short story

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SIXPENCE

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Bang. A missile hit the dilapidated corrugated-iron roof with a loud crash. It interrupted Sixpence Nyarenda’s afternoon nap and sent him diving to the floor before scurrying under the rickety bed. Still half-asleep he imagined for several fearful seconds that he was back in the days of the liberation war with mortars rockets and bombs going off. Then a familiar commotion outside broke the still afternoon silence. Wriggling out he stood up and dusted himself off irritably then flung open the sagging wooden door and stormed outside to investigate.

There were monkeys in the mango tree which overhung his hut. Lots of them. They chattered indignantly upon his appearance and one startled diner dropped another large fruit onto the tin roof with a resounding clang. In fact, it seemed the whole extensive vegetable garden, bordering the thick bush of Murawah’s hill, had been invaded by apes. Vervet monkeys were strutting and squabbling as if they owned the place, ripping fruit off trees, trampling delicate strawberries and knocking over tomato and sweet-pea plants. They chattered angrily, scanning him with impudent eyes. A large supercilious baboon was strolling languidly through the planted maize rows twisting succulent cobs from the plants, picking with one paw, tucking the loot under the opposite arm. On each arm-raise to store a cob the previous one fell out and several lay behind it on the ground. The large baboon examined its empty armpit in a puzzled way, then squatted and peeled green leaves back from the sweetcorn in its fist. Displaying big yellow teeth, it tucked in while regarding Sixpence with disdainful insolence.

The impertinence of that stare stoked Sixpence’s irritation to incandescent rage. Snatching the lids from two cast-iron pots bubbling over the outside hearth he sprinted into the garden, banging them angrily.

“Mbeche re Myaku bloody bobbejaans!” he roared, an extreme expletive touching on the private parts of the baboon’s mother. He sprinted through the garden on long skinny legs bellowing a string of similar insults in English, Afrikaans and Shona, a tirade that might have made even a French stevedore blush. The baboon, taken aback either by the appalling language or the unexpectedness of the attack, tossed aside the unfinished cob and retreated, swaying a hideous blue bottom in exaggerated disdain like a Parisian harlot offered a sum substantially below the asking rate. Sixpence drew his catapult and fired a hard clod of earth, striking the primate a stinging blow in the nether regions. The baboon howled in surprise and attacked the smaller vervets, biting, scratching and yanking out fur by the handful. The monkey troop was in pandemonium and Sixpence in stitches of merriment as the vervets raced for safety chased by the baboon. Trees swayed as the cacophony of conflict faded into the surrounding bush.

Humour restored, Sixpence collected the dropped cobs which were plump and covered with fibrous green leaves, each having a pleasing silken tassel of yellow or red. He tucked three into coals beneath the pots. Tough green leaves would protect the tender yellow corn and provide a delicious hot snack later.

The old servants’ kraal of ramshackle circular huts, roughly roofed in thatch and rusty corrugated iron, was not far removed from the main residence which before Independence had belonged to an American Missionary Society. It was now owned by a General in the Zimbabwe National Army and rented out to a white farmer who had been expelled from his land by President Robert Mugabe and the ZANU-PF war veterans. Sixpence and half a dozen of the farmer’s other old retainers had accompanied him to the new, somewhat reduced living quarters as there was nowhere else for them to go. It had been a wise move because boss Hamish was a resilient and well-educated ex-engineer who could turn his hand to anything, and in a land still stalked by hunger and fear they made a good team. as before: everybody fed and clothed, with adequate shelter.

The large suburban garden nourished them all and provided steady income from markets but could not actually be considered a farm by ZANU-PF and seized, though it’s boundaries crept ever wider into the surrounding bush. Hamish theoretically couldn’t be thrown off again either because he didn’t own it but rented the whole property legitimately from an indigenous senior member of the military.

