Echo of an Angry God

by Beverley Harper

  He nodded. ‘Positive. He told me he wouldn’t. My father was a very honourable man. I believe he spoke the truth. However, a few years ago I came across something which, as far as I’m concerned, proved he didn’t.’ He eyed her soberly. ‘Malawi is a different country now. Life is free and people can say what they like. It was not always so. But who knows,’ he shrugged eloquently. ‘There are those who would have us go back to the old ways. If what I am about to tell you gets out . . .’ He left it hanging between them.

  ‘I am only interested in the truth about our fathers. If you help me I will never betray your confidence.’ Lana spoke so vehemently that he smiled.

  Then he seemed to change the subject. ‘When my father died, one of his brothers came to take my mother to his home. That is what happens in our society. The living brothers carry on having the dead brother’s children for him.’

  ‘You mean, your mother married your uncle?’

  ‘Yes. Does it shock you?’

  Lana went silent, thinking about it.

  ‘The truth. If you lie, I will know,’ Moffat said relentlessly.

  ‘Did she have a choice?’

  ‘No.’ He said no more, offering no alternative but to tell the truth.

  ‘It doesn’t shock me.’

  ‘Why not? It shocks most whites.’

  ‘It would only shock me if it happened to me. This is not my way. I accept that your customs are different. However, I would hate it.’

  Moffat laughed, delighted with her frankness. ‘But you would be cared for.’

  ‘I can care for myself.’ She leaned towards him. ‘Let me ask you something. If you were a woman, would you try to find out what happened to your father?’

  He shook his head slowly.

  ‘Do you disapprove that I am trying to do just that? The truth. I’ll know if you lie.’ She grinned at him.

  He was more than a match for her. ‘If you were black, yes. It is not our way. But your customs are different.’

  Lana sat back, satisfied. This man was not only on her side, he was on the same wavelength and, more importantly, the difference in their colour did not seem to bother him. ‘You were telling me that you found proof that your father did not send reports back.’

  He wagged a finger at her. ‘I still am. Tch! I see you must be taught.’

  She knew immediately what he meant. ‘I apologise.’ Then added wickedly, ‘Take your time.’

  Moffat shook his head, smiling. ‘We have a saying in Malawi: Anyamata akwathu buleki ndi pachulu. It means that the impatient reduce their speed by running up a steep hill while the wise go faster by slowing down.’

  ‘We have a similar saying. More haste, less speed. Unfortunately, most of us forget.’

  ‘In Africa, to rush is not only unwise, it is also bad manners. This is our way.’

  ‘Okay. The African way it is.’

  Moffat gave her an approving look. ‘When my mother died my uncle contacted me. He was greatly troubled. It was 1992, the Catholic Church had dared to criticise Banda’s regime and the people were rioting. The Malawi Young Pioneers – they were the armed section of the Congress Party – were intimidating everyone and raiding houses in search of incriminating evidence.’

  Lana put up her hand. ‘Can you explain that?’

  ‘Not really. I think they were doing everything in their power to disrupt the first multi-party general election. Anything they found that was even remotely contentious was taken as a sign of treachery. My uncle had found a file among my mother’s belongings. It was a file belonging to my father. I have no idea how my father got hold of it.’

  Moffat waited for Lana to interrupt, then when she didn’t, and with a note of approval in his voice, went on. ‘In the file was a photocopy of a letter PAGET sent to Minister Matenje accepting the terms and conditions of the survey and agreeing that the survey would be conducted in secret. There was also a handwritten note to Edward Phiri. I have memorised it.’ Moffat finished his second beer. ‘You don’t drink much do you?’

  Lana pushed an untouched bottle over to him. ‘Not as fast as some. Here, you have it.’

  He made no comment, went to drink then set it down. ‘The memo said: “They’re at it again. Replace the assistant Matenje has assigned with one of ours. Make sure he’s reliable and knows nothing. The new PAGET geologist flies in Thursday. John Devereaux. Have our man meet him in Lilongwe. Devereaux is seeing Matenje in Njuli Friday. I want regular reports, same as before.”’ Moffat looked at Lana. ‘The memo was unsigned.’

