Storms Over Africa

by Beverley Harper

  ‘Where is it?’ Conradie asked.

  ‘Gone,’ Tshuma said.

  Richard swore.

  Greg grinned at him.

  ‘Whaddya grinning at?’

  ‘The army will have these coordinates. When it stops transmitting they’ll come see why. We’re reasonably safe.’

  ‘In this instance you arsehole . . .’ Richard kicked Greg’s head none too gently, ‘. . . that’s a bit like calling a deaf, blind and crippled thief reasonably honest.’

  ‘Have faith.’

  ‘I have faith in only one thing, Yeomans. We’re in deep, sticky, brown stuff.’

  ‘Thought I could smell something.’

  ‘It’s your feet, you prick. They’d gag a bloody vulture.’

  He saw Greg was staring at Samson. Richard looked over and felt a rush of fear. It was the stillness of Samson’s body which alerted him. He was staring at the side of the tent, his lips moving, as if in prayer. Richard had seen it before, in black men condemned to die during the war. Samson was preparing himself for death. He went to speak but checked himself. To break into Samson’s concentration would be cruel. He was aiming for a state where, whatever happened to him, he would be above it. It was a form of self-hypnosis and it took time and intense concentration to bring about. Richard’s heart constricted as he watched his old friend and companion of so many years prepare himself for whatever was to come. Whatever it was, Samson knew it would not be pleasant.

  Both men knew that the best thing they could do for him was keep up their conversation. The sound of their voices would slowly turn into a monotonous buzz which would help Samson reach the state he sought. Some Africans spoke inwardly to ancient spirits and were drawn so deeply inside themselves they were oblivious to anything else. Others soared outside their bodies. But first, they all needed to reach a state where nothing else could intrude. This ability was handed down through certain families, those who usually had past connections with witchdoctors. Richard supposed that people who claimed to be able to achieve astral travel went through a similar process.

  They kept up a whispered conversation for more than half an hour. Then Samson began to jerk and rock. Flecks of spit formed on his lips and his eyes were beginning to glaze and roll. He kept up a monotonous hum. Then, abruptly, he stopped. He twitched then was still, staring at nothing. Richard knew he could stay like that for a long time. Samson’s spirit had flown away, leaving the shell of the man to deal with whatever hardships were ahead.

  ‘I wish I could have said goodbye.’ He almost felt that Samson was already dead.

  Joseph Tshuma suddenly appeared at the entrance to the tent. ‘Come.’ He bent and sliced through the rope which bound Greg’s feet.

  Greg threw a quick raised eyebrow at Richard and followed Tshuma, leaving him watching his head man and old friend sadly. Richard remembered the first time he met Samson. He had only owned Pentland Park a couple of weeks and had a great deal to learn about this land. While Kathy tried to turn virgin bush into a vegetable patch, Richard had started work on the fences. He had employed a couple of men but, unless he was constantly watching them, they would down tools and take a nap under the shade of a tree as soon as he turned his back. He had no way of communicating with them, apart from English, which they only seemed to understand when it was something they wanted to hear. He was attempting to show them how to strain a fence and tie the strands of wire together in such a way that cattle would not be hurt when he heard a voice speaking in halting English.

  ‘White man is wrong.’

  Astonished, he looked up and saw a middle-aged African man, wearing tattered, old khaki shorts, a grey singlet and no shoes, leaning on a stick watching them. ‘Who are you and what are you doing on my property?’

  ‘I am Samson, master, and this is my home,’ the man answered with dignity. Like most big properties, Pentland Park had its own village within its boundaries. It was a convenient source of labour and the white landowners were happy to allow the villagers to stay. Richard was yet to learn this.

  ‘Like hell it is. This is my land. Get off.’

  ‘Yes, master.’ The black man turned to go, his face a mask of polite acceptance.

  In later years Richard would cringe when he remembered his crass lack of manners. ‘Hey!’

  Samson turned back.

  ‘What do you mean I am wrong?’ He was intrigued by the man’s bearing. He was proud and erect and had looked him straight in the eye. In the few weeks he had been in Africa, Richard had found very few Africans prepared to meet the white man’s stare.

