32
The reaction of Ntoto and Rutere to the news of Pearson’s imminent arrival at Harrods was far from welcoming.
From their perch atop the bar, where they were preparing vegetables for the next meal, they began to chant: “Cheat, cheat, cheat . . .”
“Stop that nonsense,” ordered Charity.
“He cheated in the game,” said Ntoto, “you yourself saw it.”
Charity nodded. It was perfectly true.
The boys undeniably had the moral high ground and they knew it. Pearson had indeed been late in giving the obligatory warning the last time they had played Ack-Ack, and she had witnessed his disgraceful behaviour.
“Cheat, cheat, cheat,” continued the boys, who were not prepared to forget that Pearson had broken the most important rule in a game which they had devised. According to this rule, anyone who was seated at Harrods was open to aerial attack by any registered street boy; but the target was entitled to try and trip any approaching “aircraft”, subject to two conditions.
The person or persons under attack had to simulate the sound of anti-aircraft fire; and they had to do so before extending their leg, crying out as they did so: “Ack-ack-ack!”
It was a rule about which the boys felt strongly, and understandably so. Successful raids could produce a satisfying cry of alarm as the target responded to a careening street boy. Failure, on the other hand, could prove painful, and a successful trip-up could lead to a skinned knee.
Pearson was due any minute now. Ntoto and Rutere kept an eye on the comings and goings of customers, the one boy peeling carrots, the other scrubbing potatoes. Sitting on the roof of the steel containers, concealed by the sign of the bar, they could look out without being spotted themselves.
Beneath them and beyond them spread Kireba, tough, hardworking and ambitious, the size of a small city where all but the truly destitute and the utterly hopeless nursed dreams.
Some dreamt of becoming a lawyer or teacher or doctor; others worked for seven days a week, labouring for the extra ngwee needed if they were to extend a one-roomed shack.
But ambitions went far beyond these dreams. Some did indeed become a doctor; but if this proved out of reach, you tried to become a nurse; if you failed to become a nurse, you could become a health clinic assistant; and failing that, a messenger who worked at a clinic. And if that proved impossible, then a friend of a messenger. Who knows? Life was full of opportunities, and the people who lived in Kireba were nothing if not ambitious.
What is more, they took pride in being ordinary – ordinary in the sense that they lived in a community that had as many saints as sinners, or at least the same ratio of saints to sinners as any other town or city. Or, for that matter, the same ratio of Samaritans who would lend a hand to strangers to others who would walk on by; the same ratio of honest folk to rotten thieves; or of good citizens anxious about the school fees they could not afford to bad citizens who cared for nothing.
Kireba was as honest or as rotten, good or bad, and had heroes and villains, just as any city of similar size, with one difference: there were none of the comforts of modern life, there was no clean running water, there was no electricity.
Systematically the boys worked their way through their respective chores, Ntoto peeling carrots, and chopping cabbage. Rutere was equally absorbed in his task, and after the potatoes were scrubbed, he began picking greenfly out of cauliflower heads, driven by the deal he had struck with Charity: if she could not find a single greenfly in a sample of her selection, Rutere would qualify for three dough balls. Thereafter he would lose a dough ball for every three that she found, with the appalling prospect that he could end in deficit – actually owing Charity.
Ntoto chatted away, sharing with Rutere his thoughts, and occasionally inviting his friend’s comments.
On that afternoon, when the sun beat down and their bellies were full of corn-bread and pumpkin soup, and they had managed to grab a spoonful of condensed milk, without Charity catching them, they played one of the word games they had devised to pass the time.
The game itself was simple – a question was asked in the form of a riddle, and if it got the answer that the questioner had in mind, you scored full points. But beyond that simple rule were qualifying rules and sub-rules, and extra rules, all of such fiendish complexity that the boys themselves would be unable to finish a game.
That day was an exception, however.
“If Kuwisha was an animal,” said Ntoto, “what would it be, Rutere?”
It was a tough question but there was plenty of time to answer it.
The answer had to begin with the letter of the current month.
“A dog,” said Rutere, “tied with a piece of string and always hungry, and always barking and only stopping when kicked.”
“Phauw,” said Ntoto – it was a good answer, though not the answer he had in mind.
Rutere gave a little whoop of self-congratulation, nothing to do with Ntoto’s question, but the discovery of a nit on his head, which he deftly decapitated between thumbnail and forefinger.
“Wash your hands,” said Ntoto.
Rutere made a great show of doing just that in a pail of water Charity had provided for the purpose.
The boys continued their work, lost in their thoughts.
“Or a donkey,” said Rutere. “If Kuwisha were an animal, rather than a country, it would be a donkey. Better than dog,” he continued, and looked up to see if, by the rules of the game, he had got it right.
“Explain,” said Ntoto.
“The donkey works very hard, is not treated well, but has a big heart. The politicians are the man that beats his donkey, to get the donkey to work harder, but feeds him badly. We are like donkeys, working harder but not doing well.”
Ntoto clapped his hands. There was no doubt about it, Rutere was clever. He dealt with the last carrot, and turned to help Rutere, as friendship required.
“Shssh,” hissed Rutere suddenly, “someone is coming.”
Pearson surveyed the 300 yards between the matatu stop, where he had been dropped, and Harrods. The direct route had more hazards, and he had to assume that he could clear the foul black stream in a single leap. On the other hand, while the alternative route was as much as twice the length, the lean-to toilet, which was within striking distance of Harrods, provided secure cover.
He opted for the long way round.
He knew that his plan was childish, and certainly no way for an adult to behave at Harrods. But what the hell – the sanctimonious little bastards deserved to be taken down a peg or two. Pearson was pretty sure that Ntoto had sold the tape recorder he had lent him, and made up that cock and bull story about being mugged.
He reached the toilet, fairly certain that he had not been detected. Pearson was close enough to hear snatches of exchanges between Charity and Furniver, and greetings as Lucy arrived, earlier than he had expected, and the chatter in Swahili between Ntoto and Rutere.
It was a perfect moment to launch his attack.
Pearson burst onto the group, wheeling and diving like one of the aeroplanes the street children became, arms outstretched and crying:
“No mercy, Ntoto, ACK-ACK-ACK . . . no mercy, Rutere, no . . .”
To say the response was disappointing was an understatement.
“Aren’t you a bit old for that sort of wheeze?” said Furniver mildly.
“I thought . . . there you are . . . thought I heard Ntoto and Rutere . . .”
Pearson stuttered to an embarrassed end.
His targets sat atop the bar, legs dangling over the edge.
“We don’t play ack-ack with cheats,” said Ntoto.
Rutere sniggered, and started a further chorus of “Cheat! Cheat! Cheat!” pointing his finger at the journalist in time to the chant, just like the supporters of English football teams, which he watched on the black and white television in the bar.
“Bloody childish, Pearson,” said Lucy dismissively, who had emerged from the bar with a tray of drinks.
Pearson tried to recover his dignity, but he did feel foolish.
“A crash landing, I assume?” said Furniver, and guffawed.
“Childish!” said Lucy.
“Give me present,” demanded Rutere, sniggering.
It was not exactly a hero’s welcome.