The Cry of the Go-Away Bird

by Andrea Eames

  When I spoke to them, they made their voices bright and cheerful. ‘How’s school?’

  ‘Not too bad. Things have calmed down a bit in town so I haven’t missed too many days.’

  ‘Good-oh.’

  They did not mention their worries to me.

  ‘Morning,’ said Sean, raising his hand as he passed the offices. He had to stay home from school as well, as the War Vets threatened to attack wealthy boarding schools in the country. Instead, he had started working with his dad on the farm. The workers still called him Mini Cooper. He had his dad’s easy smile and grasp of Shona slang. And swear words. I watched him walking through the tobacco silos and the ostrich paddocks, his hair lit up like the dusty yellow of the grasses.

  I heard something on the radio. ‘Mum, turn it up.’

  Mum turned the dial. ‘Airlines have stopped flying out of Harare International Airport.’

  ‘Mum?’

  Mum pressed her lips together. ‘It’s not a big deal,’ she said. ‘It’s only temporary.’

  I felt my chest tighten. We were trapped.

  ‘Don’t look like that,’ said Mum. ‘It’s not a big deal.’

  ‘But we can’t fly out,’ I said.

  ‘We weren’t going to fly out anyway,’ said Mum.

  That was not the point.

  ‘I’m just going outside for a sec,’ I said. The sky was a hot blue, and the farm buildings were so white that every time I blinked I could see them imprinted on my eyelids. I walked away from the office to the dirt road.

  Every face on the farm was a threat. Every laugh was a menace, a joke with no punchline. I walked, trying to shake off the feeling, but everyone I saw looked like a potential killer. I did not know whether their smiles and greetings were real, or whether underneath they were thinking of me as a White, a White that needed to be eliminated.

  I sat in the shade and tried to control my breathing. We were trapped. Nothing was flying out.

  I had not realised how much I relied on our ability to escape. Even though I had been telling everyone in my loudest voice that we would never leave, some secret part of me relied on my British passport and the fact that we had enough money to jump on a plane if things got really bad.

  I dipped my head between my knees. I heard my heart slowing down, then speeding up when I took a breath.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  I could not look up.

  ‘Medem?’

  The voice was young. I looked up. It was Lettuce, one of the workers.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I said.

  ‘Okay.’ His teeth flashed white in a smile as he walked away. I watched him go.

  I thought I was one of them, almost. I was not a White. Not really. Was I? I thought of Beauty, all those years ago. How could I possibly grow up with two mothers, one black and one white, and still be just a White?

  My brain was not working properly. Maybe it was the heat. I started to walk back towards the offices, where things would be more normal. Despite the farm invasions, everyone was concentrating on end-of-month accounts.

  Mr Cooper pulled up on his motorcycle.

  ‘Howzit?’

  ‘Good.’ I pulled my lips back over my teeth in what I thought a smile looked like.

  ‘How’s school?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You all right?’ He ran his hand through his hair, which was sticking straight up. He hardly ever wore a bike helmet. He said it was because he wanted to hear what the workers shouted at him as he went past, in case they were being cheeky.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You’re not worried about all this government nonsense, are you?’ he said, smiling. ‘Agh, sure, they talk big, but we’ve been here for years and we’ll be here for years still. These bluddy munts can’t force us off our land.’

  I nodded.

  Mr Cooper was about to say something else, but stopped to shout in Shona to a passing worker. Something about his girlfriend. His Shona was very colloquial, and I could not understand it all. The worker shouted something back, and laughed.

  ‘The boys would never stand for it,’ he said, turning his attention back to me. ‘D’you think they’d let some rabble come in here and shuper us?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No, they wouldn’t. Now, is your Mum inside?’

  ‘Ja.’

  ‘Good stuff.’ He started up his bike, walking his feet along the ground a little way before it sprang into life. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I watched him pull up to the offices and walk in. When he left, I went back.

  ‘You all right now?’ said Mum.

  ‘Ja,’ I said, and sat back down to work on the envelopes.

