by Tony Park
Braedan opened the door of his battered, rusted Nissan 1400 bakkie. The starter whirred for a while before it finally caught. He checked the top pocket of his bush shirt and found a few crumpled, grubby US dollar bills. The fuel gauge was broken, but he was sure he at least had enough to get to the airport. Tate would have money – he hoped. He caught a whiff of himself – sweat and woman. Normally he might have smiled to himself, but the encounter had left him feeling uneasy, even angry. Maybe it wasn't her. Maybe it just was the prospect of seeing his sanctimonious, pain-in-the-arse brother again.
His mother had called him, just the day before, and told him Tate was coming in from Kenya, and ordered him to pick up his twin. Any other time Braedan would have found an excuse not to, but he was driving his mother's old bakkie and he did have to get back to Bulawayo at some stage. The downside was that he'd have to sit next to Tate all the way home for five hundred or so kilometres.
Braedan lit another cigarette and indicated right to turn onto Harare Drive. The little pickup's puny springs squeaked as he lurched over the uneven surface and in and out of a pothole that nearly swallowed the Nissan whole.
He stopped at a robot and ignored the Africans who tried to sell him a newspaper or some cell phone airtime. He had money for neither. His phone would still receive messages and there was no one he needed to call. The news was the same as always – bad.
Morgan Tsvangirai, the leader of the main faction of the Movement for Democratic Change, was threatening to pull out of the GNU. It was a fitting acronym, Braedan thought. The Government of National Unity had been as crazy and directionless as a wildebeest, or a gnu as they called them in East Africa, since its inception. Like the wild-eyed, shaggy beast, it had pranced around and around in circles, waiting to be taken down by the king of the beasts. Mugabe had done that, through inaction and attrition of the opposition's will.
Braedan accelerated away as the one functioning traffic light at the intersection turned green. At least there was some power in this part of town. At the second intersection his luck ran true to form again. All the lights were out and he who had the strongest will, or a company vehicle, had right of way. Braedan nosed out into the chaos and spun the back wheels as he dropped the clutch and floored the pedal to escape an oncoming blue ZUPCO bus. The smoke-belching giant crabbed and missed his tailgate by centimetres.
He punched some buttons on the ancient car radio, but all he could pick up was the Dead BC; the ZBC, or Zimbabwe Broadcasting Commission, radio service was a hundred per cent propaganda and its television channel was even more dire. The TV played tits and drums, endless poorly shot videos of happy Africans dancing and singing, in between news broadcasts about how evil Britain and America were and, by association, how evil and inept its lackeys in the MDC were.
According to the radio news His Excellency the Comrade President claimed Tsvangirai had turned his back on the people of Zimbabwe by announcing his withdrawal from the GNU. Braedan saw the move for what it was: a quick, desperate shot at some international publicity. The MDC had been unable to influence any government decisions of any consequence while it had been part of the GNU, so pulling out really had no effect on the people of the country either way. At least the rest of the world, which in truth knew or cared very little about Africa, would now hear that things were not OK – again – in Zimbabwe. The fact was, nothing would change in Zim until the big man died.
A glossy black Hummer H3 roared past Braedan, eliciting a toot from the oncoming Land Rover it nearly collected as it swung out over the solid centre line. The colour and dark tinted windows told Braedan it wasn't a white man driving the expensive vehicle. There was money around in Harare – always had been. It was just the owners of it who had changed.
*
Emmerson Ngwenya, the Zimbabwean government's Assistant Minister for Land Redistribution, told his driver to keep the Hummer's engine running and the aircon on as he stepped out of the gleaming black vehicle and walked into Harare Airport's arrivals hall. His protection officer, a CIO agent by the name of Ncube, preceded him through the door and looked around.
The pair walked upstairs to a VIP lounge that overlooked the baggage carousel through frosted windows. A pretty girl with long, straightened hair and a nicely rounded bottom brought him a vodka on the rocks and Emmerson smiled back at her as he accepted his drink with a polite thank you.
