Diamond Boy
Page 13
The idea of putting on a school uniform, listening to a teacher, working out the sine, playing soccer at break time, and study period in a library all seem so strange now. The habits of my old life were all so important. But now they are as insignificant as the discarded pebbles that pile up next to the trenches on Banda Hill. That life in Bulawayo is over. I am no longer a schoolboy but a diamond miner.
SOLDIERS
They came without warning. Four helicopters appeared above the hills like huge metal locusts. The gray gunships swooped down upon the diamond fields, rotors whipping up dust storms, guns firing upon the miners. Arves and I were working together in one of the pits, and at the sound of the machine guns we dropped our tools and scrambled to the top of a mound, only to see one of the helicopters peeling away from Mafukose Munda and heading directly toward us.
“Run! They’re coming this way!” shouted Arves as we bounded down the mound.
The helicopter bore down on Banda Hill, preceded by two lines of gunfire tearing up the earth. The noise was terrifying; the chaos immediate.
A man who had been digging next to me tried to collect his bag of ore and a bullet went right through his head. Miners scattered before the oncoming helicopter, clambering out of their holes, scrambling over the fence, yelling, running in all directions. The helicopter hovered over Banda Hill, filling our eyes and ears with the dust storm from its rotors and the blasts from its machine guns. It rotated slowly, its guns blazing. In a blind panic I staggered forward, falling over bodies of miners, and rolling down the side of a mound.
Arves grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet. The whites of his eyes were showing and his mouth was moving. Our screams went unheard, even to ourselves. In the roaring tempest of the assault we were trampled by fleeing miners as they dashed toward the main gate, desperate to escape.
Kamba and Chipo were huddled by the fence.
“Come on,” I shouted, dragging Arves back to his feet, dodging people running toward the gate. “Chipo! Kamba!”
Kamba was trying to pull a corner of the fence up from the ground, his face straining with fear and effort. Chipo was on her belly, working her way under the wire. Arves and I grabbed the fence, and together we were able to lift it just enough for Chipo to crawl through.
“Go! Go!” I shouted as Kamba wriggled to the other side, then stopped long enough to hold the fence up for us. Chipo was ahead of us, running across the plain toward Gwejana Rock. In the distance, two helicopters hovered over PaMbada, their tracer bullets slamming into the hillside and ricocheting off the rocks.
“Look,” shouted Kamba.
Across the plain, soldiers on horseback herded a group of miners before them, firing their rifles over their heads. Dogs ran alongside the horses, snapping and barking at the heels of those trying to escape. We sprinted toward our hill. At Gwejana Rock we would be safe. But the soldiers were everywhere. All around us, ear-crushing gunfire, barking dogs, whirling rotors, and screaming people. Two jeeps came barreling down the banks of the Odzi River, heading straight for us. A man stood at the back of one jeep, firing at miners in the water.
“We’re almost there,” cried Kamba.
Another round of machine gun fire, closer now, crackled through the air.
Up ahead, soldiers appeared at the top of our hill, holding their rifles in front of them. They had spread out ten paces apart and were marching steadily toward the mine. Behind us the hovering helicopter spun slowly above Banda Hill.
We were trapped.
“What do we do?” Chipo cried.
“Split up,” shouted Arves. “They can’t catch all of us.”
“No,” I cried, my heart pounding. “Stand still. It’s too late.”
A miner heading up the hillside saw the soldiers and tried to hide between the rocks. Not far from him, a soldier casually raised his rifle and fired. The man’s body jerked, spun around, and fell to the ground.
“Don’t move,” I said. “Don’t do anything.”
Fear is not one thing alone. It was the hardness of the ground we sat on; the pain in our arms that came from hours of holding our hands on our heads; it was the trembling of Kamba’s shoulders and the smell of urine; it was the dry, acid taste in my mouth that told me something terrible had happened to my father. In the chaos of the assault I never saw him. He must have escaped. Perhaps he was hiding in the hills or had gone back to the sheds to look after Grace.
