Seven weeks back in Melbourne after almost six years away the pull of the Africans in Footscray remains the same. Viet noodle salad with spring rolls and Fausi's ful the fuel virtually everyday lunchtimes here. The food is one thing, the vibe amongst these "foreigners" something added on top. Delight, reassurance, comfort and ease. An exploration on the weekend of Smith Street Collingwood/Fitzroy and its 35 - 40 bars and restaurants in the 400m strip had one reeling a little.
Some people at D'Afrique have expressed an interest to read the old piece about the cafe published in early 2010 by Wet Ink here in Australia (Adelaide). Here it is. (Nearly 5000 words.)
D’AFRIQUE
by
Pavle
Radonic
The glow of young Yousef the plumber’s smile beaming like a
sun; remarkably, uncannily radiating. Firm clasp of hand in the slow, deliberate
pump, followed by the touch to the heart that is accompanied by an audible
bellows-sigh. Aaha! Throughout the smile undimmed, though the last turn of chin
did suggest a look of appraisal. (Impossible to mask the slight awkwardness, the
imbalance in reception.)
Early - mid
thirties, handsome boyishness retained. From Sudan (something like faint
apology in owning the nation). A month later when overalls and boots were replaced
by robe and sandals, the transformation in the new figure was equally startling.
*
Next door a Vietnamese Liquor out-let undercuts the Pub
further down. Centrelink dominates the section of the strip directly across the
road, its queues sometimes stretching out to the footpath where the gum tree becomes
a support. When the street guys dash in briefly they drop their cigarettes beside
the doorway and retrieve them coming out. Formerly run by the local football
club president, the Court House has been revived by the introduction of Pokies
and packs in the punters in the second half of the week. At the corner Halal
butcher an elderly woman from the other side of town buys provisions for the
meals she takes out Fridays to a young Bangladeshi at the Detention Centre.
After shopping Pat—preferable to Patricia; originally from the Hawkesbury—stops
for a coffee.
Upstairs
the prayer-room includes a coin-operated pool-table. Someone explained that in
the diaspora prayer mats come equipped with a compass for the direction of
Mecca. Around three or half past some movement can be detected toward the
stairs. Occasionally the push-slot and fall of balls can be heard; never the
prayers. Once the white ball came off the table all the way down onto the tiled
floor of the café.
Within an
hundred fifty metre radius there are now at least half a dozen East African
cafes and restaurants trading, mostly to their own people. Hairdressers,
provision stores and remittance offices add a second, larger circle. Addis Ababa beyond the traffic lights gives
added meaning to the old Amharic New Flower. The majority of stores are
Ethiopian concerns, with a number of Somali off the street. Though the Sudanese
here probably out-number the others from the Horn, these people are customers
rather than traders. Ten years established and blossoming since the take-over
by the Eritrean brothers, Café d’Afrique
was the first on the main thoroughfare.
Old dishevelled wrecks take their stubbies across the road
to the concourse in front of the entrance to the Hub, which holds the hidden
half of the stores. A couple of public benches where the boozers had earlier
congregated have been removed by Council after petitioning by the shop-keepers.
The Utility box to one side of the entry-way, almost directly opposite the
café, often gathers half a dozen men in their sixties, some of whom manage to
keep up decent appearances. The improvised shelf holds their bottles and
occasionally a pair of elbows when a weary head is rested. One or two invalids
on motorised scooters are indulged by the able-bodied, having their liquor
fetched and change scrupulously presented. Above the heads of the men the recently
erected sign in red lettering prohibits the public consumption of alcohol. In a
woeful parody of subterfuge, when the police are sighted the men attempt to
stash their liquor inside the box, the doors of which have been jemmied. A
brief, unchanging game of cat and mouse ensues, culminating in the policeman
emptying the bottles one by one in the gutter. Once or twice the young Viet
store-keeper has thrown a customer out through his door. Junkies of various
ages hang and pick up along the strip, many using the booze as a second or
third resort.
When the
irony of the Liquor store next door is raised with Osman No. 3 (the youngest of
the trio, in his late thirties), he trumps that with the Halal Butcher and its
neighbouring Sex shop down the road.
— All fresh,
very fresh. Broadly stretching his wry smile.
