walked past several relics of Muzunguland colonialism, which Dr Wiseman Lovemore, not a tourist guide by any stretch of the imagination and neither overly romantic about the past or keen on sightseeing, did his utmost to bring home to Lilly Loveless, whom he was determined to impress. There was the Bismarck Fountain, which had long ceased to flow, just like Bismarck after Willem II became Kaiser. There was the prestigious Lodge, initially constructed by Puttkamer as a birthday present for a daughter of the soil who had mastered the needs of his heart. A significant symbol of power or powerlessness in a way, the lodge had been passed down first to the Prime Minister of West Mimboland, then to the President of the Federal Republic as a federal palace, and finally to President Longstay of the United Republic as a Regional rest house, which in effect meant an end to occupancy, as Longstay hardly ever saw the need to venture into the periphery. He is famously known to have proclaimed recently when the country was up in flames with thirst for various freedoms: “Democracy is a very expensive disease; we feel better when it is cured. As long as Nyamandem breathes, Mimboland is alive.” To mark the solitude, disuse and neglect the Lodge now enjoys, the clock which had been faithful throughout the history of colonial presence ceased to tick in 1972. It is rumoured that President Longstay dreamt with such conviction that federalism was a wasteful nightmare that the clock ceased to tick in evidence. So, tourists, when they get close enough, can see that the clock’s hands are stuck at 5.45 – dawn or dusk they can’t tell, but who cares?
They came to the colonial graveyard, which Lilly Loveless said she must see, but which Dr Wiseman Lovemore was cold about, given his conviction that the dead must not be disturbed. So he stood by the main road while she went to see. She counted the number of graves, wrote down in her notebook the names on the tombstones, and placed the colourful leaves of a nearby plant on the grave closest to her as a symbolic wreathe.
“There are twelve of them,” she said, upon rejoining Dr Wiseman Lovemore. “What do you imagine they died of?”
“Illness, probably. Malaria,” he didn’t know for sure. “There was a war between the local population and the Muzungulanders who came seeking their land and taking over their lives,” he added. “But there were not that many casualties. So it must have been to the mosquito that they finally succumbed.”
“Probably. I’ll find out from the Archives.”
“Much as nature lured the Muzungulander to Africa, nature also had a way of cutting down to size their fantasies. If it wasn’t disease, it was tough terrain that made it particularly difficult for them to penetrate and humble the heart of darkness. And many fell by the wayside, thanks to these hazards.”
“If there is any truth in what you say, the Archives will be able to tell me.”
“I can see you swear by the Archives,” said Dr Wiseman Lovemore, half mockingly. “I’ll show you the Archives tomorrow. It is too late to go there today, as it is long past office hours.”
“No hurry.”
“It is curious isn’t it?”
“What?”
“That your Muzunguland forefathers in Mimboland should survive the war but fall to the mosquitoes. This means that both were involved in the liberation struggle. We might never have had our independence had the mosquitoes not joined in the struggle,” he chuckled.
“Interesting perspective,” was all Lilly Loveless could say. She had never thought of things in that light.
“Do you know why they fell to the mosquito?”
“No,” said Lilly Loveless. “Do you?”
“I read somewhere that when they came, they did not manage more than a bed of radishes, when all sort of vegetables do so well here and elsewhere in the region,” said Dr Wiseman Lovemore. “They depended on tasteless tinned foods instead of scratching the soil to grow food…”
“What has that got to do with dying from mosquitoes?” Lilly Loveless interrupted.
“Can’t you see? Dependence on canned foods means that your forebears did not keep gardens, and no gardens meant that they lived surrounded by bushes, and therefore mosquitoes.”
“Clever thinking,” Lilly Loveless agreed.
“Their failure to domesticate their surroundings led to the mosquito showing them pepper, which is why I believe there ought to be a monument in honour of the mosquito, in every African country,” he went on.
Lilly Loveless was a bit irritated.
“Yes,” he insisted. “We need a monument to the mosquito, in the public square!”
“That reminds me.” Lilly changed the topic in exasperation. “Could we pass by a pharmacy for me to pick up some mosquito repellent spray?”
“My pleasure.”
Lilly Loveless did not wake up until about noon. The unpleasant experiences of Sawang had given her nightmares, pushing sweet dreams of the beautiful moments of Puttkamerstown towards dawn. She lay in bed an extra while, listening to the welcoming sound of music by birds perched on trees just outside the window of her room. This is a real paradise for tropical desires – a place where dreams, reality and fantasies converge, she told herself, getting out of bed with reluctance.
She hurriedly took a shower. Normally, she would dwell in the shower for longer, getting to know and relate to her body, but that must wait for later. She pulled on a pair of white trainers and put on over her head a brown short sleeve shirt, which she decided was best left hanging loose. Then she rushed out of the room and down the stairs to the reception, with her rucksack over one shoulder.
A smiling young man with a sweet face had taken over from the girl of the night before.
Lilly Loveless could see she had missed breakfast. She had also missed an appointment with a possible landlady. Dr Wiseman Lovemore had put her in touch with a colleague of his they met at Mountain Valley last night, who had a Boy’s Quarters to rent, and they had agreed she would pass at 10:30am to see the accommodation.
“Any message for me?” she asked the smiling receptionist.
“Yes, two in fact,” he replied, fetching the messages.
“I suppose I’m too late for breakfast.”
“Breakfast is not part of the room,” the young man explained, “but we can make you breakfast anytime, and charge you accordingly, the same way we do lunch and dinner.”
“Just a cup of strong black coffee will do,” she replied, and made her way to the restaurant, situated by a disused swimming pool.
There she sat and read her messages to the sweet music of the birds.
The first message was by the landlady who, not wanting to interrupt Lilly Loveless’ sleep, chose to leave her cell phone number for her to call and make a new appointment. The second message was a missed call from Dr Wiseman Lovemore. He said he was waiting for the shops to open to pick up a SIM card and prepaid airtime for her before coming. He also wanted her to call him, if possible, to specify how much airtime to buy.
He’ll sort something out, she thought. Any amount of airtime should
