UMTATA

  “Charles, Charles, wake up!”

  Charles jumped up and out of bed, crying out, yet still asleep.

  “Steady on, old man.” It was Brendan.

  “What’s up? Who are those men?” Charles was sweating profusely. “Get away!” he shouted. Then he woke, and noticed it was Brendan before him, and he held no knife.

  “I must have been having a terrible dream.” Charles stared at his friend, white-faced and naked.

  Brendan laughed. “We must go, Charles, old man, otherwise we will miss our tee-off time, knives or no bloody knives.”

  Glancing at the other side of the bed, Charles remembered that Naomi was resting and he noticed she was awake.

  “Naomi, stay in the house, do not contact anyone about Khakkeki and we will sort this out later.”

  “Yes, Charles, just go and enjoy your golf.”

  27

  A German is in Town,

  August 1980

  Wolfgang Schmidt decided to take a long weekend. He usually worked six and a half days a week, but a few days away from his engineering company would give him some rest. He had persevered for nearly twenty years but now it was time he took a holiday.

  A huge man, tall with wide shoulders, Wolfgang did not suffer fools gladly. He was renowned for speaking his mind, and there were not many men who would oppose him. His bark and his bite were too much of a challenge.

  His main clients were the Copperbelt mining companies, and his Germanic gift for producing quality precision items provided a generous amount of work and earned him a good standard of living.

  Although German by birth he rarely travelled back to his home country, preferring instead to stay close to his adopted country and enjoy what it had to offer. With few luxuries available in Zambia there were adequate other pastimes on offer, including fishing on the Zambezi and hunting in the Luangwa Valley; he had a permit from the government to ‘cull’ five game animals a year.

  He was a natural businessman and floated his company on the financial markets, selling at a high price and buying back his own shares when the price was low.

  Also an ambitious man, he had originally migrated to Johannesburg after finishing his engineering apprenticeship, then found work and accommodation in the area. It was a rough neighbourhood and it wasn’t long before he encountered the wrong type of people; on one occasion he got involved in a fight and knocked two of the attackers unconscious.

  Two nights later the men, accompanied by two others, attacked the German from behind and stabbed him many times, piercing his lung. Wolfgang crawled to the local hospital, nearly a mile away from where he was attacked; he survived and spent the next few weeks recovering there.

  Six weeks later he paid a taxi driver to drive him to a bar where his perpetrators were drinking and asked the driver to lure them outside. The taxi driver parked close to the bar and waited until the gang appeared at the door. Wolfgang then produced his hidden shotgun and opened both barrels; two of the men fell to the ground and the third retreated back into the bar.

  The shocked driver reluctantly took his orders from Wolfgang and made off at speed to Jan Smuts Airport, where the German boarded a flight to Victoria Falls. The driver returned slowly to his base in Johannesburg where he knew the police would question him. He did expect to be interrogated, and Wolfgang had given him five hundred rand in case he needed to pay his way out of trouble.

  Wolfgang had planned the getaway with German precision; both the flight time and his intended two-day stay at Victoria Falls. He knew that if he could find out who the most corrupt customs officers were, he could negotiate some ‘financial agreement’ that would allow him to slip across the border into Zambia without too much ado.

  Arriving at Victoria Falls Airport, he opted in the first instance to check in to Peters Place, a small hotel on the outskirts of town. It was a roadhouse, not particularly attractive but built in a good strategic position on top of the hill; an excellent surveillance spot from where he could monitor vehicles more easily. He paid in advance and kept out of the way of other guests, especially tourists; he ate all of his meals in his room; and on the second day made his first move and booked a taxi to the airport. It would give him a chance to evaluate the situation before making his move.

  The border control between Zimbabwe and Zambia consists of a twin path, one for entry and the other for departure and the paths edged with high vertical aluminium security posts. When a change of staff is required, or in an emergency, a locked gate is accessible for use by the officers only, and this would allow them to bypass the queue.

  Wolfgang was stood assessing the situation when he became aware of an argument that was taking place at the entry side of the path. It was soon to become very noisy, with both sides showing aggression.

  Then, after further bluster and swagger, it became violent, with punches exchanged. The officers on duty were distracted and moved to separate the warring groups; this gave Wolfgang an opportunity and, checking that he carried his passport, he glided quietly through the unlocked access gate and slipped into Zambia with nothing more than the clothes he wore.

  Now in another country, he was faced with his biggest challenge. Little money, no contacts, no vehicle – he needed a plan if he was to survive.

  He found work in the trucking industry and started driving long-haul shuttles between the Copperbelt and Dar es Salaam in Tanzania. It was good money, and during his driving years he banked every penny he earned. His savings working excessive overtime were to help him set up an engineering company, and over the following years he slowly built up a financially successful company. He married a Zimbabwean lady and had three daughters, lived a very rich life in a poor country, and his best holidays were enjoyed on Zambian soil, either in the Luangwa Valley or fishing on the Zambezi.

  But his new life was beginning in the boxing world.

