Fur and Submission

A boundary wall with peeling paint and a rusty metal gate guarding the stoep and wood front door. The keys fit into their slots and turn easy enough and I enter. Inside, a flip of a switch reveals a dim lit wide corridor and two pairs of anxious eyes. I sense that I have interrupted something. Were they sleeping or were they playing I wonder. They sit still and quiet as I close the door behind me. Their eyes have not yet learned to beg from me. Instead they regard me with indifferent intrigue.

But that smell! That unbearable smell. Uncomfortable and stuffy. The odour in the house chokes you at the nose. I pace the house to inspect and their eyes follow me and my loud boot steps on the wood floor. How could an empty house smell this awful. I open a window to let in a different air. Through it comes the noise of hurried foot steps and idle chatter, as people hurry from the train station. The smell in the house is undoubtedly from these animals. Their fur is every where. It is on the floor, on the bear wood furniture and can be seen in clumps in the corners along the skirting boards. Surely it floats in the air too, miniscule strands of it wafting into your nasal cavities. An animal miasma. The kitchen smells no better. And what do you know? a pile of dirty dishes. That won’t help the smell either. Nor will the cockroaches running for cover, exposed by the kitchen light. Not just the medium size cockroaches but also the little platoons dashing for cover under kitchen appliances.

Perhaps this arrangement is not so clever after all. Why did I agree to this? It seemed so sensible at the time, when I needed to escape my sister’s house, and her children’s toys and music. I didn’t mind cooking some of the meals, sharing the minute bathroom (which it turns out, dwarfs the one here) or being a substitute role model for the kids. I could even bear the skateboards and bicycles conveniently left in doorways and the unabated sock theft. However, a quiet spot to read and the exact locality of my books and newspapers was a privilege I was criminally short of and no longer prepared to sacrifice.

On reflection, I think something else was slowly eating away at me. While I never doubted that my elder sister would love her children dearly over me, it was too uncomfortable to experience. Our conversations were ever interrupted by an incessant cry “mummy, mummy” as we competed for her attention. I was always her baby brother, but I am not sure I ever upgraded to her children’s uncle. I tried once, with little success, to settle a stand off between my niece and nephew over dish washing obligations. In the ensuing battle of denials and false accusations, my sister intervened in irritation, just when the tempers and insults were at their zenith, and commanded “my brother, you are making noise.” I took to working late at the office. There is nothing liking problems at home to keep you in the office.

So again a refuge, for that is what this house near the sea is. After all, my sister’s place was only meant to be a landing pad after my departure from London. London was a refuge from Geneva and Geneva a refuge from here. Given my tendencies of flight and freight, and my humble income from maths tuition at the university, it was a ray of light on a wet winter’s morning when the professor offered his place for six months. “I am on sabbatical next semester and Jane and I really need somebody to look after our place. We’re going to the states on holiday. You would be perfect” he chimed in his American accent through his messy beard and hair. Of course I always knew he was some sort of hippy. Not a happy-clappy one with a guitar, but still a person who views pervasive commodity culture with suspicion and actively pursues an alternative lifestyle. The wife’s uncut hair, his long beard and their droopy clothes must have something to do with that.

A house to keep, pets to feed and an electricity meter that cuts out should it run out of digits. But there are other responsibilities I must attend to such as theater, movies, parties and a girlfriend, all of which are a long way off and clustered around the heart of the city and that bigger mountain. I am cut off at night, as are all those dependent on public transport. That leaves me isolated, in a way, in a thinly spread suburbia hugging the bay and mountains. I cannot do this alone.

Conversations with Blessing

Once again we are on the bus. Blessing, my Malawian visitor from Scotland bought only bus passes for her 5 day stay in London. I didn’t mind avoiding the train for a change. Up the stairs, we passed a pair of prams by their young mother drivers. Sat on the upper deck of the bus, it was as if we were flying among the oak trees of South London.

Blessings Friends

‘But don’t you have any friends?’ I asked, trying to pry out of her some sort of picture of her life in Scotland. ‘Any friends from your Quantity Surveying School?’

‘No’ was her curt response, tucked in a mouth that hardly opens wide enough to let the words out.

‘No friends at all?’ I asked again.

‘Yes, I do have some friends’ she said finally.

‘Well, what are they like? Are they Malawian’s like you?’ Across the isle from us, a young teen sat under a black hood and cell phone connected to his ears by headphones with music so loud we could hear it.

‘No. One, shiz Italian. The others are from Zimbabwe and Botswana’ she said. ‘The Italian, shiz always asking me to go with her places. She doesn’t have a boyfriend but she doesn’t like being alone. That’s why she make me go with hah to the cinema some times, but I don’t mind’ she went on.

‘And the other two, the Zimbabwean and the Botswanan? Do they have boyfriends?’ I asked, fishing for drama. I have to keep prodding her with questions to keep the conversation on the move. But somehow, it is not as bother some as I might otherwise think.

‘Yes they have a boyfriend. Well, the boyfriend of the Zimbabwean is now with the Botswanan’ she said, preceding the sentence with a nervous laugh, as Blessing often does.

‘What?’ I said, glad to have finally found some intrigue in Blessing’s background. ‘Doesn’t the Zimbabwean mind losing a boyfriend to her friend?’

‘Yah, but shiz funneh‘ said Blessing.

‘Funny? What do you mean she is funny?’ Just then a tubby boy sat in front of us chomping on a greasy pack of chips. As his thick fingers dived into the tomato sauce oily pack, I wondered if his choice of food for the evening has anything to do with his obesity.

‘Well she behaves funneh‘ was all Blessing said. I had to repeat and try the question from different angles before I got some sort of an answer when Blessing said ‘I work with hah. At work she can be funneh. Like if you are toking something she will go teow the boss.’

‘You mean if you are talking about the boss she will turn around and go tell him’ I suggested.

‘Yah’ she replied.

‘Yes that is very funny indeed’ I agreed.

‘She is pregnant’ said Blessing.

