If he saw a sleek black car or large men in suits, Céléstin would pack up quickly and leave his broken table to clatter to the floor. Other stall-holders would curse him, and his whispered apologies and bowed head did little to stem their anger as he crashed past their stalls.
The debt was more than he could hope to pay back. Céléstin had borrowed a lot. Just enough for one plane ticket out of the city.
Most days the gangsters came calling, seeking some repayment. Céléstin had little to offer them and the threats had turned to violence. So, if he saw the car or the suits, my father fled.
Desperately he sought other work, but he had no success. He thought about running further away than the other side of the market – out of the city and away. But he daren’t. The gangsters knew who’d taken that plane ticket and where they’d gone. Céléstin didn’t know if they could reach her there – but he would not risk it. So he stayed, but he kept out of their way as much as possible.
The morning had gone well. He’d traded with Godwin, and had some jewellery to sell. Céléstin suspected his friend had been too generous, but he was in no position to shun charity. His cough hadn’t been so bad either.
With the jewellery sold and some notes rolled up in his Kanzu, the afternoon dragged on. As the market emptied, Godwin came over as usual, bringing a cup of strong, bitter tea.
‘Did you watch the match, my friend?’ he asked. Football frenzy filled the city. Tanzania’s Taifa Stars versus Ghana’s Black Stars had been on everyone’s lips. It was an important match – the winners would go to the World Cup. ‘If I see that Juma Kwame I’ll lynch him,’ Godwin continued.
Céléstin nodded in reply. He’d heard similar threats all morning and most were a lot stronger than his friend’s. Until yesterday Juma Kwame, Tanzania’s captain, had been a star, celebrated around the world and worshipped at home. Now he was the villain in the biggest drama in the country’s biggest sport.
Céléstin hadn’t seen the match but he knew, like everyone else in Dar Es Salaam’s streets, that Kwame had given away a penalty which had sealed the Taifa Stars’ fate: another World Cup that Tanzania would not play in.
Godwin prattled on. Football, family, money, his usual subjects filled the conversation. Céléstin nodded, laughed, sipped at his tea, whilst keeping watch.
The car was not the one he was used to, but he recognised the first face that peered out of the window. He thrust the tea-cup at his friend, who had come to expect this kind of behaviour.
Godwin looked over his shoulder. ‘Three of them,’ he said. ‘A new one, I think. Big man, really big man.’
Godwin’s comments didn’t help Céléstin’s packing, neither did a fresh fit of coughing. He dragged his remaining stock (some clothing, a few books, a cracked picture frame) into the battered suitcase. He made ready to run. One final look to see his debt collectors approaching. Then he stopped, suitcase in hand, his breath stilled.
‘Why aren’t you running?’ Godwin muttered through gritted teeth.
‘I know that man. The new one, the big one, I know him.’
Godwin looked back over his shoulder at the big man in question. He strode behind the other two, dark glasses shielding his eyes.
‘Who is he?’ my father’s friend asked.
‘That is my brother. That’s Victor.’