of her shoes and a black pit in her calf from an old sore. The piped music resumed. Ron's sneer took shape.
Malahide was subdued. His head looked as if it was hurting him already and his scalded face needed a cucumber and yoghurt bath. Sweat marks had appeared on his shirt, even in the air-conditioned cool, and he'd started to scratch the side of his gut.
'I'd give up the drink,' he said, patting his cheek, 'but it'd empty my evenings and the evenings are terrible long in Africa.'
'You live here?' asked Ron.
'I get about.'
'On contract?'
'You're asking a terrible lot of questions.'
'Only two,' said Ron.
'Would you mind putting some whisky on top of this ice,' he said, holding out his glass. Just the sight of him killed any conversation so I told Ron about the witch doctor I'd seen that morning.
'A very interesting thing, don't you think?' said Malahide. 'Mumbo jumbo,' said Ron.
'Well, I didn't expect anything less from a member of the Judaic faith.' He paused. 'Or d'you know what you're on about?'
Ron cranked his arm to tell Malahide to get on with it. Malahide licked his white, crusty lips and told us about the Mandingos' tribal god called Muma dyumbo. When they were captured and sent to the States and Caribbean islands as slaves they took their god with them so that any African religious nonsense was known by the slavers as mumbo jumbo.
'That's very interesting,' said Ron, picking at his coaster.
Sean asked him what he knew about voodoo.
'Zombies. Haiti.
Night of the Living Dead
,' said Ron, with his eyelids closed, the weight of all that disdain making him tired.
Malahide scratched away at a nodule beneath his shirt and, suddenly sober, told him that voodoo came from West Africa, that although there were a lot of Muslims and Christians now, there were still a lot of animists and a fair amount who did both. He told Ron about the fetish markets where you could buy dried split birds, old bones, skulls, jujus to put curses on people, potions to appease gods, get fertile, cure impotence and a lot of other things which a modern medical bill put out of reach for the average native.
'Not that the witch doctor's cheap.'
'You used one?' asked Ron.
'My boys use them.'
'You ever found a red-haired wax effigy stuck with pins?'
'I'll tell you something else...' he said, ignoring him, 'something that might help you up there in the north while you're out of civilization. I was working out near Man when a local chief died. My boys disappeared for a week. They all came back thin and starving hungry and I asked them where the hell they'd been. Hiding, they said, because of the heads, they said. They bury heads with the big man's body and they didn't want any of them to be theirs.
'When this president dies, and he's the big man of all big men, the world's greatest Catholic, apart from yer man himselfâwhen he dies, they say he'll need a few hundred heads to keep him quiet. My boys tell me at least one of the heads has to be a white man's. So if the old man dies while you're here, Ron, you'd better keep your head down.'
'I didn't know you cared, Sean.'
'I don't, but maybe you have someone who does.'
Ron Collins picked his beard and flicked his hair behind his ear, but Malahide wasn't finished.
'This is something else for you, Ron,' he said. 'Something very relevant to you. Some years ago I supplied a Nigerian who ran a chain of supermarkets in Lagos and Ibadan. The man didn't pay and he didn't pay and I kept calling him and he was never there. I thought he was one of them slippery types you find over that way, so I flew to Lagos to sit on his chest. He was in jail. He'd come back from the Cameroon and his suitcase fell open in Lagos airport. He had a caseful of babies' heads on him. Thirty foggering heads in his suitcase.'
'What's that got to do with me?' asked Ron, sounding bored but listening hard.
'They're for burying. They say it brings on the diamonds. There y'are, you didn't think when you were hunched over
Malahide was subdued. His head looked as if it was hurting him already and his scalded face needed a cucumber and yoghurt bath. Sweat marks had appeared on his shirt, even in the air-conditioned cool, and he'd started to scratch the side of his gut.
'I'd give up the drink,' he said, patting his cheek, 'but it'd empty my evenings and the evenings are terrible long in Africa.'
'You live here?' asked Ron.
'I get about.'
'On contract?'
'You're asking a terrible lot of questions.'
'Only two,' said Ron.
'Would you mind putting some whisky on top of this ice,' he said, holding out his glass. Just the sight of him killed any conversation so I told Ron about the witch doctor I'd seen that morning.
'A very interesting thing, don't you think?' said Malahide. 'Mumbo jumbo,' said Ron.
'Well, I didn't expect anything less from a member of the Judaic faith.' He paused. 'Or d'you know what you're on about?'
Ron cranked his arm to tell Malahide to get on with it. Malahide licked his white, crusty lips and told us about the Mandingos' tribal god called Muma dyumbo. When they were captured and sent to the States and Caribbean islands as slaves they took their god with them so that any African religious nonsense was known by the slavers as mumbo jumbo.
'That's very interesting,' said Ron, picking at his coaster.
Sean asked him what he knew about voodoo.
'Zombies. Haiti.
Night of the Living Dead
,' said Ron, with his eyelids closed, the weight of all that disdain making him tired.
Malahide scratched away at a nodule beneath his shirt and, suddenly sober, told him that voodoo came from West Africa, that although there were a lot of Muslims and Christians now, there were still a lot of animists and a fair amount who did both. He told Ron about the fetish markets where you could buy dried split birds, old bones, skulls, jujus to put curses on people, potions to appease gods, get fertile, cure impotence and a lot of other things which a modern medical bill put out of reach for the average native.
'Not that the witch doctor's cheap.'
'You used one?' asked Ron.
'My boys use them.'
'You ever found a red-haired wax effigy stuck with pins?'
'I'll tell you something else...' he said, ignoring him, 'something that might help you up there in the north while you're out of civilization. I was working out near Man when a local chief died. My boys disappeared for a week. They all came back thin and starving hungry and I asked them where the hell they'd been. Hiding, they said, because of the heads, they said. They bury heads with the big man's body and they didn't want any of them to be theirs.
'When this president dies, and he's the big man of all big men, the world's greatest Catholic, apart from yer man himselfâwhen he dies, they say he'll need a few hundred heads to keep him quiet. My boys tell me at least one of the heads has to be a white man's. So if the old man dies while you're here, Ron, you'd better keep your head down.'
'I didn't know you cared, Sean.'
'I don't, but maybe you have someone who does.'
Ron Collins picked his beard and flicked his hair behind his ear, but Malahide wasn't finished.
'This is something else for you, Ron,' he said. 'Something very relevant to you. Some years ago I supplied a Nigerian who ran a chain of supermarkets in Lagos and Ibadan. The man didn't pay and he didn't pay and I kept calling him and he was never there. I thought he was one of them slippery types you find over that way, so I flew to Lagos to sit on his chest. He was in jail. He'd come back from the Cameroon and his suitcase fell open in Lagos airport. He had a caseful of babies' heads on him. Thirty foggering heads in his suitcase.'
'What's that got to do with me?' asked Ron, sounding bored but listening hard.
'They're for burying. They say it brings on the diamonds. There y'are, you didn't think when you were hunched over
Similar Books
