Dizzy Worms
Page 13
“This created a division between Kuwisha and the rest of the world. The people of Kuwisha, quite understandably, believed their visitors were bonkers. Anyone who drank the brew called coffee must be odd. Then along with mobile phones, and deregulation and privatisation came a breakthrough. Coffee shops in Kuwisha began selling good palatable coffee. And the people began to realise what they were missing.”
“Okay, okay, I take your point. The coffee is better, and Africa is changing,” said Pearson. “But not in the way that you’ve made out. And not for the better.”
Furniver kept his counsel and took a sip from his mug.
“Quite astonishing,” Pearson continued. “Driving in from the airport. Everything is changing, from the billboards to new buildings, the traffic and the ads for mortgages. All that seems to have happened in the time I’ve been away. And yes, I do miss the Africa I got to know. It was all about IMF agreements and World Bank loans, civil wars and rigged elections, aid flows and gap-year teenage volunteers from Europe.”
Furniver could not resist repeating Lucy’s dig.
“Fact is, old boy, you took a perverse pleasure in that old Africa, and I suspect you have mixed feelings about the new Africa.”
Pearson ignored the intervention.
“Of course the place is changing. Of course it is,” said Pearson. “Can’t miss it. But is it closing the gap? When I was at school, the gap was simple, easy to remedy. I had books, blackboards, chalk and teachers. And there were 30 of us to a class. Today’s schools in the West have computers. Schools in Kuwisha still don’t have decent classrooms, let alone computers.
And that’s the gap that counts. As I say, it’s getting wider. At best it’s staying the same. Take the airport. Duty free shops are better stocked, the toilets are clean, and the coffee is tolerable.”
He took a sip of passion fruit juice, and smacked his lips. Cold, with a tangy almost sour undertaste.
“But what does that tell us? Then the journey into town. Double or even treble the time it used to take. I reckon you could calculate annual GDP growth, using a base rate of 2 per cent. So if the trip takes twice as long, except on Sundays of course, growth is 4 per cent, and if it’s three times . . .”
“Yes, we get the picture,” said Lucy impatiently.
Pearson ignored her.
“On the way, look at the billboards – banks, estate agents, airlines and satellite TV. Average is 40 ads for every minute of the journey. If it’s 50, the economy is overheating. Then when you check in at the hotel – and you have to book to be certain of a room – look out for the nationality of your fellow guests . . .”
“A point for every South African,” interjected Furniver, who decided to enter into the spirit of Pearson’s analysis.
“Wrong! Deduct a point.”
“Don’t get it,” said Furniver. “You’ll have to explain.”
“South Africans were in the first wave. Mainly white, it was the only way to escape the glass ceiling at home. But that was years ago – by now they’ve bought their own places. No, it’s not South Africans. It’s Lebanese, and Central and East Europeans, Italians and, of course, Chinese.”
“You accept that the economy is in better shape?”
“Up to a point. After all, the country had gone though a recession. So we are talking about 6 per cent annual growth from what the World Bank calls ‘a low base’ – i.e. the place was on the bones of its arse.”
“Something must have been going right,” interjected Furniver.
“The world economy was going right,” said Pearson. “This meant that everyone from Kuwisha who was working abroad, and God knows there are hundreds of thousands, could send more money home. It’s called expatriate remittances. Along with UN money and aid money and foreign investments.”
“Well, at least that’s a positive development,” said Furniver.
“Ah, but much of it is going into oil and mining, telecoms. Banks and breweries. Long way to go before you can talk about a recovery. Just you wait,” said Pearson darkly, “the bubble has burst. As for your lot, Lucy. You say I’m out of date, have been away too long. Well, you’ve been here too long, so long that you’ve reached the point of no return. Either you believe you and WorldFeed have made a difference, or you’ve wasted the best years of your life.”
