Lettah's Gift

by Graham Lang

  Hazel looks at him, baffled by this last-minute insubordination. She clears her throat. ‘I suppose your father was a difficult man, but he did the best he could in this world.’ She pauses, eyes closed. In a thin voice, she recites:

  When that this body did contain a spirit,

  A kingdom for it was too small a bound;

  But now two paces of the vilest earth

  Is room enough: this earth, that bears thee dead,

  Bears not alive so stout a gentleman.

  I feel my chest gradually tighten. I struggle to breathe, smothered and confused by conflicting emotions. Unexpected tears well into my eyes, not just for Vic and his sons, or Hazel, but for my parents too, one gone, the other old and frail. I yearn for both, am thankful for both.

  ‘Okay, that’s it,’ Hugo says abruptly.

  He turns and starts walking back to the car. I follow, my head averted from the others.

  Demanded love is not love. Everything I harbour against those who use brute force to make others bow before them is somehow summed up in that one unoriginal statement. A statement all the world’s tyrants might reflect upon. How did Cecil – dull Cecil with his terrible lisp – manage to hit the nail on the head? Perhaps it was just the way it was said, the naive honesty of it, or the bitter inflection he gave to each word. It makes everything else that was said in the wake of Vic’s death burn away like mist.

  I’m busy in the cottage wrapping some gifts – books, chocolates and a Wallabies rugby jersey for Milton, Ruby and Vernon; some US dollars in an envelope for Precious, Rosie and Geldof – when Milton shouts from the house: ‘Frank – telephone!’

  I hurry across to the house. It’s Geoffrey Dlamini.

  ‘From what your friend Milton tells me, I’ve caught you just in time,’ he says. ‘I’m very happy to report that I’ve had some luck in locating your Lettah Ndlovu. Remember the notice I put on my church’s email newsletter?’

  ‘You did mention something . . .’

  ‘Eh-ja. Well, a priest from South Africa has emailed me to say a Zimbabwean woman answering to that name is at his mission in Zululand. A place called Hlabisa.’

  I’m stunned. ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘All I can say is that a woman answering to that name and approximate age is at this mission. But I cannot be completely sure if it’s the same Lettah Ndlovu. Better you talk with this priest. His name is Reverend Gabriel Mkhondo.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Geoffrey. Look, can I pay you –’

  A dry chuckle. ‘I’m not Chombo, sir. You have already paid me for this result. I’m happy that you can have trust in me. Now, do you have a pen? I have the details here.’

  I scribble down the priest’s name and telephone number and thank him profusely before putting the phone down. I stand there for a while, dumbfounded by this last-minute turn of events. Is this how life must always be? Unpredictable – coming in surprises? I can hear Ruby and Precious chatting in the kitchen. They have been busy all afternoon, preparing what they ominously call my ‘last supper’.

  Milton looks up from his newspaper when I go through to the lounge. He nods slowly as I share this unexpected news.

  ‘Amazing how these things pan out,’ he says.

  ‘To be honest, I’d put Lettah out of my head completely.’

  Milton puts his newspaper down. ‘So how does this affect your travel plans?’

  I sit on the couch next to him. ‘Not much. I was planning to spend a week in South Africa anyway. I’m not banking on anything. It’s not certain this is Lettah.’

  ‘Can’t be that many Lettah Ndlovus in the world. Will you be passing through our old crime scene en route?’

  I nod. ‘I’ll have a beer at the Imperial Hotel for you.’

  ‘Ah, the good old Imp . . .’ Milton’s eyes widen with alarm. ‘That doesn’t mean you’ll be hiring any more cars, does it? I understand that yet another car underwent a violent transformation up in Kwekwe –’

  ‘You can’t pin that on me.’

  ‘On the contrary, Franco. We lawyers are trained to spot the links between things. Now if you take a number of recent vehicle mishaps, including one involving the sad demise of an innocent beast of burden, what would you say is the common factor?’

  ‘Get stuffed.’

  Milton laughs. ‘We’re going to miss you, boyo. Zimbabwe’s automotive repair industry will too, I’m sure. Jervis should be here to present you with a gold watch or something.’ He stabs a finger at the newspaper’s front-page photograph of Mugabe embracing Iran’s President Ahmadinejad. ‘Once you’re gone it’ll be back to Zim’s Goon Show re-runs, starring Comrade Bob.’

