‘How’s the old liver?’ Colonel Riley said.
‘When I die,’ Mahoney said, ‘they’ll have to beat my liver to death with a stick.’
The Old Man laughed.
‘You two enjoy yourselves last night?’
‘Yes, we had a quiet meal and went to see this latest James Bond flick.’
‘Heard anything about your book yet?’ Colonel Riley said.
‘Not yet,’ Mahoney said, ‘it’s only been with this agent fellow three weeks. Jackie up and about yet?’
‘She’s just five minutes ago driven down to the Greek to get this morning’s paper. Go up to the house and see if you can get yourself some tea.’
As he walked up the path Jackie’s car came swirling in the drive. She was taking the gravel drive very fast and as soon as she saw Mahoney she leant on the hooter, a long blast and then three short ones. She was beaming behind the steering wheel. She scrunched to a halt and flung open the door and came running across the lawn to him. She was waving the newspaper.
‘Joey – Joey – wonderful news—’
She flung her arms around him and then stepped back.
‘Guess what?’
‘What?’
‘Samson’s been reprieved,’ she cried.
‘Samson—!’
‘It’s in the paper.’
Mahoney snatched it from her.
‘Centre page. It was on the news last night too but we were at the flick—’
Mahoney scrambled through the pages.
‘Good God, he was going to be hanged on Friday—where, here it is.’ He read aloud:
‘London, Saturday. The Commonwealth Secretary announced in London today that Her Majesty the Queen had extended the Royal Prerogative of Mercy to three Africans presently awaiting execution in Salisbury Central Prison. The announcement came six days before the three men were scheduled to be executed. All three men had been convicted of different crimes of ‘petrol bombing’ which carries a mandatory death penalty in Rhodesia. The Commonwealth Secretary warned that if the three men were hanged on Friday as scheduled all those Rhodesian officials who authorised and assisted in the execution would be guilty of murder. The three men are Samson Ndhlovu, Phineas Matubeli, and Eros Bande …’
Mahoney dropped the paper to his side.
‘Good God—’
‘They’ll never dare to hang him now,’ Jackie beamed breathlessly, ‘it even warns them there they’ll be guilty of murder if they do.’
‘Good God,’ Mahoney said, ‘Phineas Matubeli and Eros Bande.’
‘What about them?’
Mahoney frowned. ‘They were reprieved at the same time. They’re two bad bastards, they’re this Leopard Gang I’ve told you about. The ones that put up the roadblock and then poured petrol over the Turnbull family and set them alight.’
‘So?’ Jackie demanded. ‘They’re two bad ones, but I don’t care if they get off just so long as Samson does.’
‘That’s just the point,’ Mahoney said bitterly.
‘What do you mean, Joseph?’
Mahoney snorted. He waved his hand. ‘Can the Rhodesia Government afford not to hang the Leopard Gang? As far as the Rhodesia Government is concerned they were properly tried and properly sentenced to death. They deserve to hang and they must be made an example of. The British Commonwealth Secretary has no power to reprieve them, as far as our Government is concerned. If our Government is intimidated by the Commonwealth Secretary into not hanging these blokes it’ll be a sign of weakness and the political wogs’ll make enormous capital out of it. There’ll be petrol bombs flying in all directions. As far as our Government is concerned it’s vital that this Leopard Gang be hanged.’
‘So? It’s not vital that they hang Samson.’
Mahoney turned with exasperation.
‘Isn’t it? Even if they don’t want to hang him, haven’t they got to show the British who’s boss out here? If they’re going to defy the British Government over the Leopard Gang haven’t they got to go the whole hog? How can they obey them, as it were, in respect of one case and defy them in the others, especially when it all comes in one announcement?’
Jackie stepped in front of him.
‘Oh Joe! But look what your Michael lawyer friend said outside the flick last night. He said the Cabinet were bending over backwards—’
Mahoney tapped the newspaper angrily.
‘Neither Mike nor the Cabinet knew about this last night.’
