Bums on Seats (3 page)

CHAPTER 3

1970

Chief Nweewe, Lion of Lions, Bringer of Fortune, Descendant of Nwabi, stamped back and forth outside his residence. The sun had never been so hot. It had not rained in five months. The crop would fail. The omens were bad. The tall boy, walking two paces behind with a parasol, had to be especially nimble. He must not step so close that he kicked the Chief's heels and thus receive a cuff about the head. Nor must he walk so far behind that the sun touched the Chief's head, and thus receive a kick to the bottom. After one hour his head rang and he limped. The Chief was beside himself with rage and anxiety. Mothers kept their children in the huts. There was not a goat, nor a dog, nor even a chicken in sight. This was the day and all knew it.

By and by the wail of a newborn breached the sullen silence. Nweewe turned, stepped into the full sun, kicked the boy's bottom twice for good measure and stalked into the building. His fourth wife had given birth to his eighth child.

The midwives would not meet his gaze and the Chief knew the child, once again, was a female. He turned on heel, outwardly impassive, inwardly in turmoil and set off for the witch doctor's hut.

Nweewe was paramount Chief of the Zombek National Council. He led nine other Chiefs. The National Council was an interim arrangement for the transition of power from the British, who had governed Zombek for 150 years, to the Zombekians. All Africa was returning to indigenous control. The British had seen this coming and, with an eye to the future, had arranged for Nweewe and other prominent young men to be educated in England. Thus, at the age of thirty-five, he straddled two distinct cultures. He'd been brought up as a village boy, albeit the son of a Chief. Later he'd been privately tutored, sent to an English prep school and gone on to graduate from a redbrick university.

On route to the witch doctor, Nweewe pondered. His power base was entrenched within tradition and his people. The British would soon be gone from political power. They would try to hang on to economic power, and that would be useful for now. In the meantime his people expected, would demand, a son. His line could be traced back to Nwabi. It must continue. His friend, the witch doctor, was not white-educated. They had grown up together. His father before him had been the witch doctor. But, like many such, he was astute. He understood power and deference and expectations and, certainly, where his own best interests lay. Nweewe resolved to recruit his aid.

“I come, Ngunda,” said the Chief, stepping into the hut.

“You bear ill fortune bravely, my friend.” Nweewe wondered how he knew so quickly. He'd only known himself for five minutes. “The village women are not worthy. You honour them and they fail you.”

“Can a Chief cast his seed wide, Ngunda, to help his people?”

“A Chief must have his reasons.”

“Another tribe?”

“Would be an insult. Besides, the Abiki women look like jungle pigs. And the others are little better!” They roared with laughter at this disrespect for their neighbours. “But a British woman might be different,” he added. “There would be no comfort in it. They have small breasts and hips like men. Still, I could mix you a potion. You wouldn't keep the memory,” he added helpfully.

Nweewe had never considered such a thing, not even during the long years in England. English women were, by comparison with Zombekians, bony and aloof, with runny noses half the year.

“We must think about these matters Ngunda. I shall go now and hold my new child and lovely wife. You are a wise friend.”

“You will know what to do and I will speak with your grandfather. I'll take him a goat.” Nweewe's grandfather had died twenty years ago, but everybody knew Ngunda walked and talked with the spirits of the bygone. Nweewe, despite his education, rolled his eyes before stepping into the sun and returning to his residence.

A little after sundown, Ngunda left the village. He carried a small animal, a machete and a woven bag. The bag contained a monkey's skull, some human hair, an old piece of linen stained with menstrual blood, a live tree frog and a plug of locally grown hashish. He set off for the Big Stone.

At noon three days later a Land Rover, spewing foul fumes and spreading dust, entered the village compound. Children ran alongside as it steered to the lodging house for travellers. Driver and passenger waved at the running tots. Scrawny chickens scratched up minute specks, ignoring the intruders. A flea-ridden dog lurched to its feet and joined the welcoming. The sun, its usual dispassionate self, burned down to maintain a humid 35 degrees Celsius discomfort.

William Fairhurst, Cultural Attaché from the British High Commission, and his new wife Sarah stepped out. It had been four weary hours from Kumbi, the capital. The bigger children smiled, shouted and humped the baggage up the steps to the veranda. The Fairhursts distributed sweets. They had come prepared. It was the fourth village in seven days.

Ten minutes later they boiled uncomfortably at the foot of Nweewe's steps waiting an invitation to enter. The Chief kept them an appropriate few minutes, then sent one of his wives for them.

“Jambo! Chief Nweewe, the High Commissioner wishes you well.” This was the protocol opening.

