Hold My Hand I'm Dying

by John Gordon Davis

  Mahoney nodded.

  ‘And in Earl’s Court? All those colonial sisters living like sardines, fornication spreads like an epidemic. I tell you it’s catching—’

  Mahoney laughed.

  ‘And then I did a very sensible thing, you must try it next time. Joined a Marriage Bureau. Join a Marriage Bureau, see, costs a fiver. Then the Bureau fixes you up with a string of women to try out. You impress the Bureau no end with your colonial status, dashing young bwana from Rhodesia, huntin’, shootin’, fishin’ type don’tcha know, shoots lions before breakfast and rides around his estate in a pith helmet and jodhpurs cracking his sjambok over the backs of the niggers. And. you tell the Bureau the type of dolls you want to try out, thirtyish, who know what it’s for, and they fix you up with a wagon load of women just panting to come out to sunny Africa and be a pukkah memsahib. And you screw them all and they bludgeon each other to death over you. Then you phone up the Bureau and say No, I don’t fancy any of those, send me another selection. Marvellous. Never sleep alone.’

  Mahoney was laughing.

  ‘Old Max.’

  Max grinned. ‘And how’s things with you, Joe-baby? Have you many cases to do here?’

  Mahoney shook his head: ‘Jesus.’

  ‘What kind of cases?’

  ‘Half of it’s political crime. Politics, politics, politics. Political murders, petrol bombings, mob violence, intimidation. Mostly black versus black. Zimbabwe African People’s Union thugs murdering and blowing up Zimbabwe African National Union and vice versa. Both parties killing and blowing up and intimidating other blacks who won’t join their party.’ He puffed his cigarette. ‘Very democratic souls, ZAPU and ZANU.’

  ‘Freedom lovers,’ Max said. ‘Can you imagine what it would be like living under them? And yet these are the people Britain wants to hand the reins of Government to.’ He shook his head. He stubbed out his cigarette impatiently, ‘I tell you, Joe, the sooner we declare ourselves independent the better. Go it alone. Stand up for ourselves against those arse-licking British politicians, this is our country, we made it—’

  Mahoney shook his head.

  ‘Max, Max, Max.’

  Max glared at him. Mahoney had never seen Max glare before.

  ‘What? Do you say we should just drift along like this and let Britain, our dear Mother Britain, sell us down the river? Like she did in Kenya and Tanganyika and Northern Rhodesia, like she did to our own Federation—?’

  Mahoney sat back. He spoke flatly.

  ‘Max, a unilateral declaration of independence won’t work.’

  ‘Why won’t it work, huh? Why won’t it? It’ll work if we stand up for ourselves and fight for what is ours, the Rhodesians will fight.’

  Mahoney leaned forward.

  ‘The Rhodesians will fight, Max,’ he spoke softly as if explaining something to a young person. ‘But an army marches on its stomach, Max, that’s why it won’t work, Max. On its stomach. If we declare independence the first thing Britain will do is strangle our economy. She won’t send the Tommies in straight away, Max, she won’t have to: she’ll just put an embargo on our tobacco crop, and on our sugar crop, Max, and we won’t be able to sell our sugar, or our maize or our beef, she won’t buy anything of ours, Max, and nor will any other Commonwealth country, and nor will America or most other countries. And Britain won’t sell us anything either, Max, nor will most other countries and she’ll freeze our London assets so we won’t have any foreign exchange. And we won’t be able to get any petrol because Britain will stop all our oil supplies. And how’re you going to run a modern state without petrol, Max?

  ‘Britain could kill us, or half kill us with trade sanctions alone, Max, without firing a shot. But that would only be half our troubles, Max. While our economy is grinding to a halt the wogs would be whooping it up. Every black state in the North would be sending their terrorists in to fight us. And our own black hoods would be busy too, the saboteurs that ZAPU and ZANU are shuttling to and from Peking and Moscow to be trained as James Bonds. So we won’t only be fighting economic sanctions and external invasion, we’ll be having civil war as well, Max—’

  Max snorted impatiently. He spoke softly with half-closed eyes:

  ‘We’ll fight, the Rhodesians can fight. Moishe Tshombe cleaned up Christ knows how many thousand Simba with a couple of hundred white mercenaries—’

  Mahoney closed his eyes, and shook his head.

