a horizon broken by breakers folding over a distant reef.
‘Here’s my card.’ Margaux presented her with a damp rectangle. ‘Give me a call anytime. We can hang out.’
‘I will,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have a card but I’ll text you.’
‘Great,’ Margaux said, although there was no particular energy in her voice. Rather she sounded languid, almost sleepy. ‘We’ll have a blast.’
By the time she returned the electricity was off, casting the house in solemn twilight.
Julia greeted her at the door. ‘We’ve run out of diesel for the generator. We’ll have to do with candles.’
Julia looked exhausted. Bahari ya Manda was only an hour away, but the road was bad, and traffic could clog the city so much so that travellers regularly missed their flights from the airport even if they left three hours early. This was one of the nuggets of information she’d gleaned from her conversation that afternoon with Margaux. ‘The roadblocks have made it worse,’ Margaux had said, her face sheathed in a pool of shade thrown by her wide-brimmed hat. ‘A trip to the supermarket is a four-hour affair now.’
Julia made them each a gin and tonic. From the patio grounds came the intermittent screech of a bush baby. ‘Well, cheers.’ Julia lifted her glass. ‘I always need a drink after the supermarket trip.’
‘Where is Bill?’
‘He’s away on business.’ Julia’s eyes had turned olive in the evening. She fixed her with a frank look. ‘He’s having to spend a lot of time in the city because of the banks.’
‘Which banks?’
‘His bank, Pan-African – well, his money is mostly offshore – this is the local bank. It’s been seized by the government.’
‘I haven’t heard anything in the news.’
Julia laughed. ‘Oh, you wouldn’t. It’s not like in England, a free press, journalistic standards. They’ve got that very much under control here. It’s being kept quiet.’
‘What’s the issue?’
‘Fraud. Insider dealing, supposedly, but that’s a set-up. The Central Bank has their eye on the money so they’ve concocted the story. They’ve frozen the assets of a million citizens.’
‘Can that really be true?’
Julia’s head rotated stiffly. ‘You don’t believe me?’
‘No, it’s just in England there’d be a riot, or a national outcry at least.’
‘But this is not England. Do you think there’s a financial services authority to guarantee your deposit? Do you know that so-called politicians have nearly bankrupted the national airline to line their own pockets?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Is there a substantial amount of money at stake?’
‘Not in pounds sterling. But here, yes, a small fortune.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
Julia shrugged. ‘Fortunately our necks aren’t on the line. We’ll have to raid the Guernsey account for a while, that’s all.’
‘That’s not so bad then,’ she said.
Julia gave her a look she could only describe as suspicious. ‘This country is becoming ungovernable.’
She thought of the slim folder Anthony had pressed into her hand. It had contained printouts of bank account statements and tax declarations, proof of non-domicile status. There was nothing irregular, he’d said. But she could remember seeing nothing about Pan-African bank. She did remember the file informed her that twenty years before Bill had set up one of the country’s low-cost airlines. What was it called? Zoom, Zip, something like that. She’d had only ten minutes to scan the contents. She was not allowed to take a copy.
The fridge stuttered on. The electricity was back. She and Julia floated around the living room, snuffing out the candles, which gave small exhausted hisses as they were extinguished.
Julia’s phone rang. She walked into the living room. She spoke for only a few seconds, then returned. ‘You’ll excuse me, won’t you, Rebecca? Bill rang, he needs me to go up to Moholo. I’ve made a prawn curry for you and left it in the
‘Here’s my card.’ Margaux presented her with a damp rectangle. ‘Give me a call anytime. We can hang out.’
‘I will,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have a card but I’ll text you.’
‘Great,’ Margaux said, although there was no particular energy in her voice. Rather she sounded languid, almost sleepy. ‘We’ll have a blast.’
By the time she returned the electricity was off, casting the house in solemn twilight.
Julia greeted her at the door. ‘We’ve run out of diesel for the generator. We’ll have to do with candles.’
Julia looked exhausted. Bahari ya Manda was only an hour away, but the road was bad, and traffic could clog the city so much so that travellers regularly missed their flights from the airport even if they left three hours early. This was one of the nuggets of information she’d gleaned from her conversation that afternoon with Margaux. ‘The roadblocks have made it worse,’ Margaux had said, her face sheathed in a pool of shade thrown by her wide-brimmed hat. ‘A trip to the supermarket is a four-hour affair now.’
Julia made them each a gin and tonic. From the patio grounds came the intermittent screech of a bush baby. ‘Well, cheers.’ Julia lifted her glass. ‘I always need a drink after the supermarket trip.’
‘Where is Bill?’
‘He’s away on business.’ Julia’s eyes had turned olive in the evening. She fixed her with a frank look. ‘He’s having to spend a lot of time in the city because of the banks.’
‘Which banks?’
‘His bank, Pan-African – well, his money is mostly offshore – this is the local bank. It’s been seized by the government.’
‘I haven’t heard anything in the news.’
Julia laughed. ‘Oh, you wouldn’t. It’s not like in England, a free press, journalistic standards. They’ve got that very much under control here. It’s being kept quiet.’
‘What’s the issue?’
‘Fraud. Insider dealing, supposedly, but that’s a set-up. The Central Bank has their eye on the money so they’ve concocted the story. They’ve frozen the assets of a million citizens.’
‘Can that really be true?’
Julia’s head rotated stiffly. ‘You don’t believe me?’
‘No, it’s just in England there’d be a riot, or a national outcry at least.’
‘But this is not England. Do you think there’s a financial services authority to guarantee your deposit? Do you know that so-called politicians have nearly bankrupted the national airline to line their own pockets?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Is there a substantial amount of money at stake?’
‘Not in pounds sterling. But here, yes, a small fortune.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
Julia shrugged. ‘Fortunately our necks aren’t on the line. We’ll have to raid the Guernsey account for a while, that’s all.’
‘That’s not so bad then,’ she said.
Julia gave her a look she could only describe as suspicious. ‘This country is becoming ungovernable.’
She thought of the slim folder Anthony had pressed into her hand. It had contained printouts of bank account statements and tax declarations, proof of non-domicile status. There was nothing irregular, he’d said. But she could remember seeing nothing about Pan-African bank. She did remember the file informed her that twenty years before Bill had set up one of the country’s low-cost airlines. What was it called? Zoom, Zip, something like that. She’d had only ten minutes to scan the contents. She was not allowed to take a copy.
The fridge stuttered on. The electricity was back. She and Julia floated around the living room, snuffing out the candles, which gave small exhausted hisses as they were extinguished.
Julia’s phone rang. She walked into the living room. She spoke for only a few seconds, then returned. ‘You’ll excuse me, won’t you, Rebecca? Bill rang, he needs me to go up to Moholo. I’ve made a prawn curry for you and left it in the
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