‘Who is?’ I asked, getting a little alarmed. ‘The Malawian’ she said. ‘The one who is pregnant?’. ‘Yes’ she said.

Blessing told me that her two friends, wh0 live in the same house, dated the same man. The man is from Lesothu. She says most people find the Zimbabwean friend ‘funneh‘. Another funny thing about the Zimbabwean, I was told, was that she looked down upon and was disgusted at girls who got pregnant. She said it showed what they were doing. When the Zimbabweans own pregnancy began to show, Blessing said the girl said she did not know how it happened.

Blessing went on and said ‘So he did not want to be married to her because of the way she behevz. He said when she has the chaud, he can just give the beby to himu and he wew giv to hiz mother to look-u after the chaud at home. He doesn’t want to marry hah‘

‘And all the while he is with the Botswana girl? I asked and Blessing answered in the affirmative.

‘But she didn’t tell anyone she was together with himu. I just knew because the other house mates tod me’ Blessing added. ‘Even up to now, she doesn’t know that I know. She is funneh.’

I was puzzled. I inquired for clarity ‘So these two girls live together and share this man? How do they know him’

‘They are staying in hiz house’ she said.

‘Ah!’ I said. ‘And do they pay any rent?’

‘No’

‘Then is suddenly makes a lot of sense to me’

Rokia

The Barbican is a concrete jungle in the heart of the centre of London. A wide reaching forest of concrete walkways and interconnected city blocks that secretly conceal tube stations, museums and and the Barbican centre. In the belly of this labyrinth of stair cases, sign posts and old Roman city ruins, Rokia Traore was to perform a Mozart influenced live performance.

Loveness was not at the Burger King at London Bridge, as agreed. On the phone she said she was told that there was no Burger King at London Bridge (incorrectly). I swallowed my frustration and met her at her unilaterally chosen meeting place, outside in front of the HSBC bank.
We took a bus to the Barbican.

Lovenss has lived all her life in northern Malawi, except for one short visit to Lundazi, in eastern Zambia when she was five. Two years ago she went to Glasgow to study Quantity Surveying. She is small, neat, shy and speaks with a strong Tumbuka accent.

‘Rokia is an African like us. She is from Mali. She makes black peoples music. Tonight, she is taking white peoples favorite classical music, and making it black’ I preached. I find my self talking to her like she is a child for her quietness. She is 22 though.

‘But there will be plenty of white people there who like black peoples music’ I continued as we skipped over the Thames river on the upper deck of the double decker bus. I pointed out the south bank and St Pauls Cethedral.

Loveness smiled and said nothing.

Indeed there were lots of white people at the Barbican that night that like black peoples music. I could tell because many of them wore printed shirts. Very educated women in their forties donned shawls and kaftan’s and printed head cloths. Caucasian men had sandles and cotton pants. Mixed race couples were present too.

I mean black peoples music like the kind that is sung in native languages and with traditional instruments. Not the over produced chart bashing rhythms forced onto high streets and MTV. It is called African World Music.

Loveness and I had a drink outside and sat on the steps by the fountains. The evening was warm and the soft dusk sunlight dappled the creepers hanging over concrete balconies yonder and all around and above us.

In the auditorium, the lights went out, the convivial crowd died down and two shadowy forms walked on to stage. It was Rokia and a curly haired guitarist. On the screen behind them a short story was told through screen shots of bustling Bamako in black and white and a voice over narrative, in french and english with subtitles. It told of time breaking down and contemporary artists such as Amadou & Mariam, Bjork and Billie Holiday arriving at a banquet to perform at the crowning ceremony of Soundiata Kieta, the first 13th century emperor of the Mande kingdom in Medieval Mali.

The first song was a tentative and calm dirge. Rokia’s throat deep wails augmented by the languid plucks of an acoustic guitar.

Rokia wore loose cotton pants and a chinese style cotton shirt with long sleeves that drooped well past here hands. The cut across her torso was high to reveal some of her taught stomach. She is lean, short and small with a powerful neck, short hair and an eager countenance. Dark skinned and liable to charge with passion at the drop of a dime.

The songs that followed were lacklustre but powerful, with the familiar charges of her singing and chanting. Four violins and a chelo on one familiar number from one of her recorded albums. If you love Rokia’s music then you would of loved this, with classic instruments to back her up.

After three or four such numbers, her usual band took up the remainder of the instruments behind her. They were all men but her back up singer, a more voluptuous specimen whose back bone was not as flexible as Rokia’s to the pounding rythyms.

As the performance went on so did the tempo. The all man band got more assertive. Rokia and her back up singer danced more to their mildly choreographed routines. All this was inter-spliced with more screen shots of Mali and voice over doing a fantasy of the empire of Soundiata Kieta and his journey to be emperor.

Loveness was quiet next to me but not motionless in the gloom. I bopped my head as I saw fit and clapped lots.

The second to last song was ten minutes long and really rocked the house. One of the guitars looked like a wood padel, with strings strung across. The drums smashed and the electric guitarists face contorted with passion. Rokia danced and smiled like she was drugged. Just when you thought the song could not get any more hectic it went up to a higher tempo. When the song finally concluded, with a triumphant bash from the drummer, the applause was almost as long as the song.

Of course there was an encore. Rokia charged back on to the stage with her whole band of African men and back up singer. She demanded every body get up and dance. That included the white males in the front rows with white hair and bold patches. She demanded and, coaxed and cajoled until we were all on our feet, though Loveness and I didn’t need much convincing.

The final song was for all to dance. Loveness danced like she talked, quietly and in a smile way. No loud gestures and not much movement.

Rokia got a standing ovation. I was glad I came. I didn’t notice much Mozart in her performances. There were some classical instruments which worked really well on her ballads to accompany her passionate and indignant wails. But I don’t know Mozart. I do know, however, that I like everything that comes out of Mali when it comes to music.

They say Rokia came back from the western world of her fathers diplomatic circles to learn traditional Griot music and fuse it with modern influences. I love her music. I wish I could do the same with literature as she has done with music. She inspires me.

‘Did you like it?’ I asked Loveness.

