they called it. Some of the allegations even made their way to court, despite the reluctance of the latter (modelled on Muzungulander legal systems) to deal with cases of witchcraft where there is often little “concrete evidence” and proof “beyond any reasonable doubt”. Curiously there were no parallel rumours about shrinking or disappearing women’s genitals. It was said that Mimboland men, in fear that their women would all be food for rich foreign business tycoons, could not ignore such a development. Hence no stone could be left unturned as concerned Mimbolander men sought to put a halt to this. Foreigners had to conform and live peacefully with their impoverished hosts or leave the country. The stories were widely reported and widely believed, and Mimbolanders warned not to shake hands with foreign businessmen.
Around the same time, it was rumoured that two girls at the University of Asieyam in Nyamandem had fallen victim to a foreign tycoon with lots of hard currency to spend. The girls were said to have gone out with him for a good time, and to have returned with him to his posh residence in the Beverly Hills area, where he had chosen one of them with whom he retired to bed. But instead of making love to the girl, he had opted for a full meal by swallowing her after transforming himself into a boa constrictor, known locally as Mboma. By the time the other girl found out, her friend had been swallowed right down to her legs, stopping short of her anklets. She stormed out and alerted the police who upon investigating, discovered that it was common practice with this man to make a meal of those he lusted after. The story was widely disseminated by the famished press and also by word of mouth and Radio Trottoir, but generally taken for granted.
“Since then, all sugar daddies or sweat mamas are called Mbomas,” Dr Wiseman Lovemore concluded. Then something struck him: “But all of this is in my paper,” he added proudly, unsettling dandruff as he scratched his unkempt hair.
“Yes, of course,” said Lilly Loveless, as she desperately tried to mask the fact that she had not read his paper yet. “It is all there in your paper, well articulated. I just wanted to hear you tell me about it in person.” She fidgeted with her glass, uncomfortable to be lying to a man with eyes magnified by such oversized goggles. How she wished he wouldn’t ask to discuss his paper further.
Just then, a journalist well known to Dr Wiseman Lovemore walked in, spotted them, and started coming to their table. “There’s a friend of mine, the funniest man in town. He has these outbursts of laughter that are so infectious you can’t avoid laughing with him. He is coming to join us.”
Lilly Loveless saw a tall, lanky, extra-dark skinned man dressed in a lovely colourful embroidered short-sleeve shirt. He held an unlit cigarette in his left hand and a newspaper under his left armpit. Mid forties or thereabouts was her estimate of his age. She was drawn to his eyes, which stood out so much that the rest of his face, with the exception of his unusually long ears, seemed to fade away.
“Hi, Dr Lovemore,” he shouted, holding out his right hand. “When are you going to start loving less?” he asked, jokingly.
Lilly Loveless exploded in laughter, wondering what the guy would say when he found out her name.
“Young lady,” he addressed her, shaking her hand. “It is no laughing matter. Tell your friend to love less,” he burst out laughing himself, as he took a seat. “The hazards are just too many.”
“I’ll tell him,” said Lilly Loveless, light-heartedly. She could see this guy would be fun.
“Iroko, meet Lilly. Lilly, meet Iroko,” Dr Wiseman Lovemore cut in.
“Lilly, sweet name,” said Iroko. “But what kind of introduction is that?” he reproached his friend. “Lilly what?”
“I am Lilly Loveless,” she laughed.
“No kidding! I like that. You must tame my friend here.”
Dr Wiseman Lovemore laughed. “She is not my girlfriend…”
“Who said anything about girlfriend?” Iroko interrupted. “To love less, you need a therapist not a girlfriend.” Then turning to Lilly Loveless, he said, “Lilly, by the way, I am Bobinga Iroko, senior journalist with The Talking Drum, the one and only newspaper in Puttkamerstown worth writing home about. In most parts of Mimboland, it is not the cock which wakes you up in the morning; it is newspaper vendors screaming ‘The Talking Drum, The Talking Drum’.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Lilly Loveless, shaking hands with him again, thinking, I have probably shaken far more hands in my short stay in Mimboland than I have in all my life in Muzunguland.
The waitress returned with the drinks, and went back with Bobinga Iroko’s order.
“Now Lilly,” Bobinga Iroko began, holding her right hand, “tell me your surname.”
“I told you already.”
“You mean Loveless?”
She nodded.
“Loveless? … Your name? … For sure?”
She nodded again.
“Why would your parents do a beautiful girl like you a disservice of such magnitude by having a name like that?”
“I came too late to influence the naming of my dad,” she giggled. “But I do remember asking him why his parents gave him the name. Being a librarian, he looked up the name, traced it in the family to a time when there was so little love in the world that people thought, would this child survive in a loveless world?”
“Amazing coincidence: Loveless meets Lovemore. What does that yield?” He laughed mischievously, before adding: “Don’t tell me just yet. I am an investigative journalist.”
He took out three bitter kolas from his pocket and offered one to Dr Wiseman Lovemore, who declined, saying: “You know I don’t like bitter kola.”
“He doesn’t like bitter kola,” Bobinga Iroko mocked.
“Why?” Lilly Loveless asked, accepting the curious-looking nut herself.
“He’s never had any experience in bitterness,” replied Bobinga Iroko, jokingly. “His life so far has been a bed of roses.”
“Don’t. He’s certainly getting there.” Lilly Loveless interjected without thinking. And when she stopped to think, she couldn’t figure out what made her say it. Fortunately, neither Bobinga Iroko nor Dr Wiseman Lovemore paid her statement much mind or asked her to explain what she meant.
Lilly Loveless took a bite at the kola and winced. The nut tasted like rubber and was bitter as hell. She spat out, and Dr Wiseman Lovemore spoke just in time to avoid a comment by Bobinga Iroko.
“Bobinga Iroko has been my friend for years,” said Dr Wiseman Lovemore, addressing Lilly Loveless. “But each time I’m with him, I feel no need for sports, because the laughter he induces is enough exercise. The worst moments I have with him are actually the best in the world. A very jocular fellow he is.”
“You’ve made him blush,” said Lilly Loveless, as Bobinga Iroko covered his face with his hands in pretentious shyness.
Bobinga Iroko’s drink arrived. “She knows how to have fun at the job, and delivers service with a smile,” Bobinga Iroko complimented the bar girl, his thirsting eyes drowning themselves in her good looks.
Lilly Loveless insisted on paying for the beer. “The drinks this evening are all on me,” she told them.
“Literally or metaphorically?” asked Bobinga Iroko.
“Literally and metaphorically,” replied Lilly Loveless.
“Regardless of whether I literally finish a crate?” Bobinga Iroko teased.
“Regardless of whether you finish two crates,” Lilly Loveless challenged.
“So what are you doing in Puttkamerstown?” Bobinga Iroko asked, taking to her sense of humour and suppleness of mind.
“I’m doing research for my