Bums on Seats (7 page)

“Err, wouldn't that put you out?”

“No, I'm not doing anything else. I can get to anywhere in town on my moped in ten minutes. Tell me where you live and I'll deliver the outputs.”

He told her, ran around with a duster like a lunatic, opened windows to freshen the place up, changed his shirt, uncorked a bottle and met her at the front door twenty minutes later.

“Hi. This is very nice of you. Come on in.”

“Hi!” She took off her helmet and gloves, gave him her nice smile and followed him up the stairs.

“What a lovely room. I love the grand prix prints! My young brother reckons that Heinz-Harald Frentzen is the man on the track to watch now.”

“You can never discount Michael Schumacher.” He relieved her of the heavy jacket and pointed to an armchair. “Glass of red?”

“Great.” She placed a pile of computer sheets on the coffee table. He put down two glasses and the bottle, and pulled his chair across. They sat companionably, sipping for a minute or two.

“Well, the group were considering the Disraeli political axiom, ‘Never complain and never explain', as a modus operandi suitable for top management in the present times. So, tell me about our new findings, Sonia.”

“Well, despite women's-lib, new man and intensive propaganda by ‘talking heads' on the telly, our sample of young graduate females remains surprisingly compliant. In essence, their responses show that more than 80% believe that top managers should decide what to do and then get on with it. They don't seem to have much truck for consultation with the workforce.”

“Yes, Sonia, and since the vast majority of top bosses are still male, they seem prepared to be bossed around, if you'll forgive the pun!” She laughed. He thought it a nice tinkly noise. “How many males shared their view?”

“Only 39%. As a group they were much more strongly in favour of requiring explanation.”

“Any theories as to why women think as they seem to?”

“Yes, Simon, I reckon it's still down to social conditioning. You can pass as many laws as you like for workplace behaviour, but I respond in the way I learned at my mum's knee. By and large women are pragmatists. We take what is and maximise our position WITHIN those boundaries. Men are more inclined to push upwards and onwards, if you'll forgive the simile!”

Simon laughed, but looked speculative. She was impassive. They got involved in turning the computer pages this way and that. Each tried out brief explanations to support the figures. He topped up the glasses. It was an engrossing and satisfying example of teamwork. After half an hour or so the computer sheets slipped to the floor. They stretched for them and bumped heads in the process. He reached out, gave her head a little rub and kissed her forehead. Sonia became very still. He took a breath and traced a line down her face with his lips. They joined mouths. She put a hand to his face. He knelt on the floor and put his hands on her waist. She immediately drew back and stood.

“Sorry, Simon, can I use your bathroom?” She left the room.

Damn, had he been too quick? How might he retrieve? The room seemed incredibly quiet after the recent rapport. How bloody miserable. Bloody! Bloody! Bloody!

After a minute he heard the bathroom door and then, astoundingly, the catch on his bedroom door. Wow, incredible! There was only one meaning to that. Life brightened. He drained the bottle into the glasses and set off to be hospitable. Yippee! Yippee! Yippee!

She sat upright in bed in her check shirt, his duvet gathered round her knees, the rest of her things in a neat pile on the chair. He leaned down and kissed her, passed over the glasses, stripped off and slipped under the duvet with her.

They sat against the headboard, his arm around her, and drank. He sensed unease. He didn't press. She was warm and friendly and loving and snuggled up. But she remained sitting. At length she said, “Simon, I'm not very used to this.”

“Don't worry, Sonia. Nothing will happen unless you want it.”

“No, it's not that. If I didn't think you respected me, I wouldn't be here. It's just that there's only ever been one before, and that was only once, and he was a boy. And I'm afraid of disappointing you.”

Simon was touched.This beautiful little creature wanted to give herself but thought he'd find her in some way inferior. “Sonia,” he said, “it will be lovely, you'll be lovely, and you are lovely.”

He put the wine glasses on the bedside table, kissed her some more and unbuttoned and took off her shirt. They lay side by side. He was very attentive. Gave her all the time in the world. In a while they had straightforward, no nonsense sex. She didn't climax, didn't pretend to. After he had, he was extra affectionate. He muttered many endearments, all sincere at the time. He stroked and held her until they fell asleep. Neither of them realised then, but he'd ruined her sex life for some years to come. No one else during that time would ever pay half so much attention to her needs as Simon had.

