by Linda Ihle
BUMI
1.
Sweat cascaded down her forehead and scalp, the beads coursing into light brown eyebrows, hesitating briefly there before pushing through to find the smooth line of eyelid, streaming on down into tear ducts already inflamed with irritation, thrusting salty marauders into the corners of her open, panting mouth, dripping into her scalding throat. Sweat darkened strands of fine, honey-blonde hair, pasting them to scalp, cheeks, neck and forehead. Slowed by the jut of chin and jaw, it oozed down her throat pooling in the front clasp of her bra, then radiated outward under her breasts where it clung to the fragile cloth, before a few drops escaped to course down her stomach and abdomen and into the thick bush of pubic hair where they hesitated longer, seemingly thwarted by this impediment, before descending into the cotton panel of her panties. It poured from the back of her head coursing down her spine and into the valley formed by her buttocks. It soaked into the elastic of her panties, drenching and discoloring it.
Still Devin ran, panting becoming a heaving for each breath now, and wishing she had stopped smoking 10 years ago; or that she had never started. The breathless, white-hot air of midday burned into her chest and throat. A cramp needled into the flesh above her left hip. The scorching sandy soil of a barely discernible path burned the soles of her feet, hard and heel-cracked as they were; small hidden stones assaulted heels and insteps. The waist-high brown grass along either side of the path thrashed at her legs as she passed, leaving fine scarlet welts. And every now and then the grass would hide the jutting branch of a wag’n bietjie bush, its curved, brown thorns tearing at her flesh as she thrust past. They sliced into calves and thighs and buttocks and arms and torso, and clutched and tore at the fabric of her bra and panties.
Her shorts and blouse had long since been discarded, wrenched off and thrown behind her in an effort to distract the elephant. Above the roaring of blood in her ears she could still hear the pounding of its feet behind her. About a half-mile or so back, she had also been able to feel the vibrations of its passage. These now had diminished. He had probably stopped to gore and trample the clothing. Now she sought through blurred vision a suitable tree to climb. Preferably one not housing a napping leopard.
Devin pushed on, her pounding feet raising small plumes of dust, as the path took a more upward direction toward the top of a small kopje[1]. She crested the rise and looking down saw a sparse mopane forest at the outskirts of which were a couple of large msasa trees and near them a huge marula tree, laden with ripening fruit. Just beyond the forest were several baobabs scattered like spastic giants across the brown and yellow veldt. She ran down the sandy slope studded here and there with giant gunmetal-grey boulders, smoothed and polished by wind and rain. Lizards and geckos bathing in the noonday sun scattered as the vibrations of her headlong descent beat into the rocks.
The shade cast by the giant marula was shocking after that run, like ice on a sunburn, but ultimately relieving. Devin sought it greedily, but warily. She slowed to a rapid walk and peered up through sweat blurred eyes into the branches. No tell-tale spotted tails swung lazily from any of the limbs. She walked to the base of the massive trunk and concentrated on the leafy boughs, seeking the lime-green slither of a boomslang or mamba and saw none. She climbed, pulling herself up on the lower branches and up through an intricate maze of forks, watching all the time for other creatures which might also have sought this shelter. Each gnarled and rough limb was scrutinized before she placed hand or foot on it.
What is it they say? Nine minutes for a boomslang, and no antivenin anyway? Or is that for a black mamba? Or a green mamba? Or is it all bullshit? Devin shook her head, and cooled drops of sweat flew from her face, spattering onto the leaves around her.
She sought the topmost large fork and stood in it, legs and feet quivering, shaking hands clasping flimsy foliage, so that she could see above the canopy of the tree. The top of the kopje she had just crossed seemed so distant, so small, the boulders like pebbles, all blurred by the lingering prisms of perspiration floating across her pupils. As she watched, her pursuer appeared upon the rise of the small hill and stopped short there. A young bull elephant, his tusks protruding only about two feet, raised his trunk, sniffing the air, then trumpeted angrily, his huge ears thrust forward. From far off came an answering trumpet, then another. The elephant snorted, trumpeted again, pawed at the ground in seeming frustration, then turned and was gone.
2.
From somewhere to her left, Devin heard the cough of a leopard and the distinctive barking shriek of a baboon. Lunch. The number of animals in the vicinity, and the trees, especially a fat, green, sausage tree about 100 yards off, led her to believe there would be water somewhere close, perhaps just a waterhole or, with luck, the Bumi River. And if that were nearby, it might have retained some water from the last rain. The sound of the leopard, though, gave her pause. She was in no condition to fight for a sip of water. She peered down through the leaves and saw that the tree’s first major fork formed a bowl and, in that, something glistened.
She started down, slowly, her legs shaking. Reaching the bottom fork, she found it did indeed hold water. How fresh was of no consequence -- she dipped her hands into it and raised them cupped to her mouth and drank. As she slaked her thirst and soothed her aching throat, bursting the hot, dry-air bubble there that had threatened to choke her, she heard something that made the hair along the back of her neck rise. It was laughter, chatter. The sound of men, black men. Her stomach turned to ice, and she clambered back up to the top of the tree, curling herself into a fork there, no legs dangling, arms crossed around the top of her head, and peered between her knees in the direction of the noise.