‘My pleasure, Minister,’ she said, holding the tray across her front demurely as she pirouetted away.
‘Find out her cell number for me while I'm downstairs,’ Ngwenya said to Ncube.
The other man nodded and grinned. He was more than just a bodyguard. Tobias Ncube was Emmerson Ngwenya's right-hand man in a number of non-governmental pursuits the minister carried out in his spare time.
‘What time are we meeting the Vietnamese?’ Ngwenya asked when he was sure the girl was out of earshot.
‘Three-thirty, at the Monomotapa.’
Ngwenya sipped his vodka and savoured the fiery spirit as it warmed him all the way down. How such heat could come from somewhere so cold … The drink reminded him of his time in Russia: the women he'd bedded and the racist communist instructor he'd killed. ‘Good,’ he replied.
‘What will we tell them about Hwange?’ Ncube asked.
Ngwenya rolled an ice cube around his mouth while he thought about it. The stick of ex commandos he had hired to find a black rhino in Hwange National Park had failed to kill their quarry the night before. They'd blamed the full moon and cloudless skies that side of the country was experiencing. Apparently the wily old bull had kept picking up the sound of its pursuers and was continuing to evade them. The military men were inept, and Emmerson had decided he would not be using them again, even if they managed to kill the animal they were tracking. Everyone knew rhinos had poor eyesight, so it was a mistake by the panicked leader of the gang to blame the good light for their failure. It was just another excuse. The hunters had probably made more noise than a tank ploughing through the bush of the national park.
‘We tell them nothing, except the truth – that there are fewer and fewer rhinos that are easily accessible and those that are left are harder to track. We leave out the bit about our men's incompetence.’
Ncube nodded.
‘I can stall them,’ Emmerson continued. ‘I do not dance to their tune. In time, we will have all the horn we need. I don't mind keeping these men hanging on – it makes them more anxious and this may push the price even higher.’ The lounge attendant returned and asked him if he would like another vodka.
Emmerson checked his gold Rolex. ‘No thank you, sister.’ She smiled at him again. Beautiful, he thought.
The first passengers off the Kenya Airways flight from Nairobi were presenting themselves to the immigration officers at the booths at the far end of the arrivals hall below them.
He spotted his nineteen-year-old daughter striding haughtily across the hall, the first person to clear immigration. It was as it should be. Emmerson rose and brushed an imaginary speck of dust off his Ralph Lauren chinos. He nodded to the girl again, and walked downstairs to be ready to greet his daughter as she emerged.
*
Natalie was the second last person to clear immigration, as she and the other people travelling on foreign passports had to wait to purchase visas. The process seemed to take an age, as forms were filled out, ornate stickers affixed to blank pages, money counted – slowly – and receipts laboriously completed.
She could see Tate Quilter-Phipps standing by the carousel, a mix of impatience and equivocation flitting across his face. He looked over at her every now and then, not smiling.
It had been sheer coincidence that they'd been on the same direct flight from Nairobi, and by an even weirder twist of fate they'd been seated nearly next to each other, on either side of a vacant centre seat.
‘I'm not stalking you, honest,’ she'd said to him as she placed her bag in the overhead locker and sat down.
He smiled, looked down at the b
ook already open in his lap, then back over at her. ‘I'm … sorry if I sounded abrupt with you when you arrived in the Serengeti. Things weren't going to plan, that was all.’
‘It's fine, I understand,’ she assured him.
He nodded and went back to his book, brushing a long strand of grey hair out of his eyes. After their inflight meal had been served Natalie summoned the courage to interrupt him again. ‘I've got to get from Harare to Bulawayo. Can you recommend a good bus service?’
Tate looked at her over the top of his reading glasses. He said nothing, but closed the book on game management he'd been reading, and folded his glasses and stowed them carefully in their case. ‘How long are you staying in Harare?’