It hadn’t taken long for the soldiers to herd all the miners back to Banda Hill and force us to sit on the ground in three lines. In front of me, Kamba was sobbing quietly. Behind, Arves was humming and Chipo had pulled her cap down and was curled up with her arms around her knees and her head bent low. If there was anything to be grateful for, it was that in the confusion of the occupation, the soldiers hadn’t noticed she was a girl. Jamu was nowhere to be seen. Lucky for him he hadn’t come to the mines that day.
Sometime later, two army trucks bounced over the veldt, bringing even more soldiers. One by one they jumped down from the truck, and it seemed as if the earth shook with the size of them in their full battle fatigues, heavy black boots, and gun-gray rifles. They strolled through the mine, paying us no attention. Some of them smoked; others talked in loud voices, with their ever-present rifles slung carelessly on their backs. One of them ordered the soldiers guarding us to off-load crates from the trucks. Instead, the guards kicked some of the miners from the lines and laughed as the men struggled to lift the heavy boxes to the ground.
“I want to pee,” I said loudly, trying to catch the attention of one of the soldiers.
He ignored me.
“Just do it,” whispered Arves behind me. “You’ll dry quickly.”
I shuffled away from where I had wet the ground.
“What will they do to us?” Kamba whispered.
No one answered.
Later, more men were pulled from our line to roll barbed wire around Banda Hill. Soon there were two fences around the mine. Others dug post holes for large tents, and through the course of the day, an army camp grew around us. Tables and chairs were laid out; boxes of ammunition, food, water, and kitchen supplies were off-loaded from the trucks. While the miners worked on building the camp, a few of the soldiers strolled through the mine, scuffing at the ground and inspecting our mining tools. One of them picked up an abandoned sieve still filled with ore and started shaking it so violently that the bottom fell out, and the ore spilled to the ground. A few of the soldiers laughed at his clumsy efforts. He swore at them and threw the sieve at some of the miners seated nearby.
We watched silently as the army took possession of Banda Hill. Where was Uncle James in all of this? I wondered. Surely he must have known something about this invasion.
A jeep pulled up and skidded to a stop at the entrance. The driver jumped out, opened the door, and stood at attention, waiting for the passenger. From where I sat, all I could see was a pair of military boots resting on the dashboard. Then, as if he had come to some decision, the owner of the boots sprang out of the jeep and strode purposefully toward us. He wore a red beret and silver sunglasses. Attached to his black belt was a knife sheath, and strapped around his leg was a revolver in a leather holster. His mouth was a hard line of power and distaste. Soldiers stamped out their cigarettes, unhitched their rifles, and stiffened to attention as he approached.
“Here comes the Big Cheese,” whispered Arves. “Full of himself, ripe and smelly.”
“Shut up, Arves,” hissed Chipo.
The soldier in the red beret stopped before the miners huddled on the ground. He looked slowly up and down our lines as if searching for someone. His smooth jet-black face was a grim mask.
“I am Commander Jesus,” he said, his voice rising above the noise of the camp.
The miners erecting the tents and unloading crates were ordered to stop working and join us. They scurried to where we were sitting and were pushed to the ground. All eyes were on Commander Jesus.
“Who has a permit to m
ine here?” he demanded, once there was silence.
No one answered.
“Permits,” he screamed. “Can any of you miner-dogs show me a permit?”
He scanned the lines of the seated men shrinking before his glare.
“Just as I thought. You have all been stealing from the government, our government, the government of Zimbabwe. The president has sent me to get back what you miner-dogs, criminals, and thieves have stolen. Today is the beginning of Operation No Return. There will be no more illegal mining in Marange. There will be no more stealing from President Mugabe. This mine now belongs to the people of Zimbabwe.”
He turned to the driver. “Bring them here,” he ordered.
A pair of soldiers moved to the back of the jeep and hauled out two men. I wriggled up on my haunches to peer over the heads of the men sitting in front of me to see who it was being dragged before us.
