The latter position, considered by many as an act of rebellion, conversely, persists with the convention that statutory law is paramount. Others, however, point to the complexities involved with land rights, and beg further considerations of pre-colonial aspirations and individuals’ rights. All these perspectives, when viewed together present the most persuasive argument: that women’s rights are interwoven with land appropriation; that before and after colonisation, continuing after independence and beyond, actors in land reform have located the struggle in the women’s struggle. Gender nonspecialists all ascribe to the need for statutory commitment, but the stories these women tell reveal less emancipation and equality than is afforded by rule of law.
Lydia, introduced in Chapter 3, is a solicitor specialising in women’s issues, and based in Harare, the capital city of Zimbabwe. She completed a law degree at the University of Zimbabwe, and followed this with a Master’s from Witwatersrand University in South Africa. She has achieved academic and professional success even though her parents, because of their involvement in the freedom struggle in the sixties and seventies, did not have as much education. She speaks of their very traditional, conservative values, and the fact that her female cousins living in rural areas of Zimbabwe have been disinherited from the land . . .
His brother had given the women pseudonyms, and their ages ranged from late twenties to seventies. But for each woman, the picture he had in his head was Matilda. He thumbed through, skimming through chapter after chapter, and then turned the book over and stared at the back cover. Martin writes with clarity and honesty on contentious issues of rights and rites, bringing a much-needed perspective on the human rights issue underlying land reform and appropriation. The inside of the back cover read: Born in Zimbabwe, then Rhodesia, Ben Martin completed his doctorate at Corpus Christi College Oxford and is on the editorial board of The African Studies Journal. His brother, the Africanist. Ben would not have seen every painting he had completed, but he might well have seen a greater proportion of his oeuvre than he, Francois, had seen of his younger brother’s.
The sun had begun its descent, and the breeze had begun cooling his flat. He placed the two books one on top of the other onto his chest. They weighed little – as much as a bag of sugar, as much as a newborn baby – and he remained as he was until the sun disappeared and darkness gathered around him.
A month later his father called to let him know that their wills had been read and that Ben and Clare had, in the event of no children being issued, left their flat and its contents to their siblings. His father had already spoken with the Armstrongs. Neither set of parents particularly wished to be involved in any dealings and both would be grateful if their children shouldered that responsibility. He received this news and made arrangements to fly over with some discomfiture. His property portfolio was increasing exponentially, as if a malicious reward for his brother and sister-in-law’s childlessness. He was already named on the deeds of his parents’ large house in Clapham; as an appetiser, he now had half a share in another flat in a desirable location. Both investments outstripped the value of his flat in Lisbon and made his savings and income from a fairly successful career even less precarious. At least Clare’s sister did not have the embarrassment of being a sole beneficiary: there were her children, who would presumably benefit from their aunt’s generosity. Before he left Lisbon, Patricia Zigomo-Walther called; his mother had given her his number. Her voice was comforting, with its low tone, the familiar accent. She was sorry she had not spoken properly to him at the funeral. There was a gathering in her London pied-à-terre, she said, on the day that he was flying in: a gathering of what she described as her Zim Circle. Most of them had known Ben and would like to meet him.
He had always avoided such expat enclaves. In Cape Town there had been the usual disgruntled old Rhodesians, clinging on to an older time, bemoaning the imminent changes arriving in South Africa. He had shunned any clique made of people with similar backgrounds to him, causing some consternation, but he was determined to stretch himself out of the cocoon he had grown up in. The result: he fell in love with Paula, another art student with a privileged background, but one who had the added piquancy of being faulty in her English and whose home was Maputo, war-torn and dilapidated, an injured beauty of a city.
There were fifteen or so people crowded into the living room at Patricia’s flat, most of whom were academics specialising in sub-Saharan Africa; only a few were transplanted Zimbabweans or South Africans. Standing out, sitting in a chair wearing a maroon jumper, a woollen cap on her head, feet pushed into ill-fitting shoes, sat a woman: Patricia’s older sister, Tsitsi, just off the plane from Harare. Much older sister, he thought, shaking her hand. Her eyes avoided his, and she held the crook of her elbow: both actions sending a shockwave of memory through him. She said something to Patricia, her eyes focused on her knees, and Patricia replied in kind in Shona, then turned to him: ‘She met Ben a few times and wants to convey her condolences.’ He turned back to her – Thank you – and the sister nodded. She looked uncomfortable, out of place in the smart modern flat.
Patricia was moving around the room with a plate of snacks, throwing her head back to laugh when the only young man in the room, his dreadlocks tucked into an oversized green and yellow cap, said something to her in Shona. Then she turned, saw him watching her and approached to refill his glass. She whispered, ‘Will you stay, please? When the others go?’
As he nodded and she moved away, he heard a voice by his elbow: ‘Francois? Annie De Houwer. Ben and I worked on a project together.’
‘I recognise your name.’
‘And I recognise yours. You were at Michaelis, weren’t you? My sister Ella studied there as well. Not sure if you crossed paths?’
