UMTATA

by Brian Godfrey

  Martin looked up and saw Thompson flat on the canvas. The boxer tried to raise his head; it moved only inches from the canvas. The count reached ten and after the count finished the noise continued as Thompson was attended by his trainers.

  Although exhausted himself, Martin scrambled up the steps to congratulate Benson but when he reached the boxer he noticed that he was spaced out; his eyes were not focusing.

  Wolfgang in the meantime was excited. “I cannot believe it – how did he find the strength?” A large grin spread across his typically placid face.

  Benson was also still out on his feet, veins bulging all over his body. Blood and sweat were wiped from his face, and Martin sat him on the stool, put ice on his face and instructed him to breathe deeply and slowly. It was only after nearly five minutes that he left for the dressing room – the noise from the crowd was ear-splitting!

  His popularity at the mine rocketed; he was a hero. People spoke about him, and the news spread around the Copperbelt. The newspapers gave him sporting headlines, and it seemed that all he wanted in life was to be recognised for what he was.

  Chisala did have one more fight when he challenged for the Zambian welterweight title. It was his fifth professional bout and he went all of fifteen rounds only to lose to the holder, and when the gong sounded at the end he returned to his corner. Although his eyes were twinkling, he looked exhausted.

  “Unlucky, mate; you gave it your all.” Martin patted him on the shoulder.

  “No, boss, I am the lucky one – thank you!”

  When Benson visited Martin in his mine office two weeks later his purse money was in an envelope on the desk.

  “No, master; the money is meaningless, I do not need it; there are others that are in need of it more than me.” There was a pause, then he went on. “I have received so much adulation and good cheer from my fellow miners; it is more than I have ever expected or deserved. I have been privileged to have had such a wonderful but short career, and for this I am grateful to you.” He picked up the envelope. “I will take this money, but it is not for me; it is for others, you will understand of my decision to retire.”

  There was a sequel to the Benson story that prevented a serious situation for Martin. He was invited to present prizes at an amateur youth event that was held in the township; a dangerous place for a white man to go alone.

  As Martin walked into the hall where the fight was to be held he was violently jostled by two youths who were obviously looking for trouble.

  Just before the tournament was due to start, the familiar but unexpected smiling face of Benson appeared. They hugged and shook hands.

  “Enjoy, boss, and if you want anything, I am here,” the ex-boxer advised.

  “Thanks, Benson, but I am sure I will be OK.”

  At the interval Martin was again breached, and one of the men whispered, “Wrong time, wrong place – we will be waiting.”

  At the end of the show when he walked to his car the two guys tailed him, and Martin feared for his life.

  No sooner had he opened the door and sat on his seat than the door was snatched from his hand and they were pulling him out. But as quickly as it had started, it seemed to finish, and he fell back onto his seat, gasping for air.

  He tried to stabilise himself. There was lots of shouting and a crunching sound from beside his car, then silence. Martin was confused, and he was about to start the car for a quick getaway when a familiar face appeared at the window.

  “You OK, master? Those guys are bad but they will not trouble you again.” Benson tapped on the roof. “Safe journey, boss.”

  Martin carefully drove past the two inert bodies on the ground and accelerated towards Kitwe. He never saw Benson again.

  During his two years of promoting and training professional boxers in Africa, Martin provided the springboard for two of his fighters to reach the top. It was to be their pinnacle. He had given them a chance for stardom, to provide them with a better life – and to further his own goal of producing a world champion. They had returned the compliment by winning virtually all of their fights and were first-class ambassadors for Zambia.

  However, the priorities for the stable were clear, a step in the big time. The first opportunity came when his light middleweight John Mwamba was contracted to fight against John Mugabi in front of forty thousand loyal supporters in Lusaka.

  It was an eliminator that would propel the winner into the World Top Ten, but the fight turned out to be a disaster for Martin as Mwamba lost in front of his home crowd.

  30

  An Offer that Cannot be Refused

  Charles had found life interesting during his stay in Ndola. He felt completely at ease with life, he was enjoying his golf, and had made friends with a beautiful African girl.

  He now had purpose, perhaps a cause: to help with something that would make someone else happy. He could add tenacity to enthusiasm and provide funds or anything else that would help his friend to find her children.

  Charles continued to rent his house from a dodgy mineworker. He was aware the deal might fall through at any time, so kept his options open, and continued his life as normal. He rounded off his domestic life by hiring a house guard and a gardener; he paid them on a weekly basis. He did not travel outside of Ndola very much, but regularly kept in touch with his friends from Kitwe and promised to play golf with them at least on a monthly basis.

  During one of these games, Brendan asked Charles if he would like to join them for a charity golf day that was to be held at the Nkana course in Kitwe.

  “It will be great fun, and you can partner me on a ‘better ball’ basis with your old friend Martin.” (‘Better ball’ being a competition in golf where if two play two then the best score of each two wins.)

