This is a story about a sincere attempt at a safari holiday that went terribly wrong in a way that some would agree only Africa can deliver. The victims of this ill-advised adventure were Mike Padgett, known better as Mike or Padge, and his girlfriend, Fiona.
Mike had had a checkered past. He was born in Rhodesia, but his parents, wanting for him what in their perception was the very best, sent him against his will to school in England. Bright and a good sportsman he made the grade, but he always hankered to return to his homeland in Africa. Again, somewhat against his wishes, he was dispatched to the University of Cape Town to do an engineering degree. In those days that institution was a hive of liberally inclined academics, and the reluctant student found little in common with his associates. The result was that he involved himself in all sorts of antisocial behavior that eventually attracted the attention of the police. The school suggested an early departure, rather than his facing prosecution. The liberal majority was thrilled to see the back of him.
On returning to Rhodesia, Mike wasted no time in offering his services to the Rhodesian Air Force. He joined the good fight against the guerrilla armies of Robert Mugabe and Joshua Nkomo and found himself in far more comfortable company. Despite the rigors of war, he thoroughly enjoyed the life of a combat soldier. However, his penchant for recklessness and irresponsibility would soon get him into trouble again.
In the role of gunner on an armored car based at the Forward Air Field (FAF) known then as Grand Reef, close to the Mozambique border, he and his section were tasked with airfield security. It was an onerous and serious task, not least because the war was escalating daily. Helicopters and strike jets were absolutely vital if the Rhodesians were to sustain their defense against the communist-inspired insurgents, who were attempting to overwhelm them.
On one fateful winter evening, Mike and his crew—a sergeant who was in charge and a brand-new arrival from training—decided to have a couple of beers before going on duty for the night. Their task was to do perimeter patrols in the armored vehicle to ensure that the airfield defenses were not breached. At the designated time for duty, the new addition pointed out the hour and suggested they commence their patrol. Mike and the sergeant, however, had by then consumed more than few beers and were engaged in an enthralling game of darts in a little wooden shack, which served as a rudimentary pub.
“Just hold on while we finish,” was the only retort the newcomer could get from his seniors, who continued to quaff beers and throw darts. After some time the new boy was getting desperate to do his duty, and a discussion ensued.
“Maybe we should go, Mike,” said the sergeant.
“Naa,” said Mike, beer in hand. “There’s a whole commando of RLI here. The terrorists won’t come near the bloody place.” The RLI were the Rhodesian Light Infantry, an elite unit of the Rhodesian Army.
“You reckon?” said the sergeant, searching Mike’s eyes for reassurance.
“Not a bloody chance in hell,” he reiterated with absolute certainty. The new fellow looked on in dismay and shook his head.
“But we’ll have our heads handed to us if the brass find us here in the pub and not on the fence!”
“Screw ‘em,” said Mike. “They’ll be in their pits [beds] by now. Come on Sarge, shoot it up. Let’s have another game.”
And so they continued into the night, and the more they drank the more flippant they became about their unperformed tasks. The two men were very drunk when, to their terrible surprise, they heard a loud bang. The two looked at each other askance, hoping to hear something reassuring from the other.
“What the hell was that?” said the sergeant. One hand gripped a beer, the other a cigarette. The youngster, his eyes wide and white with fear, looked at his drunken comrades for guidance.
“Not sure,” replied Padge. “I think someone must be messing aro. . . . “With that there was an ear-bursting blast as a mortar shell landed nearby, lifting the roof off their pub.
“Run!” the sergeant screamed.
The sober member of the team had already done so. The lights in the camp had gone out, and the two dart players had no idea where to run. The exact location of their armored car was now unclear to them, and darkness filled their bloodshot eyes. With panic setting in, they ran blindly into the night as fast as their wobbly legs would carry them. Mike’s belated attempt to join battle ended sharply as he careened into a ditch at great speed, winding himself and wrenching an ankle that rendered him momentarily immobile. He still held an unspent dart in his hand. The sergeant ran headlong into a washing line that almost decapitated him and left him squirming on the ground, holding his throat as he gasped for breath. Mortar shells made thunderous explosions all around them, and machine guns crackled in the surrounding hills.
