The Zanbzibar Chest, by Aidan Hartley

The book is infuriating. The author, a long time stringer (which is a bottom of the line reporter I think) for Reuters in Africa. He has been through all the most momentous and macabre moments in Africa. Sudan’s Al Bashir coming to power by a military coup in 1989, the Tigryan rebels topple of the military dictator Mengistu in Addis Abbaba in 1991, Somalia’s famine of 1992 and the debacle of the American marines in Mogadishu as well as the genocide of Rwanda. I can only guess that this is the reason he uses such dismissive, paternalistic judgmental language to speak of things he reports of Africa. He speaks of Africa like a younger brother he can always trust to screw things up. For instance ‘Black cripples don’t have a time of it in Africa’ and ‘It might as well have read “abandon all hope ye who enter here”’ when rephrasing a graphiti saying ‘WELCOME TO THE NEW AFRICA’ on the streets of Mogadishu.

More infuriating is his candid reference to his reckless lifestyle. Most especially with sex. He tells of his drug and sexual exploits dead pan, like it came with the territory, admitting it was a sad state of life, but seeming to accept it like it was part and parcel of being a stringer for Reuters. But then he goes on, it seems, to blame the sex workers for their trade. For instance ‘But I suppose they did it because they were liberated from poverty, female circumcision, beatings, lives of peasant toil and endless childbearing.’ He never seemed to recognize his considerable contribution to the despicable industry. Seems to think he was doing them a favor. It was amusing, however, to read that it was a Zambian reporter that introduced him to the lifestyle of easy paid for sex in Dar es salaam. However, this Zambian advised condoms all the way back in the 80’s.

Half the time the author is on about his heritage and the misadventures of his father and a friend of his father, who self destructed in Aeden (a port city at the south tip of the Arabian peninsula) over his love for an Arab woman. He goes through his whole family tree of the last 250 years, most of whom served in the British empire all around the world. He goes on about how his family was robbed of two farms, one in Kenya during the uproars of the Mao Mao and another in Tanzania by Nyerere’s nationalization. So the book has the sour tone of someone who thinks that both Britain and Africa owe him and his family something.

The book is graphic and really puts you, when it about Africa and not Aiden Hartley’s relatives, into the shoes of the reporters of western news agencies. What they go through, their lifestyles and the risks they take to get to the worst moments in sub-Saharan Africa’s recent history. Also good to read about Africa’s big moments from an observer. And in a way, it explains in part, why Africa is cast in the flawed light it is. Because those casting the light, like the author, are flawed in a bitter and sexist way themselves.

Face Gel

“Hi, I have been looking for you” she said right in my face, with her whole body thrust into my personal space ,that thing people in London defend and hold as most precious. I was startled and caught in the middle of budgeting for a duvet by counting my cash in hand, while walking through a mall.

She was as short and pretty version of Barbara Straisand. “Come with me” and she led me, by the hand, round to the other side of the display stand.

“Show me your hands” and I put out my right hand, palms down and fingers spread. I revealed ink stains and chewed  short nails.

“What is more important to you, your hands or your face?” she asked.

I thought about this a moment and replied “My face. No one ever sees my hands.”

“Alright, role up one of your sleeves” and I did, revealing a blotchy slim arm with dark short hairs suddenly exposed and feeling naked.

“I am gonna rub in a something that will make your skin feel fresh and clean” and she dabbed on to my exposed flesh, with two fingers, a translucent jelly that felt cool to the touch.

“Your skin has gotta be dry and clean” she said as she rubbed quite vigorously the jelly in. One hand held my hand, while the other rubbed. I felt something inside me give. A certain tension slackened. My lungs took in a deeper breath. My posture eased. I was melting under a woman’s touch. That is why I did not protest. That is why I did not say that I would not buy her products no matter what she did to me.

“…then you wipe up the gel with dry clean cotton wool” as she made long hard pressing strokes on my arm with the cotton wool between the tips of her fingers.

“You see that, see that?” showing the cotton wool to my face, with a faint brown ochre smudge on it.

“That’s your skin. Those are the dead cells that have been cleaned off. Now show me your other arm” and I proceeded to roll up my other sleeve.

