by Tony Park
‘OK. Who are they? Wardens? Are they conservationists? Parks' employees?’
‘They're all dead.’ Tate blinked a couple of times. ‘If you want a story,’ he said, ‘then write the story of those men, who all gave their lives in the fight against poaching in this country. It's a war, you see, and it never ends. Men like those don't receive medals – they hardly even get paid these days – but they go out every day, on foot, with rags on their back and hardly any food in their packs, and they hunt poachers. They kill them, and sometimes they are killed.’
‘John Little?’
For the first time he looked her way, and raised an eyebrow. ‘You would single out the only white man, wouldn't you?’
She said nothing to that. Natalie searched her memory to see if she had ever interviewed anyone as rude as Tate Quilter-Phipps. No, he was the rudest.
‘John was a helicopter pilot. A New Zealander. He was a bush pilot in the Okavango Delta for a number of years – had a bad crash there taking a media crew out and almost died. He used the compensation payout to buy his own helicopter, a little Robinson R22.’
Natalie scribbled away, but felt a chill because Tate was talking about a dead man.
‘We couldn't afford to pay him, although a charity in Australia provided just enough money for John's fuel and maintenance of his helicopter. He was probably the most valuable resource we had in the fight against poaching in Hwange.’
Natalie paused. She didn't need to ask the next question.
‘John had spotted two gangs of poachers in three weeks. Rhino killings were at a ten-year low. He would spot them, then hover overhead until we could get an anti-poaching call sign to his location. Twice, he was fired on by poachers armed with AK-47s. He was fearless. Then one day he crashed and was killed in the fire that engulfed his helicopter. I paid for an independent air-crash investigator to come up from South Africa. There was little doubt in the man's mind that John's R22 had been sabotaged.’
‘My God. I never realised …’
‘Never realised it's a war or that people would murder a civilian? The other men whose names I mentioned were all rangers killed in the line of duty.’
‘That's terrible.’
Tate nodded. ‘Yes, but many more poachers than rangers have been killed. Properly equipped, properly trained and properly motivated, we can hold the line. At least we could in the days before the government become involved.’
Natalie was confused. ‘Aren't you talking about government-employed parks and wildlife rangers fighting the poachers?’
‘Yes. What I meant was,’ Tate looked at her again, ‘senior members of the government are now organising the poaching. Rhinos are being shot to order by a man at the top of the tree. He's the same man who I believe ordered the sabotaging of John's helicopter. I can't prove it, but I will, one day.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Emmerson Ngwenya.’
23
‘Happy Birthday, Grandfather!’
Kenneth Ngwenya kissed his beautiful granddaughter, Naomi, on the cheek and opened the small parcel wrapped with shimmering paper and a red bow. His fingers were stiff with arthritis and Naomi used her long, pink-painted glossy nails to undo the knot in the ribbon. Kenneth opened the gift box and there was a small device made of white plastic, with a grey screen on it. ‘Thank you, my dear. May I ask, what is it?’
Naomi laughed, as did her two sisters, Patricia and Tumi, and her cousins, Emmerson's children Kenneth and Sally, who were all gathered around her. ‘Oh my God, Grandfather, it's an iPod!’
‘An iPod?’
Thandi shook her head. ‘Don't tease the girls, Dad. You know what an iPod is. Don't you?’
Kenneth winked at his daughter. She was as lovely as her children. Thandi was a successful businesswoman, a holder of two university degrees and an MBA, a heroine of the struggle and a wonderful mother. She had also been elected as a member of parliament at the last elections and was the MDC's Minister for Women's Affairs in the fragile government of national unity. Her three girls were all university educated – Naomi was a lawyer, engaged to a doctor; Patricia was an engineer; and little Tumi, who was now twenty-three, was a chartered accountant. Thandi had encouraged them all to pursue good careers, which Kenneth fully supported, but he thought it might be nice to see one great-grandchild before he died.
Kenneth's son, Emmerson, stood in the corner of the room, his arms folded. He had barely spoken to his sister. Kenneth's pride in having two children who had risen to the exalted positions of government ministers was tempered by the fact that Emmerson and Thandi were on opposite sides of the political divide, and hated each other.
