by Zeilig, Leo;
Viktor left the internet café to buy the men coffee.
Did Viktor feel responsible for Biko’s arrest? No one seemed to blame him, not even Anne-Marie. ‘They raped him in front of me. Mudiwa, this is not a metaphor. He was raped, buggered in front of me. With their truncheons.’
‘Don’t cry about it, Viktor. Get angry,’ she’d said.
Viktor remembered Nelson’s words, his easy, unambiguous principles, his uncanny ability to see Viktor’s flaws, his neuroses, his soft, spongy liberal’s heart, his Jewish morbidity: ‘Guilt will drive you to despair, anger to action. Always action, Viktor.’
Viktor counted the words, committed them to memory. Guilt will drive you to despair, anger to action. Nine words. The first word guilt, the last word action. That’s right, Viktor thought as he shouldered the door open to Louis’s café, start with guilt, end with action.
When he returned, Ebenezer was sitting opposite a dead computer, the loud mechanical beat of the generator and the dull, pulsing light from the overhead bulb throbbing in time to the petrol engine.
‘Do you want the good news first or the bad news, brother?’ Lenin was sitting behind the desk.
‘The bad news,’ Viktor answered.
‘Typical. The bad news is that we don’t have any power.’
Viktor placed three paper cups that he’d carried the two blocks from Louis’s café, cutting through side alleys and passageways like a local.
‘And the good news?’ Viktor asked.
‘The good news, Viktor,’ Lenin said, savouring the information, ‘is that your phone rang and I answered it.’ Lenin paused and raised his eyebrows. Ebenezer spun round, turning his back to the computer, and faced the men.
‘Come on, please. I’m dying here. The phone rang and ...’
‘Your man called,’ Lenin said calmly, drily.
‘My man?’
‘The Englander from the High Commission.’
Viktor flinched.
‘He wanted to say,’ Lenin continued, ‘that he’d just found out that Biko was transferred to Harare. To Chikurubi Prison.’
‘That fucking creep said that?’ Viktor put his coffee down and started to pace the room. ‘What did he say, what exactly did he say?’
‘He said he didn’t do anything, and then hung up.’
‘Who did you say you were?’
‘You.’ Grinning, Lenin repeated, straightening his back, ‘Thank you, Deputy High Commissioner, we are very grateful. I am very appreciative, sir. Thank you, Your Excellence, sir. The Queen will be very pleased with you.’
Viktor and Ebenezer looked at each other and laughed together. Viktor hit the front desk with his fist.
‘It might not be such good news,’ Ebenezer said.
‘Of course it is!’ Viktor exclaimed. ‘One, we know Biko is safe. Two, we can monitor him more closely from Harare. It’s very good news.’
Coffee and adrenalin coursed through Viktor’s body and he felt his heart race. Biko’s alive, he thought, of course it’s good news.
*
The second mission, undertaken several weeks after Viktor had returned from Bulawayo, was to meet an MDC MP. Nelson assured him that this man wouldn’t help Biko, but Viktor needed to try, to see for himself.
Viktor would meet Arthur Biti, a prominent Y-Party MP, banker and former member of the Society of Liberated Minds. Nelson explained that Arthur would give him, the campaign, Biko, nothing. ‘At the most, empty promises – that he will speak to Y-Party elders to get Biko transferred or released, and then he won’t call, and he’ll be too busy to answer. But go and see him, the Great Arthur, the fallen giant. You know, I was at the University of Zimbabwe with him, we led the first protests against the one-party state. Hah, but all of that’s in the past now – he is like the rest of Y-Party. Lost. You need to see that for yourself, comrade. But don’t think Biko will be helped, don’t think that, Viktor.’
Arthur was a giant. Taller than Viktor, wider, strong, his height really meant something; he didn’t slump in supplication or apology. Arthur wore his physical presence as an exclamation of confidence. His large head and face were never inert, twitching and moving constantly. He had recently grown a beard, to give his bearing more gravitas, but the effect made him look young and naive.