Within minutes she saw them: three soldiers and a young woman, possibly a chimbwido[2], making their way along a footpath through the small valley around the mopane and msasa trees. The men walked nonchalantly, AK-47s flung over their shoulders, light khaki pants faded and patched, tucked into worn and tattered black boots held on only by makeshift laces. If not for the weapons, lack of camouflage uniform and the state of the men’s boots, it would have been otherwise difficult for her to tell which side they were on: If their boots had been in better repair, they would, possibly, have been on the right side, for her anyway. Unless, of course, they were Selous Scouts. Either way, she was taking no chances.
As they approached, she held her breath, trying to sit as still as possible and thanking the fates for all that sweat and dust that had turned her pink underwear brown and grimy and washed away any scent of deodorant. Now she blended with her perch. She listened to their speech, attempting to determine the language, whether Sindebele or Shona, and soon concluded it was the latter, one in which she was far from fluent. Most of her nannies had been Ndebele and she had learned some of their tongue, mixed with a considerable dose of fanagalo or as her father was wont to call it, kitchen kaffir.
Now as she watched and listened, she managed to pick out a couple of words here and there that she understood. She was so intent on eavesdropping, however, that it was not until they settled themselves at the base of her tree that she realized, with mounting horror, that they meant to stay there, at least for a while. The female, a tall, thin, very dark-skinned black girl, barefoot and clad in a faded cotton dress, with a bright orange and green doek[3] wrapped around her close-cropped hair, had been carrying a kerosene can balanced on her head. Now she removed that as she squatted under the spreading limbs, as well as the wad of cloth she had used to cushion the edges of the can. The can looked to be filled with water, again confirming Devin’s suspicions that water was indeed available nearby. Which way, though?
They maintained their chatter as the girl picked up a stick and proceeded to dig a shallow hole at the base of the tree, where she placed the can of water. She squatted, feet a
nd gnarled toes splayed, while she removed her doek and used it to wipe the perspiration from her brow, neck and armpits. That accomplished, she shook the doek out, folded it carefully, and tied it back around her head. Two of her male companions had walked off into the bush at the bottom slope of the kopje.
Devin sought them out, and finally found them: One was urinating copiously on one of the shiny black boulders. The other squatted behind an anthill, obviously taking his constitutional as Devin’s mother preferred, or doing a job as her grandmother would say. She wondered what their reactions would be if they knew she was witnessing both bodily functions and performed by black men. They’d probably have a fit and end up having to take tranquillizers, she thought and almost giggled out loud. The voice of the third black man at the base of the tree brought her suddenly back to reality and her scalp prickled as she realized how close she had come to giving herself away.
She looked down through the thicket of leaves and branches and noted that the girl, whom she determined could not be more than 14 or 15 years old, was preparing a small fire while the soldier sat and leaned his back against the rough bark of the tree. His hair was long, dirty, and unruly indicating he had been in the bush a while. She wondered if these three had had anything to do with the shoot-down, then dismissed that thought -- none of them was carrying anything remotely resembling a ground-to-air missile launcher. Their conversation, too, would likely have transmitted the excitement of that small victory -- shooting down a civilian plane, then seeking out any survivors for some fun and games. Devin had picked up nothing of that nature in the idle chatter of the foursome. Maybe they had not even heard about it; none appeared to be carrying a radio transmitter.
She shivered causing the perch to jiggle ever so slightly, then sat dead still, her breath in her throat, and stared downward to see if the motion had been detected. Her company indicated otherwise, merely continued their conversation. The girl stuck some dry grass under the twigs and lit it with a lighter proffered by the soldier. From where Devin sat, the lighter looked very much like a gold Ronson her father had occasionally carried. The girl fanned the small flame with her hand, blew on it gently, and it grew, consuming the dry twigs. The soldier handed her a tin cup and she pulled the kerosene can from its hole and filled the cup with water. She placed it on the flames that rose now from the middle of the fire, then took a small packet of tea leaves from a pocket and spilled some into the cup.
As the water began to boil, the other two soldiers returned and took their places under the tree. Each handed the girl a cup and she prepared tea for them. One took a small can of condensed milk from his backpack, opened it with a knife and poured a generous amount into his steaming cup. He offered the milk to his comrades, each of whom took a little, before stirring the tea with the knife blade, and wiping it on his jacket when he had accomplished that task. Some of the tea leaves rose to the surface of the orange-brown brew and he waited for them to settle before he took a sip. When he had finished, he handed the cup to the girl, who took it with both hands extended, palms out and cupped, a gesture of submission and respect. She filled it with water and made herself a cup of tea.