‘It is lovely, child,’ Kenneth said to Naomi. ‘Thank you, and thank you all for such wonderful presents. I shall listen to Duke Ellington on this little machine as soon as you put his music on it for me, Naomi.’
‘Duke who?’ Naomi rolled her eyes and Kenneth laughed. He was so fortunate. He just wished Patricia was still here with him. And Winston. He looked across at Emmerson.
‘Maybe I should have bought you an iPod instead of a new house, Father. That gadget seems to have been your favourite present today.’
The mood quietened. Kenneth knew Emmerson's own children respected him to the point of fear, and Thandi's children were also intimidated by their famous uncle.
Thandi turned on her brother. ‘Don't be so churlish, Emmerson. The girls bought these presents from their own wages.’
Emmerson unfolded his arms and took a step out of his corner. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Liar,’ Emmerson, said, jabbing a finger at Thandi. ‘You think you are so clever.’
‘Not in front of the children,’ Thandi hissed. ‘Girls, go outside and see to the braai.’
Naomi glared at her uncle but backed down after just a few seconds of his cold, hard stare. Young Kenneth and Sally knew better than to get in their father's way, and were already gone. Thandi's three girls filed out quietly after them. It saddened Kenneth that on the rare occasions they all came together as a family, Emmerson and Thandi usually ended up yelling at each other. Today would be no exception. He sighed.
‘I'll go see to the sadza,’ said Emmerson's wife, Grace.
She was as quiet as a mouse, that Grace, Kenneth thought, as he watched her disappear into the kitchen. She was very well dressed and had a pleasingly rounded bottom and nice full breasts, not that sex was much on Kenneth's mind these days. He had always been faithful to Patricia, and he assumed she had been to him through the long years he'd spent in prison. He wished he could believe that Emmerson was true to his wife, but he very much doubted it. His son had a reputation as a ladies' man which he seemed to do little to deny. Indeed, Kenneth thought Emmerson was probably proud of the way he carried on with women half his age. There had been the pretty Kwaito pop star at the last ZANU–PF conference Kenneth had attended – what, twelve years ago? How time flew as one got older. The way Emmerson had writhed on the dance floor with her, and the way he had kissed her, openly, with his wife still somewhere in the banquet hall of the Kingdom casino at Victoria Falls had shamed his father, as it no doubt had shamed his wife. Kenneth had had words with him the next morning, but Emmerson, possibly still drunk, had told his father to go to hell. It had taken two years for them to speak to each other again. Emmerson had begged forgiveness, and Kenneth had accepted his apology. What else could he do – he was Emmerson's father.
But Kenneth had wondered about the timing of the apology. It had been a tumultuous time for Zimbabwe, back in 1999, when Emmerson had come to him, offering a heartfelt apology and promising he had also apologised to his wife for his philandering, and that it had come to an end. The Third Chimurenga, as the propagandists had dubbed it, was in full swing. As someone who had lived through the Second Chimurenga, the liberation war against the white colonial regime, Kenneth had been mildly offended to see the reclamation and doling-out of white-owned land to party supporters – some o
f whom had not even been born during the struggle, let alone been old enough to take part in it – painted in such terms.
Kenneth was not against land redistribution. In fact, he had championed the notion throughout the struggle, and after independence. He did not want a farm for himself – he was a schoolteacher, and despite his time as head of the Zimbabwean education system, that was how he still thought of himself – but he recognised every Zimbabwean's right to a piece of land to call his own. Land redistribution had gotten off to a good start, after the people's victory in 1980. When white-owned farms came up for sale, the government had first right of refusal to buy them and give them to people who were more needy. Britain had promised funding for compensation to white landowners, but this fell by the wayside as successive British governments paid less and less attention to the newly independent Zimbabwe and increasingly distanced themselves from promises made by their predecessors.
