‘No good to us, my father, but very good for the people of Zimbabwe.’
Now he understood. He replied in Shona. ‘It is always so. The old lion dies and the young lion takes the pride. We are like the old lion and, if we have to die, our sons will carry on.’
Richard did not want this grand old man to die. He knew if they were captured Samson would provide some great sport for the Matabele members of UZIP. He realised, however, that Samson had accepted the possibility of his death with a fatalistic and dignified pronouncement of what was right. To stop him coming with them would be an insult. ‘I am glad you are with me, my father. May good fortune smile on us so that we do not have to die.’ He slapped Samson’s shoulder. ‘You and I have many sons left in us.’
Samson laughed. ‘Eeeeiii, I have proven my ability to have sons but I am thinking that your manhood has shrivelled. I have twelve sons, you have one. One son is not enough for old age. I am thinking that your manhood hangs like an old woman’s dugs. Your manhood is like the ears of a lion cub. Your manhood—’ he was warming to the enjoyable task of insulting Richard, a perfectly acceptable pastime in African friendships. The worse the insult, the more you liked the person you were insulting, although, if misused, the practice was likely to bring instant retribution. Richard never adopted the habit, not understanding the fine line between friendly disparagement and asking for a clip over the ear.
‘My manhood stands like the great Zimbabwe Monument, shamwari,’ he retorted crisply. Samson fell on the ground clutching his stomach and howling with laughter.
Greg was laughing too. ‘I will cut off both your manhoods if you don’t shut up,’ he said. ‘You’re making enough noise to wake up Cecil Rhodes.’
The reference to the dead had the desired effect on Samson, who would have gone on and on with no thought to the noise he was making. However, his respect for the spirit world was steeped in superstitious fear and so, with a final chuckle, he stood up, dusting himself off.
They went to study Tshuma’s footprints. ‘I think this man cannot walk much more today. He is very tired now.’ Samson had squatted down and was reading the ground effortlessly.
Greg bent over the spoor. ‘He’s unfit,’ he agreed. ‘He’s carrying a heavy pack and the temperature must be in the mid-thirties.’
‘You mean he hasn’t stopped to rest?’ Richard squatted next to the others.
‘He rested back there.’ Samson waved his hand back the way they had come.
‘Christ! We might have stumbled over him.’
Samson shook his head. ‘He has finished sleeping.’ He pointed to the ground. ‘He is maybe an hour ahead of us.’ He was watching an ant-lion busily repairing his nest. The diamond shapes of Joseph Tshuma’s shoe showed clearly and squarely on the entrance. Ant-lions, small spider-like beetles, bury themselves, leaving a well of sloping sand on top of the ground so that unwary ants slide down the well and into the nest. Any disturbance to the nest is met by frantic digging and scraping and pushing unwanted sand outwards until the well is again to their liking.
They ate cold tins of spaghetti, washed down with warm water. Then, sucking on oranges, Greg and Samson left Richard with the truck to continue their relay-style tracking.
In this manner they remained an hour behind Tshuma until they called a halt at 6 in the evening. They reasoned that, even if Tshuma walked all night—which was unlikely given his condition—there was still plenty of time to catch up with him before he reached the Matopos.
‘Think he knows we’re chasing him?’ Richard forked a mouthful of cold tinned stew into his mouth and chewed absently. They had decided not to risk a fire for their dinner that night.
‘Hard to say. We’ve been careful to stay well back. We’ll have to close up tomorrow.’ Greg pulled a face and muttered, ‘Damn, but this stew is foul.’
‘You’re getting soft, Yeomans.’
Greg ignored this. ‘Ever tracked anyone in the Matopos?’
‘Nope.’
Greg speared a piece of meat and stared at it gloomily. ‘I did once. It’s bloody hairy, I can tell you. There are a million places a man can hide.’
‘Get him?’
‘Lost the bastard.’
‘That’s not like you, Yeomans.’
‘You wait till you get there. I’m telling you, man, you could lose a city in there.’
Samson clapped his hands softly. ‘This man, he is hurt.’
‘He seems to be limping,’ Richard agreed.
‘I am thinking that his back is hurting.’