“What is your name?”
“Jumani”
“That’s a wonderful name. What does it mean?”
“’Don’t hide what you have to say’”
“Really? That is my goal in life” and she let out nasal vibrating laugh.
“You from South Africa?”
“No, Zambia”
“Is that like Zimbabwe?”
“Well…yes, it is right next to. North. It is the very next country north of Zimbabwe” I explained, knowing that she could not quite tell the difference.
“But is south right?”
“Yes! South, in southern Africa” I lectured.
“What is your name?” I asked.
“Mikey. Like Michela but Mikey” she chirped, with her blue eyes and big earings.
“But your not from Africa?” I asked.
“No!” she said, with a bright smile. “I’m from Isreal”
“Really” I responded. “But everyone else is going to Isreal, and you left?”
“All the Jews are going to Isreal” she corrected me.
“Oh right. So you are not Jewish?”
“No I am!” and she returned to the business of the skin on my arms.

“See the difference?” with a tone of voice that hinted that she had cured cancer in the most simple of ways. My two naked arms were held together, wrist to wrist, elbow to elbow. One arm cleary a few shades lighter than the other.

“Yes I do wow. Is that from the gel? Maybe my arms were just like that anyway” I asked. I was enjoying her total attention so much by this point, I was willing to do a lot of things to keep it going. I did not notice the shoppers walking by, the shops or the other subjects suffering/enjoying a similar assault by her colleagues.

“Here, you can try it on yourself” she said to me, to my disappointment. But still, she was next to me all the while, coaching me, coaxing me and telling about all the wonderful things this gel did to my skin (“It removes the layer of dead and opens up your skin, taking away black heads”). She showed me another gel, with dirt grains in it and a banana flavor. This one she did apply, thankfully, though quickly.

Her hands no longer massaging my arms I cut to the chase and said “So how much is this?” Her attention exploded back into life and told me how it was 50 pounds in the shops but she was willing to “give” it to me for 30 pounds. This is for a little 125g jar not big enough to drown a drugged mouse. Her attention was such a spark in my day I was willing to “give” maybe 5 pounds but 30 pounds was out, way out.

“Mikey, I can’t afford that!” I said with a genuine look of shock. My impulsive reaction was taken to be a tactic. Just another tease in the courting that is all part of the biding game. She held my hand and led me to the till. She pulled out a calculator and began to multiply simple fractions.

“It cost 50 pounds, we will give it to you for 30 but I…” and she trailed off and did a little secret sum on the calculator “will give it to you for….” and she surreptitiously gave me a sneak preview of a figure of 20 pounds.

Then I threw Mikey a sincere face and said “Mikey, I can’t afford this stuff”

“But I thought you liked it!” she appealed, with a genuine tone of anguish and disappointment, like a girl denied a prize she deserved.

“But Mikey, I do not buy everything I like” and there was a short silence.

Then she went cold on me in an instant and bid me farewell before I had turned to leave. I walked away and fought the temptation to look back. Around me everything was collapsing, as the clock had struck 5pm on a Sunday. Gates were crashing closed and an overhead speaker was advising everyone to make for the exits.

At the Tesco shop a large African man in uniform pointed a baton straight at me and barked “You! The shop is closed, you can’t come in”

Hillsong

He told her he would go, so he had to. This he regretted. He was just coming to enjoy surfing the charity and book shops of Kensington High street, when it was time to dash off into the underground tube station.

And so he came to find himself strolling into Hillsong Church, held at the Dominion Theatre in the centre of London that Sunday evening. He was late.

The promise had been made when he was in the best of moods, on a Friday night, surrounded by friends, girls and beer. That Friday night, the music got louder, the drinks did not run out, and London looked ever so pretty across the dark river, bright as a Christmas tree.

The theatre was sucking people off the pavement through all doors, with the aid of awfully friendly youth, positioned outside to welcome you to church. He was ushered upstairs to the upper most rafters, by smiling believers, well practiced in getting the church/theatre uniformly full with hand-waving-sing-a-long god fearing folk.