Having temporarily solved the problem of the marauding simian poachers Sixpence set off up a steep red earth path towards the main residence. Hamish and his wife were out when Sixpence stepped from the path through an archway into a courtyard between the house and garage. The building, once imposingly smart and whitewashed, had the hangdog air of neglect. Entering the kitchen through a rustic stable door Sixpence busied himself with preparing the evening meal, humming a rousing hymn. He was a mission-educated chap with excellent English and a tolerant attitude to the peculiarities of white Europeans and their God. He particularly liked rousing Christian hymns, many of which he knew by heart. He would often whistle them at night when walking through the bush to discourage evil spirits known as Tokaloshes from following him; it was well known they were averse to whistling and would concentrate on less musical victims.

Afterwards Sixpence squatted in the sunny courtyard and reminisced, rolling a foja of harsh “Drum” tobacco in newspaper, lighting it with a single match rasped against one horny thumbnail. He was a tall, scrawny, tough-looking African aged about fifty, clad in ironed khaki shorts and a white shirt. His crinkly hair was turning slightly grey. Though aware of the never-ending rumbling of political tensions between tribes and political parties, they did not impinge much on his daily existence. During the Chimurenga struggle against the whites he had been abducted by ZANLA troops and trained in a harsh regime as a freedom fighter by North Koreans in Mozambique where he got bombed repeatedly by Rhodesian security forces and attacked whenever he re-crossed the border. After Mugabe’s sweeping victory in the post-war elections Sixpence took part in euphoric Victory parades before burying his rifle and a cache of grenades and ammunition against a rainy day. Ready for some peace and quiet he re-joined Hamish on his farm, at least until they were all chucked off by his former comrades, the ZANU-PF veterans, when President Mugabe began seizing white-owned farms under the land reform policy.

Owner and workers alike had been made homeless and jobless but despite recalling the violent past Sixpence’s thoughts were benign. His deceased oldest brother, a Tribal Nganga, had been exceptionally virile and able to afford many wives, before his legs had been hacked off that is, by opposition ZIPRA guerrillas, for being a sellout. Thanks to the African social model Sixpence had inherited both the said brother’s lucrative official mantle of Nganga, a profession known to the Europeans as “Witch Doctoring,” and responsibility for his comely youngest wife without the expenditure of expensive lobola or bride-price. Rufaro, his new junior wife whose name meant “Happiness”, had certainly brought that rare commodity to Sixpence as she was cheerful, robust, comely and highly amenable to the pleasures of the bed, something his own senior wife was emphatically not. That quarrelsome and opinionated person was mercifully many miles away in his home village near the borders with Mozambique and South Africa.

These days as befitted socio economics in the New Zimbabwe, Sixpence’s and the farmworkers’ relationship with Hamish and The Madam were more one of amiable friendship, of partners, than masters and servants. Sixpence still thought of Hamish as “the boss” though. Somehow he always seemed to know just what to do, and the modern art of survival in Zimbabwe’s paranoid dictatorship was one of low-key pragmatism.

Pinching out his vile cigarette with horny fingers Sixpence placed the remainder behind one large sticking-out ear for later and went back into the kitchen to check on the roast leg of pork from one of their own pigs. As he shut the heavy oven door a thump sounded on the kitchen table behind him which he presumed to be an importunate cat getting above itself and turned to flap his dishcloth in dismissal.

“AAAGH, MAIWE ZUNGU!” he shrieked for the visitor was not a domestic feline, but a large non-domestic aggressive-looking vervet monkey. He flapped anyway shouting “Hamba!” and then “Voetsek!” in case the beast understood Afrikaans rather than Shona. It bared sharp yellow teeth, chattered crossly and snatched his flapping towel, stuffing it mouthward and chewing with a disappointed look. Sixpence turned to run and the vervet sprang, landing on his back, grabbing some wiry hair in one fist and a big ear in the other. He reached behind, seized the monkey’s neck and hurled it with remarkable accuracy into the Madam’s large pantry, then slammed the door and leant against it feeling rather pleased with himself, though somewhat shaken.

