Akpongo (whose parents had lived for many years in Africa and given her this very atypical Nigerian name) came to be my favourite neighbour, sharing her coffee and biscuits and always willing to chat about stuff other than gruesome surgery and the day’s medical issues. However, the others were no less friendly and I soon got to know Saskia, Karin, Gerlande and Susan just as well as Carlyn and Akpongo – and our little ‘family’ was always laughing about something as we tiptoed round each other in the tiny kitchen or squeezed up close around the too-small dinner table. Whoever was home, we’d always be sat outside with a beer or a coffee, shooting the breeze and I was always reluctant to disappear upstairs to my room when I needed to write or, simply, go to bed. Eventually, when Susan’s rotation had come to an end and she disappeared upcountry to travel with her boyfriend, I was able to move downstairs between Akpongo’s room and the one shared by Saskia and Karin. As well as the many pleasant evenings ‘at home’ we’d also managed a couple of memorable nights out – not an easy achievement with the quality of entertainment in Blantyre.
First of these was a curry night: after my 7 months in Leicester, I’d gotten very accustomed to my regular Sunday Indian at Jamal’s – always the perfect end to a good weekend and a social occasion for chat instead of dancing.
Carlyn’s boyfriend, Teun, had flown out to join her now that she had finished her volunteering stint at Open Arms. As he’d never been to Africa before and reputedly enjoyed his home comforts, Carlyn was really keen to make sure he had a good time while he was out here as she wanted to be able to persuade him to come back. We were all keen to make sure he’d feel at home and show him a good time and, as it happened, this was no problem as he was a very affable, outgoing chap, quite prepared to take things as they came. He’d spent a couple of days helping out at Open Arms (the kids loved him!) and we’d gotten to know each other well enough so Carlyn suggested it would be nice if we went out for a curry before they left on their travels. I’d invited Akpongo along after she’d had a bit of a shitty day (one of the kids on her ward had died) in the hopes of cheering her up and we set out to have a good time.
Neville had suggested that we visit the Royal Taj, Blantyre’s other Indian restaurant, but as both Carlyn and I had assumed that the other was listening when Nev was giving the directions, we didn’t have a clue where to go and I immediately jumped at the chance to go back to the Bombay Palace. Although it turned out to be considerably busier than the previous occasion, we arrived just after the doors opened and so had the place to ourselves for half an hour or so, drinking beer and chatting, whilst waiting for the tandoori oven to heat up. Several Kuche Kuches later and we were all laughing and gabbling away as we sat down to a veritable banquet of fine Indian cuisine. Once again, I’d ordered the delectable onion bhaji (this time to share with Akpongo) and the others agreed that it was very tasty indeed. Unfortunately, Carlyn wasn’t feeling too chipper (the beginnings of a nasty little 24hr stomach flu) but Teun, heroically, made up for her lack of appetite on both the food and beer fronts – so the rest of us were all in fine form as we rolled home back to Kabula. It was a pleasure to spend some time bonding with these guys and, while it was a shame that Teun and Carlyn were due to be leaving, I was pleased to have made a good buddy of Akpongo.
Ever since my arrival at Kabula, I’d been hearing tales from the girls about the dubious pleasures of the Cactus club – cheesy R&B, blinged-up homies in baggie pants with sweatbands, sweaty overcrowded dancefloor and wandering hands from the local wideboys. It really didn’t sound like my cup of tea and back at home (with decent trance nights to choose from), I wouldn’t even have entertained the idea of checking it out. However, Gerlande had gone to work in Zomba for a couple of weeks, Saskia had disappeared to the lake with Neville, Carlyn and Teun for the weekend and I was left with Karin and Akpongo wheedling me into agreeing to go along.
It turned out to be an hilarious evening as I spent much of the night almost crying with laughter at the antics of our fellow ‘clubbers’. For a start, the DJ was wearing his headphones like some kind of halo – the headband sitting a good six inches above his head in some strange, fashion statement. I’ve still not managed to work out why he was wearing them though as every mix was a quite hideous train-wreck, clearly made without any intention of blending the beats or building a momentum. The crowd, though seemed utterly oblivious, as they bumped and ground their way around the joint. There were so many pants hanging out of the tops of waistbands that I was seriously tempted to go on a wedgie-rampage and the dancing manoeuvres being executed were enough to have me in hysterics for most of the two hours we were there. Karin and Akpongo of course were in on the joke and I ended up having a great time just laughing with them and acting out the funniest of the moves around us. Occasionally the girls needed rescuing from some overly-keen suitor but, on the whole, the guys were very well behaved, despite obviously being fascinated by these two tall, white girls. We necked a fair few vodka-tonics and by the end of the evening I decided that it’d been well worth the experience…although I’d probably hesitate to go again. Best of all was the three of us seeing each other in a different light, as opposed to our more sober, workaday personas – too-dominated by the thought of doctoring or writing to get too merry during the week. I determined that I’d cook the remaining three (Saskia, Karin and Akpongo) a farewell meal, as a thank you for welcoming me into their little clan.
Akpongo, Me, Carlijn and Teun enjoying the Bombay Palace
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