7
“Duty boy! Urgent!”
The cry from Charity rang out.
There was a rustling from under the bar counter of Harrods.
Two teenage boys emerged, the one short, the other taller, both skinny, and both clad in T-shirt and shorts, so worn and stained that the original colours had been driven out and replaced by drab khaki.
Their early-morning shift all but over, they had retreated to their den for a sniff of glue. The boys rubbed their bloodshot eyes.
Charity could tell from their dilated pupils that they had started their day by inhaling from the plastic bottle each had dangling from a string round their necks.
“Breakfast?” they asked anxiously.
She nodded. No matter how often they ate at Harrods, each time they were fed seemed both a surprise and a relief to them.
Titus Ntoto and Cyrus Rutere looked cautiously around them, like bush buck at a watering hole, alert for enemies. Only then, satisfied it was safe, did they emerge from behind the counter.
Neither boy knew the precise date of their birth, but their parents had told them they had been born during the great drought that had afflicted Kuwisha some fourteen years earlier, and which had forced their families to abandon their parched patches of land, too small to sustain them even when the rains were good.
Like thousands and thousands of others who fled the barren land, the two families headed for Kireba – Ntoto’s from the west, Rutere’s from the north.
The respite was short-lived.
In the riots that followed the influx of destitute competitors for Kireba’s scarce resources, whether water, or shelter, or jobs, both sets of parents had fled, and Ntoto and Rutere were separated from their families in the bloody confusion. Thrown together, the boys had forged a friendship over the years that transcended their ethnic differences.
But nature and nurture had created two boys who could hardly have been more different in appearance. Ntoto was easily the taller of the two, with spindly legs and narrow chest; while Rutere, the runt of his family’s litter, was short, with a distended belly.
Rutere led the way to the kitchen.
Usually the boys would fire questions at Charity, after wolfing down a bowl of maize porridge, and if they were lucky, a sweet dough ball which she had discarded as too stale for paying customers.
Today they were quiet. She resisted the temptation to enquire, even though it was clear that something was up. For the past few weeks, usually after football practice, members of the Mboya Boys had sat at the table set aside for them at Harrods, chattering as loudly as birds at dawn, but falling silent if she or any other adult came within earshot.
And always present, always at the centre of attention, had been Bright Khumalo, the leading scorer for the Under-15 team that looked a certainty to win the Lardner Burke cup, a trophy presented to the league by a philanthropic settler.
One morning about two weeks ago, she had been asked, with a studied casualness, by Ntoto, about how one became a professional footballer in England. She had not a clue, and told him so: “Stop this dreaming business, Ntoto, otherwise you will become a loafer.”
During the evening of that day there had been a lot of laughter and much drinking of changa by the boys, and a group, which included Ntoto, Rutere and Bright Khumalo, had set off for town. Charity had lain awake that night, fearful that they would get into trouble with the police, or would come off second best in the goading of security guards that had become a popular sport.
Only when she heard the voices of Ntoto and Rutere on their return, well after midnight, and the clink of empty bottles as they moved the crates that protected the entrance to their den under the bar counter, was she able to relax, and fall asleep.
But she had not laid eyes on Bright since then.
“He is on safari,” was all Ntoto said when she had asked, and a mask of indifference came over his face. She knew from past experience that further questioning would get her nowhere.
Charity took a sip from her mug of tea, and called out to Ntoto and Rutere, who were about to set off on their daily journey to the post office.
“Avocados. Collect from Mr Ogata’s cousin, at the market. And when you have been to the post office,” she continued, “go to Central Bank. There is a letter for me from the governor.”
To Charity’s surprise, the boys, usually keen on city-centre outings, had bridled.
“Say the magic word,” said Rutere.
“Please, will you go to the bank,” said Charity.
Rutere seemed to be satisfied, having turned the tables on Charity, who was a stickler for courtesies.
But Ntoto pressed home the advantage.
“Two dough balls,” demanded Ntoto.
“It’s worth one dough ball,’ said Charity.
Ntoto stood his ground.
“Two.”
“One,” repeated Charity, who was starting to get irritated.
“One dough ball is for normal service, with delivery tomorrow. Two dough balls is airmail service, with delivery today. Guaranteed. No halfway bargaining.”
“That Ntoto,” she concluded, after telling the story to Furniver over breakfast at Harrods, “he is intelligent.”
Furniver had no doubt about that: the boy was certainly sharp, cunning, devious, manipulative and not without a certain charm. What he also suspected – although he was reluctant to put his suspicion too bluntly to Charity for fear of upsetting her – was that Ntoto also had the qualities of what locals called a tsotsi. In other words, the boy had a streak of the ruthless in him.
While he, Furniver, had little knowledge of the deep and treacherous waters of township politics, he suspected that Ntoto had what it took to fill the vacant slot of the Kireba ward area boy – effectively the township’s gang boss. And if past events were any guide, the next stage in Ntoto’s career would either be death in the traditional car crash, or he could well become the local MP.
“The boy does have a certain rat-like cunning,” Furniver began.
He regretted the word “rat” as soon as it left his mouth, and braced himself for the explosion that followed.
Charity gave a furious click of frustration and irritation.
“Rats? What’s this business of rats, Furniver?”
Only when Charity was especially angry did the syllables of his Christian name become elided to what sounded like “Funva”.
“Rats are for dreams, and sometimes for eating,” she continued. “I am talking about a boy, called Titus Ntoto. And you are saying he is a rat? Shame for you! That boy, he is going to be an area boy! An area boy! And all you can say is he is like a rat!”
Before Furniver could point out that Charity herself called the boys “rats”, albeit affectionately, she disappeared into the Harrods kitchen, which was out of bounds to adult males.
It was outbursts like this that tested their relationship, but as always, Furniver was sustained by his resilient belief: life would undoubtedly be better, in every way, with Charity Mupanga by his side.