Jigajig

Contents

Author’s Note

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

There is only one possible dedication for this book and that is to Mother Africa—beautiful, demanding, bloody-minded and afflicted.

Author’s Note

This book was originally entitled Shauri ya Mungu, a Swahili phrase meaning ‘the affair of God.’ This was reluctantly abandoned, however, because many people don’t speak Swahili and would tend to shy away from a book with a strange-sounding title.

It was thus decided to call the book Jigajig, a noun of impeccable origin, defined as a jolting motion and derived etymologically from the word jig. This word seemed peculiarly appropriate to the rapidly changing nature of African politics over the last forty years and has the great advantage—with the addition of a couple of hyphens—of being familiar to anyone who has travelled east or south of Suez.

CHAPTER 1

A WEEKEND IN 1967

The coconut palms crackled overhead and the Goan dance-band pounded away at their inimitable version of Stranger in Paradise. In spite of the light breeze coming in from the sea and wafting across the golf course, it was hot and the men’s shirts stuck to their torsos as they danced.

Gavin felt distracted.

Had she or hadn’t she deliberately brushed against his penis in that last turn? It wasn’t as if he had been sporting a huge erection at the time and it had been impossible for her to avoid it. It had been just the usual sort of half-mast affair that happened in an involuntary way when you danced with a pretty woman and he was sure that it hadn’t been unduly conspicuous. Dismissing the thought as imagination, he looked down at her and Julia smiled at him.

‘Would you like to screw me?’ she said.

He gaped at her. The question was a fairly simple one, capable of being answered with a straight yes or no, but the mental processes involved in assessing it suddenly seemed to be highly complex.

His mind raced.

The first thing that occurred to him was to check whether his wife was in earshot or had her eye on him. Sukey, though dancing, was, however, on the other side of the floor and his immediate panic subsided.

It was, he thought, a hell of a question. If he said ‘yes’, presumably some kind of action would be called for and though he obviously couldn’t start making love to her on the dance-floor of the Mahula Gymkhana Club in full view of the assembled gathering, it would plainly be incumbent on him to arrange an assignation. Apart from being in love with Sukey and being terrified of her catching him at it, did he want Julia badly enough to set things up? And aside from Sukey being pissed off, what about George? As Julia’s loving husband, which he certainly appeared to be, would he not be entitled to be very pissed off if he found that his best friend was knocking off his wife? She was, he admitted to himself, very attractive and the glimpse of creamy bosom above the top of her evening dress was beguiling, to say the least of it. Given that he had speculated about her for months in a furtive kind of way, how on earth did one deal with the note of sudden realism that had been injected into the conversation? Where would he screw her, for example, and what were her views on condoms likely to be? Would she insist on one or worse, would she say that it didn’t matter? Was he walking into an emotional trap or would it be an adult affair of two sexy people just having a fling without any strings attached?

As his mental turmoil intensified, his penis decided to join the conversation and gave a definite twitch.

‘Yes,’ he said.

Julia smiled at him again.

‘Well, you can’t,’ she said.

Gavin felt his legs tremble with the anti-climactic effect of the whole discussion

‘God,’ he said, ‘you are a little bitch.’

They both laughed and at that point, the music finished.

Gavin put his hand on her elbow and steered her off the dance-floor towards their table. There had probably been about fifty couples dancing and there was a sheen of perspiration on everyone’s faces as they filed away. The girls were dressed fairly lightly but the shirt-sleeved men all wore ties and some of them looked as if they had recently been under the shower. The secret was, thought Gavin, to move as slowly as possible and not to get carried away by an urge to boogie.

The waiter had been round to their table with another tray of drinks while they had been dancing and the table-top was wet with condensation from the large cold bottles of Kiboko beer that featured prominently among the assembled glasses. Sukey had been dancing with their Indian friend, Krish Moolahgatani, George Mounting had been dancing with Leila, Krish’s wife, and the two other couples at the table had been dancing as well. Gavin pulled out Julia’s chair for her and turned to settle the waiter, who had come up as he saw them return.

‘Bwana, inakuwa shilingi ishirini na tanu na centi hamsini,’ said the Kenzikan waiter, his face looking very dark above his white drill jacket.

Gavin’s mind groped with the string of Swahili numerals but three years of fairly conscientious swotting came to his rescue and he handed over thirty shillings in Kenzikan notes.

