Storms Over Africa

by Beverley Harper

  ‘I hate Disney movies,’ she objected.

  ‘Actually, my dear, so do I.’ Then he added softly in her ear, ‘The bloody things always make me cry.’

  And Steve tucked the comment away in her heart, sensing she had just been made privy to a piece of Richard Dunn he usually kept hidden.

  Night fell swiftly, after toying briefly with a scarlet sunset. The big fire was lit and Samson got busy with his cooking fire. Night noises of the African bush rose and fell around them. Baboons screeched and fought further along the river. A jackal howled, surprisingly close to camp. The crickets and frogs kept up a continuous flow of sound. Hippos grunted and snorted and gargled to each other as they prepared to leave the water and graze on the sweet grass of the river banks. Hyena, across the river, giggled and chittered over a kill. Somewhere in the distance, an elephant trumpeted.

  Philamon lit the tilly lamps. Their soft lights glowed, giving the camp a homely look. Then, with the sounds of cooking and the murmuring of Samson and Philamon coming from the supplies tent, in the best tradition of African safaris the rest of them sat around the fire and told stories, absorbed the atmosphere and felt sorry for everyone else in the world because they were not doing the same thing.

  Steve asked if the animals would come into the camp at night. ‘A few might,’ Richard said. ‘But most animals have a built-in sense of private space. They don’t come any closer than the distance they need to get away if necessary. Lion will come through and sniff around because they’re curious. Elephants might walk through but you’d never hear them. Baboons are a nuisance. The rest keep away.’

  ‘Lions might come through?’ Steve was not too sure she liked the idea.

  ‘I heard about a couple of professional hunters in Botswana who had a lion come into their tent, sniff their heads while they slept, and leave through the other end of the tent,’ Greg offered.

  ‘You’re joking.’ Joseph Tshuma didn’t like the idea either.

  ‘I’m not joking. They’re incredibly curious about things, just like cats.’

  ‘What about that game ranger up in Wankie?’ Penny reminded them, then, at a look from Joseph, amended, ‘I mean Hwange National Park.’ After independence a lot of the old place names had been changed.

  ‘I don’t think . . .’ Richard knew the story of Willy de Beer would scare the living daylights out of Steve.

  ‘What about him?’ Steve had goose bumps but she wanted to hear.

  ‘I really don’t think . . .’ he tried again.

  Greg took up the story, oblivious to Richard’s warning. ‘He was camping in a national park and a lion attacked another couple while they slept. First it mauled the woman, then it killed the man. The woman ran to get Willy who went to the hut to help. When he stuck his head through the open window to see what was going on the lion ripped his scalp off but didn’t kill him.’ Greg was warming to his tale, caught up in an adult version of scary stories like the ones school children tend to tell just before someone dares one of them to enter a deserted house. ‘Then Willy’s son-in-law was attacked when he came to help. Somehow, Willy got hold of the rifle and, although he couldn’t see anything with his scalp hanging over his eyes, shot at where he thought the lion was. He killed the lion but he also shot his son-in-law’s hand off.’

  ‘Did they live?’ Steve asked, shivering. Greg’s tale, told so matter-of-factly, was the most horrible thing she had ever heard. She did not doubt the story, the others had all heard it, that was obvious. She marvelled at these people. She had met a ranger in Hwange who bore the most terrible scars she had ever seen. An elephant had attacked him, thrusting one ivory tusk through his thigh and ripping him open to his belly. The man had been in and out of hospital for three years, his ability to sire children was in serious doubt and yet, when she asked him about his scarred leg and he had told her his story he had concluded by saying, ‘That old ellie was one helluva feller. He’s still in the park. He’s the most beautiful ellie here.’

  She had wondered at the time how he could tell the tale without rancour. It seemed that he respected the elephant for its attack on him. All these people appeared to thrive on being braver, harder, different. But they were not doing it to impress. It was natural to them. ‘It must be because they live with danger,’ she thought. ‘This must be the way they cope.’

  Greg was answering her question so she stopped her musing and listened.

  ‘Willy had over 200 stitches in his head but he lived. His son-in-law lived but his hand was damaged beyond repair. The woman also lived.’

  ‘Maybe it will happen to us,’ David cut in spitefully.