Uncle James and Musi were thrown down in the dirt at Commander Jesus’s feet. Uncle James’s face was crusted in blood. Musi’s hands were tied behind his back and his head was lying at a funny angle on the ground. He seemed unconscious.
Arves whistled softly behind me. “Now the paw-paw’s hit the fan.”
“This is James Banda. He and I have come to an arrangement,” announced Commander Jesus. “Banda Hill will now be called Mai Mujuru, after the wife of our glorious General Mujuru, who fought in the liberation war to free the people of Zimbabwe from the white imperialists. Banda has also handed over the state property that he regretfully possessed illegally.”
Commander Jesus pulled something from his pocket and held it up for all to see. It was Uncle James’s small black velvet bag.
“This is only a fraction of what this mine is capable of producing. Banda knows who among you has stolen state property. Now would be a good time to give it back. Tell them, Banda,” he commanded. “As you can see, I have forgiven him, and I will forgive you too.”
Uncle James’s face was twisted in agony and he looked around in terror and confusion. One of his eyes was puffed up and closed; his jaw seemed crooked. The blood on the side of his head had seeped into his shirt. He stared blankly, trying to rise to his knees. Something seemed wrong with one of his legs. Musi lay beside him, still not moving.
“Commander Jesus is in charge of Banda Hill and—” he croaked.
“Mai Mujuru,” Commander Jesus corrected.
“Mujuru,” repeated Uncle James. “We will be working together to pay back what we owe the government.” His voice was hoarse and cracked, and his words were hard to hear. “Give him all the stones you have found.”
Uncle James collapsed onto his hands, gripping his leg in pain. Arves and I glanced at each other.
“Do you think he knows about the gwejana syndicate?” whispered Kamba.
“Shhh,” hissed Chipo, staring angrily at Kamba.
“Everybody steals ngodas,” said Arves, loud enough for others sitting around us to hear. “But not us kids, we’re not that stupid.”
We didn’t know who among the miners at Banda Hill knew about the gwejana syndicate. Every miner understood the danger of informers, people who believed they could make extra money by selling a secret.
“So who wants to be forgiven first?” asked Commander Jesus as he stepped over Uncle James and nodded to the soldiers. They moved forward and grabbed Uncle James and Musi and threw them into the front line of cowering men.
“I am waiting,” Commander Jesus said, strolling among the miners, his hands on his hips, his head swiveling from side to side as he studied us through his reflective sunglasses. Men shuffled out of the way of his shiny black army boots. He stopped close to where I was sitting and waited. Nobody moved but I felt a tremor of fear rippling through the miners. The stench of someone losing control of his bowels spread over us. Musi groaned as he tried to rise to his feet, but was quickly pulled down by Uncle James.
“No. Enough. Please,” Uncle James choked. “We don’t have any more. We gave them all to you.”
“I will wait no longer,” Commander Jesus said finally when no one offered up any ngodas. Slowly, he raised his hand, pointing a finger at a group of soldiers, who reacted immediately. They barked instructions and four more soldiers appeared from behind one of the tents, dragging two large branches hacked from a thorn tree. They laid the branches, thick with long white thorns, on the ground. The miners, who had been silent until now, started protesting, pleading, and lifting their hands as if in prayer toward Commander Jesus. The soldiers dragged another large thorn branch and threw it onto the pile. From one of the trucks, soldiers produced thick sticks, which prompted the men sitting on the ground to start shouting in fear.
“Keep your head down,” Arves whispered. “Tell Kamba.”
Kamba’s shaking intensified. “Don’t let them take me, Patson,” he pleaded, his face lined with tears.
Commander Jesus gave the smallest of nods and the soldiers fell upon the miners. They pulled several to their feet, dragging them to the front, and threw them facedown onto the pile of branches. Thorns as long as needles pierced their flesh.
Then, without any further orders given, two soldiers ran across their backs. The men screamed and writhed in pain, trying to free themselves from the spikes embedded in their skin. The watching soldiers shouted and hooted as if cheering at a football match. And the bizarre game of miner-hopscotch continued.