  ‘That doesn’t prove your father sent no reports.’

  ‘There was a second note: “To date I have received no word. Are you sure the new man is reliable?” I knew my father well. If he’d taken the trouble to get hold of that file he would also have placed in it any reports he sent. You have to trust me on this. He did not send one.’

  ‘Who do you think wrote the notes?’

  ‘I have no idea. Someone in a position to know about the survey, someone trying to discredit Matenje, therefore someone highly placed. Dick Matenje was a high flyer back then. Whoever wrote the notes would have to be similarly placed to be worried about him.’

  Lana was chewing the inside of her mouth. ‘So,’ she said softly. ‘It was political.’

  ‘As far as the survey was concerned, yes.’ He looked grim. ‘But perhaps not a reason for our fathers’ deaths.’ He waved and called a greeting to a man who had just come into the bar. The man waved back, nodded, then turned to face the bar. ‘Why would those men be following you?’ Moffat asked suddenly.

  Lana told him everything that had happened since her arrival. ‘This Tony Davenport thing is worrying,’ she concluded. ‘As far as I know, only two people know who I am and why I’m here. Tony Davenport must be working for one of them.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Your name is unusual. Immigration records could have been seen by a number of people. Someone could easily have made a connection between you and your father.’

  Lana looked grim. ‘I never thought of that. This widens the ball park considerably.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not sure if it’s a good or bad thing.’

  ‘It’s bad.’ Moffat looked worried. ‘Like you, I have been warned. I will speak of that in a minute.’

  He hunched towards her and lowered his voice. ‘Someone knows what happened fifteen years ago. They are trying to frighten you. If they fail . . .’ he shrugged, leaning back again, ‘. . . I do not think they are going to leave it at that.’

  Lana had gone cold. ‘Kill me?’

  Moffat’s eyes were unreadable. ‘They’ve killed before. Whatever reason they had then they have now. It is a dangerous path we take.’

  ‘I didn’t expect this. I thought I could come here and maybe speak to some people who met Dad. It never occurred to me that . . .’ her voice tailed off.

  ‘Are you having second thoughts?’

  ‘I won’t lie to you. These scare tactics are working, especially if they’re being orchestrated by someone in government.’

  Moffat nodded. ‘Your fear is a good thing. I too am scared.’

  ‘But you’ll go ahead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lana reached her decision. ‘So will I.’

  ‘Good. Tell me, the two men you have met, have you any reason to suspect either of them?’

  She thought about it. ‘Not really,’ she said slowly. ‘Tim Gilbey is the Commercial Attache at the British High Commission. Unless the Brits are covering something up, he’s not likely to want to scare me off. Besides, Davenport is hardly going to impersonate Tim . . .’ she broke off as a thought hit her.

  ‘Unless it was assumed you would heed the warning,’ Moffat finished for her. ‘Why wouldn’t he?’

  Lana frowned. ‘I was handed to Tim Gilbey on a plate. If he, or the High Commission, have a reason for scaring me off it would have been terribly easy to arrange. And he was there when I was attacked. That’s pretty coincidental wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘D
oesn’t make sense,’ Moffat stated flatly.

  ‘Nothing makes sense. Why am I being followed? Who wants to know where I go? Is it Davenport himself? Tim? Karl Henning? God, Moffat, what exactly have I stirred up?’

  ‘How did you meet Henning?’

  ‘He sat next to me on the flight from Johannesburg.’

  ‘Mmmm.’ Moffat looked thoughtful. ‘That would have been impossible to arrange.’

  ‘He had no idea who I was.’ Lana frowned. ‘Mind you, when he did discover my name it seemed to throw him.’ She told Moffat of Karl’s invitation to lunch Saturday, and to go sailing. ‘Meeting Karl on the plane was pure coincidence but there’s something about him that bothers me. Whether I accept his invitation . . .’ she shrugged. ‘I really can’t decide.’

  ‘We must both be careful. It is best we are not seen together.’

  Lana nodded, then looked worried. ‘What if I was followed here?’

