Loveless listened with curiosity and incredulity. She could see that Dr Wiseman Lovemore had no respect for his boss, but still, why would a VC take an administrative decision on a scholarly paper? What are peers for? Shouldn’t confrontation of ideas be the golden rule of scholarship? Intoxicating! Mimboland is full of Mimbo-wonders, she told herself, playing on the name of the beer she had fallen effortlessly in love with.
“Two months ago, I came closest to finally presenting the paper somewhere. Right here at Mimbo, at a faculty seminar, thanks to a new dean with new ideas about university life.”
“What do you mean?” Lilly Loveless couldn’t understand why he should speak in terms of coming closest to presenting his paper in his own university when that is where he should have started. Isn’t it one’s immediate peers who should tell one how good or bad their scholarly work is? Aren’t they those who, satisfied with your performance at the local level, should encourage you to test the scholarly waters further afield?
“I know,” Dr Wiseman Lovemore smiled. “That’s what one would expect in a normal university.”
“Are you saying Mimbo isn’t normal? That I have come to the wrong place?”
“I’m not saying more than I am saying, which is simple,” he smiled again, took up his glass, tilted it a bit, and looking philosophically into it, went on: “Just when I was about to mount the podium and give the lecture of my life, there was an electricity blackout.”
“What!” she exclaimed. “I can see what you mean when you say you haven’t been lucky with the paper.”
“When power was re-established shortly after, I found myself alone in the Amphitheatre.”
Lilly Loveless couldn’t believe her ears. She almost thought he was joking, but he looked serious. Either he was good at being serious about joking or at joking about being serious.
“Colleagues and students had all seized the opportunity to escape the burden I was about to impose on them in the form of a lecture, was the nagging feeling I had then.”
“You mustn’t blame yourself. How can you call your scholarship a burden? What are universities for?”
“It would appear, at least judging from experiences here, they stand for everything but scholarship. Sometimes I feel students and academic staff are in the way of administration, and research in the way of what everyone seems to prioritize.”
“That’s cynical.”
“But well-founded, won’t you say?”
“No comment.”
“The more I think about it, the more I’m inclined to believe that the problem might perhaps be one of theme.”
“What do you mean?”
“A cursed theme, I mean. Perhaps I am, and I suppose you as well are, interested in a theme which people prefer to act out in private while keeping up appearances in public. So don’t think I joke when I say there is an aura of misfortune around this paper.”
Lilly Loveless felt for him.
“Of course, I’m desperate to be proven wrong,” he smiled longingly, “which is why I was quite excited about your coming, when Professor Dustbin mentioned you, and especially after I read your first email,” he went on.
The waiter returned with another set of drinks, a Baobab for Dr Wiseman Lovemore, which he preferred hot, and a well-chilled Mimbo-Wanda for Lilly Loveless.
They both filled their glasses and formally toasted welcome and good collaboration.
Dr Wiseman Lovemore felt lighter having unburdened himself, at least temporarily, of the curse of his paper. He made clear what he intended to gain from sharing his paper and ideas: “I would like us to co-author something together in this area,” he told her.
She stopped pretending to read, took a sip from her glass, and turned to him, a curious expression on her face.
I am just a beginner, she thought, half flattered, half mystified. Yet here is a whole Dr with many years of university lectureship to his credit already hoping to publish with me, virtually pleading to be considered, even before he has known what I can or cannot offer. She felt pity.
He was serious. “Publishing in Mimboland is extremely difficult,” he proclaimed. “And the only way one can hope to change grades is through seizing opportunities such as this offered by your coming. That is, when one is not a stooge of the party in power.” The pressure to publish or perish was printed on his forehead in bold letters. He emptied his glass as if to say, “You have no choice in this matter.”
Lilly Loveless conceded without thinking things through. She could see she had little choice in the matter, not only because his request reminded her of ethical dilemmas on which she had been grilled by her committee, but especially because he was going to be her host and guide for the next six months in the field.
He thanked her profusely and said she could do with the paper as she liked, as long as their names appeared on the final version together. He didn’t mind being the second author: “Lovemore and Loveless or Loveless and Lovemore, I don’t care, so long as I am published. I simply can’t afford to perish in a den like this.”
That was what she remembered from last evening, at Mountain Valley.
***
Dr Wiseman Lovemore arrived soon after Lilly Loveless finished her breakfast. She noted that he wore the same short-sleeved dark blue button up shirt he had worn the day before. They exchanged greetings. He sat down, adjusted the goggles that covered a third of his face, fitted the new SIM card into her phone and loaded it with airtime. Lilly Loveless thanked him, refunded what he had spent, and asked for receipts and his signature for accounting purposes back home. She had brought along a huge receipt booklet which she intended to fill with signatures to satisfy those funding her fieldwork in Mimboland. Transparent accounting entailed that money should be seen to be well spent, which meant obtaining signatures and receipts even from those who could not read and write. Her phone loaded, Lilly Loveless excused herself and sought privacy at the other end of the pool to call her mom.
She didn’t want to embarrass Dr Wiseman Lovemore with her mom’s silly questions and worries: “What are the people like? … How much freedom does the weather allow you? …Any health problems yet? … Keep your first aid kit handy …. Always carry with you some … Have you been robbed? … Good, thank him for me … Do be careful – you know what I mean, don’t you?”
She tried to reassure her mother, who was more than pleased to hear her daughter’s voice defy the challenges of being in Africa.
“My mom sends greetings,” she told him, following her call. “She says I should thank you for her, for taking care of me.”
Dr Wiseman Lovemore nodded.
“I can relax now that she knows how to reach me,” she said, more to herself. “My mom is very nervous about my being out here. She makes me feel like a two-year-old.”
“It’s understandable. She doesn’t want to lose her daughter to the wild unknown.”
“She has all these strange ideas about Africa.”
“You can’t blame her. Everyone has strange ideas about the unfamiliar.” He wanted to add that even Africans had strange ideas about Africa, but thought that would need some explaining, so he didn’t.
“I see you’d get along very well with my mom. My plan is to persuade her to come and visit, as soon as I am settled.”
“It would be my pleasure to make her feel at home away from home.” Dr Wiseman Lovemore liked the sound of the phrase he had just made.
It struck a cord with Lilly Loveless as well, for she smiled her appreciation.
“Your dad, did you speak to him as well?”
“My dad doesn’t live with