Please Do Not Disturb Page 8

  If you dress up a lie enough it becomes a principle. But it wasn’t long before Tafumo whittled my mighty principles down to banalities. Today I flick through his list of banned publications, spiralling out of control, trying to shut out the world. First came the silly prohibition of long hair, then the puritanical ban on short skirts, followed by the frigid censorship of kissing in movies. Father Lane scolded us if we argued over trivial things: Pettiness works like the putsi fly, boys. Burrowing under the skin, multiplying inside your organs and consuming you from the inside out, until you’re left hollow.

  Pettiness consumed Tafumo. He once went so far as to ban a song that mentioned a woman named Angelina. Which was the name of his lady-in-waiting, Mama Angelina. A silly pop song by Dylan? Was this really what struck fear into the heart of the lion? Was this why I’d turned on colleagues, betrayed friends?

  I often wondered why Tafumo didn’t kill me at the start. Didn’t dispense of the one man who might reveal he wasn’t Chewa, wasn’t Bwalo, that his was merely a life of greed and lies, not destiny and fate. I was a living liability. If they discovered Tafumo’s rise to power was predicated on little more than a boyhood lie, he’d have been dragged from the palace and beaten to death by a vengeful mob. Maybe in the intoxicating haze of adulation that heralded his return, he needed to hold on to a sliver of his past.

  I closed the book. A stylised sunrise with cartoon rays splayed across the cover. This false history had once seemed harmless. No different from other nations that imagined themselves into existence. All countries contrive bloody fairy tales to lend credence to illusory borders scribbled by men. But now I know it’s a disgrace. I began life as a teacher seeking truth; I’m ending it as an old liar. We say children are the only hope, for they have no memory of what came before. Yet here I was filling them with fresh lies, even my own son.

  I returned to my wardrobe, took out my folder, and began to write on Levi’s delicate page. Not scrimping, nor editing myself out, I unpicked my propaganda. Time is a powerful acid that dissolves the past. It has made me forget so many sins. Now it seems my body is falling asleep but my mind is waking up again, reminding me of all the terrible things I’ve done. Father Lane said we look for blame everywhere, always at other people, friends, neighbours, relatives, in the weather, the stars, moon, blaming the dead, spirits, ancestors, holding history itself accountable, when all we need do is look closer, not outside, nor beyond but right here, Sefu, close as can be, right here inside, at nothing and no one else but me.

  Jack

  Fantastic took us to a village with ten mud huts and a ring of people sitting around a fire. They seemed unsurprised to see us. Fantastic sat and talked to the men, while I was taken to a hut where a boy showed me a yoga mat on the hard floor and said, ‘Bed.’

  Soon as the kid left, I got my torch, pulled the case out and opened it. I tapped it: a false bottom. I waited before I acted. I knew if I tore the material that was harder to hide than some popped fliplocks. I could say I dropped the case and the fliplocks broke. But if I tore the material, this false top, sewn so delicately together, there was no way of putting that right. I lay low on the floor, eyes close to the case, and without tearing too much, I tugged at the material. As I aimed my torch through the dark slit something glinted – a row of teeth? Gold fangs? Possibly nails. Certainly not chemicals. And as I tugged a little more it made a sharp sound and I saw a thin slice of blue light shining down the barrel, the gleaming eyeball of a telescopic lens and, embedded in felt, a clutch of bullets.

  THE HEN

  Bwalo Radio

  Dj cheeseandtoast here to start your day the Bwalo way. Two days until the Big Day! Remember what your mother told you: never send an elephant to do a cheetah’s job. Ha! Newsflash, listeners: Truth arrives today. A soul singer visiting the sweet soul of Africa. And as if life couldn’t get better, this week our national beer, Chibuku, will be half price. Shake shake Chibuku to go with the good time. Yes yes! Bwalo FM thanks Tafumo, for it’s under the wise and foresighted leadership of His Excellency that we’re broadcasting today. Now, beautiful people of Bwalo, it’s time for some sweet ear candy: here’s the new song, ‘Doctor Love’, by Bwalo’s own soul sensation, Young Buck. Praise the Ngwazi.

  Charlie

  Click!

  ‘Dad, did you know an aardvark eats a hundred thousand termites a day?’

  ‘I’m busy, buddy, what do you need?’

  ‘I need to know why you came to Africa?’