“Fact is,” he continued, “Kuwisha is like one of those canaries miners used to take down the pits. Any methane gas and the poor bloody canary would fall off its perch, quicker than you could say ‘dead parrot’, and the miners would head for the exit. In the aid world, watch Kuwisha. Forty years after independence, and billions of aid dollars, the most tangible thing is that the population has doubled in 25 years.
“You and your aid friends see what’s happening around you as evidence of an economic recovery. I see it as the last kick of a dying canary.”
“I’m off,” said Lucy, “Promised to be at that DanAid lunch . . . Bloody hell! I’ve stood in it again.”
20
When Furniver called in at the Club the next day to check on the OM’s health, he was glad to see a tray with a bowl of ice and a fresh gin and tonic that awaited mixing. More encouraging was the fact that the box of Sportsman’s cigarettes was next to the G and T and the OM was taking a deep draw on one of the filterless sticks. The member spooned ice cubes into his glass, measured out the gin, tipped in the tonic and settled into his armchair. Yesterday’s paper was by his chair, and the stories and ads that had provoked him had been marked in angry red ink.
Clearly the situation in the north-east was still on his mind.
“I didn’t expect to see you this early,” he said to Furniver. “I suppose Lucy is still getting hot and bothered by reports on the state of the North East Province?”
Furniver nodded.
“You tell Lucy that North East Province always was what she calls a ‘food deficit’ part of the world. Served there as a young district officer. Those days, no bloody NGOs. These days, you trip over them wherever you go. Over here and overpaid. A chap who works for the UNDP can expect a starting whack of a top civil servant. About 50,000 ngwee a year. Work out the dollar rate for yourself. But how a whippersnapper from Scandinavia, in Africa for the first time, can justify their fat monthly pay packet beats me. Doesn’t end there, of course. Benefits galore. Medical cover, tax breaks, children’s education. Not to mention the foreign exchange fiddles. Import their bloody cars free of duty, sell on the open market when their tour is up after three years – and remit at the official rate. Makes a fortune.”
The OM popped a handful of cashews into his mouth.
“Take a look at the ad in today’s paper. Never mention the salary for the bods who spend a few days a month in the province. And for good reason. They earn a small bloody fortune. Instead, just talk about ’salaries commensurate with experience’ or some such piffle. If they put the salaries in black and white, people would start to ask questions.”
He paused.
“Where was I? Oh yes. Fact of life. If you got hungry, you either moved or starved. Population stayed much the same. Today, you stay, ’cos you’re sure to get fed. Move and you’ll be in trouble.
“But the point is, who does the feeding – and helps out with the health clinics and books for the primary schools? Outsiders. Foreigners. Get my drift?”
The sun broke into the shady veranda where the pair was sitting and warmed Furniver’s shoulders. He was paying the price of a Tusker too many the night before, and found it all too easy to slip into a state of drowsy relaxation. Furniver clutched his G and T and allowed his thoughts to turn to Charity.
“Drift,” the OM said firmly. “It’s called the social contract. Chap pays his taxes, does his military service, tries to obey the law, and so on. In return the government provides the basic services – roads, schools, clinics, so on. And the buggers in parliament don’t do their job, we can vote ’em out. Fair summary?”
Furniver nodded.
“Summary . . .”
The OM prodded Furniver with a bony forefinger.
“Why? ’Cos WorldFeed and Oxfam and their UN chums will chip in. All managed by foreigners. Tens of thousands of the buggers come out each year, all catching the gravy train that chuffs its way around Africa. The foreigners get off and at every station locals get on, heading for Europe.
“Want evidence? Look at the death notices in the local papers. Signed by every surviving family member, relative or whatnot. Half of them are graduates living in London or Washington.”
He snorted.
“So what has happened to the bloody social contract? If you are starving, the UN will feed you; if the mozzies are killing your kids, Bill Gates will provide a mosquito net; if your road needs rebuilding, UKAid or DanAid will help; if no water, then WaterAid will dig a few wells; if the railway is falling apart” – he tapped that day’s paper, with its ads for UN posts – “then WorldFeed will bring in a foreigner to coordinate and help out.”