After a physics degree from Oxford, Arthur had worked as a junior researcher for NASA and, though he had never reached the rank of professor, he was known as Professor Arthur Biti. Or just Professor, or Prof, in the press. To his colleagues he was known as Comrade-Professor-Right-Honourable Arthur Biti Esquire, every permutation of Zimbabwean political development, an appellation for every occasion.
The Prof worked for Standard Bank. He was a minor figure in international banking, moving between Harare and Johannesburg, Y-Party’s insider readying himself for government with a real knowledge of the world, of the system he had once denounced. Once he had waved his fist like a conductor’s baton, challenging the state, the dictatorship, the imperialist dogs and their agents and representatives in Zimbabwe, as he stood on the steps of the University of Zimbabwe’s Health Centre commanding his cadre. His voice had barely been audible at the back of the crowd, but the occasional word had reached the distant ranks – socialism, jackals, thieves, cockroaches, revolution. His overgrown head and pounding fist had seemed large enough to cloud the sky, cover the sun, order a storm on State House, throw their riches to the street, grind to dust the pathetic forces of army and police. The young Arthur had been more New Testament prophet than Student Representative Council president.
The interview with Viktor – given as a favour to Nelson, to the old times – was held in Standard Bank’s ten-storey office block in the city. Viktor held his spiral notebook, turning his biro around his fingers. He explained to the receptionist that, though it was night and the bank was officially closed, his appointment with Prof Biti had been organised for nine p.m. On his second appeal the man, his uniform hanging over his shoulders as loose as if he had fallen into it, phoned the extension, received instructions and then sent Viktor, a label pinned to his T-shirt, to the eighth floor.
Before the lift doors opened fully, Viktor heard the professor’s distant greeting. ‘Any friend of Nelson’s is always welcome by me.’
Instead of a private office the floor was a stadium of desks, each separated by shoulder-height partition walls. ‘My office is over here,’ the Prof shouted. He stood and beckoned Viktor with his great arms waving in the air, welcoming his guest like he was the proprietor of this universe of screens, carpet squares and sunken spotlights. Only the Professor’s desk light was on, shining a yellow reflection against the window, lighting his cheekbones and eyebrows, turning his face into a mask.
Viktor weaved through the cubicle maze and the men shook hands. The Professor sucked on his teeth and sighed. ‘A white man in Zimbabwe, come to save the natives!’
‘I haven’t come to save anyone,’ Viktor, said his cheeks reddening.
‘A joke, comrade. A joke. So how do you want to do this?’
‘Well, it’s about a friend – a comrade – Biko, Stephan Mutawurwa, who is in prison. We thought maybe you could help.’
‘Of course, of course. We’ll get to that. What do you know about me?’
‘Nelson has spoken about your time together at the UZ as activists.’
‘All of that is true. True.’
On the large desk were papers, three computer screens, a large photo of the Professor in university robes, around it certificates and awards, photocopied and pinned to the half-wall. The Prof sat back, away from the desk on the swivel chair, enjoying a chance to declaim, reminisce, tell the truth about the ABO era – as students had called it – the entire struggle, the first real opposition, the epoch of resistance incarnated by his initials. The Professor addressed Viktor with soaring, plunging sentences, large movements, looking at his pleasing reflection in the glass, the view of Zimbabwe, the great vista over the low-rise city to the hills in the south. The sweep, the vi
ew, his reflection gave the Professor a deep sense of satisfaction at what he was, who he’d become, everything he now represented.
Viktor spoke. ‘Well, I have always been interested in what the O in ABO stands for.’
‘Order. The Arthur Biti Order. ABO era.’
‘So it’s the Arthur Biti Order era.’
‘No, just the ABO era.’
‘Wouldn’t that be ABOE?’
‘No, no. It’s not like that. Let me explain. I came from a political family. My father went to Fort Hare, graduated in 1958 in Latin and English. My mother was a teacher. Both are late. I have three siblings. The first is a PhD in zoology, the second is a PhD in economics, the third is a PhD in pharmacy. Counting my PhD from Oxford, that’s four out of four. Four PhDs. We grew up in the rural areas, so I know the guerrilla struggle. But I was too young to fight. Even up until this day, I have a very soft spot for people who pick up the gun to drive out the oppressor. The principle that the price of freedom is death still inspires me today as a leading politician. As a student I skipped form six and went directly into seven. Four A levels, nine O levels. I read the paper every day.’