  ‘For years you’ll have to fight, Max. For ever. Because even if Britain gives up after a couple of years and makes some kind of deal with Rhodesia, even if she recognises Rhodesia’s independence after a while, the black states to the north of us will never give up. For those blacks, majority rule is a mania, a craze, a huge matter of face. And Moscow and Peking will always be egging them on, Max, and there’ll be a never-ending supply of blacks to send in, it won’t matter if the white Rhodesians ran their asses off for years shooting them, there’ll always be plenty more to send in. Look, Max: the Portuguese have got eighty thousand soldiers fighting the black guerillas in Mozambique and Angola, and those soldiers come from Lisbon, Max, they’re out here doing their national service, they don’t come from the suburbs of Mozambique and Angola. The Rhodesians could not raise more than ten or twelve thousand soldiers, Max, and they would be men from the suburbs and if you call them out to fight the country’s business grinds to a halt. Max, in this country, we have only two hundred thousand whites – counting women and children, and the aged – occupying a jungle three times the size of England, with four million wogs in it. There are more people in a Lisbon or Birmingham suburb, Max, than there are whites in Rhodesia. That’s why it won’t work, Max.’

  Max was nodding gently, firmly, tough. He looked at Mahoney steadily. ‘What’s the alternative? You tell me.’

  Mahoney took a slow deep breath. He was beginning to feel a little drank, and he was very tired. ‘There’s only one alternative, Max.’

  ‘And that is?’

  Mahoney sighed. He knew what Max would say. ‘And that is Partnership, Max.’

  Max looked at him as if he had said something totally irrelevant. ‘Partnership?’

  Mahoney sighed. ‘Partnership, Max, while yet there is time.’

  Max’s face was creased up in a smile-frown.

  ‘Partnership, the man says—’ He appealed to the ceiling. ‘Partnership!’ He looked at Mahoney. ‘We’ve got Partnership here already, for Chrissake, we had Partnership in Federation for ten effing years, and where did it get us—?’

  Mahoney nodded tiredly.

  ‘And why did it get us nowhere, Max? Because despite all their nice words, the whites did not practise Partnership, Max, that’s why. Sure, we passed the laws that enabled educated wogs to vote, and so that in the dim and distant future they would all be entitled to vote, but did we treat the wog any different, Max? Did we hell!’ He held up his hand to silence Max. ‘We just sailed straight on being Bwana.’

  Max was nodding his smile-frown. ‘So you say the way to stop the gangs of ZAPU and ZANU thugs and to stop Britain selling us up the river to them, is to start being nicer to the wog—’

  Mahoney was shaking his head peevishly.

  ‘For Chrissake, Max! There’s a lot more to it than giving them a bit more human dignity. For Chrissake, what the bloody white Rhodesian can’t realise is that the wog is going to rule Rhodesia, Max. The hard fact is that the wogs outnumber us twenty to one, and everybody else in the world is behind them, Max. We’re stuffed, Max. Stuffed. And the best we can do for ourselves is try to get the best terms for ourselves and try to ensure that when they take over the joint they don’t make too much of a shambles. And that means a couple of hundred thousand whites have got to try to create a middleclass of munts, who are conservative and surburban and reasonable, with a sense of responsibility instead of believing that everybody will have a car and a white man’s house when Uhuru comes—’

  ‘Joe-baby,’ Max said softly, ‘and just how are a mere two hundr
ed thousand whites going to achieve this?’

  Mahoney’s eyes were glinting, and his face was hard.

  ‘By playing it cool,’ he said slowly. ‘By diplomacy. By keeping our traps shut about declaring ourselves independent, by stalling, by lying if you like, by prolonging negotiations, by saying yes yes yes maybe yes, by playing Britain at her own bloody game and leading her up the garden path.’

  He paused. He held up his finger and prodded Max’s shoulder.

  ‘But that’s not all, Max. While we’re gaining time, the whites will have to work hard, individually as well as collectively. organise themselves into committees and action groups. Teach some school at night, the white women give domestic science classes and hygiene and birth control clinics, the men promote the sort of philanthropic activity like the Round Table and the Rotarians do. And at the same time, train every able-bodied white man as a soldier or police reservist, so that we can police the country rigidly and constantly, but quietly and discreetly. And the whole time, keep playing it cool with Britain, keeping our fingers crossed. That’s the alternative, Max. But the whites will have to really work, Max – like the Israelis work—’

  ‘And keep our fingers crossed.’

  Mahoney nodded. Max’s face was thoughtful.

  ‘And what are you doing about it, Joe-baby?’

  Mahoney grunted. He spoke quietly, a little defiantly at first.

  ‘I’ve got some land. I bought fifty acres fifteen miles out of Salisbury, cheap as hell these days. It borders on the Native Reserve. Well – I’m trying to teach the natives how to farm—’

  ‘Farm—?’ Max said.