The stage was alive and full of color with guitarists, keyboards, drummer and a front line of singers. The lights on the crowd were dull, forcing you to look to the brightly lit stage. The hall was swathed in soothing contemporary hymns, carried by the guitarists and keyboards. The words to the songs projected on to giant screens. The sound was building to a gentle climax  – whispering and teasing you with mentions of Jesus and spirit – as the theatre came to full capacity. It was wonderful.

He was showed his place, by the ever efficient smiling ushers, between Jamie and Amie (he got to know their names because everyone was made to greet their neighbors). Next to Amie and Jamie, who were singing along and soaking up every moment in with glee, he already felt judged and revealed to be an imposter, which he was. He did not clap as much, did not raise his hands in praise and did not close his eyes. But who would notice that, but Jesus?

“Good evening ladies and gentleman. Thank you for coming this wonderful, wonderful evening. Looking at all your wonderful faces, I can see that god is great!” called the master of ceremony (MC) on stage.

“Amen” replied some of the crowd.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t here that” the MC teased.

“Amen!” shouted the whole crowd, all together this time.

The air was now palpably jovial. The lead guitarist, a neat handsome young Caucasian male, was in his element strumming on his instrument and singing a love song to Jesus into the microphone. The backup singers were smiling beaming smiles. Hands were raised in the crowd, eyes closed tightly, lips moving and whispering praise.

The MC lead the evening, saying a greeting out of every language represented in the crowd. H, to much cheering. A slim and lean man, with long curly hair that came down beside his dimpled cheeks. He could be Jesus, but for his jeans and trendy shoes. He straddles up and down the stage making holy wise cracks, as the band maintains a low spiritual dirge. A real church heart-throb.

He had accepted the invitation to church knowing that half the service was live, good quality, well produced soft rock songs that equate love and Jesus. The drums and guitars  keep the young people coming by the numbers. Indeed, this was the third service that day. In contrast to those other events held at this theatre outside Sunday, this performance is free.

However, perhaps it keeps the older crowd out, noticing their absence from the ranks. Maybe they go to the theatre on other days of the week.

On to the stage hops an animated Barbie doll, Charlotte Scanlon-Gambil. Above her are three huge screen color projections advertising a women’s conference.

“This goes out to all the young ladies out there” she oozed through a permanent smile, high heels and trendy flared trousers. “Come to the 2007 Colour Conference at the Royal Albert Hall.” The advert for which was projected above, large and colorful.

“Imagine Colour 2007. Imagine what one company of women, united and devoted could achieve.” She charmed, walking up and down the stage in her gaunt frame.

“The worship will be magnificent, the teaching from the Hillsong team and internationally renowned guests such as Lisa Bevere will inspire and our labour will be to bless, encourage, serve and bring hope and life to all.”

We were then informed of the glossy color post card size application forms under out seats. “Our young ladies” were encouraged to attend and to bring along a friend, mother, daughter or just some one who could do with a friend.

He could not fathom the objective of such a ‘conference’.

Only then did it occur to him, seeing the sample application form blown up on the treble screens as big as 2 basketball courts, that registration for this ‘colorconference’ cost 90 pounds each! No wonder they were going through the part payment procedures in detail (cheque, credid card, cash).

From here, all cheesy good Christian jokes from the stage were the patronizing sort about young shy men asking a lady to the color conference (not the other way around, mind you). “If there is that wonderful somebody who” – big cheesy smile and a pause – “you just wish to praise and sit next  to and share an arm rest with while too shy to talk,….. ask her to the color conference.” The crowd returned an equally plastic laugh, each time.

Then comes on Pastor Ray Macaulay, just as things are beginning to get repetitious, with the routine of stand up, sit down, sing with me, pray, hold hands and stand up and sing. Macaulay is the guest Pastor.

Macaulay is a tubby man with a greasy affable smile and a nose as wide as spade. His name is familiar and so is the freckled nose. Macaulay is South African, he should have known.

“There are some great people in the crowd tonight” calls Macaulay, touching his sweaty balding patch. “You know who I am talking about, come on stand up….” Walking up and down the stage like an excited lion in a cage. “Everyone who is from South Africa please stand up”.

A good third of my section rises, giddy with pride and caution. I remain seated, ever unsure of my identity. Jamie and Amie are not South African it seems. But the pretty colored little thing with straightened hair in black, across the aisle is. Why didn’t he get seated next to her?

