Echo of an Angry God

by Beverley Harper

  ‘Frederick is a strange man,’ the Bishop volunteered. ‘Solitary sort of person. Secretive too. I think he’s an unhappy man. We cleaned out his room after he left us. He’d occupied it for nearly twenty years. No pictures, no rug, nothing to make it more comfortable. Sad isn’t it? We tried to involve him more but,’ the Bishop shrugged, ‘he just kept to himself.’

  There was general agreement around the table that Frederick Hamilton had made no friends, rarely went on home leave, was a diligent worker and generally not liked either by his colleagues or the island people. Tim got the impression that the Bishop felt, in some way, that by failing to get through to Hamilton, the Bishop had somehow failed the man.

  The subject died and Tim didn’t bring it back. The evening ended abruptly, just after nine. Father Smice loaned Tim a torch and he made his way back to the camp. As tempting as it was to pick the lock and have a look in the crypt on the way past, Tim left it. He doubted very much that the documents would still be there and besides, Father Smice’s explanation about consecrated ground made the idea less attractive. If the occasion warranted it, Tim would not hesitate to enter the crypt but there was little point in upsetting the priests for no good reason.

  The little he had learned about Frederick Hamilton during the evening gave rise to a few problems. No obvious friend with whom the documents might have been left. An austere room which had been cleaned, no doubt thoroughly, and which probably offered no hiding place. No regular activity which might have pinpointed a place where the documents might have been secreted. ‘About all I can do,’ Tim decided, ‘is to wait for Hamilton and follow him.’

  At around midnight, the man who was known as Mpasa slipped into a deeper sleep – a sleep so deep that images from the past crowded together in a jumble of unrelated incidences – memories which had the man twitching and sweating and flinging his head from side to side. It was always like this. The nightmare which drained his energy, confused and frightened him, leaving him weeping and shaking for days after. In this level of consciousness, people spoke a strange language but he had no trouble understanding it. Only afterwards, once he’d woken, did the words become meaningless.

  There was fear – a great fear – and pain and cold and arms which felt too heavy to move. A little girl was in front of him, laughing and swimming, always out of reach. He had to catch her but when he got to where she was, she had moved again. A great evil was behind him. He did not know what, just knew he had to get away from it. He was falling, falling, down and down.

  As always, once the nightmare gripped him, John Devereaux began to shout. As always, someone came quietly to him to wrap him in their arms and comfort him through to wakefulness. As always, as the nightmare faded away, John Devereaux was left with nothing but fear and the sobs which shook his body for days. And, as always, along with the fear, an abiding sadness – a sense of having lost something precious.

  Tim was just finishing breakfast the next morning when he heard the aeroplane. Leaving his coffee, Tim made his way, along with other curious inhabitants of Chipyela, to the airstrip and arrived just in time to see a lone passenger alight. He recognised him from photographs Martin Flower had sent in the diplomatic bag a few days ago. Frederick Hamilton had arrived.

  SIXTEEN

  Lana and Moffat were beginning to believe they would never reach Karonga. The 350-kilometre stretch between Kasungu and Mzuzu took a little over four hours and it was fully dark when they finally stopped in Mzuzu for something to eat. By 8.30 they were on the road again, heading south-east towards the lake and then north on the lakeshore road through Livingstonia and on up past Chilumba where Karl’s yacht was moored.

  The condition of the roads ran the gauntlet from excellent to suicidal. Once they reached the lakeshore road they spelled each other at the wheel every two hours while the other tried to sleep in the back. Lana had managed several catnaps. Moffat didn’t sleep at all but lay with his eyes shut, resting, periodically making comments which – for the most part – were so vague that Lana felt he might as well be asleep.

  She drove through Chilumba, not stopping to locate the harbour. Just outside the town, she pulled to the side of the road. ‘Your turn.’

  Moffat sat up. ‘Only about seventy kilometres to go,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Want me to keep driving?’

  ‘No. Let’s just take a break. I’ll be fine in a minute.’ He opened his door and got out. ‘Come on, out you get. Stretch those legs.’