Then the beatings began.
The soldiers surrounded the men impaled upon the branches and beat them with thick sticks. I dropped my head into my hands, trying to block out the screaming and the thud of wood against flesh, grateful that my father was not one of them.
The night brought no relief. More trucks arrived, their headlights bouncing off military tents, lighting up the razor-wire fence and the faces of soldiers. Miners jumped off the trucks and stumbled through the camp, herded by men with dogs on leashes. Many were injured; all were bewildered and frightened. Our group swelled as miners from Mafukose and PaMbada joined the lines behind us.
I tried to sleep but every muscle ached; my mouth was dry, my body shuddering at the blasts of rifle fire echoing across the plains. Arves lay with his head on his arm, not hearing the groans from the men trying to extract thorns from their flesh. He hadn’t eaten all day and had missed his daily antiretroviral medication. Slowly he was growing weaker. By the time the sun set he had gone quiet and fallen into a deep sleep. He seemed to have shrunk and his face was a peculiar gray color. Chipo was curled up with her hat pulled over her eyes, her back against Kamba’s. I dozed while fragments of conversation tugged me back from the borders of sleep.
“I thank the spirits I escaped… It’s a war zone out there… They kill us like flies.”
“The dogs were biting me… they say Air Marshal Shiri ordered the helicopters.”
“They killed ten people at PaMbada. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“Tear gas was fired into the holes and they shot the men as they came out… even those injured were finished off.”
“I asked if we could bury those who had died in the holes; they said they were buried already.”
“There are bodies everywhere.”
Those words jolted me awake. All day I had looked for my father’s face in the lines of miners around me, and watched for his tall figure among the men getting off the back of the trucks, but he was not in the camp. At first I’d thought this was a good sign, but now, in the middle of the night, I was no longer so sure.
Uncle James might know.
I crawled toward Uncle James and Musi, stopping only to pretend sleep when a guard looked in my direction. My father must have gone back to the farm. Perhaps Uncle James even had a message for me. After what seemed like hours, I reached the men of the Banda family, who were sleeping some distance from the miners. Uncle James was a messy heap on the ground, snoring through his broken nose, his face twitching every time he breathed. Musi was lying on his back, his arm thrown over his eyes.
“Musi, Musi,” I w
hispered, shaking him.
He jerked awake and stared at me through bleary, bloodshot eyes.
“What do you want?” he asked, his lip turning nasty when he recognized me.
“My father. Have you seen my father?”
He shook his head. “Leave me alone.”
“Musi, were you at the house? Did you see my father there?” I shook him again.
He sat up and glared at me. “The army took over Kondozi Farm. It’s the new headquarters for Commander Jesus. My mother and Kuda are at the tobacco sheds,” he said bitterly. “They kicked us all out.”
“And Grace?”
“She is with Kuda and Jamu. Now leave me alone.”
Uncle James shifted, snored, and rolled away from me. “Uncle James,” I whispered loudly.
His eyes opened and stared straight ahead of him.
“Uncle James, it’s Patson. Where is my father?” I asked. “Have you seen him?”
He coughed, and spat onto the ground. His shirt was caked with blood and he smelled of vomit. There was a large bruise on his chest and his face flinched with pain as he turned to me, focusing for the first time.
“Joseph Moyo. My father,” I urged, as loud as I dared.
“Patson?” he said, his voice faltering. “You saw my girazi, didn’t you? I had it in my hands.”
“Yes, Uncle James, I saw it.” He gripped my wrist, frightening me with the wild look in his eyes.
“Commander Jesus took it from me. And now he’s taken my mine and wants me to work for him. My shavi has left me. My ancestors are angry. I have to ask for forgiveness, there has to be a way—”
“Uncle James, I’m worried about my father. Did he come to the farmhouse? Is he with Grace?”
“I don’t have a house anymore. Commander Jesus took Kondozi Farm.”
“My father, Uncle James. Have you seen him?”
“I don’t know. He’s out there somewhere,” he said, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of the hills.