‘And the ABO era. What was it?’ Viktor’s head was still lowered.
The Professor angled his chair to the window. Without looking at Viktor, he addressed himself. ‘We were the de facto opposition in Zimbabwe. I led the student movement, and the labour movement followed us. We were national. Our agenda and intervention. Against the one-party state. Opposition to corruption, government priorities, everything. This was a sparkling, shining era, unknown before or since. And we were fighting from the left. We said Robert Mugabe had done nothing for workers and that he was a stooge of imperialism. That’s what we said, do you hear me? We got no support from white farmers, the Brits or the US. They were in bed with Mugabe.’
‘Quite different from today,’ Viktor commented.
‘Quite different,’ Biti repeated.
Viktor leant back on his chair. The Professor was silent. In the reflection Viktor saw his head drop. How dangerous memory can be in Zimbabwe. How easily erased by the present.
The Professor looked up, turned his chair, faced Viktor again. ‘It was when Mugabe was going from liberator to villain. Now no one notices when you criticise the old man, but I was the first. I was the first person to draw the gun and shoot from the hip. We read – Nelson and I – everyone: Mao, Stalin, Lenin, Trotsky, Malcolm X. I believed in academic excellence and activism. That’s why I went to Oxford and Nelson to Columbia. You have a PhD, I hope.’
‘I am finishing one.’
‘At your age? Hurry up. We didn’t stand for indolence. We got it finished.’
Viktor felt his face reddening again. The Professor brought his hands together and the clap echoed around the office.
‘I was the first to take on Mugabe. He even remembers it.’ The Professor leant forward on his chair, his eyes wide, inflamed. ‘Here, take this story for your record.’ Viktor straightened himself dutifully towards the page, his notebook. ‘A vicious encounter with Robert Mugabe himself. It was the graduation ceremony, 1990. I was still president. He was officiating. The tradition was the procession of graduates was led by the SRC president – that was me – and at the back was the president. We did the ceremony and then came out on the college green to talk and take photos. The vice chancellor came up to me with Mugabe and said, “So, SRC president, this is Robert Mugabe.” Mugabe wanted to do small talk and said something like, “Oh, how many graduates are there this year? When I graduated in 1951 there were nine graduates in the country.” And I said, “No. I don’t want to talk about that. I want to talk about national issues. We are completely against the one-party state by any means necessary.” And Mugabe said, “Well, if you are going to take such strong views, we are going to be dismissive.” I shot back from the hip, “We have already dismissed you.” Have you got that?’
Viktor nodded, wrote, pressing his pen into the pad.
‘Now, I don’t want you to write down the next thing. Put your pen down.’
Viktor turned his hands up, holding the pen, showing the Professor that it was out of action.
‘No, put it down. What I am going to say is very sensitive.’
Viktor obeyed.
‘Mugabe is a very arrogant man, proud. He was livid. His sycophants, his circle, remained after he left. “How can you speak to the president like that?” There was nothing they could do because I was already launching into this guy. Mugabe is a petty character. Insecure. He is overrated, not intelligent. He’s read Machiavelli’s Prince, but forgot about the Discourses. He is shrewd and understands power. That’s it.’ The Prof paused, then continued, ‘You can write now.’ He swivelled his chair back to his reflection. ‘Write this: I laughed with the old man about this incident last year. The story illustrates our radical way then. You see, we used every opportunity to fire – and fire from the hip. Back to the story. I work in the bank, developing and operationalising a payment strategy for banks in Southern Africa. Including text payments. I am also a trained lawyer.’
‘Why did you return to Zimbabwe?’ Viktor felt himself sinking.
‘Why? Why? Why do you think? Because I am African and wanted to participate in the African economy. To make a difference for the working class and poor. To the progressive agenda. What are we going to do when we get in? It’s not enough to want Mugabe to go. What about macroeconomic fundamentals? I am getting skills. The main point is that I am trying to self-transcend and be part of the African agenda. I want more experience, to be a better cadre.’