The animal could be heard prowling within and there was the sound of glass rattling. Sixpence froze. He had forgotten that the pantry held a great store of delicious home-made beer, wine and cider, in screw top bottles and old wicker-covered demijohns from Mozambique. One toppled over, rolled, and after a brief pause exploded with a sharp retort. A cacophonous chain reaction began, the thud of explosions, the crash of exploding glass and the deranged gibbering of the trapped monkey floating riotously across the torpid late-afternoon air. Sixpence decided the best solution was probably to be elsewhere and not know anything since his duties did not include dealing with dangerous and clumsy beasts.

He slipped quickly outdoors and down some stairs descending landscaped lawns past an empty swimming pool, finally pushing through a boundary fence of conifers. On the other side a young male African was polishing a gleaming black bicycle. His brown skin glowed with health and shone almost as much as the machine. He had impressive muscles and a handsome ingenuous face.

“Nice injinga Cuthbert! When did you get it?”

The younger man beamed happily, and they exchanged greetings.

“It belongs to my employer boss Goldberg who owns the bicycle shop, but he lets me ride it to fetch groceries for him. I am saving for one of my own which he is keeping in his store for me. I pay him a little every week.”

 “Goldberg is a Jewish Afrikaner. If he keeps something he charges interest which is a way to make it twice as expensive. Putting your tickies in the post-office hole instead makes them breed somehow and become more. You could get the injinga sooner.”

Cuthbert seemed a bit crestfallen, so Sixpence went on to reflect audibly that since Independence, money in the Post Office had been made worthless by Mugabe’s rampant inflation, so Cuthbert had probably done better to invest with boss Goldberg after all, effectively restoring the younger man’s good spirits.

“You know Sixpence, times are very hard with few jobs but at the Mission School, they taught us that the Lord will always provide, and for me he has done so.”

It was Sixpence’s experience that the Lord was often tardy in providing and that it was better to requisition things in advance where possible and let the Lord catch up later.

 “It has been a very hard time for everyone thanks to Comrades bloody Bob and now the Crocodile! Except themselves.”

His young friend’s brow wrinkled suddenly in a worried frown, and he glanced round furtively in concern at hearing their Great Leaders’ names impugned so publicly. He departed to his duties abruptly and Sixpence took the injinga by the handlebars, tried the brakes, then wheeled it a little, listening to the agreeable clicking of the rear gears. He did not think Cuthbert would mind if he took it for a short ride just to try it out so he mounted up and wobbled along the driveway through wire gates which he closed carefully behind him, to the intersection with Shakespeare Avenue, a steep street of other big ex-colonial houses set back in substantial grounds. Turning downhill he allowed his pace to increase. On the other side of the wire fence Goldberg’s large Alsatian dog ran alongside him and hurtled forward, lunging against the sagging mesh fence and barking madly. Thus distracted Sixpence lost control, departing into the deep storm-ditch with extreme abruptness. Parting company with the injinga by somersaulting over the handlebars he landed with a sickening thump near the fence, close to the ravening dog.

The crazed barking reached a higher note as Sixpence picked himself up disgustedly, shaken but undamaged. Noting the zenith of the dog’s bounds and also noticing that true to Cuthbert’s beliefs, the Lord had provided nearby a heavy stick, he hefted and swung it downward to meet the rising head of the animal when both velocities were maximum; it collapsed with a single pathetic yelp and a furious red face appeared between some flowering shrubs.

“What have you done to my damn dog?”

“It attacked me. Fortunately, I am not hurt but the injinga’s front wheel is badly damaged. You must compensate me.”

“Hang on, I know that bicycle, it’s mine! You stole it. I’m going to call the police!”

“Yes, please get them. They will advise you to compensate me. In the old days it was normal that a white man’s dog should attack black people, but not anymore.”

“You’ve got no chance of being compensated by me for stealing my own bicycle!”

The Alsatian whined and arose shakily. Catching sight of Sixpence, it yelped and cringed behind Goldberg’s legs.

“Magtig, I remember you now from when I was the Police Member in Charge! Your brother was accused of making evil spells; bad mooti that killed his own customers, and you were his accomplice! But you were acquitted because the witnesses were intimidated!”