‘yeah’ she said with her usual nervous laugh. I doubted the sincerity of this reply but I don’t think she was bored.

We followed the signs posts to the bus station and took two buses home.

Over the Thames river again on the bus, I saw to the east the full moon a strong orange just emerged from the horizon in the twilight. It was ochre yellow and framed squarely by the tower bridge under the moon rose over the river beyond the bright city lights.

One Love…

She took me out on a picnic in the middle of winter. Thankfully it was a warm night. She had stolen her mothers picnic basket. Up the side of the hill we could see the car park and the night lights of the sparkling city hugging the bay. Perched among the brushes, we were out of sight of other couples.

“Tell me about your last boy friend” I asked her.

“He was nice.” She began. “he used to be in that big residence on campus. I dated him the year after I quit university and started working in town.”

“He was black” I asked. For the country we were in, it was not an inappropriate question. Everyone has a color. A nation of colors.

“Yeah he was black. Black just like me”

She was wearing her hood over her head and her arms were wrapped around her knees. I could just see her cheeks peak into the light from the street lamps and her teeth bright to her brown skin.

“He was really nice. I would get back from work late. He would have cooked for me and everything. Rice, meat and vegetables. We would eat in his room and play music off his Hi-fi. He liked Celine Dion but I didn’t mind. He was really sweet. He grew up in a township in Joberg. He told me that he was the youngest boy in the family and spent a lot of time with is mum. That was how he learnt to cook so well. He even sang the songs his mother sang when she was cooking.”

“A black man cooking for his girl friend? I asked alarmed. “This is unprecedented! I don’t believe this story already.”

“Well he was real sweet” she continued. “Some times I would get back from work and find he had ran the bath for me, steaming hot with bubbles in it. I know it was just a residence bath in those skanky university residences with chipped tiles and a tiny mirror, but it was nice. He would light candles and put the music up in the his room so we could hear it. The other flat mates usually studied late at the library, anyway”

“What a charmer” I said. “Why did you ever let him go? Are you sure he was black? Maybe he was just raised by a wild pack of white people in the bush somewhere”

“Very funny” she said, not amused. Her teeth shone in the poor light.

“He would bathe me. Ever so slowly, and hum one of those songs his mother taught him. Soaping me with a rough old sack piece for scrubber and use Palmolive soap. But he was gentle and there was a lot of lather in the bath so he didn’t scratch me. I liked it. I liked the attention”

“I think I like him too, now” I joked. “What is his number? I could do with a long bath by candle light after a long day at the office.” To this she laughed and it made her feel a little at ease I think. She seemed to be getting a little serious up until that point. She hadn’t even budged in her seating position in a while. Though she kept rubbing her nose on her knees every now and then and sniffing because she was cold. I rubbed her shoulders and poured her more wine.

“You slept with him of course, right?” I asked. “Such a charming guy, how could you resist?”

With a distant look her eyes she said “Yes I did. Well, we had sex, often.”

“What was he like? I don’t mean how big was his dick or anything, I just mean, was he still gentle?” I asked though really I did want to know how big his dick was, given that he was so sweet and romantic. My guess was he was compensating for something.

“No, he was nice” she said, though being vague, as people so often are about sex. But then she went on.

“I would sleep in his bed in his room. I would not go back to my mums house in the township those nights. It was so far. Besides, my mum thought I was at my friends house.”

“That’s what friends are for” I chirped.

She continued, in a lower voice now. “He liked sleeping with me a lot. I liked it too. Really.” She looked a little shy when she said this and let loose a an embarrassed smile.

“We would have sex maybe once or twice in bed before we went to sleep. We wouldn’t talk then, or even make much noise since the other students in the flat might hear us. He could be a bit rough some times but I liked it. He never said anything when we were having sex”

“Why din’t you tell him” I said. “That he was rough.” But then she continued like she didn’t hear me.

“Some times I would get home really tired from work. It was then that I had two jobs. One doing promotions and the other recruiting students in town for sales. I would not even eat his food and go straight to bed before ten even. He didn’t mind that I didn’t eat the food. But then, sometimes he would wake me up in the middle of the night. I would tell him I didn’t want to but he would insist. At such times when we were doing it, I would feel like I was some one else.

“Oh dear” I said, running out of clever things to say.

“But that wasn’t so bad. But then once…” and she went quiet for a bit. I put my hand on her shoulder as if it would help the words out of her mouth. “Once….” she continued, swallowing heavily “I refused. I just told him ‘no’. He got upset. He just did it with me anyway. He got on top of me. He was really rough. I was so scared.” She said this very calmly, looking at the grass next to her, away from me. Her lips barely moved.

“Jesus” I said.

“He did that a couple of times.” Then she went silent for a long time. Quiet for so long, I began to take notice of cars racing along the mounting road now and then. I could hear some noises rising from the city. I began to make out vans and trucks going up and down the quay at the harbour. I did not know what to say. Then she continued “after that happened a few times…….I stopped going to his flat. I went home instead. I didn’t even sleep at my friends place nearby where my mum would think I would go. I was scared to meet him. I wouldn’t know what to say to him”

“He raped you” I said. “That is awful”. It was awful. She didn’t cry though. Then she looked at me, straight at me. I felt judged. “I would never hurt you” I said.

We packed up the pick-nick when it was getting too cold. I rubbed her hands and gave her a hug. The skin on her face was cold and so was mine.

“Men are like that” I said. “They hurt women.” And then I asked after a pause “Do you ever see him?”

“I do. He has a girlfriend now. She seems nice. They look happy”

Marble Arch

I get an hour off for lunch. I would rather spend it with Facebook at my desk but using the internet is against the rules my archaic office. So instead it is two bananas and The Kite Runner on the bench next to the Marble Arch. And I mean right next to the very arch, with its surrounding flags and traffic. A maelstrom of black cabs and London buses circling the moribund arch and its grass and benches.

The tunnel, under the traffic, up to the arch smells of urine and tourists can’t figure out which exit they want, while standing next to the gypsy begging for money. I sit in my usual spot, not quite in the sun and not quite in the shade of the tree. Hyde park is beyond, green and lush.