‘Asante,’ he said, ‘keep the change.

‘A masterly piece of dialogue,’ said George, overhearing the exchange as he sat down and reached for his beer glass. ‘Another twenty years and you might become quite fluent.’

‘Listen, you superior sod,’ said Gavin. ‘Just because you grew up in Kenya doesn’t give you the right to patronise your betters. You won’t find that your Swahili gets you very far round the Elephant and Castle.’

‘I don’t want to go within miles of the bloody place, old boy.’

‘Well, better stay here then. If you can.’

George smiled ruefully. ‘It’s kind of spooky, isn’t it? Here we are, enjoying the sunset of Empire as you might say, and all the time, the signs are pretty plain that we’ll soon be told to bugger off. Only look around you and try and imagine how many familiar faces will still be in the club this time next year.’

Gavin gave the assembled gathering a sweeping look.

Mahula had become very cosmopolitan in the last year or two and aside from youngish technical people like himself and George, few of the erstwhile members of Her Majesty’s Overseas Civil Service seemed to be needed by the newly independent government of Kenzika. Most of the old brigade, particularly the corps of District Officers who had administered the country, had taken premature retirement and it was remarkable how many non-British people had suddenly shown up in the capital since Kenzika had achieved independence in 1964. Most major countries in the world had opened up embassies and aid organisations in Mahula and this had brought with it an army of experts and contractors, scenting the award of juicy projects in the East African hinterland. The throng round the dance-floor was still mainly British but there was a table of noisy American engineers right behind them and a Canadian air survey crew over in the corner; an Egyptian diplomat hosted a group in the centre of the room, and a genial bunch of Germans next to them appeared to have lined up more empty Kiboko bottles than anyone else.

The scene he surveyed was certainly pleasing. The British had always been talented at establishing clubs in the far-flung outposts of Empire and in this case, the original colonial architect had created a building that was both practical and appropriate to its surroundings. The long building with its wide verandah and its surrounding fringe of coconut palms was the focal point of the surrounding golf course, which was overlooked from the flat roof on which the dance-floor was situated. With the stars shining out of a tropical sky, it had a romantic ambience that was enhanced by coloured fairy lights along the balcony. Waiters scurried about and the noise of animated conversation gave the proceedings an urbane flavour of good-fellowship.

Krish broke the spell, his wavy dark hair falling over his brown face. He was the son of one the richest families in the country and had been educated in England and America. His proper given name was Krishnan but he had felt at an early age that this was not cool and he had abbreviated it to something more swinging. He was now the heir to the prominent family firm of Moolahgatani Merchandising and was highly active in the commercial life of the city. They had met on the occasion that Gavin had given a talk on economics at a Chamber of Commerce luncheon and had formed a solid friendship.

‘George is quite right, you know,’ said Krish. ‘In spite of all the fun, I’m afraid that we’re living on borrowed time. I can tell you that a lot of Indian families are getting ready to leave and when this happens, you’d better believe that things are getting serious.’

Julia stopped examining her lipstick in the small mirror that she had taken out of her handbag and turned to Leila.

‘Are you thinking of leaving, too?’ she asked.

Leila smiled. She was tall, dark and attractive in a way that hinted subtly of the mysterious East. ‘Not just thinking. Planning it in detail.’

‘But where would you go to? Not India, surely.’

‘Good heavens, no. We’ll be heading for Britain. We’ve got British nationality and we both lived there when we were students. I just can’t wait to go shopping down the High Street again.’

George groaned. ‘There’s not much engineering work in my line going on in that small island and I can’t see either of us settling for a semi-detached in outer Croydon. Julia’s a bloody memsahib and neither of us have any family ties over there.’

Julia made a face at him and he blew her a kiss.

Witnessing this exchange of married intimacy, Gavin thanked God that he hadn’t taken his dance-floor conversation with Julia more seriously. Or had he? Oh, shit, the going got very difficult sometimes. One minute, a woman was a human being in her own right, capable of thinking and acting independently, and then suddenly, she turned into an adoring wife, deferring to her husband as if butter wouldn’t melt in her sensuous damned mouth. George was an excellent mate of his too, and they had had an energetic game of singles on the tennis courts that very afternoon. At least, he thought, Sukey didn’t know about the screwing conversation and he was safe there. Unless, of course, Julia went and blabbed to her. No, fortunately girls were discreet—far discreeter than chaps, really—and there couldn’t possibly be any comeback.

