As Long As She Lives (full published version!)

Chapter 15

"Abejide!" His boss's finger jabbed Wemusa in the back. "Glasses!"

Wemusa pulled his head out of the giant stinking pot he was scrubbing. "Yes, Mr Attah."

The glass washing machine – which Attah was standing inches away from – hadn't even stopped beeping yet.

While Attah watched Wemusa dropped the pot, peeled off his gloves and pulled the washer's bar to lift the giant metal box off the tray of steaming glasses. Only when Wemusa had picked up the tray did the bastard leave the kitchen – walking right past the shelf under the bar where the clean glasses went. Lazy son-of-a-bitch.

Wemusa calmed himself. He only had to hold on for as long as the nuns Henri had kidnapped could hold up under interrogation. He carried the tray through to the bar and crouched down to slide the glasses into their shelf. The dining room was full, as it always was on Mondays – mostly because it was one of the only restaurants open, but Wemusa reckoned that the "Feed yourself, feed Africa" slogan worked better after the fat bastards had indulged themselves over the weekend.

He felt someone come up behind him and he turned to see Ala waving Attah over. Wemusa ducked past her before he could get caught up in whatever complaint she had, now.

"Abejide!"

Too late.

"Yes Mr Attah?"

"Ala says we're out of the Monday sausages." Attah handed him a fifty-dollar note. "I want the change."

Freed from the stench of the kitchen, Wemusa took his time strolling down Rathdowne Street to the field next to the primary school where the Makers' Market set up on Mondays. He decided not to linger. His attire didn't exactly fit in with the designer clothes of the wealthy housewives wandering among the stalls. He passed a table of olives, which cost more per kilo than he'd paid for his jacket. A banner hanging off another trestle table declared that the cheese for sale was made from the milk of goats that lived in pens larger than his room in Attah's building.

He scanned the market signs for one that said "sausages" and his eye was caught by a tall black woman – almost as dark as him. She had to be the maker of the sausages, only an African could get those flavours right – they were the best thing 'Fugee served.

"Hello." The woman had a thick Ugandan accent. She looked him up and down with a lascivious grin. "Haven't seen you before."

Wemusa had no interest in making the acquaintance of a woman so openly sexual – he'd probably catch something. He looked at the fifty dollars in his hand and the price on her sausages – two kilos wasn't going to be enough.

"Twenty-four dollars a kilo?" he said.

"Not for you." She winked.

"I only want the sausages."

"I'm only selling the sausages." She put her hands on her hips and pressed her lips together, as if she was offended he might think otherwise. "You are here for Mr Attah, are you not?"

He nodded.

"Then that price is not for you. How much do you have?"

He showed her the fifty dollars. She nodded, squatted down and started rummaging under the trestle table. Wemusa glanced down and saw the bottoms of insulated boxes below the banner hanging over her table. When she stood up, she was holding four shopping bags containing what had to be at least ten kilos of sausages.

"Special is rate for Mr Attah, not you," she said.

Wemusa snorted. "What's wrong with them?"

"Excuse me?" Her eyes strained wide open. "Mr Attah gets a discount because I owe him everything I have – like you do."

"I don't owe him anything."

"Oh?" She laughed at him. He wanted to smack her stupid face. "I know you. I was like you. I hated him. I hated the work. I hated the little rooms in his building, but it is a start. Look where I am now."

"In a paddock down the road?"

"Oof! Piss off. Take Mr Attah his sausages."

Wemusa trudged back through the market, muttering to himself. Maybe he'd come back and put her in her sausage machine, after he'd found the other bitch and organised his way out. Assuming Penda ever got back in touch. He would pass a net cafe on the way back to the restaurant, duck in and check. No. Attah was already angry at him and – as much as hated to admit it – Wemusa couldn't afford to lose his job, not yet.

But what if there was an email sitting in his inbox right now? He hadn't been able to check before work. Now he had the cash he'd stolen from Attah's office. It would only take five minutes.

He reached the cafe and slapped the door open before he could change his mind. Three failed attempts at typing his login made him stop, take a breath and calm down. Henri's men had kidnapped the nuns less than twelve hours ago. Even if Penda had sent him an email it was unlikely to have any useful information. He pecked out his login with one finger.

There it was. An email from Penda's address. An empty message from Penda's address. He checked the subject: All we have so far. Any use?

Is what of any use?! Where was the message? What was he supposed to– Oh. There was an attachment. A picture file. He double clicked it and the photo viewer app presented a grainy black and white image of a line of white people – none of them was the teacher. They were standing in what looked like a formal hall in front of an Australian flag – he assumed the flag was why they'd sent it to him but who were these people? Penda was no doubt wary of putting into writing that they'd got this photo from one of the nuns or children that they were interrogating, but surely he could have given him a hint?

He zoomed in to better see the faces and saw that he was looking at a photo of a photo – or rather of a photo which had been printed out on a poor quality black and white printer.

He sighed and zoomed out. A blotch in the top corner of the photo caught his eye – an oily spot. Prestik? Yes. This photo had been printed and stuck on a wall. In the teacher's room maybe? That was a long shot. Still, they must have sent it to him for some reason other than an Australian flag. Scanning the photo he noticed the tall man in the middle had a medal on his chest – an award ceremony? He moved on to the man next to him, old enough to be the father– He knew that face. He scrolled in and out, trying to get a clearer impression. The face was definitely familiar, but where from?

"Abejide!"

Wemusa's heart leaped from his body. Attah was standing at the end of the row. His face incandescent.

"What are you doing?! Where are my sausages?! Is that them?! Give them to me!"

Wemusa glanced from Attah to the screen and back. Zombie-like, he picked up the package of sausages and handed them over.

"That's it! You are fired! You have two weeks to find somewhere else to live!"

Wemusa smiled at the computer screen.

"You're happy about that are you? Hey! Say something!"

But Attah was white noise to Wemusa now. He knew who he was looking at. Attah had photos of the man all over his office – torn from magazines and newspapers and stuck up with Prestik like this one had been. He even had a framed picture of the two of them shaking hands when Chef Duncan had come to give his blessing to the restaurant at its opening.

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Cheers!
Darcy.