  ‘You’re always welcome in Perth if the comedy gets too rough.’

  ‘Who knows? Maybe some day.’

  We sit in silence for a while. There is the clattering of dishes in the kitchen. Precious cries out: ‘Aibo! Kuyatshisa!’

  ‘Ja, I told you it’s hot,’ Ruby says. ‘But you don’t listen!’

  Precious laughs: ‘He-hehh!’

  ‘I suppose you’ll be glad to get back to Oz,’ Milton says.

  I nod. ‘I’m afraid this little school of hard knocks is a bit much for me. I’ll leave Africa for romantics like you.’

  Milton smiles. ‘Romantic? Me? The only romantics are you bastards overseas who know bugger-all about Africa.’

  ‘I don’t know how you live with it, Milton. How can you stay here, knowing it’s never going to change?’

  ‘Franco, Franco . . . who said it’s never going to change? You have to have faith, man. There are more good folks out there than bad.’

  ‘The trouble is the good folks never get to call the shots here.’

  ‘They will. One day.’

  I get up. ‘I’d better get back to my packing. Thanks, Milton.’

  Milton waves his hand dismissively. ‘Why don’t you give that Mkhondo fellow a call. I’m sure you’re dying to talk to him. Give your old man a ring too.’

  ‘I think I’ll leave my father out of it for the time being. I’m scared it’ll be another dead end.’

  ‘Have faith, Franco. Have faith.’

  I try Reverend Mkhondo’s number a few times. I get through but it just rings. I look at my watch: six-thirty. Must be his work number.

  A curious logic has guided the reconstruction of Bulawayo’s Joshua Mqabuko Nkomo International Airport. In a country where three-quarters of the population live below the poverty line, where life expectancy hovers at just over thirty, it was decided to build an enormous state-of-the-art airport. To cope with what? A massive increase in air traffic? All those tourists and foreign business folk flocking to Bulawayo? As it is, South African Airways has downgraded its service to Bulawayo from Boeing jets to small Fokker turboprops. The old airport, which faithfully served Bulawayo since colonial times, has been demolished and scaffolding for the new airport stands proudly in its place, devoid of any signs of activity. As an ‘interim’ measure, domestic and international arrivals and departures are processed in a large oven-like hangar.

  My luggage is checked in. There’s an hour to go before take-off; the customs officials have not yet arrived. I sit at a table in a makeshift lounge sipping a Coke. Comrade Bob stares at me from his portrait on the wall. I’m now heartily sick of that wretched gaze. I think of how some, very few, still manage a semblance of normality in their lives here despite the havoc he has wreaked. Like the Ogilvys. The fine meal we had last night. A roast leg of lamb and vegetables followed by an old-fashioned gooseberry pie. Precious, Rosie and Geldof joining in the occasion. Milton topping up our glasses of soft drink with as much panache as a waiter dispensing good wine. Rosie and Geldof flanking Vernon at the end of the table, chattering away with their mouths full, eyes gleaming. Vernon leaning over and helping Geldof cut his meat, laughi
ng when Geldof abandoned cutlery altogether, much to Rosie’s disdain. Geldof raising his plastic mug aloft like a torch of freedom when Milton proposed a toast to better days. Yes, sweet moments of normality . . .

  I can’t help overhearing the talk at a table close by. A family leaving the country. Talk of who will be there to meet them in New Zealand. Last-minute calls on their cell phones.

  The stifling heat drives me outside. In the shade of a jacaranda tree near the car park, I smoke my last cigarette – to mark the occasion of leaving Zimbabwe, I’ve vowed to quit. A lazy trickle of traffic comes and goes. I take a last drag and stub the butt out with my heel. With an air of grim finality, I scrunch up the empty cigarette pack and throw it into a bin.

  Inside, the customs officials have still not appeared. I sit down at a table again, exhausted. I hardly slept last night. I close my eyes, trying to think of what lies ahead.

  ‘Howzit, china.’

  I open my eyes. Brak is standing there in his overalls.

  ‘Thought I’d drop in and say cheers.’

  I pull out a chair. ‘Hey, Brak!’

  He sits down and looks around at the other travellers. ‘Suppose they’re all gapping it.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Ja, well, good luck to them. Can’t be easy making the move overseas.’