Fine and delicate traceries along
jaw and chin. Tufts and sparse sprouts in idiosyncratic lines and locations. Beards
and goatees let out in front, pointed and elongated—the biblical world is near
at hand here. A venerable white-haired old grandfather with walking stick and
skullcap, grossly out of place on these bitumen byways, trains faint wisps down
from his side-burns onto and under his jaw. Despite thick and coarse head hair,
southwards on this continent the hirsute are a minority. Experimenting with a
goatee that is almost entirely under the chin, Faisal’s scratching indicates twisting
and curled single strands largely hidden from sight. Conventional Arab goatees
abound (many here have crossed the Red Sea to work on the Peninsular or perform
the Hajj.) Moustaches less common and usually of the pencil-thin Levant variety.
For
the Taliban’s insistence against shaving of beards, Faisal offers tentatively the
Koran’s statement of the male needing to appear as a male.
The Street kids and older junkies’
fraternal bonding uncannily echoes the black form, from the examples on video
and TV, if not directly the street itself. In this proximity their ceremonies
of greeting and parting suggest at least an adaptation among the urban tribes. A
few young African boys, some of whose respectable and upright fathers sit at d’Afrique, have fallen into the drug
net. Their free liquid movements in enfolding their fellow outcasts, elaborate
and graceful, reveal their ancestry as clearly as their colour.
After more than thirty years of fighting the current peace
between Eritrea and Ethiopia is considered provisional at d’Afrique. The Ethiopian military intervention in Southern Somalia
has everyone talking (the U.S. role taken for granted); a pretext would be easy
to find for a move against Eritrea in the right circumstances. Three against
sixty million the population proportions. The strategic large port of Masawa a
major loss to Ethiopia, seriously disrupting trade (any fair-minded arrangement
on an open Port finds general agreement in the debates). Walking sticks and
eye-patches are common; some of the men here joined the struggle in early teens.
Taking a cigarette outdoors the figure of the seasoned fighter is clearly struck—the
pack produced as if it were an artefact; the studied withdrawal of the cigarette
and then its deliberate, careful handling prior to lifting it to the mouth. Older
veterans chew tobacco imported from back home mixed with tar and water, able to
be retained in the mouth all day. Out on the back veranda a number of hookahs serve
other customers (hashish strictly against house rules).
Originating in East Africa (a
province of Ethiopia is named Kava), in the traditional form coffee arrives in
a long-necked clay djebana with
ginger, cinnamon and cloves added. An insipid non-alcoholic beer is imported
from the Middle East. Apart from the native kerkade
(rose-hip), brewed in a large pot that Faisal keeps under the front
counter, the most commonly served teas come in Lipton bags. Exhausted boozers regularly
take a seat at the outdoor tables; occasionally an unwelcome gathering is
legitimated by a junkie’s purchase of coffee. Almost entirely male, a large
proportion elderly, most of the customers sit on a single drink at d’Afrique. Slow days Fausi, the principal
owner, laments the two dollar coffees and soft drinks, the one-fifty teas consumed
over hours of occupation. Good days forty Fuls
are served—the national Eritrean dish of beans and egg in oil and spices, eaten
with injera bread without cutlery. Eight
dollars for Ful and the other mains
provides a modest living. The economic situation of the community dictated the
low prices, says Faisal, Fausi’s older brother. The other African cafes charged
standard rates; almost all of them, Ethiopian Orthodox Christian largely, served
alcohol.
If not outright family members, a
fair proportion of customers are members of Fausi and Faisal’s tribe. The Jebartil
had crossed the Red Sea from the Arabian peninsular, from modern day Yemen, six
or seven generations ago. (In a jest about Osama, one of the Ethiopian wags
gave the warning regarding Yemeni ancestry.) The heads of families retain a
book of genealogy, where the lineage can be traced more than a thousand years. Initially
the tribes-people had settled in Ethiopia proper, before having to flee to the
high country at the time of the forced conversions to Christianity. Carting
contraband food and clothing during the war Faisal had crossed the sea a number
of times. Some of the men have sailed across, six hours at minimum.
Relations
with the frequent Ethiopian customers are easily maintained. Somalis, Sudanese
and the Jerbatil’s own neighbouring Christian Orthodox hill tribes create a
patchwork at the tables. For good measure a shy Lebanese albino regular throws
a spanner into the colour gradation. Orthodox and a daughter of a well-known
singer father, whose picture hung in a montage on the wall, Segen—Ostrich
literally—worked behind the counter a few months. Often the Southern Sudanese
bear tribal markings on their foreheads, six or more full-length parallel
ridges, sometimes difficult to discern on black skin. Appropriately the
Ethiopians have more coffee in their colour. Though Arabic is the lingua franca,
many have a good bit of the other languages and playful mimicry results.
