UMTATA

  39

  A Surprise,

  January 1982

  Just after Christmas in 1982, Martin received a call from the MI6 agent George Webster.

  “Hello, Martin, long time since we spoke last, although I did try and contact you before Christmas.”

  “Yes, I missed you and totally forgot to ring you back; my apologies.”

  Martin now realised he needed to be guarded in what he said with respect to his friendship with Charles.

  “Martin, our man Barney Coughlin – you will recall when we spoke last we discussed Coughlin had secured a new identity and obtained it by fraud ?”

  “Hold up, George, either I am getting too old and have forgotten this conversation or you have made a mistake!”

  “Well, either way we need to take a different tack with this man.”

  “In what way?”

  “He is now a fraudster as well as a terrorist and cheated an unsuspecting widow of many thousands of pounds.”

  “Thanks for that, George, but I don’t know what you want from me; this guy may be anywhere in the world, and I certainly do not expect him to pop up in this little part of Africa.”

  “I know, but news travels faster in the bush by word of mouth than by the bloody telephone. All I am asking is that you please keep your eyes and ears open for any information on him. He is fading from the terrorist scene and now unimportant to most, but he is still my call. I was given the responsibility of finding him, and after I do so, I want to close his file for good.”

  “OK, George, I fully understand and take your point, and will do my best to keep my ear to the ground. If I hear something, I will be on the phone to you.”

  “Thanks, Martin; hope to hear from you soon, then.” As George put down the phone he had the feeling that there had been an icy edge to Martin’s tone.

  Martin did not feel at all guilty regarding the discussions with the MI6 man and earnestly packed his bags. He was off on a jaunt with Wolfgang, who had invited him to experience bush life, eating, drinking and sleeping under the stars; a weekend to enjoy. The German loved his bush jaunts and planned them to perfection, taking everything bar the kitchen sink.

  The arrangements for travel for the trip were made with precise German organisation.

  Wolfgang was taking two vehicles, one a large Toyoto bakkie. It was big enough to fit his deep freezer, and two of his factory workers in the rear section that was open; the two workers had volunteered for the trip and would benefit from the fish they caught and any game meat that went spare. Apart from Wolfgang who would drive, everything else would be stored in the open loading section at the back.

  The second vehicle was a Saab estate: this would be driven by Wolfgang’s foreman, a man called Helmut and he would drive with Martin as the passenger, with bedding stored on the back seat.

  The Toyota carried guns, fishing rods and other utensils required whilst the Saab carried all things that were to keep dry in case of rain.

  The Toyoto would also pull Wolfgang’s small motorboat as he intended to show Martin the excitement that can be had catching Tiger fish on the Zambezi.

  Wolfgang acquired a yearly hunting licence that allowed him to legally kill five game animals a year. When the animals were killed they were dismembered to fit into the fridge-freezer in the back of his truck and taken back to Kitwe for his family to eat.

  The two Africans came for the experience and any opportunity to catch fish and edible insects. The fish they caught would be cleaned, dried, salted and stored for the future.

  Martin accepted the invitation as an adventure, a chance to see Africa and its animals in their own habitat, to taste and smell the bush, and to sleep under the stars and experience the dangers that lingered in every corner.

  He did not expect what was to be the outcome.

  Over the campfire one evening, Martin told a story to Wolfgang and Helmut and explained why he would never carry a gun or anything else that would hurt an animal. It occurred when he was young and killed a bird with his catapult. The bird dropped into the waters of a river in front of him; it was a simple action but he felt it was not his duty to hurt living creatures without a reason, and he stuck to his vow.

  They looked at him in astonishment, then at each other, and then shrugged. Nothing more was said on the matter.

  A day before they were due to return, an accident occurred that was to cast a cloud over the trip and delay their return by two days.

  Wolfgang had not ‘culled’ any animals since they arrived; his freezer was empty and he needed to make a kill for the meat.

  They had spent most of the time on the Zambezi catching fish and lost track of time for actual hunting.

  The next day they took just one vehicle, the bakkie, with Wolfgang and Martin in the front and Helmut, John and Abe, the two Africans, in the back.

  After finding a suitable area to park, they trekked the bush, forming a straight line, moving slowly and inspecting every bush and tree. Wolfgang was leading with his gun held high, and Helmut brought up the rear, his gun cocked but pointing skyward.

  Passing a group of trees, they spotted three buffalo grazing upstream of the wind at a distance of about fifty yards. Wolfgang raised his arm for the group to stop, then moved on towards the animals with John, the tall African, about five yards behind him.

  Within about thirty-five yards of the beast, Wolfgang lifted his gun slowly and fired. The buffalo nearest to him seemed to be hit, but ran into the bush behind the others on hearing the shot. With caution Wolfgang walked towards where he thought the buffalo were resting. As he edged forward, John moved stealthily to join him but Wolfgang waved him back. Suddenly all hell was let loose. The injured beast broke loose from behind the high bush; it was breathing heavily and roaring. It lumbered towards the hunters, who by this time had almost reached the tree just ahead of the animal, and then John, standing close to Wolfgang, was hauled into the air by the buffalo and fell heavily to the ground. Wolfgang was within feet of the huge, steaming animal, and in a second raised his gun and fired. The bull shuddered, and steam and body parts scattered in the air as it fell to the ground.