Natalie had given up on getting anything more useful out of him for her article or book. The words tumbled out of her. ‘Um … I don't know. Maybe only a night … I've got family friends I can contact … or … I don't know. I'd like to get moving to Bulawayo as soon as possible to see my grandparents. I'm on my own funds now, so I've got to watch the pennies, but I've heard there's a pretty good bus from Harare, and –’
‘I've got a car in Harare. I left it with a former colleague. I'd very much like to see your grandfather again, so perhaps I could … perhaps you'd like …’
‘A lift? That'd be fantastic, thank you so much,’ she gushed. She could see he was regretting the offer already, but she didn't care. She needed to get to her grandparents' farm as quickly as possible, and she did want to have another try at prising some more information from this strange, shy, prickly man. ‘And your brother?’
‘I'm sure my mother will know where he is – if he isn't sponging off her. She also stays in Bulawayo.’
Natalie had got the tingling feeling in her fingertips again. The story … it was all coming together. She'd have time to prepare herself for coming face to face with her past on the drive to Bulawayo with Tate. She had a lot to discuss with Braedan Quilter-Phipps and she'd need to get herself in the right frame of mind. A long drive across Zimbabwe would help.
She fetched a trolley of her own – Tate wasn't rushing to help her – and hefted her wheelie bag off the carousel as it passed her. ‘OK. Ready,’ she said.
He led off wordlessly. A dozen Zimbabwe Revenue Authority customs officers sat or leaned against walls near a row of inspection cubicles. None of them bothered to stop Tate or her, or to ask them what they were carrying. Natalie had heard horror stories of people being shaken down at border posts and the airport and forced to pay a range of real and bogus duties. These men and women simply looked at them with bored eyes. It seemed as if even the government officials were tired of doing the president's dirty work.
They walked down the corridor and exited to the left. Natalie stopped and gripped the push rail of her trolley. She wasn't ready to see Tate's twin brother just yet, but there he was, smiling.
19
Braedan wasn't ready for her to be so beautiful, or for her to look so much like Hope.
The last time he'd seen her she'd been nine years old. He'd thought about the little girl many times over the years, and seen her in his nightmares time and again, but there was never any extrapolation of the woman she might have grown into. In his mind she was always the trembling, dishevelled, terrified little girl in his arms.
But this chick was hot.
And there, next to her, was his brother, still affecting the absent-minded professor bunny-hugger look that he pulled off so well. He saw Tate's look of annoyance. ‘Howzit?’
Tate frowned. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Ja, I'm lekker, and you?’ He ignored Tate now and stared at the girl. The woman. She had to be forty now, he supposed, but she didn't look it.
She wore what people who didn't live in Africa thought people should wear in Africa. But the khaki skirt was stylishly cut just above her knees, and the green bush shirt was tailored to show she'd keep on beating gravity for a few years more at least. She was blonde, like Hope, though she wore her hair in a bob. The family resemblance was there, most especially in the eyes. Even the old granny, Pip, still had those striking eyes in among all the wrinkles.
‘I'm –’
‘Natalie.’ He smiled and took her hand. Her palm was a little clammy, but he didn't let go, and she didn't try to pull away. She just looked at him, as though she was remembering what he was remembering. ‘It's been some time, hey?’
She nodded.
‘Have you got a car, or did you come in an ET?’ Tate interrupted. Most whites Tate knew wouldn't be seen dead in an emergency taxi – the minibuses that were the main form of public transport for African people.
‘Very funny,’ Braedan said. ‘Ja, I've got a car, but guess what … you don't.’
Tate looked annoyed, like he always did, thought Braedan. Bastard thought he was smarter than everyone, but now he was stranded. He could see he was looking for his African friend, Lookout. ‘Your buddy called Mom, but she couldn't get through to you in Tanzania or wherever the hell you were. He says he was taking it to get fuel and he got sideswiped by an ET. Your car it is, ah-broken.’
‘When's the car going to be fixed?’ Tate asked.
‘You seriously think your out-of-work MDC China is going to pay to have your car fixed? Man, you still don't get it, do you? How can you keep trusting these people when they never fail to disappoint you?’
‘So what must I do?’
‘You must, boet, catch a glide to Bulawayo with me. Mom's orders.’
