34

The hearing took place in the Kireba magistrate’s court, a nondescript building on the edge of the slum. It had once been whitewashed, years ago, and since then the colour had changed to a grimy off-white atop a band that had been stained red by the ochre soil that surrounded it.

The duty magistrate was Josiah Buruna, a grey-haired man in his early forties, who had been passed over for promotion – the consequence, it was claimed, of his refusal to be “helpful” or “sympathetic” to government supporters who had lost at the ballot box.

“Silence in court,” he ordered.

“Where are the enemy?” whispered Furniver, who had made a point of turning up early.

Results Mudenge, present to lend moral support, looked grim.

“Outside, waiting. They are showing they are boss by coming in late.”

The packed courtroom let out a collective gasp of dismay as the state team entered, led by none other than Newman Kibwana, a state counsel no less, accompanied by his junior, Miss Patience Kola, the instructing solicitor, and a clerk weighed down with files and legal tomes.

Mudenge nudged Furniver.

“That Kola, she has been allocated a place on the new Kireba housing list.”

“You are late, Mr Kibwana,” said the magistrate.

“I apologise, your honour, there was a call from State House – they are very interested in this case and very concerned about the outcome.”

“I care not a fig the reason. You are late. But I note your apology.”

“Thank you, your honour.”

Buruna nodded.

“Now then, I must ask you this question. While I do not know the applicant personally, I have on more than one occasion taken tea and enjoyed a dough ball at the establishment you seek to close. So I feel obliged to ask: do you wish me to recuse myself?”

“He’s offering to stand down. If the verdict went against him, Kibwana could claim the judge was influenced by personal contact,” whispered Furniver.

Kibwana did not hesitate. Confidence personified, he declared: “Not at all, suh.”

“I assume that the State has no objection to Mrs Charity Mupanga representing herself, accompanied by Mr Edward Furniver and Mr Results Mudenge?”

“No objection.”

“Mr Kibwana, will you set out your case?”

Kibwana was good. Very good.

“I, too,” he began, “have taken tea served by Mrs Charity Mupanga, and I too share the general esteem of her dough balls.”

“But I count myself lucky,” he continued, “that given the state of the toilets I did not have any trouble with my stomach afterwards.”

The magistrate was not amused.

“I must warn you, Mr Kibwana, that this is a serious matter and there is no room for jokes.”

Kibwana seemed about to reply but checked himself.

“I will set out the State’s case as briefly as possible. A bar is a public place. There should be toilets. There should be water for washing hands. There should be a licence for a television which is watched by the public. But above all, there should be toilets.

“But there are no toilets. Or, for I must be fair, there are holes in the ground which are treated as toilets. They attract flies, and spread disease. No one can disagree with that. Our client, Mayor Guchu, seeks only to apply the law in the interests of the public.

“I wish now to call the inspector of public health who visited the site and has reported on the conditions he encountered . . .”

Charity gave Furniver’s hand a squeeze and stood up.

“Your honour, I do not want to waste the time of this court. I have read the inspector’s report. I do not challenge the finding. But I move to dismiss the case, and seek costs.”

“Mrs Mupanga, you must give reasons.”

She pretended to confer with her team. Mudenge had assured her that Kibwana would be unable to resist taking the stand.

“Try it,” he urged, “just try it. I know Kibwana – he is a show-off.”

“Can I ask for Mr Kibwana to be a witness?”

Whatever his personal sympathies, this was too much for the magistrate.

“Mrs Mupanga, Mr Kibwana is here in his professional capacity . . .”

Kibwana intervened. As Mudenge had suspected, while he was a clever man, he was unable to resist showing off his cleverness.

Making a great play of removing his wig and gown, he said to the magistrate: “If it is of any help to Mrs Mupanga, I will take the oath and enter the witness box. Anything that serves justice has my support.”

“Very well. It is most unusual but the court nevertheless thanks you for your public spirited gesture. Please take the oath.” Kibwana was sworn in.

“Mr Kibwana, you want Harrods closed. Is that correct?” asked Charity.

“No, that is not correct. I have no view on the matter. I am simply here to make the case for the State.”

Charity persisted. “Do you have any interest in the outcome?”

“Madam. The Kireba Residents’ Association has done me the honour of electing me their chairman. Since office holders must have residential status, I have accepted a plot allocation.”

“The KRA are a front for Nduka,” whispered Mudenge.

“You and Miss Patience Kola . . .” said Charity.

“That is enough, Mrs Mupanga,” said the magistrate. “I cannot allow this questioning to continue. It is not relevant to the case.”

“I am sorry, your honour, I have just one or two more questions.

“This order of closing is for Harrods International Bar (and Nightspot)?”

“Yes,” said Kibwana.

“Not for any other place in Kireba?”

“No.”

“Not for the closing of the Drink Cheap Shebeen? Where they serve changa that poisoned many people? And which has no toilets?”

“No.”

“Not the Lazy Licka Saloon Entertainment Bar, where they fry their dough balls in bad cooking oil?”

“Enough, Mrs Mupanga. Come to your point or this hearing is over.”

“I want to be certain, your honour. The paper says you want to close Harrods International Bar (and Nightspot). That is what this paper says?”

Kibwana gave a theatrical sigh.

“Yes.”

