Fatboy and the Dancing Ladies Read online

  He put aside a paper on the subject and looked at the timetable that Lucy Gomball, resident director of WorldFeed, had e-mailed from Kuwisha before he set off for Heathrow: 11.00 Outspan Hotel: Guest appearance by UN children’s ambassador Geoffrey Japer. In support of rhino/debt campaign.

  The stewardess began patrolling the aisle, handing out immigration cards and checking that passengers had fastened their seatbelts in advance of the landing, now some thirty minutes away.

  Japer filled in the card, taking much satisfaction from answering the question about occupation. “NoseAid International Ambassador”, he carefully and proudly printed.

  A certificate to that effect, signed by the BBC’s deputy director of programmes, had been presented to him when he checked in at Heathrow, “in recognition of (his) dedication to children in need, endangered animals and the environment”.

  He folded it into the pages of his passport, set aside his notes, and turned to his copy of the Rugged Guide to Kuwisha. Before stuffing the book into his overnight case, he finished the section on the Masaai. It didn’t take long for him to grasp the gist of it: they were tall chaps who bobbed up and down in what was described as a dance, drank fresh blood from their cattle, and the young warrior men were called moran.

  He must have dozed off, because when he next looked out of the cabin window, Africa’s Rift Valley was well behind and the sprawling suburbs of the capital of Kuwisha lay below.

  There were no tarred or paved roads in the crowded shanty town that Japer’s plane flew over, only a muddy path that ran alongside the railway line that began its journey inland from the East African port of Mombasa and ended in neighbouring Uganda. The line served two purposes: cut into the side of the hill, it demarcated one boundary of an area smaller than New York’s Central Park; and the railway itself provided pedestrian access to ramshackle shacks and shelters.

  On one side of the track, the formal city began, with brick-built shops, albeit tatty and run-down, and with cars and roads, potholed though the latter were; less than a mile away were the fenced grounds of State House.

  On the other side was a weed-encrusted dam, marking the western boundary, which used to be the home of the long defunct Sailing Club. Work had just begun on a motorway, slicing the slum down the middle, exposing a line of red earth like the first sweep of a surgeon’s scalpel.

  This controversial project, the brainchild of the city’s mayor, Willifred Guchu, awaited the award of the final contracts for a scheme that, if aid donors were to be believed, would provide low-cost housing for the people of Kireba. Critics of Guchu, however, a long-time supporter of President Nduka, believed otherwise: the flats would surely be allocated to supporters of Nduka, and sold off for party funds.

  Meanwhile Kireba’s residents endured a daily struggle for space, jobs, and survival, eking out a precarious living.

  On both banks of the winding path known as “Uhuru Avenue”, so called in ironic tribute to the post-independence freedom that was proving illusory, hard-working people plied their trades. Gleaming, gutted fish were laid out on sheets of newspaper, as were green peppers, eggs, maize cobs, piles of salt, and small mounds of rice; chickens tethered by their feet, pecked in the mud; goats bleated; tomatoes and small oranges were set out next to piles of beans; onions were cut into quarters for those who could not afford to buy a whole one; all were on display, at keen prices.

  The manifestations of law and order hovered carefully, cautiously on the outskirts. The police station where the officers of the state counted their daily takings in bribes and protection money, and the magistrates’ court where those who did not pay up were disciplined, were located as close as they dared venture. And dotted around them were the offices of non-governmental organisations and their allies: from US AID to Christian Aid, from DANIDA to UKAID, from Oxfam to ComicAid and WorldFeed, walled outposts of international assistance.

  This was Kireba.

  To call this squalid slum the “home” of Titus Ntoto, Cyrus Rutere and the other street children who made up the Mboya Boys United Football Club might be misleading, for the word conjures up cosy images of some sort of family, some sort of security. Ntoto and his friends in the soccer club enjoyed none of this. But they knew no other place, let alone somewhere they could, in the conventional sense, call home; so whether as a point of reference, or as a geographical location, the boys – just like the other residents of Kireba – had a curious, perverse loyalty to the slum.

  Yet what most people regarded as no more than a festering muddy compound with a collection of hovels was to other eyes a piece of real estate that made the city’s property developers drool.

  The prospect of a middle-class takeover concentrated the minds of the NGOs; who could blame them for seeking an alliance with the World Bank and UN development agencies, with which they could put their principles into practice, and build affordable homes, with water-borne sewerage, and taps with clean running water, and a school and a clinic?

  And so sociologists and specialists, consultants and advisers, nearly all from overseas, the home of expertise, were in Kireba every day, clipboards in hand and briefcases at the ready, PhDs on display, sucking ideas from the locals, and their fees from aid budgets, and warning that without an injection of new buildings, the city centre would surely die.

  And was not a rejuvenated Kireba the best place for recovery to start?

  And who better than WorldFeed to lead the way, with the generous backing of the international development agencies, the World Bank at the helm?

  Life in Kuwisha had, over the four decades since independence, settled into a rhythm that owed more to the generosity of Man than the blessings of Nature. The latter tended to be capricious in timing, and erratic in delivery, particularly when it came to rain. Man was far more dependable, and unlike Nature, was open to flattery, vulnerable to cajoling and to appeals to a sense of fairness and decency, as well as susceptible to exploitation of a sense of guilt.

