2

The sun was well above the horizon when Charity Mupanga, manager and owner of Harrods, the most popular rendezvous in Kireba, spotted the two boys, legs like sticks and with the pot-bellies of old men, glue bottles strung from their necks, rummaging in a pile of rotting vegetables.

She put two fingers into her mouth. The piercing whistle reached the pair, and the taller of the two held up a hand in acknowledgement, while the other boy waved a large manila envelope.

They broke into a trot.

“We have it, mama!”

“For sure!”

“The stamp is from Zimbabwe.”

“The post office woman wanted 50 ngwee . . .”

“Too much . . .”

“Dough ball! We have earned a dough ball!”

Titus Ntoto and Cyrus Rutere raced towards her, bare feet slapping as they deftly hopped from stepping stone to stepping stone, placed where the mud was thickest.

“Furniver!” she called excitedly. “I think they have come. The plans, my rats have brought the plans.”

Edward Furniver, former London banker turned manager of the Kireba People’s Savings and Investment Club, looked up from his newspaper. He took a sip of coffee, and replaced the mug on the plastic table in front of him.

“Hang on a mo. First listen to this. It will make Harrods famous . . . or should I say, more famous. It’s by The Nation’s restaurant correspondent,” he said. “Half-way through the article there is something rather nice.”

He read from the newspaper:

“But for a surprisingly good meal, which is excellent value for money – indeed it puts many establishments in this city that charge several times the price to shame – I heartily recommend lunch at Harrods International Bar (and Nightspot). If you try the avocado soup you won’t be disappointed. The bar is run by Mrs Charity Mupanga, widow of the late and great Bishop Mupanga. And a word of warning: her dough balls are exceptionally, mouth-wateringly good.”

Charity seemed lost for words and then declared: “Please, Furniver. Read that again. Wonderful! Harrods is the very best place to water your mouth. That is now official. I will write that now, on the menu board.”

The boys, still panting from their exertions, looked on as Charity took delivery of the envelope they had collected from the post office.

“Come, Furniver! Come and read what’s inside. I think there is something special. You will remember that I told you about my plans for good toilets in Kireba?”

Furniver nodded. If the truth be told, Charity had a thing about toilets.

“Well,” she said, “there is a man in Zimbabwe who is a first-class expert on toilets without water, but with no flies.”

She shook her head in wonder. “Just think, Furniver. No flies.”

Charity opened the envelope, confirmed the contents and broke into a celebratory shuffle around Furniver’s table, hips swinging, bottom swaying, in a manner that left Furniver slack-jawed with appreciation.

She brandished a magazine in front of him.

“Bush Latrines Monthly, the best in the world on bush toilets.”

“Not much competition, I would have thought,” said Furniver, but not so loud that she could hear.

Charity, hands shaking with excitement, flipped through the contents of the magazine and then pointed to a page.

“Read this, Furniver. Read this. You will see my name, Mrs Charity Mupanga. Twice in one day we see the name of Mrs Charity Mupanga. In writing! First in the newspaper, now in the magazine. Official. Truly, it is a day when letters are red.”

Furniver took the proffered magazine and examined the contents. There was a letter to Charity from the editor himself, as well as the blueprints she had ordered for the construction of the Zimbabwe toilets.

Furthermore, the journal had printed a note submitted by Charity suggesting a modest but useful change in the construction of the Mark Two Latrine, involving a slight adjustment to the filter.

Charity stabbed her forefinger at a headline: “ ‘The VIP, an invention from Zimbabwe’. Please read, Furniver.”

He obeyed her instruction:

“One smart idea is the Ventilated (Improved) Pit Latrine, in short: the VIP – which was developed as the ‘Blair Latrine’ by Peter Morgan, who has been living and working in Zimbabwe for over 35 years, researching and developing water and sanitation technologies.”

“Thirty-five years! A toilet specialist! My, my, what a fine man! I would like to meet this person. Do you know him? Mr Peter Morgan?”

Charity seemed to believe that mzungus in Africa all knew each other, and she looked surprised and disappointed when Furniver admitted he neither knew of Mr Morgan nor his admirable work.

Charity clucked, sighed, shook her head and continued.

“Anyway, there is a drawing of this first-class latrine.”

They spread out the blueprint on a Harrods table.

Diagram showing effect of vent pipe on functions of pit latrine

“How exactly does it work?” Furniver asked.

“Listen, just listen.”

She took back the magazine article, and read aloud, all the while prodding with her forefinger the illustration that accompanied it.

“The major advantage of the VIP over a normal pit latrine is that it comes with a ventilation pipe” – she looked up – “which of course is covered with a fly screen on top. This means fewer flies and less smell.”

She continued to read, but slowly and more loudly than necessary, as if instructing a dim street boy.

“Over half a million VIPs have been built in Zimbabwe. They work without water, are cheap to build, and have low maintenance costs.”

She paused.

“And flies are trapped. I hate flies. Much worse than worms, which are harmless, as you know. But flies . . . Now Furniver, I must tell you, I have ordered materials for six VIPs. They will arrive any day. But first, we must finish digging the holes . . . and cement, we must lay the cement, just as the instructions say.”