  The other three had by this time beaten all speed records over fifty yards and were now peering over the back fender of the bakkie. Immediately after the bull was felled they leapt from the cover of the vehicle and rushed towards the stricken John, who was screaming on the ground – the shock had worn off. Wolfgang was already attending to his left leg when they reached him; it was almost detached at the knee.

  Wolfgang instructed Helmut to bring the bakkie close, and Martin and Abe to hold John still whilst Wolfgang laid his legs side by side. Helmut brought the bakkie as instructed, and handed Wolfgang the medical kit; he wrapped tape around both legs and injected the felled lad with morphine.

  Gently he was lifted into the bakkie and Wolfgang drove him in the direction of the field hospital; it was thought to be over twenty miles away.

  After nightfall Wolfgang returned in a sombre mood and informed the team that the lad had lost his leg below the knee. They would return home without him, and he would return by ambulance later.

  40

  A Message,

  April 1982

  Naomi arrived home one evening to find a letter from her uncle in Maputo. It was unusual for him to write, so she was especially interested in the contents.

  He had visited a church in the parish of Chingola a few miles from where Naomi lived, and met a Ghanaian lady who knew Naomi from her time with Kwasi, and she thought she might be able to help in locating the children.

  Naomi wasted no time, she quickly wrote the lady’s contact details and armed with the lady’s business address, jumped on a bus and headed to Chingola.

  It was a hectic bus ride from Kitwe, and she was disappointed to find that the lady was at a meeting and not available, so she waited for an hour. When the lady fi
nally arrived Naomi recognised her from the Ghanaian parties she and Kwasi had attended in Kitwe.

  “My name is Mary. It is a pleasure to meet with you again after so many years, and I am sorry that you broke with Kwasi but I understand the situation; he was a naughty boy.”

  “Yes, he was,” answered Naomi. “But please tell me what you know of the situation now.”

  “Well, I know that he was here in Chingola not more than a week ago, and stayed at a house in Embele Street, and I think he was with one of the children, although I did not see him whilst he was here.” Mary looked at Naomi and shrugged.

  “What number was it in Embele Street?” Naomi asked.

  “Number 2, it is the first house on the right-hand side.”

  “I will try to see if he is still there. Thank you, Mary, for your help.” Naomi set off to find the house.

  In the meantime Charles had arrived at Naomi’s apartment in Kitwe saw the note and decided to follow her, but first he rang the number on the note that Naomi had left.

  “Hello, I am trying to locate my friend Naomi Zimba. Have you seen her?” Charles asked politely.

  “Yes, she was here but I sent her to Embele street, No 2, she is looking for ex-husband.”

  “How do you know he is at the address? Did you see him?”

  “No, I did not see him, but I heard through the community that he was there just a week or so ago. That’s all.” She could not tell him anything more.

  “How long ago was she with you, madam?”

  “One hour, sir.”

  “If you see her then tell her I am on my way.” He ended the call and then rang for a taxi.

  Naomi reached the address. The house seemed badly maintained, and sitting on the front porch were three unkempt middle-aged local men, drinking from cans of beer.

  Only one, the most grotesque, acknowledged her, and raised his eyebrows. “What can I do for you?”

  The situation seemed wrong, and she recoiled. It reminded her of the time with Khakkeki.

  “I need to speak with the lady of the house. If she is not here, I will come back later.” She kept her distance, but in an effort to extract some information from the men, she went straight to the point. “What can you tell me regarding Kwasi Nzema?”

  “Why do you want to know about Kwasi?”

  “He was my husband, and I am trying to locate my three children.”

  “Is he the guy from Ghana?” asked the man.

  “Yes.”

  “You were married to him? Well, well.” The man laughed.

  Naomi glared at him. “If he was here, did he have my children?”

  “He might have, but if you want any more information it will cost you.”

  “Cost me what?”

  “Wait; I will get a letter I have from him, and if you want the address, I will sell it to you.” He got up and waddled through the door of the house. “Come, my daughter will make us a cup of tea.”

  She did not follow immediately, but at the mention of his daughter she moved towards the house.

  The inside of the house was more orderly; the floor tiles were polished and the walls painted white, and there were a few chairs positioned around a small television set, and some glasses on a table in the middle of the room.

  She waited at the door and shouted, “Have you found the letter?”

  “My daughter is searching for it. Come in and wait.”

  She moved closer to the door and edged about a yard inside. He was sitting in a huge armchair, and had opened a beer and was drinking it from the neck of the bottle.

  “My wife is out shopping; she is originally from Accra and will discuss Kwasi with you when she returns.”

  “Where is your daughter?”

  “She is in the bedroom.” He motioned towards the door to another room.