In great pain Padge pulled himself out of the ditch and crawled on his belly to where he could see the faint outline of the armored car, which was now solely occupied by the youngster. With tracer bullets slicing the night sky above his head, he crawled toward the relative safety of the car. His efforts to rise and clamber toward the hatch, however, were frustrated by the combined forces of a broken ankle and thorough intoxication. He collapsed to the ground screaming at his junior to open the hatch and help him in.
But his loud bellows fell on frightened, deaf ears. Suspecting the airfield had been overrun, the lone soldier inside was taking no chances. He fired up the engine and drove off, almost crushing the stricken soldier below in the process. Coming to terms with his predicament and fully expecting an enemy bayonet in the back at any minute, Padge took little comfort in the realization that the sole weapon with which he might defend himself was the dart that remained firmly in his clutch.
Absolutely no thanks to two-thirds of the car crew, the attack was beaten off by a handful of resolute defenders and the airfield saved. But Padge’s military career drew rapidly to a close. With few accolades to see him out, he found civilian life beckoning.
* * * * *
Mike was forty years old, unmarried, and never betrothed when Fiona came into his life. Like most bachelors he was rather set in his ways and happy with male company, but after many years without a woman in his life the arrival of Fiona was indeed welcome. Mike was known for being a little obnoxious, chauvinistic, and intolerant, but his deep affection inspired him to strive to conform to what was required of him. He underwent something of a personality change, which brought considerable scorn upon him from many of his friends. He was unashamed to admit that his love for Fiona was so great that there was precious little he would not do to retain her affections. All in all it triggered much sniggering and derogatory comment from the cynical.
There was nothing rough and ready about Fiona. Slim, petite, and pretty, with a thick mane of auburn hair and clear blue eyes, she was definitely an eye-catcher. Unfortunately, she had recently emerged from an unhappy marriage that had left her shaken and somewhat insecure. Her faith in men had taken a decisive blow, and for that reason Mike was under considerable pressure to display the honesty of his intentions and constantly reassure her of his rock-solid devotion.
Three months into this friendship Fiona announced that a girlfriend of hers and her fiancé had invited them to their lakeside safari lodge in Malawi. Fiona was of the opinion that it would be a little haven for them in a nicely secluded spot next to the azure waters of that magnificent inland sea. On offer were water sports, fishing, game viewing, and simply savoring the delights of being in an exotic location in an African wilderness, well away from the stresses of working life in the city. They would almost certainly have a lot of time alone, during which they would be able to impel their relationship to new and more meaningful heights. Mike was not a born romantic and, therefore, was initially a little guarded about the idea, but being a keen fisherman and lover of the outdoors he eventually found the proposition more and more attractive.
Because the vacation would involve long, lazy days on the beach along with water skiing, fishing, and scuba diving, followed by sumptuous meals and delicious cocktails, Fiona insisted that he have the right apparel so as not to look out of place. Mike was not a flashy person and well known for having little or no dress sense while Fiona was just the opposite: artistic, well groomed, and conscious of fashion. Mike pretended full concurrence, and he was led off to the shops to brighten and modernize his wardrobe. Somewhat dazed by the damage to his bank account, he emerged from the sortie with a bewildering array of avant-garde clothing that left him full of foreboding.
Mike was not an imposing physical specimen: short, slim, and hirsute, with a rather pinched face, dark hair, and a jet-black moustache that lent him a somewhat severe and humorless appearance. He was under no illusions about his ability to cut any sort of figure whatever on the beach, regardless of what he was wearing, but in the name of the greater good he feigned appreciation. In reality, he was quietly alarmed at the thought of being seen by a familiar face in all that new apparel. But he took solace from the fact that soon they would be far from the gaze of old friends with narrow minds and sharp tongues.
As the date for their departure neared, and the more that Fiona described the little paradise lost that awaited them, Mike realized that his initial, inner apprehension was giving way to genuine anticipation. Thoughts of lolling around on a sailboat adrift on the lake on a windless day, drinking strawberry daiquiris with his sweetheart in his arms, filled him with eager excitement. Mike had spent considerable time in the Zambezi Valley and on Lake Kariba, and he relished the thought that soon opportunities would present themselves to impress Fiona with his limited but easily embellished knowledge of the bush and wildlife.