“Greetings William, my people welcome you,” replied the Chief in kind. He had met the attaché on several occasions. “Who is this beautiful lady?” he asked looking at her closely. In reality he thought she had passably big breasts for a British woman, but was a bit scrawny otherwise and probably had a runny nose in the winter.

“This is Sarah, my new wife, Chief.”

“Oh,” said Nweewe, “although I have several wives and may take a new one from time to time, I thought you were allowed only one!” He was joking of course.

“No, no, Chief, I meant we were only married during my recent leave,” he added, playing along with the Chief s joke. “In any case a Chief's powers are such that one wife could not meet all his wishes!” and was taken aback at the ensuing scowl.

Things took a turn for the better. By nature, Nweewe was a friendly, gregarious man who enjoyed the social company of Europeans. Over drinks and snacks the three of them spoke of matters of the day and he enjoyed himself. “Well,” he said at last, giving them an opportunity, “what brings you here, apart from your affection for me?”

Sarah took the lead. “One of the things we're doing, to raise the British public's awareness of Zombek's contribution to African culture, is to mount a touring exhibition of tribal dancing. We hoped you could support this by providing ten Zombekian women dancers from your tribe.”

Nweewe interpreted this as meaning that the commercial corporations, currently lobbying for British Government subsidies after the transition of power, wanted to raise British MPs' awareness of Zombek. Hence a bit of cultural razzmatazz at venues such as Earls Court, along with free tickets and other goodies for MPs and their Secretaries.

Just then, a messenger from the High Commissioner drove into the village. William was wanted to deal with an urgent query from the British Foreign Secretary. Such matters required an ‘answer this day'. Was this a spiritual intervention from Nweewe's departed grandfather?

Sarah looked at William. William looked at Nweewe. Nweewe looked at Sarah. Nweewe spoke to William. “You must go of course. I shall not regard it as a discourtesy. Sarah can stay in the lodge and dine tonight with me. She can tell me more of her plans for the dancers. I expect, if I come to understand, I can support them.” Half an hour later, William left on his second driving stint that day. Sarah returned to the lodge.

At sundown Chief Nweewe gave honour by collecting her personally. He'd dressed Western style for her, too, in blue chinos and white linen shirt. He was a fine figure, well over six feet and thirteen stone. She noted his broad forehead and prominent cheekbones, his white teeth and generous but not overly thick lips. She caught a whiff of quality Cologne.

He offered his arm and they walked the hundred yards, up the shallow steps, through the mosquito nets and onto his veranda. She silently recited the key points she would advance to get agreement for tribal dancers.

“Sarah, my people call me by my tribal name because, as Chief, I am the embodiment of the tribe. But all Zombekians have two first names, one of African origin and one of British. When your people first came they brought Christianity. It helped keep us quiet,” he twinkled, “but we became used to it and so our British first name is always one with Biblical origins. Mine is Matthew. Please call me by it!”

“Thank you, Matthew, I'm honoured,” she said, replying as she thought her husband would have wanted. They sat alone at the lamp lit table. From time to time a woman brought more food and drink. Was she one of his wives? The wine was perfect for the food, but quite strong, rather like Barolo she thought. She sipped slowly.

“I enjoyed my years in England. At first I was always cold, but then I learned to wear two rugby shirts and swimming trunks under my clothes. When I was found out, nobody dared cane me for fear of my father's displeasure! Later, the civil servant charged with my welfare bought me underwear intended for Arctic expeditions, from the Army and Navy Stores.”

Matthew Nweewe carried on in this entertaining way and Sarah enjoyed it. An hour passed. “Once, as a sixteen year old, I hopped over the barrier around the parade ring at Royal Ascot to inspect the favourite's genitals before entrusting my ten pounds to its performance.” She laughed out loud at her vision of him and the ensuing consternation. He recalled the occasion at the Royal Festival Hall when, thinking that Tchaikovsky's Fifth Symphony was ended, he leapt to his feet clapping vigorously, only to hear the orchestra resume a few seconds later towards the true finale. “I blushed deeply. But luckily nobody could tell,” he roared with glee.

“I had some growing-up pains, too, Matthew, literally, actually. When I was eighteen, and not long at university, I was mad about ballroom dancing, which we'd learned at school. Well, there was a boy who was after me and he found out my passion. He told me he had a Bronze Medal for ballroom dancing. I was delighted and nagged him to take me to a posh, end-of-term dance. When the band started to play a dance called a foxtrot, I seized his hand and pulled him out onto the floor. No one else moved; they just looked. The boy couldn't really dance at all. I took his left hand in my right, put my left hand on his right shoulder and stepped back with my left foot. He put his left foot forward and leaned his full weight on my right foot. He broke two of my toes! I had to be carried off to Casualty!” They both roared with laughter.

