Kitafe

by Michael Ray

  Graham’s mother had believed that in return for her promise to honour and obey, her newly acquired husband would knuckle down and swiftly become one of Manchester’s leading industrialists, providing a house in Chester and holidays in the Mediterranean. It hadn’t happened, they were still renting the same house they’d moved into shortly after getting married, and he was stuck in the lower echelons of middle management. The marriage had probably only survived as long as it did because of the allotment.

  It was understood that on Saturdays, his father would spend four or five hours weeding and watering. His mother viewed allotments as something to do with the lower classes and never went near them, a situation that suited his father, who for nine months of the year, provided the family with freshly grown vegetables. Graham later discovered that his father hated gardening, and that the horticulture was provided by a Miss Rutherford who, in exchange for a little affection in the potting shed, was more than prepared to earth up the potatoes and string up the beans.

  Then, a neighbour told his mother about the arrangement.

  It wasn’t a good day in Graham’s life, although retrospectively one of the best in his father’s. He’d only been back from the army for a couple of months and was getting used to a life of servitude spent with the Manchester Argos, when he arrived home and walked into a battlefield.

  Under increasing verbal fire, his father was upstairs bravely retrieving a suitcase full of clothes. He listened for a few moments, then made a dash for the kitchen as the battle proceeded down the stairs, a bombardment of flying ducks from the wall replacing the shouting.

  After his father had escaped, his mother came storming into the kitchen and unable to find anyone else to shout at, lay into Graham.

  At first, he hadn’t got a clue what she was talking about but embedded in the ranting, he learnt the secrets of his father’s potting shed.

  Graham briefly fantasised that he might be the subject of a custody battle, ending up in the paternal household, the fragrant Miss Rutherford bringing him his morning tea. Sadly though, no one appeared that worried about the fate of a twenty-two-year old trainee reporter, and so the marital house now provided shelter for just him, an even more embittered mother and an empty vegetable rack.

  His mother found a part time job, and things got worse. She was someone with a lot of knowledge but without the wit to put it to any use, ideal characteristics for her employment as a part time assistant librarian. She assumed the rest of the human race was not only beneath her but stupid, approaching the library’s patrons with a venomous eye and a terrible desire to correct their obvious ignorance. Unfortunately, library regulations meant that she wasn’t able to reduce her frustrations by shouting at them and by the end of the day, she was ready to explode, usually doing so on Graham’s arrival back from work. No, he couldn’t have a bottle of beer with his supper, her stout was a tonic and she only drank it because she had too; besides, alcohol had driven his father away from her. Yes, she did mind if he went to the pub to meet his friends because decent people didn’t go to pubs. He could stay home and keep her company. This involved her moaning at him about his father, the weather, the neighbours, the Manchester Argos and anything else of which had occurred to her during the day. The continuous battering was only relieved when his mother’s new love, Coronation Street, came on the television. She’d acquired it in exchange for her wedding ring, engagement ring and the selection of her husband’s clothes and chattels, hidden away upon discovering the real reason for his Saturday forays into market gardening.

  Graham didn’t have the courage to tell his mother about the job in Africa, he just followed his father’s cue and left, leaving her a note. Since then he’d kept in touch with his father, but all the letters to his mother had gone unanswered, including the one that told her of his marriage to Amani. Soon after, his father had admitted that choosing between staying with his mother and alcoholism or leaving for Miss Rutherford, he hadn’t hesitated in taking the healthier option.

  And now Graham was with Amani. In many ways she reminded him of his mother, though to her credit she had no objection to pubs, quite the opposite. He knew that if he ever did escape, unlike his mother, he’d miss her.

  He turned into King George Street, musing whether he should be writing the next great African novel or trying to work his passage to the Far East, when a car pulled up alongside, and a rear door opened.

  ‘Hello Graham,’ Rose said. ‘I was on my way to find you.’

  ‘Hello love, look I’m in enough trouble …’

  ‘Don’t worry about any trouble, James sent me here to pick you up. He wanted to see you and thought you might have trouble finding to him.’

  ‘Then why doesn’t he just come to the Stardust?’

  ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea, do you? With all those people there.’

  ‘All those people?’

  ‘He wants a little privacy. Come on, get in.’

  Graham obediently did as he was told.

  Rose kissed him on the cheek then looked with concern at his neck. ‘Darling, what happened to you?’

  ‘Amani happened to me, she seemed to think that you and I were … bloody hell! I hope she doesn’t spot us together like this.’ He lowered his body until his knees, pushing up against the back of the seat in front, prevented him going any lower.

  Rose looked at him and laughed. ‘You know if you ever decide to leave her, I’ll be there for you.’

  ‘Thanks love, but I don’t think leaving her is an option, I’d be dead before I got to the front door.’

  The car passed through the centre of town then headed out.

  ‘You’re clear now,’ Rose said with a smile. ‘Amani would never come near this part of town.’

  Graham sat up and looked out, houses and shops had been replaced by shacks and kiosks, largely made of wood and cardboard. The road was now a dirt track, an open drain on one side and occasional piles of rubbish on the other. A few curious faces stared at the car as it passed and a few children ran alongside, shouting at each other and laughing.

