The Wrong Kind of Clouds by Amanda Fleet

Author:Amanda Fleet [Fleet, Amanda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Manson and Westwood
Published: 2019-12-06T22:00:00+00:00

The air was cool and fresh inside Ryalls Hotel. Moyenda felt shabby and out of place, the dust from his trip to the community coating his shoes. He nodded to the doorman as he entered, greeting him in Chichewa. The doorman smiled and greeted him back, but without the warmth reserved for guests. Moyenda walked in and turned right, passing a wicker sofa and a brass-bound wooden trunk that served as a table. As usual, staff from the College of Medicine were here, drinking coffee and using the wi-fi—the strongest signal in the town. He continued past a line of small round tables, his eyes darting as he looked for the man he was meeting. The ground floor opened out to create a small dining area and beyond that was a bar with more sofas and wide, comfortable, wicker chairs. Mzondi Malilo was seated at the back wall, next to the French windows that opened into the courtyard. He had a cafetière of coffee in front of him and his eyes were on official-looking papers in his hand. He looked impeccable in a cream linen suit that was barely creased, his skin smooth and almost glossy, and his hair cropped very short. At thirty he was still young, a junior member of the government who kept a house in his home town of Blantyre. He was also one of the board members of Samala and someone Moyenda hoped he could trust.

Mzondi glanced up and waved, beckoning Moyenda over and indicating the free chair.

‘Ah, Moyenda. Good to see you. You are looking well. And how is Chifundo? When are you going to have children of your own to worry about?’

Moyenda smiled. ‘We have more than enough children in Samala to worry about! How are you? How is Malita?’

Moyenda took the free seat, waiting while Mzondi told him about his wife and family. The waiter came over and Mzondi raised his eyebrows at Moyenda.

‘Yes, coffee. Thank you,’ Moyenda said, still feeling like a fish out of water.

Ryalls was the best hotel in Blantyre, one that most of the population of the city would never set foot in. It was where all the ex-pats met, where businessmen dined clients and customers, where foreigners with money stayed; it wasn’t the place for people like Moyenda, with the dust from the streets on his shoes. The tiled floors were always spotless, there was a swimming pool and a restaurant—21 Grill—which served the best food in town. The staff wore shirts the colour of egg-yolk and black trousers or skirts and sported brass name-badges on their chests. They were trained not to laugh at the guests’ pronunciation of their names and to recognise who was important and who wasn’t. Moyenda wasn’t.

The waiter withdrew discreetly and Moyenda wondered how to start. Mzondi was looking expectantly at him, and Moyenda felt his mouth grow dry. How much should he trust this man?

‘I wanted to talk to you about Samala,’ he said.

‘How is it going? There seem to be fewer children begging than there used to be, so the work must be going well.

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