  ‘I doubt it, son. It was a pretty rare event. The lion was starving. They’ve got plenty to eat down here.’ Richard was trying to tone it down for Steve’s benefit.

  Feeling as though a pride of hungry lions were sharpening their teeth behind her, Steve turned to Joseph, ‘Didn’t I read somewhere that young African boys have to kill a lion with their spear before they can become a man?’

  ‘It used to happen,’ Joseph admitted. ‘And it still happens in different parts of Africa, like the Masai in Kenya. Thankfully it doesn’t occur here any more.’

  ‘A lot of young boys must have been killed.’ She found it impossible to imagine. It seemed barbaric.

  ‘That didn’t bother the elders,’ Joseph told her. ‘If a lad was unable to prove his manhood he wasn’t worth anything to the tribe anyway. It was the way of things.’

  ‘Sounds a bit harsh.’ She grinned at her own understatement.

  ‘If you looked back far enough into our own history you’d find things every bit as harsh,’ Greg put in.

  ‘You’re Shona aren’t you?’ she asked Joseph.

  ‘Yes.’ Joseph, who in the company of these people tried to remain self-contained, never giving a part of himself away, could not hide the pride in his voice.

  ‘How did your people come to settle here?’

  Richard whistled. ‘That’s a big question, Steve.’

  ‘Am I treading on sacred ground?’ She looked at him seriously. ‘I don’t mean to, I’m just interested in Zimbabwe’s history.’

  ‘This is the writer speaking,’ Richard smiled at her.

  ‘It is,’ she agreed. ‘Like most journalists with a story just in front of them, I feel as though I’m pushing up against an empty space, filling it up as I go.’ She looked over at Joseph. ‘That’s why I ask so many questions,’ she said apologetically.

  To Richard’s surprise, Joseph said, ‘I don’t mind talking about it. People should know our history.’ And he began to speak, his deep African voice rumbling harmoniously with the night noises around them.

  ‘To tell the history of Zimbabwe, I have to go back a long way. On the Matabele side, I have to go back to Shaka, the Zulu king. On the other, to the Karanga, my own people.’ He looked over at Steve. ‘Are you sure you want to hear this? It’s quite a long story.’

  ‘Please.’ She was fascinated.

  ‘Our people came from somewhere up near Lake Tanganyika,’ he began. ‘There was a lot of movement throughout Africa from the thirteenth century onwards. Tribes were travelling vast distances, and nobody really knows why. Our first chief was Mutota but, after he had fought and destroyed other tribes, he became known as Mwene Mutapa which means “master of the ravaged land”. Somehow, the name changed to Monomatapa and this became the name of a combined people. We were still Karanga as a tribe but the overall dynasty was called Monomatapa.’ He leaned forward and said to Steve, ‘Do you understand what I mean?’

  ‘I guess so,’ she said slowly. ‘Is it like a Frenchman being a European or a Malayan being Asian?’

  ‘Something like that, it’s a good comparison. I’m not sure I understand it either.’

  ‘Please, go on,’ Steve begged, ‘this is really interesting.’

  ‘We lived here for several centuries . . .’ Joseph continued. Then he scowled and added, ‘. . . until the Portuguese arrived in the early 1500s. They came lo
oking for the fabulous gold we were supposed to have and their missionaries tried to convert our people to Christianity.’ He smiled briefly, ‘They didn’t have much luck. There was always an uneasy alliance between our people and the Portuguese and finally, by 1700, we had thrown them out.’

  Greg interrupted, ‘You slaughtered them.’

  ‘Yes we did, every man, woman and child,’ Joseph said, proudly. He saw the look of horror on Steve’s face. ‘Please, remember this was nearly 300 years ago and the Portuguese had tried to take our lands.’

  ‘Just as you had taken the land from the Bushmen,’ Richard interjected.

  ‘In those days, only the fittest survived,’ Joseph justified his story. He looked back at Steve, ‘Now, to tell you about the Matabele I have to tell you about Shaka, or, to be more precise, one of his generals, Mzilikazi.’ Richard heard Tshuma’s distaste at the mention of the founder of the Matabele nation.