  Mahoney nodded firmly. He took a pull of his beer.

  ‘Agriculture. I’m no great agriculturist, but I know something about land husbandry, and I know the wog. The wogs there are just scratching a living from the soil, they aren’t growing cash crops that they can sell, they grow only enough to feed themselves. For the rest, they have scrawny cattle which impoverish the land, because they keep too many, because they count their wealth in cattle. Well, if we want to turn the wog into a businesslike farmer, who makes a bit of money and adopts civilised standards, we’ve got to make him change his farming habits: get rid of his herds of useless cattle, and get a few good ones. Government is doing a lot, but it’s a hell of a big job. Individuals should help. So, for a start, I’ve bought a decent bull. He’s no prize champion, but he’s good beef stock. I’ve put a word out around the Reserve that my bull Ferdinand will serve any native cow for a sum of one shilling, satisfaction guaranteed or your money back. Well, this season Ferdinand shagged a couple of dozen native cows. In a couple of months’ time there’ll be some fair calves in the district, better stock than last year. I won’t make any money out of Ferdinand, not at a shilling a shag, but I feed him off my land, and I’m prepared to invest a little money in goodwill, Max. So should a few more farmers. So should blokes like you, Max: you could spare a contribution of ten guineas towards a fund which will buy bulls and distribute them about the Reserves. So could every man in this bar.’

  Max nodded. Mahoney sipped his beer, energetically now.

  ‘Esprit de corps, Max, that’s what we need.’ He waved his hand. ‘Chickens. You know what deadbeat birds kaffir chickens are. Well, I bought myself a real champion Leghorn rooster, kingsize chap. Called Cocky. I’ve got Cocky, a dozen good Austrolop hens, which are good eating birds, and some kaffir hens as foster mothers. I take the eggs and put them under the kaffir hens to hatch and, by Christ, I’ve got chickens all over the place. And again I’ve put the word out in the Reserve that I’ll swap my young roosters for kaffir roosters. Straight swap. My high-class roosters are out there in the Reserve improving the native birds. Christ, these wogs could use good chickens, both for their own food and for marketing. Pigs – I’m getting up a similar scheme for pigs.’ He rubbed his chin rapidly.

  Max had his chin in his palm and he was watching Mahoney’s eyes. ‘What else, Joe?’

  Mahoney waved his cigarette enthusiastically.

  ‘Pigs, as I’ve said. And sheep. Get rid of the native goats. They’ve got goats running all over that goddam Reserve and they’re no good to man or beast. There’s a good market for mutton and wool. I’ve put out the word that I’ll provide a good ram for stud purposes if ten kraal heads will each buy one ewe, and I’ve offered to help them sell sufficient goats to get the cash to buy the ewes—’

  ‘And have the ten kraal heads come forward?’

  Mahoney shook his head.

  ‘No, not yet. Three have said it’s a good idea, and they’re going to talk to the others about it, but so far nothing’s happened.’

  ‘How long ago did the three kraal heads say that?’

  ‘About two months ago, now.’

  Max nodded.

  ‘What else, Joe?’

  Mahoney took a sip of beer.

  ‘Well, cash crops. These wogs only grow enough to feed themselves, they don’t think of growing enough to feed their livestock, let alone growing enough to sell. So I’m trying to make my land a small model farm. Already I’ve got the place breaking even: it feeds me and my servants and my animals. But I’ve put out the word that the local wogs can come and discuss things with me. I’ve held a few indabas on my place, and I showed them round and showed them how they could do the same thing—’

  ‘And how many have followed your example?’

  Mahoney shrugged.

  ‘These ideas take a bit of time to catch on with the natives—’

  Max nodded.

  ‘The important thing, of course, is to get the other white farmers in the area to do the same thing, help to teach the natives how to farm. We’ll get Government backing, organise a country-wide campaign to build the natives up into a stable farming nation—’

  ‘Joe—’

  Mahoney stopped and looked at him.

  ‘Joe. It won’t work.’

  Mahoney snorted defiantly. ‘What—?’

  Max held up his hand.