  The rains, on the other hand, were unpredictable, unreliable, and often inadequate. More than one third of Kuwisha was arid, unproductive land, and there were no mineral assets of any significance.

  Poor though it was, the population had doubled in twenty-five years. And as it increased, so the people spread across the land to areas where, had it not been for the generosity of the donors, life would have been impossible. Organisations like WorldFeed ensured that while people might go hungry in bad years, they would not starve to death; and in order to ensure that the food aid would reach its destination, WorldFeed officials played important roles in Kuwisha’s railway system. Indeed, were it not for this assistance, it was probable that the railways would not have worked at all.

  It was seen as a measure of the government’s determination that it regularly forecast food self-sufficiency by the end of each five-year national development plan, drawn up with the backroom advice of foreign experts and consultants.

  In an uncertain world, at least the people could depend on the reassuring presence of the many international agencies based in the country, on the annual largesse of the aid donors, and the generosity of the body which brought them together every couple of years: the Consultative Group, chaired by the World Bank.

  With the regularity of clockwork, in a cycle as ordered as the seasons themselves, the bank and the rest of the international donor community assessed the benefit of their presence since independence, four decades during which donors and government had joined forces in what was proving a long and sometimes frustrating battle against poverty.

  Some cynics and sceptics claimed that while the odd battle was won, the war was being lost. Forty years after independence from Britain, they argued, echoing the Oldest Member, more people than ever were poorer – nearly two in every three struggling to survive on less than two dollars a day, according to official figures from the Ministry of Development.

  This materialistic appraisal, this crude yardstick of progress, was dismissed as Afro-pessimism at its worst. Any di
fferences between the two, between lenders and borrowers, donors and recipients, were set aside. True, they had sharply contrasted views on the merits of conditionality, or the advisability of programme aid, and harsh words passed between them on the pros and cons of project aid, and the virtues of budgetary support; but they diverged on the strategy of bypassing state institutions altogether in an effort to avoid the corruption that had become endemic.

  Yet for all these differences, both givers and receivers agreed on one thing – nothing should be allowed to stand in the way of continuing efforts to ease the plight of the poor.

  This year, however, the bank’s consultative conference would break new ground. A plenary on the subject of the language of international assistance would be opened by its president, Hardwick Hardwicke.

  Even for a man with a reputation for being controversial, the title of his address was the talk of the donor community: “Aid: the enemy of development”. As delegates gathered in the lobby of the Outspan Hotel, one question was uppermost in the minds of them all: was the head of the world’s biggest development agency really going to attack the very lifeblood of their business?

  7

  “Duty boy! Urgent!”

  The cry from Charity rang out.

  There was a rustling from under the bar counter of Harrods.

  Two teenage boys emerged, the one short, the other taller, both skinny, and both clad in T-shirt and shorts, so worn and stained that the original colours had been driven out and replaced by drab khaki.

  Their early-morning shift all but over, they had retreated to their den for a sniff of glue. The boys rubbed their bloodshot eyes.

  Charity could tell from their dilated pupils that they had started their day by inhaling from the plastic bottle each had dangling from a string round their necks.

  “Breakfast?” they asked anxiously.

  She nodded. No matter how often they ate at Harrods, each time they were fed seemed both a surprise and a relief to them.

  Titus Ntoto and Cyrus Rutere looked cautiously around them, like bush buck at a watering hole, alert for enemies. Only then, satisfied it was safe, did they emerge from behind the counter.

  Neither boy knew the precise date of their birth, but their parents had told them they had been born during the great drought that had afflicted Kuwisha some fourteen years earlier, and which had forced their families to abandon their parched patches of land, too small to sustain them even when the rains were good.

  Like thousands and thousands of others who fled the barren land, the two families headed for Kireba – Ntoto’s from the west, Rutere’s from the north.

  The respite was short-lived.

  In the riots that followed the influx of destitute competitors for Kireba’s scarce resources, whether water, or shelter, or jobs, both sets of parents had fled, and Ntoto and Rutere were separated from their families in the bloody confusion. Thrown together, the boys had forged a friendship over the years that transcended their ethnic differences.

  But nature and nurture had created two boys who could hardly have been more different in appearance. Ntoto was easily the taller of the two, with spindly legs and narrow chest; while Rutere, the runt of his family’s litter, was short, with a distended belly.

  Rutere led the way to the kitchen.

  Usually the boys would fire questions at Charity, after wolfing down a bowl of maize porridge, and if they were lucky, a sweet dough ball which she had discarded as too stale for paying customers.

  Today they were quiet. She resisted the temptation to enquire, even though it was clear that something was up. For the past few weeks, usually after football practice, members of the Mboya Boys had sat at the table set aside for them at Harrods, chattering as loudly as birds at dawn, but falling silent if she or any other adult came within earshot.

  And always present, always at the centre of attention, had been Bright Khumalo, the leading scorer for the Under-15 team that looked a certainty to win the Lardner Burke cup, a trophy presented to the league by a philanthropic settler.

