Dizzy Worms Page 15

  “After, not before . . .”

  He would give orders about their reception to Mboga, the senior steward.

  “After, not before . . .”

  He liked the sound of the words. They emerged with a rasp, a huskiness, authoritative, with an air of menace. He said again: “After, not before,” and took a sip of the hot water, laced with honey and lemon, which the new kitchen toto had just placed on the table beside his mahogany desk.

  The toto, who was standing to bare-footed attention, dressed in khaki, trousers and singlet, but no pockets, looked terrified.

  He was still on probation.

  Only when the old man in front of him, with rheumy eyes and a sharp tongue, gave his approval would the boy become senior kitchen toto – official. And then, and only then, would he be entitled to put aside the drab khaki and replace it with a sparkling all-white outfit, a shirt with pockets, starched shorts, complete with belt, knee-length socks and plimsolls, also white.

  How the youngster longed for that day; how he craved the uniform that would give him status.

  He stared straight ahead, as he’d been instructed. Never should he look the Ngwazi in the eyes. He sensed, however, the president looking at him, with his cold, malevolent glare.

  The fact was Nduka missed the toto’s predecessor, Mlambo . . . Ferdinand Mlambo. Now there was a bright boy! Devious and treacherous, yes, deceitful and cunning, yes. But clever, the boy was clever. And he knew his football. Oh yes. He knew his football.

  “Mboga!”

  “Mboga!” he called again.

  The senior house steward failed to appear.

  The toto coughed.

  “Suh, Mr Mboga, suh, Mr Mboga is retired, suh.”

  Nduka fixed the boy with his sinister, piercing look.

  “Boy, only talk to me when you answer my questions. Be very careful, boy. I think you may be cheeky. A cheeky native – now that is very, very dangerous. If I think you are a cheeky native . . .” He didn’t finish his sentence. “Go! You piece of nothing! Tell the driver I am ready.”

  The lad scuttled off, the sound of his bare feet slapping the polished wooden parquet and echoing down the long passage. Nduka savoured the silence that ensued, broken only by the distant cries of the State House peacocks. Critics unkindly compared the birds’ harsh cackle to the president’s laugh.

  It all came back to Nduka now.

  Mlambo’s part in the stupid plot to discredit the president, dreamt up by that British journalist, Pearson, had cost the boy his job as the youngest kitchen toto on record.

  Nduka made a noise in the back of his throat, as if clearing it. Yes, it came back to him. He should have followed his instincts and had the boy killed. Instead he had taken the advice of Mboga, State House steward and Central Intelligence Organisation senior officer.

  The boy had made a fool of Mboga, who became mad. What happened next? Yes . . . the boy had been helped by British diplomats to fly to London. That Mlambo. He knew his football. And what was more, he missed him. Getting soft. He should have disappeared him.

  A buzzer sounded on his desk. The car was ready to leave for the chapel.

  Nduka’s knees creaked as he got up from his desk. The security detail saluted as he left his office. He would consider the case of Mlambo later. First the Ngwazi had to say goodbye to an old adversary.

  Nduka looked again at the project title. Potential! Why could it not be something simple, straightforward? The Kireba Project. That was enough. That said it all.

  Soon he would have to join the Cabinet of the disappeared. The shadow cabinet. Nduka chuckled. He liked that. The shadow cabinet.

  24

  “All aboard! All aboard!” declared Furniver. “We leave for the chapel in five minutes. For goodness sake, get a move on, Ntoto.”

  “I’m coming later,” said Ntoto.

  Rutere extended his hand.

  “Good luck, Ntoto.”

  The streetboys looked at the bus Furniver had arranged to take mourners to the funeral service with deep suspicion, reluctant to enter such a confined place in case it was a trap. One by one they got as far as the door, looked inside, scratched their crotches thoughtfully, but refused to enter.

  “Like herding cats,” said Furniver, exasperated.

