New life
Fair exchange
Zenga Longmore
Furious at being landed with a sick, moulting rug which had been passed off as a healthy specimen by a doorstep salesman, I rolled the offending object into a tube and placed it on the landing. What was worse, the young rug man had persuaded me to swap the mangy rug for a handwoven Nigerian rug, a present from Olumba.
Watching Olumba sweep up orange rug- fluff from the floor in a wounded manner, I felt a hopeless need to comfort.
`Doesn't the night sky make you feel small and insignificant?' `Never mind, eh. I'm sure we'll find a similar rug somewhere — maybe?'
`Yes, yes. Don't worry-o. It was only a rug, handcrafted in granny's village. Chai!'
`Chai!' echoed Omalara, as she merrily picked fluff from the floor and stuffed it into the mouths of her toy elephants. Too- foo dinner for baby lollilont,' she exclaimed to Olumba. Olumba nodded with distract- ed solemnity.
I was reminded rather painfully of a pro- duction of Aladdin I had seen 20 years ago at my local village hall. Scene six began with PC McColl, the local policeman, strid- ing on to the stage clad in gaudy wizard's attire. After bowing to the applause from various rowdy relatives, he roared with all the authority normally reserved for pave- ment cyclists, New lamps for old!' Ten or so minutes of audience participation ensued as the lovely Princess Zadia prettily procrastinated. 'Don't give it to 'im, Zady!' `Give the bobby the lamp else 'e'll arrest ya, ha ha ha!' and 'Mummy! I'm bo-o-ored. Can't we go home now?' Then we all gasped as the Princess finally relinquished the magic lamp to the artful rozzer.
When Aladdin (played by Mrs Cowley, the thatcher's wife) made his entrance into a lampless palace, he writhed with such agonised passion that even the heckling French students standing at the back (known locally as the vin-de-table louts) were quelled into silence.
However, unlike Mrs Cowley during her grand 'lost lamp' scene, Olumba did not give vent to his feelings of woe. Instead he continued to sweep with slow, doleful strokes. Unable to bear the strain any longer, I carried the rug downstairs with the intention of dumping it on a skip. When I reached the ninth floor, I knocked on old Mrs Wright's door, hoping to con- fide in an understanding ear.
`Ssh, dearie, I can't ask you in just now,' whispered the old lady, beckoning me into the kitchen. 'My favourite young nephew Tom has come on a surprise visit, over from Clay Lane. He never comes over, nor- mal-wise. I'm just cooking him a scrag-neck stew, 'cause I hopes to beg him a favour. I'm a-wanting him to bring Toby his ferret over, to clear the rats away from the dust- bins downstairs. One whiff of ferret, and the rats are off before you can say "Did- derkoi". A great man with ferrets is our Tom.'
Glancing through the door into the 'best room', I saw the unmistakable ear-ringed form of the rug salesman, sitting with his back to me waiting for his stew. And there, leaning against Mrs Wright's kitchen wall, was my good old rug!
Well, you can guess the rest. When Mrs Wright fondly carried the tray in to her nephew, I grabbed my rug, put his rug in its place and fled, calling 'Goodbye!' over my shoulder. Let him keep the eight pounds he had made on the deal. Now my African rug is back in its accustomed place. It seems glad to be home.
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