  ‘Where the hell are we?’

  ‘The Valley, have you never been here? This is where many of James’s supporters live. Don’t worry, you’re quite safe, they know his car.’

  ‘I thought we were going to the New Kongoni.’

  ‘James wants to give you a little background for your interview.’

  They pulled up outside a small house with a courtyard. Unlike its neighbours, it was built of bricks with a tin roof and a small, neat flower garden in the front. James came out to greet them, his arms open wide.

  ‘My friend, welcome.’ He amicably put an arm over Graham’s shoulder and guided him towards the front door. ‘Come inside, you will be thirsty.’

  ‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ Graham replied, ‘though a bit out of the way. Last time I went to your house it was parked next to a coffee farm, not in the middle of a shanty town.’

  ‘I still spend some time there, when I need to think, but this is my base in town. Here I am surrounded by my people and perhaps at the moment it is a little safer.’

  ‘You mean the Colonel doesn’t know about it?’

  ‘Of course he does, and if he decided to arrest me he could drive up with his soldiers and his policemen,’ James laughed, ‘but I would be long gone.’

  ‘It would take them weeks to find you among this lot.’

  ‘They would never find me.’

  They went into the whitewashed front room and sat on an incongruous looking three piece suite covered in floral cotton. James gave an order and a few moments later one of his men came in with two cold beers, placing them carefully on a couple of wooden side tables.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Graham said appreciatively. ‘How do you keep them cold?’

  ‘I have ice delivered when I’m here. Do you want some meat?’

  ‘No thanks mate, the beer is fine.’

  ‘Well, I will have some,’ and he gave another orde
r. ‘Tell me, what happened to your neck?’

  If one more person thought Graham … ‘ Last night Amani heard I’d gone off with Rose.’

  James laughed. ‘Do not worry, I will get word to her that Rose was working for me, but you really must treat your women better, even my sister. You should beat her, and then she will respect you. There is no respect to be had when a man is beaten by a woman.’ He turned to his plate of meat and took a mouthful. ‘This is good, you really should have some.’ He passed the plate to Graham who picked up a chunk. Chewy goat had never been his favourite food, but hunger can be a powerful appetiser and he took a second piece. James smiled and shouted at the kitchen for another plateful.

  ‘This is good, Graham, I want us to be friends as well as family.’ He wiped his mouth on a handkerchief, relieving it of the build up of goat fat and took a swig from his bottle of beer. ‘I have been thinking about what you were saying last night.’

  Graham thought hard for a minute, but try as he might, last night was a distant place. He did have vague recollections of meeting James, sometime before he found himself sitting in a gutter with blood dribbling down his neck.

  ‘Colonel Harding, I want you to get to know him better,’ continued James.

  ‘But the man’s a pathological killer, you know that.’

  ‘No matter, he’s still a man of great influence and importance and after all, he has asked you to get to know me better,’

  ‘Only because he wants to know what you’re up to.’

  ‘Of course he does, that is his job and so we will tell him.’

  ‘I can’t just phone him up and ask him out for a drink, he’s head of security around these parts or didn’t you know?’

  ‘Which is precisely why I want to know what he’s doing. It’s very simple, he wants you to be my friend so that you can spy on me for him …’

  ‘No, that’s not true, I’d …’

  ‘No matter, I want you to.’

  ‘What spy on you?’

  ‘Of course, but you will only let him know what I want him to know, and so you will have an excuse to meet him, and then you can tell me what he’s up to.’

  ‘James, I like you, I am family, but I’m not spying for anyone, I’m a sports reporter not Dick Tracy.’

  ‘Graham, I don’t want you to spy for me, I just want you to tell me what he is doing, how he feels about certain things. Besides, you’re not a sports reporter anymore, weren’t you sent to interview me?’ He patted his stomach. ‘You think I play football? No, you’re a political journalist, you can ask him these things without him getting suspicious’

  Graham thought for a moment. Brazil, he’d always fancied going to Brazil. Rio de Janeiro, warm beaches and Latin girls with a minimalist dress sense … giant spiders and anacondas. ‘OK, I’ll talk to him and I’ll talk to you and I’ll tell you both … for God’s sake, why don’t you just phone him? you’re not a shy fifteen-year-old any more.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that and it won’t until the British no longer control this country; until it once more belongs to its legitimate heirs.’

  ‘Haven’t you seen the number of troops hanging about? You think Westminster will just hand over the keys?’

  ‘Of course they won’t, there will have to be pressure brought to bear, but eventually they will. Ghana was the first and others will follow, and when they do, I will be there. I will give you an interview, but first you must come for a walk.’

  They left the house and went out into the street. They walked between shacks, through shacks and around shacks. James was treated with deference by adults, one or two of the women humbly lowered the heads and stared at the ground as if afraid to look him in the eye, but they appeared happy for him to be there and shook his hand with a cheerful smile.

