by Linda Ihle
“Very interesting!” Devin turned and grinned at her. “Have you been able to get to Mugabe; interview him?”
Angela stared at her, aghast. “You mean you understand what I was just talking about?”
“Ja, of course. I took Sociology at varsity. In fact I wrote an essay on Marx’s concept of Hegel’s theory of alienation. But, have you been able to speak to Mugabe?”
“No. I can’t get a visa to get into Tanzania, if he’s even still there.” She shrugged. “But, I guess I might have got close enough to an answer when they shot down our plane.”
“Not really. Those were Nkomo’s terrs. Not Mugabe’s. That fat arsehole is probably sitting there and giggling to himself again. As well he should, I suppose; you’d think Air Rhodesia would change their flight patterns and paths after two bloody shootdowns. By the way, what’s your surname?”
“Brown.”
Devin burst out laughing. “Well, aren’t we a colourful pair in more ways than one! Mine is Gray.”
Angela grinned at her. “Yup!” she remarked, “Amazing.”
A companionable silence settled over them. They picked up the pace, without abandoning caution, as they made their way across the veldt. Far above them, vultures swung and glided in the deep blue sky, circling and circling, rising, hovering and plunging only to rise and start all over again. The contrails of a fighter jet were visible to the north, before its sound was audible to the two women. Both instinctively ducked when they heard it, looked at each other and laughed. “There’s no way they could see us,” Angela remarked, “but still we act like fugitives. And I think if they saw you right now, they would probably turn and run the other way!” She continued giggling intermittently for another half mile or so and then the cobra put an end to that.
Devin was walking a little ahead of and to the left of Angela, pushing through the sparse grass alongside the barely discernible footpath, eyes constantly moving from the ground to chest level to the horizon and back to ground level, when the snake rose from the burnished grass less than three feet ahead of her and directly in Angela’s path. Angela saw the flattened head rise and begin its gentle sway. She stopped dead in her tracks and screamed, standing as if frozen, staring into the creature’s eyes. Devin was backing up, away from the snake, noting the ring around its neck. “Don’t look at it!” she hissed and reached out to shove Angela and break her focus on the snake. “It’s a ringhals,” she whispered, “don’t look at it!” Her hand connected with Angela’s shoulder as the snake leaned backwards slightly and then shot two streams of venom directly into the area where Angela’s widened, horrified eyes had been a split second before. The venom flew over her head as she fell sideways, sprawling, whimpering, in the grass, hammering her elbow against a rock as she went down. Within another split second she was on hands and knees, then up to full height and running back west, still holding onto the water can. Devin was right behind her.
She caught up with Angela after about 50 yards and grabbed her shoulder to slow her headlong dash. “Stop!” she yelled. “We can’t go back that way,” she said bending at the waist and panting, pointing to the kill zone and the PV that she knew had to have been there. “It will have gone now – they don’t hang around when they feel threatened.” She grinned at Angela. “Almost got you, that bastard, hey, didn’t he?” Angela nodded. “That would have been a total bummer,” Devin said, catching her breath now, but choking on the invisible bubble of dry air. She wrested the kerosene can out of Angela’s near death grip, opened it and poured some water down her throat. “Whooo, there, that’s better. Shit, I haven’t run like that in a couple of days!”
“Thank you, Devin,” Angela mumbled, her words choked by tears. “You saved me again – I forgot that some snakes spit their poison.”
“Venom. Well, now you know, and it’s OK, hey. Let’s get tanking here, Angela, otherwise we’re gonna be stuck out here tonight.”
“Do we have to go back that exact same way?” Angela asked.
“Ja, because he will have moved so he won’t be in our path again.” I hope. Devin reached out and took her companion’s hand and hauled her up and they set off again, moving quickly, this time with Angela a few steps behind Devin, her eyes fixed upon the ground.
