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Authors: Aubrey Flegg
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streets are clean, why?’
‘They are clean because a certain Chief Abonda is not corrupt and sees that the money is spent on brushes and brooms.’
‘Abonda? Father? Father has no Mercedes. He has no car. We have electricity only in the main house. He can’t be such a great man!’
‘Yola, child, you are as bad as the rest of them. Your father is a greater man than half the government here in Simbada put together.’
Yola thought about this. Father had always just been the chief and did the things chiefs do. He had an office in Nopani and he walked the two miles to it every day, otherwise peoplecame to him. It had never occurred to her to think that he was special. She looked at the rubbish outside the window and suddenly changed her mind. Yes, Father was special. Quite vividly she remembered the time he had entered into her mind at her trial; that was special. She turned to tell Hans, but stopped. Some instinct told her that Hans might not understand. There were things about Africa that she knew but that he did not. She smiled to herself; she must look after Hans.
The rebels had never captured Simbada, so the wide colonial streets of the city centre with their gardened mansions still stood in shabby glory; in Nopani, the houses were like eyeless corpses. Here they were intact and the walls were not pockmarked with bullet holes and shrapnel. She gazed in wonder at the blaze of flowers on the bushes that divided the traffic on the road. They passed some government buildings with their flags flying, and smart, clean soldiers on guard. There seemed to be soldiers everywhere – some slouching in alleyways, some sitting , bored, in the backs of trucks. The Landcruiser turned off the main road and pulled up outside a low building. A tree with purple flowers wept tresses over the gate. Yola recognised the sign and logo: Northern People’s Aid. They had arrived.
7
Isabella
T he heat, which had been kept at bay while the car was moving, hit them like a wall when the car doors were opened. Hans was preoccupied, putting his papers into his briefcase. Yola suddenly felt alone, abandoned. He jumped down and seemed to be about to dash off, when he remembered her and turned to help her down; her crutches were passed out over the men’s heads.
‘I must find Isabella for you,’ he said. Yola remembered that Isabella was ‘the girl from the office’. ‘The meeting has started, so I must be quick. You will like Isabella, she is from Angola. She was born Senhora Isabella Alvares, how about that for a name? She will take you to the shops and the market, she knows what you will need. We all speak English here by the way, even if our accents are a little strange!’
As they walked down the cool corridors, Yola could hear a voice talking on the radio – the other end of the conversations she had heard in the car. On her right a door stood half-open. She had a momentary glimpse of a shiny table, an orderly scatter of papers on it, and of faces – white and black – turned towards an unseen speaker. One chair was empty, that must be Hans’s. He opened a door at the end of the corridor leading toan office. Hans blundered about looking for a chair for her to sit on. A door at the opposite end of the room opened and a woman hurried in carrying a sheaf of papers.
‘Sorry I’m late, Hans,’ she began, then she saw Yola and smiled saying, ‘Yola? That’s right, isn’t it?’
Yola stared at her open-mouthed. She had expected a European , but this woman was African, vibrant and sophisticated at the same time. She was dressed very simply in tight blue jeans and a black halter-neck top. She was the most beautiful woman Yola had ever seen! Yola was captivated. Without thinking she breathed out, ‘You are beautiful!’ and then immediately wished she hadn’t. But the woman just threw her head back and laughed.
‘Hans!’ she exclaimed, waving him away, ‘you better go out while Yola and I admire each other!’
He closed the
‘They are clean because a certain Chief Abonda is not corrupt and sees that the money is spent on brushes and brooms.’
‘Abonda? Father? Father has no Mercedes. He has no car. We have electricity only in the main house. He can’t be such a great man!’
‘Yola, child, you are as bad as the rest of them. Your father is a greater man than half the government here in Simbada put together.’
Yola thought about this. Father had always just been the chief and did the things chiefs do. He had an office in Nopani and he walked the two miles to it every day, otherwise peoplecame to him. It had never occurred to her to think that he was special. She looked at the rubbish outside the window and suddenly changed her mind. Yes, Father was special. Quite vividly she remembered the time he had entered into her mind at her trial; that was special. She turned to tell Hans, but stopped. Some instinct told her that Hans might not understand. There were things about Africa that she knew but that he did not. She smiled to herself; she must look after Hans.
The rebels had never captured Simbada, so the wide colonial streets of the city centre with their gardened mansions still stood in shabby glory; in Nopani, the houses were like eyeless corpses. Here they were intact and the walls were not pockmarked with bullet holes and shrapnel. She gazed in wonder at the blaze of flowers on the bushes that divided the traffic on the road. They passed some government buildings with their flags flying, and smart, clean soldiers on guard. There seemed to be soldiers everywhere – some slouching in alleyways, some sitting , bored, in the backs of trucks. The Landcruiser turned off the main road and pulled up outside a low building. A tree with purple flowers wept tresses over the gate. Yola recognised the sign and logo: Northern People’s Aid. They had arrived.
7
Isabella
T he heat, which had been kept at bay while the car was moving, hit them like a wall when the car doors were opened. Hans was preoccupied, putting his papers into his briefcase. Yola suddenly felt alone, abandoned. He jumped down and seemed to be about to dash off, when he remembered her and turned to help her down; her crutches were passed out over the men’s heads.
‘I must find Isabella for you,’ he said. Yola remembered that Isabella was ‘the girl from the office’. ‘The meeting has started, so I must be quick. You will like Isabella, she is from Angola. She was born Senhora Isabella Alvares, how about that for a name? She will take you to the shops and the market, she knows what you will need. We all speak English here by the way, even if our accents are a little strange!’
As they walked down the cool corridors, Yola could hear a voice talking on the radio – the other end of the conversations she had heard in the car. On her right a door stood half-open. She had a momentary glimpse of a shiny table, an orderly scatter of papers on it, and of faces – white and black – turned towards an unseen speaker. One chair was empty, that must be Hans’s. He opened a door at the end of the corridor leading toan office. Hans blundered about looking for a chair for her to sit on. A door at the opposite end of the room opened and a woman hurried in carrying a sheaf of papers.
‘Sorry I’m late, Hans,’ she began, then she saw Yola and smiled saying, ‘Yola? That’s right, isn’t it?’
Yola stared at her open-mouthed. She had expected a European , but this woman was African, vibrant and sophisticated at the same time. She was dressed very simply in tight blue jeans and a black halter-neck top. She was the most beautiful woman Yola had ever seen! Yola was captivated. Without thinking she breathed out, ‘You are beautiful!’ and then immediately wished she hadn’t. But the woman just threw her head back and laughed.
‘Hans!’ she exclaimed, waving him away, ‘you better go out while Yola and I admire each other!’
He closed the
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