I don’t recognise the number that flashes across my mobile. I hesitate before I answer it. It’s been a week since Salomé’s visit and I’m still edgy.
‘Mrs Tembo?’ a child’s voice asks.
‘Speaking.’
‘BanaBee says please come here tomorrow at two o’clock.’
The child hangs up before I can find out why BanaBee wants to see me. Anxiety stirs in my stomach, and it’s still there three hours later when I pull up in front of BanaBee’s house.
A young woman with a shaven head jumps off the veranda of the pink house, where she’s plaiting a little girl’s hair. ‘BaBee hasn’t come from town,’ she says as I open the car door.
As her words sink in, I feel my eyes widen. ‘BaBee?’
‘Eye. She’s come with her husband and the boys.’ The sound of another car catches her attention and she squints up the road. ‘Here they come.’
I watch a red car approaching in the rear-view mirror. My mouth is suddenly dry and my stomach tight. I’m angry at myself for allowing Bee to have such an effect on me after all these years. I find myself wishing I had worn something else. Earlier in the day I’d thought of resuscitating my chipped pink nail varnish, but didn’t, and now I wish I had.
The car stops behind mine and coughs once before the engine dies.
‘Pumpkin!’ Her voice is the same.
I hop out of my car. She’s out of hers and hurrying towards me, arms outstretched. I see green eye shadow and a black tank top, and then she’s in my arms. She’s still small. She feels lean and bony.
As we hang on to one another, I see myself in another time and place. For a moment I’m nine again. She’s twelve. I’m in my orange halter-neck and she’s in her adult-size green T-shirt with a brown tattoo from a hot iron on the shoulder. And BaDodo is being driven away dead in a taxi.
Her husband catches up with us. Curly ginger hair, freckles on his nose and a khaki shirt and trousers. Over his shoulder, hoisted like a sack, is a boy of about three, fast asleep. I let go of Bee and hold out my hand.
‘This is Trevor, my husband,’ Bee says, beaming, her teeth much whiter than I remember them. ‘That’s Peter sleeping, Dylan is in the car, and my other sons are at the hotel.’ She looks genuinely pleased to see me. I wonder what her assessment is of me. My loose beige trousers and matching linen kaftan with brown embroidery around the neck – the outfit Grandma Ponga suggested I stop wearing because it makes me look pregnant. My hair cornrowed, thick lines worming their way from my forehead to my nape, where I’ve tied the ends with one of Mufuka’s hairbands.
A group of children surrounds us; they stare open-mouthed at Trevor. ‘She’s talked about you so much,’ he says. ‘You have no idea how pleased she is to see you.’
Bee pleased to see me after the way I treated her? ‘I’m also pleased to see her,’ I say, hoping I don’t sound as awkward as I feel.
‘Now I can put a face to all the stories.’ Trevor winks. ‘You know she envied you as a child. In fact,’ he covers his mouth and turns away from Bee, ‘she still does.’
‘What stories?’ I feign a worried look to hide the fact that my heart is fluttering. Bee envy me? As a child I never imagined anyone would envy me. ‘I was a brat,’ I say.
‘We all were. We were children.’ Bee takes hold of my hand and swings it like we’re little girls again. ‘I’ve told him how we played at Tudu Court. Whatever happened to Sonia and Daisy?’
‘I lost contact after Ma and I moved.’
Bee’s memories of our relationship seem different from mine. Before I can stop myself, I hug her again. Trevor points at Bee and says, ‘She’ll be crying soon.’
He’s right. She is. And she sets me off.
‘I’ll leave you to it.’ Trevor walks towards the house. The circle of children follow him, giggling and jostling. They chant ‘Muzungu, muzungu.’ quietly amongst themselves and dare one another to touch him.
‘This is silly; I don’t know why I’m crying.’ I reach for the box of tissues sitting on my dashboard.
‘I know why I’m crying. It’s because I’m happy to see you,’ Bee says.
‘Poor Trevor, we’ve scared him away.’
