street boys steal. That is the nature of street boys – they cannot help stealing. The only way is to deal with them as the settlers did. I know that the white madams were cheeky – but sometimes they were also clever. And they spent a lot of time finding ways to discover who was stealing their sugar. We can learn from them.”

  Charity looked miserable.

  “But Mr Mudenge, I heard that the madams used poison. How can it be right to poison small boys’ stomachs, even street boys, for stealing sugar?”

  “As I said to you, Mrs Mupanga, the settler madams were clever.”

  He lowered his voice.

  “Let me tell you a secret . . .”

  “Phauw!” said Charity when Mudenge had finished, and laughed. “Very clever,” she said. “So you will help me, Mr Mudenge?”

  “Of course. And you pay on results only. But I believe, Mrs Mupanga, my muti will work . . .”

  The time had come to put Mudenge’s muti – a combination of wisdom, herbs and old bones – to the test. The stealing had to be nipped in the bud . . .

  Titus and Cyrus had been expecting a reaction from Charity and, although faster than they had anticipated, her summons to attend an investigation into the missing sugar had come as no surprise.

  On Mudenge’s instructions Charity had drawn up a notice, worded exactly as he suggested.

  “WARNING,” it said in bright red letters across the top of the page. “Notice to street boys,” it continued. “There is a very important meeting today, 3 pm sharp, for all Mboya Boys to discuss SUGAR that has gone missing. ALL street boys to attend. Dough balls suspended until further notice.”

  Within minutes of it being pinned to the blackboard, which also carried the menu for the day, the street boys had gathered around, chattering like chickens facing the dinner pot.

  Later that day, they assembled at the entrance to Harrods, nervous as birds, and smelling like dogs. Most had bottles of glue, their heavy-lidded eyes and dilated pupils testifying to their regular sniffing, their threadbare grubby clothes stained by the mud and squalor that was Kireba.

  Charity stepped up, wiping her hands on her green apron.

  “Mr Mudenge is coming in a minute. We know the boys who are guilty. Mr Mudenge has already used muti to find out. Do they want to be brave, behave like men, and step forward for their punishment?”

  Rutere nudged Ntoto.

  “Do they want to be foolish . . . like women?”

  Ntoto suppressed a giggle. No one moved and the group looked on, anxiously awaiting the next development.

  Results Mudenge arrived on cue, stood in front of the blackboard and told the boys to gather round. With a flourish, he removed a cloth that was covering an object on the tray that he held. It revealed a brown packet which was marked, in black capital letters, front and back, POISON.

  With the boys looking on, fascinated, Mudenge dipped a teaspoon into the bag, held it up as if judging the quantity and quality, and sprinkled what looked to be a white powder over the sugar bin held by Charity Mupanga. He then stirred in the powder until it was thoroughly mixed.

  Charity watched with growing alarm.

  “Mr Mudenge. Are you sure you have not given too much?”

  “It is the right dose, Mrs Mupanga. It is enough to kill a mouse but let a street boy stay alive, although feeling very, very unwell. It is the right dose.”

  “It looks very strong to me,” said Mildred, who had interrupted her work on the vegetables to watch the proceedings. “But I am not sure whether it is strong enough for street boys who steal.”

  She looked at Ntoto.

  A shudder of apprehension ran through the ranks of the assembled street children. Many of them had no doubt that Mildred was a witch; and all of them, including Ntoto and Rutere, had a healthy respect for her sharp tongue and firm hand.

  “No boys ready to behave like men?” asked Charity.

  Her mood was not helped by some gratuitous advice from Ntoto and Rutere.

  “I think,” said Rutere, running his finger round his nostril, “that Cephas, who is a circumcised street boy, has been the one stealing the sugar. Boys who are circumcised are usually thieves.”

  Ntoto could not resist chipping in. “I myself think that mungiki are stealing the sugar. Or perhaps it is a tokolosh,” he said, referring to that creature with the mysterious ability to take the shape of a donkey or a goat and which was often accused of mischievous deeds. “But Rutere is right. You should first look for Cephas. He is a circumcised boy and you never can trust those people.”

  Charity was about to remonstrate. The politics of the foreskin had become more and more powerful since the riots.

  “A cold Tusker over here,” called out a customer and she went back to the bar, leaving the boys to continue their talk in private.

  “Sometimes”, said Ntoto, “she must think we are stupid, Rutere. I think she and Mr Mudenge are using the trick of settler madams.”

  Rutere nodded. “A very old trick,” he said, but added: “You still have not told me, Ntoto, why we are stealing sugar?”

  “Wait,” said Ntoto. “Be patient. But we must look out for Mr Mudenge. He is very, very clever.”

