Dizzy Worms Page 14

  Rugiru coughed.

  The OM seemed to be talking to himself.

  “Another G and T, if you don’t mind. We’ve got business to get through.”

  Rugiru went to the bar to collect the order himself and frowned disapprovingly at his young deputy, who stood nonchalantly cleaning his nails.

  “You are too good to that old man. I heard him ask you to make arrangements for home leave . . . All he wants to do is to watch cricket. That is not your job.”

  Rugiru ignored him. He returned to where the OM was sitting on the veranda, opposite his favourite rose bush.

  “Suh.”

  “A piece of advice, Mr Rugiru. Watch that deputy of yours like a hawk. Like a hawk. He is a cheeky native. I heard every word. Not deaf, you know.”

  “Suh.”

  “And the bugger is watering the gin. I have seen him. Puts in an extra couple of cubes of ice and in this way gets an extra couple of tots out of every bottle.”

  “Suh.”

  “Now then, Mr Rugiru, a few more thoughts about my last show. My will is pretty straightforward. It’s lodged at Muite’s practice. Bright lawyer,” he continued. “One of the best. You’ll see I’ve left a few bob for the clinic. Apart from the service, could you lay on refreshments; tea, sandwiches, that sort of thing? And make sure dough balls are on the house, especially for the street boys. Give them half a dozen each. And I want to be cremated and I expect you to scatter my ashes.”

  He leant over, and muttered in Rugiru’s ear: “For God’s sake don’t tell Bunty but I’d like them to be sprinkled on the rose bushes at State House.”

  Rugiru did his best to keep pace with the OM’s instructions. Mrs Benton’s agreement could be taken for granted. She and the OM had long been good friends . . . And more than good friends, if you believed the gossip.

  “But I’m getting ahead of myself. This is how it should kick off . . .”

  For the next ten minutes Rugiru made notes.

  “Now, read them back.”

  “Do you think that Didymus will put in a few words for me?”

  Both men knew it was asking a lot of Didymus Kigali, steward to Edward Furniver and a senior elder in the Church of the Blessed Lamb.

  To get Kigali to deliver one of his famous sermons, or “admonitions” as they were known by members of Kuwisha’s fastest growing sect, was one thing. To ask him to deliver it in a cathedral, rather than in the open air, in which the Blessed Lambs conducted all their services, was another.

  “Last item,” said the Oldest Member. “You know my radio?”

  “Suh,” said Rugiru, hope rising in his breast.

  Did he know that radio? He knew that radio like an old friend.

  “Well, the BBC is so bloody awful these days I’ve decided to have it cremated at the same time and join my ashes. BBC’s had its day . . .”

  The OM was starting to mumble now and Rugiru knew that the end of his journey was not far off.

  21

  It was the boys’ last sugar raid. All had been straightforward up to now, but distinct recollections of his late grandmother’s warnings all those years ago had lodged in Rutere’s mind.

  It was well known that tokolosh roamed the land after midnight; and if not tokolosh, there were mungiki to look out for, not to mention various ghosts and ancestral spirits.

  Ntoto inserted the key into the padlock of the container and the boys let themselves into its dark and gloomy interior.

  Rutere lit a candle.

  He spotted it first, squatting, vigilant and malevolent, atop the counter where it had a panoramic view that included the sugar container. The boys froze and lowered themselves behind the bar counter, out of its sight.

  “If we stay low on our stomachs we can go out,” Rutere whispered nervously.

  Ntoto motioned him to stay still and keep silent. He pulled down a tea towel from the counter and, clutching the cloth in his hand, advanced from behind the object.

  Rutere, looking through a crack in the bar counter, held his breath and watched with concern.

  The next morning Charity went to inspect the sugar. The lid to the container had been left off by the thieves and in front of it was something the size of a pigeon egg, covered by a tea towel. Charity gingerly lifted it up and recoiled.

  Mudenge’s glass eye looked up at her, all-seeing, never sleeping, always watching, but blinded for the night by a clever thief.

