Hold My Hand I'm Dying

by John Gordon Davis

  Max was a little red, and his eyes were hard, and his mouth was hard. He tapped the bar counter with his finger, tap tap tap tap.

  ‘Joe, the whites in this country have seen too much. Granted the whites have not been angels themselves, far from it, but they have at least been hard-working, and their governments have observed the rule of law, and their civil service has been efficient and honest and their judges have been high-class impartial lawyers, and the whites have turned this country from a jungle into a prosperous organised state. And they have seen too much of how willingly Britain gives in. The whites here have seen the Mau Mau of Kenya, the murders and the plunder and the savagery – what happens? Britain encourages the white farmers to settle, to fight, then hands them over to the tender mercies of their own murderers. The whites have seen the white Kenya farmers sold up the river, seen the Kenya farmers who turned a wilderness into a garden being forced out, driving right here down Selborne Avenue, with one mere lorryload of all they can salvage – they have seen the Congo chaos, and the genocide and God knows what, they have seen the Belgian refugees driving into Bulawayo. They have seen the dictatorship and corruption in Ghana, the parliamentary opposition thrown into jail, they have seen the murders and the marauding in Northern Rhodesia, blacks murdered, whites murdered, Mrs. Burton and her baby roasted alive in her car outside Kitwe. And what does Britain do? She breaks all her solemn promises to us and breaks up our own country, the Federation, and gives it to the blacks – without even consulting us, without even having the guts and decency to tell us beforehand.’ Max’s upper lip was curled.

  ‘And,’ he tapped the counter again, tap tap tap, ‘she’ll do the same thing to us in Rhodesia, Joe. Don’t kid yourself, Joseph. Don’t kid yourself with legal arguments that she won’t sell us because we’ve been a totally self-governing colony for forty years. The fact is, we’re a colony, Joseph, and she’ll sell us up the river, because it’s easier and cheaper to do so than to have to listen to the screams of the tinpot black states that control the once-mighty British Bloody Commonwealth.’

  He leaned forward.

  ‘The Rhodesians are bitter, Joe. They are determined that the line is going to be drawn. At the Zambezi. And the only way to draw the line is by independence. And if Britain won’t give it to us, the only way is to seize it, Joseph. And to defend it, Joseph. With our very lives.’

  Mahoney was listening, stubborn and silent. He snorted.

  ‘And that, Max,’ he jabbed the air, ‘is precisely what we’ll have to do. Defend it with our lives. And we’ll lose, Max, and the country will be in ruins. And then the blacks will have it. And there’ll be no more Rhodesia, Max.’

  ‘Oh Jesus!’ Max banged his glass down on the bar and slid off his barstool. He walked out the door.

  Mahoney slid off his barstool, and strode down the bar to the toilet. He was shaking. He splashed cold water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. Pale, his face was pale. And some lines now, round his eyes, and on his forehead. No longer a youthful face. He knew he should have dinner and go to bed. But Max had made him too angry. Political blindness. Blindness begets blindness. Violence begets violence. He walked back to the bar.

  The bar was full. You’d think the bloody country was booming. Gentlemen in well-cut suits shoving up the gins and whiskies, women in office dresses being one of the boys. The regulars, the noontimers for whom the bar was a second club. Living on hire-purchase in mortgaged suburban villas and jazzed-up flats with a view of the brown horizon. None of the rugged Harris-tweed-in-Africa huntin’ shootin’ fishin’ types of Kenya. Too close to the Golden City of Johannesburg to the south and the Copperbelt to the north. Business people – kupella. Not one of them had been on a bloody safari in their lives. Peel off their suits and their dresses and they’re lily white underneath. Or if they’ve got a tan they got it down at the Municipal swimming pool in Borrow Street or drinking gin-slings round their own suburban swimming pools, or at Sunday golf at the Club, not from taming the wilds of Africa. The bush-tunicked, felt-hatted, leopard-skin-banded, bush-breaking, belt-tightening Rhodesian pioneers who’ll happily eat sadza, my poor aching ass.

  Louis Peterson the real estate agent was there. Mahoney recognised him from the old days at the Club. He was with Mrs. Peterson. Jesus, is business bad. You can’t sell a house for love nor money. Offices, he’s got more vacant office space to let than you can shake a stick at. And flats? Two months rent free and you still can’t let them. He’s got executive-type houses on his books, five bedrooms, two acres, tennis court, swimming pool, the works – and you can’t let them for peanuts. You couldn’t get them for eighty quid a month five years ago. I tell you, the sooner we take independence and put these black bastards to the north of us and the British Government in their places the better. Mrs. Peterson was on her fifth gin and beginning to get along with it. She must’ve been quite a looker in her day, Mahoney decided. Forty-fivish now, too much gin and cigarettes and sun for too long showing through creases round her mouth and eyes and her neck was a bit leathery. She was talking in a gay high-pitched very English accent. ‘Traitors,’ he heard her say, and ‘Communists’ and ‘sadza’ and ‘should be deported.’