  That night the boys raided the sugar once again.

  Rutere looked suspiciously at the fine white powder that had been sprinkled over the top of the container.

  “I bet it is flour,” said Rutere,
“I am certain sure she would not use poison. Mudenge maybe. Mrs Mildred, yes, but Mrs Charity . . .”

  The two boys examined the sugar carefully, and blew away a fine white dust. There was definitely contamination of the sugar. Ntoto licked his index finger, plunged it into the bin, and withdrew it, coated with a white powder.

  Rutere tried to stop him, but it was too late. Ntoto licked his finger clean. A few seconds later he collapsed, holding his stomach, clearly in agony.

  “Rutere,” he moaned, and Cyrus knelt next to his friend.

  “Doctor,” Ntoto pleaded, “call doctor,” before lapsing into unconsciousness.

  17

  It was unusual for Furniver to visit the OM on successive days, but signs that the old boy’s health was uncertain had alarmed him. The Sportsman cigarettes were given only a token puff or two before being discarded; the cashew intake was dropping; and the gin and tonics becoming stronger, and increasing in frequency.

  The evening began in the time-honoured manner, with the OM bellowing his order at Boniface: “The usual, please Mr Rugiru, and something for our guest.”

  Then followed the OM reminiscing about pre-independence days, when he won a reputation as the toughest district officer in the country. But when Furniver encouraged him to comment on current events, the OM could not contain himself. Indeed, he was so angry that he nearly forgot to order a second gin and tonic for his guest.

  “Sorry, old boy. Distracted. Been reading the bloody Overseas papers again.”

  Despite his anger – or perhaps because of it – he still managed to imbue the word with the status of a capital letter, along with half a dozen others – such as Continent, Overseas, Abroad and Foreigners.

  He tapped the offending article in The Guardian, a paper he claimed to dislike but read assiduously. “Know the enemy, what?” he would say to Furniver.

  “Their Africa chap writes about the locals who were born after Kuwisha got independence. Says they are called the ‘born free’ generation.”

  He took a long draught of his G and T and ordered another round.

  “The bloody feckless generation, if you ask me. Just look about you . . . Don’t forget the lemon,” he called after Rugiru. “Make sure the glass is cold and don’t be stingy with the nuts . . .”

  “Every time, without failing,” Boniface Rugiru complained to his deputy as he made up the order. The ambitious young man who had his eye on Rugiru’s job, said nothing, while Rugiru engaged in a jolly good moan.

  “When did I forget he wants his glass chilled? Never. When do I forget that the gin must be kept in the freezer? Never. And the tonic must be near to freezing? Never. And the lemons – fresh every day from the garden. Never. And cashew nuts, do I ever give a stingy? Never.”

  Rugiru emptied a packet of cashews into a large wooden bowl. “Never! That old man . . .”

  He shook his head.

  Boniface took the drinks to where the OM sat with Furniver.

  From their table, they could see the trunk of a palm tree, stretching beyond the roof, illuminated by a light in the courtyard.

  “Seventy years old and in its prime,” said the OM, who went on to point out that the rings on the bark indicated its age. “Apply much the same principle in Africa.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “You must have seen it yourself,” said the OM. “Africa shows its age like the rings on a tree trunk.”

  “Don’t get you,” said Furniver.

  “Straightforward, really,” said the OM.

  He adjusted his thin, lanky frame in his favourite wicker chair.

  “Remember me telling you about back to the future? Days when there were more places to fly to in the region than there are today?”

  Furniver nodded.

  “Absolutely. Matter of fact, I was looking at the old East Africa guides from the ’50s, splendid collection in the library.”

  The OM’s eyes lit up: “Morning at the Murchison, picnic at Pakwach, sandwiches in Sudan, that sort of thing . . . ending the day in a decent hotel. Those were the days, the good old bad old days, before independence.”

  But more than travel destinations that were no longer on departure boards, and timetables long abandoned, were on the OM’s mind.

  It turned out that over the weekend the former district commissioner had made a nostalgic drive back into his past, and it had been an uncomfortable experience.

  “There are landmarks all around. Like rings on that palm tree. Saturday. Drove to my old office, near Somabula, down a potholed memory lane. Wished I hadn’t. You could date the decline. My office, barely standing. Rose garden? Might never have been there. Independence in ’63. Rot starts. Country club – now a drinking den. The last dairy farm, few miles on – closed. Patel’s shut down in ’66, when Indians lost their trading licences. Dam – used to sail there, provided water for the whole district – now silted up. Clinic – run out of drugs . . . all rings on Africa’s post-independence trunk.”

  He sighed, paused for half a minute and recovered his strength with a sip of his gin and tonic.