  The phone call for Lucy came a moment before Charity had urged her to inspect the sites of the Zimbabwe toilets.

  “Six, six of the best. Very modern,” she said proudly. “But this cement business . . .” she added, shaking her head. “A problem, a big problem. Shortages . . .”

  Lucy called for silence.

  “Bad line . . . but good news – I think.”

  “Sorry, Berk, can hear you now . . . No . . . No! . . . Really? . . . Really! . . . When? No! . . . Really? . . . That’s great. Great!”

  “Good news, I gather?” said Furniver.

  “Brilliant news,” she replied.

  Lucy broke into one of the jigs with which she welcomed a big story or a huge disaster, and did a blue-jeaned, pink-toed dance around the table, suntanned arm punching the air.

  “Best news I’ve had since Mercy confirmed the cholera cases in Kireba during the last floods. Thanks, Berk, for letting me know.” She switched off the phone.

  “Listen, chaps, NoseAid has backed the Kireba project! And guess who is coming to Kuwisha, to present a documentary, filmed here, in Kireba, about that boy, Mlambo, who lost his job as kitchen toto at State House?”

  “Let me guess,” said Pearson sourly. “George Clooney?”

  “Have you been reading my emails?” demanded Lucy. But nothing Pearson could say could dampen her enthusiasm or spoil her pleasure.

  “It’s not just George Clooney,” she crowed. “It’s Madonna! And thanks to Digby, we have this brilliant idea.

  “Tell them, Digby!”

  Digby blushed with pride.

  “I suppose we all remember that NoseAid song,” he began. “It was one of the best moments of my life, watching that. Remember how they closed the show?”

  Who could forget it? Led by Ferdinand Mlambo, the former Kireba street-boy, the entire cast of pop stars, celebs, wannabes and has-beens, models and newsreaders, sang a rousing finale to the NoseAid marathon fundfest.

  “There will be a television link-up,” said Digby. “And BBC and KTV will share ownership. The idea occurred to me . . .”

  He checked himself.

  “But rather sort it out before talking about it.”

  “Sing, Digby, sing ‘Together’ for us!” cried Lucy.

  Digby obliged:

  Together, together we stand

  United, all children demand,

  Forgive the debt that we owe,

  So we all can grow,

  And each build a home

  Let every goat roam . . .

  “Not sure about the goat business, otherwise you’ve got a winner,” Pearson conceded.

  “Jasper Japer arrives soon”, said Digby, “to help with production. We have not a minute to spare.”

  Giving credit for a great idea was one thing; but tolerating an opinionated columnist was another, and Pearson could not help responding bluntly.

  “Japer’s a wanker,” he said. “He’s a total tosser.”

  “Couldn’t agree more,” said Digby. “But no Japer, no deal. Tied to a deal with his paper. The Clarion have agreed to launch their latest appeal, Toys for African Tots, in Kuwisha. And there’s this brilliant idea: the final round of ‘Peel ’Em Off for Africa’ will take place in Kireba.”

  The page three starlet Phoebe Unsworth would fly to Kuwisha and appear covered from head to toe – “From tits to fanny more like it,” said Furniver – in stamps worth £500 each. For every £500 contributed by Clarion readers to TAT, Phoebe would remove a stamp, until only the last few remained, strategically placed, of course.

  The
winner – whose name would be chosen from the list of donors – would be flown to Kuwisha.

  “What’s the prize?” asked Furniver instantly.

  Digby looked at him pityingly.

  “The winner gets to remove the last of the stamps, of course.”

  And Japer had agreed to be the MC, Digby added.

  “There is more to come. But you’ll have to wait. All depends on whether Nduka gives the go-ahead.”

  But despite their entreaties, Digby would say no more.

  The cement shortage continued, and it was only when an old customer of the Kireba bank came to seek a loan that Furniver realised just what was happening and why.

  Ezekiel Mapondera had submitted a breakdown of costs for a hen run he proposed to build. Furniver ran his eye over the figures.