  ‘Um?’

  ‘Well what did you want to be when you were young?’

  ‘Fairly sure hotel manager wasn’t high on the list. All I knew was I didn’t want to be my dad. He never left our town. Ironic, really, as he was a cab driver. Dad was dour.’

  ‘What’s dour?’

  ‘Everything in life was a vice. I went to university, Dad said, What’s Edinburgh got that we havenae? I joined VSO, Dad said, Sounds like a VD.’

  ‘Who’s VD?’

  ‘Nothing. Delete that. I came here because of a great Scot: David Livingstone. He said: If you have men who’ll only come if they know there is a good road, I don’t want them. I want men who’ll come if there’s no road at all. For those men shall see what others have never seen, such glories as only gazed upon by angels in flight.’

  ‘Sounds pretty boring.’

  Click!

  Charlie

  Rumours became real today: the celebrities arrived. It was the most incredible day of my whole entire life. Ed, Dad and I took the Mirage bus to the airport to pick up Truth, his dancers and the journalists. Usually there’s one plane a week; today there was a traffic jam in the sky. Lear jets too! Which Dad said are planes for the disgustingly rich. Dad bought me a Fanta at the arrivals bar and we sat with Dr Koma, who told us he was ‘Off to the UK to make some pounds’. When Dad said, ‘Now tell me, Dr Koma, do you plan on returning in twenty years to take over the country?’ Dr Koma looked very uncomfortable, like he had ants in his pants.

  Another plane landed, dazzled passengers poured out, their pale skins silver in the sun, and Dad said, ‘Check out the hairy backpackers.’ They looked happy, two young men both with long streaming hair. Dr Koma, Dad and I shared a smile. Dad got another round in and, as I finished off my second Fanta, passengers began arriving through the gate, and we saw the now unhappy backpackers with long faces but very short hair.

  Dad pointed at the plane and said, ‘My metal bird eats all your talented sons and shits out bald backpackers.’ Dr Koma thought this was so funny and they shook hands as Dad said, ‘Best of luck, Doc, watch those British nurses, they’ll be all over you.’

  Handing me the cardboard Mirage sign, Dad said, ‘Come on, champ, let’s rustle up some Z-list celebs.’ The first out of the gate were the dancers. Truth had more dancers than Tafumo. Truth’s dancers were black as well but, as Mum had had to explain to me many times, not all black people are from Africa. Though originally, Mum said, everyone’s from Africa, even – and here’s where it gets really confusing – white people.

  But although they were black, Truth’s dancers were very different to Tafumo’s dancers, who were quiet and shy. Truth’s dancers walked around like white people do: like they own everything. They were also shaped differently. Tafumo’s dancers were round and wide. Truth’s dancers had long legs and flapped about like bright flamingos. But most shocking of all: they wore miniskirts. I’d never seen miniskirts. Tafumo banned them. All the hotel magazines in the lobby were slashed with black marks and pages torn out because, Dad said, the chief censor was a bloody priest. So I stared with googly eyes as I whispered to Ed, ‘They’re in miniskirts, Ed.’

  ‘Yes, bwana,’ said Ed, smiling wide as a crocodile.

  ‘But won’t they get arrested?’

  Ed laughed. ‘I think the police will be letting them off with a warning.’

  Next came Truth. And I couldn’t believe it. Truth had more security than Tafumo. With everyone orbiting around him like mosquitos, you could barely see
. One of the spinning people was a skinny man with Quiksilver slashes like graffiti over his clothes.

  Quiksilver-man jogged over holding a video camera. ‘I’m Wayne? I’m crew? Doing a reality show with Truth?’ Wayne spoke fast and said everything as if it were a question.

  ‘Welcome, Wayne, I’m Stuart, the hotel manager, and we are honoured to . . .’ Wayne cut in, ‘Any other celebrities arrived? Sean Penn?’ Dad said, ‘We’re not in the habit of giving guests’ private details . . .’ but Wayne cut in again, ‘Yeah I get it, Stuey?’ then he filmed me and shouted, ‘Hey kid! What I miss?’ before I could reply, he was shouting, ‘Awesome? Now, Stuey? Need to make a pit stop? Need shots of Truth with authentic Bwalo kids?’

