Dizzy Worms

by Michael Holman

  He listened patiently to Rutere’s version of the insult, leaning towards the boy so as to hear him better. Like Charity, his response was involuntary, his head recoiling.

  “Phauw!”

  Ntoto’s breath was truly awful.

  Rutere accepted Ntoto’s apology.

  “It is duck’s water off my back,” said Cyrus magnanimously.

  The two trotted off.

  “Phauw,” said Furniver. “That Rutere boy! His breath is really appalling. Could kill pigeons at six paces.”

  “Tell me, Ntoto,” Rutere persisted. “Why you have bought this pump boy job? I may be clever, but I don’t understand.”

  Ntoto relented.

  “It is the only way,” he replied, “that I can get close to Guchu. And you know, Rutere, that if you are not part of a big man, you cannot get a job. A pump boy, even, comes from the same tribe as the owner of the petrol station. Or the owner is his relative. Or the owner is doing a big man, like Guchu, a favour.”

  “That is correct,” said Rutere.

  “So think, Rutere. Think!”

  Cyrus ran his fingers through his curls, and was briefly distracted by the discovery of a nit that had been proving especially irritating. He cracked it between his fingernails, and flicked the remains away.

  “The pump boy is circumcised,” continued Ntoto. “I myself saw this when swimming in the Malubuzi River during the floods last year.”

  Rutere remembered the event, which had triggered a long and sometimes heated debate about differences between the circumcised and the uncircumcised communities. The one side argued that it shouldn’t affect ability or potential; the other side believed that the operation marked a gulf between the two groups that could never be bridged.

  Rutere, still not any the wiser, asked Ntoto to continue.

  “Well . . .” said Ntoto. “The owner is a Luya man, and Luya men are never circumcised. This means that the pump boy, who is circumcised, got his job because his relative is an important man, who, in the language of Kuwisha, must surely drive a big desk, and wanted a favour from the owner. And the big man who fills his car at the station, right full to top, same day every week, is our old friend Mr Guchu . . .”

  It was slowly becoming clearer to Rutere what his friend had in mind. As he digested the information and its implications, his eyes opened wide in appreciation of Ntoto’s sheer cunning, mixed with fear at the retaliation they risked from the mayor. He looked at his friend with renewed respect. He had one final question but it could wait.

  “Well, Mr Mudenge . . .”

  The flour trick had not worked, Charity complained the next morning, as Mudenge sipped his breakfast glass of mango juice.

  “There is no doubt,” said Mudenge, “these thieves are very clever. But there is no question, Mrs Mupanga, that if I don’t succeed your money will be returned. I have one more trick, but it is the very best muti that I will be using. Let us see what happens.”

  He rubbed the corner of his eye, resisting the temptation to take it out and give it a good wipe with his handkerchief. Mudenge had lost his left eye when still in his teens, the result of a chip of granite that had flown off the stone he had been preparing for the foundations of the family house. The injured eye had been replaced by a glass one, which Mudenge every now and then took out from the socket, polished with his handkerchief, and slipped back.

  “Rest assured, Mrs Mupanga, no results, no pay.”

  18

  It was soon after the announcement that Kireba was to be redeveloped that Philimon Ogata, looking as happy as a butcher’s dog, turned up at the bar and made an expansive gesture.

  “Tuskers on me,” he announced. “One each,” he added, looking round. “Dough balls for the boys.”

  Charity, who was tending the bar, looked sceptical. While Ogata was not a mean man, he was not a well-off man either. He made good money out of the funeral business, but three of his sons were still at high school, and his parents, blessed with a long life, relied on him.

  Ogata slapped 100 ngwee on the counter.

  “Deposit! And more where that came from,” he said, tapping a brown envelope that Charity could see bulged with cash.

  It did not take her long to work out the source of Ogata’s wealth.

  “So, Mr Ogata, you have been sleeping with lawyers. Be careful! Lawyers are very cunning. You may think you can beat them, and then, poof, you have no money. Indeed, you will have to repay money that you think is yours. Tell me what happened.”