She had a fine pair of green eyes, and he smiled into them. ‘I hope we didn’t. I was a bit of a prick in my youth.’
She laughed out loud, exposing a row of white teeth.
‘I’m sure you weren’t. Or if you were, wasn’t everyone?’ Then she closed her mouth, her lips turned down in disappointment. ‘I’m on my way out, I’m afraid. I’ve been here for ages.’ She placed a hand on his arm. ‘But tell me, how are you? I’m just devastated. And how are your parents?’
‘They’re well, considering. It’s been very strange.’
She made a sympathetic noise, scanning the room, ‘Well, I’d say most of us in here knew Ben in some capacity.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Keep in touch, will you? Patricia is a brilliant social organiser. She’ll make sure we meet again.’
He was approached by several people whose names he recognised, as if characters from Ben’s books were coming to life. All spoke warmly of his brother. When the guests took their leave, Patricia’s sister rose to her feet, heavy-bottomed, and the two sisters went together to another room. Patricia reappeared alone a few moments later. ‘My sister is just having a rest before we get the train to Maidenhead.’ She straightened her skirt and then raised her face to his. ‘So, how are you?’
‘It’s strange,’ he said, ‘and hard for my parents.’
She nodded, made a clucking sound. ‘I should have invited them as well. I will. But I wanted to see you alone.’ She smiled. ‘Would you like a coffee?’
As she went to the kitchenette, he moved to the other end of the living area, where a sofa was positioned to look out of the window. A stretched canvas hung on the adjacent wall.
When she reappeared, he pointed to it. ‘João Pinto,’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Of course. You were in Maputo, weren’t you?’
‘He was one of the artists we sponsored. It’s great to come across his work like this.’
‘I wouldn’t say we are patrons,’ she said. ‘I for one don’t know enough about art. But we like to buy from artists we know something about. João stayed with us a few times in Harare.’
She poured the coffee. ‘Milk?’
‘Just black, thanks.’
<
br /> She held out a cup. ‘Yours are hanging up in our house in Maidenhead.’ Then, ‘I’ll just make sure my sister’s all right . . .’
She seemed nervous; he had presumed her husband would also be present. Now, he looked around the flat again and spotted a photograph of two little girls with honey-coloured skin and darker, candy-floss hair. When she returned, he gestured to them: ‘Your daughters?’
She smiled, nodded.
‘They’re gorgeous.’
‘Thank you.’ She stood smiling, looking at the image a little longer before saying, ‘I have a regret. I’ve not taught them Shona. I should make more of an effort, because when we go back, they’re not able to really feel part of it all, you know?’
She gestured to the sofa, and he sat down while she settled opposite him, curling her hands around her cup.
‘Do you go back often?’ he asked.
‘Once a year as a family, to see my mother. She refuses to move from Chinoyi. I go by myself a few more times as I still have my project, and the house in Chisipite . . .’ She sipped her coffee. ‘Do you?’
He shook his head. ‘I haven’t been back since my dad left.’
She made that same clucking sound. ‘You know, you must come back with me sometime. You could stay with us and you could take a walk down memory lane.’
His memories would be patently different from hers, he thought, but it was a kind offer, and he smiled his gratitude.
‘And so Lisbon is now your home?’
‘I like it,’ he said. ‘It reminds me of Maputo.’
‘I know what you mean. We went once a few years back.’
Then she laid her cup down, leaned back and folded her arms, a wide smile on her face.
‘You really do look alike,’ she said.
He let her eyes slide over his features.
‘Get a haircut, shave a little more closely . . .’
‘Lose a bit of weight . . .’
‘I didn’t say that! Of course not!’ She laughed, her shoulders shaking – it was pleasant to watch her amusement. And then she stopped. ‘I’m glad you came, Francois. It’s nice to talk with you. I hope we’ll keep in touch.’
Her voice quietened, and there was a long pause before she spoke again.
‘You see, I was so fond of Ben.’ Now she was pulling a tissue from a box on the coffee table. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, and blew her nose, then stayed still, her eyes no longer on him but on some far corner of the room.
‘He just gave me so much confidence,’ she said suddenly. ‘I told you I grew up in Chinoyi – you can imagine. He always said that I helped him out on his projects. But I feel it was the other way. He really encouraged me. He helped me more than he needed to . . .’
‘It’s nice to hear,’ he said. ‘I suppose I didn’t see that side of him.’
‘I want to do something,’ she said. ‘This is what I wanted to tell you. I want to set something up, a bursary or a fund, in Ben’s name. I’ve already spoken to Michael, and when we have a clear idea we’ll approach the university.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’
She looked up at him, and then she lowered her eyes.
‘I was probably a little in love with Ben,’ she said, pulling at her sleeve. He put his cup down and was surprised when she chuckled, wiping the tears away from her eyes.
‘Your face!’ Then she smiled. ‘Nothing ever happened.’
They were silent and then she laughed again, a throaty laugh.
‘The first time we met, I wasn’t married yet, and he invited me for dinner. I remember thinking it was a date, but he told me soon enough he had a girlfriend, back in England. It was Clare.’ She smiled. ‘He took me to Da Guido’s, do you remember it?’