‘Must have been the boot up the arse.’ Greg swallowed and shuddered.
‘Could be. I hope it’s hurting like hell.’ Richard grinned at the memory and at Greg’s face.
‘I could kill for a scotch.’ Despite his lack of enthusiasm, Greg had cleaned his plate.
Night fell quickly, the heat leaving the sandy soil immediately. April was a month of contrast in the lowveld with blisteringly hot days which cooled to a sharpness as soon as the sun set. They agreed they should have someone on watch and Richard took the first. The night, like the previous one, was brightened by the moon. He leaned back against a tree and stared into the softly lit bush. This was a dangerous time for him. With nothing else to think about, he dwelled on his problems. He felt both the women he had loved had betrayed him, Kathy’s betrayal being her death. ‘Perhaps I should have stayed single,’ he mused.
He had no clue what to do about Steve. If only it had been with someone other than David. Why hadn’t she said anything? He shook his head. No, he could see why. It must have been very hard for her as well as David. There was no way around the problem as far as he could see. Better to let it die. But he did not want to let it die, he loved her. Nor could he hurt his son any more. He wondered if Kathy was watching them all. What would she be thinking? Her heart would go out to David, that was for sure. She was probably laughing at Richard.
He heard a sound off to his left, nothing he could identify. It might have been a small buck, but the hackles on his neck rose and he sensed danger. He reached over to wake Greg but he was already awake. ‘Heard it,’ he said softly.
Richard’s senses were screaming. Something was out there. Something wrong. Something that meant him harm. Greg sat up, listening hard. Then, in rapid sign language, told Richard to scout left while he would scout right. Both men rose fluidly.
‘Sit down.’ The command was barked, startlingly close. They froze. Then a powerful torch beam blinded them. ‘Now!’ the voice grated. They sat. ‘Throw the rifles in front of you.’
‘Turn that fucking light off, you bastard,’ Greg snarled back.
‘The rifle, Mr Yeomans. You too, Mr Dunn.’
Greg tossed his rifle a few metres away. After a moment’s hesitation, Richard did the same.
‘Good,’ the voice became silky. ‘Now put your hands on your head.’
The torch was lowered, leaving them with shooting stars behind their eyes. They heard men stepping closer. ‘Oh shit,’ Richard said softly to Greg. ‘Now there’s a smell I could do without.’
‘They certainly could do with a bath,’ Greg muttered back.
‘Silence,’ the silky voiced snapped. ‘You don’t smell all that good to us either.’
Men laughed. Richard’s vision was clearing slowly. He could see that the men moving into the camp carried weapons. ‘Uh uh, Mr Dunn, keep them up.’
Suddenly he could see them. A dozen or more men standing in a tight semicircle in front of him. All were dressed in green army uniforms. All carried AK47s. Behind them, moving with the stealth of a stalking leopard, he caught sight of Samson easing himself over the side of the lorry and melting into darkness.
Joseph Tshuma pushed his way through the men. ‘How’s Penny?’ he taunted.
Richard appeared nonplussed. ‘Glad to see the back of you, actually,’ he drawled. ‘I must say, that pregnancy tale took you in. She’s not pregnant. She says you’re not man enough.’ He heard Greg’s sudden intake of breat
h but went on ruthlessly. ‘As a matter of fact, old boy, she found you very dull company.’
He knew what would happen. A black man measures his maleness by the number of sons he sires. Tshuma puffed up like a bullfrog, his eyes bulged with outrage and he took two steps towards Richard and hauled him off the ground. ‘Your daughter is carrying my child,’ he snarled before delivering a punishing punch to Richard’s stomach.
His breath whooshed out and he folded but Richard felt marvellous. When he straightened up he saw the other men were grinning. Joseph Tshuma’s credibility as a man was in doubt and he would not live down the insult in a very long time. Visibly trying to control himself, Tshuma turned to Greg. ‘Who do you work for?’ The taunt on his manhood had insulted him beyond words. He looked more ridiculous for the fact that two of his front teeth were missing, a result of Richard’s punch back in camp.
‘I’m in the export coal business, I work for myself.’ Greg was at ease. His cover story would have been well rehearsed.