On the day of their departure, finding himself positively thrilled with the upcoming prospects, he quietly berated himself for his initial pessimism. Throwing caution to the wind, he donned one of his new oversize floral shirts for the flight from Harare to Lilongwe. His feeling was, “To hell with what they think, I’m on a high and I’m going to have a ball.” Joyfully, Mike and Fiona boarded the plane for an uneventful flight to Malawi, a country touted as “the warm heart of Africa.”
On arrival John and Kim, Fiona’s friend and fiancé, who were jointly managing the lodge, met them at the airport, and they set off for the camp. En route Fiona and Kim caught up on each other’s news, and Mike was happy to sit back and study the scenery while eagerly anticipating the time ahead. After an uncomfortable three-hour drive over heavily eroded roads in a car that rattled a great deal, John announced that the camp was just ahead. Mike braced up, looking expectantly out the front window for a glimpse of their exclusive little hideaway.
Some corrugated iron structures looking not unlike a rural road camp came up on the right-hand side, but he ignored them as surely belonging to someone else. He looked farther ahead for sight of something palatial. Then the look of quiet contentment on Mike’s face turned to a slightly bewildered frown when Kim gaily announced that they had reached the lodge. He looked at Fiona quickly to gauge her reaction and took some comfort from the fact that she appeared to be relaxed and happy. Forcing a smile he opened the car door and stepped out.
Staff arrived, and John instructed Mike and Fiona to follow them to their chalet. Bewilderment changed to genuine concern when Mike saw their little home away from home. It was a rectangular tin shack containing two beds that looked as if they might have been liberated from the local jail. Some distance away was the bathroom, which consisted of a long drop toilet, hand basin, and cold shower. Acquiring hot water was not of immediate concern to Mike, however, because inside the structures it was like an oven and immediately on entrance into the room, the sweat had gushed forth. While inspecting the facilities, a glimpse of himself in his new multicolored garb reminded Mike of how stupid he looked.
Fiona dismissed his expressions of concern about the accommodations. She explained that their time indoors would be limited, so that it would not be much of a problem. He wasn’t totally convinced, but the thought of a cold beer cheered him.
After putting on his spanking new beach sandals, he strolled with Fiona up to the central bar dining complex, also mainly tin although elevated on stilts so as to provide a flow of air underfoot. Briefly forgetting his disappointment, Mike brightened up on nearing the bar.
“Hello, Mr. Barman,” he said loudly with a big grin. “May I have a cold beer, please?”
“We have beer, but not cold, sir.”
Mike felt hot blood surge into his head as he struggled to absorb this latest news. His pinched face tightened. “You what?” he blurted out.
The barman simply stood there with a vacant, frightened look on his face. Fiona looked on with dread. She knew that Mike would suffer most things, but that no cold beer was a serious setback.
“Let me go and ask Kim what’s going on,” she said and hurried away. Mike slumped back into a chair and took a long, hard look at the hairy legs sticking incongruously out from his brightly colored shorts and the new sandals that dwarfed his small feet. This new attire was starting to irritate.
His spirits sank further when he got the news that only one fridge was working, and that it was being used in the kitchen: Cold drinks would be unavailable. It was too much. “Can’t we get some ice from somewhere?” he asked, panic setting in.
“Yes, but we will have to go to Salima. That’s a three-hour drive,” Kim replied.
That was all right with Mike. At his insistence, he drove with John to Salima to get ice, arriving back at the lodge after dark.
By that time Mike was famished. The beer on the road had improved his mood, though; a gentle breeze blew in off the lake, and certain mellowness soothed his mind. It hadn’t been a terribly auspicious start, but maybe the worst was over.
“What’s for dinner, Kim?”
“It’s a local chicken dish,” she replied.
“Sounds interesting.”
Mike relaxed, looked at his beloved Fiona, and smiled. She winked, and a sublime moment was quickly upon him. All was not lost. A good dinner with a bottle of wine and the night with his girl made future prospects look considerably brighter.
A raggedly dressed waiter appeared to tell them that the food was served. The news was music to Mike, who rose with a bounce in his step. He gave Fiona a hug and led her into the dining room. John and Kim were conspicuously absent, but there were two plates of food, already on the table. The fact that they would be eating alone came as a surprise; what lay before him came as a shock. Puzzlement turned to horror when it became obvious that the mysterious mess in front of them was dinner. With blood once again surging up into his head, he stared in disbelief at a large glob of congealed rice with a few unattractive yellow strips on top.
