The Sunday Mail
Things had settled down in the newsroom at the Zimbabwe Sun, where Cincinnati Ngulube was the editor and Adam Kok was a senior journalist specialising in human interest reportage.
Jackson, the vacuum cleaner, had been given the boot for taking advantage of the editor’s wife during the office party and was now sucking up to the editor of one of the so-called “independent” newspapers — which as far as Adam was concerned was the right place for vacuum cleaners, as looking for muck is what they seem to do best.
Then one day a vision from heaven came to the offices of The Sun.
Everyone in the newsroom who saw the girl, hoped she was coming to see him — except the women, of course, who were all dead jealous. She looked like a film star — and it turned out that that is exactly what she was. What’s more — eat your hearts out, guys — she had come to see the Griqua himself. What do you expect?
Adam took her into his office, following behind her slightly so that just for a moment he could feast his eyes on the beauty of the backside swaying before him in a soft dark green maxi.
For those of you who are too young to know, a maxi is a dress or skirt that goes down to the ankles, a midi goes down to the calf and a mini just about reveals everything.
Once he had her seated, he realised that it made no difference from which angle you saw her, she was simply breathtaking. “Now, young lady, what can I do for you?”
Adam was always as professional in his manner as he was totally and scandalously unprofessional in his thoughts and deeds. While every fibre of his body ached to get this young woman into bed, all the girl saw was the very epitome of a detached and businesslike journalist ready to make notes and write a story.
“Mr Kok”, she said in an accent that sounded like it came straight from Boston, New England, “Mr Kok, I haven’t come to see you on anything related to your work at the newspaper. My Harare friends tell me that you are an expert in solving our problems. By ‘our’ I mean ladies.”
Adam’s ears pricked up. This was meat and drink to him. The prospect of getting to know and enjoy this young lady’s attractions better had suddenly become rosier. It was also good for business. Adam wrote very good stories for The Sun. They were good because they were born of encounters like this.
“Let’s go and have a coffee and you can tell me all about it,” said Adam.
The guys in the newsroom were a nice bunch but not very civilised. When they saw Adam walking out through the door with the beauty in the green maxi going like a dream before, they hooted and whistled.
“They don’t do that for every girl who comes to the office,” said Adam to her, “so take it as a compliment.”
“In the States I could have them all arrested for sexual harassment — but I like it. It makes me feel that I’m home.”
Over coffee she told Adam her story. As she talked, although her lovely full-bodied lips did the talking, her eyes, her hands, her facial expressions, her whole body, it seemed, was talking too. Adam was in a trance. Even Nesta, his favourite nyatsi, could not come anywhere near this woman.
Flora was a Zimbabwean. A convent girl, who had gone over to the US to pursue her actor training. After qualifying, she had spent a number of years doing small parts in theatre, television and film. She found there was not much scope for black actresses from Africa over there so, when she heard about this local film, her agent sent her portfolio and she was offered the lead. The agent had had to haggle to get a decent contract. The producer seemed to be only interested in protecting his own rights. He didn’t seem to think an actor had any at all.
“You know, Mr Kok, we really need a union here. A union could come up with a mandatory contract template which ensures that actors are legally protected and all their rights recognised,” she said.
“I suppose the actors are all so eager to get a job and be paid something, they don’t even notice the contract,” said Adam.
“I can believe that,” she said. “When the shoot eventually got off the ground, I just couldn’t credit the level of amateurishness. It’s not like there’s nobody in the country who knows anything about filming. Zimbabwe has a lot of expertise. For example, there was this one mudhara on the set with a small part. His name is Dinyero, Stan Dinyero…”
“Yes, I know the old man. He was one of the first to get into films in Zimbabwe,” Adam chipped in.
“He knows what he’s talking about but do you think these young men who are running the show, listen to him — or even consult him? In fact, it’s humiliating for him — to be doing a small part in an amateurish film being produced by young men who have just finished a course in film-making. Anyone can see how much they’ve got to learn but they are the bosses and you have to just keep your mouth shut.
“I could have put up with this but, if these guys don’t seem to know the good things about the film business, they sure know the bad. The first thing the director did after signing the contract was to take me to a club, buy me drinks and then drive me to his place for the night.
Mr Kok, between you and me, no girl who is trying to survive and succeed in the male world of films in the States can remain innocent. It’s either an affair with the director or you don’t get the part. I’m no angel. I was when I left Zimbabwe. I believed in respecting myself and I expected to be respected but in the bitch-eats-bitch world of showbiz and movies over there, you’re gonna have to climb down off your pedestal and play the game like everyone else.
“But when this cheapskate beginner of a director tried to play Hollywood with me, I gave him one clap and called a taxi. Ever since then he has made my life hell. But the worst of it is that now the film is in the can, he tells me the money he was expecting hasn’t come through and he’ll pay me when it comes. It’s bad enough for me. I’ve got to be back in the States in a few days and I know if I go without my money, I’ll never see it. But what’s even worse is that the whole cast and the entire crew — cameras, sound, lighting, make-up, costumes, logistics — the whole lot have not been paid. They worked on this production for six weeks, including lots of night shoots. They weren’t even given money for fares. The food was usually a sandwich if we were lucky. And now he says he can’t pay them!
To be continued next week