  Only when Charity, acting on a suggestion from Mudenge, gave way to her own increasing exasperation, did they respond.

  “Get on the bus, NOW, or dough balls will be cancelled.”

  One boy broke ranks and the rest followed onto the bus.

  Furniver and Ogata stood on either side of the bus entrance.

  The last of the boys was about to get on when Furniver held him back.

  “Absolutely not. Not a chance.”

  With much reluctance, the boy surrendered his plastic bag, which he had attempted to smuggle on under his T-shirt.

  Mildred Kigali looked on, regretting the fact that she had not been able to convince Furniver that the boys should also be required to surrender their glue bottles.

  “That’s a step too far,” said Furniver. “Let’s just be thankful that there are no flying toilets.”

  Philimon Ogata was having second thoughts about attending the service.

  Business at the Pass Port to Heaven Funeral Parlour was booming, he told Charity, though in truth he wanted to give in to the temptation to embrace an ice-cold Tusker.

  “Fine,” said Charity.

  She chalked on the blackboard: “Sales of liquor suspended until after the service for the late OM – out of respect.”

  Clarence “Results” Mudenge joined Ogata on the bus but not without apprehension about what lay ahead.

  Like Ogata, for the first time in his life, Mudenge was going to a white man’s service and he felt far from comfortable. There were dozens of small courtesies he wanted to observe, but was uncertain about the cultural conventions.

  Would anyone be addressing the ancestors, for example, and explaining why it was that their son would be burnt, his ashes retrieved and then scattered?

  He found it hard to conceal his distaste for the European way.

  Ogata agreed with him.

  “These white people are very, very superstitious, and very arrogant. They seem sure that God is a Christian.”

  Mudenge crossed himself and checked his pockets. The empty bottle, with a cork stopper, was there. It would take just a few seconds to fill from the basin of holy water he was told was kept at the back of the cathedral.

  He, like Ogata, yearned for a glass of Tusker. But much as he might want a beer, he knew the consequences. It had been five years, almost to the day, since he had abandoned the demon that was drink, at the end of a binge that had begun with a sip of cold beer and concluded with him sprawled, yet again, in the foetid filth called “mud” in Kireba.

  A glass of mango juice, however, with a hint of ginger and crushed mint . . . He closed his eyes and wondered if there would be time . . .

  “All aboard,” cried Furniver. “Last call!”

  “Digby, you sit with me.”

  Digby, flattered to have been invited, scribbled in his notebook: “How appropriate that my first invitation should be to a funeral . . .”

  The party set off.

  The journey to the chapel would take at least 30 minutes, longer if the traffic was bad, as it almost certainly would be.

  “How about a game of Experts?” asked Furniver, setting up a cardboard box between the seats that would serve as a table. There was a murmur of approval and he began dealing.

  As the rules of the game required, he displayed the card that he would be introducing to the pack, exercising the right to have first use of it himself.

  The first exchanges in the game were unremarkable, and the stakes were modest. Furniver changed all that.

  “You will have to pay to see this one! I claim a six-pointer.”

  Digby watched, fascinated. That was his card, he was sure. Why all the excitement? Charity and Lucy both whistled in astonishment. If Furn
iver was bluffing it would cost him dearly – quite possibly a penalty Tusker. But if he really was justified in claiming a six-point business card it would be unprecedented in the history of the game.

  Charity was the first to move. She knew her man and he would not be bluffing when the stakes were so high. She dropped out and Lucy followed suit, which left Pearson and Furniver the only two players in the game. Pearson looked at Furniver and detected what he thought was uncertainty in his adversary’s eyes.

  “See you for three Tuskers. Cross-cutting Sectoral Advisor I can just about believe. But a senior consultant as well?” said Pearson.

  Furniver’s expression didn’t change.

  “I get these buggers on my doorstep every day, but this one is special, I assure you.”

  “Pay or fold, pay or fold,” cried an onlooker, carried away by the tension.

