The Lubetkin Legacy

Violet: Horace Nzangu

Violet washes and oils her hair in the shower and wraps it in a warm towel. While it’s drying, she picks up the phone and dials her parents’ number in Bakewell.

Handling your parents can be tricky, steering that fine course between their protectiveness and her need to live her own life. She’d intended to wait until she had a new job lined up or some good news to share before phoning her mum — easier to keep up a cheerful tone with texts and emails than to hide the unhappiness in your voice — but after her run-in with Marc and her conversation with Mr Rowland, something has snapped inside her. She’s lost the confidence, drummed into her for twenty-three years by her parents and her schools, that here in Britain it doesn’t matter who you are or where you come from, that hard work pays off, the good guy always triumphs, and integrity wins through in the end.

‘Violet, that big city is depressing you, why don’t you come back home for a while?’ Her mother, as always, can tell when she’s upset. ‘It’s so nice up here in summer.’

It’s a tempting thought, to pack in her job and have her mother look after her while she chills in her bedroom, listens to music, and applies for new jobs. But she knows she would be fed up in less than a week — especially as all the kids she was at school with have moved away, apart from the drop-outs who hang around the square with spliffs and hard-luck stories. After London, the smallness of Bakewell depresses her.

‘Thanks, Mum. I’ll think about it. But it’s cool here, honestly. I’ve met loads of interesting people, and I’m campaigning to save a grove of cherry trees. Don’t worry about me.’

Saying the words out loud makes her feel more positive.

‘So you have become a tree-hugger, mpenzi?’

‘Sort of. I guess.’

Her mother laughs. ‘Like Wangari Maathai. She was a great Kenyan fighter for trees and for human rights. Whenever Wangari had something to celebrate, she planted a Nandi Flame tree.’

She has heard this story about Wangari Maathai several times, but never taken much notice before.

‘Yeah, I remember those trees. Beautiful. Like cherry blossom.’

‘Wangari said trees and people both have rights, and they need each other.’

‘It’s true. I wish she was here in London! The trees have brought the people together.’

She’s noticed that in the face of their common enemy, the community spirit at Madeley Court has come alive. Neighbours now greet each other and stop to talk, and all the bitching is about the Council, not about each other. There are always little knots of people down in the grove, and the tambourine girls, who apparently are mostly sixth-formers at the local school, have started putting on regular noisy shows, which, if she’s to be perfectly truthful, can get a bit annoying. It’s like Langata, both the friendliness and the racket.

‘Wangari linked the deforestation of Kenya to the despoilment of the country’s wealth. But even she couldn’t stop it. There is a new corruption scandal every day,’ her mother says.

‘Talking of corruption, Mum, when you were in Kenya, did you ever hear of someone called Horace Nzangu? A businessman?’

‘Nzangu. It’s quite a common name …’ Her mother pauses. ‘I think there was someone called Nzangu in our hospital many years ago, who was involved in a scandal about reusing syringes.’

‘Hm. Grandma once mentioned that while Babu Josaphat was working in the hospital administration he discovered some wrongdoing relating to supplies and went to the police. Then she clammed up. She wouldn’t say any more.’ She still remembers Njoki’s tight angry mouth and frightened eyes. ‘Could that be the same man?’

‘Could be. Your Babu’s body was found by the roadside soon after he went to the police. No one was sure whether it was an accident or a deliberate killing. In those days there was much talk of witchcraft, and everyone was afraid. People who spoke out died mysteriously, so Njoki never talked about it.’ Her mother lowers her voice. ‘Be careful, Violet. These people are more powerful and ruthless than you can imagine.’

The sad resignation in her mum’s tone makes her feel irritated. Why do people just accept all that crap without doing anything about it?

‘But that’s all old history and folk tales. If we know there’s a crime, we should speak up, right?’

‘Of course we must speak the truth, even if it means taking a risk. But who will listen to us if we don’t have any evidence?’

‘I think I may have the evidence.’