  Unaware of the depth of historical hatred and distrust, Steve took a sip of her whisky, loving the sound of the unfamiliar names rolling off Joseph’s tongue.

  ‘Shaka became chief of the Zulus by murdering one of his brothers who had been named chief. Shaka only lived another ten years before he himself was murdered by another brother, Dingane.’ Joseph shook his head at the treachery of the Matabele. ‘In the years he was chief he completely reorganised the Zulu army and they were impossible to beat in any battle. He forbade marriage until a man reached forty which meant the men were committed to only one thing, war. He modified the assegai and he insisted his troops went barefoot to give them more mobility. He raided . . .’

  ‘Whoa, whoa,’ Steve interrupted. ‘He modified what?’

  ‘The assegai.’ Joseph looked surprised that she didn’t know what it was. ‘It’s a spear. Shaka altered it to make it more effective.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He made the blade broader and shortened the handle. They still carried spears but, once the fighting got down to hand-to-hand range, the new weapon was much easier to use and much more useful than knives.’

  ‘Is it like a panga?’

  Richard intervened. ‘It’s nothing like a panga. It’s a shorter, fatter version of the assegai. It’s a stabbing weapon. The panga is more of a tool. Traditionally it’s not used as a weapon, although these days anything goes.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She turned to Joseph. ‘Sorry to interrupt but I wonder what gave him the idea?’

  Joseph shrugged. Greg leaned forward. ‘I might be able to help you there, Steve. I believe Shaka got the idea from the British.’

  ‘The British! You’re joking!’

  Greg grinned. ‘Not at all. Think about it. Shaka and his army were no match for the bullets but, once the British were out of ammo, he believed he had a real chance. So what do the British do? They stick a bloody great sword on the end of their guns and go for the throat at a safe distance. Shaka was so impressed he immediately developed something similar. Basically he was after something to combat the bayonets but he had such success against other tribes that the weapon became a part of the Zulu war kit.’

  Joseph agreed. ‘By the time others copied the Zulus, they had become so good in battle no-one stood a chance. Shaka raided and conquered most of the land south of here.’ He waved his arm towards the land across the river.

  ‘You mean that Shaka ruled the whole of what is now South Africa?’ Steve asked.

  ‘South Africa, Swaziland, Botswana, Lesotho and Namibia,’ Joseph told her. ‘He had fantastic success because he mustered all the clan’s fighting men instead of having them split into groups and controlled by sub-chiefs. The only thing the Zulus couldn’t beat were firearms, although they had some spectacular success against firearms, too. If you know your South African history, Steve, you might remember the story of Rorke’s Drift.’

  ‘The Zulus had firearms themselves by then,’ Richard pointed out.

  ‘Don’t interrupt, Daddy.’ Penny had never heard Joseph speak about the history of his people before.

  ‘If he’s going to tell it, he might as well tell it like it was,’ Richard grumbled.

  Joseph ignored the interruption. ‘Mzilikazi was one of Shaka’s top generals. The reason for this is probably that Mzilikazi’s people had joined forces with Shaka, rather than waiting to be conquered. Mzilikazi led his own regiment to a number of victories but his successes eventually went to his head. After one such victory he refused to send Shaka his share of some captured cattle. This was tantamount to treason. Shaka’s reaction was swift and sharp and Mzilikazi’s regiment was defeated. Mzilikazi himself fled with about 300 men. Before long though, he had recruited, either by defeat or by rhetoric, an army of over 5,000. He made his headquarters in the area now known as Pretoria and his people were known as the Matabele, which means “the people of long shields”.

  ‘He probably would have stayed in the Transvaal except the Boers were on the move from Cape Town. The inevitable happened, the Boers and the Matabele clashed and the Matabele were defeated. They fled north, into the land of the Monomatapa, my ancestors. Before long they were raiding us.’

  ‘And you’d been living in peace for rather a long time by then hadn’t you?’ Steve commented sympathetically. ‘That must have been hard for your people.’

  ‘We had enjoyed a peaceful existence for about 150 years and were no match for the battle-sharpened Matabele. They called us the Mashona—“the lost ones”—and to Mzilikazi, we were regarded as spear fodder.’ Joseph sounded bitter.

