A Girl From Zanzibar

impulse of loyalty towards a friend and an offence I did not commit. I’ve thought about this—I’ve had the time —until it seems to coincide with logic. The plods—the policemen from the provinces who collared me—knew nothing of our happy multi-racial, international, supra-legal, prosperous, used and useful Bayswater. They were Thatcher foot soldiers licenced to patrol internal unrest. It came out during the trial that my policemen had just finished a spell in Yorkshire, battling striking miners. Earlier the same night they had been fighting a mainly black riot caused by resentment against the police actions in north London’s Tottenham, and apparently still had it in their heads when they surfaced from the Tube in cheerful multi-racial Bayswater that black people were the enemy. It hadn’t mattered to them that Kamara was a political refugee from Africa or that I was a businesswoman of good local standing. We were not white and we were prey. I checked the newspapers while I waited for my trial. Conservative politicians were labelling any criticism of the police as treason, and the judge took the same view. At my trial they made much of the murder of a policeman in Tottenham that same night, even though it turned out to have happened after our arrest.

I had failed to read the signs. I had looked up and out when I should have looked down and in. I watched my front when I should have watched my back. I only noticed that Bayswater was part of the world instead of noticing it was part of England. I failed to correctly evaluate what the British wanted and conveniently overlooked the history of their ruthlessness. I misheard the warning shots. I mistook indifferent tolerance of me for the welcome of a home. England had reared up and bitten me. I only had myself to blame.

But Benji’s business was not without its consequences. They searched my flat and found Ashraf’s gun catalogues and twenty thousand pounds in cash that I could not explain. The charge for me was raised from possession and dealing in heroin to that of “organiser,” a kingpin, a major player in the drug trade. How else could the money be accounted for? I could not say. How else was my comfortable lifestyle explainable? I had no tax receipts to prove otherwise. Kamara got two years, with his deportation to be reviewed in the light of his political refugee status. I got eight, with no doubt about my deportation at the end of it. My barrister asked Lord Cramp to be my character witness and we were deafened by the silence.

"HELLO?" WHEN I PICKED UP THE PHONE I WAS LYING

on my couch, drinking my coffee, reading student essays, my mind all on that.

“Marcella?”

There was something impossibly familiar in the voice. My spine knew first.

“Yes.”

“It’s really you?”

“Benji.” I dared to whisper it.

“Zanzibar girl.” He breathed it, as if shy.

“Benji, wait. Don’t say anything. You’re not dead. You’re not dead, are you? My god! I never thought I’d hear your voice again. Oh, Benji! Where are you?”

“No. No, I’m not dead. I wondered if you’d think that. I’m so sorry, Marcella. I couldn’t let you know. It was too dangerous. Then, when you left prison, you just vanished. I was waiting. I was sure you’d come here.”

“Here?”

He hesitated. “I’m in Zanzibar.”

“Zanzibar? What on earth are you doing there? You can’t be in Zanzibar. You could never phone here from Zanzibar.”

“I’ve been here years, Marcella. Hiding. Waiting for you. I have friends in the telephone department. And things have changed since you were here. We may never manage it again, though.”

“But you’re well? You’re OK?”

“I’m fine.” He chuckled. “And you’re fine too, aren’t you? A professor at a college, isn’t it? Are you fine, Marcella?”

“How do you know all this, Benji? How did you find me?”

“Never mind that. Are you well? Are you married or anything?”

“Yes, I’m well. I live very quietly.”

“I went to Dar-es-Salaam airport to meet you, you know. I heard you were leaving prison and being deported to Tanzania. You know the way you hear things here. A friend in the government. Then you didn’t come. The plane came, but you didn’t arrive. I waited all day, you know. I stayed in Dar for the next week, meeting all the flights. I was going crazy. No one could explain it to me.”

“Not even your friend?”

“No. He just said you’d vanished.”

“It was meant to be that way. I changed planes and came here. It was all planned for me.”

“I checked with your family. They didn’t know. You could have been anywhere. In the end Zanzibar seemed my best bet. So I stayed.”

“Oh, Benji. Benji, Benji. I love you, Benji. I do. And I could kill you. Where were you when I was in prison? Oh, I know—it wasn’t safe. You couldn’t help it. I still hate you for it, though. And I love you. And I’m happy you are safe. And I hate you. So how did you find me anyway? I’m so happy to hear your voice, but I think I need to know.”

“There was a tourist here telling everyone he knew you. An American professor with a fat bottom.”

“Ron. Of course. He found you?”

“It wasn’t necessary for him to find me. I just listened to him talk from two tables away. Moore College in Vermont. He acted like he was your lover, but I didn’t think so.”

“Absolutely not. I’ve no interest in Ron whatsoever.”

“Thank god. He didn’t seem your type. But then again I never thought of you as a professor.”

“Who is my type?”

“Me, of course. When are you coming home, Marcella?”

“To you, or to Zanzibar?”

“Both.”

“Coming home.... What are you talking about, Benji? You’re crazy. It’s been nine years. I haven’t even taken in that you’re not dead yet and you’re talking about me throwing everything up and going back to Zanzibar. You know I don’t like Zanzibar anyway. Let me enjoy just having you back in the land of the living for