Twenty Chickens for a Saddle

by Robyn Scott

  “Sorry,” I muttered.

  I hoped she took my guilty look for shame, rather than the guilt it was, over a prize won on false pretences. Had Jill peered more carefully into the depths between Feste’s legs, she would have been truly appalled.

  Twenty ticks was only the welcoming committee.

  Years before I started competing, Jill and her sidekick, Floss, had been driving down from Zimbabwe to judge the regular Phikwe horse shows. The highlight of these events, the judges were feared, respected, and revered – not least of all for the whiff of international glamour that swept into the Phikwe Riding Club with the formidable duo’s arrival.

  This, the glamour, came in the most unlikely guise. Any uninformed visitor – particularly one unaware of the difficulty of obtaining new vehicles in Zimbabwe – would be flabbergasted by the ancient blue Datsun that provoked such excitement and trepidation as it shuddered to a stop in the stable yard, enveloped in a cloud of dust and black exhaust fumes. To everyone else, though, the shabby little car only augmented the mystique, making the skill and experience of its casually dressed occupants – already unparallelled in Phikwe – all the more impressive.

  Bulawayo, where Jill and Floss both had large stables, lay just an hour across the Ramokwebana border post to the north of Francistown. But in the riding world, it was light-years away. Bulawayo horse shows attracted hundreds of entrants, some who travelled all the ‘way down from Harare. Phikwe horse shows rarely had more than thirty horse-and-rider teams in total. A visitor from nearby Francistown was exciting. A visitor from Gaborone was cause for celebration.

  In Phikwe, ten in a class was considered an excellent turnout.

  Which did not mean, as Jill joked one day, that Phikwe’s self-confidence or competitive spirit suffered.

  It was the end of a three-day show, and we were at the cricket club pavilion, waiting for prize-giving. The trestle table, groaning under the weight of enormous gleaming trophies, was undoubtedly a splendid sight. Without any evidence, I felt quietly confident that these trophies would hold their own anywhere in the world.

  Mum grinned conspiratorially at Jill.

  In private, Mum and Dad laughed about the opulent rosettes, massive trophies, and expensive sponsored prizes from South Africa. “Small-town syndrome, Robbie. You shouldn’t get sucked in.” This, they explained, was the phenomenon in small communities whereby the less important the event, the more seriously it’s taken, and the bigger the prize. Which was, according to Mum and Dad, rife in Phikwe – at ten-person tennis championships, sponsored swims for eight-year-olds, Kopano spelling quizzes. “And by the way, Robbie, that’s not to be repeated.”

  I had no intention of ever repeating it.

  The bigger the trophy, as far as I was concerned, the better. Two little magpies, Melaney and I sat down on the closest bench to the table of silver cups. We picked the opposite end from Brian Fox, who we resented for having the best pony in the stables, winning almost everything, and, when he didn’t win, occasionally throwing a tantrum or bursting into tears. And now we had another reason to resent and envy him: Brian was a ‘gifted child’. He’d just been tested. The verdict, ‘Gifted’, was announced in hushed tones around the stable yard – as if it at once sanctified him and exonerated him from any bad behaviour.

  Staring at the trophies, Melaney and I chatted excitedly as people strolled across the cricket field for prize-giving. Everyone arrived spruced up for this, the grand finale – changing into a fresh pair of jodhpurs and a clean shirt, giving their boots a quick polish, rubbing the fluff and dust off black riding jackets, which altogether lent considerable gravitas to the ceremony. Once fully assembled, the crowd ‘was as impressive and gleaming as the trophies.

  II this was small-town syndrome, I was happy to be part of it.

  And at this show, for the first time, trophies were not wholly unattainable. Not on Feste, who after the Super Glue prize I continued to ride most of all out of pride. My hopes of mainstream success rested on my new pony, Winnie the Pooh.

  Winnie was a beautiful cream dun, with a black mane and tail. He was perfect – but for one problem, which kept me safely on the fringes of the horsey community and ensured the continuing empathy of Jill. Winnie was anorexic. Or at least he looked anorexic, thanks to recent intestinal damage caused by a worm infestation that still impaired his ability to digest. He ate and ate and ate, but his skin, like canvas on tent poles, remained stretched tightly over fatless bones.