‘But Joe! They can’t do it. They’d be guilty of murder. They couldn’t make a political football out of Samson!’ Mahoney snorted softly.
‘Couldn’t they? Oh couldn’t they just! What do you think Britain’s doing with Samson Ndhlovu but making a political football out of him? Britain couldn’t care if Samson hangs or not, they just reprieved him, and the bloody Leopard Gang, to embarrass Rhodesia. To put Rhodesia on the spot. Britain can’t lose one way or the other. If we hang these blokes they’ll hold us up to the rest of the world as bloody murderers. If we don’t it shows we’re weakening.’
‘But, Samson …’ Jackie said desperately.
Mahoney snorted angrily, ‘if the British have made a political football out of poor old Samson Ndhlovu, what can the Rhodesians do but kick him?’
‘Oh, Joe!’ Jackie had tears in her eyes.
‘If the bloody British played it clean instead of playing with a man’s life, I’m bloody sure the Cabinet would’ve let him off the hook. But now’—he thumped the paper with the back of his hand—‘I’m bloody sure Samson Ndhlovu will hang. On Friday.’
Chapter Fifty-Eight
On Thursday night Joseph Mahoney sat in the darkness of his house verandah, holding a glass of beer. His first beer in nearly three months, he thought. But by God he needed it. He stared out into the night, into the bush that was his garden, and he was angry and weeping at the same time inside. Samson, oh Samson, my friend. And he wanted to shout: Damn you all you rotten stinking political bastards, you bloody English and you bloody black hoodlums, damn your eyes you profiteers of human misery, you stinking hypocrites and you smash and grab swines, oh Samson – the cigarette trembled in his hands as he puffed it and his throat ached.
A bloody political football—
Five minutes, that’s about all they had together. That was about all they wanted. There had been very little to say. Samson had been already waiting in the small cell on the ground floor of Death Row, sitting at the end of the small table with a black prison corporal on either side of him, the light bulb behind the iron mesh casing shining above his head.
‘Kunjani, induna?’
Samson said quietly: ‘Kunjani wena, Nkosi?’
‘I am well.’
Samson was sweating a little. There were beads of perspiration at his hairline. They looked at each other down the length of the table, the black corporals looking woodenly, self-consciously, in front of them. Then Samson lowered his eyes and waited.
‘Do you have everything you want?’ It sounded a silly question. Samson breathed in deeply as he nodded his head once, slightly.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Here,’ Mahoney opened his packet of cigarettes and lit two. He stood up and held one out down the length of the table. Samson stretched out both hands and took it. His wrists were manacled.
‘Here,’ Mahoney pushed the packet of fifty down the table. ‘And’—he felt in his suit pocket and brought out the other packet of fifty—’I got these for you.’
Samson nodded.
‘Thank you, but it is not necessary. They give us as many cigarettes as we want tonight.’
‘Take them,’ Mahoney said.
The two packets stood in front of Samson.
‘I wish I could have brought you some tshwala,’ Mahoney said, ‘but it is not allowed.’
Samson shook his head. ‘They give us tshwala too.’
‘How much?’
‘I do not know yet,’ Samson said. There was an awkward silence. ‘They give us good
skoff tonight,’ he said, trying to make conversation. Mahoney blinked. He knew the prison regulations. ‘What have you chosen?’
‘Fish and chips,’ Samson said. They were silent a moment and Mahoney felt the tears catch behind his eyes. ‘I am very fond of fish and chips,’ Samson said lamely.
Silence again. Then Mahoney said. ‘Induna?’
Samson looked up. ‘Nkosi?’
Mahoney waved his hand, ‘Is there anything you want me to do? Tomorrow?’
Samson shook his head.
‘About your property? Your wives and cattle?’
Samson shook his head again. ‘My younger brother will inherit my wives and cattle,’ he said, and Mahoney nodded.
‘There is only one thing I would like,’ Samson said self-consciously, ‘and that is to be buried at my kraal. But I am afraid the Nkosi cannot help me, I must be buried in the prison.’