  “Some mistake, Mr Mapondera. You have cement at 200 ngwee a bag.”

  “No mistake, Mr Furniver,” Ezekiel said proudly. “That is the price I negotiated and I have it in writing, but good for 72 hours only.”

  “Hang on a mo,” said Furniver, burrowing in his brief case to find the notebook that had the data for his index.

  “You did well there. I assume your dealer is circumcised?”

  Mapondera looked at Furniver pityingly.

  “Of course. Otherwise I could not trust him. Anyway, I will collect the cement with the loan. Repayment, 20 eggs a month, yes?”

  It had been 25 eggs in fact, but Furniver was not going to argue.

  “This Kireba housing business,” said Mapondera. “Smells of fish. One day, Nduka tells us that he loves Kireba people. Next day, cement sales stop. They said there was a hold-up at the port.”

  He cleared his throat and spat his contempt onto the floor, rubbing it in with the sole of his shoe.

  “Myself, I blame the Asians.”

  He perked up.

  “Anyway, I have it in writing. I will collect myself.”

  Ezekiel had not finished.

  “I hear that Mrs Charity has had to delay the new toilets?”

  Furniver nodded.

  “We couldn’t find cement anywhere – not unless we paid the earth.”

  Ezekiel nodded sympathetically.

  “Greetings to Mrs Charity. I might be able to help her. But I will let you know.”

  Furniver shook the old man’s hand and saw him to the door of the office.

  “Any help on the cement front would be much appreciated,” he said. “But you get your hen run finished first.”

  Ezekiel tipped his hat to Furniver, muttering as he went: “That Mupanga woman . . . First-class toilet person, first class . . .”

  22

  The end, when it came, had been mercifully quick. One moment Boniface Rugiru looked up to check that his friend was not in need of a top-up, the next moment he saw the Oldest Member apparently asleep. Only that evening the bar steward had urged the OM to have an early night, and had received an uncharacteristically quiet response.

  “Don’t fuss, Rugiru. No fuss.”

  Minutes later his final journey had begun.

  It was fitting that the news about the Oldest Member’s passing was delivered to Harrods by Rugiru, who had ridden in from the Thumaiga Club to Kireba on his bicycle.

  “The bwana is now air force,” he said simply. “We deliver him into the embrace of the Lord on Wednesday.”

  Digby, who had arrived just before Rugiru’s announcement, whispered to Pearson, “Air force?”

  “Not working, out of action – goes back to the guerrilla war. Rhodesians bombed a training camp just outside the city, and the Kuwisha Air Force stayed on the ground. Hence ‘air force’ – anything or anybody who has thrown in the towel.”

  “Sounds a bit disrespectful . . .”

  “Depends who says it, what circumstances,” said Pearson.

  A wail from the kitchen indicated that Mildred had been given the news, and her keening attracted the attention of Charity who went to comfort her.

  When she emerged, Rugiru called Charity aside.

  “He has left money for medicine for the clinic and he has given his clothes to people in Kireba. He has left money for the Mboya Boys’ football team to buy boots. He has also . . .” Rugiru paused. “He has also asked me to organise dough balls for the boys. As many as six. Each.”

  “You must tell the rats yourself. They will not believe me. This is the first time anybody has given them anything in their will. My goodness!”

  Charity summoned the boys and Rugiru gave them the news. It was received with suspicion by Ntoto.

  “How much?” he asked.

  “How much what?” said Boniface.

  “How much is he charging for dough balls?”

  “They are free. No charge. They are free.”

  “Why?”

  Rugiru shrugged. How should he know? If it had been up to him, they wouldn’t get a single dough ball, let alone free ones, but he set aside the unChristian thoughts.

  “Six? Each?”

  Rugiru nodded.

  Ntoto went into a huddle with Rutere and a couple of other boys. After much whispering, he emerged with an announcement.

  “We will be happy to eat the dough balls. But first we will go to the funeral service of the old man to pay respect.”