Macaulay’s sermon is a long pondering watery tale that he spins off First Samuel, verse 20, where some ‘boy’ is sent to pick up arrows by Jonathan to warn David appropriately about trouble. Macaulay’s hang up is that the ‘boy’ (he gets no name in the holy book) was never told what the purpose of his errands, picking up random arrows in the bush.

“Imagine this guy? Running up and down picking up arrows” Macaulay called, feigning frustration.

“Why must he keh(care)? ‘What is it to me’” Macaulay shouted, faking a boys accent comically. But the boy, did as he was told, he explained. You never know what God is up to, so you best get up to even the mundane stuff, even if you don’t see why you are doing it. That was the message. To serve the church unquestioningly. And it was repeated, over and over again. And again, with a different example each time.

He boasted being in the company of de Klerk, when de Klerk was president of South Africa. Macaulay claimed to be the one that suggested to de Klerk to use an analogy with Joshua of the bible, in some famous speech that referred to Afrikaaners.

From here Macaulay turned to semantics. “‘Pastor you don’t know what I am going through?’” he said, mimicking a winging church member. “I say ‘praise God.’ But you say ‘you don’t know what I am going through’ but I say again ‘God is great.’ Then you complain ‘But why do you say that’……..” he leaves a pause.

“Because you are going through it!” Macaulay charges at the crowd, under his pasty and greasy thin hair. The crowd is amused and applauds. The logic is proof of Gods love.

Of course there was the mandatory “raise your hands if you are going through trouble in your life so we can pray for you”. This was asked for when our heads were bowed and eyes closed, to allow for the privacy to help people come out with their sorrows. However, the ordeal takes so long, out of fatigue we are soon freely looking upon the raised hands. Their appeals for spiritual guidance is exposed and in the open, but they keep their hands raised never the less.

After Macaulay, it was the pretty Jesus MC again, making us stand up, sing, clap, pray and wave our hands.

There were more closing prayers and speeches than there were opening ones.

Outside there was an elated spirit on the banks of Oxford street, like after school. Scores of people lingering, chatting and looking for friends and family.

Out came Nalishebo, after a call to her phone. She was glad to see him, and he, her.

“I am so glad you came” she said wearing one of those smiles he had seen on the stage. In fact, half the posters had her pretty face. The church has more posters than a rock concert. “Did you like it” she inquired, squeezing his hand with good Christian enthusiasm.

“It was pretty good” he said with a smile, lying.

Portals

Airport

“Can you please remove this” he demanded with a voice expressing discomfort and disgust.

“Remove what?” I replied, trying to copy his tone of disgust.

“Take yo-a passport out of the plastic for me” he said, more disgusted now and handing the passport to me by dangling it precariously by the tips of his fingers.

“Alright” I said and then relieved my battered and now rather stringy and over used passport from its protective cover. I had expected it, his obstinacy. I knew it was coming before the plane had even touched down. That is why I had not rushed off the plane but, instead sat there reading a Guardian newspaper, while all the other passengers rushed out into the blinding bright sun light and into the humid empty airport. It took the camp and blonde air host to coax me out of my seat on the plane. “Will you be joining us on our trip back to London sir?” he asked, with a facetious smile. Even the cleaning staff were on the plane before I alighted.

Off the plane, I was embraced by my flat country, as I walked the distance to the airport arrivals hall in the open on the wide-spanning tarmac. The vista was wide and yellow with, beyond the tar and concrete, dry dirt and grass longing for the arrival of the rains. I noticed the sweet smell of early morning earth, which you get here before the heat of the day sets in. Down a humid long corridor with concrete floors and asbestos roofing, I found all the passengers that had deserted the plane in such a haste, queued up behind three customs kiosks. Their urgency to get to friends, family and hotels was not returned by the languid officials, making small talk among themselves as they reluctantly stamped passports.

 I sauntered into the men’s toilets to give relief to my bladder that had been under siege on the 9hour flight. My urine made a neat yellow trajectory into the cracked ceramic urinal, as a gazed beyond the bathroom and its burglar bar window into a dusty maintenance car park, to be concluded by the perfunctory willy jiggle.  I pressed the stainless steel button to flush and was returned a neat translucent trajectory of water, springing from a leak in the pipes on to my person, in reply. I was not hurt by this aquatic attack. It seemed only fair, that after a life time of peeing into ceramic urinals, only one should have temerity to pee back on to me.