Kenneth felt the government could have done more than it did, even without the British funding, to compensate whites, or perhaps to encourage or even force them into joint ventures with African farmers. He'd spoken to several dispossessed whites in recent years who said that if they'd been told they had to take on a black partner, years ago, then they would have agreed to do so. They might not have liked the arrangement, but it would have been better, in hindsight, than being forced off their land by the mobs that ran riot during the past ten years.
‘What I was saying,’ Thandi said to her brother, hands on hips, ‘is that I'm proud that my children all have professions – proper jobs with good wages, with which they can afford to pay for their grandfather's birthday presents.’
Emmerson spread his hands wide. ‘What you are inferring, my educated sister, is that I did not pay for our father's home – this beautiful new home in which we are standing – out of my own pocket.’
Thandi shrugged. ‘I said no such thing. I'm sure the money was yours, but where did it come from, Emmerson? Are ministers paid so well that they can afford a second home that costs nearly half a million US dollars?’
‘How dare you!’
‘Emmerson, Thandi, please.’ Kenneth coughed. His chest was bothering him more and more as he grew older.
Thandi rounded on him, her eyes ablaze with the same fire he'd seen in them when he'd met her in Mozambique in 1975, on his release from prison. He'd crossed the border the day after Robert Mugabe. Kenneth, Mugabe and other senior figures in the struggle had been released by the whites on the understanding that they would beseech their underlings – ZANU in Mozambique, and ZAPU in Zambia – to enter into a fresh round of peace negotiations with the Smith government. Instead, they had joined the struggle and injected fresh resolve into the ranks of the comrades being trained outside Rhodesia's borders.
Kenneth had been swayed by the unassuming, highly educated Mugabe during the long hours they'd spent studying and discussing politics together in jail. On release, Kenneth had turned his back on the Ndebele-dominated ZAPU and ZIPRA, lead by Joshua Nkomo, and joined the ranks of the mostly Shona ZANU. Kenneth had seen himself as being above tribal allegiances. He had also been able to see what others in his tribe and his former party had not – that Robert Mugabe would gain the upper hand in any power contest. There was enough of the pragmatist in Kenneth to want to serve the winning party.
‘Thank you,’ Kenneth said, but the silence between the siblings barely lasted a few seconds.
Thandi had reluctantly deferred to her father, but Emmerson saw an opportunity and jumped in. ‘Are you saying I stole money, Thandi? Go on, I dare you to make such an allegation in front of our father. You people … you poison this country with your lies and unfounded accusations.’
This time Thandi ignored her father's raised hand. ‘Thieving, parallel market currency exchange, call it what you will. You made millions by using your privilege to change US dollars on the parallel market and then buy back more forex while people were starving in the streets and dying of cholera in the country. You grew fat on our people's misery and your leader orchestrated the whole mess.’
Emmerson took a step towards her, puffing his chest out. ‘How dare you? Be careful what you say in public, sister.’
‘Is that a threat, little brother?’
Emmerson's nostrils flared and he half-raised a fist. For a terrible moment Kenneth feared his hot-headed son might strike his older sister. They had been like that as children. Thandi had sometimes goaded Emmerson to the point where he would lash out at her, even though she was a foot taller than he. Kenneth had missed too much of their childhood after that point. He knew he was partly to blame for the way Emmerson had turned out. The boys had missed a paternal presence during their formative years and Patricia, for all her goodness, was a hothead who wore her hatred of white rule like a badge of honour.
‘It is a word to the wise, though I don't know if you fall into that category any more. You run with a bunch of dogs that are fed scraps by the British and Americans. You are a traitor to your party and your people, Thandi.’
‘In case you haven't read the papers,’ she retorted, ‘even your own partisan rag, the Herald, we are all one big happy family now, Emmerson.’ She put on a smile of mock sweetness. ‘And the MDC is committed to searching out corruption and putting an end to it.’