“They just didn’t want to tell lies about a Witch Doctor. Your dog however is intimidated because it can smell my power.”

“He can probably just smell your unwashed backside! Return my bicycle or else. And then voetsek! Us Boerevolk are not superstitious like you ignorant savages.”

Plotting retribution but not wishing to get Cuthbert in trouble Sixpence retrieved the bike from the ditch and began to push it uphill, the buckled wheel howling. The Alsatian gave an answering howl and was cuffed disgustedly.

Sixpence lifted the front wheel off the ground so as not disturb Cuthbert’s work unnecessarily and leant the injinga against the garage wall thinking it did not look too bad. Young people in his experience tended to be very unobservant. He pushed back through the hedge and re-entered the courtyard. Hamish’s wife Cynthia stood there brandishing a shovel. She was past fifty but still had an austere beauty and excellent figure.

 “Thank heavens you’re safe Sixpence, we arrived to hear a gun battle indoors! There must be violent intruders. Hamish is investigating.”

He nearly remarked that it was a violent monkey but caught himself in time to pretend horror and surprise. If the ape had not perished due to flying shrapnel, it was likely to be in an excitable emotional state and should preferably be tackled by someone paid to take risks.

“Better call Chifumbe the Landlord Madam. He is in the Army and can bring soldiers.”

“He was in town for a parade and is coming directly but Hamish foolishly proceeded on his own anyway. That sounds like the General now.”

Sirens wailed and a large black Mercedes accompanied by a troop carrier arrived on the drive. The General waddled fatly forward with bodyguards in front, and they all peered apprehensively in through the back door. Hamish appeared and waved at the resplendently uniformed General, scrambled egg and medals everywhere.

“Hello Edward! No sign of anything untoward. Strange considering the row.”

A furtive sound issued from the pantry and he whirled towards it.

“Come out at once!”

There were more stealthy sounds followed by an explosion. They all jumped and the soldiers cocked weapons nervously. Hamish pushed the pantry door open cautiously. The forlorn, wet and sticky vervet stood in a puddle of beer and broken glass looking shell shocked.

“It’s a monkey, how adorable! However did it get into the pantry?” crooned Cynthia running forward.

“Yes, how did it get into the pantry Sixpence?” asked Hamish suspiciously.

“Maybe it’s a Tokaloshe boss.”

Tokaloshes were known to be able to do just about anything, including getting into locked storerooms to make drink and victuals evaporate mysteriously. Only Witch Doctors were feared more.

“Poor little thing!”

“Careful darling.”

Cynthia lifted the chastened young ape. It grasped her gleaming hair and pulled.

“Ouch!”

“Throw the rabbit out of the hutch Sixpence; we’ll put it in there.”

“Quite right” said General Edward Chifumbe, beaming. “Anything that’s white or doesn’t pay rent should be expelled and that rabbit is both. Talking of which…”

He farted loudly to reinforce his point and laughed, ordering the soldiers back to the truck.

“Really Edward!” admonished Hamish’s wife. “Would you care for some liquid refreshment, providing the ape hasn’t consumed it all?”

“Don’t mind if I do Cynthia, I’ll trust a beer.”

Sixpence and Hamish fetched drinks and they all sat on logs as the garden furniture had been stolen. Edward consumed his in one long swallow, belched loudly and beamed expectantly.

“I like your hat General,” said Sixpence.

Cynthia frowned.

“Too peaky and severe for my preference, like a Gestapo cap; makes your eyes look too close together.”

“Like a shit-house rat’s” agreed Hamish. “Have another Chibuli General. We don’t stand on ceremony round here. Help yourself. Farms, beer, it’s all the same.”