  ‘Thank God!’ Lana walked around the car, trying to ease cramped muscles. She had been at the wheel as they climbed away from the lake just before Livingstonia. She lost count of the tight, hairpin bends, and Moffat’s comment, ‘Just be thankful you can’t see the drop,’ hadn’t done much to help.

  They stood together, sipping from cans of soft drink, the darkness and silence engulfing them. The night was almost uncomfortably warm.

  ‘Karl Henning is guilty. I can feel it in my bones,’ Lana said suddenly. She heard the rustle of clothing as Moffat moved beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. She leaned her head against his arm.

  ‘What would the white way be if we find out it was him?’

  ‘Report him to the proper authorities. How about you?’

  ‘The African way you mean?’ His voice held a note of anger. ‘He would find that his crops had failed. His machinery would break down all the time. His servants would become troublesome. His house would burn down. If he had children, they would become sick and die. If he had cattle, they would die.’

  ‘And how would you organise all that?’ she teased him. ‘The Nganga?’

  ‘Do not mock his powers, Lana. These things are possible.’

  ‘Only if you believe.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Many whites in this country use a witchdoctor. They only half believe.’

  ‘How strange,’ she murmured. Tiredness washed over her. The strong warmth of Moffat’s arm was comforting. He seemed so solid, so . . . there. ‘Moffat?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What’s it like for you? I mean, you seem to be stuck in the middle of two cultures. I don’t have that problem. I am what I am. But you . . . old African ways are just as strong in you as the more recently acquired European ways. Doesn’t it confuse you?’

  He moved slightly, shifting the weight of his arm around her shoulder. ‘Sometimes,’ he admitted. ‘It will be even worse for my children.’

  ‘How do you cope?’

  He grunted, amused. ‘What makes you think I cope?’

  She turned her head in his direction. ‘You cope, of course you do. You’re one of the most laid-back people I’ve ever met.’ She hesitated, not sure if he would be offended by her words. ‘What’s more,’ she said eventually, ‘you manage to combine your own traditions with mine with little or no effort. You keep your African identity while, at the same time, you move effortlessly through mine. I think it’s wonderful but – and I have to ask – do you resent it?’

  He was silent for almost a minute. ‘Yes,’ he said finally.

  ‘Because of our arrogance?’

  ‘Because in your arrogance you expect me to cope.’

  ‘Ouch!’ she said softly.

  He moved again so that he faced her, both arms draped casually over her shoulders. ‘You are very different.’

  She could just make out his silhouette in the darkness. ‘My mother is South African. She went out of her way to teach me that the policies in her country were wrong. It’s a lesson I learned well and, I guess, because we were always visiting South Africa, I had plenty of opportunity to see for myself what she was trying to teach me. Thank you for saying I’m different.’

  He moved away abruptly. ‘We should not stand like this, you and I.’

  ‘Why not?’ She was surprised. ‘We’re friends.’

  ‘Do you really want me to tell you?’ His voice was serious in the dark velvet night.

  She understood suddenly. ‘That was stupid of me, Moffat. I apologise.’
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br />   He was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, he did so in a lighter tone. ‘I have never met a white person like you.’

  ‘Why do you keep drawing that comparison between us?’

  ‘I don’t believe you are blind to the differences.’

  ‘Can’t we just judge each other as humans?’

  ‘Aren’t we doing that already, you and I?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said slowly. ‘Even so, the differences between us make us look at each other more closely.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’ Moffat thought for a moment. ‘You could be right. My culture dictates my behaviour. It is deeply ingrained.’ He moved near to her again and leaned against the car. ‘Look, you are very attractive but I have seen many beautiful white women. It’s your attitude that’s got to me. You intrigue me. If I didn’t know better I’d say I was falling in love with you. That is strictly taboo. For many, many years Malawians were actively encouraged to have as little as possible to do with whites socially, but it’s more than that. In our culture it is okay for a man to have more than one wife. In our culture it is okay for a man to go with the hostesses in the bars. But, Lana, it is not okay for a man to have an extramarital affair and it is especially not okay for a man to have one with a white woman. Now do you understand?’