The OM’s face was getting redder.
“And if you don’t want to pay your country’s debt, a Harvard economist briefed by DebtAid will come up with a raft of reasons not to do so – but that’s another story . . .”
He took a further sip of his gin and tonic.
“What is more, these aid thingies don’t work . . . Goats to Africa, I ask you.
“So if the state can’t deliver, why be loyal? Why pay your taxes? Instead you look to big-man politics – to your relative, to your clan, to the ethnic leaders or the regional boss. Result? The state breaks down, and patronage, corruption, takes over. I could live with the donors’ do-good arrogance if their aid worked. I could overlook the fact that the goat population is as big a threat to the environment of Africa as global warming.”
The OM paused.
“OK, nearly as big . . . but at the end of the day, the best you can say about aid is that it does not save lives – it just delays the deaths of a few, and contributes to the deaths of a hell of a lot more.”
“Absolutely,” said Furniver.
The OM beamed.
“Knew we’d see things the same way. Let me call a matatu. Nearly lunchtime. Boniface! Bring Mr Furniver one for the road!”
Boniface Rugiru watched anxiously as the OM pottered around the Club gardens, stopping every now and then to sniff the roses or to examine a badly trimmed lawn edge with a critical eye. The steward had concealed himself behind the veranda trellis, knowing that any display of concern would not be tolerated. The OM was not fooled. As he headed back to his favourite arm chair, he called out.
“I see you, Rugiru. Your shoes give you away. Size of an elephant!”
Back on the Club veranda, he called for his G and T.
“You and I need to have a word. Sit down, Mr Rugiru.”
For the first time in his 45 years of service at the Thumaiga Club, Boniface sat in a member’s chair, knowing instinctively that this was no time to let convention come between him and a man he considered his friend.
“Suh,” he said, and braced himself.
“Mr Rugiru, I have been making plans for my departure, and I want you to handle the show.”
Rugiru frowned. Arrangements for members’ home leave were usually handled by the Club secretary.
“Suh,” he replied non-committedly.
“I’ve had a decent innings, and I want to finish with a six. I’ll run through a few things, the opening and suchlike, leave the rest to you.”
The OM gave a convulsive cough, and lit another Sportsman.
“Better get a pen and paper, don’t want anything left out.”
Rugiru hesitated.
“For cricket scores?”
The OM coughed again, and brought his handkerchief to his lips.
“Not bloody likely!”
Although the day had been hot, the night was chill, and they moved into the Members’ Lounge. Rugiru threw another log on the fire. The two men sat companionably, looking into the flames, each lost to old memories.
Rugiru and the OM had grown up together on the same farm. At 12, the OM had been packed off to boarding school, and the relationship between the two boys had changed fundamentally. But something of the old friendship remained. Indeed, it was said in the club that Rugiru owed his job to the OM, which some members saw as evidence of a liberal heart – though none dared say as much in his hearing.
“Right,” said the OM. “Let’s get down to business. But first I need another G and T, Mr Rugiru, and a bowl of cashew nuts. And I mean a bowl, not a handful. You dish out those bloody nuts as if you expect me to sign a chitty for each and every one.”
The truth was, the OM’s appetite for nuts was much diminished, a sure sign that something was amiss with his health.
Rugiru raised an eyebrow, nodded at the deputy bar steward, a sociology graduate on whom the OM kept a sharp eye.
As the OM had explained to the Club secretary: “In the bad old days Rugiru and his pals would water the gin and cadge from the kitchen. Seldom got any worse. True, fiddling with the gin was hanging offence in my book, but we knew where we stood. Today, the buggers are after your job and my membership . . .”
Rugiru waited for his instructions.