  When I had finished writing an e-mail to my grandparents that evening, Steve sat down to read over it with me. He checked my e-mails every night, to make sure there was nothing incriminating that could be caught in the government filter and traced back to us. I forgot, sometimes, how careful we had to be. We were not allowed to say anything bad about the President in case someone heard and reported us. We knew that the government opened any letters we sent to England, and that our e-mails were checked for keywords. All the Whites developed a code. In our e-mails and our conversation, we called Mugabe Tim. I asked Steve what it meant.

  ‘That Ignorant Munt,’ he told me. I was surprised that he answered so quickly. I thought it would have gone under the heading of Things He Would Tell Me When I Was Older.

  It occurred to me that perhaps I was Older now, that magical age when everything would be revealed. I certainly felt older, as I watched my mother’s skin go loose on her bones, and saw the first grey hairs appear at her temples. When I touched her hair it no longer felt glossy and oiled, but crumbling. New lines had appeared – one between her eyebrows, a sharp, deep cut, and two at the corners of her mouth.

  In bed that night, I wondered what it would be like to live in England. I was so hot that sweat was trickling down the backs of my knees and pooling in the crooks of my elbows, as if my whole body were crying. I imagined lying in bed in a cold country where there was no need for a mosquito net and no mysterious sounds from outside. I wondered if I could prepare myself for it if I started imagining myself there. If that would make it easier.

  Mugabe told us that we had to hand in our foreign passports or lose our Zimbabwean passports and be declared aliens. If we did not renounce our British citizenship, we could not vote.

  ‘Mum, we have to be able to vote,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Mum. ‘Do you think our votes will make any difference? The whole thing is rigged.’

  ‘But we have to make a stand!’ I said.

  ‘No, we don’t. We’re giving up the Zimbabwe passports and that’s that,’ said Mum.

  ‘Bluddy stupid,’ said Steve.

  It was not even a decision, really. Of course we would keep our British passports. We would be mad not to. But handing the Zimbabwean passports over was hard. Steve left it until the very last minute.

  ‘I’m keeping my Zimbabwean one,’ he said on the morning of the last day.

  Mum and I stared at him. ‘Are you mad?’ said Mum.

  ‘I’m a Zimbabwean,’ said Steve. ‘I’m not a bluddy Brit.’

  ‘You can’t give up your British passport.’ Mum crunched down on her breakfast toast as if that settled the argument.

  ‘I’d rather give up my British passport than my Zimbabwean one.’

  I felt hollow. Our British passports were the most important things we owned. Mum kept the three maroon pamphlets in a locked cupboard, and she had always told me that they were the first things to grab if we had to leave quickly. Our passports represented civilisation, freedom, the possibility of a future somewhere else. I had a superstitious attachment to mine, as if it were one of Beauty’s totems. The thought of Steve just handing his over made me feel sick.

  ‘That’s stupid,’ said Mum. ‘Come on, Steve. It doesn’t mean you’re not a Zimbabwean any m
ore. It’s just a piece of paper. Mugabe wants you to give up your British passport so you’re trapped here.’

  Steve shook his head and stared at his tea. Mum put out a hand and touched his. I saw the shiny patch on his knuckle where he had had a piece of skin cancer cut out.

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ said Mum.

  But we knew it did.

  Steve gave up his Zimbabwean passport. The people at the office grumbled because he had left it so late, and made him wait for an hour before they brought him the paperwork. For the rest of the day he was silent and brooding.

  ‘It is too much,’ said Tatenda, shaking his head. I was sitting with him and Saru while they had their tea. ‘Mugabe must go now.’

  Saru and I exchanged glances. It was not safe to say things like that.

  ‘I worry about that one,’ said Saru later. She was making the dinner while I sat on the back doorstep. ‘My husband has heard him in the shebeens. He is always yelling about Mugabe and the MDC.’

  I was silent. I did not want to voice any opinions. Even to Saru.