Mahoney nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I am afraid so. It is the new rule.’
Samson nodded. There was silence again. Mahoney could think of nothing sensible to say.
Then Samson smirked once.
‘What is it, induna?’
Samson shook his head, ‘I was just thinking,’ he said, ‘of the valley. Of Kariba.’ He paused and smiled. ‘Of the many good times we had. It was very good round the fire, hey, Nkosi?’
Mahoney’s nose was tingling at the roots.
‘It was very good, induna.’
Samson nodded. ‘We were young and strong and free, then. And we made plenty money,’ he said.
Mahoney could feel his chin wanting to quiver. He pulled on his cigarette hard.
Samson sighed and looked up and his eyes were glistening too.
‘I think it would be a good thing if we had stayed in the valley, Nkosi.’
There was a pain in Mahoney’s throat. ‘Yes, induna,’ he said, ‘we should have stayed.’
He wanted with all his heart to be in the Zambezi Valley now with Samson Ndhlovu.
Samson breathed out through his nostrils and blinked and he looked at Mahoney.
‘And now the Nkosi is getting married,’ he said.
Mahoney nodded. ‘Yes.’
Samson looked him in the eye. ‘I am glad,’ he said, it is a good thing you are getting married. Now your soul will be rested and you will have the joy of children. Children are a great pleasure, you know, Nkosi.’
‘Yes?’
‘A great pleasure. I am glad for Nkosi. The woman Jek-i is a good woman. I think she will look after the Nkosi very well. Some of the women the Nkosi has had have been rubbish, but the woman Jek-i is a good woman.’
Mahoney screwed up his eyes once to force the tears away. ‘Thank you, Samson.’
Samson looked at Mahoney seriously. ‘Nkosi?’
‘Yes, induna?’
‘The woman Jek-i is a good woman. The Nkosi must not grieve any more for the woman Suzie, for that will make the Nkosi unhappy and the woman Jek-i too. The woman Suzie was a good woman too, but you must not grieve for her. You must be pleased with what you have.’
‘Do I grieve for her, induna?’
Samson nodded. ‘Yes, Nkosi, you did. You grieved too much. It is not good for a man to dwell in the arms of a dead woman.’
Mahoney nodded obediently, ‘I will remember what you say, old man.’
‘The woman Suzie was a good woman,’ Samson said, ‘but she was no good for the Nkosi.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because you quarrelled too much, Nkosi,’ Samson said awkwardly, ‘I do not know why that is, but it is so.’ Samson cleared his throat embarrassedly and decided to say it. ‘I do not know for sure why it is so, I only think. But I think it was the Nkosi’s fault. The Nkosi has an unhappy spirit. Do not make the same trouble with the woman Jek-i, Nkosi.’
Mahoney closed his eyes. When he opened them Samson had looked away.
‘I wish,’ he said, ‘that I could be at the Nkosi’s wedding. I could have helped serve the tshwala.’
Mahoney felt the tip of his chin tremble again.
‘I wish it too, induna,’ he said.
Samson looked up and his eyes were glistening again and he tried to make a joke.
‘Perhaps it is a good thing,’ he said, ‘I would only have got drunk and disgraced the Nkosi.’
Mahoney snorted to clear the burn out of his eyes.
‘Nkosi. Do one thing for me, for the sake of the valley. For the sake of Kariba.’
‘What is that?’
‘Tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, drink a glass of tshwala. And when you drink it, think of the valley.’
Mahoney screwed up his eyes and put his thumbs in the corners. The pain in his throat was bad. Then he took his thumbs away quickly and opened his eyes.
‘I will do it, induna,’ he said, ‘I promise you.’
Samson coughed and cleared his throat. It seemed as if there was nothing left to say.
‘And now,’ he said awkwardly, ‘the Nkosi is going far away.’
It tore at Mahoney’s guts.
‘Yes, old man,’ he said, ‘far away.’ And he wished with all his heart that he was not going. He wished he was there in the Zambezi Valley.
‘It is a pity,’ Samson said.