  One morning about two weeks ago, she had been asked, with a studied casualness, by Ntoto, about how one became a professional footballer in England. She had not a clue, and told him so: “Stop this dreaming business, Ntoto, otherwise you will become a loafer.”

  During the evening of that day there had been a lot of laughter and much drinking of changa by the boys, and a group, which included Ntoto, Rutere and Bright Khumalo, had set off for town. Charity had lain awake that night, fearful that they would get into trouble with the police, or would come off second best in the goading of security guards that had become a popular sport.

  Only when she heard the voices of Ntoto and Rutere on their return, well after midnight, and the clink of empty bottles as they moved the crates that protected the entrance to their den under the bar counter, was she able to relax, and fall asleep.

  But she had not laid eyes on Bright since then.

  “He is on safari,” was all Ntoto said when she had asked, and a mask of indifference came over his face. She knew from past experience that further questioning would get her nowhere.

  Charity took a sip from her mug of tea, and called out to Ntoto and Rutere, who were about to set off on their daily journey to the post office.

  “Avocados. Collect from Mr Ogata’s cousin, at the market. And when you have been to the post office,” she continued, “go to Central Bank. There is a letter for me from the governor.”

  To Charity’s surprise, the boys, usually keen on city-centre outings, had bridled.

  “Say the magic word,” said Rutere.

  “Please, will you go to the bank,” said Charity.

  Rutere seemed to be satisfied, having turned the tables on Charity, who was a stickler for courtesies.

  But Ntoto pressed home the advantage.

  “Two dough balls,” demanded Ntoto.

  “It’s worth one dough ball,’ said Charity.

  Ntoto stood his ground.

  “Two.”

  “One,” repeated Charity, who was starting to get irritated.

  “One dough ball is for normal service, with delivery tomorrow. Two dough balls is airmail service, with delivery today. Guaranteed. No halfway bargaining.”

  “That Ntoto,” she concluded, after telling the story to Furniver over breakfast at Harrods, “he is intelligent.”

  Furniver had no doubt about that: the boy was certainly sharp, cunning, devious, manipulative and not without a certain charm. What he also suspected – although he was reluctant to put his suspicion too bluntly to Charity for fear of upsetting her – was that Ntoto also had the qualities of what locals called a tsotsi. In other words, the boy had a streak of the ruthless in him.

  While he, Furniver, had little knowledge of the deep and treacherous waters of township politics, he suspected that Ntoto had what it took to fill the vacant slot of the Kireba ward area boy – effectively the township’s gang boss. And if past events were any guide, the next stage in Ntoto’s career would either be death in the traditional car crash, or he could well become the local MP.

  “The boy does have a certain rat-like cunning,” Furniver began.

  He regretted the word “rat” as soon as it left his mouth, and braced himself for the explosion that followed.

  Charity gave a furious click of frustration and irritation.

  “Rats? What’s this business of rats, Furniver?”

  Only when Charity was especially angry did the syllables of his Christian name become elided to what sounded like “Funva”.

  “Rats are for dreams, and sometimes for eating,” she continued. “I am talking about a boy, called Titus Ntoto. And you are saying he is a rat? Shame for you! That boy, he is going to be an area boy! An area boy! And all you can say is he is like a rat!”

  Before Furniver could point out that Charity herself called the boys “rats”, albeit affectionately, she disappeared into the Harrods kitchen, which was out of bounds to adult males.

  It
was outbursts like this that tested their relationship, but as always, Furniver was sustained by his resilient belief: life would undoubtedly be better, in every way, with Charity Mupanga by his side.

  8

  Just how, or when, a pair of ordinary knitting needles began to assume a symbolic significance at the Kireba Christian Ladies’ Sewing Circle, no-one could quite recall. It may well have begun when the needles, a gift from the Diplomatic Wives Association, were brought out to open the meeting, and paraded round the room with mock gravity, like the mace in Kuwisha’s parliament.

  The circle itself had been set up by Charity not long after she opened Harrods. Launched in the bad old days of one-party rule in Kuwisha, the purpose was simple. Women needed a place where they could exchange thoughts without the inhibiting presence of their men folk.

  If men felt excluded from the democratic process in a one-party state, women were doubly excluded in what was a male chauvinist society. The ladies of Kireba wanted a venue where they could discuss everything from domestic violence to the cost of living and the pain of economic reforms, but without attracting attention, either from their men or the state. So Charity had sought a name for the group which in itself would provide a pretext for women to gather regularly at the bar and discuss the issues of the day, but discourage husbands who felt nothing but disdain for what they called “women work”.

  Some of the members did indeed sew, or knit, but a pair of the needles had become little more than props, kept at the back of the bar in a wooden box made by Philimon Ogata; and while fingers nimbly engaged thread and wool, their minds were on conversation about current affairs, or discussion of the weaknesses of men in general.

  On circle evenings the women pulled up the benches to form a square, and during winter there was a charcoal brazier in the centre, on which those who wanted could roast cobs of tender young maize. Beer was not available, partly out of deference to Mildred Kigali who, like her husband Didymus, was an ardent teetotaller. The main reason, however, was that the absence of alcohol made it a particularly unattractive environment for the men of Kireba.