“Waiter!” Mike shouted.
There was a silence and another yell—louder this time. Amid a tense silence, there came a rustle in the kitchen, and a dejected waiter, clearly fearing the worst, emerged, head bent toward the floor in the manner of one condemned.
Eyes popping, Mike glared at him.
“What is this?” He pointed at the slimy yellow strips that provided the little bit of color to brighten the stodge.
“Mango,” replied the waiter.
“Mango! I thought we were having chicken!” His bellow echoed through the tin shanties of the camp. Fiona looked on nervously, taking comfort from the fact that they were alone in the dining room.
“Yes, chicken,” the waiter replied with profound lack of conviction.
“Chicken! Where the hell is the chicken?”
Another bellow. Mike could feel his lips start to tremble as anger engulfed him, but his question soon received a decisive response. Like a lance and with some skill the waiter’s rather large black finger shot unerringly forth and plunged into the bed of rice with surprising deftness. Skillfully he shuffled some of the rice aside to unearth a small piece of what looked like chicken skin, and with a flourish he said: “There sir. There ees thee cheeken.”
Flabbergasted by the sight of the waiter’s index finger in his meal and overcome by the magnitude of the overall mess he had walked into, Mike buried his head in his hands and held on tight. Eventually he looked up, to find Fiona looking on with great trepidation. She, being a very light eater, did not share his pain, and with a forced smile she tried to cheer him with the news that things could only improve. The brief urge to assault someone passed.
Not long afterward, on the veranda, Fiona watched Mike launch an angry attack on a bottle of local rum in an attempt to calm himself after the culinary disappointment. With lowered enthusiasm, but with anguish reduced by drinking booze on an empty belly, he eventually left for bed with Fiona at his side. The path to the tin shack was dark, and she clung to him. The feel of her close embrace stirred him, and sensual thoughts filtered through his tangled brain.
On arrival at the room he stopped before opening the door and kissed her hard. A feeling of intimacy overwhelmed him, and the day’s tribulations seemed to dissipate. He forced the door open and after much searching located the light switch. Within a split second of the light’s coming on his amorous mood was shattered by a scream that rattled the tin walls of the shack. Mike’s own fright at the sound was such that his knees weakened, his heart raced, and the blood drained from his groin into his feet. Fiona’s face was as white a sheet, and she continued to scream uncontrollably, her eyes bolted to something on the pillow of their love nest. Mike followed her stare, then he too momentarily felt the urge to scream but leaped backward instead, falling over a suitcase and cracking the back of his head on the tin wall. The whole structure shook and for a moment seemed likely to come crashing down.
A baboon spider the size of a soup plate appeared unconcerned by the hysteria its presence was causing. It had long, hairy legs supporting a bulbous, fluid-filled abdomen, and large vicious looking pincers that twitched menacingly. Mike and Fiona went hurtling out the door into the night.
Mercifully, the commotion brought a night watchman to their rescue. These spiders were obviously nothing new to him, and he quickly dispatched it with a smash from his club that left the pillowcase bright yellow and red. By this time Fiona was sobbing uncontrollably, and Mike had to acknowledge that any hope of impressing her with his expertise in the wilds was now severely compromised. But he embraced and tried to comfort her. The threat, he assured her, had passed. Gingerly they reentered their shack, entered the bed, and brought the mosquito net down. With Fiona insisting that the light remain on throughout the night, Mike lay upon a hard mattress staring at a bare light bulb, his girlfriend whimpering in his arms. His stomach ached with emptiness, and his head pounded from the fall. The hippo chortling in the distance irked him.
After a virtually sleepless night during which Fiona yelled in her sleep as she fought with nightmare spiders, the sun rose at last. In no time the heat of the room was oppressive, forcing them outside to meet the day. Fiona had taken five times the prescribed dosage of Prozac and had the appearance of someone mainlining heroin. Her gaze was unfocused and distant, she was unsteady on her feet, and a weird smile was fixed to her face. Mike shuddered to think what would have occurred without those pills.
There were hard, cold eggs on toast for breakfast, and Mike realized that he should simply be grateful for whatever mercies came his way. Home was a long way away, and this might yet turn into a case of survival of the fittest.