A loud guttural belch rocks the bench before I can take in even a paragraph. To my right is a white male, with stubble for beard and hair.

I smile and say “Well done!”

He smiles with a messy grin that reveals pink gums and teeth in a muddle.

“Thank you” replies with an English accent. A kind of blue collar accent though.

We make eye contact, that rare exercise on big city streets. There is usually a punishment for showing such weakness. This could bring on any number of unwanted experience such as conversation about the weather, the weak end (coming or gone) or worse still…the transport system. This man on the bench instead has an unusual follow up to his on usual manners.

“Your half Indian aren’t you?” he asks me.

“No” I say.

“Where you from then.” At this point in conversation I usually hesitate. Most of them not heard of Zambia. And then I explain the geography which mentions the name Zimbabwe, which brings on unnecessary alarm. “it peaceful” I assure them. But no, this man is not interested.

“Your like me” he says, smiling with his cluttered teeth and showing those pink gums. “half white – half black, right?” I smile to confirm.

“I knew it!” he beams. “Let me guess, your mums white and your dads black right?”

“Not quite” I reply. It is the other way around. “My mums black. She is from Zambia” To my relief, he is not interested in Zambia.

“I am from India he says”

There is the smell of alcohol from somewhere. The man on the other side of me on the bench makes his leave. He had only just sat down. I wonder if he knows where this conversation I am in might lead. He leaves me wondering what I have gotten my self into.

“You’re a from fucking Zambia then?” he says smiling. He says everything smiling. He has only a slight slur. He is so pale, his near bold head glistening in the sun. “You must know a lot of things then?” he says more stating than asking.

“You must know about Castro and communism” he blurts out, and takes a swig out his bottle of drink in a plastic bag.

“Well I know who he is” I reply, not quite sure what to say. But before I can add to that he says
“Castro was a fucking cunt.”
“He was I ask?” no really getting interested in the conversation. I think he noticed this because he talked about Castro a lot that afternoon. Always, calling him a fucking cunt.

“Yes he is a fucking cunt” he says again.
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“You know why? I will tell you why, because he fucked up Cuba. He fucked it up. You there and everything is fucked up.”
“but I thought the people of Cuba loved Castro” I interject.
“yes they love him but he is still a cunt. Fucked everything up. I been there you know. I been to Cuba. Have you been there? No? Well I have and its all fucked up. Castro is a fucking cunt”

“Well he has done a lot you know. That revolution and the people of Cuba are happy right?” I ask him, trying not to let him run the conversation all the time.

“I don’t give a fuck. He’s a fucking cunt. He is Spanish you know.”

“Who Castro? Really?” I say generally surprised. Now I don’t know so much about Castro actually. Maybe there is a good bio out there I should read. And perhaps this gentleman has read such a biography or who knows, be Castro’s grand child. But still, I had good reason to be suspicious of any man in London freely dishing out conversation.

“He is from Spain. I am Spanish you know” he says, as if to validate his claims about Castro’s nationality.
“But I thought you said you were Indian” I said, hoping to catch him out.
“My mothers Spanish. I grew up in fucking Spain my man” he said.

Oh God I thought. I am now his man. How am I ever going to get out of this I thought. I had already given up on the book by now. This Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini was not all it was hyped to be I was beginning to discover. The story, with all it betrayal and loyalty between men, looking right past all the women sidelined in the story, was beginning to seem very ordinary. So I did not mind so much chatting away with the fucking cunt talk. But he half Indian was getting very excited and animated. He was moving closer to me on the bench. Our elbows, which we both threw back over the back support of the bench, were now almost touching.

However, other encounters with strange men in big cities before have not been very pleasant. Three young men beat me and robbed me just 5 months earlier. In Cape Town two men (yes they were black) gave me such a fright I just ran. One in Geneva, who only spoke French to me, put his leg between mine and jiggled it and chanted a football song. He was amusing himself and his friends. They all laughed and so did I, though I thought I was being molested. Ten minutes after that I realized my phone was gone. But he back laughing and gave it back. That is Geneva for you.

“Castro and I were born in the same village in Spain. In the same fucking hospital. Can you believe that man. HE is a fucking cunt. He fucked up Spain. Spain was fucked up in the 40’s and 50’s man. Castro fucked it up”

Now I was beginning to wonder. Spain? Even for lunch time entertainment, this was beginning to seem rather fanciful. I took to reading the not so enthralling book about honor and betrayal.

“What you reading man” he asked like we known each other long and I replied like he was an old friend. I showed him the cover too.

“Don’t read that book man” he said. “That book is fucking shit”

“Really” I asked, genuinely looking for his opinion.

“Don’t read that shit, I will tell you what to read” he said. I knew he hadn’t read this book. It was just an opening for him to tell me what book he has read.

“I will tell which book to fucking read. Read this book by Herman Hesse. Its about the guy who started Buddhism. Can you fucking believe that? It’s a great fucking book. Read that book. Fucking read it! I am telling you man, it a good book, a great fucking book”

“Ok I will read it”

“Write it down” he said. Through all this he smiles, showing his pink gums. I smile too, with a slight frown. A frown in part because I can’t believe this conversation but in part from the bright sunshine making a rare July appearance. I take out a piece of paper, some old boarding pass that is doubling as a page keeper. He spells the name and title for me. Siddarta by Herman Hesse.

He then proceeds to prattle on about how good the book is. He mentions no other book, except one other book by Herman Hesse he says he has half read. But still “Read that fucking book”.

Just then the hobo spread-eagled on the grass in front of us come to life. His long unkempt beard and hair like an extension of the grass under him. His skin red from drink and exposure to the sun. He too has a plastic bottle of something cheap and foul in a plastic bag. It says on the side in bright red ‘$2.35’.

Then my half Indian friend says “He Mick! You want a fag man. I will give you a fucking fag.” In response Mick only grunts.