  The vet had, however, pronounced him fit to be ridden. And when he went on sale, his pitiful appearance had only increased his appeal. Mum, moreover, had seen an opportunity for a triumph of natural medicine – in colonic health, no less, one of her favourite areas. She had set about at once dosing him with a variety of herbal cocktails to enhance bowel flora. To no avail, though, and she’d eventually given up, now even indulging Winnie’s peculiar fondness for Coke – which he drank straight from the can, the only family member for whom she would buy junk food.

  Winnie, despite his appearance, thrived, and during this show I’d actually won several caffeine-fuelled red rosettes – enough to put me in the running for the top child rider trophy.

  Transfixed by the trophy, I only half paid attention to the individual event prizes handed out by Jill: saddle oil, a riding crop, and, in the adult classes, a night for two at the Marang Hotel. Even Dad won a prize: some stirrup rubbers, for a round of show jumping on Quartz. It was ironic, I thought, given that Dad’s long thin legs dangling either side of pony-sized Quartz knocked over the jumps as often as Quartz’s own legs. Dad didn’t need publicly to express his amusement at the small-town syndrome. Galloping around the arena, kicking on his undersize mount with his ugly velddkoen farmer shoes, Dad himself was a living, embarrassing testament to how unseriously he took it all.

  “And the trophy goes to…”

  Dad gave me a sympathetic shrug. I looked at the floor to hide my disappointment. Oh, how I wished I could wear veldskoens. And not care.

  ♦

  “It’s not fair’.”

  “In what way, Robbie?” asked Mum. “Brian won the prize, fairly. Have some more salad.”

  That fact I couldn’t argue with. But where Brian Fox was concerned, I did not see things rationally. I hadn’t, ever since our brief academic skirmish at Kopano, where Brian had generally beaten me. Competitive show jumping had only made things worse. I chomped morosely at my salad.

  “For goodness sake,” said Dad. “Lighten up. It was a great show. Don’t be such a bad loser.”

  “First show you haven’t fallen off,” added Mum, brightly. “Mademoiselle Super Glue.”

  “Doyou think I’m gifted?”

  Dad said, “Not if you inherited my grey matter.”

  Mum smiled sadly. “Oh, Robbie.”

  “Can I get tested?”

  “IQ tests,” said Mum, sighing, “measure just a fraction of intelligence. They epitomise one of the great failings of the school system.”

  “I still want to be tested.”

  “Well, that’s really not necessary.”

  “Why?”

  “Well,” she said, gazing at me calmly. “I can tell you right now that you are gifted.”

  “Really?”

  “As is everyone at this table,” she continued, and my heart sank. “All human beings, in fact. We all have our special strengths. Everyone’s gifted. And you, Robbie,” she concluded with a sage smile, “are no exception.”

  Dad winked at me. “Bet you wish you’d never asked.”

  Paint dust whirled around our newly acquired secondhand horsebox.

  I had to shout to be heard above the din of the grinder.

  “No way,” yelled Dad.

  He pushed the whirring steel brush back against the wall. The noise increased, and more dust flew into the air.

  “Please!”

  Abruptly, the noise died. “For God’s sake,” said Dad. He put down the two-foot grinder, and the brush spun to a halt. “Stop
nagging. I’m not letting an eleven-year-old use an angle grinder.”

  “I want to help,” I pleaded. “I’m really strong. It’s not fair. You make me do everything myself. Then when I really want to, you don’t let me.”

  Dad looked amused. “All right. You can try it.” He tapped the metal storage box in the front of the trailer. “Only on this.”

  Delighted, I clutched the heavy grinder and lifted it over the box. I felt a thrill of power and excitement as the grinder began to vibrate in my hands. If I couldn’t be gifted, or have the best-turned-out pony, I was happy knowing that I at least had the most dangerous pony, and that I was doing to my horsebox what no other child at the Phikwe Riding Club would have done to theirs.

  Dad showed me how to guide the brush across the surface, leaving satisfyingly shiny metal where old paint had been. “Good,” he said. “Now just make sure you stay in the middle.” He watched me as carefully I sanded the centre of the metal square shiny. Dust collected on the surface. Dad said, “I’m just going to get a brush to sweep it off. Keep away from the edges, or you’ll lose control.”