  28

  A Boxing Bonanza

  In the spring of 1980 Wolfgang was interested to read in the Times that a new boxing promoter had arrived in Kitwe and was becoming popular with the local talent.

  He was especially impressed that the top Zambian world and Olympic boxers would be turning professional and training at the Rokana gym; it would be the first professional promotion in Kitwe for twenty years. The first show would be a dinner and boxing event staged at the Hotel Edinburgh.

  Later that day Wolfgang made a point of purchasing two tables at the ringside; his sixteen tickets were spread among his favourite clients.

  During the run-up to the show, Martin’s mother died and it was necessary for him to fly back to the UK to attend her funeral. It was a sad time for him, and all he wanted was to be left alone, but it was not to be!

  Returning from the UK, he was waiting to board a flight at Heathrow when he got into a conversation with an Irishman who turned out to be a professional snooker player. His name was Jackie Ray and he was sponsored (paid to perform snooker tricks) at the snooker club in Kitwe.

  It was early morning, and with a lot of drink inside him, Ray could not stop talking. It was difficult for Martin to escape from the Irishman, and when he did, he made sure that he kept away from him for the rest of the journey. Occasionally during the flight Martin would look down the plane and see, above the heads of the other passengers, whom Jackie was still talking to, drinking and keeping everyone in his vicinity awake. Martin thought what a relief it was not to be near him; there would be no peace.

  Martin changed planes at Lusaka and boarded the flight to Kitwe. He was careful to select a seat in the free seating zone at the back of the plane, where he thought he could hide away from Jackie or anyone else who might disturb him.

  A few minutes after boarding, he had made himself comfortable in his seat when he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Is that where you are, my boy? So now we can catch up and I can enjoy the next hour in your company.”

  The hour’s flight to
Kitwe was more than comfortable; so much so that Martin could hardly walk on leaving the plane, he was so intoxicated. He had broken his rule of never drinking before twelve o’clock midday, but it was done; the smooth talking Irishman succeeded but at the end of the day this encounter brought dividends for Martin; as Jackie had bought three tables (or twenty-four seats) for his boxing show!

  Commercially the preparations for the show were proceeding well; tickets were almost sold out two weeks before the date.

  Wolfgang was so impressed with the set-up, it seemed he was spending more time with the promotion than he was with his own engineering business.

  On the day of the show Martin decided to play in a golf competition at Nkana; probably an unwise thing to do in light of the responsibility that the show was on that evening but he thought everything was organised sufficiently to do so.

  All tickets sold and all preparations in hand. He would play in the morning and finish around one o’clock; that would give him five hours to dress and welcome the guests.

  The golf was painfully slow and did not finish until 4.30, and Martin did not actually arrive at the hotel until 6.30. By a stroke of luck Charles had pulled out of the golf the previous day and promised Martin that he would call down to the venue and make sure everything was going to plan. He arrived at two in the afternoon and was still there organising when Martin arrived. Charles’s intervention was invaluable and saved the day; had it not been for him, the event could have proved embarrassing for his friend.

  “Have you been busy?” Martin asked his friend.

  “Nothing much, Martin; just unlocked the dressing rooms, made sure the kitchen is staffed and that all the barmen are prepared and ready to go.” Casually, he added, “Then I met the television producer and together we set up cameras, then ensured that the ticket office is open and all’s well! Don’t worry, it was the least I could do for an old friend.” He rolled his eyes, smiling as he did so.

  Martin was so relieved to see that all the seats were full of what seemed to be happy people, and the buzz from them filled him with satisfaction. He was in Charles debt, and that was not a bad day’s work for an former IRA agent.

  The show turned out to be an amazing success. The press reported that it was an astonishing promotion, and brought the good old times back to Kitwe.

  However, one embarrassing problem came to light after the show when the main sponsor claimed that one letter had been missing from their company name which had been painted on the ring-post covers. Nobody seemed to notice at the time, and Martin looked into the reason why this had occurred.

  It became apparent that when the painting contractor carried out the work, he ran out of space and deleted one letter, but did not inform the promoter of this, and it nearly cost Martin dearly. The error could have been expensive as the sponsor threatened litigation, but the situation was settled amicably when Martin promised to give them the same service for free at the next promotion.

  When the balance of accounts was produced the profit margins were minimal but at least not in the red; it was a good return considering it was the first show of its kind in Kitwe for two decades.

  Difference in Class

  The corporate details for the Boxing company were soon set up, with Martin and Wolfgang as directors and Lemmie as matchmaker, but it wasn’t long before a misunderstanding occurred between the German and the old boxer.

  Lemmie represented a prominent engineering supplier, and this clashed with Wolfgang’s role as CEO of an engineering company, for it could be seen as complicity if the two did business together. It was discussed between the parties involved and it seemed that Lemmie was to be the loser. He resigned from his role in the boxing world where he had once been the hero.

  Over the next couple of months this situation weighed on Martin’s conscience, as he felt a loyalty to Chipili, who had been his main support in difficult times and now he had deserted him.