*
The parable of the outwardly observant
believer contrasted with the virtuous infidel finally cleared the decks with
Faisal, removing any last shadow of doubt, any hesitation or reserve. With it a
confirmation came, a seal and reassurance. Faisal knew his Koran. Many
so-called believers didn’t, he held, taking the example of polygamy as a case
in point. If the reference was not directly from the Old Testament (a Holy Book
for the Muslims as well of course), it was a close parallel.
In
the text the good man without God, the infidel, gives alms to the poor, treats
all his neighbours as kin, shows kindness to his dog and never beats it; despite
all of which he is not a believer. The other prays five times a day, attends
the mosque and proclaims his faith, without good works and all the opposite
features of the infidel. In Paradise, Faisal reports, a place is reserved for
one only.
Were he not
a businessman, Faisal would make a good Imam or shiek. (Any at the mosque can lead prayers, he reminds, Islam being
without an ecclesiastical order.) The contrasts and points of similarity with
the younger brother Fausi are amusing. Never in his life had Faisal let coffee
or coca cola, much less alcohol, pass his lips. Tobacco? Allah forfend! In the
evenings at home with his wife and mother Faisal might occasionally take a cup
of tea brewed from a used tea-bag. Fausi on the other hand puffs out front with
the best of them, drinks his djebana sickeningly
sweet like his customers and gives due notice to the African Queens on the
footpath (the latter sure to provoke the elder’s censure should Fausi be caught
out). Knocking back a stiff drink secretly too, one might surmise (wrongly in
this case. Confessions have come from one or two other quarters….).
On polygamy much needs to be said,
according to Faisal, without any sense of answering or trying to counter a
well-known prejudice. It is abuse that is the chief problem; men deploy the
right of polygamy to serve their lustfulness, he unexpectedly suggests. In the
Holy Book the matter is unfolded with great care. (Faisal continues his study
of the Koran. In the schools it had been the chief text.)
Firstly
there is in all parts of the world a majority of women over men. (On the
fingers of his hand Faisal pairs the genders on either side of his large
extended family for illustration.) Added to this natural biological imbalance, warfare
increased the disproportion further still. Thus sizeable groups of unattached
and shiftless women become a problem for themselves as much as the community; including
them in marriage bonds alleviates a misfortune and promotes a general good.
(Islam is compassion above all.) Before this can be undertaken, however, much
is required. A man already married must have the means to provide for the
second wife, as well as any forthcoming children. This provision must be the
equal of that extended the first wife; there must be no differentiation between
the different wives and children. The wives need equal attention; need to be
satisfied sexually of course in equal measure. One of the first requirements
too—Faisal returns to the matter after having made the point at the outset—one
of the first requirements is the free and unfettered permission of the first
wife. The life and example of the Prophet is always instructive. As a second
wife Mohammed took a poor, isolated and friendless woman struggling to maintain
herself. Took her for wife for this very reason of rescue. A subsequent wife of
the Prophet was a Jewess; at the time Mohammed had begun an extensive trade
with the Jews, the marriage showing his full-hearted commitment.
Approaching
fifty and childless (jinxed by his wife’s occupation as a mid-wife, the wry
joke against himself), Faisal refuses to countenance the thought. Like many of
the wives of the Jebartil, his good wife is a first cousin (concerns over
consanguinity dismissed out of hand; endogamous marriage has been long
practiced by the tribe). For Faisal dishonour and cruelty would be involved in
taking a second.
*
The old, integral Somali lands take in the middle core
separating North (Red Sea) Somalia from South (Indian Ocean) Somalia; currently
occupied by Ethiopia; they include the jutting spit of Djibouti and the
Northern crown of Kenya too. Carefully drawing the map on a piece of paper and
explaining the butchery is Yousef No. 2, a neat, delicate man wearing the traditional
cap, like his brothers faultlessly
groomed, an intellectual’s visage given by the glasses. Certainly unlike any
picture of a diesel mechanic. The French took Djibouti; Italians the southern
Indian Ocean coast; and on each other side the masters of the colonial game,
the English. Repercussions were still evident today.
—
We of the same language, same religion and same colour live in five separate
homelands, laments Mr. Yousef.
(The lines on
the maps either side of the Red Sea, the statelets over the Arabian peninsular,
are traced by all at Afrique for the
underlying foreign strategy. For the men at these tables the study of history proceeds
without the necessity of books.)