  ‘A bit easier than staying here, I’d guess.’

  Brak smiles and nods slowly. He eyes Mugabe’s portrait on the wall. ‘Hey, Bob, what d’you reckon? When you gonna croak, you bastard?’

  We shoot the breeze. Brak tells me his landlord overseas has virtually scrapped the rent, to entice him to stay on. Now that he and Reggie are both working, things are looking up. No talk of them leaving. People like them kind of deserve Zimbabwe, he says. Not for the faint-hearted. Best wait and see what happens with the elections. If Mugabe goes everything could turn around, just like that. He tells me the two dogs, Cracker and Gator, are now the best of mates. He jokes about the day-to-day dramas at Prospect Autos. Yet all the while he seems ill at ease, drumming his greasy fingers on the table, glancing around. Three customs officials, thin as scarecrows, stroll in through the main doors with a collective air of importance. We watch as they take up their position in their cubicles. The people around us hurry to join the queue.

  ‘Suppose it’s time to say adios,’ Brak says.

  ‘That queue will take a while to get moving.’

  Brak drums his fingers again. Then he leans forward.

  ‘China . . . look I don’t know how to say it, man. I’m sorry about what happened. I just hope there’re no hard feelings . . .’

  His voice tails off; he smiles cheerlessly.

  ‘You don’t need to say anything, Brak.’

  ‘Ja, but I hope it’s not an issue.’

  ‘It’s not an issue. Forget it.’

  But it is an issue. I know it. He knows it. And it has nothing to do with forgiveness. Looking at him across the table, huge, hulking, so troubled, I feel closer to him than my own brother. Yet I fear him too. The other Brak.

  ‘You know, it’s strange,’ he says. ‘There were only two times in my life when I really felt I was doing something right. That I was of some purpose to the world. The first was in the army. The second was when Reggie and I were up at Kariba.’ He nods to himself. ‘Ja, purpose . . . funny how it can be two completely different things. I suppose it’s all about belief, hey? Belief gives you purpose.’

  ‘I suppose it does,’ I say.

  The queue is starting to move.

  ‘No hard feelings, Brak. Just look after yourself.’

  ‘Keep in touch, china.’

  We stand and shake hands. Brak pats my shoulder awkwardly. ‘Come again when this hellhole decides to join the civilised world.’ He laughs. ‘That may be never. Come again, anyway.’

  ‘You bet,’ I say.

  Brak smiles, and in his eyes I see something of the kid I used to know. I join the end of the queue. Brak waits until I have gone through customs. He waves as I go through security.

  As the plane gains altitude, I can see, far below, the vast wilderness of Matobo. I catch a glimpse of the cross on the bald dome of Nungu glinting in the sun. How small that rock colossus seems now. I watch it vanish into the distance behind the plane. And I think of the time I looked up from down there and saw the vapour trail of another plane. I think of how different I am now.

  XIV

  During the flight, it seemed Lydia and Lettah were perched on my shoulders. A long-forgotten incident from Que Que kept bobbing to the surface of my thoughts. I was walking on my own through the bush near Sunnyside. It was late winter and the bush had recently been burned off in anticipation of the spring rains. I came across a wide donga filled with ash. The ash was white and pure like I imagined snow to be. Too much to resist, I waded into it. The ash was wonderful, exquisite, softer than powder. When I was waist deep I raised my arms and keeled over headlong into it, not expecting the bed of still-smouldering coals lying beneath – young boys and common sense are mostly birds of a different feather. The pain was instant, terrible. I reared (dare I say ashen) from the donga, my hands, forearms and legs covered in big red burns, and limped home to Lydia.

  My mother was a stickler for old-fashioned remedies. If the old folk believed that burns were best treated with hot water who was she to argue? I howled as she submerged me in a steaming bath. A glimpse of Lettah at the bathroom door, an expression of distress on her face. Cupping her hands over her ears. After virtually parboiling me, Lydia put me to bed, then drove off to get some salve at the chemist. I heard someone running more bathwater. Lettah appeared at the bedroom door. ‘Woza, nkosana,’ she said. ‘Come, I will make you better.’

  I shrank away in terror.

  ‘It’s cold water,’ she said. ‘I promise it won’t hurt you.’