‘He understands. He knows what good friends we were. When Ma said that she’d met up with you, I told her that I had to see you when I visited.’ Bee pulls a tissue from her bag and blows her nose. ‘Somehow, today, I felt I would see you. I just had this strong feeling. But it was only when we saw a car parked here that Trevor told me that it was yours. My mother had let him in on the secret and asked him to keep quiet.’
‘I was surprised to see her after so many years. We came here by chance.’
‘How is Aunty Tots? I hear she hasn’t been feeling too well.’
‘She’s better these days.’ My stomach flips at the mention of Ma’s health, but I keep my face neutral.
‘I would love to see her again. Is she still slim? I used to watch her and wish I could look like her. Remember her red platforms with the two black cherries on the top?’
‘Can I forget?’ We laugh and clap palms.
Bee says, ‘It’s pity I’m not here for long.’
‘Heya!’ BanaBee squeals. ‘Pumpkin! Pumpkin!’ she chants as she makes her way towards us. ‘You’ve met!’ Beaming, she swings one arm around my neck and the other around Bee’s.
‘These two used to be good friends,’ BanaBee says to Trevor, who is back outside with a bulky black travel bag.
‘Ah, Ma, don’t start. We have to go now.’ Bee playfully clamps her hand over her mother’s mouth. ‘If you start talking we’ll be late.’
‘Pumpkin, I’m sorry that we have to dash, but we have to catch our flight to Livingstone. We’re only here for a few days this time. I’ll be coming in March, though, and we can get together properly then. Maybe I can meet your husband.’
We exchange numbers, hugs and fresh tears. Then I wave at the car until Bee’s skinny arm disappears.
‘Did you break the string?’BanaBee asks. ‘Everything is okay now, isn’t it?’
‘She came back,’ I say, my heart sinking, the euphoria of seeing Bee lifting as Salomé once again crowds my thoughts.
‘She’s gone. Forget about her. Now you drive carefully.’ She starts walking away, but I follow her, opening my bag. ‘Aunty, take something small for –’
‘You are my daughter,’ she says, not even turning to face me, waving me away. ‘I can’t take money from you.’
When I get home I call Tata. I haven’t spoken to him since I dropped Salomé at his office. His mobile is engaged, so I call his secretary and get her to put me through to his office phone.
‘Pumpkin?’ Tata comes on the line.
‘Tata, I just wanted to find out what happened.’
‘Sorry I didn’t get back to you. Busy. Busy. Despite everything, we’re going on with the campaign. This time around we’re establishing the party. Next election will be ours. Anyway, I meant to call …’ Tata changes his tone. ‘Why did you abduct that young lady?’
‘I didn’t. I just brought her to you because she’s been harassing me.’
‘Why did she come to your house?’
‘She said to bring my scarf.’
‘Did she bring it?’
‘Yes, she –’
‘So? Pumpkin, I’m running a campaign here. We’re already in trouble. Why are we abducting people for no apparent reason? You say you didn’t abduct her, but did she have a choice other than to get into your car?’ He’s not expecting a reply. ‘She told me it was her madam who initiated the summons and that she was returning your scarf because you wanted it back? Why?’
‘It was a scarf you bought for me.’
‘So? What is a scarf? I can buy you another one. Why not just give it to her? You asked for it. She brought it back. Where else was she supposed to deliver it?’
‘I was upset with Tembo for showing her where we lived.’
‘Is she Tembo’s girlfriend? I spoke to Tembo and he said he gave the girl a lift. What’s wrong with that? If every girl I gave a lift was my girlfriend, every female in town would be my girlfriend.’
‘I saw them in the car and she had his business card.’
‘Pumpkin, why are you going around biting girls for riding in your husband’s car? If you go around looking for problems, guaranteed you’ll find them. Focus on your husband and your children. More importantly, your mother needs you.’ The line clicks and the dial tone drones in my ears.
A sensation starts building in my tummy. I know it well. It’s the same feeling I had all those years ago when Tata, sat in the back of his green Mercedes, left me by the roadside that hot, sunny morning in 1978.