One For You One For Me Page 4
Professor Zima Moto welcomed them with a wry smile. His wife had just explained that the men had a favour to ask. She was sure it had to do with their inability to get the blonde hair. Poor creatures! Their lack of imagination bordered on the ridiculous!
“Did you say a favour?” she repeated the words spoken by Luka.
“Yes,” he answered. “We have tried everything; but we have not been able to get the blonde hair. We came close, very close. We spent money. We used our brains like never before. We really racked them! But to no avail. Please help us. We have given up. We throw in the towel!”
“This is a delicate stage that we are in,” said the mganga. “We cannot afford to upset the spirits. We have to cooperate with them. I have seen that they are ready to work with you. That is why I will render such help as I can. But you know what to do, don’t you?”
“The same as before?” asked Luka.
“Yes; same as before.”
“Six hundred thousand!” exclaimed Oliver.
“Yes; that’s right,” said the woman. “Once you get over this one, the rest will be smooth sailing.”
“I sincerely hope so!”
“Without hope there is no salvation!”
They paid the money and were asked to report back in a week’s time. As expected, the medicine man had procured the hair and was all smiles when they greeted him. It was a great feat, his wife explained, to the joyous appreciation from Luka and Oliver.
“I had to scratch the nape of a lioness!” he announced. “That is not kids’ stuff! I will not blow my trumpet over it. All I will say is that you have to be prepared to handle hot iron if you have to bend it. I have bent this one for you. You have to bend the next one yourselves!”
“We are ready for that professor!”
“Well, this is what you have to do. Get a black robe each. Not the bui bui that Muslim women wear: real black robes for men that cover you from head to ankles. This must be done between now and Friday. Then on Saturday you have to present yourselves here with the robes. I will then perform the final ceremony.”
They procured the two robes from a shop in Dar es Salaam that sold clergymen’s wear by pretending to be deacons from a church in their home area. Come Saturday, they were at Professor Zima Moto’s home.
“Welcome, my friends, to the final act of our glorious fight against poverty,” he said through the medium. “If you survive this stage, all the world’s riches will be at your disposal. You will rule men with the might of your money. You will take your place among the rich in your city and beyond. When I say this, I say it because I know your city is a small island of riches. You will remember me all your lives! Kneel down, men from Mbeya! Prostrate yourselves before your fate!”
“And how much wealth do you reckon we shall have?” asked Luka.
The mganga was pensive for a long moment as if trying to calculate or remember how he had distributed the power to make money amongst the many clients who had consulted him on the issue. The men from Morogoro had been given 1/16th and the Arusha delegation had taken 1/8th; while the Tanga clients had been assigned 1/12th, the Kilwa merchants had been promised one-quarter. Kigoma and Musoma had each earned 1/10th.
“It is not a small matter,” said the wife. “God made me blind so that I can see with my mind. He made me deaf so that I may hear with my heart. He made me poor so that I may know generosity. You have shown greater tenacity than all the other seekers. I give you one fifth of the wealth of all the merchants of Mbeya. But there is one small sacrifice that I will ask of you. You are to wear the black robes and sleep at the local cemetery from eight in the evening till five in the morning. Not together but separated by at least ten tombstones.”
“When are we to do that?”
“Tonight!"
About 2 am that night, two thieves entered the cemetery. They were carrying a sack of coconuts they had stolen from a Zanzibari trader. They had decided that the cemetery was the safest place for them to split their loot. It was the darkest night they had ever experienced. They could not see anybody and nobody could see them. But they were nocturnal creatures and the cemetery was well known to them. That was where they slept during the day, except when there was a burial ceremony there. But as they entered the cemetery, one coconut slipped out of the sack and fell near the gate.
The cemetery being what it was Luka and Oliver had remained alert most of the night. They could hardly sleep. But the thieves had quietly slipped in while Luka and Oliver were tottering towards slumber. They straightened up only when the intruders began whispering as they counted and divided the loot. Luka and Oliver found themselves listening intently to the monologue, with the occasional ‘Yes’ from the other participant.
“Here,” said one of the thieves, “this will do!”