Edward was not sure that he cared to be likened to a shithouse rat, obviously an inferior type of rodent but he accepted another beer while pondering Hamish’s former comment about not standing on ceremony. He could imagine the Portuguese or Egyptians not standing on ceremony since they were all lazy bastards but not the English or Scottish. From past military parades he had observed in the town, to celebrate occasions such as the Queen’s birthday, the whole British system seemed to revolve around standing on ceremony, sometimes for hours at a time in the hot African sun. He did not think it would appear very professional to sit or lie down on parade. ZANLA’s Korean instructors would never have allowed it! Edward could easily imagine the Portuguese doing so, however. In fact, the very act of sleeping was commonly known as Portuguese PT. They were not a race admired for their vigour, although they made excellent wine and beer. Ruminations complete, he opened a second beer and swallowed thirstily as Cynthia spoke.

 “Now then, what do you think we should do about our little miscreant Edward?”

Seeing his bafflement Cynthia elucidated, pointing.

“The monkey; according to Sixpence a whole troop of them invaded the vegetable garden this morning, along with the odd baboon, practically wrecking the place. They come often and are getting to be a ruddy nuisance. This one obviously felt bold enough to come right into the house, brazen blighter.”

“Sacrilege! Those vegetables are mine! Yours! Ours! And talking of nuisances, I recently requisitioned that damn boer, Goldberg’s house. However, he was a policeman once, and has used bribery of previous cronies and court officials to block my application.”

“Shocking. Unsporting and unreasonable,” said Hamish.

“My sentiments exactly. If he departed, and I commandeered his property we could expand production into that garden too. Our produce is selling like hotcakes on the markets. However, concerning crop-raiders, boers like Goldberg do know a thing or two about plagues in Africa and the various methods of combating them.”

“Including your lot,” said Hamish.

“Very amusing. Now many years ago, I worked for an Afrikaans farmer called Oom Dawid who had the same problem with apes in his mealies until one day a cheeky bobbejaan climbed in his Landrover and got trapped when the door slammed. Oom Dawid had a brainwave. We whitewashed the bobbejaan and let it go. That monkey raced to join its friends in the mealie field, but they thought it was a Tokaloshe and ran away. It was so funny, the more that ape wanted to join his comrades and was chasing them, the faster they ran.”

There was a reflective pause for drinking.

“What happened after that?”

“Well, our bobbejaan soon dropped dead from whitewash poisoning but Oom Dawid just caught another and did the same trick. He tried to patent the idea but the government told him to Fffff…..well they told him to forget it.”

“Fascinating and effective, but a bit cruel,” said Cynthia.

“Brilliant idea though” replied Hamish. “We could use cheap Zimbabwean shampoo instead of whitewash. It’s harmless but made everyone’s’ hair go green. I kept some anyway.”

“Indeed! That idea has merit. And once the monkey has been suitably stained it will lack companions and will probably return after chasing the others away. I have become rather fond of it.”

A tin bath full of warm water and the shampoo were fetched.

“Now then Edward, you are obviously an expert in the field of colour modification, in so far as it pertains to primate fur. Kindly seize the monkey in such a way as to render its teeth harmless and I will apply the shampoo.”

Edward took another bottle of beer, unlatched the cage and grabbed the startled ape’s throat in a loose but firm grip which prevented it from biting, though it tried hard, squirming mightily and chattering in a vexed manner. General Chifumbe swigged beer while lowering it into the basin and Cynthia rubbed the monkey vigorously, working shampoo well into its pelt. On completion Edward dumped it back in the cage, fur slicked to puny looking body. The small gathering then sat on their logs in the sun watching the monkey dry while imbibing copious sundowners. Soon it was a lurid almost fluorescent green and began to examine its own modified coat curiously with hesitant fingers.

“Well it’s bright enough to frighten me” said Hamish, standing up unsteadily and grabbing one of the handles of the hutch. “Be a good chap and lend a hand Edward.”

The party set off for the vegetable garden, walking tipsily. For once Cynthia was pleased to see that a large troop of vervets and a few baboons were in her garden helping themselves to an evening snack in the gathering dusk. Excellent research material. The glowing green monkey began to chitter with excitement, bobbing and weaving in the hutch.

“Prepare to launch primate Edward,” said Hamish.

