“So what do you really stand for?”
“Simple: Everything that is clear is bent, everything that is bent is clear.”
“What?”
“We have no permanent friends, no permanent enemies. We are tireless seekers after truth.”
“I see,” said Lilly Loveless, contemplatively. “So in many ways you are like us, social scientists?”
“I don’t know about that, but I do know we journalists love socialising. How would we come by stories otherwise?”
“Absolutely,” replied Lilly Loveless. “In the social sciences, we set out to expose the facts, the bare facts, the naked truth… We take everything with a grain of salt and make sure it rings true with other things we’ve heard or know…”
“What is so social about that? Why don’t you just call yourselves journalists of the sciences?”
Lilly Loveless chuckled. She almost told Bobinga Iroko that would not be respectful, as most social scientists loathe being compared to journalists, even when what they do is less than poor journalism. She was fortunate she didn’t, for Bobinga Iroko had a history of telling off university professors, most of whom he was convinced were nitwits, some of whom accused him of being sponsored to go after them. Few believed that his sole motivation was a professional commitment to exposing the facts, the bare facts, and quite simply, the naked truth. He didn’t either.
“As journalists we do more than mirror the society,” added Bobinga Iroko, proudly. “We seek to eliminate the ugly and enhance the beautiful.”
Reading the sceptical look on the face of Lilly Loveless, he hastily added: “At least we at The Talking Drum do.”
Suddenly Lilly Loveless remembered not having seen or heard of Dr Mukala-Satannie in the last few days. She asked: “Dr Mukala-Satannie, is he keeping well?”
“He’s fine, but he’s gone into hiding. He feels more and more like a lion in a cage. It was rumoured that the VC wanted him arrested.”
“What for?”
“Contempt of a public institution and its legitimate authorities.”
“Why not sue him in court if they feel he has done something wrong?”
“It is easier to arrest than to judge.” Bobinga Iroko was tongue in cheek.
“But they can’t harm him, can they?” She suddenly remembered that being a Muzunguland citizen and married to a wife employed directly and posted to Mimboland by the government of Muzunguland, Dr Mukala Satannie had immunities.
“No, they can’t harm him. His wife’s diplomatic status spills over to him generously. I told him this, but his cowardice denies him the courage to take chances.” Bobinga Iroko laughed and shook his head before adding, “We’re sick and tired of clowns playing God in our lives, and are determined to change this land of Mimbo, willy-nilly.”
Frightening place, Mimboland, Lilly Loveless told herself. She felt sorry for Dr Mukala-Satannie, and even more so for Dr Wiseman Lovemore.
“Don’t forget to take me along, next time you go to visit my friend,” she told Bobinga Iroko.
“I plan to go there tomorrow at midday with the deputy president of the trade union of university lecturers, Chief Dr Mantrouble Anyway.”
“Count me in,” said Lilly Loveless, thinking: What a name!
***
The drive to Sakersbeach was super. Lilly Loveless took in the beautiful scenery. The road was graced on both sides by hectares upon hectares of palms that reached into the hills beyond and that went all the way down to within a few kilometres from the Manawabay of the Atlantic Ocean. Bobinga Iroko told her the plantation belonged to the Mimboland Development Corporation, set up since the colonial days, and fed by a labour force harvested forcefully from the hinterlands, because of the erroneous belief by the Muzungulanders that the sons and daughters of the native soil were averse to hard physical labour and only engaged in it to satisfy basic needs. Because the Muzungulanders had hated to abandon what they’d spent so much energy and genius to bring about and to keep going, they had fought tooth and nail to ensure that independence changed nothing in reality. Thus, the management had stayed firmly in the hands of the Muzungulanders who had ensured that the labour force stayed firmly in the hands of the Mimbolanders. There was not a single year that the workers did not go on strike at least four times, and not a single strike yielded the desired results. Divide-and-rule was the order of the day at the plantation, where the handful of workers from the local ethnic group were often made to feed on the illusion that they mattered more than the majority ethnic others, and that it was in their interest to spy and report on “these troublesome cam-no-gos”.
“Why are they felling so many of the palms?” inquired Lilly Loveless.
“In order to renew the plantation,” Bobinga Iroko explained. “Every ten years or so, the older generation of palms have to be replaced by younger, better-researched and better-yielding palms. You have scientists working in laboratories all year long, experimenting on different new varieties in order to increase production…”
“What are those people doing with plastic containers around the felled palms?”
“Those are some of the plantation workers harvesting palm wine. It is a very popular wine known locally as Matutu. A glass of it is enough to knock you out. Ten times more powerful than Mimbo-Wanda, your favourite. Like to try some?”
“On our way back, perhaps.” Lilly Loveless didn’t want anything to stand in the way of her reunion with the beach.
They came to a check point, the third of the journey.
“Why are there so many checkpoints?” asked Lilly Loveless. This was a question she had wanted to ask since the drive from Sawang to Puttkamerstown. She remembered counting more than fifteen checkpoints that day of her arrival.
“In a land of Mimbo, security is paramount,” replied Bobinga Iroko, feigning seriousness.
“And why are the policemen and gendarmes at checkpoints always in pairs?”
“Because they are only minimally educated.”
“So the one who can read depends on the other who can write, and vice versa?”
“Absolutely,” said Bobinga Iroko. “But they are also in pairs, so the one can snatch your car documents, while the other negotiates how much bribe you should pay to get them back.”
“That’s very clever, won’t you say?”
“Very clever indeed!”
“How come they don’t ask you for a bribe?”
“I have a “Presse Laissez-Passer” sticker on the windscreen of the car,” explained Bobinga Iroko, pointing at the white sticker with the national colours stamped on it. “And they all know me, and loathe having me write negatively about them in The Talking Drum.”
Bobinga Iroko drove her straight to the beach. “Watch out for very uncultured locals who comb the beach desperately seeking cultural freaks”, he told Lilly Loveless, a dry smile on his face. “You sure will be struck by their handsome forms, but there’s much more to life than good looks,” he exploded in laughter.
“Don’t ,” said Lilly Loveless. “I can take care of myself.”
“The Botanic Gardens and other touristic sites will have to wait for later,” he told her.
He dropped her off, agreed on when to come back for her, and went for his appointment to interview the topmost politician of the region on burning issues.
***
Lilly Loveless wasn’t