  Ogata’s tale was a familiar one.

  It began, he said, with the visit of a well-known lawyer, Dr Strong Kapundu. After an exchange of pleasantries, they got down to business.

  “How long have you lived at number 79 Uhuru Lane?” asked Kapundu.

  It was not an easy question to answer. If the truth were made known to the City Council, it could prove an expensive business. He had not paid local taxes for many years. Ogata, who had in fact been living in Kireba for nigh on 30 years, decided to take a gamble.

  “I’ve lived here for 15 years,” he said.

  “Very good,” said Kapundu and went on to ask a series of other questions.

  Had the terms of the lease changed? Had the owner changed?

  Ogata thought carefully once again. The owner was a Luya company, whose main objectives were to buy land for its members and extract as much money as possible in as short a time as possible from its non-Luya tenants. The last thing Ogata wanted was trouble with landlords.

  He decided to stick to his relatively honest approach. He named the company but his concern was apparent to the lawyer.

  “Don’t worry,” said Kapundu. “Don’t worry.”

  He produced a calculator, pressed several buttons, and showed the result to Ogata.

  “This,” he said, “is how much you will get if you sign these papers.”

  It was a small fortune but Ogata remained wary.

  “And if I do not sign?”

  Kapundu shrugged.

  “Do you need the money?”

  “Of course,” said Ogata.

  Kapundu shrugged again: “Why should one beat a horse to make it drink if it is already thirsty?”

  “So I signed,” said Ogata. “And here is the money.”

  Who could blame him?

  As word spread about Nduka’s project, residents of Kireba took advantage of the situation. You did not need to own the hovel in which you lived, or the land on which it was built, to benefit from a compensation scheme – at least, that was the claim of lawyers who, in the words of Charity, were “cleverer than lawyers from London, even”.

  All that was necessary was to make a plausible claim that you had lived on the land for five years – or three years, or ten years, depending on the lawyer. This gave you the right, according to the law of the land, to compensation from the property developer.

  “But remember,” she said to Ogata or anyone else who asked her advice: “The judge has sold himself to the man who offers the most money.”

  Just then her mobile went off.

  Pearson and Lucy were on their way and Digby would follow.

  Anders Berksson looked out at the audience of a specially convened meeting. It was time to rally the troops. Morale in the development agencies was suffering. Cement delays and land compensation claims, not to mention the fact that the road lobby and the rail lobby were in a state of open war, had combined to make the timetable of the Kireba project look like wishful thinking. Indeed, the assessment of the operating environment had changed from “challenging” to “demanding”. Any more setbacks and it would be termed “hostile”.

  The audience was packed with front-line fighters in the battle for change, veterans of the struggle for the soul of Kuwisha. In an inspiring display of unity and common purpose, UNICEF and UNHCR, WFP, HABITAT, UNESCO and UNEP sat shoulder to shoulder with representatives from WorldFeed, DanAid, ScanHelp, GOAT and HARE. Between them they accounted for a substantial chunk of Kuwisha’s foreign e
xchange earnings, not far behind tea, coffee and tourism.

  “Time is running out,” Berksson told his anxious assembly.

  “Unless we put our weight behind the president’s proposal for Kireba, we face the real prospect of a cut in our spending allocations next year. We all know what this means . . .”

  As long as he headed UNDP, he told the gathering, the battle against poverty would be ceaselessly and untiringly waged.

  “So let us reject the isolated piecemeal planning of the past. Let us make a clear shift away from the over-preoccupation with foreign exchange problems external to the region. Let us make a decisive move towards the integrated development of the urban resources, institutional mechanisms and technological capacities required to assess and utilise the natural resources and raw material endowments of the region. Let us expand local markets, enlarge the range of complementarities and strengthen the links between industry and other sectors of the economy. Time is running out,” Berksson repeated, “but help is at hand, from friends in high places.”

  He paused for effect.

  “I am sure you will join me in sending a warm Kuwisha welcome to one of our distinguished goodwill ambassadors for NoseAid, who has promised to support us . . . let me be first to bring wonderful news . . . the famous columnist for the Clarion, the fearless campaigner for rhinos and true friend of the people . . . Mr Jasper Japer!”