How remarkably civilized (and chauvinistic), Devin thought, as she gazed down upon this tranquil scene. She had heard about the children leaving the protected villages or ‘keeps’ to serve the comrades and was convinced that that was exactly what this girl had done – become a chimbwido, drawn by empty promises, a maidservant in the name of the struggle for freedom. She knew too of the tales of rape and murder that trailed these children, their brothers becoming mujibas and, as the war progressed, more inclined to sell out their own relatives for monetary or other imagined rewards. Retribution for those identified as sell-outs was swift and vicious. Devin suppressed a shudder. She could see down into the barrel of one of the automatic rifles propped against the tree, and down the back of the filthy trousers of the man leaning there next to his weapon. He appeared to be wearing red underpants, for luck, underlining her earlier conclusion that these soldiers would not take kindly to her. She wondered at the mentality, the gullibility of these men who would don specific colors to save their own skin. She had read reports that the security forces had discovered the trend when large numbers of guerrilla corpses wearing red underpants had started to turn up in the daily body counts. One of those fortunate enough to have escaped a bullet (no word on the colour of his underpants), but not capture, had talked his head off; or so the papers said.
Devin’s calves had begun to cramp and her bladder ached for release, but still she dared not move. She also feared falling asleep lest she topple down into the lap of the guerrilla immediately below. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them slowly again to maintain her watch. The sun had moved westward and downward and she guessed the time at about 2:30-3:00 o’clock. It would descend in a sudden and abrupt blaze of glory in about three hours.
She raised her head to rest her chin on her folded arms over her knees and watched a small black ant make its way through the forest of fine blonde hair on her forearm. She resisted the urge to brush it off and so let it make its way over the rise of muscle and down onto her naked grimy knee. A small bird landed on a branch close to her, looked down, saw her and took off with an indignant shriek. A hamerkop called from a tree nearby, and was answered by another, then quiet prevailed except for the white sound of bees, flies, and other insects busy in the drowsy afternoon.
Some movement below her perch caught her attention and she slowly moved her head back under her arms so that she could peer between her knees again. The girl below doused the fire, moved back into the deeper shade of the tree below Devin’s perch and lay down to sleep. The soldier immediately below Devin had placed his arms upon his knees and his head on his arms. He was either asleep or close to it. One of his companions, also leaning against the tree, had assumed the same position. She could see only the top of his Castro-style, faded khaki cap, his rusty rifle barrel pointed toward his boots. The third soldier was nowhere in sight. Devin panicked and again felt that sensation of ice being shoved up into her bowels. She gingerly raised her arms to release her head and peered around the area. She looked over to where the two soldiers had answered nature’s call – nothing moved.
She twisted her head slowly as far as she could to the right until she could see down the west side of the tree. He wasn’t there. She repeated the exercise, looking down the other side. Nothing. Well, he sure as hell isn’t up in the tree with me, she chided herself. Hell, if I hadn’t heard and felt him climbing up here, I damn well would have smelled him.
Minutes passed as she scanned her surroundings, careful not to quickly move her head as panic threatened to overcome her. Her eyes burned and teared with the strain. As she craned her head to the left for yet another look on that side, she caught the subtle movement of something lithe and furtive in the long golden grass along the west side of the kopje. She looked down quickly to ascertain the positions of the soldiers and their hand-maiden, if indeed that is what she was. The girl lay with one shoulder up against the bottom of the tree, her chin cupped in a hand, her legs curled backwards. Her belly bulged subtly under the thin cotton of her dress and Devin wondered idly if she was pregnant, or just malnourished. She appeared to be dozing as the flies that gathered around her eyes and the corners of her mouth fed there without interruption. The two soldiers were also apparently asleep, one snoring gently.
She looked back to the side of the kopje where she had seen the movement, and her suspicions were confirmed: Something was down there. What it was, she could not tell. Oh god, she thought, please don’t be a lion. Those bastards down there will be sharing this branch with me. She watched the top of the grass quiver nearly imperceptibly, tracking the movement of what it hid. At that moment, she glimpsed the glint of something metal in the grass.
Whatever it is then, it can’t be an animal, she thought. She strained her eyes to pick up a shape, a form. Maybe, it’s one of our guys, she wondered, then quickly dismiss
ed that as wishful thinking. She watched as the tall grass shivered and swayed without sound and again the flash of metal caught her eye, closer now to the sleeping trio beneath the spreading marula. One of them grunted in his sleep, and the movement through the grass stopped. After what seemed an eternity, the grass swayed again and Devin knew that the hunter had resumed his course, sliding as silently as a python on glass.
A fly landed on the tip of her nose and she brushed it off quickly, an involuntary reaction to this annoyance, and her perch shook slightly. Again she froze, peering down to see if anyone had noticed. The hunter had not -- he continued his path through the tall grass toward the boulders circling the smaller msasa. After that, he would have relatively no cover. She watched his path etched by the movement of the tips of grass, and noticed that, as he approached the larger of the boulders, he moved more quickly. When he reached the base of the boulder, he raised his upper body like a man doing calisthenics, and peered, first behind him, then over the boulder in the direction of the sleepers.
It was the third, missing soldier. Devin stared in disbelief as this registered. What the hell is he doing? She rubbed slowly and gently at her eyes to avoid any sudden or lurching movement, then stared again. Her eyes had not tricked her. The man remained poised in that position for more than a minute, then dropped slowly, stealthily to the ground and began to belly crawl around the boulder. Once he had reached its eastern side, he rose to a crouch and, after looking back over his shoulder, crept to the base of the marula tree.