CHAPTER 9

Matthew Nweewe, Chief of the Nweewe tribe, was inaugurated president when the country gained independence from Great Britain in 1971. He proved an effective and popular ruler. There was visible evidence of progress, and no obvious corruption. He was benign by inclination. He was a competent politician and a nationalist.

The Zombek 1971 national constitution provides for a president, who is head of state and government, and a single chamber, 180-member assembly. Both are directly elected by universal suffrage for five-year terms. The president appoints a cabinet, which must include at least two members of each of the 10 major tribes of the population. The president also appoints a vice-president, from a tribe other than the president's. The vice-president and the cabinet are responsible to the president.

At the first general election in 1976, Matthew Nweewe was returned to power with clear majority support. The Nweewe continued to be the predominant tribe in Zombek. The Abiki tribe ranked second. Four of the remaining tribes supported the Nweewe. Two supported the Abiki. The other two were uncommitted. By and large, all of them were nationalist. The system worked. Democracy prevailed. But, even so…

*************

Vice-president Chief Abiki sat in the garden of his official residence. His confidante poured him more iced milk. His peptic ulcer, fuelled by frustrated ambition, had flared again.

“Yes, of course there is progress, Vice-president. With our minerals and timber, how could it be otherwise? But who is progressing most? Why do we continue to have most villagers work on the land? How much of it is Nweewe land? We have a large army. We need to be strong. But many senior officers are Nweewe. Last year's elections were a disappointment. We could have to wait four more years. Four years!”

“As vice-president, I too have been thinking of these things. But Matthew Nweewe is a clever man. He has dangerous friends. There is need for caution.”

“Some of the army would be with us.”

“Not enough! More importantly, business would be with him. These are not the ways. Nweewe must be shamed. We need to bring the uncommitted tribes to our side. I know of something which may help us…”

“Would it be enough?”

“It could be.” The Vice-president winced and clasped his stomach. “My ulcer is bad. Western medicine is not helping. We can talk tomorrow. I must rest.”

“Have you asked the Abiki witch doctor for a potion?”

“Not yet. Perhaps I'll do that. Please excuse me. I really must rest.”

*************

Matthew Nweewe looked down from his verandah. Several of his children ran about, laughing and shouting. There was a young boy and four older girls. He had five other daughters but they were with their mothers. He had four wives but his son and heir was his great joy.

James Ngunda, Minister without Portfolio, Nweewe tribal witch doctor, long-time friend, followed the president's eyes. “He is strong, Matthew. I think he will be clever. Remember how much we desired his arrival?”

“Oh yes, I had reached desperation but all is well now. The Nweewe line continues. Our nation grows. Everyone has security, food and shelter, and work. I think we should continue to earn our living as a country of peasant farmers for another twenty years.”

“There are those who think we should progress faster. They feel we should grant more mineral exploitation and sell more hardwood.”

“Progress to what? We have a positive balance of trade and strong currency reserves. We can buy anything that really matters. We're sheltered from the unwelcome attentions of our neighbours by mountains and forests. The last thing we want is to become an accessible and desirable acquisition.”

“It is often said that knowledge brings power. But there are those who feel that money brings it. Joshua Abiki is one of those. But he also craves to lead Zombek. I have heard much lately that he schemes.”

“Seven million of our people can vote and sixty-five per cent of them did so last year, for me. What can Abiki do?”

“He cannot overthrow you democratically, or by force. He might try and disgrace you, though.”

“I, too, have these thoughts. A man does many things in his lifetime. What can we do about this threat?”

“I will think about it, Matthew. I may ask the spirits,” he added enigmatically.

“You are true friend and a true Zombekian, James. I know that, whatever you do, you only seek to serve us all. I shall go now and play with the children at their games. The world really belongs to the very young!”

*************

The Cabinet met twice in the next week. The president and his deputy worked well together. Progress, a minute, but safe, step at a time, continued. On the following Monday, the Vice-president collapsed with stomach pain, at his desk. He was taken to a private suite in Zombek's principal hospital. The senior doctor decided to observe him for 24 hours and fly him out to a London hospital if he was no better.