  Lemmie was a living legend in the world of Zambian boxing. An infamous Zambian sportsman helping to dismantle white supremacy after independence, he was the catalyst that provided confidence to young black Africans, giving them the will to win out in the face of adversity.

  The Zambian government recognised his achievements and efforts in the struggle for independence. They subsequently offered him the position of Zambian High Commissioner to the Congo, and he held office in Lubumbashi for some years after the dissolution of his partnership with Martin and Wolfgang. He died after suffering a heart attack whilst still in office.

  29

  A Star is Born,

  November 1980

  The boxing shows in Kitwe were always popular, especially when well-known international fighters competed. However, one man who was not known to the public in the early days later became a legend – his name was Benson Chisala.

  Benson was a miner, not tall but with a fantastic body, and was known around the mines for his muscles, his smile and his wave. No one was sure exactly how old he was, and until boxing came to Kitwe he had never had an organised fight in his life.

  At first glance Benson looked menacing; his face cut as if by stone, his broad shoulders and angular shape, his eyes hard and piercing, although in a second he would give a friendly greeting and a wave; he embraced life with happiness.

  When the gym first opened and the professionals were in regular training, Benson was always at the back of the hall, watching and waiting. After a while he came forward and persuaded Martin to allow him to work out with the established fighters.

  Most of the boxers in training laughed when Benson joined them. After all, he was keen, not young and, according to them, not particularly talented.

  He worked out relentlessly and trained like a gladiator; even when he donned the gloves for sparring, his demeanour changed. He became focused and driven, moving as smooth as silk as naturally as if he were a born athlete and the first to understand when and how to move around the ring. Although he was a novice at the gym he had natural ability and soon became a sparring partner for the more astute fighters.

  He fought a draw on his first bout. He was never in trouble, although throughout the fight he continually looked in Martin’s direction, as if to seek approval. His second fight he won on points, mainly by moving around his opponent and using his jab, and again always looking outside the ring for judgement.

  He progressed steadily, and after three fights, his record stood at two wins and a draw. Martin was approached by the Zimbabwean promoter Dave Wellings, who proposed a match between his boxer Smart Thompson and Chisala. Both were welterweights, although Thompson was renowned for his punching prowess and had vastly more experience than Benson; he had a remarkable record, with sixty per cent of his wins coming by way of a knockout.

  Martin and Wolfgang were both sceptical about taking on the fight, especially given their boxer’s inexperience, and decided to discuss the matter further with Benson. But his answer was, “If you want me to fight this man, boss, then I will fight him.” This attitude was not what they were looking for!

  Martin finally relented, and Benson was included on the undercard of Francis Musankabala’s title fight. That night the hall was packed to the rafters, and it did not help matters when the fans without tickets accessed the show by way of an open window. Martin was under the impression that a person from the inside opened the window and it was big enough to fit a donkey in. The major problem was the maximum persons allowed under the stadium’s fire regulations was exceeded by 20 per cent and cancelling was not an option; the crowd were up for it and it would have caused a riot should this particular show be called off.

  Although on the undercard Benson’s fight with Thompson was scheduled to take place just ahead of the main event, he was extremely nervous before the bout, and his jaw muscles twitched constantly as he was introduced. His popularity was unbelievable and this was proven by the reception he received; the sound was positive
ly deafening.

  The hall fell silent for the first round, and remained that way until near the end of the round, when a huge groan from the crowd filled the hall. Benson was felled and appeared to be unconscious lying on the canvas, just as the bell sounded.

  Martin approached him quickly. He tried to sit him up, but Benson just lolled back onto the ring floor, blood coming from his nose and a cut just under his eyebrow. His eyes, bloodshot and unresponsive, did not seem to be focusing. Martin slapped him; the din had now risen from a hush at knock-down to a crescendo, but the seconds were ticking away.

  Martin shouted above the noise, “Benson, get a grip – these guys are shouting for you. Stand up and grip my shoulders, then we will squat together. Come on – one, two…”

  They both did three squats. Martin slapped him again and guided him back to his corner, and Benson slumped on the stool.

  “How long?” Martin shouted.

  “Twenty-five seconds left,” Wolfgang replied.

  “Ice on his neck.” Martin then turned to his support below the ring. “Fill me a bucket of water.”

  The trainer poured every drop of water he had into the bucket and passed it to Martin. “Five seconds remaining,” he shouted.

  Martin threw the bucket of water directly into Benson’s face. It flooded the floor, and some spilt over Wolfgang, but most of it went over the boxer, who gasped for air.

  The referee quickly came over. “We cannot start the third round with this water everywhere; clear it up, and be quick.”

  Everyone involved with the mopping operation worked in slow motion, and forty-five seconds had elapsed before the referee called both boxers to the centre of the ring.

  Martin held Benson back. “One chance, old mate.”

  Benson’s eyes were wide and his glare menacing as he moved to the centre of the ring. Before Martin had reached the bottom of the steps, a deafening roar stopped him in his tracks; over six hundred pairs of feet stamping on the wooden terraces of the old mine hall.