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A memory of Africa in the 60’s.

POSTAGE

“Will you get the mail please, Susan? Take Clement with you. And the gun.”

I stood up, shoulders back. “I can drive myself. I’ve got my license now.”

Clement Ngoma loomed in front – a no-argument smile on his face. This was the late 60’s and our country’s struggle before independence still impacted everything we did.

“Madam, the boss, he doesn’t want you going into town by yourself and your Spitfire is too much low – too much difficult to get out.”

With ungrateful resignation, I bent down to open the right hand drawer of the desk and remove the small pistol. It slid into my London-bought sunshine yellow patent leather handbag. I straightened my black ‘wet look’ skirt and checked my matching sunshine yellow patent leather buckled platform shoes.

Newly returned from a working holiday, I had shocked my mother with my ‘bumblebee’ Carnaby Street fashion. Looking good was important if only to collect the post. You never knew who just happened to be collecting his company’s mail too!

“All right we’ll use the van. But I’m driving – OK?”

Kitwe was the Hub of the Copperbelt in Northern Rhodesia. The Post Office was on the main street tucked between Lentin’s the Jewellers on the North corner of the block and Bata Shoe stores on the South corner, near the now deserted Astra Cinema.

Later, the cinema would become infectiously noisy with white grins and sweaty excitement. I missed going but night-time excursions were unwise. Sometimes even lunch-time excursions…

Twenty-four hours a day the jewellers hide their reduced display behind double layers of metal weave. This is a small town and the smiling, nervous owners know everyone who’s anyone – who gave what to whom for birthday/anniversary/Valentine’s. One of the few European ways left to splurge the monthly paycheck is to buy a new ring.

The only descent dress shop wasn’t receiving their full consignments – pilfering was rife and only garish unflattering frocks in larger sizes are available now. I often pop in at lunchtime, but decided not to today. Most of us either made our own; had frequent overseas holidays or a good dressmaker.

Newly returned from a working holiday, I had shocked my mother with my ‘bumblebee’ Carnaby Street fashion.

Delivery day always put Mrs Brown in a foul mood so Mondays was not a good day to dress shop.

Unless your style was Chitenge – there was a huge range available in OK Bazaars.

Mum has so many broaches bought from there. They sell extra cheap everything from Nshima to cast iron cooking pots. I loved the place as a kid. My two shillings pocket money seemed to go farther and farther every Christmas and Birthday. The more glitter and glass the better, all faithfully worn by Mum to family gatherings.

As we got into the company delivery van, both Clement and I automatically locked our doors from the inside. Standard practice. It took 15 minutes to drive from the industrial area into town. Perhaps I drove a little too fast down Edinburgh Avenue because Clement seemed to be trying to push his foot through the floor.

“There’s a policeman!”

“What’s up – don’t you like the way I drive?”

“Well, you do seem to put your foot down very hard on the pedals. Maybe it is stuck? Would you like me…?”

There’s a rule here: Don’t stop for anything! Even if you run someone over – just keep going. I’d heard recently of a piccanin who ran straight in front of someone’s car. It was night so they stopped, of course, and were stoned to death. But the accident wasn’t his fault.

“Can’t understand why you’re so nervous. You taught me! And, you’re not exactly a slow driver yourself!”

“Perhaps it is different to be passenger.”

“We’ll stop at Bamford’s Bakery first.”

“Yes – is Friday and the boys, they gave me a list of lunches.”

“A chocolate éclair and a curry pie will do me. I know Mum needs bread too.”

BANG! We both jumped at the stone kicked up by the large TanZam truck speeding to overtake before the dip. Both hands automatically reached up to hold the windscreen as smaller gravel splattered threatening to shatter the glass. I hoped it hadn’t made too bad a dent in the paintwork. These things always happen when I borrow the car.

The remainder of the trip into town was in silence, both of us shaken for different reasons. Clement probably remembering the voting trucks speeding through the compounds demanding attendance with shots fired into the air.

Me? I was thinking about a friend who was decapitated as his sports car disappeared under a truck stopped on the road. Again, it was night and the driver needed a kip. There were no warning – no markers save for a few tree branches on the road – it just loomed out of the dark too late. He had two small children.

Luckily we managed to park right in front of the Post Office entrance.

Clement made to get out. “Give me the post box keys – I’ll go in.”

“No – you sit here and finish your pie. Guard the lunches.”

“But…”

“Clement– you can see me, OK? I’ll only be a moment.”

Still wary after the stone – the hairs on the back of my neck were raised when I walked into the cool shade of the post box area. Two smartly dressed African men appeared to linger.

I almost turned around to return to the car and let Clement collect the post. But then why should he, when it was my responsibility?

I held my breath and stood still at the yawning entrance chastising myself about my prejudices. One of the men casually opened up a box and removed his mail. I had my hand inside my bag and my fingers found the gun and relaxed a fraction.

Courage let me walk forward, into the dark, right to the end… and open number 1694. This was a familiar routine. The other chap started to walk out too jingling keys.

Hot breath oozed slowly from my lips as I bent my head low to retrieve letters from the back, scooping them forward quickly with one hand. A quick glimpse up to the entrance and I bent down again, focused on that last slip, way to the back.

A sharp tug on my bag and a shove sideways, my platform shoe buckle caught onto my stockings as I turned, then I tripped. Unable to stop my fall, there was nothing to grab onto, I prepared to hit the floor yelling.

A brief rush of air and the smell of strong sweat seemed to take my breath away as I first hit the wall with my legs like jelly. Hands scratched at my clothes and bag. I felt the cold metal of the gun still in my hand, then fell toward the floor.

My elbow shattered when it hit hard, shiny concrete, the impact almost forcing me to let go. But I didn’t – I shut my eyes and fired instead, ears ringing in the echo chamber of empty metal post boxes. Screams finally caught up with my open mouth and within seconds Clement was helping me stand. I resisted before I recognised him, then blabbered. “He’s gone. Did you see him? Oh, I still have my bag… my purse has gone though, hasn’t it?” My fingers clutching, tried to pick up the paraphernalia I’d dropped but I felt faint. So Clement took the gun out of my hand and put it into his trouser pocket and carelessly scooped the stuff into the open yellow mouth. He wrestled my bag out of my vice-like grip and slung it over his shoulder.

He walked me slowly and determinedly out into the main street holding hard onto my good arm. Without saying a word.

The sunshine hurt my eyes and I stumbled. But the warmth was a comfort just like the arm, now gently around my shoulders, protecting me, guiding me back to the van through a gathered crowd of curious African workers.

My shocked gaze searched the surrounding area for a guilty face. I saw none. Even the policeman seemed disappointed that it wasn’t more serious – just an attempted bag snatch. There was no blood. No bullet holes. No arrest to be made. No gruesome reason to take the incident further.

The bored crowd agreed and dispersed without their blood-lust satiated.

A very subdued Clement drove back to the office.

He broke the silence first. “Thank Goodness for the starters pistol.”

THE END

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2006

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