  ‘The way you tie will not hurt the cattle, this thing is true,’ Samson said softly. ‘But I am thinking, master, what will it do to the fence?’

  Richard looked at the fence. He had strained it so tight he could already see that the wire was under too much pressure. ‘What would you do?’

  Samson walked up to the fence. ‘This fence, master, she will fall down. This fence, she likes to breathe. In the winter, master, this fence she will break.’

  Richard saw the sense of what he was saying. ‘I should not make it so tight?’

  ‘Master, you must allow this fence to move.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because, master, I am like this fence.’

  He was enjoying the encounter with Samson. The man’s face held wisdom and a gentle sense of humour. ‘How are you like this fence?’

  ‘When it is hot like it is now, I am soft like this.’ Samson bent suddenly so his arms flopped around his feet. ‘When it is cold, I am hard like this.’ He stood and stretched his arms sideways and stiffened.

  Richard burst out laughing. ‘So am I, Samson, that’s exactly how I feel, but I didn’t think the fence would feel the same way.’

  ‘Ah, but master, this fence she can tell you many things.’

  ‘What things can this fence tell me?’

  ‘When big rains come, and the sky is full of light and big noise comes down from the sky, this fence she trembles before the rains. When this fence has dust on her, she is thirsty. She is telling you that your cattle will be thirsty too. When this fence is cut and the wires are no longer one, she is saying that your cattle have been stolen. And when she is sagging like an old woman, she is telling you she is too old. You should listen to this fence.’

  Richard thought he could use a man with such knowledge. He hired Samson on the spot. When he returned to the tents and Kathy, and told her what he had done, she said, ‘Are you sure he’s the right person,’ and was startled when he replied, ‘The fence thinks so.’

  He never regretted hiring Samson, even when he discovered that the laziness of his workers and Samson’s timely arrival had been planned in their village in order to bring more money to the community. Samson had taught him so much about Africa, the people, the language, the animals, and now this man who had been his teacher and who was as dear to him as a father should be, this man had gone to some secret place and was beyond Richard’s reach.

  Greg returned and raised his eyebrows but he said nothing until his feet had been tied and the man left their tent. ‘Kobus Conradie is barking mad.’

  ‘Dangerous mad?’ Richard asked.

  ‘Totally. In the space of half an hour I’ve had everyone from Mzilikazi to Cecil Rhodes to Robert Mugabe thrown at me. He acts like I’m personally responsible for the lot of them. I honestly think he hates everyone on principle.’

  ‘Probably comes from being a black man in a white man’s body.’ Richard wriggled around, trying to get comfortable. ‘He’s typical of everyone else who tries to straddle the colour line.’

  ‘It’s more than that,’ Greg said. ‘He’s got a real Messiah complex.’

  ‘Spare me the details.’ There was something else in Greg’s voice. ‘What, tell me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, man, they’ve got something quite unpleasant planned for Samson tonight.’

  Richard’s stomach lurched. ‘Tell me,’ he said again.

  ‘You know the st
ories of the old tribal wars? You remember what they did to the women?’

  ‘Christ, no! Samson’s not a woman.’

  ‘I’m sorry, man. When he said he spat on their king . . . well . . . you know what they’re like.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus!’ Richard’s whole body was shaking.

  He looked over at Samson, praying their words were not getting through to him. Although the old ways had gone, Samson was of the old school. The significance of being butchered like a woman would not be lost on him. It would be the ultimate disgrace. Dying this way would be worse for him than death itself.

  There was movement at the tent flap and then someone came in. ‘Out,’ he said, bending and cutting the rope around Richard’s legs. He was led to where Kobus Conradie sat on a camp chair he had taken from the back of the truck. Joseph Tshuma stood beside him. Conradie got straight to the point. ‘Yeomans says you were on safari.’

  Richard stood at ease in front of him, enjoying the fact that the man had to crane his neck to see him. ‘Correct.’

  ‘Then why were you chasing Mr Tshuma?’

  ‘He hurt my daughter.’ How many more times would he have to tell the idiot.

  Conradie smirked. ‘I don’t think that’s the truth, Mr Dunn. Why don’t you tell us the real reason?’

