23

Mlambo resumed his story.

“My head was heavy from smoking, so after I had made a hole, so I could look, I was sleeping. Then there was noise. Too much,” he said disapprovingly. “Noise of women, singing and laughing inside Harrods.”

“Was it a naming ceremony?” Rutere asked.

Naming ceremonies were important occasions in Kuwisha, and Mlambo crossed himself. When it came to Christian faith and local beliefs, he took no chances. At a naming ceremony, he would lead the chanting; at a christening he would uncap a vial of water taken from the nearest river, as he had been instructed by his gran. Before a football match he would burn a crow’s feather in both goalmouths, and bow his head as reverentially as any of his team-mates, when they gathered in a huddle while the coach called on the Lord to bless them.

“Naming ceremony, maybe.”

He continued: “This noise woke me, and I looked through the crack and watched, but my legs were already getting ready for running. There were many ladies, some with babies on their backs. Then I saw Mrs Mildred as the head of the dancing; and then she took the knitting needles from the wooden case made by Mr Ogata. And I saw, with these eyes that are my own, with my eyes I saw . . .”

He stopped, overcome it seemed, by the extraordinary nature of what followed.

“What? What did you see, Mlambo?”

Rutere was almost squeaking with anticipation, and Mlambo did not let him down.

“Mrs Mildred, she pushed each needle into two paw-paws on the counter. Next, Mrs Mildred called Mrs Charity to join her, and they danced and danced around the tables, and other ladies followed them, all dancing, dancing. It was, for sure, I think, the dance of the Lambs.”

His audience were stunned. Like Edward Furniver, they had displayed little interest in the activities of the circle. But it was a very different matter if it involved the Lambs, for rumour had it that the sect was planning to enter a team in the under-15 league.

“Or . . .”

Mlambo held up his hand.

“We must not jump conclusions . . . it could also be that it was women’s business.”

Mlambo’s knowledge of the rites and ceremonies of the Church of the Blessed Lamb was limited. But as he watched Mildred lead a conga round the bar’s interior, brandishing the paw-paw capped needles, he knew he had witnessed an important dance.

“If it was women’s business, what were they dancing?” asked Ntoto, though he could readily guess the answer.

Mlambo looked very uncomfortable.

“Women business.”

All three boys were uneasy. Female initiation dances were not a proper subject of discussion.

“Phauw,” exclaimed Rutere, wide-eyed.

Mlambo shifted from one comfortable buttock to another. Storytelling, he discovered, came naturally to him.

“With my eye, I looked and watched. Eh! What I saw! My gran . . .”

“What? What?” urged Rutere.

Mlambo appeared to fight an inner battle for control of powerful emotions, bit his lower lip, gathered himself, and continued, describing how he had seen Mildred Kigali dance with almost improper abandon, brandishing the paw-paw capped needles.

He had little doubt about the significance of what he saw.

“It was muti. Very strong muti. It was so strong, that the needles helped Mrs Mildred dance, like a young girl.”

“How could you know if it was good muti?” asked Rutere, uneasily.

“If it had been bad, it would have been fighting Mrs Mildred, because Mr Kigali is a deacon of the Church of the Blessed Lamb,” replied Mlambo confidently.

Rutere nodded. That made sense.

Mlambo continued his tale.

“When Mrs Mildred put the needles on the counter, she was so close I could have touched her arm. And when she went to start the meeting, I could see the needles.”

“Next?”

“So I stretched my arm, and took the needles and the paw-paws. And then, when I pulled my arm back, I saw it – I saw the tokolosh.”

He corrected himself.

“I heard this noise first, before seeing anything. A noise of great pain, in a language I do not understand. ‘Omigah! Omigah!’ I looked and saw this thing crying, crying, and . . .”

Mlambo paused for effect:

“It had a blue head. Then I knew I had to run for my life.

“Tokolosh!” I cried. “Tokolosh! And I ran.”

His audience sat silent. Even Ntoto was convinced. They knew they had heard the truth.

“But first, before running, I had picked the needles, and the paw-paws,” said Mlambo triumphantly. “And now, with this strong muti, I can make Mboga cry, and I can get my name back.”

Ntoto, who had his doubts about muti, was nevertheless intrigued.

“How can needles help you, Mlambo?”

“If you come with me now, I will tell you my full plan for Mboga. But you must assist me.”

Ntoto and Rutere were in no doubt. Mlambo deserved their help.

“First,” said Ntoto, “we must do duty jobs for Mrs Charity. Then we will go to your place.”

Mlambo clapped his hands with delight and relief.

“You will be welcome,” he said, somewhat formally. “Very welcome. And I will show you the needles.”