He took another strengthening sip of Kiboko and the Goan dance-band started up again, breaking into an impassioned rendition of Moon River. Everyone got to their feet and the action became general. Gavin asked Leila to dance and noticed as he did that Sukey was already dancing with George.

Leila giggled.

‘Why are you laughing?’ he asked.

‘Because, any minute now, Krish is going to do his party trick of singing with the band. He always promises not to embarrass me but, after four beers, he just can’t resist it.’

‘I’ve heard him before and thought that he was rather good,’ said Gavin loyally. ‘But what makes you think that he’s going to do it again right now?’

‘Because he’s had four beers. I’ve been counting them.’

As if on cue, the band came to the end of the number they had been playing, paused and then struck up again. A few introductory chords ensued and then Krish began intoning the lyrics of Spanish Eyes. Gavin looked over Leila’s shoulder and saw Krish draped over the microphone, looking soulful and clearly enjoying his impersonation of Al Martino. It was fairly bad but not too bad and when the song was over, Gavin applauded loudly.

‘Don’t encourage him,’ said Leila, as they resumed dancing. Mercifully, Krish had desisted and the band was back to its normal collection of standards.

‘No, I thought he was good. At least if business turns down, he’s got another string to his bow.’

‘If we rely on his vocal talent, then we’ll starve.’ She shrugged. ‘We’d do better if I turned myself into a call girl.’

This shook Gavin because he hadn’t really thought about Leila in sexy terms, even though they were friendly as couples and saw each other regularly. Now that he did think about it, it seemed to him that she had a point. There was a touch of the exotic about her that was definitely attractive and she was quite full-bosomed into the bargain. Was it not true, he reflected, that Indian girls were meant to be highly skilled at the ancient art? Perhaps it was due to reading the Kamasutra all the time, or maybe the hot spicy nature of the Indian kitchen had something to do with it.

He stopped himself abruptly. Christ, what on earth was he doing? Here he was, speculating about another friend’s wife, only half an hour after the first one. Admittedly, Leila was far more blameless than Julia had been and had never given out the slightest suggestion of being other than virtuous. Possibly he was just paying the price for having read Kipling at an impressionable age.

Full of inner confusion, he felt for an appropriate rejoinder.

‘I think that you’d do very well,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Gavin. I’m sure that you meant that as a compliment.’

‘Oh God, I meant that you were attractive enough to do well at it. I didn’t mean that you weren’t respectable by nature.’

She teased him. ‘You might at least have said that you’d try and get on to my client list.’

Gavin found himself blushing but was saved from further self-immolation by the band wrapping up the sequence. They went back to the table and as he reached gratefully for his glass of Kiboko, a dry Scots voice came over the loudspeaker system. Krish’s participation had sparked off a do-it-yourself tendency in the party and a well-known member of the golfing community took it on himself to entertain the gathering with a series of vulgar stories about golfers. The crowd had had enough to drink to greet each one with a howl of laughter and Gavin found himself wondering whether the Scots accent lessened or increased the impact of the vulgarity. He listened in a shell-shocked kind of fascination as the performance wore on. The last story was about a golfer who rushed into the bar and asked whether there was a doctor in the house, because he had just hit a woman with a golf ball.

‘Where did you hit her?’ asked the doctor.

‘Between the edge of the fairway and the water hazard.’

‘Heavens, man,’ went the punch-line, ‘you haven’t left me much room to put any bandages.’

It wasn’t a good story at all, thought Gavin, but one of the genial Germans nearby nearly fell off his chair laughing and the Americans, golfers to a man, cackled in unison. Gavin left in disgust to take an overdue leak and when he got back to the table, found that George was deep in conversation with a thickset man who seemed to have joined them during his absence.

George broke off. ‘Gavin, let me introduce Taki Rinosofoulos. Taki, this is my friend, Gavin Oatskin.’

Taki stood up and they shook hands. He was of darkish complexion with highly expressive eyes set in a lined face. He used his hands in a very Greek way while he talked, and there was already a large bottle of Kiboko in front of him. The waiter hovered respectfully in the background.

