New life

Holy roller

Zenga Longmore

One of the most lamentable hazards of living ten storeys up is that car alarms, dog fights and human fights are as plainly audi- ble from that distance below as they would be if they occurred just outside the door. Noisy radios can be heard from streets away, preventing both sleep and conversa- tion. It must be something to do with sound-waves, and all the other waves that my long-suffering science master, Mr Fros- tic, tried to drill into my head when I was at school.

Unfortunately, I have a drill-proof head. However, there can be little wrong with my ears, as last Thursday I clearly heard an air- borne voice cry, `Zenga! Olumba!' The cry was followed by a musical car hoot. Looking over my balcony, I spied my disc jockey friend Shaka Boom Boom (real name Clive Barnes) standing beside a brand new minibus, proudly patting the bonnet. Leaving Omalara with Olumba, I scurried out into the lift.

`See the new bus I bought with the help of my partner Leroy?' Shaka asked, per- haps doubting my eyesight. 'Five rows of seats and wide open boot room for the Black Cat Sound System transportation. Not only that, but in the daytime I can use it as a Brixton bus service. Look, I've paint- ed 'Black Cat Bus Line' on the side in white, plus Leroy's phone number. Leroy's using his flat as an office to book coach hire. Well, now you've checked this superi- or vehicle, I must drive it back to Leroy's to see what job has turned up.'

`I expect you will be driving old ladies to church, or children to Sunday school, like most mini-bus owners in these parts,' I said.

`No way, man! I'd lose all my social standing on the Front Line if church sisters in feathery hats and brat-like children were seen in my bus! I've given Leroy strict instructions not to take work on a Sunday. That way, I can turn down the churchers without offending them. They'll think I'm extra sanctified not working on the Sab- bath. Then, in summer, I can do special tours to All Dayer and Nighter raves out in country places like Birmingham and Wol- verhampton. Not to mention seaside trips to Margate, Brighton, Blackpool. . . . '

`Worthing,' I added.

`All right, Worthing if you like. What's so special about Worthing, anyhow?'

`What's so special about — I only used to work there, that's all. Ah me, those care- ridden, I mean carefree days on the check- out of Dickie's Discount, watching through lazy eyelids old ladies shoplifting. Pricing catfood with a song in my heart and a. . . . '

`Yeah, well anyway, I gotta chip. I'm gonna do to you like the farmer did to the potater.'

`What's that?'

`Plant yer now an' I'll dig yer later.'

Omalara and I went out early to the mar- ket on Saturday morning. The first sight to catch our eyes was that of Shaka B.B. shamefacedly helping a beaming bunch of elderly women in feathery hats into his van. Inside the vehicle, uproarious brat-like children waved Coca-Cola bottles in the air and sang 'The Bart Man Rap'.

`Going to the seaside?' I enquired of a stout lady who clung on Shaka's arm. 'It's a bit parky for paddling.'

`No, darlin',' she replied. 'We have just hired this bus off a charming young man name Leroy every Saturday to go to church.'

At that, two of the Sisters sang a most alarming song:

God knows your name, God knows your number, God has a warrant out for you!

Omalara clapped her chubby hands and joined in the chorus, but something about the verse appeared to jar on Shaka.

`Church? On a Saturday?' I asked, puz- zled.

`Oh yes. This is our Sabbath. We are Seventh Day Adventists.'