At ten o'clock that evening, with all lights low and most patients asleep, a nurse walked the corridor to a side door and unbolted it. She returned to her nursing duties. A minute later Joshua Abiki welcomed his tribal witch doctor.

“I have a potion for you.” He emptied powder into a glass and poured a little water from the bedside jug.

The Chief drank it without question. “You are a good friend. There is much the European doctors have to learn.” He lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes. Shortly after, the witch doctor switched off the bed-light and left by the unbolted door.

Later, with the room still in darkness, a man's voice said, “Drink this, my Chief.” The figure helped him raise his head and finish the draft. He replaced the glass on the bedside locker. Chief Abiki, who had never properly awakened, settled back and breathed deeply again. His visitor returned quietly to the outside door and was spirited away into the night. Half an hour later, the nurse re-bolted the door.

“Good morning, Chief Abiki. How are you feeling today?” The duty doctor, summoned by a distraught nurse, saw that the politician had been dead for some hours. Nothing could be done. He made the necessary phone calls and hurried off to ensure that all hospital records were in good order.

In due course, the president was advised of Chief Abiki's sudden death. Everyone had known he was ill but nobody had realised his life was threatened. There would have to be a postmortem. In the meantime, his tribe would mourn and then select a new leader. Whoever it turned out to be, Matthew Nweewe would appoint him Vice-president. Realpolitik demanded no less.

Forty-eight hours later, it was clear that Abiki had died from poisoning. A preliminary inquest decided that the death had occurred in suspicious circumstances. The Minister for Internal Affairs ordered a thorough investigation. Under interrogation, a nurse confessed she had unlocked a side door at the express order of Chief Abiki himself. She was one of his kinfolk. She had seen nobody and had refastened the door after forty-five minutes, as instructed.

The police officer leading the investigation believed her. So, if the Chief wanted the door unlocked, he wanted a visitor. Who could that be? On his shortlist, since the Chief was ill, was the Abiki witch doctor. The witch doctor denied visiting the hospital, but his fingerprints were found on the glass at his Chief's bedside. He changed his account and said, “The Chief did not trust European doctors or medicine. He had been ill since the elections last year and was feeling worse. He sent me a message asking for Zombek medicine and help from the spirit of his father. I mixed dried herbs with fresh seeds and juices from tree frogs. I have cured many people with this. I killed a goat and asked his forebears for healing. I loved my Chief.”

“So you say. But the dregs in the glass have been analysed. The Chief died from aconite poisoning. Such plants do not grow here. The taste was masked with nutmeg.”

“I do not know of these herbs. I have not used them.”

“The Chief s fingerprints were next to yours on the glass. He held that glass with someone he trusted. He held it with you!”

“Yes, he did. I brought him a potion, as I have told you.”

“The nurse locked the door after you left. Nobody else has been. It must have been you. Were you paid?”

Three months later the witch doctor was tried and found guilty. Because there was doubt about his intentions, the verdict was manslaughter. He received five years. After three days he was found hanging from the bars at the window.

*************

At the Anglo-Zombek Corporation offices in the commercial quarter of Kumbi, the Chairman sat with his major shareholder, gave a tight smile and leaned back in the leather armchair. “What sort of business is this? Killing of the Vice-president, followed by suicide of the killer. What d'yer make of it?”

“I can't see the President arranging it. He's in a strong position. We must assume he wasn't involved.”

“What does it mean for us, though?”

“It hasn't shaken commercial confidence. We want a strong president and stability. We must do everything we can to support Nweewe. We're worth more now than we were six months ago. And it's getting better all the time.”

“Supposing things stopped getting better?”

“Ah, well, that would be different!”

“And in the meantime?”

“Just make sure you don't develop a peptic ulcer. And if you should be so unfortunate, tell nobody and get on the next bloody plane out!”

Matthew Nweewe sat on the verandah, pondering on his responsibilities.

“Father, I've brought you a present.” The six-year-old boy gravely handed over a deep pink bloom. “What's it called, Father?”

“Thank you my son. It's called a bird-of-paradise flower.”