the fuck does that mean?’
‘Proverbs 13 verse 22,’ says Scott, and covers his head with a pillow.
Brian and Farai return to the living room, to the soft monotone sound of traffic picking up on Commercial Street. Through the window, Farai can see the river and a bit of the docks in the distance. He likes living in Sandport, by the water, especially at this point where the Water of Leith empties into the sea. There are great pubs and restaurants a short walking distance away. Everything a student could want.
‘We need to find, like, some serious mental help for Scott. I don’t dig this vibe he’s got going on,’ says Brian.
‘Well, Florence–’
‘I’ve told you before, don’t call me that.’ Brian raises his voice.
‘Aren’t we touchy this morning? See what I told you about all that testosterone in your bloodstream.’
‘Look, Farai, this dude’s acting all mental and we need to get it sorted, otherwise who knows what he might do?’
‘Weren’t you telling us just last week that some of the psychiatric models they use have no relevance to African people? Or have you changed your mind now and you want to see our friend’s brilliant brain warped by mind altering chemical concoctions your quacks are always so quick to prescribe?’
‘You’re twisting my words like you always do. You saw him. This guy’s having some sort of breakdown. He needs professional help.’
‘All he needs is a couple of shots of Sambuca to get his head straight. Can you do that for him?’
‘That’s the last thing he needs.’
‘You’re the nurse and I’m the doctor, comprende?’
‘You’re doing a PhD in economics, that doesn’t make you a physician.’ Brian frowns.
‘Just give him the damn Sambuca and give Mr Majeika a hit too. He likes that on a Monday morning, fires him up for the week ahead,’ Farai says, turns impatiently and goes to his room to get dressed. He’s already wasted too many of his precious morning minutes on this palaver. He wears a pair of Cavallis jeans, a cheap pair of Internationals (Bata) and a white cotton stretch dress shirt (M&S), on top of which he wears his black deconstructed overcoat (Religion). He slips on the Patek Philippe his father bought him when he turned 17. Then, he collects his keys and leaves the flat, but not before grabbing the handmade woollen scarf on the coat hanger, a gift from grandma.
* * *
Farai’s caught up in what passes for congestion in Edinburgh, seat laid back so his arms have to stretch to reach the steering wheel, gangster style, listening to Radio 4 – Thought for the Day. His car, a black PT Cruiser, which he bought because it looks like a monster, is fully equipped with a custom Kenwood KDC-X993 complete with subwoofer that gives the voice on the radio extra kick. The 22 cruises by in the bus lane. A woman in the green Corsa in front chats on her cell phone and uses the rear-view mirror to check her lipstick.
‘They don’t have congestion in Saudi Arabia,’ he mutters to himself.
The vicar talks in a flat voice, pondering the mystery of God’s will and the war. Using tortuous logic, he explains how war may be the ultimate proof that God wants us to have everlasting peace. The lights turn green and Farai begins to move again, slowly creeping up towards North Bridge.
The Scotsman, a red sandstone Edwardian building, looms up ahead. His wipers squeak against the windscreen because it is raining ever so lightly. The fuel gauge flashes red. He can never seem to remember to top up. The last time he ran out was on the M8 to Glasgow and the RAC hit him a £90 charge.
Traffic is clogged up on Nicolson Street and he has to navigate his way through an obstacle course of orange traffic cones. There aren’t any workmen on the closed-up section of the road, that’s just the way it is. Black soot covers the grey walls of the old buildings. He turns right after Surgeons’ Hall to find parking at the mosque.
‘Asalaam Alaykum,’ the bearded dude/car park attendant says, as Farai lowers his window.
‘Wa ’Alaykum Asalaam, to you. And no, Salman, I’m not converting this week. I already told you guys that I’ll only convert if you guarantee me 1 free meal a day from The Mosque Kitchen.’ Salman laughs and waves him through to a free spot.
The mosque, a gift from the Saudis, is a blocky solid building, fusing Islamic architecture with a baronial style that blends in with the stocky, gothic architecture of the rest of the city. Farai walks round it to Potterow where the minaret stands.
He crosses the road and walks through the university buildings, on to Bristo Square, and from there down to George IV Bridge. This takes him past Medina, Doctors, Frankenstein’s and a number of other pubs and clubs he’s trawled through on wild nights with his boys. A car hoots as he crosses the next street. He doesn’t look. It’s a reckless stunt and, reaching the other side, he congratulates himself on being the first black man to cross over Candlemaker Row against such odds. He thinks, It’s so easy to make yourself the first black man at anything. The first black man at this university, the first black doctor in such a hospital, the first black person to take a dump in a formerly all-white toilet in Joburg. To his mind, there’s something silly about the cult of ‘the first black ___’ and anyone who calls themself that deserves to be patted on the head and given a biscuit. Perhaps it served a purpose in the colonial era, but for Farai, a child of the revolution who comes from a dominant majority, it’s just bullshit.
He walks into the Elephant House where he’s the first black man to buy coffee that morning.
‘The usual?’ the girl at the counter asks. She wears a little apron that turns Farai on.
‘Quadruple espresso every time,’ he replies with a smile. She lingers, holds his gaze, as if she wants him to say something else.
Every Monday morning he frequents this rather quaint café – of which there are many in Edinburgh – which became famous when some woman wrote a children’s book about wizards and inexplicably became a billionaire. In reality, there is nothing particularly special about the venue except for its bizarre collection of elephant statuettes. It’s not particularly clean and has rather dreary terracotta walls.
He avoids the empty tables and goes to the one by the window, where an old man wearing a trilby is sitting alone, sipping green tea, a copy of the Telegraph on the table.
‘It seems rather busy today. I hope you don’t mind if I sit with you?’ Farai pulls up a chair.
The old man offers a brief incredulous look. A ‘humph’ that escapes from his throat is his only sound of protest. Eyeing Farai warily, he takes a sip of tea.
He has a sharp, beak-like nose and bright eyes behind a pair of spectacles. He maintains an aggrieved air under Farai’s glare. The waitron serves Farai’s espresso in a medium sized mug, placing it carefully on the table.
‘Will that be all? The muffins are great today,’ she says.
‘Thank you, but I have to watch my figure,’ Farai replies, his eyes never leaving the old man.
He smells the bitter aroma coming from his black brew. It almost knocks him back,