“What happened to the boy?”

“I don't know. Happily the fool was sent down after being caught at night in the women students' hall of residence.” They roared again.

“That would have been the spirits avenging you – your forebears,” he added.

A visitor appeared at the rear door of the Chief's residence and gave the cook a hollowed out gourd – more delicacies.

“What do you feel about the dancers then, Matthew?”

“Dancers? Oh yes, the tribal dancers, that's fine. I thought you were inviting me to foxtrot.” They laughed together. “You said ten would be right. Let's say twelve, just in case anyone breaks their toes!”

“Oh, thank you, Matthew,” Sarah was delighted with her success. The woman came to the table with another small carafe of wine.

The Chief topped up Sarah's wine and, as if reading her concern, said, “A night-cap. It's been a very pleasant evening, Sarah, which we should conclude.” He drank no more, having been liberal with his glass during the meal. Her appearance seemed to have changed though. He saw her as more pleasantly rounded, less remote. Perhaps it was the light?

They talked a little longer and it was time to go. Rising from the table became somehow difficult. She was light-headed and wobbly-kneed. Nweewe came to help. The last thing she remembered was being in the powerful arms of the Chief.

*************

Next morning Sarah woke late in the lodge and felt hung-over. The nets were drawn around the bed and she was naked. She sank back on the pillows and tried to think backwards. There was a gap. Snatches of conversation over dinner came to mind and the Chief agreeing to provide dancers. But what happened next? She put her forearm over her face shutting out the light and thought she smelled the Chief's Cologne. This recalled her difficulty at the table with Matthew coming to assist. That's when the Cologne must have transferred.

She had a further recollection. There was another Zombekian. A man she had not seen before, about Matthew's age. Perhaps he had summoned help? How had she got to bed and undressed and where were her clothes? Presumably his wives or some other women had helped her.

CHAPTER 4

1996

Simon glanced at his watch. Two hours were almost up. It felt like four. “Does anyone see a downside to practising equal opportunities in the workplace?” There were twelve students present, six male, six female. None volunteered an answer. “Surely you don't all believe ‘equal opportunities' is a perfect arrangement in social engineering?” he baited them.

Jenny spoke. “It's not perfect but it's better than doing nothing.”

Richard chipped in, “The minute you introduce positive discrimination in favour of one group, you unfairly discriminate against all those outside that group! What's equal about that?”

Lucinda, with slightly raised voice, said, “That's just the sort of arty-farty comment a bloke would make. We're talking about the spirit of equality here. Women everywhere know they have to fight extra hard for a fair chance at work. It's a stitch-up. Men have always passed the jobs around amongst themselves.” There were cheers from the girls and groans from the blokes.

That's better, thought Simon. There's nothing like a bit of aggro to get the messages remembered. “Are we saying, then, that there are no differences between men and women that make some jobs into women's jobs and others into men's? For example, if you females present were not at university, how many could see yourselves as car mechanics?” Not a hand was raised. “How many of you men could see yourselves as someone's secretary?”

“Five of us couldn't, but I'm not sure about Darren,” said Richard with a snigger. This was greeted with guffaws from the boys and sniggers from one or two girls.

Darren, not in the least abashed, said in his up-front camp way, “Now I believe we're hearing real discrimination, darling!”

Simon dragged the discussion back on course. “Unthinking zealots, not just the bra burners but bigots of all persuasion, cite occupational segregation as a prime example of social injustice. But the fact is that men and women as groups seem to find different attractions within jobs. How many of you think that if car mechanics were paid twice as much as secretaries, women would demand equal representation in car workshops?” There was no response.

“Is it your proposition then, Simon, that there is no such thing as non-equal opportunities and that everything is down to genes and market forces?” asked Sonia Greenberg with a twinkle in her eye and a little smile. Sonia was his star student, heading for first-class honours and probably more clever than he.

“No, Sonia, I'm saying that, as with any non-absolutes, we should challenge fashionable but sometimes sloppy thinking. These days someone can get fired from a job where they're in a minority, for being inadequate, and become a cause célèbre with a power group behind them. Anyway, time's up I'm afraid; would anyone like to have the last word?”

Richard, who was group jester, solemnly pronounced, “I still intend to sit on women and make a convenience of them whenever I can.”