  Lana understood how difficult it must have been for Moffat to say those things. She wanted to hug him but knew it would be unwise. What he needed from her, as he struggled with his emotions, was help. ‘Moffat,’ she said gently. ‘You have told me about your culture. Let me tell you about mine. It is not okay to have an affair although many people do. But deeply ingrained inside me, that’s me and not wholesale whites in general, is that I would never go with a man I knew to be married. I want us to be easy together but if that’s hard for you I’ll understand.’ Have I said the right thing?

  ‘I want us to be easy together too. I’m sorry. I’m ruining everything.’

  ‘No. Truth between friends is better out in the open.’

  ‘Come here.’ He wrapped her in his arms. ‘Experimental hug.’ She felt his lips on her hair, then her cheek and finally, on her own lips. It was a light kiss and Lana made no move to either respond or pull away. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered, moving back from her. ‘That will not happen again.’

  ‘That bad was it?’ She desperately wanted to lighten the atmosphere and it worked.

  Moffat laughed.

  ‘Come on,’ she urged him. ‘Only an hour to Karonga.’

  He seemed relieved to be talking about something else. ‘An hour! A bicycle can get there faster than us. Wait till you see the road.’

  He had not been wrong. The journey took just over three hours. Lana gave up trying to sleep in the back, it was too bumpy. She climbed into the front seat and hung on grimly.

  It was an hour before dawn when they finally drove through the deserted and dimly lit town of Karonga. Lana looked around with interest. It was larger than she expected. Shops of all descriptions – bottle shops, grocery stores, hairdressing salons, clinics, bars, general stores – all set well back off the road, most of them squat rectangles with barred windows and wooden verandahs. By contrast, a large Bata shoe wholesale depot and a very grand post office, both made from home-fired bricks, dominated the area near a newly built bus depot. At this hour, the only thing moving on the road were grazing hump-backed zebra cattle.

  They reached a large roundabout. ‘That was Old Town we passed through,’ Moffat told her. ‘The newer parts of Karonga are closer to the lake.’

  ‘Where will we sleep?’

  ‘Friends,’ he said briefly.

  ‘At this hour?’

  ‘At this hour.’ He pointed right. ‘See that place?’

  Lana could just make out a solid, two-storey building.

  Moffat slowed the car. ‘That’s the old District Commissioner’s office. See the cannon? It’s one that was used to shell Mlozi’s stockade.’

  ‘The slaver?’

  Moffat speeded up again. ‘The lake is at the end of this road. We’ll come back in the morning. Your father and mine camped there.’ He turned left onto a sandy track. ‘Nearly there.’ He stopped finally outside a neat brick house. ‘Come. Let’s go and wake them up.’

  Feeling somewhat intrusive, Lana followed Moffat to the front door where he banged and shouted loudly. She needn’t have worried. A light went on inside and a man appeared sleepily at the door. When he saw Moffat, his face creased into a huge grin and the two of them spent some time thumping each other and laughing. Lana hung back but Moffat beckoned her forward. As she came into the light the other man’s face was a picture of consternation. ‘Mzungu!’ he gasped, and let forth a stream of Chichewa.

  Moffat was laughing and shaking his head. ‘He is horrified I bring a white woman here,’ he told Lana, raising his voice over the barrage of words. ‘When he calms down, I will explain.’

  The man’s wife appeared, clutching a robe around her ample frame. Like her husband, she was delighted to see Moffat and aghast to see Lana. However, she politely indicated they should come inside, showed Lana to a chair and sat opposite her, staring and occasionally shaking her head.

  Moffat said to Lana, ‘We will all speak English for your benefit but, first, let me tell them quickly why we are here. It will be easier in Chichewa.’

  Lana watched their faces closely as Moffat explained. Their obvious relief, as the situation became clear to them, told Lana far more than Moffat had been able to about Malawi customs and taboos. Once they understood, Moffat reverted to English. ‘These are my best friends. They are like brother and sister to me. This man is Daniel and his wife is Dorcas. They are the Namoko family.’ Moffat turned to his friends. ‘This woman is also our sister. Her name is Lana.’