Opening the latch, he banged the cage. The vervet shot out like a greyhound from the trap, chattering with joy to see his friends. The other apes froze in disbelief, many with food halfway to their mouths. Their immobility was short lived. As the green, faintly glowing wraith hurtled noisily through the evening gloom towards them they departed in extreme disorder, tripping over each other and fighting to get away. The panic spread and Sixpence cackled with glee as the whole troop and several large baboons scampered for the safety of the treeline, cheered on by the spectators.

“Gone away by Jove” shouted Hamish who had been Master of the Manicaland hunt.

“Vat om Fluffy!” shouted Edward.

 “What does that mean?” asked Cynthia.

“It’s an Afrikaans joke I heard Oom Dawid tell, where a small silly dog is barking at a great big one, and the owner of the little one says, “Take him Fluffy!”

“Fluffy indeed! Marvellous name for our new monkey, though I had no idea the Afrikaans made jokes. Most of the ones I’ve met were miserable blighters with beards, bibles or glowing zealot’s eyes. Or all three.”

“No Cynthia, while I do not like to admit it, the Afrikaans though cunning and mean are a very misunderstood jokey people. When I worked for Oom Dawid you should have seen at Nagmaal how the Afrikaans manne laughed when someone got kicked by an ox or something.”

“Fascinating! Rather similar to you natives in fact, who seem to gain the utmost amusement from the pain or misfortune of others.”

“My God no Cynthia! For your own safety in Zimbabwe please never mention that we Africans are anything like the Afrikaans! I will admit though that we do laugh to see someone fall on a banana skin.”

“Or down a mineshaft” added Hamish. “Especially if they happen to be a Matabele Hyena. Or a few thousand of them.

General Edward Chifumbe guffawed raucously, eventually wiping away a tear and wagging his finger, almost unable to speak for his mirth.

“Oh Hamish, I love the British humour. You know us Africans very well!”

The cacophony in the bush died away and the madly thrashing branches of the trees settled down. Darkness gathered suddenly as it does near the Equator and the forlorn green vervet reappeared, peering timidly through the plants. Sixpence, emboldened by Fluffy’s new docility clicked his fingers and made a chattering noise. The monkey sprang onto his hip like a child and hugged his waist, opening up a thousand avenues for an enterprising Witch Doctor.

“Comrade Chifumbe, if somebody persuaded Meneer Goldberg to leave his property, would there be a reward?”

“Certainly Sixpence; I would be extremely grateful. And then you and boss Hamish could grow more vegetables there, and chickens and pigs to help the people.”

“And our pockets,” said Hamish.

“Exactly!”

“Especially yours.”

“Us true socialists are ever faithful to Marx’s teachings: from each according to ability, to each according to need.”

“As apparently confirmed by George Orwell’s book ‘Animal Farm,’ in which all animals are equal, but some are more equal than others. Especially pigs.”

Chifumbe patted his ample stomach.

“Exactly! Large capacity, large needs.”

“Talking of pigs, will you stay for dinner Edward?”

“Pardon?”

“We’re having roast pork.”

“My favourite, yes please Cynthia. Hamish, those bloody veterans on your farm, they are no good at agriculture. Would you like to grow some mealies again on your farm?”

“You mean on your farm.”

“Yes exactly, on my new farm. We can grow somethings. For the people to eat.”

“How about something they can’t eat? Like beautiful flowers that we could sell in Europe for a huge profit?”

“That is a better idea!”

“Yes. We could put the profits in a huge offshore bank account; for the people.”

“Just so! We will keep it safe for them.”

“Away from moths, rust and kleptocrats. Which do corrupt, break-in and steal.”

“Exactly!”

Still fuming over his argument with Sixpence and feeling the need for a sympathetic ear, ex-police Inspector Goldberg decided to visit Oom Dawid. Mrs Goldberg insisted on going too, to visit with Tanta Martha and see he didn’t drink, or enjoy himself, too much. They used their last few pints of hoarded petrol getting there. The ladies drank tea, ate koeksisters and laughed about the foolishness of men. The men drank brandy and ate biltong, laughing and complaining about women, the blacks, and the english, for their silliness, superstition, or bureaucratic ways.