  “Let me get this clear,” said Pearson. “You claim that you have, on the same card, an individual, an individual who claims to be a senior international profile coordinator, consultant, cross-cutting media expert and a gender specialist . . . but who doesn’t work for the UN?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Pearson.

  “You know what to do,” replied Furniver.

  The street boys who had been assigned seats in the back of the bus crept forward, sensing the excitement.

  Six Tusker bottle caps were on the table, representing the six bottles of beer that were at stake, the equivalent of a week’s income in Kireba.

  The onlookers began to chant: “Pay or fold, pay or fold.”

  “Hush, hush,” said Charity.

  Contestants were allowed five minutes, maximum, to decide their next move. And while the two men studied the other’s face, side bets were laid.

  “Okay, show,” said Pearson.

  Furniver turned over the card in front of him.

  Digby Adams

  Senior International Profile Co-ordinator & Consultant

  Cross-cutting Media Expert & Specialist

  WorldFeed

  (East Africa)

  “Beat that!” said Furniver, triumphantly.

  To his credit, Pearson acknowledged his defeat like a man. Those who had been making side bets settled up, and the business card itself was reverentially passed around, evoking calls of astonishment and incredulity.

  Pearson was about to ask Furniver if he could keep the card as a souvenir, when he looked more closely at the details. He was right. Although it had been in small letters, obscured by a smudge, it was unmistakable. On the back were the handwritten words: “DanAid advisor.”

  Pearson cried out. “Furniver has broken rule number five!”

  He passed the card round, and invited onlookers to check for themselves.

  “I happen to know for a fact that a film on aid and gender issues, in which WorldFeed is playing a consultancy role, is funded by DanAid. And as a WorldFeed profile consultant, Digby will be involved.”

  Digby confirmed the claim.

  Lucy?

  “It’s true. Match forfeited. It’s not your fault,” she said to Digby, who had been looking on mystified. “You had nothing to do with it. Edward, you should have checked. You know the rule – Scandinavian aid workers, useless bunch . . . Any link, and a point is deducted.”

  “Fair enough,” said Furniver, “fair enough. Worth a try.”

  “Want to play in the next round, Digby?” asked Furniver. “There’s a good 20 minutes to go till we get there.”

  As a newcomer to Kuwisha, and a first-time player of Experts, Digby Adams was given the leeway not accorded to residents or regulars. So when he got up to speak, his audience was prepared to be patient and hear him out. He consulted his notes.

  “I’d like to say a few words first”, he said, “about a project close to my heart. As you know,” he said, “I am helping out with a film – or rather what we call a visual documentary – for DanAid. The filming will be focussed on the results of the evaluation’s key parameters as identified by the Paris Declaration (Ownership, Alignment, Harmonisation, Managing for Results, Mutual Accountability), and the discussion of these will provide a framework upon which the narrative of the film will be built. The hypothesis of the film is that by following (filming) programme implementation activities during a one-year cycle, typical aid effectiveness dilemmas will automatically unfold such as the ones presented below based on rural water sector experiences in Benin.”

  Digby turned over a page. His audience was getting restless.

  “Then there is some stuff about dilemmas, which I don’t need to go into – ownership dilemmas, alignment dilemmas, harmonization dilemmas and so on.”

  “What is a dilemma?” asked Mildred, looking up from her knitting.

  “It is a polite word for a problem,” said Digby. “Otherwise known as a challenge.”

  “The audio-visual document will be about GOAT – Guaranteeing Ownership of Africa’s Transition – a process, not an objective, which was to have been symbolised by Dolly, God bless her. We will be using funds that were set aside to provide a visual record of the old Kireba.”

  He went on: “The evaluation of the implementation of the Paris Declaration, and the lessons learned from this first phase, present us with a historical and unique opportunity to communicate and disseminate the process and its findings to the multiple constituencies that stakeholders represent – both inside and outside the ‘industry’.”

  The group started to shuffle restlessly but courtesy demanded that Digby be given a chance to outline his project.