Twenty five
years Yousef No. 2 spent in Saudi, working on the large American transports—trucks,
caterpillars, bull-dozers. Ten years less than Mr. Osman No. 2, his good Eritrean
friend, fellow refugee and emigrant worker. Getting out the product employed
large numbers from the Horn, which provided an abundant, cheap labour supply.
Mr. Osam
No. 2 hails from the Eritrean port of Masawa (his compatriots running d’Afrique were peasants, Mr. O joked; his
own superior class fished the seas.) In California they knew of Osman No. 2 for
his expertise maintaining and repairing the stone-crushing machines, welding
and iron and steel fabricating, ranging from machinery and transports to the
illegal stills the American foreman ordered. The Saudi ruling caste of course didn’t
themselves resort to make-shift stills; the very best quality whiskey they got from
overseas, secretly imported. A truck-driver friend of Mr. O’s who lost his load
on one occasion told of the immediate clean-up by the Security people, followed
not by a tongue-lashing, but warning of loss of tongue if there was any talk.
Living in
Saudi made the performance of the Hajj easy for Mr. Osman, enabling him to
undertake it on three occasions with his father. Both Yousef No. 2 and Mr.
Osman No. 2 attended the Friday executions, which took place every month. The toneless
relation was left to the less garrulous Yousef. It was delivered in a creaking
English that failed to bear the weight of its burden. Repetition had perhaps
played a part in the flatness of delivery; the translation into the foreign
tongue no doubt an additional factor. Somewhere half-way through the account a
momentary loss of equilibrium was restored with Mr. Yousef’s forefinger finding
the tip of his nose.
The bound man
brought to the public square. A proclamation read. To correct his posture when
the moment arrived the unmasked executioner prodded the kneeling figure …. Yousef
can’t recall sword in English. An
appeal to his friend for help proves fruitless. Finally a display of a surprisingly
short measure of implement achieves the result. One single, expert blow was all
that was required, at which the doctor emerged to check the pulse. (Lack of
vocabulary again leading to a raising of cuff on wrist for illustration.) Meantime
the executioner, abstracted and unheeding, wiping his blade carefully on his
own clothing. (Slow, deliberate passes over Yousef’s own shirt in mimicry.)
Mr. Osman’s
movement in his chair through the course, the shifting in seat, turn of head
and switch of eyes—without adding any single word of his own—conveyed part of
the story too.
— The State sometimes the biggest
terrorist, Mr. O. finally offers with a crooked smile while adjusting his
baseball cap.
Thirty and
more years ago in England the last man hung was a Somali, Yousef remembered
after his relation of the Saudi execution. In the late 90’s the real perpetrator
of the crime for which his countryman was hung came forward to confess. In
Saudi the substitutions of innocent for wealthy guilty parties able to bribe
police was widely known. Saudi corruption knew no bounds, the friends concur. The
presence of beggars in wealthy Riyadh more than enough condemnation of these
rulers.
*
Clipped goatee, viridian Ben Sherman knit, neatly pressed
slacks, polished shoes…. (For these Africans the doors at home remain unopened
until a strict last minute going-over makes doubly sure.) The Afro-Egyptian TV
Romeo walks the tiles here at d’Afrique.
Minus the soft plastic in his face revealing a sweet mummy’s boy, Khalid would
make a good assassin or gangster too. (Hhkalid properly, rather than the muted Anglicised
pronunciation.)
From the
few remaining back home the family is spread across Sudan, Egypt, Germany,
Norway, Canada and Australia. A number of years Khalid spent in the refugee
camps in Egypt, like many of his compatriots. In all ten years a stateless
refugee, before the papers were finalised for Australia. A maternal first cousin
of the owners, Khalid adds colour and panache to the bland neatness of the
elders. A lady-killer if ever there was one—a perfect description for Khalid.
The warning
when it was given was gratefully, if apprehensively, received. A second time
Khalid wanted to hear precisely what his elder cousin had observed of his
behaviour….
An open invitation has been extended by Faisal to his
home-town of Keren, where accommodation would be provided at the family home.