Mick is slowly coming to life. Freeing himself from the grass. It is a struggle. The grass is pulling at him, holding him down. The Mick fumbles through his untidy clothes of red sweater and scraggy trouser. Both too big for him and decorated with bits of dead grass. Mick pulls out a cigarette finally. I see that my Indian friend is rolling his own cigarette from a bag of Tobacco.

“Mick, you want a fag man?” to which Mick replies in grunts. It seems Mick only speaks in grunts. But the Indian man understands what he wants. Mick wants a light. Mick collapses back into the grass. The grass has won. The Indian gets off the bench, bends over to light Mick’s cigarette and returns to my bench. Sitting even closer to me this time. I am glad that my wallet is in the opposite pocket from the Indain.

The conversation goes on about cunts and bastards. The English are arrogant he says. They want to build an empire. I told him their empire has already crumbled. He smiles. He does most of the talking while I point out little things from his already long list of observations. He is pleased by these interjections. He taps me on the shoulder in appreciation. We are like brothers now.

“Religion is the root of all evil” he said when he denied being a Budhist (since he like the book by Herman Hesse so much).

He had opinion about many things. He said I was intelligent, that is why he liked talking to me. It made me wonder where people get the notion that I am intelligent. I cannot not escape this ubiquitous assumption people make about me.

The Indian told me he would visit a whore house later. “Only twenty pounds in Soho, man.” He said there were lots around. He would take me if I wanted, which was where the me getting robbed would take place I thought.

Many people had sat next to us and left in the mean time. I think in part to escape the site of two strangers having a conversation in a city. A girl sat next to me across the bench. She ate a sandwich and read a book

“Look at those tits man” he said, not hushing his voice enough. “You can have that whore for free man. Go tell her you want to suck her tits” he said.

I looked at her and considered sucking her tits. Then I considered asking her. Then I turned to the Indian and said “I would rather not”

“C’mon man!” he said. He smiled some more, showing more pink gums and his tiny teeth. How could some one so pale be from India and Spain I wondered.

“Ok I will tell her” he said and stood up. I jolted into action. I was smiling and indignant, feeling embarrassed already.

“No!” I protested. “Sit down I said.” I had just met the man and already I was policing him like a younger brother. Yet he is thirty. He told me so, right before I told him my age. “twenty six” I said, feeling silly for telling the truth to a stranger.

“Look” I pleaded. “Some people just like to sit by themselves and not talk to any one for lunch, just like you said.” I was using his own wisdom against him “they stone wall you as you said.”

“Ok I won’t” he said, very pleased with himself. “I like you”

Later a middle age couple in sun glasses sat next to him. They were from Spain. And would you believe, the Indian spoke Spanish to them. Not well, but the had a whole conversation. I got up to leave.

“Nice talking to you” he said. My name is Antonio”

Craig’s Welcome Back

The Next Morning.

On the couch asleep is Barbara, her face to the wall and wearing her clothes from the day before. Her permed colored hair a mess. Curled up on the two tiny foot rests next to the couch is Craig, also asleep like dutiful watch dog. He had not left her side all night. The floor was stained with innumerable spills and smudged and littered with smashed crisps. 5 distinct burns in one area under the table where the coals fell off the hubbly-bubbly on to the carpet. Irreparable damage. On the screen door at the height of a grown mans face is an oily face smudge. Empty and half full beer cans populated every surface. Outside, a greasy braai stand still stands surrounded by fallen and broken garden furniture, carpet flattened grass, chicken bones and countless cigarette buts. On the ottoman sleeps Laurence, wearing jeans, jersey zipped up to the top and sneakers.

Craig and Laurence both have their own room but were both, one way or another, forced to lodge in the living room. Craig didn’t sleep in his room because the girl he was after didn’t sleep there. On the other hand, Laurence didn’t sleep in his room because a girl he was not after slept in his bed, naked.

I came down from my room to the sound of laughter. Augustine and Cockaroach were just leaving (more on where they slept later). The chuckling wouldn’t stop. I thought it was about Augustine and his amorous endeavors from the previous night. Augustine bid farewell saying “Thanks for the party guys, now I need to erase my memory”.

But no, the jokes about Augustine had now moved on to Eric. Eric told the joke.

“I woke up, thinking my chick was in my bed” he said, with a comic smile on his face. “I was butt naked and I put my arm around her and thought “this is a rather thick arm. This chick has got huge muscles” but then I realized” and his eyes lit up and this point and he said “This is not my chick, this is Augustine!” and we all broke out into laughter, even though Craig, Barbera and Laurence, now awake, were hearing the story for the third time.

Craig winged “Ah, you chi-Eric, showing us your bums like that!”
“What? I didn’t show you any bums?” Eric denied.
“After you finished with your ka-chick up stairs, you came and worried us with your pants half way down your bums last night.”
Eric turned to me asked “ah sat, was I that drunk?”
I raised my eye brows at the stupid question and said “you came down here with your shorts half way down your bum, no bambas, showing the crack of your ass. You were dancing to Salsa, body slamming the two girls on the ottoman and did a kapwa-era dance that nearly broke the high-fi when you fell”.
“So that is where the carpet burns on my elbows and feet are from” Eric said as he examined his wounds closer. He had thought he got them from the rough sex he had on his flayed mattress.
“Good! You must learn” said Craig with a smug smile.

Indeed that is how we spent the rest of the day, laughing and telling stories, while ignoring the state of the house. Instead we rummaged about the debris, and picked at old crisps and drank the extra beers. All the stories about the night before, the hilarious solecisms and shameful debauchery were told and retold from different angles and by different peoples. Each version some how more hilarious than the one before. Oh, how we laughed!

We had to try keep our voices down however, as we were not sure who was still in the house. At that stage we were not sure that Augustine and Cockaroach’s partners for the night had left. We thought they were still sprawled out in Craig and Laurence’s beds. Indeed, the most juicy stories and hilarious recollections were about the adventures of the two girls we thought to be still lurking and sleeping about the house. But the whispering only made the stories more juicy to tell. For an hour we hissed and giggled before it transpired that they had left long before any of us had woken up, though some time after the last of us had fallen asleep. This explains how Augustine came to be in Eric’s bed. With his partner gone so early, he saw no need to return to his bed of the night, and so after the toilet he simply got into the nearest bed, Eric’s. On the other hand, I can’t help but suspect that Augustine took some sort of comfort in sharing a bed with Eric, who had no clothes on.