  Mr Cooper was the only person we knew who handed in his British passport. He handed in his South African passport as well, and then threw a party.

  ‘Celebrating the burning of bridges,’ he said, ‘and the beginning of the end.’

  The house was covered in Zimbabwean flags, and everyone got splendidly drunk.

  ‘You’re mad,’ someone told Mr Cooper every ten minutes.

  ‘I know,’ he said.

  We were illegal aliens. The name made me smile. It made us sound like we had two heads, rather than just being white Zimbabweans with British passports.

  Mum started to have low conversations with Mr Cooper in her office that I strained to hear from the other side of the door. I knew, somehow, that Steve did not know about those conversations, and I did not tell him. I heard the odd word – passports, airport, money. I knew that Mum had a bank account that Steve did not know about, that she used for emergencies, but she told me not to say anything.

  ‘It’s our secret,’ she said.

  Mum’s wages went straight into the family account along with Steve’s. This money was coming from somewhere else. But I did not ask. We needed everything we could get.

  Mum and I drove back from the farm shop with meat for dinner. She was making Steve’s favourite, to cheer him up. He had been in a foul mood since giving up his passport.

  ‘What do we do now?’ I asked.

  ‘We go home.’

  ‘No, I mean, now that we’re not citizens any more.’

  Mum kept her eyes on the road. ‘Mr Cooper thinks we should leave,’ she said finally.

  My stomach felt empty. Leaving was something we would do in the future. It was always just around the corner, after some vague event that made it necessary, far enough away that it might not come at all.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And Steve doesn’t.’

  Steve was made of biltong, woodsmoke, khaki and cowhide. He could not survive anywhere else.

  ‘But we’re not going yet,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mum. ‘If we get enough foreign currency, there’s no reason to stay.’

  ‘But we can’t leave. Not unless we have to.’

  ‘Things aren’t going to get better,’ said Mum. ‘It’s not a matter of “if ”, it’s a matter of “when”.’

  When we got home I sat on the back doorstep in the sun. I could smell clean laundry and the dark, bitter smell of fresh tea. I could see Saru and Tatenda sitting on the grass drinking from enamel mugs and eating thick bricks of peanut butter and bread. I could not imagine living anywhere else.

  Mum brought up the subject of leaving at dinner, while I was there. I knew she had done this so that they would not have too big a row. Steve did not like fighting with Mum in front of me or the servants.

  ‘We always said we’d leave when we got burgled, Steve,’ she said.

  ‘They only took the bluddy laptop.’

  ‘I know. But it might be time to seriously consider it. We can stay with Mum and Dad . . .’

  ‘I hate England.’

  ‘I know you hate England.’

  ‘Too bluddy cold. Too many people.’

  ‘I know, Steve, but we can’t carry on like this. It’s just a matter of time before everything falls apart.’

  ‘It could get better. The election’s coming up . . .’

  ‘Ja, as if that will make any difference. You know how it works. Mugabe’s the big chief, he’s not going to give up power.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it now.’

  I stared at my plate, pushing a piece of carrot around with my fork.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Mr Cooper about it, and he thinks . . .’

  Steve was tight-lipped. ‘So you’ve been discussing this with Mark Cooper.’

  ‘Not discussing this, Steve. He’s just concerned.’

  ‘Concerned for you.’

  ‘For all of us. Bluddy yell, Steve, he just wants to look after us. You should be bluddy grateful.’

  ‘Ja, like I should be grateful for the bluddy pool he wants to put in, and the guard.’

  ‘You’re just pissed off because you don’t want to leave.’

  ‘No, I’m pissed off because my wife discusses our private business with another man.’

  ‘He’s not another man, he’s my boss. And yours. For Christ’s sake, Steve.’

  ‘Ja, well, you can go and tell him that we don’t need his money.’

  ‘Don’t be bluddy stupid! We need as much money as we can get. How else are we going to get into a country overseas? I haven’t got a degree. I have almost no points. We need money to get in, and you know it. Get off your bluddy high horse.’

