LET'S DO LUNCH

Mading relieves Manute from guard duty. They share a meagre meal of millet porridge before Manute returns to the refugee nation of southern Sudan. The noon sun is a harsh sentence for a parched tongue but they talk not of coffee or juice-laden fruit and rice and lentils are mountain memories their stomachs can ill afford. Instead they curse the clear skies that rain only strafing jets and pray for their dry-breasted wives on pilgrimage to the aid station carrying children swollen with the promise of death. They snarl rumours about al-Bashir’s lapdogs in Khartoum growing fat on food intended for them. Jason waits, informed by cell phone of Laurie's imminent arrival. He orders a wheat beer, its earth tone inviting on a silver tray and its musky sweetness washing away a morning of phone business. The noon sun is a warm blessing through the picture window but they talk not of haloed hills or the light-laden river and recession and retrenchment are market memories their ulcers can ill afford. Instead they debate '63 cabernet versus '74 chablis and moan about their reconstructed wives driving halfway across town carrying children swollen with the promise of private schooling. They snarl rumours about Key's cabinet in Wellington while wolfing crayfish and Steak Diane.

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