“And no other place?”

By now Newman Kibwana was getting irritated.

“Can you read, Mrs Mupanga? Or should I read for you?”

Charity could have cheered. Kibwana was about to fall into the trap so carefully prepared by her team the night before.

“Please read,” she said.

With a sigh of irritation, Kibwana read out the closure order for Harrods.

Charity drew herself up. “Phauw! Why are you beating a dead horse, Mr Kibwana? Harrods is already finished. It is closed. There is no more Harrods. It is air force. It is over. And that is why the case should be dismissed, your honour.”

The magistrate intervened, with an edge to his voice that suggested he had lost all sympathy for Charity.

“This is foolish talk. Mrs Mupanga, I myself took tea at Harrods last month.”

“No, suh, not at Harrods.”

It was time to play the only ace in her pack.

“Harrods was closed, many months ago, suh, by lawyers from London. I can show you all their letters telling me I must close my bar. Those cheeky men from London said they owned the name Harrods, even though it’s the name of my late father, and I had to close Harrods.”

She flourished a file, which had the correspondence between the London lawyers and Edward Furniver, who had acted as her representative in the case.

“Harrods is closed already,” she said.

Charity handed the file to the magistrate, who studied the contents.

“Mr Kibwana, Mrs Mupanga appears to be correct. These papers confirm that Harrods ceased trading.”

“With respect, your honour, Mrs Mupanga is wasting the court’s time.”

Charity drove home her initiative.

“Suh. I submit, your honour, that the State has been lazy. The place you call Harrods no longer exists. It is now called Tangwenya’s International Bar (and Nightspot). And when we launched, we had a special offer of 10 per cent off Tuskers. If Mr Kibwana knew his business he would know that Harrods is gone. No more. Finished.”

She then began the paragraph that she had prepared the night before.

“I submit, your honour, that this is a sad case of mistaken identity. If the order is against Harrods, there must be another place in Kireba of this name. The place I run, where the food is so good it waters your mouth, is called Tangwenya’s International Bar (and Nightspot).”

“On these grounds, Mr Magistrate, I call for the charge to be dismissed. At the very least I appeal for an adjournment until Monday. Then the government must do its work properly. In the meantime let them stop harassing me.”

“I am sorry, Mrs Mupanga . . .”

Charity’s heart fell – and then lifted.

“As much as I would like this case to come to a speedy conclusion, the court cannot reconvene on Monday. We are on duty elsewhere. May I suggest the following Wednesday instead. Mr Kibwana?”

Newman Kibwana made a final effort.

“I will take instructions, your honour, but it would not surprise me if my client sought satisfaction in a higher court.”

Josiah Buruna looked at him coldly.

“First, Mr Kibwana, you have to finish with my court, and you will only be finished on Wednesday next week.”

As Charity left the court she was surrounded by men and women who were determined to celebrate a rare and wonderful victory. Provided the rains held off, by next Wednesday the concrete base of the Zimbabwe toilets would have set, and the structures put in place. The mayor would then surely have to think again.

A group of young men from the Mboya Boys’ football team hoisted her up onto their shoulders and paraded around the red-earthed yard, singing as they did so: “Mupanga tosha! Mupanga tosha!”

“Let us celebrate!” cried Charity. “You are invited to come and enjoy a discount at Harrods.” She paused. And amidst much laughter corrected herself. “Tangwenya’s – at Tangwenya’s International Bar (and Nightspot). With a free dough ball with first orders.”

That night Charity and Furniver looked back over the day’s events.

“Well done, my dear,” said Furniver, giving her hand a squeeze.

“What have I done well, Furniver? What?”

“You have bought time. And in that time, much can change. You know,” Furniver continued, “the English say you can win a battle but lose the war.”

Charity nodded.

“But sometimes you can lose a battle and win the war. You have won a battle – now you must fight and win a war.”

Charity squeezed Furniver’s hand in response to show her love, but she was not going to let him get away with these masculine sentiments.

“That is the language of men. Fighting, always fighting, talking of war and such stupidity.

“We have too many dizzy worms in Kuwisha. Too many dizzy worms.”

The sun rested on the horizon, like a luscious, juicy mango ready for plucking. An evening breeze provided respite from the usual stench, and carried the distant sound of the BBC time pips and the jaunty strains of “Lillibullero”.

Charity Mupanga looked across the valley, crammed with shacks and shanties, and beyond, over the dam and above State House, and further to the distant hills soon to disappear from sight as dusk changed rapidly to darkness.

She turned over a maize cob roasting on the brazier between them and Furniver took a sip of his beer.

Mudenge had counselled patience, dreams take time to surface – but life did not wait for dreams.

It was time for some frank talking.

Charity looked into her heart and once again it seemed the answer was “No”. Much as she loved Furniver – indeed, precisely because she did love him – she could not live in England and be the same person.

And if this were true of her, why should it not be true of Furniver? Did he not find the heat oppressive, as oppressive as she found the summer greyness of England? And did he not hate the mud?

As to other differences between their cultures, she could live with them: the extraordinary fact that Furniver’s children were growing up without knowing their father; the apparent absence of an extended family, poor thing; and the general arrogance of their pink race, who believed that the world began in London.

For the second time Charity lacked the resolve to give Furniver the bad news.