He nodded. An Italian trattoria in one of the shopping areas in the Avenues, a criss-cross of tree-lined streets near the centre of the city.
‘And I was thinking, cheapskate, why not the Sheraton or Meikles – that was where all my friends got taken to. But then I realised – Guido’s, that was where everyone went. By everyone, I mean all of you guys.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘You must remember what it’s like back home.’
He nodded and she smiled.
‘And Ben wanted to show me off in a way. Not as a date. But just the normality of it: two people having dinner. I think the waiters minded more, when I spoke to them in Shona . . .’
He could picture the scene well, and he appreciated her retelling of it. He let his eyes move over her: a beautiful woman, but her choice of husband would lend status and provoke censure in equal measure from all sections of the society. An irritation with his conservative childhood environs returned. It never took him long to remember why he had wanted to leave.
‘I never really got to know Clare,’ she was saying.
‘I’m afraid I never really tried to get to know her,’ he said, an admission he found was easy to make with Patricia in front of him. ‘They got married and then soon after I moved to Lisbon, so it wasn’t like I was far away. But we just never seemed to coincide with each other.’
She was quiet. Then, ‘Were you not close to Ben?’
He crossed his arms. ‘The funny thing is I think we were,’ he said. ‘We just didn’t need to see each other much.’
She reached forward, stirred her coffee, her eyes still on him.
‘Why did you leave Maputo?’ she asked.
‘I was running the cultural centre,’ he said. ‘It was the most enriching experience. It was an incredibly productive time of my life. But in the end, I just began to feel differently somehow.’ He paused, choosing his words carefully. ‘I began to feel like an interloper.’
She smiled, and seemed to turn his words over in her head.
‘We all belong,’ she said finally. ‘If I didn’t believe that, I’d never be able to hold my own here or there or with my husband’s family.’
She was thoughtful, genuine. He knew that he would get to know her better and that would help him remember Ben. He spent the rest of the afternoon talking with her. She showed him some photos she had taken when Ben had last visited Harare. His brother looked tanned, at ease. In one, he had his arm around Patricia; they were both smiling, not at the camera but at each other. They talked until she and her sister had to get their train, and they all left the flat together. He accompanied them to the station and onto their platform. He offered his hand again to her sister, and then to Patricia, which she took. And then she pulled him closer, reached her face to his, so they stood cheek to cheek for some time. Fambai zvakanaka, she said in his ear, which he understood with a jolt. She laughed her throaty laugh. So you remember what that means, she said, and he nodded, the response sarai zvakanaka on the tip of his tongue. But he did not say it, only held her again to him before letting her go. Go well, stay well.
10
HE stayed a night with his parents before taking the train up north, where he had arranged to meet Clare’s sister, Jane. He ordered some packing boxes and bin bags, picked up the keys from the solicitor and then arrived on the street, a cool light glinting off the river to his left. The cobblestones reminded him of Lisbon, but the buildings were freshly painted, groomed, unlike those on his own street. The art gallery across the way was just opening up, the owner giving him a curious stare.
While he waited, he sent a message to Lucie. There was a sense that the relationship was holding its breath, waiting to see who would exhale first and take the other’s hand. When they met, Lucie had just separated from her husband, who remained for a year in Lisbon out of sight. She had been adamant that her son, then a sullen twelve-year-old, take priority. He had complied with her wishes, careful not to over-step. But the separateness of their lives meant that the woman he had been with for four years had been hardly acquainted with his brother.
‘Sorry, am I late?’
She had arrived at his side, a faint sheen of perspiration on her face, pulling a small travelling case which, to his surprise, she handed to him absent-mindedly. He took it
and set it down next to his feet.
‘No, I’ve just got here myself.’
He bent down instinctively to kiss her cheek, but she mirrored his movement with such eagerness that he retreated slightly, then moved forwards again to avoid causing offence. They embraced in an awkward hug.
‘You didn’t go to the hotel first?’
She shook her head.
‘I came straight here. I’d rather crack on.’
He eyed her sideways: she was wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, and he caught another glimpse of her underarm hair. He picked up her suitcase and followed her to the entrance. As he opened the door, he asked after her children, to which she gave a vague wave of her hand. Then they entered the flat.
It was very quiet inside with the door closed behind them and all the windows shut. They stood together for some moments on the doormat, as if each was unwilling to be the first to move further inside. Then he put her suitcase down, took off his jacket and hung it up on a hook, offering to do the same for her.
‘I brought us something to drink,’ she said. Diving into her handbag she produced a bottle of gin. ‘They’ll have tonic in the fridge, I’m sure they will. Could you make me a gin and tonic? Have one yourself. I’ll be back in a minute.’
She went through to the bedroom, and he could see her entering the bathroom and closing the door. He glanced at his watch: it was only midday. He moved into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Sure enough, at the back, on the bottom shelf, were a row of tonic cans. Perhaps this had been a family tradition that Jane was sure her sister would uphold. He found two tall glasses in another cupboard and measured out the gin.
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