Kenneth slumped back in the deep leather-upholstered armchair that had come with the house that Emmerson had built him. It was a big house. A beautiful house. But it was too big and too showy for a man of Kenneth's modest tastes. He'd lived well enough when he was director of the education department, and he and Patricia had saved enough to buy a nice house of their own, in Burnside. It was big enough for their grandchildren to stay when they visited, and nice enough that he did not feel embarrassed when friends, such as Paul and Philippa, called on him. Patricia had never warmed to the Bryants, and as such the Bryants did not call on them while she was still alive, but Paul and Pip came often to see him now his wife had passed away. In return, Kenneth enjoyed his regular trips to the Bryants' ranch, and he was fascinated by the good work they were doing conserving the endangered black rhino.
In his wisdom Emmerson had decided that his widowed father needed to live in a six-bedroom mansion. He appreciated his son caring for him, as was the way it should be, but, really, he thought, six bedrooms for one old man? Kenneth sighed.
His children bickered back and forth. It seemed this time that Thandi was pushing harder and Emmerson's threats were not nearly as veiled as they usually were. It had been embarrassing enough for Emmerson when the independent press, muzzled as they were by the government, broke the story that the sister of ZANU–PF heavyweight Emmerson Ngwenya had turned her back on the ruling party and joined Morgan Tsvangirai's rebel Movement for Democratic Change. Things must have become even more uncomfortable for Emmerson when Thandi went on to win a seat in parliament in the 2008 election, and then became the party's spokesperson on women's affairs.
‘The Government of National Unity is a joke, Thandi,’ Emmerson spat.
Kenneth was as surprised as his daughter to hear Emmerson speak so bluntly.
Thandi had no comeback. It was true. After months of stalling over accepting the election results, which the MDC claimed to have won outright and ZANU, even after massive electoral fraud, still maintained it had won by a small majority, Robert Mugabe had finally conceded to the formation of a government of national unity.
‘Is it true,’ Kenneth asked his daughter, ‘that Tsvangirai is considering pulling out of the Government of National Unity?’ He couldn't bear to use the ungainly acronym, GNU, which was also the East African name for a wildebeest. The wildebeest was described by some as an ugly animal, with the long face of a horse, the curved horns of a buffalo, and a billy goat's beard. It looked like it had been put together by a committee, and it had a penchant for running around in circles and shaking its head. Commentators had predictably drawn parallels with the shaky new government.
Thandi looked at the floor. ‘It's not for
me to say, or to speculate, Father.’
‘Ah! There you have it,’ Emmerson said. ‘You people and your colonial masters don't get what you want – unconditional surrender from Africa's greatest leader – so you turn and run away. Typical!’
Africa's greatest leader? Kenneth wondered if his son really believed that. There was a time, not even that long ago, when Kenneth would have agreed. Mugabe had promised so much, and the early days, despite what had happened in Matabeleland, were peaceful and prosperous.
Kenneth turned away from his children and watched the images from Afghanistan, playing on CNN on the widescreen television his son had insisted he needed. The volume was down, but the tragedy of war was evident in the eyes of the victims. It didn't matter which side was doing the killing. Kenneth asked himself if he really believed what he had just thought. Despite what happened in Matabeleland?
If he was honest with himself – and it pained him to realise that he had not been thus, all his life – Kenneth knew he had begun to lose faith in Robert Mugabe in the early to mid 1980s when the Gukurahundi had begun.
The word was Shona for the early rain which washed away the chaff before the spring rains; it referred to operations by the Zimbabwean Army's North Korean-trained 5th Brigade against ZIPRA and ZAPU rebels, following independence.
‘Father?’
Kenneth looked up, away from the television and away from his terrible thoughts of his own guilt. All that is needed, Edmund Burke had written … and he, Kenneth Ngwenya, the principled schoolteacher, so-called hero of the Second Chimurenga, a good man, had done nothing. Evil had prevailed in Zimbabwe because too many of them had allowed it to happen. The recent elections had also been marred by terrible violence; Mugabe's ZANU–PF thugs had tortured and killed opposition activists and forcibly extracted the votes of illiterate people in rural areas through beatings and threats. ‘Sorry, Thandi, my mind was elsewhere.’
She had her hands on her hips again. ‘Did you hear what Emmerson just said? I cannot believe it!’