Faisal’s depth of generosity is conveyed straightforwardly, almost
off-handedly. Acting as guide to the place of his birth would give Faisal
pleasure. Something of the living arrangements, however, need to be clarified
in advance. Possibly Faisal has experienced some kind of misunderstanding in the
past; a Russian Army Officer had been a close personal friend in the time of
the Soviet presence. What needs to be established from the outset is the order
of the household at Keren. The guest would sleep, eat and take his ease in a
designated area of the house. Food and drink would be prepared in another
quarter and served by Faisal himself. Joining the guest at the feast would be
father and brother, together with any tribesman or neighbour visiting. In their
quarter the women would remain and take their meals separately. In short the
entire stay would pass without meeting a single woman of the house, aged and
minors included. They would remain on the other side of the family compound and
care would be taken that their paths
would never cross.
….Cousin Khalid
past his mid thirties now—significantly over-shooting the age of marriage. Had
Allah granted, by this time he might have fathered seven or eight children. Behind
the coffee-machine Khalid’s goatee is hidden; head bent, chin at an angle, dark
eyes fetching over the rim of metal. Expertly, lazily the handles and levers are
manipulated. At his station there Khalid often turns dreamy, drifting away long
distances over the sands. A distinct upheaval often occurs when a new order is
given, when abruptly Khalid is drawn back to the moment. Otherwise Khalid can
swoon in a more identifiable direction, much more concentrated, passing into a
trance of an altogether different kind. It is not so much the African queens passing
by out on the street that achieve the effect; Khalid is taken more strongly and
more completely by the smartly dressed bottom-heavy Euro office gals who
clatter by on their heels. Finding one of these in his visual field Khalid rises properly from
his introspection, entirely alert suddenly and straightened in his stance.
Under the sway of that vision Khalid’s burning
twin black coals gleam in their tracking line, burn like an African sun. Dark
nut-brown perhaps the true colour, set in limpid white. Not ideal in fact for a
spot of furtive spying. Because what is so striking about Khalid’s keen
admiration is the caution in the action, the restraint and circumspection.
Khalid wants to take his delight privately without being noticed. If only the
method was a little more artful and canny; if the coffee machine was at a
different angle or the kitchen and tables arranged otherwise. At the machine
Khalid’s posture is almost unaltered, true enough; his hands continue to work
the levers and the noise of the machine provides some cover; the rising steam
something else in Khalid’s favour. After all Khalid is hardly gawking like a
hound, straining at the bit.
Were that Faisal
was not so rapier, so scimitar sharp. Less quick, alert, astute, incisive,
strict in judgement. Ten years older than his cousin, Faisal’s opinion no
trifling matter, not by any means.
Mimicry is
clearly beyond Faisal, the attempt abandoned before really begun. A description
of his observation on the other hand misses nothing, catches the straying
cousin beyond a shadow of doubt.
— Can
commit the sin not just with the thing. Can commit with the mind. The hand. Yes….
Re-crossing
legs with the censure. Faisal flushed and twisting after his report, slightly
unsteady. (Some uncertainty over his listener likely.) A comic-book, spoofy kind
of perving and lustfulness—adolescent almost—to witness with eyes other than
Faisal’s.
…. Khalid big
eyed and wide-mouthed, exaggerating his surprise, nodding and requesting a
second telling, grateful at the warning. (No need to reproduce Faisal’s words to
frighten him properly.)
*
Arms raised and hands extended:
— CLAP
CLAP. Abdou Razzak! CLAP CLAP. Abdou Razzak. Abdou Razzak….
An
emergency alert on first hearing. Some disturbance about to erupt from
outdoors. The wail of sirens, trumpets perhaps about to sound.
The
reaction lagging however. No-one coming out of the kitchen at a frantic pace.….
— …Abdou
Razzak!!...
Customers utterly
imperturbable, as one might expect. After what they have been through, the
barrage would have to get a lot worse to make this lot jump. Fausi hasn’t budged
from the stove. Visible through the serving slot, he is fixed on his pot,
mumbling something under his breath. Without further ado he has turned his
back. Finally Faisal rounds the corridor in his usual quick-step, grinning and
giving back some pointed, if not indecent remark.
All the kin
and Keren townsmen here know the brothers by their mother’s nickname; not the
formal name given by the father. Many of them in youth had sat together
barefoot in a circle at their classes. On his returns to Eritrea Faisal has
more than an hundred families to visit. Fridays back home before the mosque the
whole morning is passed in visiting. Faisal is Abdou Amin, or more usually
simply Abdou; Fausi Abdou Razzak.
The jousting
and fun that unfolds now too rapid for translation. Tones, gestures and
expressions having to suffice.
Like Mr.