“Anyway, Boniface, whatever, I need to put my affairs in order. At my age. Getting on. Want to plan a decent send-off. Not one of these wishy-washy weepy ceremonies that happen every day. But something rather special. I’ve jotted down a few thoughts and I want to go over them with you – because you are going to be the one who will run the whole show.”
The deputy steward arrived with the drinks.
“More ice, suh,” said Rugiru, concealing his alarm.
He rose to his feet. He was starting to feel uncomfortable. Rules of the Club, which went back to the early days of British colonial rule, were maintained with a ruthless rigour by post-independence committees. Near the top of a list of rules of conduct was a ban on any fraternising or undue familiarity with the staff.
“I said sit down, Mr Rugiru.”
The alarmed bar steward took up the note book and pen, which his deputy had left with the drinks, and proceeded to take down the OM’s last will and testament.
“I, David Artemis Carruthers Smeldon, being of sound mind, hereby set out the order of service for my cremation . . .”
It was clear the OM had given it much thought, for it included everything from an insistence on the time pips of the BBC and the playing of “Lillibullero” to open and close the service, and a selection of guerrilla marching songs, to a request that extracts from the last sermon of the late Bishop David Mupanga be read at the conclusion of proceedings.
“Why ‘Lillibullero’? You may well ask, Mr Rugiru. It reminds me that Northern Ireland gave me hope for Africa. All the tribalism on the continent couldn’t match the Irish for their sheer venomous pigheadedness. Gave me hope. Showed that bigotry is universal. And whenever I heard that tune, with its words, I wanted to cheer. Now the blighters have made up, Africa is much harder to defend. Yes, I know. You have the Muslims and the Balkans, but most Brits know little about these places and care less, too far from home. But Northern Ireland was in the Brits’ back yard and of course English colonialism caused the whole bloody problem at the start.”
He trailed off.
Rugiru listened patiently to the OM’s many gripes, every now and then indicating with a cough or a modest grunt that he had taken on board the points that were being made. But when the member had a go at the BBC, Rugiru’s loyalties were strained.
The news about and from Africa seemed trivial and confusing, complained the OM. Countries bickered, and people quarrelled, as an increasingly irritated world looked on.
The World Service of the BBC was part of the family, but increasing
ly he seemed to regard it in the same light as an uncle who had disgraced himself, who had wandered off the straight and narrow.
“Listen, listen!” he used to say, gesturing at the radio. “Can you credit it? Can you bloody well credit it? Haven’t a clue what the bugger is saying. Does it make sense to you, Rugiru?”
Boniface had to admit that some of the local contributors spoke a heavily accented English that was difficult to penetrate, and try as he might he could not make out just what was being said or discussed.
“Rebels based in the north . . . Urban protests . . . the national football team, the golden hooves . . . black warriors . . . robbers killed by police . . . New Africa . . . Sustained growth.”
One day it seemed that there had been a police mutiny in the western region of Gambia, the next day it might be Zambia, and in both cases the minister in charge had vehemently denied that members of the army had been called in to arrest the mutineers. More than that, complained the OM, the content was parochial at a time when the news should be international.
“In the real world, Israel is invading Lebanon, oil is selling for more than $100 a barrel and a Saudi arms deal will keep 5,000 British workers in jobs for life.
“The buggers at the BBC insist on treating Africa like a bloody retard, like the village idiot. The worst thing . . .”
As the OM thumped the table in front of him, the cashew nuts shook and the newly ordered gin and tonic spilt.
“Damn and blast.”
He took out a handkerchief and wiped the table dry.
“The worst thing”, he continued, “is the way they handle floods and whatnot.”
There had been unseasonable rains across the continent, from Ghana on the west coast, to Uganda in the east, and floods had destroyed crops and cost hundreds of lives.
“So, when did the BBC decide it was a disaster? Not when the local johnnies said so. Oh no. They weren’t good enough. It only became a disaster when the aid agencies decided it was time to appeal for help. I ask you, isn’t there something wrong when the NGOs make these decisions? So much for this new information technology. We know more and understand less.”