  “They claim that Kuwisha had 6 per cent growth last year. It’s no more than office-wallah thumb suck. Fact is, no way of telling, what with stats department so bloody useless. In my day we counted the number of new tin roofs. Do you know what? Last Saturday I drove for about four hours up-country, and not one new roof. Plenty of mobile cafés or whatever they call them, selling bloody phone cards. And you can watch Arsenal play Chelsea on satellite television. But new roofs? Not one. Six per cent growth? Bottom talk, that’s all it is – bottom talk.”

  He insisted it was his round, and summoned Boniface Rugiru.

  “Boniface! More firewater, please, and don’t be so stingy with the nuts. Another one for the road? No? Then excuse me, young man. I have to have a natter with Boniface . . .”

  Rutere was not amused. “A stupid trick,” he called Ntoto’s fake collapse, “very stupid,” he said.

  In a rare concession to Rutere, Ntoto reluctantly agreed. “It was very stupid,” he said. “I am sorry.”

  Cyrus could hardly believe his ears. Titus Odhiambo Ntoto had said sorry! He decided to press home the chance to question his friend.

  “Please, Ntoto,” he said. “What is happening? What is the plan for Guchu?”

  Ntoto decided that it was time to tell Rutere – or at least to reveal part of the scheme.

  “I have bought a job as a pump boy. That is the first thing to do.”

  As Ntoto expected, it brought a scornful and sceptical reaction from his friend, who shook his head in disbelief.

  “How”, he asked incredulously, “does becoming a pump boy help us to get revenge on Mayor Guchu? First you steal sugar, now you become a pump boy?” He shook his head, baffled.

  Buying and selling a job for a day or so was far from unusual. The seller would value their job at, say, 100 ngwee a day, and would offer to “sell” it for 75 per cent of that rate. The purchaser would hope that by working hard, and earning tips, they could not only recover their outlay but make a small profit.

  But it was something that no self-respecting Mboya Boy would contemplate, let alone someone like Ntoto, who had a reputation for cold-eyed brutal thuggery. Rutere tried to learn more, but he was unsuccessful.

  “Think, Rutere. You can work it out. You have all the information that I have given you.”

  Rutere made the mistake of teasing his friend. He held his nose between finger and thumb, and wafted away the air in front with an open palm.

  “Pump boys smell of petrol. It is a useless job.”

  Ntoto hit back.

  “And what is a good job for street boys?” he asked. “I expect you want to work as a waiter, serving coffee . . . I know, Rutere, you want to be a Java!”

  Cyrus was outraged. Indeed, had the insult come from anyone else, he would be honour bound to challenge him to a fight. Java, indeed. He let rip, pointing out that it was him, the cleverest boy never to have gone to St Joseph’s Sc
hool for boys, who had told Ntoto about Tom Odhiambo Mboya, the assassinated trade unionist they admired so much they named their football team after him.

  To call Rutere a Java, even in jest, was intolerable.

  Fortunately for both boys, Charity intervened.

  “Noise! Stop that noise! This minute! You two stop making noise, right away.”

  What was happening to those boys?

  “Ntoto, what are you saying to Rutere?”

  “He called me a bad name,” said Rutere. “A very bad name.”

  After some patient coaxing by Charity, and a firm rejection of his request for a dough ball – “half, even” – as a reward for disclosing the name, Rutere finally agreed to tell Charity.

  Rutere whispered in her ear.

  “Phauw!” she exclaimed, “Phauw!”

  The strong reaction gratified Rutere.

  “Yes, mama, he called me a Java.”

  Charity was mystified, but decided not to ask what a Java was. Instead she hoped that she could work it out for herself.

  “Is this true, Ntoto? Did you call your friend Rutere this Java thing? A Java?”

  Java made no sense to her, except as a source of coffee, and the name of a popular chain of coffee shops that catered not only to expatriates and tourists, but to a growing group of Kuwishans that appreciated the taste of properly roasted beans, and enjoyed the socially mobile, middle-class ambience of the cafés.

  “He called me a Java,” repeated Rutere.

  “Hah! But why should he call you this bad name?” asked Charity. “And why should I care that boys who steal sugar should call each other bad names?”

  “But mama,” said Rutere, “it is a very bad thing he said. He said I was behaving like a mzungu, that I wanted to become a mzungu, a black mzungu, and drink coffee in Javas.” Ntoto looked on, smirking.

  Then she understood. Java was the derogatory term for a black man with aspirations to live as a white man. To be accused of being a Java was as offensive a charge as any in the boys’ vocabulary of abuse.

  Furniver intervened.

  “Did I hear someone say ‘coffee’ . . . ?”