Addicts

Circa Zanzibar 2009

Shelley gave up the life, got back to England, found a new man, found a job, we lost contact as is best when things are going well. Rudi drifted too, we had no trades and he was better off in the card rooms and the dark places surrounding the casinos that by now were opening in all the African capitals. Frank had a decent garage in Kinondoni Biafra where with his elder brother Patrick they could tinker with engines and other bits of car.

I too knew it was time to go, cash up, I made the calculations of how long I thought the stash would last: a few years, maybe five, seven if I stretched it. The Chip Pissers wife had with the Amerikans money broken the kernel, without a base, accounts and permits we could not trade. She had been a friend but I knew always that friends were dangerous, had kept few and dropped them when I thought they were too close. That I had not got away from her earlier was, I mused, another sure sign that I am old and have lost my edge along with my spirit. A few years ago, ten, I would have rolled her blows too, I had rolled worse I thought remembering the Axeman.

In amongst this pondering I had noticed but not otherwise considered the increasing hostility of the addicts. I had stopped giving them money long ago. My left eye had failed, temporarily said the doctor “If you take the medicine. Do you have someone to help you put the drops in” He looked up at my silence. “You can administer yourself. It is necessary and you are strong”. This one eyed world left me more in my own mind as I walked streets of Zanzibar and so I no longer greeted the addicts either. That angered them more than the money.

In Foridhani in front of the Africa House where there the food stalls that cater to the tourists had migrated there are many addicts. I knew mostly to avoid the place but on that evening I had gone there to meet two young people, relatives of someone I once knew, a visitor at the hotel.

The guy who started the shouting was not an addict, they are too weak to start on their own, but a papasi, a dragon fly, the local name for a hustler. His English, his build, suggested that he came from Dar es Salaam. “I am only doing my job”. When I stood up he backed away and then came with an over arm punch which fell short. His second was better a round arm haymaker that got me good in the ribs. I went down, a bit winded, go up and his third go, a full strength kick nearly missed but I was to slow and the end of the boot got neatly into my left testicle. When I got up that time there were thirty addicts around, shouting and ready for the sport.

I was very glad of the plain clothes police officer who was suddenly there in front of the mob, showing his ID, I was not bothered if it was fake or not, I was never so pleased to be arrested. He held my hand and led me out of there, the papasi and the addicts returned to their night time.

At Malindi police station the arresting officer wrote on a scrap of paper, gave it to the officer in charge and then left. The reporting office read it and then continued to write in his ledger, whilst talking to a higher ranked policeman who avoided all acknowledgement of my presence. They were thinking. After fifteen minutes or so he read the report again and then said

“This report says you were beaten”

That’s true

“We appear to have arrested the wrong person”

“I don’t think so”

He looked up at me the same look as the eye doctor, then too his ledger.

“We will arrest the others in the morning”

“Don’t bother”

“You don’t want to bring a case”

“No”

Never say more than necessary in a police station.

The policeman smiled looking at his ledger. This no paying incident could be closed.

“Have you lost anything”

“No”

“Are you hurt”

“No

He wrote in his ledger, a Report of Incident. I signed without reading it, I cold not see the writing in that light with my one good eye.

I walked back along the sea front past the dark part in front of the Music Academy, smoking a cigarette, thinking of a big shot of Konyagi and water at home, my only type of current sustenance. The tide was half full, the clear water against the wall. It was more than twenty five years since I first walked that dark stretch. I felt a moment of elation, of humour, I spoke aloud, there was no one to hear:

“Read the runes Michael”.