As far as recreation was concerned, any ideas of engaging in water sports quickly disappeared when news arrived that the boat engines were unserviceable and awaiting spares. Mike resigned himself to a day with a book on the beach. Lunch was another joyless, meatless affair, and in frustration he decided to inspect the kitchen himself, to make sure there were no hidden culinary treats. He discovered a rather crisp looking lettuce, seized it, and brandished it in the cook’s face.
“Look here! What is this?” he said, shaking it in his face. “Why can’t we have some lettuce?”
“Sorry,” said the cook. “The lettuce is for the hippo when he comes to the camp. The madam has told me not to use it for the guests.”
Mike now had to entertain the real likelihood that he had unwittingly entered a home for the insane.
After a few rum and Cokes, the lack of sleep of the previous night started to tell, and Mike decided to go to the shack for a sleep, hoping that sheer exhaustion would overcome the heat of the afternoon sun. Approaching the hut he noticed the door ajar, which struck him as a little strange. Only upon entering and finding the place bereft of their belongings did it dawn on him that something was amiss. He rushed back to ask if they had been moved to another hovel but was told they had not.
Mike and Fiona had been the victims of a theft, and—apart from their passports and money, which were in an office safe—they were alone against the world in what they stood up in. Pondering the new challenges, it was starkly apparent that all other deprivations paled compared with the awful fact that the thieves had taken Fiona’s Prozac. On hearing this piece of news she became hysterical, and Mike quickly understood that his nightmare was only beginning. Efforts to buy the drug locally proved fruitless. Overcome with despair, Mike went back to the rum bottle to try to reduce the pain, then back to his hut to attempt to sleep, in the forlorn hope of banishing the terrible reality of the present.
Tossing and turning in the makeshift sauna, his efforts to sleep were proving futile when in the distance he could hear some sort of activity. It seemed that someone was laughing—a sound long unheard. For want of anything else to do he went to see what it was all about and discovered that some local Africans were playing a game of volleyball on the beach. They were friendly and asked him if he wanted to join in. Aware of his intoxication and a lot shorter than the other participants, he was a little apprehensive but accepted the offer. It seemed there was little to lose.
After a brief stint at the back of the court, the rules rotated him to the net, where he was immediately called upon to block a return. Amid shouts of inspiration from his teammates he leaped into the air with all the spring in his step—but failed to connect. With balance impaired by alcohol he came down awkwardly on his right foot. The pain was immediate and exquisite as the ligaments in his ankle were torn from the bone. The horrible sound of them ripping combined with the acute pain triggered a shattering scream.
Shocked into silence, the other players looked on askance as the stranger in the floral shirt writhed in agony in the sand. Unsure whether this strange white man was bewitched, and a little embarrassed, the other players quietly distanced themselves and wandered off. Mike, unable to put any pressure on his right leg, crawled back to the camp.
Without her pills, Fiona was unsympathetic. She merely gazed empty-eyed at nothing in particular. Her only concern was how to get through the day without her Prozac.
“Go and ask for the medical aid box, please!” he begged. “I can’t walk. Look at how swollen this bloody thing is. I need some help! Please, Fiona, I’m in agony.”
Without showing much concern, she wandered off, zombielike, to look for assistance. Soon she was back, and as she slumped onto her bed she announced that they had no medical box or supplies. Mike let out another scream, but it elicited no reaction. Fiona was fully preoccupied.
Finding elevation the only way to lessen the throbbing pain, Mike asked Fiona to help him fashion some sort of sling. Using his mosquito net she helped him rig a harness, and there he lay—dressed in his ridiculous beachwear, hungry, dirty, unloved, a pounding headache from a large lump on the back of his head, and searing pain in his swollen ankle. To add to his woes the mosquitoes soon realized that his net was otherwise engaged. He looked across at his estranged beloved to see her staring blankly into nowhere, unconcerned and pitiless. For the first time it was now clear to him that he was fully capable of felony assault.
Neither of them slept that night, and the morning saw Mike covered in mosquito bites that added to his discomfort and did nothing for his general appearance. The thought that malaria might follow was of surprisingly little concern.
The swelling in his ankle subsided during the day, enabling him to struggle to the bar for a drink. His inquiries as to the possibility of leaving were met with the response that there were “transport problems.”