  Dad looked confused; Wayne leaned in close, ‘I mean . . . poor kids?’ to which Dad replied, ‘No shortage of those, there’s a village nearby . . .’ and Wayne shouted, ‘Great stuff?’ and ran off filming the airport, filming the sky, filming people carrying wood on their heads and all the other nothingness stuff that was going on.

  A tired woman came over next. She wore jeans – also illegal for women to wear but it seemed the laws didn’t apply to these people – she had a mobile phone in each hand and spoke in a posh accent, like people from the bbc. ‘I’m Bel, Truth’s publicist. Sorry he didn’t say hello. Thought it best to get him on the bus. Truth’s really tired.’

  ‘I hear integrity is fairly exhausted these days too,’ Dad said quietly, then he started his formal introduction. ‘Welcome to Bwalo. May we say we’re honoured to . . .’

  She interrupted, ‘Why can’t I get Internet?’ and Dad shouted to everyone, ‘Folks, listen up, bad news: your smart phones just became dumb phones. No Internet on phones, limited on computer too.’ A groan rose out of the group of crumpled journalists.

  ‘And where’s the other bus for the dancers and the crew?’ Bel asked.

  Dad screwed up his face, ‘Other bus?’ And Bel explained, ‘Well, yes, Truth can’t be in the same bus as everyone. Is there another bus, or do you have a limousine?’

  After Dad and I had stopped laughing, Dad said, ‘There’s no limousines in Bwalo. The King owns the only Rolls-Royce in the whole country. There are only ten Mercedes, all of which are owned by government ministers and the rest of us drive old Peugeots. We have three minibuses in this town and I own one of them, so unless you want Truth to wait here, while I drop everyone off and come back for him, then I suggest . . .’

  Bel nodded, ‘OK, OK, fine!’ then walked away.

  Truth had so many bags that we had to pile lots into the trailer attached to the back of the bus. The trailer usually carried dead animals back from safari and there were bloody rivers dried in the grooves along the bottom. As I helped Ed load the bags, a chongololo rolled along the side of the trailer and Wayne shoved his camera down at it, ‘What the heck’s that, kid?’

  ‘The chongololo is an African centipede,’ I explained. ‘Only bigger and blacker, like lots of Lego helmets squashed on a frilly petticoat. Watch this.’ I tapped it, causing it to roll into a protective curl, tight as a full stop. ‘Did you know chongololos and centipedes only actually have three hundred legs?’ Wayne shouted, ‘Awesome?’ and filmed it slowly unfurl then glide away.

  Once the luggage was loaded, the dancers rushed to the back of the bus, and journalists sat up front interrogating Dad. ‘How bad is the drought?’ ‘Any news of Patrick Goya?’ to which Dad kept replying, ‘Well it’s all rather complicated stuff.’

  When we drove, Wayne jumped around filming and the dancers kept shrieking, ‘My God. It’s so real, it’s like so out of this world.’ When I asked Dad what Out of this world meant he said it meant Out of America, because Americans struggled to grasp the concept that there was a world beyond the United States.

  I got my Dictaphone out and listened to Sean and Stella’s argument from last night. After their fight they left, and there was a long boring bit where my Dictaphone just recorded the song of the crickets, then Willem and Marlene came into the office, whispering, and spent the rest of the time shoving the desk back and forth like they were moving furniture.

  I deleted all that dull stuff, crept up to the back of the bus, sat by Truth and asked, ‘May I interview you?’

  ‘Talk to my publicist,’ he said but Bel shrugged, ‘He’s just a kid.’

  I put the Dictaphone on the armrest. ‘What do you think of Bwalo so far?’

  He glanced out the window. ‘Love this place. Full of my brothers and sisters.’

  ‘Do you have relatives here?’

  ‘Just an expression, kid.’

  ‘Do you come from Africa?’

  ‘Detroit.’

  ‘Mum says everyone comes from Africa originally.’

  ‘Moms is always right so I ain’t arguing. But I’m from Detroit. And if you’re from Africa then I’m Mickey Mouse.’

  ‘I was born here. I am African.’

  ‘I stand corrected.’

  ‘Did you ever meet Nelson Mandela? He was always meeting famous people.’

  ‘He was the president of Africa, right?’

  ‘Africa’s a continent not a country. Mandela was the president of South Africa.’

  ‘Check out Mr National Geographic.’

  ‘What’s National Geographic?’

