she’d eaten something still alive and rotating. She had chosen to make her debut at the Ridgeway, knowing that Loveness went to the Pamodzi on Thursdays. But the two hotels were precariously close to each other – kittycorner across an intersection – and the party girls who worked them would definitely report it to Loveness if they saw Sylvia. By the time she reached the Pamodzi, her stilettos were dangling from her fingers by their ankle straps and sweat had seriously compromised her make-up. She wiped her feet clean in the cool grass under the neon hotel sign, squeezed back into her heels and stepped wincingly into the hotel.
Avoiding the bellboys, she made her way through the gauntlet of apamwamba guests in the lobby – a businessman sitting with legs crossed reading the Times of Zambia, a muzungu with a rotting nest of dreadlocks smoking a cigarette, a young woman in glasses reading a book – wait, was that…? It was. Mutale was wearing jeans and a bulky sweater – that girl had never taken proper advantage of having the money for fashion. She was probably here for a fancy dinner with her parents. As if sensing eyes on her, Mutale looked up from her book.
Sylvia pulled her plaits forward to hide her face behind the swinging curtain and picked up her pace as much as her heels would allow. She hadn’t spoken to Mutale since abandoning her at the Agricultural Show and hadn’t seen her since leaving school. As Sylvia reached the exit to the poolside area, she glanced over her shoulder and saw a tall figure approach Mutale. Was that…? It was. Mwaba! Sylvia hustled outside, feeling a clutch of shock in her throat. But then it released – something had shifted. She smiled to herself. Those two were just schoolchildren.
It was a warm night. The Ridgeway swimming pool glowed smooth and white under the big moon. As Sylvia moved towards the outdoor bar, she felt eyes following her and her confidence began to grow. She had deliberately worn clothes that showed you what to do with her body. Her loose shirt drooled off her shoulders and gasped open at her cleavage. The folds of her skirt grasped her hips and caressed her thighs as she walked, cloth fingers inviting human ones to join them. She propped herself on a bar stool, tossed her plaits and ordered a Mosi.
The bartender gave her a wary look but caved easily to the kwacha she waved at him. This cash – saved from sales of vitumbua over the last few months – was the only reason Sylvia could be at this luxurious hotel instead of at a shebeen. She cast her eyes around. Tourists, local businessmen, a few wives, no party girls just yet. She closed her eyes and listened to the subtle music of affluence: swishing palm trees, tinkling ice cubes, murmurous conversation, and a certain absence of sound, too – a lack of urgency, of complaint. She felt a swell of resentment at Loveness for keeping her from…
‘Cheers.’
Sylvia opened her eyes. A grizzled muzungu in a limp suit had slid onto the stool beside her, holding a tumbler of whisky towards her. She clinked her bottle of beer against it and sipped.
‘Vhut is your name?’
‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ Sylvia pouted at him.
She was not supposed to smile. I never smile for free, Loveness always said. No smiles until he buys me a drink. The man laughed and went ahead and told her his name, then where he was from. He bought her a drink, then another. After two more hours of pouting and drinking and eventually not just smiling but laughing, Sylvia found herself stumbling along a corridor, her shoulder glancing off walls rocky with framed paintings. The grey-haired muzungu (Dutch? Danish?) walked ahead, intermittently turning back to wave her on with a beer bottle.
He closed the door to his hotel room behind them, pulled her into a hug, and said, ‘Hello,’ as if they had not already greeted. She extricated herself and stepped further into the room, which was clammy with air conditioning. She sat on the bed, took off her shoes and her skirt, and stretched back. The bed was like a bowl of vitumbua dough, soft and firm and creamy. She hadn’t slept in a bed since she’d been kicked out of Aunty Cookie’s flat, and she’d never slept in one like this. The man knelt over her on it and began fumbling his mouth