  ‘It won’t work, Joe. Oh Christ, it’s an admirable plan, it is even a clever plan, I mean that, I admire your initiative and generosity. But it won’t work, Joe, because the wog is just not interested in hard work that’s why, Joe. He would rather sit in the sun and drink tshwala and let his wives do the work and look at his scrawny cattle, than get up off his backside and use his head. For a year you’ve been running your farm and you’ve made a success of it, and you’ve encouraged your black neighbours to follow your example – but have they? No, they haven’t. And they won’t ever follow it, Joe, unless you go and stand over them and supervise them. You’ve offered to help them replace their goats with sheep. But will they? No, Joe. Because the wog likes goats, Joe, he counts his wealth in the number of goats he owns. He doesn’t want to sell his goats or eat his goats, he just likes to look at them, and the fact that he can’t buy a shirt for his back or food for his family with his goats is irrelevant to him, because he doesn’t want to get rid of them anyway. Your chicken scheme – sure some wogs will come along and swap their kaffir roosters for your good roosters, Joe – but why? Because it’s something for nothing, it requires no hard work, does it? But you know, as well as I do, what will happen to the chickens, Joe: the wog doesn’t feed his chickens, he lets them forage, so they won’t get big and fat and they won’t lay many eggs, Joe. And the wog doesn’t keep his chickens in a fowl run, so the hens will still mate with the kaffir rooster from the kraal next door. So your good roosters’ blood will be dissipated, Joe. Your Ferdinand the bull. Sure, some natives will bring their cows along to Ferdinand to be serviced. That much a wog can understand. But what will happen to Ferdinand’s calves? I’ll tell you. The heifers will grow up and they’ll be shagged by the kaffir bulls in the communal grazing areas, and all your good deeds will have been undone.’ Max leaned forward. ‘Your Ferdinand will just be a drop in the ocean, because the kaffir bulls outnumber him a hundred to one, Joe. The only hope for improving the strain of kaffir cattle i
n any given area, is to get rid of every goddam mangy kaffir bull in the area, and put one or two Ferdinands in their place. But will the wogs get rid of their bulls—?’

  Max snorted cigarette smoke out of his nostrils, ‘Joe, the only way to get rid of that bad kaffir stock is to send the army in to shoot all the kaffir bulls and the goats and the goddam kaffir roosters. And make those natives share the use of Government-owned bulls. But how is the wog going to like thatl I tell you, he’ll scream like hell. And what will the political boys say about it? Christ, they’ll love it, they’ll shout and scream murder and robbery and incite violence, and the next thing the United Bloody Nations will be screaming about how the whites are stealing bulls.’ Max waved his hand, ‘it won’t work, Joe: the political blacks will see to it that it fails. The political blacks don’t want to see the whites being good scouts, they don’t want to see the black peasant grateful to the whites – they don’t want harmony Joe, because it’s detrimental to their campaign of unrest. Do you think for one moment those political blacks will let you succeed? Will they hell! They’ll go out into the Reserve and say it’s a white man’s trick to enslave them, to steal their land, to pull the wool over their eyes, to put a magic spell on them, etcetera. The political boys would incite them to kill your Ferdinand, Joseph. Christ, it’s happened before, all over Africa – the first people to get their throats cut in Kenya and the Congo were the nuns and the missionaries – right here in Rhodesia how many mission schools and mission farms have been burned, hey? – dozens, Joe …’ Max snorted. ‘Humph! That’s why it won’t work, Joseph.’

  Mahoney’s face was white with frustration.

  Max nodded, maddeningly, kindly wise.

  ‘That’s why it won’t work, Joseph: because the wog is too idle to make it work, and because the political wog will be determined to make it fail and because the white farmer is too fed-up to try to cooperate with your plan very enthusiastically, I’m afraid. And right or wrong you can’t bloody well blame them. For the last ten years all the farmers have seen in Africa is trouble from the black and appeasement and ass-licking from the British: all the black has to do is to get up in front of a microphone and start screaming slanderous and seditious statements in bad English to a mob of ignorant savages, about what shits the British are in general and the local whites in particular, organise a campaign of violence and murder – and the British invite him over to London and give him the country as a present: the British wine him and dine him and lick his ass at Lancaster House and they reward him for his sedition and his slander and his murders and his terrorism by making him Prime Minister. King – for Chrissake. They make him Prime Minister knowing full well that he is not going to promote democracy, but his own dictatorship, knowing full well that he is going to destroy the rule of law by declaring his opponents outlaws and locking people up without trial, knowing full well that he is going to give all the important jobs in Government to his own black pals, simply because they’re black, knowing full well that he is going to ruin the efficiency and impartiality of the civil service by Africanisation, by kicking out the tried and tested white civil servants and giving their jobs to blacks simply because they are black, knowing full well that he is going to make the army and the police force his own political tools – knowing full well, in fact, Joseph, that he is going to turn a well organised colony into a dictatorship, with a one-party rubber-stamp parliament, and a corrupt and inefficient civil service.’