05.1 Birds of Paradise

Messenger reached the western shore to find the girls ravelling in the sand playing bìbala – a game of tackling that often played on the beach. He hit the ground and shaded his eyes from the sun to glance at the crowds playing the game in different spots. Golden rays of a receding sun lit the bumps of dunes on a grassless sand on the beach of Lonu Magu Athiri. A narrow strip of sandbar linked to a small island lying in the lagoon.

She tucked her skirt on the hip and entered as a raider with three defenders in the circle. She skipped from side to side trying to ambush them. A lofty girl of a fair complexion; twenty-seven years old. She won a touch and ran out without getting caught. A defender was out. She entered again clutching her skirt on the waist. This time though the remaining two defenders tactfully made their move and seized her. She kissed the sand with two of the defenders on her top. Sand filled the ears and invaded her mouth. She struggled to touch the border within inches of her fingers. One girl grasped her hand.

Kotar cried, “Pinned down! She cannot get out of it!” The girls would only release if she surrendered by crying ‘ho-ho’. He assumed correctly, “She will never surrender!”

In the wrestle, she managed to turn on her back and drew her legs over the defender’s shoulder. Her skirt fallen back and haunches bare. The other grabbed a hold on her ankle.

One of the guys bedded there growled, “Look at those wattles!”

“These girls don’t even shave!” another argued.

“She will this time,” uttered Kotar.

“Hold on till they rip her dress!” cried an elderly enthusiastically.

“I don’t have whole day for this!” Kotar got up brushing sand from his back. “Mariam Mala! Your father is calling!”

The girls rolled disentangling.

They climbed up from the beach. Kotar picked his bike and she asked, “Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll see,” he said.

“Where is my father?” She stood seven inches taller than him.

“At Golden Court,” he replied.

“I can’t go there like this!” she desisted feeling soaked in a little yellow frock with a sprinkled pattern.

Roads fell silent for the next quarter of a mile as they walked up the main street with shadows fallen in the front. For the most part, they didn’t see a soul or a bicycle.

It was half past five when they arrived at Golden Court. Whitewashed walls concealed the block and nobody had seen the insides. A long veranda blocked the façade immediately after entering the teal gate. However, Mala was called to follow an orderly. She followed him down a corridor to a garden full of roses under shady mahogany trees.

She saw her father standing there with the newly appointed prime minister, a minister, an officer and a sergeant.

Her father waved her to come forward. She was bit ashamed standing next to the top brass and having that classroom feeling.

Ali Takhan introduced, “Meet the Prime Minister, Defence Minister, Officer Gold and Sardar Lahuth. This is my daughter, Mariam Mala…Deeni.”

Prime minister shook hands with her, “How do you do, Mariam?” he wore a Malayan type kopiah, in white sarong and shirt.

“I am fine, thank you,” she replied.

“I see that you have been to the beach,” he put a hand on her sweaty shoulder and pressed on gently to seek privacy by a corner, some courtesy that he usually never extended, “Your father thinks you are brave and brilliant to work for the Secret Service, Siru Sifàn, the SS. A moral obligation that may come never known but someone has to undertake. I look for the best and the most courageous. Nature of service is difficult, results will not be counted, honesty will be rewarded.”

She nodded.

“Your father and I will not forget your heroism and patriotism of which we will be indebted in honouring you. My dear! Take it at face value!” The garden lights lit up faintly in orange balls.

“I will serve with pleasure,” she replied, “my lord.”

“I’m proud of you,” Prime minister gestured her to join the others.

“Congratulations!” Minister Rock gave a nod, “When do we start?”

“Start now!” asserted Ali Takhan.

Officer Gold motioned, “Sardar Lahuth! Take Deeni to the Doctor. I will see you later.”

“This way, please!” sergeant ushered.

Mariam Mala came out of Golden Court to witness a deep red sky. She could hear the drums of Naaba strumming by the waterfront; a procedural to ward off Rahne Mari. They passed the Friday Mosque rambling towards the national security headquarters known as Bandérige – natives call sifànge. Beacons lit the road sparsely by every hundred feet and the only area with electricity. Branches of frame trees and a sky falling dark caught in her eyes. A white wall of the defence block on the right.

Three-storey wooden deck house of the defence headquarters stood by the ring in front of the palace. She was escorted through the gate where she heard soldiers shout here and there. A confusion on the raised platform over a shortage of beef for dinner. They kept livestock in nearby islands. All it mattered for them was feasting.

“Where is Doctor Mosanic?” yelled the sergeant.

A hasty cop replied, “At the studio.”

They went pass a row of black Raleigh bicycles with mint-colour shield badges of the national security on the rear fairings. Through the nooks to a shed with a single bulb lit under an overhang. Sergeant knocked on the door and a dark cop in mid-thirties with a stripe on his shirt sleeve opened.

“Deeni! This is Sardar Mosanic. Do as he say. He will train you and test you.” Every staff with a stripe was referred to as a sardar – a foreman.

Lance Corporal Moosa Manik said, “Go in and sit down. I will join you.”