  He disappeared down the ramp. I quickly steered the grinder to the peeling paint on the edges of the box. If I could stay on Feste, I could handle an angle grinder. The paint dust whirled up. The edges began to shine.

  I guided it towards the corner.

  Suddenly the grinder spun around the corner, lurching heavily forwards and down. I pulled it back, and it fell against my chest, seizing the fabric of my sweater.

  It was winter, and I ‘was wearing my tavourite penguin sweater. I briefly wondered if the penguin in the middle, where the brush twisted viciously, would be destroyed. But it was so quick. And then, trying to pull the brush away, I lost my breath and fell sideways. I heard a strange noise as the grinder twisted the material up to my neck, and jammed. And then I thought of nothing.

  Dad heard it too. He found me, unconscious, with the grinder slowly tightening the knot at my throat.

  The penguin was shredded, and black with oil.

  That’s what I noticed first, as I blinked awake.

  Dad’s voice said, “Shit, I’m so sorry, Robbie.”

  Mum and Dad were peering over me, their faces white.

  I said, “Didyou see I sanded the edges? I tried to do the corners, but – ”

  “Robbie,” interrupted Mum, her voice quavering, “dhhh. We don’t care about the sanding. Goodness. You very nearly killed yourself.”

  “Did I? Really?”

  “Afraid so,” said Dad shakily. “Why on earth are you smiling?”

  I said, “I can’t wait to tell everyone at the riding club.” And feeling suddenly much better, I clambered to my feet and shook the dust off my destroyed penguin sweater. I didn’t mind. A close escape from Death by Angle Grinder – something even Brian Fox couldn’t match – was definitely worth a favourite sweater.

  “How close was I to game over? A few seconds?” I suggested hopefully.

  “God, Robbie,” said Dad, “for goodness sake. Don’t say things like that. I’ve just nearly been responsible for your death.”

  “Well, if you’re feeling so bad,” I said crossly, “just tell me how close I was to dying.”

  ∨ Twenty Chickens for a Saddle ∧

  Eighteen

  The Good Karma of Khama

  When I did eventually beat Brian Fox, it was a dismal TV anticlimax.

  It was in the championship round, at the Gaborone show. I was riding Winnie, who excelled himself. I came second, Brian third. But here in the big capital city, outside of the small pond of Phikwe rivalries, the success was not nearly so satisfying as I’d hoped – less satisfying even than almost dying from an angle grinder. The long-sought triumph was untriumphant, our petty conflicts silly amid the large, colourful, and exciting event.

  A four-hour drive south from Selebi, Gaborone too was exciting. Not in the same way as Johannesburg, with its skyscrapers and big concrete highways – Gaborone, which felt more like a large town than a capital city, was a sprawling, dusty place, flanked by gently sloping bush-covered hills, and the more dramatic Kgale Hill. But it was buzzing and colourful – in people, and in place. In Gaborone’s restaurants, there were always noisy tables of whites and blacks dining together, and often tables for two, where mixed couples chatted and laughed – both of which were unusual in Phikwe, where even though whites and blacks lived happily alongside each other, they rarely socialised or married.

  The Gaborone horse shows were no different. Apart from their size – sometimes attracting more than a hundred riders – the most striking thing about these events was the black riders and spectators.

  Riding in Phikwe was a white sport: there were no Batswana in the events, rarely in the crowd. In Gaborone there was a big group of black riders, drawn mainly from the mounted divisions of the Botswana Defence Force. The BDF riders show-jumped in their camouflage jackets, black jodhpurs, and black army boots, making for an eye-catching sight. Generally short on finesse, they were nonetheless often effective. But successful or not, they always rode to enviably enthusiastic applause, largely from the black contingent in the crowd. Even the disqualified BDF riders would leave the arena waving to their supporters, as they were loudly clapped and cheered.

  The only white rider I ever saw receive a comparable reception from the BDF groupies ‘was Amanda Fox, Brian’s sister. Amanda was as white as any other white. And at first, as her pretty dark bay pony trotted into the arena, the crowd was as distracted and indifferent as ever. Until, that is, the previous rider finished his round, and the loudspeaker crackled.