  “That sounds fine, I will be there,” enthused Charles.

  He was looking forward to the game, and with three weeks to go he started practising with intent. One afternoon, after returning home from a practice session, he answered a knock on the door. It was his hired guard, Joseph.

  “Bwana, there is man who wants to speak with you. He is at the gate, I do not know his name but he lives just over the road.” Joseph paused. “Bwana, please be aware that this man is dangerous, so please be careful.”

  “Why is he dangerous?” asked Charles.

  “People say that he is a hawk who only works at night; his many trucks you will hear going past your house all night long, and they go into the yard behind his place. His house is only fifty metres from here.” And Joseph pointed in the direction of the man’s house.

  “Anything else, Joseph?” enquired Charles.

  “I have heard of people going into his house but never seen again.”

  “OK, OK, Joseph, enough of that. I promise I will be careful.”

  He made his way to the gate and wondered what this villain Joseph had described actually looked like.

  Charles walked straight to the parked vehicle, and introduced himself as he assessed the man leaning against his bonnet. He was African, extremely dark in colour, with a broad brow and eyes that did not hold eye contact for more than the briefest of seconds.

  “Hi man, my name is Godfrey Ngosa.” His face changed quickly, a huge smile taking over it; his teeth were capped with gold.

  They shook hands and Charles invited him into the house.

  “I understand you are from England, my friend.”

  Charles hesitated; he did not know where this was going to lead.

  Ngosa noted this and cushioned the situation. “Look, Charles, I do not want to pry into your business but I have a proposal for you.” He looked for a response.

  “OK, what is it?”

  “I have three hundred dollars, and my sister ninety-five. I want to put it into a bank account in England, and as I know that you will visit there in the near future, I would ask that you do this favour fo
r me. It is a cash transaction.”

  There was silence before Charles responded. “I have no intention of returning to the UK during the next year.”

  “But I can make it worthwhile if you do,” added Godfrey.

  They looked each other in the eye.

  “I can allow you fifteen per cent of the total transaction if you can do this for me.”

  “But I can do the deal for you here in Zambia by going to the bank,” replied Charles. Then, “Did you say three hundred and a further ninety-five dollars American?”

  “But, my friend, think big: this is three hundred thousand and ninety-five thousand dollars, x1000 of which you will get nearly forty thousand dollars. You will be rich.” He glared at Charles and confronted him aggressively. “Look, this is my personal account number; all you need to do is enter this number, with the bank sort code in London, and bank this for me. It will be good for both of us.”

  “Let me think about it. I could make a trip in a month or so.”

  “Very good, then let me know. I will call back in a month.” He left the door open and walked out into the sunshine.

  Charles waited outside the house until the bakkie reversed and drove away in a cloud of dust. He unfurled the paper the man had given him and looked at the account number; it looked familiar but he could not place its significance. He dismissed from his mind a thought that it had a strong resemblance to the one on the tag Naomi had been given by Khakkeki. He thought it a good time to clear his mind; he was excited and, with a chance of forty thousand dollars in his bank, very tempted.

  He drove to the driving range; he needed the exercise.

  31

  Doing a Good Deed,

  November 1981

  Later that evening, Charles sat down at his desk at home and prepared a letter that would be sent to all the major university campuses in Africa.

  It read:

  To whom it may concern

  From: Naomi Nzema

  Date: 13th November 1981

  Dear sir or madam,

  Subject: missing children

  The reason for this letter is to ask for your help in locating a family of three children who went missing four years ago.

  The children were taken from their mother, and could now be living on the campus close to you.

  If you see or hear of these children, please notify the above. They go by the names of Lisa, Clemmie and Tozer.

  Sincerely,

  Naomi Nzema

  The destination for each letter was changed to identify the university it was intended for.

  He finished late in the evening. The air was still hot, and he sat down to enjoy a cold beer, but then decided to continue his work on location hunting.

  He was reviewing the various places where Naomi’s children might be and was shuffling the many reports; he had his hands full when the telephone rang.

  No peace for the wicked, he thought.

  It was Brendan. “You still up? Not in bed?” the chirpy Irishman joked.

  “Yes, of course, but I have been busy,” answered Charles, not saying why.

  “Thought I would tell you that I heard that six months ago a bomb exploded when the Queen was giving a speech at the place you worked in Shetland.”

  “Where did you hear that?” asked Charles.

  “I read it in an old newspaper last week. You know what it’s like here in Africa – everything is late, even important stuff like that.”

  “What happened, anyway?” queried Charles.

  “Oh, the bomb exploded some way from the VIPs.”

  “Was the Queen aware of it?” Charles asked.

  “Apparently she hardly moved a muscle.”

  “That’s great; was anyone else hurt or injured?” asked Charles.