  ‘I just did.’

  ‘Don’t waste my time, Dunn. People like you will not be missed when we run you out of this country.’

  Richard saw the gleam in the man’s eyes. The rabid little fanatic ‘What’s in it for you?’ he asked lazily.

  ‘Nothing.’ He almost screamed the word. ‘There’s never been anything in it for me. Africa belongs to Africans, not white people.’

  Joseph Tshuma leaned sideways and blew his nose vigorously, African-style, one finger covering one nostril. He looked back at Richard, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. ‘It would be better for you if you stopped lying.’

  ‘I’m not lying. You of all people should know that.’ He was trying to keep his revulsion hidden. The habit of nose-blowing straight onto the ground was one of the few things about Africa he found unacceptable.

  ‘Do you take us for fools?’ Conradie yelled suddenly. ‘Nothing can stop us, nobody can do that. We have justice on our side.’ He appeared to be breathless, taking short intakes of air after every two or three words. His instability was very clear.

  Richard pushed him further. ‘Enjoy your stay in prison, did you?’

  Kobus Conradie flew out of his seat and hit him, flat handed, across the face. Richard anticipated the slap and steeled himself not to move. It was not a very powerful blow but it rocked him back on one foot and it stung like hell.

  ‘Tell me the truth, you bastard.’

  Richard blinked when Conradie’s spit flew into his eye but he kept his voice insultingly pleasant. ‘I’ve already told you the truth. I’m a farmer and I like to hunt. I’m down here with my family and some friends on safari. Ask Tshuma, he processed my licences.’

  Conradie sat down again. ‘Why was Mr Yeomans carrying a field radio?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him?’

  ‘I’m asking you.’

  Richard thought of the most likely explanation Greg would have given. ‘He runs his own business. He doesn’t like to be out of touch in case something urgent comes up.’

  Conradie forced a tight smile. ‘Very good, Mr Dunn, very plausible. However, I don’t believe you. The radio was too sophisticated for a mere businessman.’

  ‘Technology has come a long way in developed countries.’ Take that, you bastard.

  Conradie took it and he didn’t like it. ‘Are you saying Zimbabwe isn’t developed?’

  ‘I don’t recall using those words.’

  Kobus Conradie snickered suddenly. ‘You might be surprised just how developed this country really is.’ He sat back smugly, as though he was waiting to be complimented.

  Richard obliged him. ‘That’s nice.’

  Clicking his fingers impatiently, Conradie called, ‘Brigadier, come here please.’ A large man, all pressed uniform and shining medals, stepped up next to Joseph Tshuma. ‘Brigadier Hambalaze,’ Conradie said briefly. The Brigadier nodded at Richard.

  He knew the man. He had been a high-profile lieutenant of Joshua Nkomo’s who, after the war, had managed to land one of the few important positions on offer to the Matabele. He regularly appeared on television and was considered to be something of a whiz at negotiating aid packages for Zimbabwe. The near disrespect shown to him by Conradie was an indication as to how powerful the South African had become.

  None of these thoughts showed on Richard’s face. He looked at Hambalaze politely.

  ‘I have had some experience with field equipment,’ Hambalaze said harshly. His voice sounded as though he were straining his vocal cords, a physical affliction he used on television to his advantage, forcing his audience to listen more carefully to his words. ‘The radio carried by Yeomans was state of the art. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘Russia is some way behind the English-speaking countries.’ Richard spoke with a kindness calculated to insult. He knew he was pushing these men. ‘Why, in South Africa they even have talking pictures.’

  Kobus Conradie leapt to his feet again. ‘You think this is some kind of a game?’ he shrieked. ‘You arrogant bastard. You won’t be so cocky with your land expropriated. We’ll run you out with nothing more than you stand up in.’ He looked wildly at Joseph Tshuma who looked back at him with expressionless eyes. ‘You just wait and see,’ he said spitefully. He sat down heavily on the canvas campchair. Richard thought joyfully of the fact that the particular chair he had chosen was not very strong. He would love to see the man go sprawling.