  “Next to go, Amanda Fox. On Dark Lady.”

  At the announcement, there was a momentary hush from the stands. But then – instead of the usual resurgence of chatter – as the racially emotive name of the beautiful bay pony was digested, there was a whoop from the Batswana in the crowd, followed by deafening clapping, and Amanda jumped her whole round to thunderous applause.

  The loudest cheer at a Gaborone show, however, was not during any event, nor was it for a horse or rider. From blacks and whites alike, the warmest reception I ever witnessed went to the guest of honour, an elegant, grey-haired white woman who arrived with a small black entourage to present the prizes under the blue-arid-white-striped marquee.

  Lady Khama.

  She was the first Lady anything I’d ever seen. Watching her hand out prizes and shake hands, wearing a plain white dress and a simple blue peaked cap, she exceeded my every expectation of grace, gentleness, and statehness. By the time I rose to get my prize and walked towards her, I was trembling with nerves. Up until then, the closest I’d come to a Botswana celebrity was Grandpa Ivor.

  But, standing in front of Lady Khama, I felt immediately at ease. Her handshake was just firm enough; her gaze was sharp but at the same time warm and reassuring. I wanted, as she shook my hand, to keep holding on. I walked reluctantly back to the chairs, more elated by that handshake than by any prize I had ever won.

  Ruth Khama was one of Botswana’s most loved citizens. With good reason: had I been aware then, at my brief encounter, of what I later learned, I would have been even more awestruck.

  I’d known that Ruth was the widow of the great Sir Seretse Khama, Botswana’s first president. But that was just historical fact. And it was only during the long drive back from Gaborone, when Mum and Dad explained the details of the Khamas’ lives, that I was first captivated by the tale.

  It was, in every way, a perfect story.

  Beginning with the convention-defying true romance, which blossomed in 1940s postwar England, when the young Ruth Williams met and fell in love with Seretse Khama, then a student at Oxford. Seretse had everything going for him – clever, handsome, charming, the son and heir of the most powerful chief in a vast land – but one giant mark against him. When Ruth’s father discovered she intended to marry a black man, he disowned her – a bad start that turned out to be only the beginning of their troubles, which spanned several deca
des in the thrilling David-and-Goliath part two of the story.

  Defying disapproval, Ruth and Seretse married in 1948 and returned to what was then still Bechuanaland, a British protectorate. Here, however, they found themselves up against far more powerful forces than furious parents.

  On the one side was Seretse’s tribe and influential relatives, many of whom initially condemned the marriage. Seretse, undaunted, lobbied tirelessly. But as he began to win acceptance for Ruth, progress in this respect was dwarfed by the powerful opposition of the British government. The British were put under pressure by the South African government – then implementing apartheid to formalise racial segregation – to prevent a multiracial celebrity couple living on their doorstep. The British needed South Africa’s gold and uranium, and in 1950 the colonial government exiled Seretse and Ruth back to England. Six years later they were finally allowed to return, but only after Seretse agreed to renounce his chieftainship of the Bamangwato, the largest of Botswana’s more than twenty tribes.

  Which was the beginning of part three, the happy ending. Not long after their return, Seretse formed the Botswana Democratic Party, the BDR In 1966 the British government, under increasing international pressure, granted Bechuanaland independence. Botswana was established, and Seretse Khama was democratically elected in a landslide victory. Queen Elizabeth II awarded him a knighthood the same year, and he became Sir Seretse Khama, Botswana’s first president and head of one of Africa’s poorest nations.

  Not for long, though.

  Between his first victory and the end of his presidency in 1980, Seretse presided over a subplot of rapid transformation. This was underpinned by a perfect recipe of wise stewardship – in the form of Seretse’s careful fiscal policies, investment in education and development, and racial tolerance – and fuelled by sheer good luck, in the form of the diamond mine that, just a few years after independence, it turned out the country was sitting on. And on the back of this immense, wisely spent wealth, Botswana became, under Sir Seretse, one of Africa’s most peaceful and prosperous nations.