  For some in the audience, the name rang no bells. But the spontaneous gasp of appreciation and round of applause that came from the rest of the gathering warmed Berksson’s heart.

  19

  Sitting at Harrods, drinking good coffee made from beans grown and roasted on Charity’s shamba, or enjoying a glass of freshly squeezed juice or a cup of tea or an ice-cold Tusker, Pearson felt as though he’d never been away. And when he returned from inspecting the site for the VIP toilets his benign view of the world included Titus Ntoto and Cyrus Rutere, both of whom he privately described as “devious little shits”. Charity had given him a hug and Mildred Kigali, no admirer of journalists, acknowledged his presence.

  And above all there was Lucy, blonde and blue-eyed and exuding an unquenchable enthusiasm . . .

  “Great plans for the toilets,” she called from the kitchen where the blueprints had been laid out for public inspection. “God help those bloody flies.”

  “What ho!” said Furniver heartily, grasping his hand warmly and clapping him on the back. “Welcome back.”

  Just then there was the sound of disgust.

  “Sis,” said Lucy. She was scraping away at something disgusting that clung to the sole of her shoe, picked up during the short walk from the local taxi rank to the bar.

  “Nice T-shirt,” said Furniver. “By the way, where did you get to yesterday?”

  Lucy blushed.

  “Something came up.”

  “I bet it did,” said Furniver, glancing at Pearson.

  Lucy ignored him.

  “Managed to put off lunch with the ambassador, and sorting out The Times and the Telegraph was easier than I’d thought. Got them to settle their differences and come on the weekend trip to Kigali. All I had to do was to point out that they could pay their fare in local currency, and after that it was like feeding lumps of sugar to a horse.”

  While Charity went back to chalking the menu on the blackboard, now bearing the slogan, “Best Place To Water Your Mouth”, the others exchanged views on the state of Kuwisha.

  “It really has changed, you know, Pearson,” said Lucy.

  “I thought you said nothing had changed?”

  “I was talking about the fundamentals – population, land, drought and government cock-ups,” said Lucy. “But the country has still changed.”

  “Everybody tells me that,” said Pearson, “usually followed by theories as to what the Chinese are up to.”

  Furniver took up the issue. “The country is changing. You’ll see. Twenty-four-hour supermarkets, mobile phones and the property boom – that’s the positive side. But the dark side is getting darker. Hit squads knock off human rights activists, and this coalition government has its head in the sand, its snout in the trough and its bum in the butter. You’ll see,” he said. “You’ll see . . .”

  In surroundings that were so familiar, it was all but inevitable that old arguments and old disputes would be aired afresh.

  In this latest skirmish between the camps of the Afro-pessimists and the Afro-optimists, neither was able to convince the other of the merits of their argument.

  “Of course,” said Furniver, “I gather that things used to be terrible in Africa. The 1980s and 1990s in particular were grim. We had all those proxy wars waged by Washington and Moscow. Today for the first time in donkeys’ years, there are no wars in Africa. True, there are nasty things going on in Sudan and Somalia, Nigeria and Congo. But there is no full-scale war. And it’s also possible to make money out of an African investment. If you’d invested $100 into Blakeney Management seven years ago, it would be worth nearly $1000 today. Beat that!”

  Pearson had been making a valiant effort not to interrupt, but failed.

  “No wars, you say? Okay, I grant you, no all-out wars. But let me throw in a few more names of countries where things are, shall we say, difficult. Sudan, Sierra Leone, Zimbabwe, Kenya . . . A spot of fighting in Nigeria, a few problems in Uganda and Malawi. There are more refugees in Africa than ever before, there is more poverty, however you measure it. And, yes, investors may have done well by putting their money into African banks, mobile phones, breweries and properties, but I’ve yet to see a successful portfolio that’s built on actually making things, such as bicycles or water pumps or solar heating panels.”

  It was Furniver’s turn.