  He got up from the chair and poured two whiskies from a bottle on the sideboard. He offered Naomi one but she refused.

  “Come, woman, forget and have a drink; we will live a little.”

  “Your daughter is not here, is she?” Naomi raised her voice.

  “Why worry about my daughter?” he laughed. “She must have gone shopping as well.”

  “Then I must go.” Naomi hesitated.

  The fat man was now sitting on the edge of his chair. His elbows were on his knees and the whisky glass between his legs. “Hold it; I may be able to find something out. Just wait and I will make a phone call.”

  She moved to the window and collected her thoughts. Perhaps he can find something out?

  Her thoughts got the better of her and she turned to leave, but he surprised her and grabbed her by the shoulders and tried to kiss her. His strong arms were around her waist and his whisky breath almost choked her. She screamed and pulled away, but as she did so their legs entwined and they fell heavily to the floor.

  She gasped at him, “Get away from me, you beast,” and climbed to her feet.

  He had one hand on her leg, and the other grabbed her skirt.

  “Let me go, man!”

  “We fuck!” he blurted. His hand moved round and grabbed the back of her panties.

  “Get off me!” she screamed, and managed to move into a crouch, then, with a huge push of her legs, straightened up into a standing position. The man fell back onto the floor, but he still gripped her leg and she winced in pain.

  He levered himself up, using her body to do so. She punched him in the face; his lip was now bleeding and, in trying to balance himself, he spread his legs. He was now in a position to hit her back, but before he could do anything she sunk her teeth into his neck, and he screamed loud profanities. A heavy man, he swung a massive arm that hit her high on the head and she was hurled across the room.

  Victorious, he looked at the girl lying on the floor, her clothes askew. He unzipped the flies of his trousers and moved towards her fallen body. Now only half conscious, she moaned and turned onto her side.

  Moving closer to the stricken Naomi, he lowered himself slowly to the floor, but was suddenly distracted by a shadow looming to his left. It was the last thing he remembered as a crashing blow from a heavy wooden pole hit him full in the face; he stumbled but did not fall until the second blow landed on the back of his head and he fell face down.

  Charles took off his safari coat and covered Naomi as she tried to raise herself from the floor. He looked fondly at her and whispered, “Enough is enough! This must not happen again.”

  The fat man lay still for some minutes but then staggered to his feet just in time to see the old, battered taxi drive away in a cloud of dust.

  41

  Six Days to Go,

  May 1982

  The normal Monday morning in Kitwe is mundane. The weekend of play is over, the shops are empty and mineworkers walking to work do so with sullen faces, not looking forward to the week ahead.

  Things were different on this particular Monday morning in May. It was carnival week, and colourful flowers, banners and posters were being mounted in every available position, each wishing a joyous time for all. The larger banners that hung from buildings promoted the agricultural show starting on Thursday through to Saturday evening; the last event would be staged in the main arena.

  Most of the banners were bright and colourful, each sponsored by a main supplier, the biggest being Coca-Cola. It was the start of an exciting week. The foyer of the Edinburgh Hotel was busy, and the box office positioned inside was attending to a long queue of people waiting to purchase standing-only tickets.

  Martin took a couple of days’ holiday from work, to ensure that arrangements were carried out smoothly and to plan. There was one important thing that worried him: the availability of the boxing ring.

  He had agreed to use the same ring that he had used at the dinner show two years previously, but remembered it was very large and immensely heavy
. He thought it should be much easier this time; installation would be in the open air with plenty of room for access, unlike the Edinburgh Hotel.

  He walked into the foyer to check the initial sales and to ensure the funds were being controlled and the money bagged correctly. After all, this was Africa and money could disappear quickly; it was important that it was banked as soon as possible after bagging. His two trusty cashiers, he felt, were capable of handling the situation and responsible enough to check regularly that the numbers of tickets sold matched the takings.

  One of them, Eddie, called out. “Martin, I have received passes for the cocktail party on Friday – you know, the party before your show – and would appreciate it if you took them before I give them away,” he joked.

  “How many?” asked Martin.

  “Six, but I am sure the council will send more if you ask them!”

  Martin picked up the tickets, made his way to his car and drove back to work. He used the company facsimile for messaging; he needed to clear up some contractual issues with the visiting personnel and to advise them of some changes to their itineraries. The messages were positive and confirmed the time of arrival; Martin phoned the taxi company and confirmed pick-up times.

  Everything was coming together nicely and tickets were being sold at such a terrific rate, he decided to pay a visit to the TV studios and check if the outside broadcasting team would be available for the show.

  Although his golf friends were not particularly interested in boxing it would be a nice gesture if he supplied them with complimentary tickets for the cocktail party and the main show. Charles may not want to come due to the exposure; he would have to make that decision for himself. Wolfgang would use his own allocation of tickets at his discretion, probably for business clients.

  On Thursday he received a call from the TV producer. “Hi, Martin, Sol here. I understand that you were trying to contact me regarding live TV coverage of the two main events on Saturday?”