Free Terroir by Graham Mort

Past the guard with his ancient bolt - action rifle. Past the mosque where a row of slippers was lined up at the entrance. Then down the red dirt track that ran beside the road into town. The air was sickly with diesel fumes and charcoal smoke from the braziers where women roasted maize cobs and sold them to the students on their way to Saturday classes at the university. They came in a steady stream in freshly pressed clothes, smart and eager to learn.
    The track was uneven, rutted with rainwater. Open storm drains were clogged with rubbish beside the road. I saw a dead lizard curled in the dust. The kind that were supposed to cast a spell on pregnant women. I stubbed my foot and scuffed the toe of my shoe. They were pretty shot anyway. My dad always used to say that he couldn’t afford cheap shoes. When he died I found boxes of them stored in the pantry at home, never worn. Grensons, Loakes, Crockett & Jones, Cheaney’s. He must have combed every charity shop in town. Some were brand new and all were two sizes too small for me. Towards the end he’d developed bunions. His big toes had crossed over and he’d only been able to wear trainers. When I went to see him in the hospital his feet were yellow and twisted like roots.
    It was about that time when things in the UK had gone wrong for me. I’d been made redundant when my firm downsized, so I’d gone freelance. First a pipeline in Cameroon, then Kampala, Nairobi, Llilongwe, Accra, Harare, Joburg, Kano and Lagos. I had this dream, that somewhere in one of the marketplaces – maybe in Kano or Nakasero – I’d find an old man making shoes by hand. He’d be a product of empire, crafting the finest veldtschoen from buffalo hide for army officers who sought him out from their retirement homes in the UK. Each would have his own last, carefully numbered, and the shoemaker would store them in the shady back room of his shop, even after the ex - colonials had died out, one by one. Every year he’d send a few pairs of hand - stitched shoes to the UK and a cheque or bank order would come back by return.
    My dad was a wrought - iron worker and could make anything out of metal. He used to belt us and his hands were as hard as ingots. You learned never to let him come up behind you. Once he smacked my brother’s head so hard that it hit the plasterboard partition between our bedrooms and cracked it. He got another smack for that. In those days most men had a trade and in our row of terraced houses we had a joiner, a painter and decorator, an electrician, a mechanic, and a violinist. And my father, of course. Together they could have built the Ark and entertained the animals.
    My father liked to walk when he had no work – which was most of the time as he got older and more cantankerous. He’d stump angrily into Manchester and back, placing small ads in newsagents, saving on bus fares. He liked those metal pieces nailed to the heels of his shoes – segs – so he rapped his way down the pavements. When we were little, my dad was the creak of leather. You heard him before you saw him. Luckily. Once he had a pair of shoes repaired and the leather wore through in a few weeks. I asked for bullhide on these not bullshit, he told the cobbler, slamming them down on the counter. He had a nice turn of phrase when it suited him. For a man of five foot two, he was the most intimidating person I ever met. But then, he was my dad. Enough said.
    I waited at the only working traffic lights in the city. The sun was melting the sky. An amputee went by on a hand - operated tricycle, his face shiny with sweat. This was my fourth visit to Uganda – a six - week stint in Kampala, with occasional visits ‘up country’ – as the Brits call it. Up country can be pretty much anywhere, even down country. I never really figured that out. McKenzie was the geologist and would be with me for this last two weeks of the survey. The heat was