The two slowed slightly as they approached the hills, now looming dark hulks of rock and red soil and thorny scrub. The grass near the base of the kopjes was longer, but sparser than that through which they had recently passed, making it easier for them to keep an eye on the ground. Devin reached out an arm and touched Angela’s shoulder. “We need to be very careful here, OK?” she whispered.
Angela nodded, slowing her pace to a stop, gazing up at the nearest kopje. “They look as if they’ve just been plopped down here,” she remarked. “The landscape here is so ….different. It’s amazing, really,” she added, waving her hand at the kopjes before her and the flat prairie behind her.
“Yeah, it is. Problem with these buggers,” Devin gestured toward the kopjes, “is that they tend to attract baboons and leopards and cobras and who knows what else.” She pulled the rifle off her left shoulder, and peered into the clip, seeing nothing that would put her at ease. “How the hell are you supposed to know when these are empty?” she asked no-one in particular. She shrugged and gestured for Angela to follow her. “Be as quiet as possible,” she admonished Angela, “and be ready to fire on anything I tell you to.” Angela nodded and pulled the AK-47 off her back, switched the kerosene can into her left hand and carried the rifle in her right, its barrel pointed toward the darkening sky.
They climbed slowly with the utmost caution, stopping and listening every few feet, searching the terrain ahead of them for anything even remotely resembling a big cat or a lithe snake. Devin could feel the terrorist’s knife digging into her bottom and wondered briefly how long the elastic on her panties would hold up given all it had been through.
When I get home, wherever that might be at this stage, she grinned at the thought, I will write a testimonial to the Gatooma factory of these wonderful cotton broekies as to their strength under remarkable stress and duress. She suppressed a laugh, but that turned into a snort and she had to stop briefly to compose herself and renew her vigilance as she crept onward and upward.
“You OK?” Angela whispered.
Devin did not turn to look back at her, merely nodded and continued the climb, now on all fours as she scrabbled for purchase and clambered over slick grey boulders jutting into the pathway the two had selected. As she neared the top she noticed to their left a narrow cleft between two massive boulders, a parapet of rock between them where their bases met the earth and penetrated it, and, at the top, a sill of solid rock. Almost like a window on the world, she thought. She determined that it could serve as shelter if they found that, on the other side of the kopjes, no suitable trees were available for their refuge that night.
27.
The news still churning through her brain, Sandra Gray wandered aimlessly, barefoot, in the front garden, bending occasionally to pull up a weed, admiring the tenacity of the dog roses along the west fence, blooming for all they were worth in spite of the fact of weeks now with no rain. The nearby nasturtiums, also struggling to maintain their cheerful façade, had wilted and Sandra made a note to tell Enos to be sure to water them early in the morning. She approached the old wood bench beneath a flowering acacia and sat down, gazing off across and down the street, past the taupe trunks of the jacarandas and flamboyants that lined the street, where the lights were beginning to flicker on as they did every evening at this time. Like clockwork, she thought. Everything in this little town is like clockwork. And that’s why, when something goes awry or someone acts out of character, it might as well be the end of the bloody world. At that she recalled that this was where Devin had spent a lot of time on moonlit nights, generally alone, probably smoking, hiding in cupped hand the glow of the coal at the end of the cigarette, weeping for her lost love, howling at the moon.
She noticed the Pop
e’s servant Shilling drying his feet at the poolside and saw that he was using Mamie Pope’s swimming costume. I’ll have to tell her, she said to herself, but wondered then, Why should I?. Mamie Pope never said a word to me when you know she saw Devin bunking out. She told everyone else about it and speculated aloud as to what kind of mother would tolerate such antics from a teenage girl. I mean, after all, everyone knew she was probably sneaking out to meet boys. Mamie Pope never told me she had seen Devin smoking cigarettes behind Enos’ kia (servant’s quarters), but she sure as hell told everyone else, and embellished the tales too. So, no, I won’t tell her and I hope she catches some kind of fanny fungus from that cheeky munt drying his feet on her costume.
