Lettah's Gift Page 10

  ‘What happened? How were they killed?’

  ‘I don’t know. They were killed. Punishment for traitors.’

  ‘No one from the family survived?’

  ‘That’s what I heard.’

  ‘No witnesses?’

  Zuma shakes his head.

  I look at Hazel. She shrugs.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’

  Zuma does not move. A staring match ensues. I hand him the twenty-dollar note, muttering, ‘Fucking thieves, the lot of you.’

  Constable Fashion has been whiling away the time in Dlomo’s thrall, gingerly sipping from a bottle of beer, her big bottom draped over the veranda wall. Dlomo reclines, legs splayed, on a ruptured sofa a few feet away from her, a row of bottles on the floor next to him. One hand gesticulates grandly; the other strokes the thigh of a frozen-looking girl sitting on the armrest. Two other women watch from the doorway.

  The thin dogs bark at our approach and the same throng of people that greeted our arrival earlier emerges from the adobes near the house. Constable Fashion leaps to her feet when she sees us. ‘You are back!’ she cries with relief. She waddles to the stairs, looking at her watch. ‘Why are you late?’

  ‘Thula!’ Dlomo yells at the dogs. They cower and slink off around the house. He gets to his feet, scratches his crotch and limps over to the stairs. Wrapping an arm around Constable Fashion, he chaffs her: ‘Where are you going, my darling? We are making such beautiful conversation, you and me.’

  ‘Ai! Suka wena!’ She laughs nervously, slipping from his grasp. She descends the stairs and makes smartly for the car. Dlomo watches with a drunken leer. ‘What I’d give to unbutton that pretty uniform, sweetie pie.’

  ‘Hayi, uSathane!’ she hisses.

  Dlomo shouts from the stairs, ‘What can you report, Zuma? Did our guests find what they are looking for?’

  Zuma stands beneath the stairs, staring at the ground. ‘No one can remember the Ndlovu woman,’ he replies.

  ‘Just as I expected,’ Dlomo says. ‘You have your answer, Mr Cole.’

  ‘It’s more a case of no one wants to remember,’ I say. ‘Lettah Ndlovu and her family once lived on this farm. No one can deny this. All I want is to know what happened to her.’

  I look at Zuma. He continues to stare fixedly at the ground.

  Dlomo waves his hand impatiently. ‘If the Ndlovus lived here, as you say, then they are old history. Rhodesian history. Of no importance.’

  ‘Of no importance only to those with no regard for innocent life,’ Hazel says.

  Dlomo’s face grows weary. ‘It seems exercise has not curbed your tongue.’

  ‘People here know what happened but are too terrified to speak.’

  ‘Terrified to speak? How can that be, old lady?’ Dlomo taps his head. ‘Perhaps your faculties are not in proper working order. People are free to speak here.’ He turns to the gathered throng. ‘Hey, wena! This old Rhodesian says no one is free to speak. Is this so? Are you deprived of freedom?’

  The people jeer. ‘Aikona! No!’

  Dlomo turns back to us. He holds the palms of his hands out. ‘You see? Everyone is free to speak in Zimbabwe.’

  I sigh. ‘My offer is there. If anyone can help us find Lettah Ndlovu there will be a reward. That’s all. We’re finished here now.’

  Constable Fashion opens the car door. She taps her watch. ‘We are late!’

  The sly smile creeps back onto Dlomo’s face. ‘You are breaking my heart, my darling. My true love, don’t leave me!’

  We climb into the car. Happily my camera is where I left it. Dlomo limps around to Fashion’s side and peers in the window. ‘Come again soon, sweetie pie. I will wait for you.’

  He blows a kiss. The people laugh.

  Fashion stares straight ahead. ‘Hurry up! Drive!’ she snaps.

  As we drive past the throng of people, Zuma raises his axe and with mincing steps dances around in a circle.

  ‘Fuckwit,’ I mutter.

  Not far from the farm’s entrance a man waves us down. I immediately recognise him as the sallow older man from the compound. I pull over and he comes around to my window. His shirt is drenched in sweat, he is breathing heavily. I imagine he has run some distance through the bush to intercept the car.

  But as I wind down my window, he sees Constable Fashion. He takes a step back, his face assuming a stony blankness.

  ‘Sakubona, Indoda,’ I greet. ‘Can I help you?’

  The man nods but says nothing.

  Constable Fashion blurts out impatiently. ‘Hey, wena! Ufunani? What do you want?’

  The man just stares at the ground.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, man?’ Constable Fashion demands. ‘He’s drunk. Let’s go. I can’t waste my time.’

  ‘Perhaps the poor fellow wants a lift,’ Hazel says.

  Constable Fashion shakes her head vigorously. ‘No! No! This man is drunk. We must go!’

  ‘We are on our way to Fort Rixon,’ I say. ‘Would you like a lift?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the man replies.

  ‘What do you want in Fort Rixon?’ Constable Fashion asks impatiently. ‘You are going there to steal, not so? What’s your name?’

  ‘I don’t steal, sister.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Ntombela.’

  ‘Don’t be so suspicious, dear girl,’ Hazel says. ‘He looks a perfectly decent fellow to me and this is our car, after all.’ She leans over and opens the back passenger door. ‘Ngena, indoda.’

  Ntombela climbs in. His sweat smells like cut sisal. Constable Fashion winds down her window and gazes morosely out at the countryside as we drive on. Hazel chats away with Ntombela, as though he were a complete stranger. She asks about his family. How many children. How old. Ntombela plays the game, answering politely, succinctly. Constable Fashion sighs, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

  The real reason for her short temper soon becomes clear. The beer she consumed with Dlomo has prompted an urgent call of nature. She orders me to stop. As we come to a halt, she bolts, buttocks heaving, across the road and disappears behind some trees. Dust envelops the car. We hear the slither of elastic against skin. A hissing torrent.