The Party

“Look at the garden” I said trying to reconstruct a chair. “To think we worked so hard to clean this place.”
“You know, it’s the only thing that gets us to clean the house, these parties” said Eric.
“Ya but then the house is only cleaned once in every two weeks. And then the place gets trashed straight after”
“Even now” Craig agreed, still sitting next to Barbera.
“Jumani and I even went shopping an-all. Eric with his sickness managed to clean the bathroom. Ol-Juma did the kitchen. I don’t know where Laurence went”
“Ah, rubbish” hissed Eric.
“But what was that rubbish you bought me” Eric interjected with an insolent scowl on his face. “bloody Sainsbury’s Brandy ek sê. Even if I was sick ek sê, I can’t be drinking that shit.”
“boeta I am telling you, that is all there was except for bloody twenty year old brandy for thirty pounds” replied Craig in his most Zambian of accents.
“Even now! That would have been better.” Winged Eric.

In the mean time Laurence loaded a song on to iTunes and Eric, now sitting outside in the sun said “What is he playing now? Not Symphony of Sorrowful Songs again?” and let out a goofy and haughty laughter. Laurence has a CD titled Symphony of Sorrowful Songs, a classical piece by a Polish composer that he has only ever played once. Eric though, will not let him off the hook for it. Any CD Laurence puts in the machine now gets a retort from Eric “Not Sorrowful Songs again!”

“and Laurence with that ka-dance of yours?” jibed Barbara, still sitting next to Craig.
“His face looks like he is in pain when he does it.” Eric said as he proceeded to imitate Laurence’s all shoulders and furrowed eye brows dance.

The Party Pair

“Ya, but what about those two chicks who showed up drunk? Did you see them dancing? Two weeks ago no one danced until after nine. This time there was dancing at six already!”
Craig, while smiling at Barbara added “You mean Evelyn and what’s her name…..Jane. mmmmmh!, but no, it was too much man. Even if it is for being drunk. Like that? So early!”
“Yahgh, you want chicks to come sober” protested Eric. “They were just not hot. That’s all. But I was so excited. I met that ka-Evelyn item on Facebook. I tuned her come to the party. And when she said she was bringing her friend Jane, I was like yahhhh, it is on.”

To me, the pair seemed quite sensible when they arrived. I did think they rushed it to dance a little, but Ntheye and Odemi were all over the floor too, as well as all over each other. They were friendly, and made a point of going around to talk to every person present, in some ways they didn’t stop there. I had a good talk to each of them when they accosted me at the braai stand after Augustine had absconded his duties as chief braai master (a duty he somehow gets at every braai he goes to). One of them is a qualified psychologist. The two had only met recently at church. The mention of church of made me very weary. Never the less, I think this is point at which Jane gave me the opening to ‘Lay it on thick on her.’ As usual, I was not up for the task.

By midnight, the two girls were walking into things, guys included. I was not surprised to see half Jane’s face inside Cockaroach’s mouth on the couch, as Ntheye and Odemi continued their body swinging genital gyrations on the dance floor. In the mean time, Evelyn garbled nonsense conversation to me by the stairs through her red wine stained teeth. I knew at the time that it was my opportunity to take to my room. But something in me held back and the demons in me were disappointed.

At one point Cockaroach, Augustine, Evelyn and Jane were paired outside in the dark (the outside light chose this night to give out).
“They are doing it in the grass!” screamed Eric, genuinely alarmed. In matters of uncomfortable sex, Eric feels great empathy. Eric brought fornicating pairs in, gave them condoms and sent them upstairs to the bedrooms. Of course he was careful not to let them use his room, but mine and Laurence’s instead.

Morning turned to afternoon. Stories we told. Fresh stories, delicious like hot buns on a Sunday after church. Not yet cold, the house not yet clean. We would not leave single incident without reflection. Anything that was laughed at the day before had to be laughed at again. Every bit of gossip had to be gossiped to its bear most bits. We told and retold these stories like a wood carver polishes a master piece.

Ntheye and Odemi

“What about Ntheye yesterday?” opened Craig, from the garden chair next to Barbera’s garden chair.
“Eish! the brother was something else yesterday. The way he was dancing with that ka-chick.” I said.
“What was her name?” asked Laurence.
“Odemi” said Eric with another haughty laugh. “Those Nigerians! I can never.”
“I mean, she had her ankles on his shoulders” commenting on the way Ntheye and Odemi had danced. “I just looked at the dance floor and saw her shoes by his ears. I just thought oh-finish” said Craig with a chuckle. “boeta you know he almost dropped her uh?. He was dragging her head on the floor!”

“And didn’t people worry me” I said. “Every little thing, I had people asking me this, asking me that. “Jumani I need a drink. Where are the glasses? Where can I put this? Do have a number for a cab?”  Even shit that had nothing to do with me. Like when Ntheye and Odemi hooked up in the bathroom”
“yauh, yauh, yauh” laughed Eric.
“Why couldn’t those two just take a room. They even queued for the bathroom on the steps” said Craig.
“Well, people were certainly queuing on the steps when they were in the bathroom”
“So now for some reason, peeps decided that I was the only one who could tell Ntheye and Odemi to use a bedroom, my bedroom for that matter” I complained, not for the first time either.
“We knew that you would agree. Besides, he is your friend” said Eric.
“Ya” I said “Ntheye is my boy. We go way back. If he wants to use my room, he must use my room. But it had to be me to knock on the door and tell them to stop their ejaculation and ecstasy and relocate to the bedroom. I didn’t want to see that shit. I would be scarred. Thank goodness they had the sense to move on their own accord before I was forced to move them.”
“Don’t tell me about being scarred” said Laurence. “You not the one who saw a naked woman in your bed. And Augustine, he still had all his clothes on!”
“That shits just not right” I said.
“Yaaah, what about the other two. I found them, the chick was fully clothed and Cockaroach was butt naked.” Laughed Eric. “I shouted at them “what are you doing!” that is not how your supposed to do it. Your both supposed to take yo clothes”
“I scheme you just like sex too much you” snorted Craig.