  “No, but it was a different matter in Rome – the Pope was shot four times, but survived,” advised Brendan.

  “The Pope?!” Charles was aghast. “When?”

  “The same day, I think, but I could be mistaken.”

  There was silence between them, each not knowing what to say.

  “OK, that is unbelievable.”

  “Thought that I would tell you, and now I must inform Martin as I am sure he will be interested.”

  “I am sure he will, anyway we will catch up later in the week. We will see you later in the week.”

  “Look forward to it.”

  The line went dead.

  Charles gulped his beer, deep in thought. He wondered if the two incidents were related but, feeling incredibly drowsy, he fell asleep in his chair.

  His mind was in turmoil and he hardly slept; it was almost certain that Michael O’Byrne would have known something about it. His first thought was for Naomi – she needed her kids – but again if he dropped his guard it could mean curtains for him, and there would be nobody to help her.

  The news concerning Pope John Paul II affected Charles. He had known nothing about it; the Pope could have been assassinated on the same day as the Queen of England. It was too painful to think about, and he could not believe that he had once been a part of it.

  The attack would certainly reignite police interest and increase the pressure on him from MI6. Police would be activated around the globe and his life could be threatened. He would need to explain this to Naomi.

  Another needle in the haystack was the situation in Luanshya between Naomi and Khakkeki, although now it seemed certain that Ngosa was the culprit and needed to be curtailed.

  There was no alternative but to stay at home. Golf would need to be cancelled; he would think of an excuse later.

  Charles thought If the mob, alleged to be controlled by Ngosa, found out that Naomi was associated with Khakkeki they may track her to our house and kill us both.

  Next morning he was awake early, and as the sun rose above the arid bush he went for a run to clear his mind. Many Africans were already out walking to work.

  32

  Weekend Mishap

  Martin Valeron had a very busy week. He had received notification that his London-based manager on the cobalt plant was due to arrive in Zambia in a week’s time to chair a meeting with the board of shareholders, and he wanted Martin to make the presentation.

  The shareholders required the following:

  a.Progress to date against the plan.

  b.Estimated completion date.

  c.Current cost against plan.

  d.Final estimated cost against forecast completion.

  Unfortunately for Martin, he had an international boxing tournament in Harare at virtually the same time. The flights and hotel were booked and the boxers’ contracts had been signed, and now this bloody presentation.

  Martin telephoned Vince Burke in his office based in Ashford, Kent.

  “Hi, Vince, how are you?”

  “I am fine, and looking forward to our visit next week.” Vince seemed as jovial as usual.

  “Is your visit definitely scheduled for next week? I have a holiday booked for that particular weekend. Can I leave Peter, my deputy, to present our position to the partners?”

  “Absolutely not, out of the question!” Vince was firm. “This is the most important assembly of our financiers that we will have over the next two years, so whatever you have on, just cancel and make sure you are ready.”

  Martin stalled. “Have you an agenda and a script?” he asked in a moderate tone.

  “Bloody right I have; I will send it to you on Wednesday, so please prepare and give me a return on Friday morning.”

  “OK, Vince.” Martin was disappointed.

  “No holiday, and I will wait for your presentation with slides on Wednesday.”

  The call ended.

  Blast and damn, thought Martin. I may need to cancel my trip, but this is the most important fight of the year and will deter
mine the future. How can I get Wolfgang to understand?

  It was Friday, and too late to call on Wolfgang tonight. He decided to wait until Saturday morning and break the news to him then.

  The three fights lined up for the National Stadium in Harare included his three boxing stars. It was important that he travelled with them, but then it was more important he attended the business meeting!

  The more he thought about it, the more he knew he needed to be there at the ringside. The outcome of the fights would show his achievements during the last two years.

  He pulled up outside Wolfgang’s house, not looking forward to the forthcoming discussion.

  The German’s huge frame sauntered to his gate to meet his partner. “I did not expect you, but good to see you.” He smiled and opened the gate that was always kept locked for security.

  “Wolfgang, I have instructions to make a presentation for my company at a corporate meeting on Monday week, but as you know, our return from Harare is on Tuesday.”

  “You must be in Salisbury.” Wolfgang seemed to ignore that the city was now called Harare.

  “Wolfgang, it is more than my job is worth, but if I can work it I could be back on Sunday evening.”

  “That’s OK with me, but the guys will be disappointed as the extra days are a bit of a holiday for them.”

  “OK, it is what it is; I will change my flight to arrive back on Sunday evening, and you and the boys can stay.”

  Martin shook hands with his partner and drove back to his house on the outskirts of Kitwe.

  Back home, Martin pondered and replayed the story that Brendan had told him regarding the Sullom Voe assassination attempt. This troubled him. He needed reliable information, and the best man to update him sat at his desk in London.