  ‘My bluddy high horse! When my wife . . .’ Steve realised I was still sitting at the table. ‘Go to your room.’

  I did not go to my room. I ran down to the bottom of the garden, to the avocado tree. I could hear Tatenda whistling from somewhere in the garden.

  Living in Zimbabwe was like having a demanding younger brother or sister. It was loud, disruptive and badly behaved. It demanded everyone’s attention, sucked up everyone’s energy, ruined family holidays and dinner conversations, kept everyone up at night worrying about its future. All our problems centred around Zimbabwe’s problems.

  I wondered what would happen if we lived somewhere where we didn’t have to worry constantly about money. Where we no longer had servants wandering about the house who forced us to speak in lowered voices when we had an argument. Where we could not exchange rueful glances with people in the supermarket when the bread had run out.

  It would be disorientating to be suddenly free of it – to make choices that were not dictated by its rowdy, unignorable presence. In Zimbabwe, Mugabe was to blame for everything. Away from Zimbabwe, some of our problems might actually be our own fault.

  The next day, Mum and Steve were still not speaking. Steve went into the garden to order Tatenda around, which always made him feel better. I went with Mum to the office, as usual.

  ‘Are the Coopers going to leave?’ I asked. Mum’s radio crackled at her side.

  She never put it down, just in case the news everyone dreaded came through.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  It was well known that they had received threats. Theirs was one of the biggest farms in Zimbabwe. What War Vet wouldn’t want a piece of it?

  ‘Mark Cooper won’t leave,’ said Mum. ‘He’s more Shona than the Shona. They love him.’

  We sat in silence for a moment, thinking about all the farm workers that joked and laughed with Mr Cooper when he roared around the farm on his motorbike.

  ‘I don’t think it matters,’ I said.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The first white farmer died. He was abducted from his farm and shot. The five farmers who followed to try and rescue him were attacked and beaten. They were not young men. They had beer bellies from years of standing over a braai with a Castle
Lager in their hands. They had greying hair and floppy white hats. They had short shorts and veldtskoens, and a tan that stopped at their sleeves and the folded tops of their socks.

  They looked like people we knew.

  On Easter weekend we heard about the white farmer who was killed in Nyamadhlovu, down near Bulawayo – comfortably far away. For me. Not for Steve, who was born there.

  The story was dramatic, a dawn raid, the last stand of the white farmer against the War Vets. It sounded like a western. A man locking himself in his house with ammunition and dogs. His wife and children fleeing. A crackle on the radio telling him that ‘they’ were coming – the news we all dreaded. Seventy attackers. A two-hour siege.

  Roadblocks placed to stop an ambulance getting through. Molotov cocktails thrown through the windows.

  And then: two shots in the face as the farmer stumbled out. Beatings with an iron bar.

  We saw a picture on the BBC news.

  ‘Don’t look,’ said Mum, but I did, and I saw a pulp of white and pink that used to be a man. He had been mashed into the ground. He did not even look human. He looked like meat.

  ‘What’s that on his leg?’

  ‘Apparently he made himself a splint,’ said Steve. ‘When his leg was shot.’

  I imagined him carefully strapping his home-made splint to his leg. So much care for his body, the same body that was blown apart and chopped up as soon as he crawled outside.

  The attack was organised by Comrade Jesus. The killing happened on Zimbabwe’s Independence Day. The place was called Compensation Farm. It was all straight out of a film script – ironies so great that no one even bothered to mention them.

  One of the farm workers was interviewed. He was sobbing. He said his employer did not deserve to ‘die like a dog’. The news showed pictures of the body, covered with a sheet. The War Veterans were shipped there in busloads from Harare, and given weapons. Local, genuine War Veterans were horrified by the attacks, and made sure to say they were not involved. The dead farmer quickly became a mythical figure, a folk hero.

  ‘He’s not bluddy Ned Kelly,’ muttered Steve, but we all saw ourselves in him. And we were scared. It had started, and we all knew where it would go.