“Give me last week's assignments on the way out,” Simon shouted over the boos and general hubbub of people rising. Lucinda hurled an empty Styrofoam coffee cup at Richard. With the exception of Sonia, they all hurried off to the cafeteria, plonking their work on his table.

“Thanks for your thoughtful contribution, Sonia.”

“I've had an ear bashing on that sort of stuff for years at home. My dad says that we Jews have been persecuted for two millennia; he wouldn't dream of employing an outsider in his business, though. People!” She was small and dark with bright eyes behind large spectacles; not particularly attractive but intense. He supposed it was her mind that turned him on. He'd have to control his body language.

For her part, she'd practised a similar restraint since attending her first lecture on his course. He was nice, clever, personable and probably a bit weak about women. She suppressed an excited shudder and wondered what her dad would have thought of his baby's mucky mind.

“Must go now, Sonia. I'm doing some work for publication.” He looked at her intently, adding, “Let's talk some more when the pressure's off a bit.”

“I'm sure I'd enjoy that, Simon.” She laid a brief hand on his arm, before walking through the doorway.

He left the lecture theatre en route for the Staff Common Room. He'd overslept, missed breakfast, was starving, pissed off and knackered, and now had another 12 assignments to assess within two weeks.

“Hi Simon,” greeted Josie, the young waitress smiled behind the food counter, “haven't seen you for ages. What you been up to?”

“I've been busy preparing for the research assessment exercise. And I've had trouble convincing a publisher my research is worth going into his journal. We've also had so many meetings we don't have a minute to breathe. This place would be OK if there were no students!”

“What can I do for you then?” she leered.

“Two bacon baps and a large coffee would be nice for now. Thanks.”

Attacking a bap as he walked, Simon spotted Mick Palmer sitting alone. Mick was the union rep and always had news about university developments. He was also a useful bloke to know when there was trouble about. He collapsed into the next armchair.

“Hello Simon, heard about Harry Ainsley?”

“No, has he died, ram-raided a post office, or shacked up with an Anglican bishop?”

“Next best thing, mate. He's won £3m on the lottery, resigned and is going to live in the Bahamas, lucky bugger. He said he'd get away one day and the bloody lottery has done it.”

“Well, I'm thinking of trying a money-spinner myself. Nothing to do with the lottery. I'm designing a computer program to help small investors pick shares for a quick return. The Internet's going to be the next big financial thing, you know. I can imagine huge sales. I'll keep you posted,” Simon added.

Ainsley had heard it all before. “Yeah, you do that. I'm off to do a session on Critical Path Analysis. Cheers.”

Simon started to read an article in the Guardian. A large black man lowered himself into the chair recently vacated. It was Luke Nweewe. “I was hoping to see you, my friend.”

“Hello Luke, thought you were out of the country.”

“Came back yesterday. Straight out of summer into autumn. It's twenty degrees colder here. Had to dig out my thermals. Don't tell any of our female colleagues, it would finish my street cred,” he flashed a big smile. Luke was a postgraduate student reading for a Master of Philosophy degree. Later he would attend an American university and read for a Doctorate. He always seemed well fixed for cash, but wasn't showy with it. Simon liked him. They'd shared several nights on the town.

“I couldn't help overhearing just now. Are you seriously interested in making some real money? If so, you could well be the one to help my country overcome a difficult developmental problem.”

“Luke, I've a nice lifestyle, nice job, nice old car, lots of birds, good mates, but I've got to find a way of moving up and on to better things. In answer to your question, yes I'm very interested in making some real money. I'm not frightened of work. And I'm inclined to help people in any case.”

“Let's go to your office. I've a tutorial in half an hour. But we could talk in outline and follow up another time.” They headed for the door.

Simon returned his empty coffee cup on the way. “You saved my life, Josie. What would we do without you?”

“What would you do with me?”

“Trollop!”
What's the world coming to? She couldn't be more than seventeen and me an old man of thirty!

“Simon, you remember our conversation before the holidays about getting lots of foreign students to enrol here and increase the Uni's revenues?”

“Yes, this is all timely. The Vice-Chancellor's set up a focus group to try to get Pucklebridge out of poverty street. Coincidentally I'm a member of that group. Why are you smiling, Luke?”

“I don't believe in coincidence!” he said in his enigmatic way. “Anyway, here goes. My family are the ruling tribe in Zombek. We hold all the important Government posts. We've done a hell of a lot of good in the last twenty years, but progress is slow, and there are always malcontents plotting to exploit weakness. The main opposition party is controlled by the Abiki, who are old tribal enemies and embarrass us on this issue.