Mohammed the Somali, the other Africans—the Ethiopians, Sudanese and Arabs—mimic
the maternal boyhood nicknames. One last clap on the final approach. Pouting and
gesticulating the hurry-up. Faisal tickled and laughing despite himself now at
the coffee machine, where further exchange ensues.
Coke-bottle
glasses, white shirt untucking at bulging waist, brown loafers: Mr. Mohammed’s
straight face keeping the joke hidden longer still. Faisal’s smiles and the
rattle he returns the only give-away for the banter, which keeps up quick-fire,
rasping and sawing either side. When the coffee arrives—espresso rather than djebanna for Mr. M. (Man of the World
after all)—the pour of sugar equates to something like eight teaspoons.
— Business waiting. No time stopping
Abdou! Back in Mogadishu... (Oh! the consideration and trouble taken back home
for customers of rank and standing. How the waiters would hop it. No expectation
of understanding at this distance. Shaking of head…. Not just anywhere in the
capital either in Mr. Mahommed’s case. Most emigrants when they tell you
they’re from the capital in fact hail from a goat track three days hike. Not
Mr. Mohammed. When he says Mogadishu, he means the bullseye centre; like from
Hard Rock Café to Parliament House.—A second look and sweep of the arm to be
sure the measure has been conveyed. From the moment he opened his eyes, every
day Mr. Mohammed looked from his father’s house at the Parliament building.)
Bleach in the business-shirt for the
mark of the man (frizzy balding hair and glasses a countervailing suggestion of
the mad scientist of a generation past). A well-seasoned traveller of the world
sits here. Shops—another wave of the hand to reinforce the plural; one in the
next street. Been all over Mr. M. Sees more in a week than the average man in a
life-time. Best place in the world is China. Everything there, everything in
order. Selling well in his place around the corner.
On
the telephone Mr. Mohammed barks and cajoles in effortless alternation
(underlings and wife respectively). Like the other Africans, when relaying serial
digits, whether financial sums or telephone numbers, English interrupts the
native language. (Black men bearing tribal markings with no more than three
dozen words in English have learnt their numerals.)
Nine children at home means Mr.
Mohammed needs to make every business-post a winner. Fourteen his bride at
marriage. A Russian girl-friend meanwhile in need of immigration spouse. To
balance all the many sides takes one with special nous. (Russia is nothing
compared to China. Of no account.)
The service always shamefully lacking—a
mogul from Mogadishu finding it hard to hack. Somalis are born businessmen.
Others merely ape the art. These guys here!… (Bottom lip turned out revealing
the paleness within.)
— Tell
him Osman what you know.
Mr. Osman
has never met a Number Two. Let the world know, his friend Mr. M. the
businessman ranks not less than Chief Number One. Blowing of cheeks and
stretching fingers for indication of the everything in question. Could but
words convey.
— These
guys here. Should be respect. Hey Abdou?.... We gave you your country!
….Occasionally
the historico-politico here can twist and lash like anywhere else. (During the
war of independence the Somalis provided weaponry to their neighbours against
the common enemy.) Firm, sturdy, humourless young veteran-types over-hearing liable
to take playfulness amiss. Anticipated quickly by Mr. Mohammed. Immediately, well
before the turning on the heel.
….
— I only speak of…. (Possibly turning to Tigrinya rather than Arabic.)….We
understand each other…. (Tongues of every sort quickly to the fore.)
The
former fighter come up to the table in a slight limp straightens his backbone
and from his side draws a finger.
— I say one
thing to you only…. (English, for the
benefit of all.) WE know who WE ARE!
Mr. Mahommed knows too. Businessmen
know everything, born businessmen certainly. (As littoral people, the Somalis
have been open to all comers over the generations.)
[NOTE. ATTENTION the Feds: No
need to waste resources at Afrique.
The Eritreans have attained their goal.]
Messers. O. and M. re-settle and
kick back to play to the rhythm of a brisk Paper, Rock and Scissors. Left—Right.
Left—Left. Right—Left.
Bananas—Monkeys.
Swivelling in their seats, elbows
flapping. Ah, caught you out./ Got in first./ Did not./ Now come on… Smiling
appeals. Claim and counter claim. Chimpanzee calls from one, at which both of
them bubble over, cackling, banging the table, jumping out of their skins.
— You guys!
— No,
we are without jungles.
Bananas again.
Right-left. Right-right….
Finally both of them come to
round on the Sudanese. There are no doubts about the simian traits and features
there. Deepest Africa. (No light of religion either.) You just have to look at
them.