‘A glide?’ Natalie asked.
Tate scratched his bush of grey hair. ‘He means a lift, with him. I need to go to Bulawayo to see Natalie's grandfather anyway.’
‘Yes,’ she chimed in. ‘And you must come too, Braedan. I know he'd like to see you after all these years.’
Braedan led them into the car park and Tate followed, pushing the trolley he'd taken from Natalie which was piled high with their baggage.
Natalie fell into step beside Braedan. ‘So,’ he said, ‘I knew from your email you were coming to Zim around now, but I didn't expect to see you walk off the aircraft with Chuckles here.’ He thumbed back at his brother. Braedan didn't have to turn around to know Tate was scowling.
Natalie tried not to smile. ‘It was a bit of a surprise for me too.’
‘So tell me more about this book you're writing.’
She quickened her step to keep up with him. ‘I'm writing about my experiences during the war, growing up and … well you played a pretty critical role. You did save my life, after all. I'm going to tie the story in with what's happening in Zimbabwe today and the problems my grandparents are having keeping their ranch and the rhino-breeding program going.’
Braedan nodded. ‘This is us.’ He stopped beside the tiny bakkie and felt a moment of embarrassment. ‘It's a loaner.’
‘Nice wheels,’ Tate said. ‘Mercenary business a little slow?’
‘Very funny. You can ride in the back, like one of your shamwaris.’
‘All the way to Bulawayo?’
‘I'll drop you at the Rainbow Towers if you prefer. They have a bus service.’
Braedan saw that Tate was half-considering the idea of being dropped off at the highrise hotel that had once been the Sheraton, but then Tate glanced at Natalie and said, ‘All right, I'll come with you.’
‘We can swap around,’ Natalie said. ‘You know it's illegal to ride around in the back of a ute – a bakkie – in Australia, but it's something I remember fondly from my childhood.’
Braedan shrugged. ‘From what I remember, everything's illegal in Australia. Suit yourself.’ Braedan and Tate loaded the packs and bags into the tiny tray of the Nissan. The vehicle creaked and sagged as Tate climbed it. There was hardly enough room for him to stretch out, but he rearranged the luggage to make himself as comfortable as possible.
Braedan shifted two empty brown Castle Lager bottles off the seat as Natalie climbed in. She fished for the seatbelt sash, but then couldn't find the connector to click it in. ‘Don't b
other,’ Braedan said. ‘It's missing. Just hold the belt across you if we come to a roadblock. Those bastards will look for any excuse to fine you.’ He glanced back and saw Tate look away. He wondered if his brother had the hots for Natalie. He didn't care.
‘So this book,’ he said, ‘is it like some kind of therapy for you?’
She gave a small laugh. ‘I'd forgotten how forward people can be in this part of the world. But yes, I suppose you could call it that. I haven't thought a lot about what happened during the war for quite some time, but lately I've been coming back to it … or it's been coming back to me.’
He nodded and fished his cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He offered her one.
‘No thanks,’ she said.
He shrugged and lit a Newbury as he drove. He scanned left and right as they came to the T-junction. There was a black man with a Scania, a heavy steel pushcart running on an old car axle and tyres, on the left. The intersection looked clear, so Braedan started to accelerate. He checked the rear-view mirror quickly and saw that Tate was asleep already, nestled in among the bags. He shifted his eyes back to the road, but thumped on the window behind him to try to wake his brother.
Natalie had started to say something about how marvellous her trip to the Serengeti had been, but Braedan was only half-listening. He saw the man with the Scania start to move. The next second the man was running, pushing the cart ahead of him. Braedan started to swerve, to miss him, but a Mercedes rounded the corner in the other direction. He slammed on the brakes.
Natalie was pitched forward and she yelped as her forearm connected with the dash. ‘Hey, I don't have a seatbelt, remember?’
He ignored her. The cart filled his view through the windscreen. Braedan rammed the gear lever into reverse and dropped the clutch, but there was only a grinding noise. He jiggled the stick, but it still refused to engage. ‘Tate!’ he yelled.