'And to those of you who don't know her,
may I introduce Jennifer Halutu. Just to
remind you, I will be away next week and
Jennifer will be leading the walk. Last
week, you may
remember, we thought we might try the
MEATI but we didn't have enough cars. Do
we have enough this week?' She looked
around the car park. 'I think we might.
Who can give lifts?'
Hands were raised, calculations made.
'Good, that's fine,' said Rose. 'Then
the MEATI it is. You all know the way?'
It was left to Joan Baker and Hilary
Fotherington-Thomas to explain to the
mystified newcomers that the Modern East
African Tourist Inn was a popular
restaurant on the southern outskirts of
town.
Thomas Nyambe had already slipped into
the front seat of Mr Malik's old green
Mercedes 450 SEL. The back seats were
still empty. Perhaps, thought Mr Malik,
the two tourists would like to come with
him? He was about to offer a lift when
another Mercedes, a shiny red SL 350,
bounced in over the speed bump
and swung into the car park. A tinted
window opened, a sunglassed face leaned
out over gold-braceleted arm.
'Hi, Rose - not too late?' The man leapt
out of the car. 'Hey, David, George,
there you are. Your chariot awaits.'
The tourists, who Mr Malik now surmised
were called David and George, walked
over to the red Mercedes to be greeted with
handshakes, smiles and shoulder clasps.
'These guys are staying at the Hilton
too, Rose, so I said they should come
along. OK with you?'
After the three of them had gained
Rose's approval and paid their visitor's
subscription the two guests were shown
into the passenger seats while the
driver jumped back behind the wheel,
started the engine and pulled out on to
the drive, yelling out
through the window just before it closed.
'See you there, everyone.'
Who on earth was that? Brown skin, white
hair, expensive clothing, and some kind
of American accent; yet he looked
slightly familiar. Mr Malik had little
time to ponder this question, nor how
this man seemed to know Rose Mbikwa,
before several young black Africans
piled into the back of his old Mercedes.
The rest of the YOs slipped and squeezed
into Rose's 504, Tom's Morris Minor and
the assortment of Land Rovers, Toyotas
and other vehicles that other Old Hands
had brought along. Engines were started,
handbrakes released. As he drove gently
over the speed bump and eased his
tightly packed load out into the morning
traffic, Mr Malik was wearing a worried
expression.
That man. No, it couldn't be. Not after
all this time.
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