“Anyway I've spent the last couple of weeks with my uncle who is Minister of Education. He thinks knowledge is the key. We need a fast increase in graduate level competence. He's desperate for our people to have the sort of education we've been arguing about for years. There's money to pay for them. My country is mineral rich. The problem is that we have insufficient numbers of young people qualified to gain entry to degree courses. Nothing else will do though. As a country, we need people with English university degrees.

“We need a facilitator, Simon. Someone with a good insight into university administrative mechanisms: Entry Boards, Examination Standards, Quality Audit, that sort of stuff. That person would also need access to the levers of power. He would need to be clever and forward looking and, of course, dedicated to the notion of spreading education. He would be regarded by my country as an informal agent and well treated as such. We would of course provide support and I would be a go-between. Do you see where I'm at, Simon?” He stared intently.

Simon did see. He saw the proposition exactly. The prospect was exciting, challenging and a bit frightening. “Access to the levers of power might be difficult.”

“There are more allies to hand than often one suspects,” Luke said, again in his enigmatic way. “Look, think about it. This is a unique opportunity to spread education, even to alter the destiny of a country,” he added, getting carried right away. “The big issue is spreading enlightenment. Paperwork and administration are peripheral and often attract a level of exactitude they don't merit. You're bigger than that!”

“Have you thought of having a new university built – and run by a British university, i.e. Pucklebridge?”

“Yes we have, but our President is adamant that our young people should have the opportunity to study in England and learn about cultural differences by experiencing them. Anyway, must fly. If you're free next Friday, let's meet at The Dragon at 9 o'clock and talk in more detail. In the meantime, I'll contact a cousin in Zombek to talk about finance in general.”

“Friday at The Dragon, nine o clock's fine. Cheers,” said Simon exuding an unfelt confidence.

He sat at the office desk and pondered. The sums were intoxicating. The Uni could charge £8,000 per Zombek honours degree student per year. Supposing they could take 250 a year? That would be £2m per annum. Even one set of 250 students would take 3 years to pass through the course. That would be £6m income for the Uni. If there followed a second tranche of 250, and so on, it was mind-boggling. What might an agent expect to get? He jotted down the start of a list of questions for his meeting with Luke.

How would he get the university to relax the required level of entry to any course at degree level? Alternatively, what Zombek accreditation existed for academic levels already achieved? Presumably Luke's uncle controlled such matters. How could one ensure they all, or most, passed each year at Pucklebridge? What courses were the Zombekians likely to want? Presumably, since Luke had approached him, it would be mainly Business School stuff.

Another intoxicating thought: if he brought all that business to the Uni, he would certainly get promoted! What age was the youngest Dean? Professor McGuire had a nice feel to it! That would also mean at least an extra ten grand!

After adding a few more questions to the list for Luke, he reluctantly turned to the forthcoming journal article. He'd long concluded that research was more about perspiration than inspiration. Today it was particularly hard to work up a sweat. Focus then application leads to progress, his landlady had said – she was dead right.

Fifty of his students had responded to a questionnaire. Sonia Greenberg had helped codify and input them to computer. He'd analysed them and drawn conclusions. Now it was a matter of producing 2000 words to hold readers' attention, perhaps even entertain them and add a little insight of the way business students saw management.

He'd given the students the Benjamin Disraeli political axiom, ‘Never complain and never explain' and asked them to comment on this as a modus operandi suitable for top management in the present times. Their comments were to address efficiency, natural justice, team spirit and employment law.

Since all the students were aged around twenty, they'd all been brought up to believe that it's better to complain than suffer in silence. Further, everyone had a right to an explanation for everything.

The students' responses more or less divided into two categories. The majority group felt that top management should act and be seen to act within the word and spirit of employment law. Further, such leaders should apply these rules of behaviour to themselves. Hence they should rightly feel aggrieved at undesirable outcomes and they should explain their aims, reasons and disappointments to others.

The minority group felt that top leaders should be made of sterner stuff. They should hold the view that if things went wrong it was their responsibility, since they held the levers of power. In other words, complaining is disempowering. It removes responsibility, both upwards and down.

As for giving explanations, the minority group felt that operating decisions should be explained for all sorts of good reasons. But they also felt that top management decisions should not be open to frequent challenge. In other words democracy can dilute quality of focus.

Simon was heartened that a sizable proportion of his students were prepared to step aside from mainstream thinking. Both groups had used words like communication, motivation, clarity, effort, results and fairness. The minority group had also displayed a fair sprinkling of words meaning personal strength and moral fibre.