She grinned at the thought and rose, stretching. She saw Shilling rise too, watching her, and waved as cheerily as she could at him. (The anticipation of vengeance had always been inspirational for Sandra Gray, nee Masters, good and dutiful daughter of Cleve and Agnes, deceased.) Shilling stood nonplussed, the costume drooping from his hand, wondering more now at the strange behaviour of Mrs. Gray. Realizing he still had the swimsuit he dropped it as surreptitiously as possible and not knowing how else to respond raised his other hand, grinning sheepishly, and waved back, nervously, but Sandra had already turned her back and was making her way to the front stoep.
As her bare feet hit the cool stone of the verandah, she paused to look back across the street and noted that Shilling had disappeared. What was it that Devin had written? Something about the night falling so swiftly here in the southern reaches of Africa. She shrugged. Yes, Devin had won prizes for her writing, but that did nothing to diminish just how bad she was, well, maybe not really bad, just so damn contradictory – of everything. She thinks unlike any of the others and now Julia is following suit with her silly imaginary friend nonsense. What will people think? She sighed heavily as she walked through the living room and into the dining area where Julia and Mark sat finishing their homework. The radio played softly in the background. They were allowed no television until all homework was completed and checked.
“Are you nearly finished?” she asked and both looked up and nodded simultaneously. She noted that Julia’s eyes were red and swollen and deduced that she had been crying about her big sister again. She said nothing to assuage the child’s misery, telling herself it was because Enos might hear. “Alright, then, hurry up. I want to eat supper quickly and go to church.” They nodded and returned their attention to the books, he to his maths homework, and she to an illustrated History of Rhodesia. “I think,” Sandra continued, “…oh, never mind.”
She had been about to suggest that they accompany her to church, but realized that would draw too much attention. Wednesday night was prime TV night, what with Hawaii Five-0, and The Streets of San Francisco, preceded by a little Fawlty Towers, which would take the edge off the daily death toll recounted in monotone, accompanied by a background dirge when the Rhodesian Security Force losses were enumerated, on the evening news. Even though a ceasefire was supposedly in the works, the counts mounted every day, and soon they would add the latest shootdown losses to the tally. I wonder if they’ll get it right? she thought as she continued into the kitchen and found Enos putting the finishing touches on supper – oxtail stew – Devin’s least favourite meal. She’d rather eat Federman’s Bakery curry pies than oxtail, Sandra recalled and at the same time remembered how angry the child used to make her. Just so bloody otherwise. Why, Lord, did she have to be that way? And now just look at the pickle she’s got herself into. She probably had no business going to Kariba from Vic Falls in the first place – probably heard that he would be there – chasing after a dream again. She tsked out loud and shook her head.
“Sorry, Medem?” Enos looked quizzically at her.
“Agh, it’s nothing, Enos,” she said and sighed heavily again. “Have you not started the potatoes yet?” she asked, her voice rising, accusatory, attacking, having always known that this was the best and most efficacious form of defense. “You know that they won’t eat the damn things if they’re not cooked properly.”
“Yes, Medem. The potatoes, he is in oven.” He gestured to the oven and then opened the door to prove his point: nine new potatoes (three each) nestled in a pool of rendered lard, browning and crisping before they would end up in the stew.
“Hmmph.” She glared at him before turning abruptly and leaving the room.
He paid no attention, knowing her, having known her and her quirks now for more than ten years. She had asked him to stay when she had kicked the baas, Mr. Gray (he pronounced it Greh) out, had spent many a night on the kitchen floor because she was afraid that he (Greh) would break in and take the children away. And what was I supposed to do if that happened? he had always and ever since asked himself. She give me no gun, no knobkerrie, no sjambok, nothing. Hau!