  ‘You were not.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I expected you today. I have friends. The man who just came in here is one of them. You were followed when you left the hotel but . . .’ he grinned. ‘Those men had a little car trouble.’

  Lana laughed. ‘Good stuff.’

  ‘It was not for you alone that this was arranged. I must also protect my family.’

  ‘Why are you worried about your family?’

  Moffat drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. ‘I do not wish to worry you further but I think you should know this,’ he said finally. ‘When I found that file I tried to make enquiries. I got absolutely nowhere. At the time I thought it was because I was asking questions about the late Minister Matenje.’

  ‘That makes sense. Was Banda still President?’

  ‘Yes. I know what you’re thinking but I have my doubts. Banda was in trouble and on the way out. He had just called a referendum on multi-party democracy and two thirds of the population had voted in favour of it. The mood in government was suddenly more democratic than America.’

  ‘Did you find out anything at all?’

  ‘Yes,’ Moffat said soberly. ‘I found out that someone, and I have no idea who, got to hear I was asking questions and decided to warn me off. My wife was followed. Two men tailed her everywhere. They made no attempt to hide from her – they wanted her to see them. It was enough for me. I stopped asking questions.’

  ‘And you’ve been left alone?’

  ‘Someone slit the throat of our last goat. After that we were left alone.’

  ‘Why did you agree to see me then?’

  ‘I wanted to meet you. I too feel that we are somehow connected.’

  ‘There’s a woman up in Karonga who knew our fathers.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Sarah Fotheringham. She reported them missing.’

  ‘How did you learn this?’

  ‘Karl Henning let her name slip. Then he tried to cover up by telling me she was dead. It was Tim Gilbey who told me she was still alive.’

  ‘I lived in Karonga but I never spoke to Miss Fotheringham although, of course, I know of her – everyone does. This is the first I’ve heard that she knew our fathers.’ Moffat thought for a moment. ‘The answer is in Karonga, I’m sure of it.’ He was drumming his fingers again. ‘I know I said we must not be seen together but this is too important. I will go there with you.’

  ‘What about your family?’

  ‘They will go to my uncle’s village. It is safe there.’

  They locked eyes. ‘God I hope we can find something. Someone should pay for this.’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘Stop running around the ball.’

  THIRTEEN

  There was a fair number of heavy, tobacco laden trucks on the road north of Lilongwe and Moffat, who was driving, was unusually silent as he concentrated on the road. Lana’s mind kept wandering back over the past two days. They had been extraordinary days. She was no longer alone in her quest. Moffat was completely on her side and at her side. Not only had he insisted on coming to Karonga with her, he had also convinced her to attend Karl Henning’s lunch party. As he put it, ‘We will say I am your driver. That way, I will be sent to sit with the servants. It is interesting how many secrets servants know about their master.’

  When Lana expressed doubt, worried that Karl would recognise Moffat, he had said, ‘Karl Henning doesn’t know I exist, let alone what I look like.’

  ‘Are you sure of that? What about your goat?’

  His reply worried her. ‘I believe there are two issues here. It is as I said before. The secrecy and spying about the survey was political. I believe, however, that our fathers’ deaths was something quite different.’

  Which left Lana wondering just how many enemies they had out there. She was glad Moffat was with her. He was as committed as she to finding out what happened to their fathers and would do everything in his power to help. It was a sense of togetherness, a feeling of unity, that two heads were better than one, that was not only reassuring, it was profoundly moving. As an only child, Lana had never experienced sibling kinship. She rather felt now that this is how it would feel.

  It seemed impossible that it was only two days ago that she and Moffat had met. They had left the bar and gone back to his house. Somehow, in the magical way news has of travelling in Africa, a stream of visitors came by to greet her. Smiling, friendly faces, caring, gentle people, polite and interested, their sincerity worn on open faces, there to read, like lines on a page. They all had questions, they all had stories, and as she sat surrounded by these people, Lana thought how easy it would be to throw off her Western way of life.

  The day ended far too soon. At Moffat’s insistence she returned to the hotel well before dark. ‘There will be those watching for your return,’ he warned.