‘Taki’s just down from Bayani Region, where he’s been on a shooting safari. This is what Taki does; he takes parties of rich tourists into the wilds, loses their husbands in the bush and then consoles their widows in his double-sized camp-bed.’

‘Sounds like a wonderful business,’ said Gavin.

‘Not true,’ said Taki. ‘Unfortunately, you get an endorsement on your hunting licence each time that you lose a client. Also, word gets around about the bed and you get swamped by the rush of blue-rinses from Florida.’

They laughed and George completed the introductions to the rest of the table. Krish already knew him and they greeted each other warmly.

‘Our fathers used to know each other well,’ explained Krish to the others.

‘That’s right. My old man used to sell ivory to your old man and, do you know, they never bargained about the price. The old-timers trusted each other; it’s how life was.’

The girls were intrigued to have a White Hunter in their midst and Taki got deluged with questions about the movie stars with whom he had worked on their cinematic ventures into Africa. He seemed to enjoy the attention and was quite amenable to being dragged on to the dance-floor by Julia to have a go at the local version of Let’s Twist Again, which the ensemble had struck up with some vigour. From what Gavin could see, he gyrated as energetically as anyone else and, like everyone else, was thoroughly drenched in perspiration by the time that they came back. George asked Taki where the hell he had been to arrive at the club at such an hour.

‘Out with a client, my friend.’ said the Greek. ‘This American guy got me to walk him round the bazaar area all afternoon and then join him for a long and liquid dinner at his hotel. What with the walking and now the twisting, my feet are killing me.’

He called for the waiter and had a muttered conversation with him in Swahili. The waiter grinned and promptly came back with two ice buckets containing cold water, which he placed on the floor near Taki’s feet. The owner of the feet then rolled up his trousers, divested himself of his shoes and socks, and plunged one foot into each bucket.

‘Ah,’ he said with pleasure. ‘Now we can talk.’

‘Hornie,’ said George, ‘now I’ve seen everything. You’d never have done that in the Mahula Club under the nose of the Governor’s wife in the old days. You would have been deported or at the very least, drummed out of the Brownies.’

‘As a matter of fact, Lady Thomas was quite a lively old bird when she came up-country,’ said Taki. ‘She used to take a good crack at the gin when they came on safari and I’m not sure whether she didn’t have a weakness for those young aides-de-camp in their dashing white uniforms.’

Sukey asked, ‘Why does George call you Hornie?’

‘Because of my stupid name, my dear. At school, my colleagues thought that Rinosofoulos sounded like rhinoceros and having the subtle minds of 12-year-olds’, they hit on Hornie as an appropriate nickname.’ He smiled. ‘When I reached man’s estate, I began to be proud of it.’

Collectively tiring of exercise, the table resolved itself into chatter. The cigarette smoke rose into the night air and even the consumption level of Kiboko started to drop. Gavin listened to George, Taki and Krish catching up on old times and tried to imagine what it must have been like to have lived through colonial days. Inevitably, the conversation turned to the recent trends that were emerging in Kenzika’s political attitudes and the way that the Prime Minister seemed to be moving towards a form of African socialism.

Taki was frankly pessimistic.

‘It just won’t work, he said. ‘The average man in the bush just wants to get on with his life, have a couple of young wives who make beer for him and generally live the life of a tribal gentleman. This thing about self-help and Chinese-type communes is going to make life very difficult for him.’

Krish concurred. ‘Business is beginning to get very difficult, too. Most of the dealers and merchants have stopped ordering new stock and are just going to let their existing stock run down.’

‘And I can tell you,’ said George, ‘there’s going to be a problem with things like electricity and water supply.’

They were all pissed enough, thought Gavin, to have reached the earnest stage and try to outdo each other in gloom and despondency. There they sat—a Greek, an Indian and an Englishman, all of whom had been born in East Africa—and they appeared to have lost confidence in the country completely. The only problem was that their forebodings seemed to be fully justified on the evidence available. In an effort to be positive, he looked around in desperation but apart from the waiters, there were no indigenous Kenzikan faces to be seen. Where the hell were they all? Maybe Kenzikans didn’t join clubs or maybe there wasn’t a middle class in existence from which club members could be generated. Presumably, the politicians who ran the country were wining and dining in the capital’s hotels and the rest of the populace was living it up on maize beer in their huts.

A bit pissed himself, he was