“I thought no one was going to let me in,” he said, trying not to sound resentful. He leapt in quickly. “It’s freezing out there and I have come up with a new theory. You know why these people colonised us, right? It’s the cold, it drives a man mad, so, when they came to Africa and saw us lounging in the sun, it drove them absolutely berserk.”
“As always, your theories continue to astonish.” The Magistrate let out a sigh.
“Big game today, Magistrate. I told you those two would be in the Cup Final.”
“I don’t recall you saying so.”
“I’m sure I did. Remember, last time I was here. I really did, honest.”
The Magistrate turned back to his dishes. Alfonso looked at him, desperate to make conversation. Fussing about, he switched the kettle on, fiddled with the toaster and then walked over to the sink. A short man, he stood just shy of the Magistrate’s shoulder.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” the Magistrate asked, feeling his space invaded.
“Who me? Oh, no. What would a man like me have to tell a man like you?” Alfonso spoke in rapid bursts. “I was just thinking how nice it is for us to hang out like this. I feel right at home.” He looked up at the Magistrate like a small child.
The Magistrate grunted and looked down at Alfonso’s expectant face, and what a face it was, like a meerkat, complete with whiskers.
Alfonso reached into his plastic bag and brought out a bottle of own brand whisky.
“Only the best for you, Magistrate.” He handed the bottle over. “Some of us can’t handle this strong stuff. Too rich, too distilled. Back home we used to drink Seven Days, home brew chaiyo.”
Deserting the drying up, the Magistrate poured himself a double on the rocks while Alfonso opened a can of Stella. “To the motherland.” He raised his glass and, in that gesture, the Magistrate instantly recalled his days at college, the burning rhetoric, fiery speeches, pan-African sentimentality. Then, everything was possible. What had happened to those young men, his peers? The grand ideas debated on campuses and in bars had vanished. Nothing remained but shadows, distant memories echoing in the dark crevices of the mind, conjured up now and again by a simple toast or some grand gesture. The age of possibility was over.
“Was it something I said?” Alfonso asked, looking at his sad face.
“No, nothing, nothing at all. Shall we go in the living room?”
Chenai was lying on the sofa, absorbed by gyrating, near naked babes performing around a hunk lounging on a deckchair. They wiggled their bottoms and flashed their big breasts at the man who sang so fast the Magistrate couldn’t understand the content of his lyrics, save for the word ‘bitches’, which he repeated at intervals with great vehemence.
“So, this is what the kids are listening to these days.” Alfonso reached into his coat pocket.
“I’m not a kid anymore. I’m fifteen.” Chenai rolled her eyes.
Music forms memories. The Magistrate, who was often transported back to some point in the past when he heard a familiar tune, shuddered to think that Chenai’s memories would be formed by this soulless, commercial music. Alfonso picked up the remote and changed the channel.
“Hey, I was watching that,” Chenai said, sitting up.
Alfonso tossed a Kit Kat to her. “It’s time for football.”
“But I’m watching my music, pal.”
“Show some courtesy, he is our guest. And, don’t call him ‘pal’, call him Babamudiki Alfonso. Okay?” The Magistrate felt his daughter had been here too long. Already her speech had a slight Scottish inflexion, those rolling Rs, the coarse tongue, guttural Gs.
“Uncle Alfonso,” Chenai compromised. Babamudiki – uncle. Equivalent? Baba – Father. Baba-mudiki – Little-father. Baba-mukuru – Older-father. That was on the paternal side. The uncles on the maternal side all held the title Sekuru, equivalent to grandfather, indicating an elevated status. So many fine intricacies woven in these blood ties that the young did not care to learn. In Shona culture, relationships were everything. The Magistrate held a register of relations, far and near, in his mind. He stayed abreast of births and deaths in the family, each one representing a slight shifting of his position within it.
Chenai bit a chunk off her chocolate bar. She picked up Harare North, which lay on the glass- topped coffee table and opened the first page. The prematch commentary had begun. Andy Gray and Richard Keys were debating the relative merits of the Liverpool and Chelsea formations.
“Chelsea have a problem on the left,” said Alfonso.
“I know. I can hear them too.” Alfonso annoyed the Magistrate when he regurgitated the commentary or lines from the Sun as if they were his original thoughts.
“Who are you supporting today?”
“Liverpool, the same team I support every week. I’ve been with them since Bruce Grobbelaar, the days of Rush and Barnes. I could never switch.”
“You see, that’s where you and I differ. I support the winning team. Last year I was with Arsenal all the way. Before that it was Man U. This way I’m never disappointed. I don’t understand this business of heartbreak and anguish over a couple of men kicking a ball.”
“Then why do you come here every week?” The Magistrate felt his blood pressure rising.
“Because you have Sky. I’m building a mansion back home, in Kuwadzana. Did I tell you that? Of course I did. Window level, that’s where I am now. These things take money. I can’t afford the sports channels like you. I don’t even pay my TV licence.”
The Magistrate shook his head at the honest skinflint who so openly admitted leeching on him.
“Dad, if this guy cannae be bovvered to learn proper English, why did he write a novel?” Chenai slapped Harare North back on the table. The Magistrate didn’t have an answer. He’d seen the book in Waterstone’s in Cameron Toll, whilst perusing legal texts, and had bought it on a whim. He couldn’t get into it either. It appeared to have been written to deliberately turn the English language inside out. He wondered how the book had ever got published. He wasn’t one for fiction anyway. A serious man concerned himself with facts, newspapers, journals, textbooks and the occasional biography, especially if the subject was an influential figure in law or politics.
A sharp whistle sounded from the kitchen as the kettle boiled.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” the Magistrate asked Alfonso.
“Oh no, I’m drinking my beer.” Why, then, did you switch the kettle on, the Magistrate felt like asking, irritated. The referee’s whistle blew and the crowd roared. Alfonso kept pointing out the obvious, yelling, “Did you see that?” like an excited teenager whenever there was a near miss, and always queried offside decisions, even against slow-motion camera replays with computer generated lines showing the positioning of the defence against the straying attacker.
How could a man be so capable of challenging incontrovertible evidence put right in front of his eyes, the Magistrate wondered. The referees could be forgiven, they made decisions in real time against a fast-flowing game, but Alfonso refuted the replays from multiple angles. Worse still, from time to time he would look at the Magistrate, with his little eyes, seeking affirmation. He’d seen this in his courtroom. The defendant, usually a thief, overwhelmed by the evidence against him, still refused to plead guilty, only to catch a heavier term because of his specious mindset. The defendant would square his shoulders, look into the distance beyond the Magistrate with the self-righteous air of a martyr, occasionally shaking his head reproachfully at the irresistible testimony; and when the judgment was returned against him, he, with a shocked air, would turn to the gallery as if appealing to the public against some grave injustice.
“I’ll