  Hambalaze cleared his throat. ‘South Africa will play no part in the new Zimbabwe. Once Mugabe has gone, South Africa will be our enemy. The radio your friend carried stinks of that country. When I am President I will not tolerate interference from outside, particularly from South Africa. We will get our technology from our friends.’

  ‘Really,’ Richard said, bored. He filed the information away.

  Conradie laughed up at Richard. ‘So how do you feel about that?’

  Hambalaze glanced sideways at Conradie. The look he gave him was one of pure hatred.

  Oh ho! Not all is well here. He ignored Conradie’s question. ‘Your English is very good, Brigadier.’

  ‘It should be, I was educated in Britain.’

  ‘Prerequisite for an African leader,’ Richard nodded.

  ‘How do you feel about that?’ Hambalaze repeated Conradie’s question. ‘About me running the country?’

  This guy is on some kind of power kick. ‘I don’t give a shit who runs this country, just so long as they know what they’re doing.’

  ‘I know exactly what I’m doing, Mr Dunn. I’m going to do what Mugabe should have done. I’m going to give this country back to its rightful owners.’

  ‘Back to the Bushmen?’ Go for it, Dunn.

  ‘Very funny, Mr Dunn.’

  ‘It was their land, wasn’t it?’

  ‘We fought them and beat them.’

  ‘And we fought you and beat you.’ He glanced at Conradie but the man appeared to be thinking about something else.

  ‘Not the last time, Mr Dunn. We won it back.’

  ‘With a little help from your Whitehall pals.’ Richard gave a short laugh. ‘The wisdom of world opinion is really something else, isn’t it?’

  ‘You are trying my patience, Dunn,’ Hambalaze snapped.

  ‘And you, my friend, are trying mine. I don’t like you. I don’t like what you’re planning for this country. For Christ’s sake, another war is the last thing Zimbabwe needs. If you’ve got an axe to grind why don’t you grind it on a democratic wheel?’

  Conradie laughed suddenly. ‘Don’t be naive, Dunn. How far do you think we’d get?’

  Richard moved his shoulders impatiently. ‘Look, I’m not entirely unsympathetic with your cause. Mugabe’s j
obs-for-the-boys policy must be frustrating the hell out of the Matabele. But you’re going about it the wrong way. You’re behaving like thugs. I know the democratic process is slow but it beats the bejesus out of war.’ He stared down at Kobus Conradie. ‘Samson . . .’ He stopped, his throat constricting. ‘. . . Samson is just a man going about the business of life. Killing him makes no sense. It makes you nothing but murderers.’

  Hambalaze looked at him, his eyes gleaming. ‘Have you quite finished?’

  ‘How long have you got?’ Richard asked angrily.

  ‘A lot longer than you, Dunn, I promise you that,’ Conradie replied softly. Then he added, ‘We’re not murderers. Your man Samson is a fool. His death will give my men a focus, something to hate. It will also . . .’ he grinned, ‘. . . be highly entertaining.’

  ‘You’re an ugly bastard,’ Richard ground out. ‘Someone should have drowned you in a bucket at birth.’

  Conradie laughed at him.

  He was taken back to the tent.

  ‘How’d you go?’ Greg had wriggled himself into a sitting position.

  ‘I didn’t go anywhere.’ He tried to get comfortable. ‘I stalled, and delivered a sermon on the niceties of political change, I got my face slapped by Conradie and I got the distinct impression they’ll kill us too.’

  ‘What did you tell them about the radio?’

  ‘That you were a businessman who didn’t want to stay out of touch.’

  ‘That’s what I said but they’re not buying it.’

  ‘Would you?’ He could hear men talking in the distance. ‘Conradie’s crazier than ever. ‘In fact, I think he’s gone over the edge.’ He finally found a position where he could see Greg and be comfortable at the same time. ‘Hambalaze doesn’t like him.’

  ‘Wonder what happened to Kenneth Mafuta?’ Greg mused. ‘We thought he was Conradie’s man.’

  ‘No sign of him here and no mention of him either. In fact, Hambalaze told me he’s going to take charge when they seize power.’

  ‘God help Zimbabwe,’ Greg said with feeling.

  ‘God help Samson.’ He looked across at Samson who was staring at nothing, oblivious to everything.