  Daniel Namoko rose and approached Lana. ‘You are most welcome.’ He put out his hand and Lana was only just able to manage the palm, thumb, palm clasp. Daniel’s eyes twinkled. ‘You will learn,’ he told her kindly. He clapped his hands. ‘You will be thirsty.’

  Dorcas Namoko rose quickly. ‘I will bring beer.’

  Despite having been woken so early, the Namokos insisted on preparing food for Lana and Moffat and, while they were eating, Dorcas had quietly gone into her bedroom, changed the bed linen and then insisted that Lana sleep in the main bedroom. When she said she couldn’t possibly put them out to that extent, Lana was left in no doubt that if she refused their hospitality they would be mortified. As she stretched out between cool sheets she could not help but reflect what her own reaction might have been had a friend arrived unannounced, in the middle of the night, with a stranger in tow.

  In the morning Lana and Moffat drove to the spot where Moffat thought their fathers might have been camped. Lana was doubtful. ‘The water must be half a kilometre away. Surely they would have camped where they had access to it.’

  ‘The water is very low now. In 1983 the lake rose to its highest level in living memory. This bank would have been right on the edge.’

  Lana looked out across the undulating white sand to the shimmering silver brilliance of the lake. It was a beautiful sight. The Livingstone Mountains some fifty kilometres away in Tanzania appeared to rise sheer out of the water. Fish eagles called their high and wild cry from the tops of trees. Whitecaps flared briefly in the shallow water. Further out, about a kilometre away, a line of darker blue showed where the lake bed shelved down. To the left, the beach curved out to a spit of land. To the right, far in the distance, the high plateau of Nyika dropped abruptly into the water. Moffat’s guess had been correct. They were standing on the very spot where John Devereaux and Jonah Kadamanja had pitched their tents when Jonah became ill with malaria.

  Half an hour later they pulled up outside a neat whitewashed house set in a well-tended garden. The sign on the gate simply said SARAH FOTHERINGHAM. Several women, with babies snug in blankets on their backs, were sitting on the steps leading up to the front door. They glanced shyly at Lana and Moffat, then giggled when M
offat spoke to them. One of them replied, her eyes lowered in what, Lana had learned, was a mark of respect.

  ‘She has someone with her,’ Moffat translated.

  Ten minutes later, a very old man appeared from inside the clinic. The waiting women jumped up, went to him and helped him down the steps. They bore him away with such tender solicitude that Lana thought he must be their Chief. ‘Next,’ a voice called from inside.

  Lana and Moffat went into the clinic. It was a single room, about five metres long with a desk at one end and cupboards behind it. A table along one wall carried an old-fashioned set of scales. A small white blanket folded in the metal dish told Lana that it was used for weighing babies. Several chairs were at the other end of the room with some magazines stacked neatly on an old tin trunk which served as a coffee table. A tiny woman was seated behind the desk writing something on what looked like a patient’s record card. ‘Take a seat please,’ she said in English, not looking up.

  Lana and Moffat went to the chairs and sat down. Lana watched Sarah Fotheringham. Her hair was snowy white and caught up in a bun. Strands escaped and fell in wisps around her face. She kept pushing round wire glasses impatiently back up her nose. She was wearing a loose white blouse and, under the table, Lana could see white socks and old tennis shoes on her neatly crossed feet. She wrote slowly and held the pen awkwardly, as if arthritis had crippled her hand.

  Suddenly Sarah Fotheringham looked up and smiled. ‘And what brings you here today, Mr Kadamanja?’ Without waiting for his reply she addressed Lana. ‘Did you know that Kadamanja means “dirty hands”? Probably a most unsuitable and inaccurate name for Jonah Kadamanja’s son if he is anything like his father.’ Her face, when she smiled again, was like a beautiful etching. The fine features had not suffered unduly from age and her eyes were clear and full of wisdom. They also held a trace of impish naughtiness. ‘I see I have taken your breath away, Mr Kadamanja.’

  Moffat cleared his throat. ‘How did you know?’