In the afternoon, John cheerfully announced that one of the boat engines had been repaired, and that the guests were welcome to go out for a swim or a dive. Determined to salvage something from this ordeal, and in spite of having the use of only one leg, Mike agreed to go and hobbled off to the beach. With great difficulty he embarked, and he, Fiona, and the driver set off across the lake. Fiona, withdrawn into her own world, stared blankly ahead. Just what the next calamity would bring was not clear, but she knew it must be imminent. She was right.
Upon arrival at some shallow water, the driver announced that this was a good spot to dive in search of exotic fish. Fiona had no interest, but Mike wanted to try, despite having had no previous experience. After applying goggles, snorkel, and one flipper, he painfully but determinedly climbed overboard. As soon as his body hit the water he flinched as the pressure forced his bad foot backward. But he managed to kick hard with his flippered foot.
As he did, the snorkel exploded out of his mouth. His good foot had collided with a solid underwater object. The pain felt as if a ton of concrete had been dropped onto his toe, and spinning around he saw a lump of rusty metal where his foot had just been. Tearing off the flipper he discovered that his big toe was covered in blood and the nail uplifted. The pain coming from his two feet was now of roughly equal intensity.
Like a man possessed, he screamed abuse at the driver. Then realized that his assistance would be required to reenter the boat, so he restrained himself and panted quietly while recovering his breath. Treading water was too painful, so while his legs hung limp, the stricken diver had to thrash the water with his hands and arms in order to remain buoyant. After much maneuvering by the driver and with a great deal more pain, Mike floundered into the well of the boat. He lay there staring hopelessly at the heavens, asking of an unknown power the manner of his sin.
On their return to shore, Mike noticed to his dismay that other unfortunate visitors had arrived. It would be his privilege to have the benefit of an audience to witness his being carried, crippled, from the boat to his shack. He was unable now to put pressure on either foot, so with a bearer on either side, the wounded and bedraggled tourist was dragged out of the boat and off to his room. They placed him gently onto his bed. Now, with both feet in the sling, Mike resigned himself to the fact that this might be his deathbed. It was not an unattractive proposition.
Night fell, but it was of no consequence to Mike, whose only desire was to urinate, which he seriously considered doing in bed. Fiona announced that she was going to meet the others at the bar and left him in the gloom to deal in solitude with his agony. Some hours later she returned with Kim to say that they had grilled some fresh Nile perch and thought it would be a good idea for him to join them. Hunger had set in, and the thought of fresh fish buoyed him. He decided he would make the effort.
Supported by the two girls he staggered up to the dining room, quickly collapsing into a chair on arrival and asking for a very strong rum and Coke in the hope that it would dull the pain and lift his all but broken spirit. Three drinks had the desired effect, and the thought of good food cheered him considerably.
An attempt to get to the table alone faltered, but with the girls supporting him he limped forth and on entering the dining room caught the wonderful aroma of freshly grilled fish. The smell put some spring in his step, but on reaching the table the movement of something long, dark, and ominous next to his chair caught his eye. One end started to rise, and Mike looked on in stunned disbelief.
Africa’s most feared serpent, the black mamba, was also out for a meal. A large specimen raised itself high off the floor and opened its mouth to reveal white fangs against a dark backdrop. It was preparing to strike.
Mike’s two supporters showed remarkable agility in their efforts to separate themselves from him. Within seconds they had fled, followed by the other patrons and the waiters, leaving Mike splayed out on the floor.
Terror overcame pain, and Mike forced his wounded legs into motion, getting out of the room before the pain was able to catch up with him. Then his ankle simply refused to respond, and he collapsed in the dirt. Not certain if the danger had passed, though, he continued to crawl away, looking backward as he did so in abject terror.
By now thoroughly exhausted, Mike neared a car and hauled himself in. Some time later he heard voices and requested assistance. Fearful of returning to the dining room, he asked that he and a bottle of rum be returned to his room.
Despite his own pain he was taken aback by the sight of Fiona, who was disheveled, chalky in the face, and seemingly talking in tongues. It was clear to him that nervous collapse could not be far off.
“Are you OK, Fiona?” he asked gently.
“Ahhhhhhhgggggg,” she replied with a scream, and he thought that the breakdown was beginning. He was astonished at how little he cared.