‘You work for Mugabe.’ Tshuma’s eyes flicked towards Richard. ‘Sit,’ he ordered. Then, to Greg, ‘What are you doing here?’
Greg shrugged slowly. ‘I’m telling you, man, I work for myself.’
‘You live in South Africa.’ Tshuma made it sound like an accusation.
‘That’s no secret.’
‘Why are you in Zimbabwe?’
‘I was born in this country. Is it a crime to come back on holiday?’
‘So, you are Zimbabwean.’
‘No,’ Greg said quietly. ‘I’m Rhodesian.’
Richard silently applauded.
‘Rhodesians don’t exist,’ Tshuma taunted.
Greg shrugged again.
‘They don’t exist,’ Tshuma said again.
Greg looked slowly up at him. From where he sat, Richard could see his eyes. He remembered clearly the last time he had seen that look.
Shortly after the war started two sticks of Selous Scouts had been sent to investigate a bush convent which had suffered a terrorist attack several hours before. The convent, as well as saving souls and converting people to Christianity, acted as an orphanage and a school to some thirty-five African children. The nuns, a mixture of Irish, English, Belgium, Swedish, American and African women of varying ages, ran the convent on a shoestring budget, cheerfully helping anyone who needed help, augmenting their meagre allowances by embroidering exquisite tablecloths and selling them in the towns and cities. They had been established in the area for twelve years and, when the War of Independence made it dangerous for people to live outside the towns, steadfastly refused to leave.
‘Sure, an’ what would become of all dese poo’re souls if we up and went away?’ Sister Kenny, an Irishwoman of indomitable spirit, large red hands, the face of a dedicated drunk and the smile of an angel, had squared up to the soldiers who came to move them into a nearby town. ‘I’m stayin’ roit here. An’ any of me Sisters of Mercy is welcome to stay roit here wit me.’ They stayed to the last nun.
When the Selous Scouts reached the convent they found it burned to the ground. The nuns had been raped and tortured. Some of the children, boys of an age who could be trained for combat, were missing. The older girls had also been raped, then strangled. The younger children had been swung by their feet against the stone walls of the convent kitchen garden. Richard had found Greg cradling a toddler in his arms. The boy was not quite dead although his skull had been split open with the force of it hitting the wall. The little boy gave a shudder and was still and Greg, tears streaming down his face, gently placed the child on the ground. He stood and stared at Richard and said, ‘If it takes me all my life, the men who did this will pay.’
He had the same look in his eyes then as he did now. Tshuma saw the look and backed up. The power of Greg’s hatred was a tangible force. Richard wondered what Tshuma would do if he knew that the men who attacked the orphanage had been found two weeks later and that they had, indeed, paid.
But Greg had himself under control again. His eyes lost their intensity and he smiled. ‘If it makes you happy, then Rhodesians don’t exist,’ he said lazily. Then, ‘How’s your back?’
Tshuma opened his mouth, sudden anger on his face. But a second man stepped forward from the ring of men around them and he snapped it shut. Richard heard Greg breathe, ‘Kobus Conradie,’ at the same time as he realised the man was not African.
‘Yes, Mr Yeomans. In the flesh.’ Conradie was smiling, or at least, he was showing his teeth. His face showed no other sign of amusement.
‘Wow!’ Greg looked up at him, feigning awe.
‘Stand up.’
Greg took his time and Richard controlled a strange desire to grin. As Greg unfolded his long legs, Conradie was forced to look up further and further until, made uncomfortable by craning his neck, he took several steps backwards. Kobus Conradie was perhaps five foot six inches tall, if he was lucky. His uniform hung listlessly over his skinny buttocks and thin, sloping shoulders. His small potbelly looked as though he had ingested a soccer ball. His over-long hair was lank. Even a scraggly moustache looked greasy.
As soon as Greg had straightened up Conradie gave a weird little giggle. ‘Sit down.’ Greg shrugged and sat down.
‘Like to know how we found you?’ Conradie was gloating.
‘Not a lot,’ Greg said lazily.
He ignored that. ‘We were coming to meet Comrade Tshuma. He told us you were chasing him. You were easy to find, just as you were easy to find in the war. You whites . . .’ he shook his head, ‘. . . you think you know it all.’