Zani and her Crew

“What about you Craig, what did you say to Zani to piss her off so much” I asked as I made a half hearted attempt to tidy the outside deck in the back yard.
“I don’t know. I didn’t tune that ka-chick anything”
“yaah, she kept on saying how she was pissed off with you” said Laurence.
“She kept on saying “tell your friend Craig I don’t like him. He’s stuck up””

Zani had made a strong showing at this party, as she had done two weeks before. Not the first to arrive this time though, and without her friend Nomsa. Zani brought with her Ntsiki, looking more on this second round with new dreadlock extensions. Zani brought her bubbly Greek boyfriend Versellus and a very friendly South African Indian girl called Rakhi. They had been to a braai already before they showed up, and when they left at 11pm they were off to some club or something in town. The energy some people have on a Saturday! Not that she wasn’t welcome. Not at all. Heck, without her, there would be no black South African girls at the party. Unacceptable. In such a situation, how would Laurence get with any girl?

“No but Craig, what did you say to that item for her to be so pissed off with you?” I inquired.
“Nothing. I didn’t tune that chick nothing.”
“You must have said something”
And then Craig continued “But her boyfriend. That own was irritating man. He was all over the place talking nonsense. I even had to ask him “what are you doing here, who are you?”
To this, Barbera, Eric, Laurence and I screamed “WHAT!?”
“You can’t tell someone that” Eric said, as Laurence laughed.
“Now I know what you did. Or rather what you did to her boyfriend. How can you ask an own that? Eish, she hates you now, properly”

All The Pretty Girls

“Mmmmmh, I am hungry. I didn’t even get to eat any of that chicken man” growled Eric. “Did you have any?”
“Nope” I said looking quite forlorn. “After all that marinating and braaing. I braaied a span! Didn’t even get one piece. Did you get any Craig?”
“Yah, I had one. It was Ntheye and Augustine who clapped the chicken. They had like two-three pieces each”
“And that chicken looked so lekker man” moaned Eric. “And I didn’t get any of my potato salad either” 
“Well, lets make another one” I suggested.

I then proceeded to defrost and cut up another chicken. I spiced it with olive oil, tandoori powder, coriander, soy sauce, vinegar, salt and diced onions. Though not as good as the one Craig marinated for the braai, it looked pretty and taste nice and spicy. Eric put together another potato salad. Short time, we having another little braai with the left over beers.

“But there were chicks yesterday” chimed Craig, chewing on a red piece of chicken and sat next to Barbera.
“Too much choice.” Eric said. “Owns couldn’t focus.”
“Well you couldn’t focus, you were all over the place. One moment you were with your Veronica chick, that tall thing, the next you were worrying that Tareez item” I said.
“But ek sê your ka-chick is tall! You look like a puppet next to that thing. And she is so clumsy. Her shoe kept flying off, every time she stepped out side”
“And her hands are so big.” I added. “When I handed her a glass, her fingers wrapped right round it”
“There are other things that disappear between her fingers” Eric added.

And indeed there were quite a few girls. Some pretty things among them. For one there was Michelle. Eric was harping on about Michelle all the day long and about how if he wasn’t so busy with Veronica and trying to talk to Tareez, he would have had her “one time.”

Michelle is Karl’s cousin, a colored from South African who spent her teens in Australia. Makes for an interesting accent that fits with her cute face and little body. Another of Karl’s cousins, Laverne, made a return appearance, though she was less lively this party round. The rumor is that she has a crush on Laurence, and so perhaps the ill advised caution that comes with a crush got the better of her.

There was the surprise appearance of Candice, the popular dame from two weeks before. How boys had queued up to talk to her two weeks ago. She had promised unequivocally not to show up this time around. That she had to catch up with her life. But somehow, perhaps after suitable cajoling on the phone from Laurence (one of his many talents) she showed up. Just like that! Curly hair, pink lips, long face and all smiles in the living room. I wasted no time and sat my self right next to her, having learnt the hard way a fortnight ago. She immediately swore to me that she would not drink or eat and would be leaving soon. Of course, she had said the same things at the last party too, but she seemed determined to hold to her convictions this time around. After much oblique charm from me, as well as outright begging, I convinced her to have a glass of wine and mingle with other girls, where they talked diets and other indolent things.

“You chi-Eric. Just when I was about to escort Candice to the bus stop nicely, you landed with your “don’t go home yet, stay at the party” vibes” I blasted Eric.
“Yaah, you can’t just let chicks go home, they must stay” said Eric.
“And then there was Therese, who I was talking to nicely on the couch. The moment I got up you landed and started your own vibes. Like you don’t have a chick”
“Well you had your chance with Candice.”
“No but, Zani set me up nicely with Therese. Everything was going smoothely until you showed up.”

And somehow, Eric is never far when I get talking to some pretty thing.

Never Again

Oh the party was too big. It was too much. I was overwhelmed on the night. Drunk girls, carpet burns, marijuana (Eric and Craig’s ex-neighbor showed up courtesy of Karl and proceed to roll joints on the floor right be the stairs) and sex in my room by multiple couples of which I was never a member. The neighbor, who we have no christened 3 Doors Down, gave me a long speech, pointed and gesticulating his points with his middle finger about how he would get in touch with ‘the unit’ and the police and have us thrown out if we made noise like we did three weeks ago. He made big points like “these houses are close together” and “people want to sleep at night and wake up in the morning.” Things I could never think of.