‘Yes,’ Mahoney said, ‘it is a pity.’
‘Then why do you go?’
Mahoney closed his eyes. ‘Because I deem it best.’
‘Why do you deem it best?’
Mahoney fidgeted. ‘Because, old man,’ he said loudly, ‘the troublemakers make too much trouble. This will be no home for the white man.’
Samson snorted softly. ‘This will always be the Nkosi’s home, whatever happens. There is always room enough for an induna.’
Mahoney closed his eyes again. What was there to say? ‘It is true,’ he said.
‘It is true,’ Samson Ndhlovu said.
It seemed as if it was finished. There was nothing more to say. There was a silence, then: ‘Eh – eeeh,’ Samson said.
‘Eh – eeeh.’
They looked at each other. Then Samson said: ‘There is nothing more to say, Nkosi.’
‘No, Samson,’ Mahoney said, ‘there is nothing more to say.’
He stood up slowly. He leaned down the table and stretched out his hand. Samson stood up and took his master’s hand in both of his. There were tears in both their eyes. They shook hands and then they clapped their hands softly.
‘Stay well, induna.’
‘Stay well, Nkosi.’
Mahoney stood at the far end of the dark verandah of his house. He lifted up his big beer glass. ‘Stay well, induna.’
He lifted the glass to his mouth and he drank it down. He flung the glass against the wall of the verandah and it shattered.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
They hardly slept all night. They had not talked much at first because they knew all about each other and they had talked it all out over the months. Then they had played a couple of games of draughts, the only game Samson had learned on Death Row, with one of the warders to make up the two boards. The priest had come but none of them had wanted to see him because none of them were Christians. But he was on duty all night and they could send for him if they wanted. Then they got tired of the draughts. There was a large guard on watch in the corridor. They had sat around in the cell with their backs to the wall and talked a little. Then Phineas had broken out in a sweat and he had started calling for the priest and they took him out to the padded cell and sent for the priest. Phineas had been to a Mission school for two years when he was a boy. Then Eros had fallen into a doze and Samson was left by himself.
He sat gingerly against the wall, resting slightly on one side so his buttocks were squinched together to keep the small dagger wedged in the groove. He had nicked himself twice when he moved and there was a small patch of blood on the back of his khaki pants but he pulled his tunic down to cover it. He had practised carrying the dagger wedged into his buttocks for a long time but it was awkward when he sat down. And he ha
d not bargained for the warder staring in at him the whole time. The warder looked at Samson the whole time because he was the only one awake. The dagger was uncomfortable but he dared not fidget too much lest it work loose. He pretended to scratch his buttocks and managed to ease it. He did not trust himself to close his eyes for long in case he fell asleep. He was very tired, for he had not slept well this last week and his nerves were screaming. And his arms and legs and buttocks were aching from sitting in this position all the time. It would have been very good to stretch out on the floor or even to get up and walk around but he dared not.
‘What is the time, old man?’
The warder looked at his watch.
‘Nearly four o’clock,’ he said.
He heard the shouting begin as the hangman was halfway up the stairs. It was not the usual wail the boys in Death Row put up.
‘Murderer – Murderer – Murderer—’ they shouted through the grids of their cell doors. ‘Soon you too will hang when Britain comes – murderer – you too will hang—’
They screamed it at the tops of their lungs, they hammered on the cell doors and beat their feet upon the floor. It was heard all over the prison and in the hard labour blocks the political boys took up the chant and the wail:
Murderer – Murderer – Whoo – Whoo – Whoo—
Solly Berger clenched his teeth angrily and pulled his hat lower over his eyes and went quicker up the stairs. His chest was pounding from the exertion. The warders on the top landing stood up and saluted him. The shouting and wailing reached a crescendo. He nodded to the warders and fumbled for the key of the gallows chamber. They were screaming and trying to spit through the grids at him now. The warders were shouting and walking down the cells beating on the doors with their batons. Solly flung open the chamber door and slammed it closed behind him and leant back against it. Christ—
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