New life

The art of suspense

Zenga Longmore

winsome aquaintance of mine named oddly enough, Winsome, called round last week, just as I was writing UP Olumba's shopping list. Surprisingly, this normally hearty woman appeared to be weighed down not only with the cares of the world (or at least Brixton) but with a pile of papers as well. `We writers', she observed, eyeing the pen and torn-open cigarette packet in my hand, 'just give so much to our public.'

`We writers?'

She coughed as modestly as one can cough when Omalara is singing. `Yes, we pen-people, as they say back home. A friend of mine is starting up a magazine called the Frontline Courier and Advertis- er, and I'm doing a column for it entitled "Winsome's Ways": 'Congratulations! ('Bye, Olumba, don't forget to get the turnips from Doug's stall at the far end of the market.) So tell us all about this column, then, what's it going to be about?'

`Anything at all! You see, I have a system which can't fail. I've decided that the most mundane occurrence can be made exciting if it suddenly ends with "To be continued". So that's how I'll end my column each week.'

Ifinm. (Take that sweet pepper out of your mouth, Omalara.) That might work for a while, Winsome, but think how silly the articles would look if they were col- lected into a book.'

We both reflected on this. My reflections ran something like this: Episode One Suddenly the door handle moved, seemingly by itself! The door swung open and a tall figure stepped into the room.

To be continued Episode Two Olumba stepped into the room, popped Omalara into my arms and then paused diffidently. `Mama Zeng,' he began, `I have something to ask you.'

To be continued Episode Three `Could you make an extra egusi soup tonight?' asked Olumba, `Uncle Bisi is coming for supper.' Just then, footsteps were heard from without. Could it be . . . Uncle Bisi?

To be continued Episode Four Yes, it was.

At that moment, in real life, the tele- phone rang. When I picked it up, a man's voice spoke harshly in a foreign accent.

`Do you know someone called Jones Bingo? I am holding his son prisoner.'

Just as I was reeling in stunned amaze- ment, there was a knock on the door. I told the mysterious stranger to 'hang on a minute', and answered it.

Clawhammer Jones Bingo burst wildly into the room, all but upsetting the tea that Winsome had balanced so carefully on the high-chair.

`Someone's stolen my ex-wife's golden chain!' he gasped.

To be continued (really).