  “You need to look at your history, my boy. It took Britain a hundred years to quadruple its economy. Germany, France and the US took half that time. Japan did it in 25 years, then Singapore, South Korea followed and now we’re looking at China and India who are making even faster progress. Today, whether you hacks like it or not – and for some reason, most of you don’t – Africa leads the growth table. Just take a look at this.”

  Furniver pointed to a graph in an article from the FN which he had cut out and kept. It showed Ethiopia and Rwanda keeping pace with China, India and Vietnam.

  “Well?” he said. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

  “It’s crazy to compare them. Ethiopia and Rwanda, China and India? Talk about minnows and whales.”

  Furniver made a final effort.

  “What about private capital flows?” he asked. “I don’t want to get too technical but the flows to Africa have risen from a few billion a year to over 30 billion annually while the amount to developing Asia and Central and East Europe is negative.”

  He pushed the document under Pearson’s nose.

  “As the chap says, from the sickly sister of the world family to an empowered über-babe of a continent today.”

  “Believe that,” said Pearson sourly, “and you’ll believe anything. Just you wait. Remittances from Africans living abroad are going to fall even further . . .” He shook his head. “Just you wait.”

  “What does the OM have to say about the North East Province?” asked Lucy. “By the way, how is the old bugger?”

  “Not too fit, I fear,” replied Furniver.

  Furniver recounted not only the OM’s observations about conditions in the province and the number affected, but his views on the role of WorldFeed and other foreign aid agencies.

  “At the end of the day, the OM said you chaps do more harm than good. All in all pretty depressing, I don’t mind telling you,” he concluded.

  Lucy’s reaction surprised him. He’d expected her to mount a vigorous case in defence of the aid agencies. Instead she looked thoughtful.

  “Isn’t there something in what he said?”

  “Well, the world has certainly changed – is changing,” said Furniver. “If he’s right, you chaps at WorldFeed will soon have to fold your
tents and bugger off – leave the locals to it.”

  “Already starting to happen,” said Lucy. “Had a message from HQ this morning. WorldFeed income fallen 20 per cent since the credit crunch. They’re looking for volunteers – redundancy packages. I’m thinking of putting my name in.”

  Furniver was visibly taken aback. “Thought you liked your job?”

  “I do,” said Lucy. “But maybe the time of the NGO is coming to an end. The funds are going to dry up. Our high street WorldFeed shops are doing okay, but otherwise . . . we’ll become what we started as – an outfit offering first aid, fast. That will always be needed. But as for our hopes that we could change Africa . . .”

  She shrugged.

  “After 40 years of trying, there’s not much to show for it. The need for help is still there. In fact, it’s greater than ever. Remittances from abroad have dropped. Still falling. Stands to reason. Fewer jobs, less money to spare. Perhaps it’s a blessing in disguise. As I say, after 40 years bashing away, time we all took stock – foreigners and locals.”

  She looked at Charity, now back from the kitchen. But if she was expecting Charity to comment she was to be disappointed. The manager had other things on her mind.

  “Good news! I’ve had good news, Lucy. Those toilets, the Zimbabwe toilets, the plans have arrived and the holes are being dug. All we need now is cement – whenever it is on sale, at a good price,” she added sourly. “Come and look at the holes. We are making progress. But we cannot stand here talking all day. Talk, talk, talk. Always talking, not enough doing.”

  Furniver coughed diffidently: “By the way, Pearson, Lucy said you had a World Bank report on Ethiopia from the last AU summit. Would you mind if I had a look at it?”

  Pearson resisted the temptation to discuss the fall in property prices in London, but he could not stop himself from teasing Furniver about his elaborate coffee-making ritual.

  “Far from being the elitist gesture you suggest, it is my daily attempt to improve understanding between the races,” Furniver replied, mock-pompously. “Until not so long ago the country that grows some of the world’s finest coffee, managed to turn it into the world’s least palatable drink. Hotels and restaurants seemed to vie with each other to produce a noxious, foul-smelling brew, which was drunk almost exclusively by foreign visitors and white locals.