After another sleepless night with the light on, the penultimate day arrived, and Mike could barely control his anticipation. When John informed them that they could not leave later than 8:00 A.M. to catch the plane home, Mike made it clear that nothing in the world would stop him from being in that vehicle at least two hours early.
Never in his forty-odd years had Mike been so thrilled to see the sun rise. With nothing to pack he limped off to the car as dawn broke to wait for someone to remove him from this house of horrors. He had been positioned patiently in the car for two hours when, incredibly, 8:00 A.M. arrived and no one showed. Unable to move freely, Mike implored Fiona to go and find a driver, but she stared fixedly ahead, unfocused and unresponsive. He felt a combination of frustration, pain, anger, and fear of not being able to leave, along with hatred for all who had brought this misery upon him.
In desperation he wound down the window, stuck his head out, and with all the strength remaining within him screamed “Help!” with such hysteria it was as if he were being savaged by a wild animal. Breathless and exhausted he slumped over the door, then looked up to see if his efforts had generated a response. All he saw was the wide-eyed stare of one of the employees, who was looking out a kitchen window at him. Fiona did not flinch.
Eventually John appeared, offered a cursory apology, and assured them that there was nothing to worry about: They had plenty of time to get to the airport. Not wanting to say or do anything that might prejudice their chances, Mike remained mute. Fiona, to all intents and purposes, was comatose.
The engine firing into life was the sweetest of sounds, and the sight of the hothouses disappearing into the dust reinvigorated him. For the first time in days a vague feeling of relaxation crept over him. Looking at his watch, Mike realized that they were cutting it fine, but John was reassuring. Alarm bells started to sound when John explained that they would need to refuel.
“Um . . . we need some fuel, Mike.”
“Well, stop at Choma and get some?” Mike suggested.
“Yes, but I’ve got no money.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got U.S. dollars,” Mike was happy to announce.
“That’s the problem. They won’t accept U.S. dollars.”
The urge to react violently was almost overpowering, but that would certainly be counterproductive. The aim now was to flee at all costs.
“Let’s go to the station and ask the attendant,” Mike suggested.
They pulled in and explained the urgency of their predicament, but to no avail. In desperation Mike told John to get him to refuel, and then they would light out after tossing the attendant the U.S. equivalent. Unfortunately, the man overheard and said he was going to call the police. Mike then went feverishly to work to dissuade the attendant from that course of action. He had just emerged from one prison and had no desire to repeat the experience.
Eventually the attendant relented and suggested that they go to the bank and change the money into local kwacha. Mike was happy to oblige.
With time fast running out he hobbled off accompanied by the attendant, who adroitly jumped the queue and explained to the cashier that Mike had a plane to catch. The man behind the desk was considerate, and all went smoothly while his passport and documents were checked. Mike then produced a $500 traveler’s check, and the bank clerk calmly told him that his branch did not handle $500 denominations; he would have to go to another.
Barely containing himself, Mike limped hurriedly out of the bank and yelled to John the name of the other branch; off they sped. On arrival, Mike, now in a complete panic, bulldozed his way through waiting clients and with desperation on his face pleaded with the cashier to execute the transaction with the greatest possible speed.
The man looked at the check and put out his hand: “Passport please.” Mike felt suddenly nauseated as he checked his pocket and realized that his passport was still at the other bank.
“Can’t you phone the other branch?” he implored. “They have it there!”
“Sorry, our phones are not working.”
Like a man facing the executioner’s ax, Mike hobbled to the car in the knowledge that all was lost. The plane would leave without them. As he approached the car he looked at Fiona, sitting unmoved and unconcerned, and he realized that she was the person he hated most in the world.
Too tired to do anything else, he ordered John to take them to a local hotel. Soon after they entered their room a brief scuffle ensued, and the friendship between Mike and Fiona ended in unarmed combat on the carpet of the Nyasa Hotel. When she bit him, his scream brought a hotel security man, and Mike was blamed for the assault and asked to leave the hotel.
In the hotel foyer on the way out he looked at himself in his floral shirt, bright lime green pants, and sandals. He did not like what he saw, but what concerned him most was the twitch in his left eye. That was new. He knew then that he was forever scarred. Being a bachelor had never felt so good.