  ‘You didn’t take it lying down,’ Greg knew his history as well as Joseph. ‘You were guilty of some pretty gruesome raids yourselves.’

  ‘It’s true.’ Joseph’s glasses glinted in the firelight as he nodded. ‘We learned to fight back.’

  ‘What happened next?’ Steve was fascinated by his tale. It was something quite outside her own experience.

  ‘Mzilikazi died when he was a very old man which is surprising since history tells us he was practically an alcoholic by then. According to Matabele lore, at the precise moment of his death lightning flashed out in an otherwise clear sky and a number of his people fell down dead.’ Joseph sounded dubious about this event. ‘The Matabele people were without a king for a year. No-one wanted the job, it was considered to be dangerous. Eventually the elders named Lobengula as the new monarch.’

  ‘I’ve heard of him. Wasn’t he the king who signed this country over to the English?’

  Joseph nodded. ‘He was a weak fool,’ he said contemptuously. ‘He was a son of Mzilikazi by a Swazi wife. He had not been groomed for the job, took it reluctantly and ruled badly. He might have got away with it but, by this time Cecil Rhodes was on the scene and, in 1888 Lobengula signed a treaty giving Britain undisputed leadership of this country.’

  ‘Why did he do that?’ Steve asked.

  ‘Like I said, he was a fool. He believed, because the British had told him, that a mere handful of white men would come and dig a hole somewhere out in the bundu and remove the gold they so desperately coveted. In return, the British gave him money, rifles and ammunition to increase his military power. They even gave him a gunboat. But, vain and stupid as Lobengula was, he soon realised he’d made a bad deal and repudiated the concession. By then, however, the rot had set in. The grip of Britain was too firm. Her Majesty’s Government granted Rhodes a Royal Charter to control Lobengula’s land. Lobengula himself was going the way of his father . . . he had gout and he was an alcoholic. The British came in and they stayed in. There were many skirmishes between the Matabele and the British, but in the end an uneasy truce was called and they learned to live side by side.’

  ‘What about the Mashona?’ Steve asked.

  ‘They rebelled, just like the Matabele,’ Richard said. ‘But they were already a conquered people. For some reason, most of our history concentrates on the Matabele.’

  ‘If that’s so, and the Matabele were the warlike conquerors, how is it possible that the Shona are the ruling tribe now?’ Steve queried.
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  ‘It’s simple,’ Richard replied. ‘They are by far the bigger tribe.’

  ‘It’s more complicated than that.’ Joseph took up his story again. ‘Most of Mugabe’s followers are Shona, it’s true. Robert Mugabe believed that war was the only way to win independence for this country, all else having failed. Joshua Nkomo continued to hope Britain would intervene. But the Matabele were traditionally warlike and some of them wanted war, and some of the Shona, who were basically a peaceful people, wanted dialogue. The old fanatic tribalism was put aside as people from each tribe switched allegiance according to their beliefs. Only one thing was constant, they all hated Ian Smith and white rule and they all wanted independence. No-one was helping. America had no comprehensive African policy. Henry Kissinger came up with a ten-point plan for majority rule, but this confused rather than clarified their position because of their refusal to back an armed struggle. South Africa didn’t want to lose their “buffer zone”. Britain appeared to sit on the fence. They’d already lost Malawi and Botswana and it seemed they’d lost the will to rule, despite David Owens’s desperate attempts to keep the Rhodesian issue alive in Whitehall. Joshua Nkomo steadily lost credibility by trying to be all things to all people. Bishop Muzorewa was seen as nothing more than a white man’s stooge. Robert Mugabe saw the opportunity and took it.’

  ‘So, after all those centuries of tribal wars and Matabele domination, Zimbabwe is ruled by Robert Mugabe because he was the better politician?’ Steve shook her head. ‘That’s fantastic. It almost makes a mockery of all the history that has gone before it.’

  ‘Only if you isolate Zimbabwe,’ Joseph was backing off. History was one thing, talking about the present quite another. ‘If you look at the world you’ll see similar happenings.’

  ‘Are you happy with the way things are now?’ Steve was unaware of the special attention Greg was paying to the conversation.

  ‘Who, me? Or Zimbabweans as a whole?’

  ‘Both I guess.’