‘So that’s the reason you are working here.’
‘You can read sociology, or whatever, know the struggle, but if someone says corporate finance, private equity, you’re lost. So I want to demystify this stuff.’
Pulling himself up, surfacing, Viktor asked, ‘You never catch yourself, with your past, thinking, Here I am from the ABO era, from the struggle against the one-party state, working in Africa’s biggest bank?’
Viktor had his own version of charm. He delivered the question with a shrug, a broad smile to pull the Professor close, flatter him, raise the contradiction innocently. He crossed and uncrossed his legs, shuffled himself into comfort on the chair. His back was wet; the pen slipped in his grip. He circled the only words on the page in front of him: petty, insecure, overrated, arrogant.
‘A comrade must know how the banks work, how international capital works. I have the science thing – I’m a specialist in robotics. I have the revolutionary stuff. I have the legal training. Now I am acquiring these skills. The bourgeoisie have a monopoly on strategy, business, economics, microeconomic policy. I could have read a book, but I need to see the corporate giant from inside. Basically, I am increasing my value proposition to the struggle.’
‘I see,’ Viktor said, nodding. His value proposition to the struggle? Viktor didn’t see, he didn’t get any of it.
‘When we get the reins of power, we need to know this stuff.’ Another spread-eagling of arms, hands, shoulders. ‘I do not have any holy cows.’
The Professor reached for a bottle of mineral water, opened the cap, turned it upside down, emptied the contents into his mouth. He threw the empty bottle on the floor and it hit the metal leg of the chair and broke. Viktor started; he stood and looked at the glass. ‘Leave it, leave it. Someone will clear it up in the morning.’
Again Viktor nodded and sat down. ‘Professor,’ he said, ‘I was wondering whether you have heard about Biko. We could really use your help – as a lawyer and MDC MP, with your connections, your expertise—’
‘Yes, yes. But you need to know the problem with militants today. They need to be principled, not populist. My advice to activists – write this down – you are not MDC, you are anti-Mugabe. There is no question about that. Even my grandmother attacks Mugabe. The role for Nelson, for the Liberated Minds Society, is to be the conscience of the people. We had form and substance. You must back up activism with substance. This ki
d, what’s his name? Who’s being held?’
‘Biko. His name is Biko. And it’s the Society of Liberated Minds.’
‘Whatever. I have heard stuff. That’s he’s a bit of a rascal, a bigmouth, a populist. That won’t help him. You need academic excellence. I have a degree from Oxford. Books. Substance. You also need to make a little money. An independent source of income. Without money you can be bought. Students today have no independence.’
Viktor could hear his pulse thumping in his ears. He spoke: ‘Students are poor. They have nothing. Biko is a principled man, and he is being beaten and detained for his principles.’
‘The party can’t help every bigmouth. We have to maintain our position. We are involved in very delicate negotiations with ZANU, with the man himself. We can’t do anything to jeopardise those discussions.’
The Professor fidgeted, moved on his seat, adjusted the position of the keyboard on his desk, arranged his papers. Viktor breathed in, wiped his forearm across his face. ‘Maybe you could make a few enquiries about his situation. We haven’t been able to see him for weeks. Just a few enquiries.’ Viktor tore a page from his notebook, stood, reached over the desk and placed it in front of the Professor. ‘Here’s his full name and where he’s being held. And that’s my number.’
‘Of course, of course.’ The Professor waved his hand over the note. ‘I’ll ask around, but the bottom line is we can’t jeopardise our position in Parliament at this juncture. Students aren’t like they were in our generation. Urinating and defecating in the bush. No discipline.’
Before he had finished, Viktor had already found his way through the labyrinth of desks and office chairs and back to the lifts. The Professor was now a slight, barely visible presence in the distance. The light from his desk was faint, flickering like a candle.
The bell sounded from the lift. As the doors closed Viktor heard the Professor shout, ‘Tell Nelson that ABO says hello.’