  And there had been. Lana wondered how she had failed to notice them the day before. They were waiting in the lobby. Two men. Bored indifference suddenly replaced by too quick movements and furtive glances as both sauntered casually closer to where Lana waited for her room key. ‘I think these gentlemen were before me,’ Lana said innocently to the receptionist. Their obvious embarrassment and hasty departure gave her great satisfaction.

  She had arranged to meet Moffat in the morning about thirty kilometres west of Lilongwe, on the Namitete Road. ‘Do not worry about being followed,’ he had said, after giving her directions. ‘It will be taken care of.’

  And it had been. The car behind was obvious as she left the hotel but, minutes later, it fell quickly behind and stopped, steam billowing from under the bonnet.

  The Namitete Road was quiet and Moffat had assured her they wouldn’t be seen. She wondered what he was planning. All he would say yesterday was, ‘When in Africa, do as the Africans do.’ Rounding a bend there was his car. Lana slowed and began to pull in behind but he’d been watching for her and drove off, waving that she should follow.

  They drove another fifteen kilometres before he turned onto a barely discernible track and cut across country. Dry, brown grass grew nearly as tall as her car. Ten minutes later the track opened into a shaded clearing and Moffat stopped. Lana pulled up behind and got out. His wide smile of greeting, and the bear hug that went with it, said it all. The sense of kinship was still real. ‘I understand two of our friends developed a little more car trouble,’ he said, grinning.

  ‘I felt so sorry for them,’ Lana said, pseudo serious. ‘Poor things.’

  Moffat laughed. He looked keyed up, excited and a little nervous. ‘We walk from here. But first, I have things to tell you.’

  This was a different Moffat to yesterday. He had been confident and in charge then. Today he had an air of apprehension.

  ‘You and I, we are of one heart.’

  She nodded.

  ‘But we are from different worlds.’

  Lana remained silent, sensing he was groping his way.

  ‘In Africa our ways will often be strange to you.’

  She watched his face, wondering what he was buildin
g up to.

  ‘Some things are hard to explain. This does not make them untrue. There is truth, even when you cannot see it. Do you understand that?’

  ‘God?’ Was this what he was planning – some kind of church meeting?

  Moffat shook his head. ‘Not God. People with magic powers. Once there were many in Africa but now there are only a few. Their ways are strange. We are going to see one such man. He is the Nganga.’

  ‘Nganga?’

  ‘That is how we call him.’

  The penny dropped. ‘Do you mean a witchdoctor!’

  Moffat simply smiled. ‘Do not worry. I am told that in your country people also go to see those who can predict their future.’

  ‘A witchdoctor!’

  He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her face. ‘He will do you no harm. If we are lucky, he will help us. You must do exactly as I say and you must not speak. Do you promise?’

  Lana’s heart stepped up its rhythm slightly. This was not something she had bargained on. ‘This won’t work, Moffat. Witchdoctors rely on the beliefs of others, that’s their power. How can he help me?’

  ‘All I ask is that you keep an open mind. Will you do that?’

  He looked so earnest. Lana could not believe that someone who had worn a business suit the day before could today be pleading with her to believe in witchdoctors. ‘I’ll do it for you but I have to tell you, Moffat, that I find the concept of witchdoctors a bit bizarre.’

  He smiled. ‘I am looking forward to discussing this after we have seen the Nganga.’

  She left it. The experience would at least be memorable. ‘How far do we walk?’

  ‘Not far.’ He pointed. ‘See those trees? He lives there.’

  Lana looked. The trees were about three kilometres away. ‘Why not drive?’

  Moffat laughed. ‘What is this? Are you too lazy to walk?’ He turned towards the distant trees. ‘We cannot drive. It is a sacred place and must be treated respectfully. Our cars would disturb the spirits. Come. You will enjoy the walk.’

  He was right. The morning sun was warm on her shoulders but had not burned off the last of the night chill. Dew sparkled on the grass and the dampness of it raised a smell of pleasant earthiness from the sandy track. The wide blue sky carried no clouds and the air was like champagne, sharp and effervescent. Moffat commented periodically on the sights and sounds of the bush. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘do you hear that bird? It’s a Mokoe. He’s saying go-way, go-way.’