“Yes, yes.”
They put the sack down and the leader started sharing the coconuts.
“This one is for me,” he said, as he put a coconut to one side. “And this one is for you.”
His colleague was affirming the division as the leader proceeded with the split.
“This one is for me and this one is for you.”
“Yes.”
“This one for you; and this one is for me.”
“That’s right.”
“This one is for me and this one is for you.”
“Sure!”
“This for you; and this for me.”
“No, no. This one is for you and that one is for me.”
“Okay!”
“And this one?”
“That is for me!”
“How about this one?”
“That’s for you.”
“And the one near the gate?”
“That one is for me!”
Suddenly there was pandemonium in the cemetery. Luka took off like a racing horse that had been stung by a scorpion! Oliver flew out of the cemetery like the Concorde on its maiden flight to New York! Unlike the Concorde, he crashed into a big tombstone and broke his leg. He hobbled out of the place and collapsed on the road.
Thinking that they had been discovered, the thieves abandoned their loot and took to their heels, jumping and falling over tombstones as they escaped. Each of them swore never to return to that cemetery alive! They would steal no more. If only God would let them off this time!
Luka managed to reach his house in one piece, more or less. He had a few injuries but none were life threatening. The following morning he decided to check whether his friend had made it home. He had not. Luka decided to investigate. A Good Samaritan had picked up a screaming Oliver and taken him to hospital. Luka found him under the scalpel!
Two weeks later, the two were brainstorming as to what had to be done. They had lost most of their money either on the trips to Harare or on endeavours to comply with the wishes of the medicine man. They decided to revisit Professor Zima Moto. This they did and the wise man listened to their story quite sympathetically. If he could he would help, he said. But the matter was now beyond him. They had bungled the plan and it was too late for him to be of any further help. They would have to start the whole process from the beginning, with little or no assurance of ultimately making it to the millionaire league.
“You see,” he said through his usual interpreter of his sign language. “The spirits have set certain rules by which all must abide. If I don’t follow the set procedure and fulfill the preconditions set by the guiding spirit, you have only yourselves to blame. We had gone a long way. Only so little remained to be done. You should not have run away!”
“I thought they were sharing the spirits!” said Oliver.
“I thought they were sharing the souls!” said Luka.
“But we now know they were thieves, don’t we? The newspapers carried the story, didn’t they? You talked to them in your delirium, no?”
Oliver shook his head. “I told you I did not know where I was! I was in a coma!”
“Yes,” confirmed the woman. “The papers said they were thieves and the others were night-runne
rs! Wizards! You must have told them so.”
“But you know the truth,” asserted Oliver.
“Yes, the truth is that you lacked courage. That is the truth! If you want to be given another chance, we can talk about it. The past cannot be part of the future.”
“Are you saying that all that we have done counts for nothing?” inquired Oliver.
“In the realm of the future, it counts for nothing,” answered the seer. “But the doors will remain open for you if you wish to re-start the project. Otherwise, kwaheri, adieu!”
Luka could sense the anger rising in Oliver’s breast. He decided to intervene.
“Listen, my friend,” he said to him. “Let us go home now and consider our next step. It is in our own interest to conduct ourselves with decorum. Professor Zima Moto has spoken and we should heed his words.”
They went away looking like jilted lovers. Once out of earshot, Oliver regained his voice.
“We have been conned!” he said.
“I don’t think so,” said Luka.
“You must be blind,” he stressed.
“You think he organized for people to frighten us in the cemetery?”
“He was the only one who knew we were there.”
“And the coconuts?”
“Forget the coconuts!”
“But they were there!”
“Did you see them?”
“Come on, Oliver. Don’t be too sceptical.”
“I know a liar when I see one.”
“So why did you continue with the project?”
“I wasn’t sure of myself. I was too greedy to reason.”
‘Tanzanian and Kenyan witchdoctors promote the belief that people with albinism are not entirely human and that their body parts can be used to bring good luck to those seeking wealth, health and personal success, said Mwaura, an albino member of Kenya's National Assembly.’
Chapter Five: Has to be an Albino