He shrugged and shook his head as these thoughts and memories flooded in. Otherwise, she had been for the most part good to him, paying him a living wage, good rations, providing food and shelter. He stayed in the kia in the back yard during the week and, on the third weekend of every month, travelled by overloaded rickety bus down the dusty, potholed road to Silobela, where, being of the Vapostori faith, he spent time with three wives and six children. Enos always tried to get the early-morning bus at Main Street, fearing traveling at night when no-one could tell the difference between freedom fighters and RAR (Rhodesian African Rifles), Selous Scouts, et al. Land mines were a problem, day or night, but so far he and his fellow travelers to Silobela and Gokwe and other nearby rural areas had been lucky.
Enos returned his attention to the thick brown gravy bubbling around greasy oxtail in the old stewpot. The plate next door was occupied by an enamelized pot in which he was cooking his sadza. He would serve Sandra and her children their evening meal, then take the oxtail designated for himself, a piece of boiled pumpkin, a bowl of sadza, and some spinach and retire to his quarters where he slept on a mattress on the floor. His quarters consisted of two rooms, unpowered because “these people waste electricity”, comprising a combined living and sleeping area, and a lavatory with basin (sink) and commode. His light came from a small window with a cheery yellow flowered curtain one of his wives had fashioned for him, and a paraffin lamp. The living/sleeping room also boasted an old kitchen table with two wood chairs. Two red bricks on each side held up a piece of plank off the floor. This makeshift shelf is where he kept his books, his enamel cup, a couple of spoons, a tin of coffee, a tin of tea leaves, a tin of condensed milk and a can opener he had borrowed from the Grays’ kitchen, and his prized possession, a short-wave radio. Occasionally, after hours, Enos would entertain company in his kia, playing the radio for them, picking up where they could broadcasts from Mocambique, Angola, South Africa, Swaziland, Lesotho, Botswana and sometimes even from Salisbury, if African music was being played. They would listen when they could to the Voice of America, but that demanded a masterful knowledge of the English language, and very often would pick up on speeches made by banned individuals, particularly members of the ANC (African National Congress), who had long struggled to bring an end to apartheid.
He knew that Miss Devin and Miss Helen, the sister, used to take their radio out into the front yard and tune it to Lourenco Marques (LM) Radio out of Mocambique to hear songs, all rock’n roll, some of which had been banned in Rhodesia. If their mother appeared at the front verandah door, they would quickly switch back to Radio Rhodesia and the ubiquitous, harmless strains of Mantovani would waft through the night air. But LM Radio had now been off the air for many years and the girls had to go to the record store to buy records if they wanted to hear their music. Miss Devin would hide her Black Sabbath, Canned Heat, Jimi Hendrix, Doors, Cream, Blind Faith, Deep Purple, Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention (secretly purchased and smuggled in from South Africa) and many other records in his kia, and play them at top volume in the house during the day when her mother was at work.
He carried the stew pot off the stove to the drain
er area of the sink and let it sit while he peeped into the dining area to see if Mark and Julia were still occupying the dining-room table: they were not. In fact, the table had been set. He poured the stew into a serving tureen, added the potatoes, and carried that in, set it down and went back for the vegetables. That completed, he picked up a crystal dinner bell, rang it gently and removed himself to the kitchen, pulling the door closed behind him and began to put the finishing touches on his own supper.
28.
As Devin and Angela approached the top of the kopje, they slowed. “Breathe through your mouth,” Devin whispered, and Angela obeyed. It sounded louder to her than the alternative, but this woman appeared to know what she was doing. Devin gestured to her to wait, then pulled herself tentatively up over a rocky outcrop, slithering across it on her belly, and peered over to the other side. A southerly breeze picked up a little gust and with it the scent of decomposing flesh assailed her nostrils. That’s something big, she decided. That’s no dassie or rat or whatever. She lay still, scanning her surroundings. This kopje was just the beginning of a line of hills descending toward a flat-bottomed valley before ascending again into an even higher range. A few scattered acacias, baobabs, and some msasas were evident, but none of the figs and marulas these women had come to associate with shelter. She was unfamiliar with this small valley, but dismissed any premature inroads by panic – we couldn’t have covered every square-inch of this area in the times we hunted here. She turned and beckoned to Angela to join her on the rock platform.