A Fool's Knot by Philip Spires Page A

for an armchair after showing him out. There she would sit for ten minutes or more to convince herself that she was still capable of relaxing. She thought him rather like a dog chasing its own tail, living life by turning ever decreasing circles, always on the move and preferably in two places at once. Nevertheless, he was always warm and hospitable and had invited Janet to eat with his family at home on several occasions. She valued these experiences because it gave her the opportunity to sit and talk with Mwanza’s wife, Rose, in her own home, where she felt relaxed. Rose was the opposite of her husband: quiet, restrained, thoughtful and considerate. She was also wise, and Janet had learned much from their conversation.
    For Father Michael, who had known him longer, Mwanza’s novelty had worn off long ago. The two men met very often, too often for Michael, since, besides being headmaster of a primary school sponsored by the Catholic Church, Mwanza was also a tireless worker for the project, involved in committees for fund-raising and sports events, as well as the compulsory school governors. Invariably, ten minutes of Mwanza left Michael either exhausted or angry. In search of any respite, Michael would make excuses or tell lies about having an engagement with someone else, just to get away from the man. Michael would bid goodbye, usually three or four times out of sheer necessity, and then, without risking a single backward glance, would make a dash for his motorcycle, muttering, “Stupid whore,” under his breath. On a number of occasions, a mile down the road with his throttle full open, Michael had realised that he had left Mwanza alone in the mission, having offered the excuse that he, Father Michael, was in a rush to get home. One could rest assured, however, that Mwanza would simply move on to his next appointment without ever registering the contradiction. Mwanza’s fame was universal and everyone would express the same opinion when his name was mentioned. “That man talks very much.”
    John, on the other hand, had only recently met him and had grown quickly impatient. He had tried repeatedly to impress upon him that the District Officer was a very busy man, that he had business to attend – a rank untruth that day – and that he had expected him to have prepared a written statement that could be read verbatim to the court. But no, Mwanza had monopolised the morning and left it, along with John Mwangangi, tired, limp and unproductive. John had been informed about the productivity of each family’s farm and the headcount of goats and cows owned by each of the farmers. He had been told about a brother of one of the accused, who led the singing in church every Sunday by beating time on a five-string guitar, which he had traded some years before for a copy of the Concise Oxford Dictionary made redundant by his leaving school. John had heard more, and more and yet more.
    Eventually John had raised his arms and demanded he stop, following this with a sharp slap of the palms on his desk. “Mr Mwanza!” John had pleaded. He found the silence that followed such unexpected bliss that he refused to break it for some time, but when he continued, his words were almost shouted. “I invited you to this office today in your capacity as head of Nzawa Primary School. I stated clearly in my letter that I wanted you to provide character references for the students from your school who are now in custody, and also for the two teachers who have brought the action against them. Since it is merely an administrative matter, please return to Nzawa, write the references and send them by mail to me at this Office, DO Mwingi. If you can manage to complete them by tomorrow, then you can send them to me via my Land Rover, which will pass through Nzawa in the afternoon on the way back from Kathiko. I will instruct the driver to call at the school and ask for you. Thank you, Mr Mwanza.”
    And