  She led me back to the bathroom and helped me into the bath. I lay in the cool water. What wonderful, immediate relief! The relentless pain was gone in an instant.

  ‘Stay in the water,’ she said. ‘When your mother comes back let her see that the cold water works better. But don’t tell her it was me who showed you.’

  I hire a car at the airport in Johannesburg and drive down to Pietermaritzburg. It would, of course, be easier to catch a connecting flight to Durban, but I reasoned the six-hour drive would give me time to get things into perspective. Lost in thought, I traverse forgotten landscapes: the bare bleakness of the highveld; the epic vistas of the Drakensberg; the rolling meadows and forest plantations of Mooi River and Nottingham Road. There have been good rains in South Africa, especially in KwaZulu-Natal; the dams are full, the countryside is green, cattle and crops are abundant – nothing could contrast more starkly to drought-ravaged Zimbabwe. Thoughts of Zimbabwe, now my terrible yardstick, trigger conflicting emotions: I’m relieved – grateful – to be away, yet cannot escape an unexpected sense of loss, of bereavement. I thought I wasn’t one to pine for a mother country. Something has changed. I’m glad to be away from Zimbabwe’s depressing hopelessness, yet as I revel in the verdant landscapes of South Africa, I can’t escape a simple irony. Zimbabwe has blown life into my dank, shallow lungs.

  Memories of the past weeks are mostly too raw to dwell on, though. I still must shield my mind’s eye from Vic lying dead, or Brak’s drunken rage. It will take time to come to terms with these things. Clara, too. Hindsight offers little comfort when it comes to her. Each time I reach out to close the door she left half-shut I see a classroom full of expectant African children waiting for me to enter. Ah, Clara . . . what is shared when voids intersect? Yet, strangely, this prospect – me returning to Africa to teach – doesn’t seem entirely implausible. There are options open to me. Many things are possible. Right now, though, it’s best that I banish her from my thoughts. Let me finish this journey first.

  I reac
h Hilton, on the outskirts of Pietermaritzburg, at dusk and book into a hotel for the night. I phone Reverend Mkhondo from my room – the first time I’ve been able to speak to him. We talk briefly; I am lucky to have reached him in his office at that hour, he says. He gives me directions to find the mission hospital near Hlabisa. He is adamant the Sister Lettah Ndlovu employed at the hospital is the one I’m seeking. He begins telling me something about a speech impediment – he uses some technical terms I assume are de rigueur among speech pathologists – and promises to explain when I get there. We agree to meet two days hence.

  After breakfast I drive down the Sweetwaters road into Pietermaritzburg and spend the day slowly cruising about. The city still has its old Victorian charm, yet seems to wear its colonial history like an exfoliating skin. No longer the English oasis I knew. White faces are scarce among the dense crowds in the city centre; most whites appear to have retreated to the suburbs, barricading themselves in homes that have become small fortresses. Our old house in Scottsville is almost unrecognisable, having undergone major extensions, including an electrified security fence; a bull mastiff watches me from behind a tall iron gate as I drive past. Judging by the signs affixed to virtually every suburban property, armed-response burglar alarm systems are obligatory. All so different. Still, there are moments of déjà vu: Alexandra Park along the Dusi River with its swathes of plane trees, just beginning to lose their summer greenness; Maritzburg College with its red-brick buildings and terraced sports fields, like something out of Kipling. I pass the Imperial Hotel, but don’t stop to have that beer for Milton in the Emmeline Pankhurst Bar. I’m sure he wouldn’t object.

  I park in the shade of some trees in Alexandra Park next to the Dusi, a spot where my family often used to picnic. Watching the murky brown river flow by, I tuck into a greasy meat pie and a can of ginger beer for lunch. There is a strong compulsion to have a cigarette, but quitting smoking has become something of a test of fibre for me, as my mother might have put it. With all this driving around visiting old haunts Lydia is much in my thoughts. Everything seems to remind me of her – strange, in that I’ve never associated Pietermaritzburg with her before in any significant way. I find myself in silent conversations with her and remember how happy she had been here, how that brooding expression in her eyes seemed to lighten with contentment. Pietermaritzburg suited her. A nice, easy town. Not too big, not too small. A plain little house in Scottsville that she transformed into a home. A happy family and a good circle of friends. Had Max and I not left for Australia, and had illness spared her, I can quite imagine she and my father would still be here.