I didn’t get that.” Alfonso cupped his left ear and leant forward.
“I need a job.”
“Aha.” Alfonso leapt up. “I told you he would come, Spiwe. Didn’t I tell you he would come?” He looked intoxicated, gleeful; casting his hands wide open as if embracing the whole world. “I knew it. I just knew it. How long has it been? A year?”
“Not that long.”
“Near enough.” Alfonso nipped round his desk, grabbed Spiwe’s phone and cut her off.
“What do you think you’re DOING?”
“I told you he’d come.” Alfonso spoke in a frenzy. “This man is like a brother to me. He’s smarter than me; he has a degree, a Master’s, and many, many certificates. But let me tell you one thing, he doesn’t know the UK like I do. I tried to tell Mai Chenai. I said to her, ‘Look, tell him to stop applying for those posh jobs in the newspapers. They are not for the likes of us.’ This country now uses a system I call voluntary slavery. They used to bring you people in big boats, shackled together – you didn’t even need a passport, and then you started refusing, saying you wanted equality. Now you flood their borders looking for work. What do you expect them to do? I’ve seen it all before, many times: Nigerians, Jamaicans, Polishans, Congoans, Russians, Indians, you name it. There was an electrician from Bulawayo, you know Mdala Phiri . . . of course you do. Phiri came here with his wife, a nurse, he thought he was going to get an electrician’s job. I told him, ‘Phiri, this is the Civilised World, forget it,’ but he didn’t listen, no one listens to Alfonso. So, he went for an interview and do you know what the man said to him? He said, ‘Look here, why are you bothering us? Can’t you see the electricity we use is different from the electricity in your country?’ You don’t believe me? I swear it. Phiri himself told us. Spiwe here is my witness.”
“Leave me out of your stories, Mr Pfukuto,” said Spiwe.
Alfonso strutted around the room with a limp, as though one leg was slightly longer than the other.
“It’s even worse with the law, Magistrate. I tried to say it but no one listens to Alfonso. They think we come from the jungle. They think we have kangaroo courts. They will say, ‘How can you practice law here when you couldn’t even preserve the rule of law in your own country?’ I knew your applications would come to nothing. They didn’t even reply you, did they?” Alfonso ignored the Magistrate’s obvious discomfort. “Only nursing is the same, because no matter where you go in the world, wiping bums is still wiping bums. But don’t worry, that’s why I’m here. I am going to make sure you get a good job with good rates of pay too. You’re not like these tsotsis weaving and ducking without papers. No, you will get a good job, a very good job.”
Alfonso threw an application form in front of the Magistrate and gave him a pen. He picked up the phone, flicked through a diary and dialled out.
“Spiwe, help him to fill it out.” Spiwe gritted her teeth, but she stood up and went to the Magistrate anyway. She hovered over him as he filled the document in. He was slow, thorough, reading each question carefully before writing. He was used to going through legal documents where he could not risk misinterpreting the contents.
“Hallo, hallo, is this Olu?” Alfonso asked, in a faux Nigerian accent, to someone on the phone. “Oh, my sister-wo, how are you in the name of Christ Jesus our Lord and Saviour . . . Yes, I am fine . . . Listen, Olu, there has been a problem with your shift tonight. They have cancelled it . . . I know it’s terrible. I said to them, ‘Why did you book it if you knew you were going to cancel it?’ Don’t worry I will call you as soon as I get something. You are my number one . . . God bless you, my sister-wo.”
He got off the line and smiled at the Magistrate. “I’ve got you a shift. You start tonight. First we must give you a pair of safety shoes, a tunic and some industrial gloves . . . Don’t worry we’ll deduct the cost from your first pay cheque . . . It’s okay, don’t thank me. That’s what friends are for.”
The Maestro
The Maestro took out a pack of fags from his back pocket. He flipped it round so he wouldn’t see the pair of black, rotting lungs pictured at the back. Instead the big font, SMOKING KILLS, printed at the front, assailed him. There was something perverse about taking a product that promised death; then again, salt might kill you, crossing the street might kill you, life itself was a set of small, incremental steps leading towards a certain end. He remembered an advert from way back that said: It’s not the destination, it’s how you get there, or something like that. There were a lot of adverts to remember, all saying different things. It was hard to keep up with the barrage at every corner that told you what to buy, what to eat, what to wear, what to think. He lit the cigarette and inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs, savouring the harsh taste tempered by menthol. He exhaled, watching the blue smoke dissipate in the air. Grey clouds hung heavy in the sky. If he looked closely, he could see they were a patchwork of dark and light, a small bright region indicating where the sun might be. This was his routine, one last fag in the car park before work. All around were cars, new, old, shiny, dirty, the SUVs and people carriers, bright colours, a dozen shades of green, more of blue, then the whites, the reds, and the stunning pink of a Fiat Panda. Shoppers went by with their trolleys, prams and brood, swallowed up by the large glass jaws of the doors. It looked Dr Whoey, for every three that went in, only one came out. Like, where do the rest go? Shit, I’m stoned. Hey, Maestro! A woman waved from across the road. It was Tina from the deli. He smiled, waved and pushed his hair back in a nonchalant gesture. The Maestro stood just shy of six feet, had emerald green eyes and freckles that ran across the bridge of his nose. Aren’t you coming in yet, or you’re waiting till the last minute? Can’t blame you, I hate this place, Tina said as she walked past. He watched her, a round blob, self-conscious under his gaze, going until the glass doors swallowed her up. Everyone moaned about the place, but they kept coming back. Every little helps. This place, his work, was the greatest show on earth. Twenty-four hours of reality TV with a cast and an audience that didn’t even know they were taking part in an act in the ultimate playhouse, a performance replicated in every city and town. He looked at the spandrels and the steel girders that supported the glass front of the building, open and inviting, free entry, bring a friend. The sheer size of it, the huge, bold letters spelling T.E.S.C.O. high in the air, a beacon for all to see, making this place a cathedral, an awesome sight. I feel high, he thought, really shouldn’t have had that last joint this morning. Next I’ll be talking to myself, Tim Marlow at Tesco. He finished his fag, threw it on the ground and crushed it under the heel of his boot. The last cloud of smoke hung in the air just above him. He walked down to the shop, past the cash machines, the railing with shopping trolleys stacked one behind the other, and through the glass doors. Hey, Maestro, turn that smile upside down, you’re here to work. That was Peter Aaron, the security guard, standing behind a construct that looked like a pulpit with screens that allowed him to watch what was happening in every corner of the store from the CCTV cameras dangling from the ceiling, feeding in from every aisle. The Maestro saluted him and went by. He felt like Superman as he removed his jacket, revealing a chequered blue shirt with his name-tag in clear lettering. The symphony of the checkouts bleeping filled the air. It was mechanical, hypnotic, a ceaseless intonation; the soundtrack of commerce so familiar to him after four years working in the store. Had it been that long? Time was warped in this place, bent, buckled, packaged into little packets called clocking in and clocking out. Everything had a price tag, a value assigned to it by some unseen authority. An old woman stopped him. Can you tell me where I can find the antipasto? He didn’t miss a beat. Aisle twenty to the left of the cooking oil, you’ll find it on the third shelf from the top beside the artichokes. She thanked him and tottered along with her basket. He had to clock in. There was nothing worse than being deemed late when you’d actually come in on time. He made his way through the familiar aisles. Above him were the steel struts of the roof, crisscrossing one another,