Goldberg drove home somewhat erratically in their tank-like Rover, suitably and frequently advised by Mrs Goldberg. The front windows were down for their ventilation and the rear ones open for the dog. Arriving just after dusk, he slowed to cross the narrow bridge onto their drive. Sixpence tossed a half-peeled banana through the open passenger window. Fluffy sprang in after it. Mrs Goldberg screamed as a glowing green banshee with fearsome yellow teeth and a hideous skull-like face flew past her.

“Tokaloshe!” she hollered.

Goldberg flinched, braking savagely. The heavy Rover skidded, demolished the culvert coping, and plunged into the deep storm-drain. The dog, yowling hysterically, was catapulted into the front. Mayhem ensued. Goldberg’s cigarette went flying, scattering sparks. Oom Dawid’s gift, a bottle of finest homemade peach brandy, shattered. Powerful alcoholic fumes were ignited. Fire quickly spread to stuffing leaking from old, cracked seats. The monkey bit the dog, which bit Mrs Goldberg, who bit Mr Goldberg, who shrieked.

A scrabbling fight ensued to escape through the open windows. The gibbering green wraith won, climbing up Mrs. Goldberg’s body to spring from the vast shelf of her bosom and vanish howling into the darkness. The traumatized, enraged Alsatian launched itself from Goldberg’s face with scrabbling claws and pursued it, barking dementedly. Tattered, scorched and shocked, man and wife wriggled through the windows and crawled up the banks of the ditch like shipwreck survivors, engaged in strident mutual recrimination which was interrupted by Sixpence, standing nearby and tutting unsympathetically.

“So you have crashed in the ditch. Like me on my bicycle.”

“You don't have a bloody bicycle, it's mine!”

“Why are you dolts arguing about bicycles? A Tokaloshe has smashed our car and almost killed us! Get help! Call the police!”

“Unwise Madam. They will arrest Goldberg.”

“Why?”

 “For driving under the influence of spirits.”

“What?”

“Yes. A Tokoloshe is a spirit.”

Mrs. Goldberg snorted like an infuriated Rhino.

"Everyone in this miserable country is insane. No one is safe! Goldberg, we’re leaving for the homeland!”

“But….”

“Silence!"

"This is our homeland, you daft heifer!"

"Not anymore! Don't argue, just pack!”

“Well done, Sixpence” said the General as they stood with Hamish, Cynthia and Fluffy two days later, waving the Goldbergs goodbye.

Sixpence coughed delicately, a fist before his mouth.

“I haven’t forgotten my promise Sixpence. Here are Goldberg’s house-keys. You are free to move in. And start growing flowers. For the peoples.”

“And your hat?”

“Very well.”

The military cap was much too large but when balanced on his big ears allowed Sixpence to peer out from beneath the brim like a curious rodent peeking under a door. He braced himself proudly.

“Very smart Sixpence! And you Edward are showing surprising signs of nascent integrity and benevolence,” said Cynthia. “Most unusual in these parts. You should run for President.”

“What! Against the Crocodile? Terribly risky, healthpartwise! I dislike violence, at least to my own person.”

“But with a Witch Doctor and a green Tokoloshe to assist, you would surely be immune from reprisals? Qui audet adipiscitur.”

“Say what, Cynthia?”

“Who dares wins.”

“Aah. Quite so! Comrade Sixpence? Do you dare stand with me as my Vice President?”

“I do, General. But what about Fluffy?”

“Party Electoral Persuasion Officer. Free bananas for life.”

Hamish guffawed.

“Unquestionably a winning ticket.”

“Thank you Hamish, but you start growing flowers too! Quickly! And open more offshore bank accounts!”

“Why Edward? Expecting trouble?”

“I am just everly cautious Hamish. In my experience, crocodiles are seldom untroublesome if you try to take their lunch.”