Greg yawned.
Richard smothered another grin.
Conradie turned to him. ‘Who do you work for?’
‘I’m a farmer.’
‘Don’t lie,’ Conradie snapped.
Richard stared up at him impassively.
‘Why are you following this man?’ He swung his arm sideways, almost hitting Tshuma in the gut.
‘He really turns me on.’ Richard parodied an exaggerated kiss at Joseph Tshuma causing some of the others to snicker and Tshuma to bunch his fists.
Conradie stared, tight-lipped, at Richard. ‘Answer please.’
‘We have a score to settle.’
‘Ah yes,’ Conradie smirked. ‘Your little whore of a daughter.’
Let it go, Dunn.
‘She’s a junkie,’ Conradie twiddled his greasy moustache.
‘So is he.’ Richard flicked his eyes contemptuously at Tshuma. He was doing everything he could think of to undermine Tshuma’s authority and it was working.
Conradie turned to Tshuma and said in atrocious Shona, ‘They will talk, don’t let him get to you.’ The two man walked away. By now, the dozen men who had initially come into camp had swelled to nearly fifty with more coming in all the time. Conradie must have moved most of his men out of the Matopos. Richard wondered why. Not to capture Greg and himself, that was pure chance.
They heard shouts from somewhere in the dark bushland then two men came into camp, dragging Samson between them. ‘We found this Shona dog trying to get away.’ Samson was flung, face down, on the ground.
Tshuma walked over to him and prodded him with his boot. ‘This is the white man’s slave,’ he said loudly. ‘The white man says “jump” and this dog asks “how high, master?”. This dog licks the boots of his white master.’
A murmur started between the men in camp. Most of them were Matabele and hated the Shona on principle. Samson may have got off with some roughing up but his courage and pride sealed his fate. ‘This white man is worth 1,000 Matabele. This white man is as my son. I spit on your Matabele king as I spit on you all.’ The men set on him like dogs.
Kobus Conradie had to fire into the air to get their attention. ‘Get off him,’ he screamed at his men. His accent was rough South African, especially when he was yelling. He fired again. ‘Get off! I have other plans for this white man’s puppet.’
Grumbling and murmuring among themselves, the men moved away from a
grinning Samson.
‘Take them to that tent,’ Conradie was still yelling. ‘Tie their hands and feet and guard them well.’ They were roughly handled as their limbs were bound and then they were pushed into Greg’s tent.
‘Wait.’ They heard Conradie. He was very angry. ‘Did you search them?’
The men who had taken them to the tent looked uncomfortable. ‘No, sir,’ one of them said.
‘Jesus!’ Conradie exploded in English. Then he yelled in Sindebele, ‘Search them, search them, you morons.’
Samson and Richard had skinning knives. Greg had his transmitter and a pocket knife. All were removed.
It took some time, bound as they were, to shuffle around in the small tent and find a position which was comfortable. In the end they lay in a circle, foetus-style, head to toe. They could hear the transmitter being discussed outside.
‘It’s just a two-way,’ Tshuma said.
‘I don’t know.’ Conradie was doubtful. ‘I’ve never seen one like it.’
‘Smash it.’
‘This’ll be interesting,’ Greg murmured.
They heard the sound of the radio being struck, either by a rock or a rifle butt. ‘It won’t break,’ someone said, surprised.
‘Blow it up,’ Tshuma suggested.
‘Shit!’
‘Whaddya mean “shit”?’ Richard growled to the head at his feet.
They heard digging. Someone was digging a pit some distance into the bush.
‘I mean shit. Deep, sticky, brown stuff.’
‘Yeomans?’ Greg looked over to him. ‘Tell me it’s grenade-proof.’
‘It’s bullet-proof. Sort of.’
‘And grenades?’
‘Don’t know, actually.’
‘Terrific!’
When the grenades went off ten minutes later, sand flew, the tent nearly blew away, their ears were ringing painfully and a large piece of shrapnel tore a hole in one side of the tent and out the other. It was as well they were lying down. Then they heard cheering.
Storms Over Africa Page 30