Ali poured half a bottle Jonnie Walker whisky into a mug of ice and downed it like a beer. He was upset about something. He told me what, but the truth is I didn’t hear a word. No one really understands what Ali says. He phoned us on that Sunday and we kept passing the phone around because we didn’t know what he was saying, which nearly brought Barbara to tears in laughter. He just speaks so fast with his hard Zambian colored accent. The seed that must have planted his marriage proposal to Sara, the only other white South African present. Linia showed up with her two timid friends, Timira and Jullie, who, though full up with smiles, only managed to talk among themselves, except for that brief encounter with Candice on the diet conversation.
Most people had left by 11pm, many of them to go to something else, like Ntheye and Odemi who proceeded to party at a club somewhere until day light. But the absolute highlight of the evening, which came at about midnight was Augustine…..

BANG!!

“What was that?” I yelled. I was in the kitchen. The bang was so hard the cutlery in the kitchen rattled. Everyone’s eyes lit up in alarm. I thought maybe 3 Doors Down had thrown a large boot at us. But the noise came from the living room. I dashed in, and so did everyone else. I mean everyone from all over the house. Couples stopped kissing, others woke up, Eric abandoned his girlfriend in bed and rushed downstairs. And there stood Augustine, behind the glass screen door, holding his nose with both hands. Right in front of his face was a huge oily smudge on the glass where he had smashed his face as he walked into the screen door. He was in pain and we all fell on the floor laughing. We laughed about it all through Sunday. And now, when I look at the smudge still on the screen door, I can’t help but chuckle to my self.

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.

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.”

Folly

He set the alarm on both phones for 5am and woke up in a child’s room. The room had been hit by a bomb, the bomb that a result of chidrens limitless toys and play. Broken and forgotten toys lay all about the room. In the dark they crunch under his feet. He will not switch on the light for fear of waking the child. He draws the curtain and packs his back-pack in the gleam from the street lights. As he crept into bed the midnight before, he discovered to his horror that his flight was for 8:45 am and not mid day. That is why he pack his back-pack in the dark.

 Eventually, the child stirs and wakes to the chaffing of clothes being packed into a resilient parcel.

“Where are you going” the child inquires.
“I am going back to Geneva” he says.
“Your going back to Switzerland” the child still inquires.
“Yes, to Geneva in Switzerland”.
“Why can’t you stay here with us?” is the next inquiry.
“It is not my home, this your home for your family” I reason, feeling my self being pushed up a wall, knowing full well that with this child, every answer leads to another question.
“You can stay here, in this room, I don’t mind. When are you coming back?”
“I don’t know, soon maybe. 3 weeks” he confesses, his mind racing off and wondering why he is going back to Geneva at all.
“Why do you have to go back Geneva?”

There was never an end to the child’s questions. The only relief was by physical escape or a cunning change of topic. He made his escape from the cannonade of the child’s questions to gather his belongings from downstairs.

Before he left out the house, Sheila and her husband descended from their bedroom and slipped him 10 pounds good luck. He was on the street at 7am, thinking he would make Gatwick airport in an hour. Only two train rides he thought. One to East Croydon, and another to Gatwick. It was simple, or so he thought.

Sat on the dreary wrought iron bench at Thornton Heath train station, he watched the overhead electronic schedule with dismay. There were no trains to East Croydon it seemed. The only train was to West Croydon. He did not know how to get from West to East Croydon but, he boarded anyway. There was a tram from West to East Croydon, and he hat to run, with his huge back-pack to catch. He did not know any part of London had trams. It reminded him of Geneva. And like Geneva, you could get away with not paying on the tram, as he did. At East Croydon, there were delays with the Gatwick train. When it did come, it went past the platform without stopping, out foxing everyone who had assembled on the platform edge to board. The next train was another 15 min. The Gatwick train made most stops on the way, and they were lengthy leisurely stops. It was unlike the train ride he took in the opposite direction on his arrival. But that was Saturday. This was Sunday. At the airport he ran, with his massive back-pack bouncing on his back, through the corridors and onto another tram for the north terminal. At the check in desk, lady posing as his ally made phone calls and solicited his case for boarding the plane. Alas, it was too late. Though still a whole 10 min to take off, his baggage would not get there on time. He was directed to the ticket sales desk, while being given advise on how to board planes. At the sales desk he discovered that it would cost him 200 pounds to fly with in the next 3 days. The budget airlines did not offer anything better. He was trapped in London.

The train ride back to Thornton Heath, that black country of immigrants, went smoothly. No delays or connections through West Croydon. He was shrouded in shame. He had never missed a plane before. He was foolish. He knew the trains were slow on a Sunday. He knew he did not leave enough time.

Sheila opened the door in her dressing gown. Her face was very long and her eyes red. She was expecting him and aware of his folly at the airport, however, by way of a phone call of shame from a public phone. But still the grief on her face was from more than just having to harbour a hapless aberration of her childhood a few more days. There had been an argument with her husband, she explained, with a running nose and a faltering voice. She had not consulted him before she allowed me to lodge with her and her family for a week. She was very distraught. I had never seen her like this. But then I had hardly seen her in the last 15 years. She nearly broke down completely. I was lost for words. She said it was not my fault, which was not completely true. As we stood in her dinning room, with her three children in the adjacent sitting room sat on the couch watching Sunday morning Wrestling, able to hear all we said surely, Sheila shed a tear.

Sheila kept on repeating her plea. That is was not his fault. That she should have consulted her husband. But the sobs were escalating and through a muffled cry she said “He wants to leave….”
but I could not make out the rest. I was too scared to make out the rest. I put my hand on her shoulder to try and arrest her anguish. I could not bring myself to console her properly. To embrace her. He still saw her as his big sisters friend. A big sister by extension. How could he patronise her and console her. Further more, he was the root cause of the unhappiness in the happy family. The husband was upstairs all the while. He felt he had to leave before he came down.

He made some frantic phone calls to his other Zambian friends in London. Friends he did not think he knew well enough to impose himself, until that morning of course. With in 10 minutes he was back on the street, his massive back-pack bouncing behind him, back to the Thornton Heath train station in the country of black immigrants. He was heading for South East London. For the boys who he had known through his flat mate and their debaucherous outings.