a finger inside its pages, which were as thin as onion skin. Was this a Bible study group of all things?
‘Let’s begin with where we left off,’ said Lionel. ‘Mao’s concept of contradiction.’
A voice broke in. ‘We must first go back to the idea of the dialectic, Prof.’
‘Ah, yes, we ended in the middle, or should I say the muddle, of the dialectic last week, didn’t we? This is in fact the nature of the dialectic, always in motion, surging forward and racing back, like the sea.’
Agnes perked up, thinking of the sound of the eucalyptus trees.
‘But Prof!’ a woman’s voice called out this time. ‘We do not know about the sea here in Zambia! We are landlocked. You must kindly deploy another metaphor for us please thank you.’ A laugh.
‘You’re right, Stella. Awfully Eurocentric of me. Let’s use a mathematical language – it’s more universal. So, if we have a plus and a minus. Thesis, antithesis, what does it…’
Agnes heard the hollow scratch of chalk on a shuddery chalkboard. She sank back in her chair. The classroom was frightfully cold. Her stockings felt wet and dry at once. Jolly good Ronald hadn’t come. To think, Lionel’s club was some kind of communist collective! She couldn’t sneak out unnoticed now, and she couldn’t find her way back alone to the Goma Lakes where the driver was parked. Agnes sat in a misery of itch and sweat, waiting for the meeting to end.
After a few minutes, she was handed a sheet of paper. It was soft and slippery – a photostat.
‘…transcript of the conversation,’ Lionel was saying. ‘Let’s read it aloud. I shall be Mao. Who wants to be Kaunda?’ A hand must have gone up. ‘Thanks. Now remember, this is in translation. Mao begins: “We hope that the Third World will unite. The Third World has a large population!”’
‘That’s right,’ said a wheezy male voice, ventriloquising Kaunda. The voice sounded a bit old for a student, and familiar somehow. They went on, alternating the lines of dialogue.
‘Mao: Who belongs to the First World?’
‘Kaunda: I think it ought to be the world of exploiters and imperialists.’
‘Mao: And the Second World?’
‘Kaunda: Those who have become revisionists.’
‘Mao: I hold that the US and the Soviet Union belong to the First World. The middle elements such as Japan, Europe, Australia and Canada, belong to the Second World. We are the Third World.’
‘Kaunda: I agree with your analysis, Mr Chairman.’
‘Let’s pause here,’ said Lionel, ‘and discuss the implications of this dialogue for Africa.’
‘Ah, Prof,’ came a voice from the corner, ‘it is a simplification to knit us together like that. One Zambia, One Nation? Maybe. But One Africa? One Third World? I don’t know.’
‘And now,’ a woman’s voice chimed in, ‘Kaunda has even instituted a one-party state. Is that true socialism? Or is it just fascism? He is becoming just another African dictator!’
An exclamation from the back; a clash of disagreement; a harmony of voices arguing the same thing in different words; a racket of shouts and laughter. As the conversation crescendoed, Agnes thought again about the sea and about coincidence – or had Lionel said contradiction? – wondering how likely it was for two things to meet one another in the sea, given the fact of waves. Before she knew it, the meeting was over. Agnes stood, thrilling with proximate knowledge as the other members of the group shuffled out of the room, chatting.
‘I did not expect to find you here,’ said the wheezy voice that had play-acted Kaunda.
‘Yes, hello,’ she frowned, reaching out to shake hands. ‘Small world, I suppose.’
‘Were you not listening?’ the man laughed. ‘The Third World is a big world!’
‘Indeed.’ Lionel joined them. ‘The Third World is the majority of our world.’
‘Yes, Mr Chairman. Your analysis is very pertinent and correct,’ the man said, exaggerating Kaunda’s sycophancy and that’s when Agnes realised who it was: Ronald’s friend, Phil, from that first house party over a decade ago.
‘I must admit, it’s all a bit beyond me,’ she said feebly. ‘The Third World – it sounds like something out of Tolkien.’
‘A token?’ asked Lionel.
‘No, no, Tol-keen. He wrote—’
‘Dear sweet Eggnest,’ Lionel said, putting his hand on her forearm. ‘Have you heard of this brilliant new invention? The British came up with it a few centuries ago. It’s called irony.’
‘The British?!’ Phil protested. ‘Irony is a French invention!’
‘Hrm, second-rate irony perhaps,’ said Lionel.
‘Second World irony, you mean?’ said Agnes.
There was a pause. Then they all laughed, Lionel loudest of all, and her heart