  Two black men walked into the cocktail bar. They were dressed in suits. They walked past the bar heading for the farthest corner table. A moment of silence fell in the bar and then Mrs. Peterson’s high voice sang out:

  ‘Get out you bloody kaffirs—’ The two looked at her and hesitated, then kept on walking.

  ‘Get out you bloody kaffirs,’ Mrs. Peterson shouted, ‘go to your own damn bars!’

  Mahoney turned angrily and leant out and touched Mrs. Peterson on the shoulder.

  ‘Mrs. Peterson – please!’

  Mrs. Peterson spun on him. She wondered if she had heard correctly.

  ‘You leave me alone, you kaffir-lover. Who do you think you are – addressing me—?’

  ‘It’s an offence to use abusive language in public,’ Mahoney snapped, ‘and if you don’t shut up I’ll run you in—’

  ‘Who’re you to preach to me—?’

  ‘Don’t you talk to my wife like that.’ Mr. Peterson was glaring at Mahoney.

  ‘Kaffirs aren’t allowed to drink in here,’ Mrs. Peterson shouted, ‘it’s against the law—’

  ‘Not yet it isn’t, Mrs. Peterson. Kaffirs can drink anywhere. It’s for the manager of this hotel to decide who he lets into his bar—’

  ‘It’s against the law,’ Mrs. Peterson shouted. ‘You should be deported, you kaffir-boetie, I’ll see my M.P. about you.’ She turned and shouted down the bar: ‘Get out to your own stinking bars—’

  The two black men were standing in the corner. A black waiter was arguing with them. Everybody in the bar was looking at them. Two young men in sports coats were striding down to them. They shoved the waiter aside and grabbed at the Africans’ collars. The Africans stepped back and fended off the white hands and there were shouts.

  ‘Don’t you touch me, you kaffir—’

  Mahoney jumped off his stool angrily.

  The manager was striding down the bar.

  ‘Gentlemen – gentlemen—’

  He stepped between the two young men and pulled them back.

  ‘This is my bar—’

  The young men glared at the two Africans. The owner straightened his collar.

  ‘Now will you two gentlemen please leave. I’m afraid the right of admission is reserved in here and we don’t serve Africans.’

  ‘Chuck ’em out,’ Mrs. Peterson shouted.

  ‘We have got money—’ the African shouted.

  ‘I’m sure you have, gentlemen, but I’m afraid—’

  ‘I’m going to the police,’ the African shouted, ‘for a case of assault—’

  ‘You do that,’ the manager said quickly, ‘but will you please—’

  ‘Jesus—’ the young white said. He began to take off his coat – ‘I’ll give you something to go to the police about—’

&n
bsp; The black waiters were milling round. The manager shoved his arm out across the white youth’s chest. ‘You get out too,’ he snapped. He took a step forward and took the nearest black man by the elbow.

  ‘Now please, gentlemen – before there’s any more trouble—’

  The black man shook his elbow free and straightened his jacket. They walked down the bar with the manager following behind them.

  ‘And stay out,’ Mrs. Peterson called.

  The black man turned and wagged his black finger.

  ‘When we rule the country—’

  He was drowned in shouts and boos and laughter. The manager put out his hands and eased them out through the door.

  The gabble and the laughing took up again. Mrs. Peterson leaned over towards Mahoney.

  ‘And you get out too. Go and drink in the kaffir bars with your black friends—’

  Mahoney just looked at her. She wagged her finger under his nose.

  ‘You,’ she said, ‘should be deported. You’re a bloody communist—’

  Mahoney turned his back on her. He walked out of the bar and looked up and down the street. He saw the two Africans a hundred yards away. He strode after them.

  ‘Excuse me—’

  The African turned round and looked at him.

  ‘I apologise for the bad behaviour of my own race—’

  ‘It is too late,’ the African said.

  Mahoney turned and walked back to his hotel. By Jesus. Ugly. Bloody ugly. He stopped outside the hotel. ‘Fuggem,’ he said. He turned and walked up Selborne Avenue.

  He got into his dented Vauxhall and drove slowly up towards the intersection, through the lights. The shop windows were lighted except the empty ones. The empty streets shouted Suzie! Suzie! at him. He drove out on to the Great North Road to the Ranchers, and the strip Show. At least he would not be alone at the strip. And as he drove he thought as hard as he could about Jackie in Salisbury, of her lovely red mouth and her big dark brown eyes that told him she would love him forever.

  The tables were full, men in open-neck shirts were making a great deal of noise and the African waiters were having a hard time getting between them. There were half-a-dozen cowgirls dressed in green bikinis and green diamond mesh stockings, high boots and little woodsy jackets with tassels on their pockets and on their heads they wore red stetsons. They were also serving drinks.