  ‘A tv show.’

  ‘We don’t have TV. Tafumo doesn’t like it and he hates the Internet too because Dad says the King doesn’t like articles about himself and he also hates boobs.’

  The bodyguards and dancers laughed as Truth said, ‘You’re smart as a tack, kid.’

  ‘Do you like our great and glorious King Tafumo?’

  ‘He’s a righteous brother. One of me, all of me. Me to the power of we. Black power to a black people. Right power to the right people.’

  ‘You talk funny.’

  ‘It’s what they pay me for. Look, here’s the deal, bring your thing close: I love Tafumo.’

  ‘I love Tafumo too, he is the great Ngwazi.’

  ‘Well I love that your president has given me so many of my presidents – Benjamins, that is – to play for the good people of Bwalo.’

  ‘Tafumo is king not president? And you’re weird.’

  ‘I’m pure sense, kid. Truth by name, truth by nature.’

  Wayne shouted, ‘This place looks good? I mean pretty good . . . for Africa?’

  And Wayne was right in a way. The town did look good but it was mainly because the shops got their spruce-up for the King. Whenever they paint the town Mum says, here we go again painting the roses red and Dad says, whoever’s selling paint is making a killing, and Sean says, Tafumo must think the world stinks of wet paint. This year Bwalo had a bout of celebrity fever with shops sporting new signs: Tom Cruise Tailor, Oprah’s Bakery. Dad said some were more successful than others and wasn’t sure he’d buy meat from Russell Crowes Sparticus Butchery. The roadmen were out too, slopping tar into the gaping mouths of potholes. What Wayne didn’t know was that in a few months the mouths of the potholes would gape open again, the bright paints would be leached by the thirsty sun. Wayne filmed a queue of cars curving out of the Shell garage. A bus sat heavily on its wheels, the inside boiling with people; a woman held a child out the windows, pee shot in a gold arc and the child was retracted back.

  When Wayne asked about the queues, Dad explained, ‘Petrol sanctions. A wee warning from the world that no nation’s an island.’

  ‘Is it even safe living here, Stuey?’ asked Wayne.

  ‘I think so, most of it’s just rumours and hearsay. In Bwalo they say, don’t disturb a sleeping elephant. The place is generally peaceful. We’ve lived safely for years.’ But then Wayne filmed a shop with smashed glass and graffiti and before he asked, Dad put his hand over the camera lens and explained, ‘Ah, yes, Indians: their shops are targeted because of their economic luck. Unfortunately Indians are the Jews of Africa.’

  When Ed parked the bus at the village, all the children ran out singing. Fires burned, gravy smoke curled in the
air, a dog and a cock fought for airtime, yapping and squawking, as children formed a ring around the bus, waiting to see who was visiting. When Truth and his dancers stepped out, they didn’t just look like celebrities: with their long legs and bug-eyed shades, they looked like aliens from another planet. They looked so strange that the children stopped singing and stared, as a sweaty journalist moaned, ‘Here comes the Bob Geldof shit,’ and another muttered, ‘I need a cold beer, I’m crisping up like a fucking oven chip.’ Children jumped around Truth, grabbing his hands and touching his leather trousers. Bodyguards tried to push them away but like ants they poured through the gaps. The kids had never seen so much gold on a black person, fingers thick with rings, neck crisscrossed with chains, teeth gleaming gold. Bel pulled out bags and the children gathered under a tree where Truth handed out his new album, Mirrors, which had a cool shiny cardboard mirror for a cover. The kids spun the cds on their fingers, frisbeed them around, tore the mirror off and shoved it in their mouths so their teeth shone like Truth’s.

  When Wayne said to Dad, ‘Isn’t this awesome?’ Dad replied, ‘If you could eat a CD, then, yes, it would be awesome.’

  Truth pulled out weird white sticks and Wayne shouted, ‘It gets better, dude! Check it out: iPods? Heaps of Nanos, loaded with Truth’s album! Awesome?’

  ‘Look around you, Wayne,’ Dad said. ‘There’s no computers, no electricity.’

  ‘Dude!’ shouted Wayne. ‘You’re such a killjoy?’ then ran off to film the kids.

  Ed asked Dad, ‘What’s this Truth man doing, bwana?’

  ‘He’s exploiting your poverty to steal the credibility he so desperately lacks.’