Out of the tenacious toilet room, the queues of travelers were still held up by the languid officials. But there was no need to hurry, since not half the bags off the plane had made it to the carousels, turning behind the kiosks, by this time. No other planes had arrived that morning, so perhaps it was curious as to why there was such a hold up. But, on the other hand, if there are not other flights that morning, what’s the hurry? The logic of home was coming back to me, just as was the smells, sounds and sights.

And finally it was my turn to face the custom official. When I had removed the passport from its casing, as he had demanded, I was roundly castigated for the state of my passport. The seams were loose and the pages wrinkled but it held together and was legible. I thought to explain to him that the reason why it was in the protective casing, that he demanded removed, was because it was frail. I also thought to inquire why the passport needed to be removed from its casing to simply be put through a scanner. But with a languid irritable official in front of me, I had to hold rationale at bay. I suppose the introduction of computerized scanners had me his job somewhat dull (or more dull), and he and his fraternity had to invent procedures to maintain the importance of their job. Some times I think there is a clear equivalence between obstinacy and importance in my country, as there is between discipline and teaching. I blame the missionaries.

“You must go apply for a new passport” he preached, as he slowly made the data entry. I nearly blurted out “Have you ever tried the two week ordeal of getting a new passport in this country?”

“Why I said, is there something wrong with this one?” I replied, still trying to mimic his tone of habitual disgust.  “Does the passport no work?”

“No, it is not that. When you ah going somewhe-ya, they can refyuz you to tra-vo” he said.  He should know I suppose, since he is probably the very one that does the refusing. It was a threat I suffered once, on an outward journey years before. There, a pair of ladies (they work in tandem sometimes, when harassing travelers) in a similar kiosk, threatened to bar me from boarding the flight. “How can you tra-vo with a passport like this?” they admonished. That was scary, however. More like a credible demand for greasing. But my official on this day was simply irritating, my journey being at its end rather than at the beginning.

I was tempted to protest “What are you going to do, send me back to London on account of a tatty passport?” But I didn’t protest. I had not geared my self up for this battle, which was silly, even though I expected frustration. I should know better about my country. I should know that every principle is up for debate in Zambia. Apart from the fact that every official needs a little greasing to help him/her rediscover the original purpose of their employment. The very idea of the function to be performed is ever vague and equivocal. It must be defined and defended at every turn, either by money or a performance of outrage.

Perhaps the long flight had worn my wit. And perhaps the vengeful ceramic urinal had unsettled me. Maybe the twenty one month absence from my country had softened me. I was disappointed to find that I was unprepared to answer the custom officials recalcitrance with suitable flare. I did not raise my voice and start to swear in vernacular. I did not make a joke of it and take the absurdity a step further. For example I could have suggested how tidy well kept passports might help in the war against terrorism. Instead, I just followed his line and let him chastise me over my own property.

 Out the check-in hall, into the arrivals lounge, my eyes searched, among the pocket of people in waiting, for the light skin of my father or sister.  Instead I was seen first by the other sister who does not have light skin, Namukolo.

“Hello Juma!” she chirped. I had not recognized her at first. Her hair was in dreds and her face was behind spectacles. I had not seen her in either before. Further more, I had was not familiar with the plump body she has incased her self with in my years of absence.

“Hey………hi. I didn’t recognize you” I said. We embraced. She took my trolley and we walked out into the bright light and warmth.

“You’ve lost weight” I said, though I am not sure if I was right.

“Really? Thanks Juma. You’ve lost a lot of weight” she said with bright white teeth, chubby cheeks and a doek that is mandatory wear for a funeral. We pushed through crowding Chola boys obsequiously offering to push the trolly for us, as if they would not demand payment after.

 ”Yes I have lost weight. Eish, you should have seen me a month ago. I was worse. Europe is tough” I blared with a full on Zambian accent that was happy to be unleashed on home soil once again.

“Oh Juma, you haven’t changed really.”