  Mahoney made his way to the bar and competed for a beer, then he jostled back into the hall with it. Then the manager appeared in his dress suit and threaded his way through the tables and as he went he signalled to the waiters to leave the hall, for it would not be right for them to see a white woman strip, and the waiters made their way out of the hall into a room at the back where they would remain until the show was over. The crowd started cheering and whistling and banging their beer bottles. The drummer played a roll to command silence and a spotlight came on the manager and he smiled gratified round at the audience. He held up his arms.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he shouted. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you, thank you, thank you. Ladies and Gentlemen, I wanna thank you for being a wonderful audience. And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, the moment you have all been waiting for. Tonight I want to introduce you to that lovely lady you all know so well, that lovely lady all the way from the Golden City of Johannesburg – who has just returned from her brilliant worldwide tour of South America – where she was internationally acclaimed as the Sweetheart of the Strip – Ladies and Gentlemen – let’s have a big hand for that lovely lady – the star of our show – the beautiful – the one and only – Gina Michlieu.’

  A burst of clapping and whistling and a roll of drums, the spotlight clicked colours to passion pink and swung on to a side door, the band struck up and Gina Michlieu, alias Katie van der Westhuizen, swathed in cloak and evening dress and a flurry of sequins and feathers and high heels swirled through the door with a bright smile all the way from the Gold City and her worldwide tour of South America and got down to her bump and grind routine.

  As the music thumped Gina bumped, as it whined she ground in a flood of passion pink spotlight, her hips and breasts undulating and her lips pouting purple. Off came her stole and her elbow length gloves and then her dress in sections with appropriate orchestration. Then she sauntered and bumped and ground her way round the ringside tables choosing a guy to unhitch her bra. Loud whistles and stamps and cheers. Then she wanted her two-way unhitched. She rubbed her crotch meditatively on the corner of a ringside table while she leered around. Then she wanted her stockings unhitched and she lifted her knee and placed her foot on a chair and presented her thigh and one buttock to the man and as the music thumped she hollowed her back and protruded her bottom and ground it round and round as he bent forward to unclip her suspender. She strutted into the middle of the floor dressed only in panties, high-heeled shoes and one stocking and she planted her feet apart and threw back her head and bumped and swivelled her hips and groin back and forth and round and round. The long muscles on the inside of her legs stood out smoothly from the apex of thighs, her legs were hairless and waxen in the spotlight, her belly was rippling and her panties so small you could see that she had shaved away her pubic hairs. She stretched her arms up to the ceiling and her breasts lifted and they vibrated with her tension. Then she thrust her arms down and stroked the inside of her legs upwards, up over her crotch, her belly, breasts, over her neck, through her long hair, then she extended her arms and reached for the ceiling again. And the whole time her hips were going back and forth and round and round.

  Finally she slithered to the floor and her blonde hair was scattered out and round her head and her eyes were closed and she bent her knees and opened her legs and she rubbed the top of her crotch and she cried out and wriggled and threw her head from side to side and clenched her teeth. Her breasts shook big and she arched her back and pushed her thighs and crotch right off the floor and she started to beat the floor with her buttocks while she clasped her arms across her breasts and her cries rang out. Then she gradually calmed down, her ups and downs became slower and more peaceful, her cries sighs. And the spotlight clicked out.

  As the overhead lights came on and the crowd burst into whistles and shouts and thumps, Mahoney ducked back into the bar. What he wanted, as he put it to himself, was a good shag. The second man in was a police inspector. They recognised each other from the old days.

  ‘What’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m on duty,’ the inspector said. ‘Actually I am here to see that Gina doesn’t contravene our decency laws. I love my job,’ he leered. ‘What’s your legal opinion, Mr. Mahoney? Was Gina indecent?’

  ‘I’d have to look at the law.’

  ‘Well she went through the motion of sexual intercourse, didn’t she?’

  Mahoney nodded, ‘I envisage certain practical difficulties if you bring her to Court.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, what witness are you going to produce to prove she went through the motions of sexual intercourse?’

  The inspector leered.

  ‘Me.’

  Mahoney nodded.

  ‘Okay, let’s have a dummy run. You tell your story as you’ll tell it in Court and I’ll cross-examine you as if I were defending our Gina, Sweetheart of the Strip.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Mahoney, that would be very helpful.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Right.’ The inspector grinned. He cleared his throat and put on his professional witness face. ‘On such and such a date Your Worship I attended at the Ranchers Hotel. The Ranchers, Your Worship, is a public place, approximately two hundred members of the public were also in attendance, Your Worship. At approximately ten fifteen p.m., Your Worship, the accused made an appearance in the centre of the dance space. She was clad in decent if extravagant clothing. To the sounds of music, Your Worship, she systematically and suggestively disrobed until she was reduced to a pair of high-heeled shoes and a pair of very brie
f pants, Your Worship. At this juncture, she sought to simulate a woman of sexually passionate disposition—er—caressing her body in a most sensuous manner, Your Worship. Thereafter she lay down upon the floor. May I refresh my memory from notes which I made at the time, Your Worship?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She …’ the inspector flicked through his notes. ‘She lay down, Your Worship, in the spotlight, she parted her knees, Your Worship. Thereupon, Your Worship, she began to move her hips up and down through the motions of sexual intercourse. I was shocked in my modesty, Your Worship.’

  ‘That’s a lie.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right. Now I’ll cross-examine you on behalf of Gina.’