  “Nearly there,” he said.

  “Kuwisha, you will be glad to hear, is at the forefront of the aid effectiveness agenda having piloted many of the latest instruments/initiatives such as a home-grown Poverty Eradication Action Plan (PEAP), Joint Assistance Strategy, Partnership Principles, Delegated Cooperation, General and Sectoral Budget Support, Sector Working Groups (SWG), Division of Labour. What is more, DanAid has recently restructured its embassy to align the pillars of Kuwisha’s PEAP with the overall purpose of enhancing alignment – one of the key aid effectiveness parameters.”

  It was all getting too much for his audience.

  Furniver led the barracking.

  “Stakeholders, ownership, practical action-oriented roadmap . . .”

  “Overcome dilemmas and respond to the challenge . . .” followed up Lucy.

  “Of home-grown results-based management . . .” chipped in Pearson.

  Digby continued unabashed.

  “Fortunately, the scheme will be led by the talented Poppsy Jinkke, who has worked as an institutional expert in Africa in many different capacities. I am pleased to say”, said Digby, “I have her card and I now propose a further round of Experts.”

  He slapped it on the table triumphantly and declared:

  Poppsy Jinkke

  Senior Executive Director

  Institutional Expert

  Cross-cutting Specialist Consultant

  “I reckon that’s a genuine six-pointer, even allowing for the fact that DanAid is involved.”

  They all had the good grace to join in the laughter.

  25

  The bus crawled along the route to the church. While Furniver was preoccupied by the game of Experts, Charity Mupanga contemplated her future, or to be more accurate, their future.

  She felt a huge responsibility. On her decision rested the happiness of her dear Furniver. She knew she could never leave Kuwisha. She certainly could not imagine living in England. She shuddered. True, her only experience had been a long time ago, when she joined her late husband David for three months in the summer of his ordination at the Leeds College of Theology.

  She had never forgotten her astonishment when, in the middle of a grey and rainy day in June, she had been told that this was indeed a British summer. And on their only outing to London, she had watched people disappear down holes in the pavement of busy streets.

  “Just like worms,” Mild
red had commented, and then held her tongue.

  As far as Mildred Kigali was concerned, the great puzzle was how Kuwisha had been colonised by such dreary people. To learn that they lived like worms came as no surprise.

  Charity confided her worries to Mildred, who had joined her on a seat away from the crowd that had gathered around the game: “I don’t know what to do about Furniver. I know he’s not happy. He wants a decision from me – and I’m still not sure.”

  “Tricky,” said Mildred, who put aside her own concerns. “Very tricky.”

  “I know it is tricky,” said Charity, a trifle sharply. “What I want to know is what I should do about him.”

  Mildred nodded.

  “It reminds me of when I met Didymus. He was a young man and I . . .” Her eyes closed as she began to recall the single-minded courting that her dear husband had undergone in order to win her hand.

  “He was from the district on the other side of the river and the people in my village were very unhappy that a stranger should be taking one of their women.”

  Charity interrupted.

  “Yes, Mildred,” she said. “I know the story. You’ve told it many times. Even street boys know the story. But unlike Didymus, Furniver is not from the other side of the local river. We know that Didymus swam across the river to court you although it was flooded. My friend Furniver is from the other side of the ocean, and the ways of his people are very, very strange. What is more these people look very odd because under our sun their noses and knees become pink.”

  Mildred again nodded. Though she kept her counsel on the subject of Furniver, her views were strong and forthright.

  “If he loves you and you love him that is enough. And that is all I have to say.”

  “Not so simple,” said Charity. It was more than the relationship between two people, which was difficult enough at the best of times. She and Furniver both had cultural baggage, to which both had to adapt; and not only cultural baggage but other practical concerns. Could Furniver tolerate the heat and the mud and the flies and the mosquitoes and all the other goggas (insects) that went with life in Kuwisha, alongside the wonders of nature and the beauty of the countryside?