  ‘These are the poorest of people, Graham. They have an economy amongst themselves, like that of a small country, and into that economy comes a little bit of cash from those who have jobs in town; that is what keeps it going. You know when I was in South Africa studying law; I also studied your history. These people, they remind me of the poor people in your Victorian England. There is one difference though, your ancestors were always seen as being sad, the pictures are of young girls huddled under torn shawls, of old men wearing tattered hats and thin women with crying babies. Here, there is joy.’

  As if to illustrate his point two small children ran round the corner of a shack laughing then stopped in their tracks when they saw Graham and James.

  ‘I think you’ll find those pictures were painted and etched to wake the conscience of the middle classes,’ Graham said.

  James beckoned the children forward and like politicians everywhere smiled at them and ruffled the hair on one child’s head. ‘Perhaps, and it worked. Your Victorian politicians, your Gladstones were forced to change the way that society looked at the poor. That is what I want to do here, I want the them to have water and proper drainage, to have education and health services, maybe one day they will even have electricity. They don’t need big houses, but they do need the right to build their shacks, the confidence that comes from knowing they will not be bulldozed the day after they have been built. When we control our country again, these people will have land to build their houses and grow their food. They will have a permanence. Now, we will go back to my house and I will give you your interview.’

  *****

  Two hours later, Graham was dropped off at the Stardust. Amani was by the bar, talking to Jonathan. He hesitated at the door, but she’d seen him and came over, kissing him on the neck.

  ‘Oh your poor neck, what a silly boy you were, not explaining to me about Rose and making me lose my temper like that.’

  ‘But I …’

  ‘Never mind darling, I forgive you. Come and say hello to Jonathan.’

  ‘Good evening dear boy,’ Jonathan said, handing over a beer. ‘So what have you been up to?’ He held Graham’s chin to one side to take a better look at the damage, ‘mmm, nasty, leopard?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Graham replied. He put the bottle to his lips, took a long draught and burped. ‘I’ve been to see James.’

  ‘Ah, your brother-in-law. What did he want?’

  ‘To be the next president as far as I can tell.’

  ‘That should give your career a lift.’

  ‘But first he thinks a little public disobedience and rioting might be in order.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like him, I thought he was all for peaceful protest in the work place.’

  ‘This is true,’ Amani said, ‘my brother is a peaceful man.’

  ‘He is, or so the interview I’ve just done will say, but read between the lines Jonathan, read between the lines. He needs to put pressure on the British, you don’t do that by walking along the street singing songs. Get me another beer and I’ll let you have half an hour with my notes. If Bradley complains, we were both at the interview.’

  ‘Fair enough, I’ll throw in beer for the rest of the week if it’s any good.’

  ‘My sort of barter,’ Graham said, taking out his notebook and passing it over.’

  Amani looked at him seriously. ‘I know Jonathan is our friend, but do you think you should give away your secrets like that?’

  ‘What do you think your brother would want? I think he would like his thoughts to be spread as far as possible.’

  ‘But that is your work not Jonathan’s!’

  ‘Don’t worry love, Jonathan’s a mate, he’d do the same for me, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘But of course dear boy,’ Jonathan replied, staring at Graham’s notebook and looking a little confused. ‘You know the next man you should practise your new found skills on? Brother Sebastian.’

  ‘I’m a political reporter, not a religious correspondent.’

  ‘Which is why you should have a chat with him. He’s an elderly priest who lives a hundred miles north of here at an old missionary station. He brought up Henry Ngai, the man’s practically his son.’

&nb
sp; ‘So he’s ultimately responsible for the Army of Christ’s Inquisition then.’

  ‘Not really, if Ngai was in need of a hook to hang an army on and Christianity wasn’t available, I’m sure he’d have found another.’

  ‘I don’t want you going there,’ Amani said.

  ‘I have to love, it’s part of my job.’

  ‘That Ngai, he is a bad man; you must keep away from him.’

  ‘I’m not going to see him, I’m going to see a priest … if Bradley agrees that is.’

  ‘But you will be gone for two days at least and in that bad car, it will be dangerous.’

  ‘I’ll be fine love, the car’s been as good as gold since Benjamin had a look at it.’

  ‘You know I can hardly make head or tail of this,’ Jonathan said, turning Graham’s notebook upside down then back again. ‘You appear to have scattered a random selection of words over the page.’

  ‘I’ll write it up tonight and let you have a copy first thing, just make sure you change it a bit.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ and he handed it back.

  ‘So where do I find your priest?’

  ‘Not too difficult, just go due north out of town and keep going. There’s only one proper road heading that way, so you can’t miss it. After a hundred miles or so, look out for a cross with a sign next to a dirt track off to the left. The mission’s about another two or three miles down the track. If you find yourself driving into a river, you’ve gone too far.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Brother Sebastian? Honest, decent and true, even more so after a couple of glasses of communion wine. He’s also got a passable cook, so stay the night and return fortified after breakfast, and take something to go with supper. He’s another whiskey drinker, it’s probably where Henry Ngai got his taste for it.’

  ‘I still don’t think you should go, it’s a long way from here,’ Amani said.

  ‘It’s not that far love, and you must understand; it’s my job.’

  ‘Your Job! That man doesn’t pay you enough to take stupid risks. Ask him for a salary increase.’