  Rugiru’s eyes opened wide. This was something he had not anticipated and would add to the considerable difficulties and challenges of running the service. He had already realised that news of the OM’s generosity would spread through Kireba as quickly as cholera in a refugee camp and he was prepared for a packed service. But street boys were another matter. However, he was left with no choice: the street boys insisted. They would attend the service.

  Rugiru looked around for Furniver. The banker was deep in discussion with a bank member, doubtless discussing the terms of a loan. There was no need for words. Together they walked back to Harrods where Charity pulled two ice-cold Tuskers from the depths of the bar’s fridge, ceremoniously opened them, and placed the bottles before the two men.

  “He played good cricket,” she said simply. “He played good cricket.”

  23

  President Nduka sat immobile behind his oak desk, lost in thought.

  The project for Kireba was, just as he had expected, running into problems. That was what happened when you left a project in the hands of ministers not up to the job. It was also what happened, he admitted to himself, when you got old . . .

  Cement, water, land rights, power supplies. The list of hold-ups and cost overruns seemed endless, and everyone wanted a little something. Greed, how he hated greed!

  Then he took out the rose from the vase on his desk – the thorns had been carefully removed by the duty toto. He shook off the drops of water, and attached the flower to the lapel of his pin-stripe suit.

  His diary for the day had begun with a meeting with the Chinese trade minister, which he had deliberately allowed to overrun by 20 minutes. The British High Commissioner, who had arrived to discuss the role of UKAid in the redevelopment of Kireba, had no choice but to cool his heels in the ante-room that ran off the ornate ballroom, where the air conditioning had broken down.

  That would teach him – though it might not stop the white man delivering another lecture about the importance of good governance and transparency. It really was quite tiresome.

  Soon he would have to leave for the funeral service.

  He liked to prepare for these occasions. In the early days of independent Kuwisha he had had a hand in the demise of more than one political opponent, as well as several members of the ruling party. He used to find their funerals most productive events. They gave him time to think, and from the pulpit he delivered some fine eulogies in honour of the men and women he had dispatched. But now in his seventies, he spent more and more of his waking hours in conversations with these very same ghosts from his past.

  The time for him to join these ghosts was not far off. The Sitholes, the Chisizas, the Mboyas, the Oukos – all had been clever men. They w
ere Africa’s lost generation, their talent unfulfilled.

  When a funeral service that he attended was particularly tedious, he would pass the time selecting a Cabinet from the ranks of the “disappeared” – the men who had died in unexplained road accidents, or victims of “accidental shootings”, or whose health had mysteriously and rapidly deteriorated. True, they would get up to tricks in the Cabinet, but they couldn’t help it. That, after all, was why they had been disappeared.

  Nduka examined with distaste the papers on his desk, dealing with the redevelopment of Kireba. Provided the World Bank and other aid agencies made the funds available, the first phase of the Kireba project would create up to 500 flats.

  To the president’s irritation, the World Bank was insisting on holding a donors’ conference to draw up the blueprint and to raise the money from the donor community.

  They had become so predictable, he thought to himself: Kireba – Meeting the Challenges, Achieving Potential, read the title of the main paper.

  That word potential again . . .

  At least the vexed question of whether to renew the contract with the upholstery firm in Surrey was easy. Or was it Sussex? He needed them to help refurbish his home on the coast. It had been on his mind. He had postponed any renewal until after the World Bank auditors had been to Kuwisha, poking their noses into presidential business.

  It just took one example of what the bank called “unauthorized off-budget spending”, and their forensic auditors could follow a paper trail of spending that went who knows where? Sure as eggs, the trail would lead to the entertainment budget, which in turn would put investigators on the path of hospitality arrangements for the foreign officials responsible for the order of Mirage jets.

  And the British press would sniff around.

  After the audit and not before, he decided.

  There was no reason, however, he had to deny himself a bit of fun. He decided to send an official invitation to the couple who ran the upholstery firm to attend the independence day celebrations that year. How they would squeal when the reception committee at the airport took them not to a five-star hotel but to jail.