  Seizing the opportunity, I turn to Ntombela. My voice lowered, I say, ‘If you have something to tell me, you must tell me now.’

  ‘For this information you promised money.’

  I nod. ‘Yes, I will give you money.’

  ‘I recognise the woman you are looking for. It was a long time ago, but I recognise her. I was present when they killed her family. I am the only one left on this farm who was present.’

  ‘Dlomo and Zuma both said there was no one on the farm from that time.’

  ‘That’s what they believe. But I was there when the soldiers came.’

  ‘5th Brigade?’ Hazel asks.

  Ntombela nods.

  ‘Quickly, tell me what happened,’ I say.

  ‘The soldiers burned the whole family. The headman, Solomon, his wives and their children and their grandchildren. Eh-ja, even the little ones, the abantwana. Twenty-two people. All put into one hut that was set alight.’ The man closes his eyes. ‘I will never forget the screaming. Until I die, I will never forget. That’s what the soldiers promised the ones who watched: that we will never forget until we die.’

  I feel a sudden vertigo. ‘You’re telling me Lettah Ndlovu was among those who died?’

  Ntombela shakes his head. ‘No, sir. This is what I’ve come to tell you. A more terrible thing befell her. First the soldiers made her light the fire that burned her family. Then they raped her and then they cut her to make her laugh. Her name became uMahleka.’

  I look at Hazel. Hazel shrugs and shakes her head.

  Nt
ombela does something dreadful. With his fingers he pushes the corners of his mouth into a grotesque smile.

  ‘uMahleka. It means a woman who always laughs.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I say.

  ‘Lettah Ndlovu was not burnt with her family,’ Ntombela repeats quickly. ‘The soldiers allowed her to live because living was worse than death. She left the farm. She went away.’

  ‘Where did she go?’ I ask.

  Ntombela glances across the road. He shrugs.

  ‘Where did she go? Surely someone knows!’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s all I can tell you, sir. Please, you must not come again to ask questions. If you come again it will be very bad for us. They hurt us for any reason. We live in fear all the time.’

  ‘But if I come with the police –’

  Ntombela laughs bitterly. ‘The police are dogs, like Dlomo. I have no more information.’

  A rustle of bushes. Constable Fashion emerges from the trees.

  ‘Quick. Give him some money,’ Hazel says.

  I fish in my wallet and hand Ntombela a bundle of banknotes. Feverishly, he thrusts the money into his pocket.

  ‘Are you sure you can’t tell me anything more? Please, I must find this woman,’ I say, turning away from Ntombela and gazing casually ahead as Constable Fashion waddles across the road.

  ‘That is all I can tell you, sir,’ Ntombela replies. He opens the door and climbs out. ‘My father worked for your grandfather, Mr Cole. Long ago. He said Nkosi Metcalf was a good man.’

  Constable Fashion comes around to her door. She eyes Ntombela. ‘Where are you going now?’ she snaps.

  ‘Oh, sister, I’m feeling very sick.’

  ‘Aibo! Wena! Why do you waste my time?’

  ‘I’m very sick, sister.’

  No longer niggled by a bursting bladder, Constable Fashion ekes a drop of compassion. ‘Sick? You look sick, indoda. You are sweating too much. Maybe you have the Sickness. You must go home and rest.’

  Ntombela nods and begins to shuffle off down the road.

  Constable Fashion climbs in the car and slams the door. She laughs. ‘It is just as well. Hayi! That man smells too much!’

  It’s three o’clock when we arrive back at the police station. Inspector Chombo’s busy day appears to have ended early; the convicts are back in their cells, the gate and charge office are unmanned. We find Chombo and two other policemen in his office, dutifully imbibing the contents of a bottle of brandy. The office reeks of booze and cigarette smoke. We are welcomed back with bleary-eyed conviviality. Chombo’s two companions immediately direct a barrage of ribald banter towards Constable Fashion as she collapses, exhausted, into a chair in the corner. She heaves a morose sigh at the prospect of more drunken crap from men.

  Chombo lifts the quarter-full bottle of brandy and offers us a drink. Hazel and Constable Fashion decline; Hazel frowns when I accept – tired and frazzled after a long day, I’m not about to close the door when opportunity comes knocking. Chombo pours me a stiff tot. ‘Plenty more where that came from,’ he says, handing me the glass. He gestures at two empty seats. ‘Please sit.’

  Hazel and I sit.

  ‘So, did you detectives have any success?’ Chombo asks.

  I sip the neat brandy, uncertain of whether to engage in any serious discussion, since Chombo seems about to confirm at least one of Newton’s Laws, the way he teeters on his chair.

  Hazel beats me to it. ‘No luck, I’m afraid,’ she says.

  ‘Well then,’ Chombo says. ‘We will have to double our efforts, won’t we!’ He raises his glass. ‘Here’s to finding the lost Lettah! If I find her where shall I post her?’

  He cackles wildly. I shiver with pleasure as the brandy blazes a trail into my gut.

  Hazel asks: ‘May I use your toilet, Inspector?’

  ‘Of course, my dear old Rhodesian lady. Fashionista! Show our madam the toilet.’

  Constable Fashion wearily extricates herself from the attentions of the other policemen. Hazel follows her out the office. We drink. A short while later Constable Fashion returns and resumes her seat in the corner.

  ‘Oh yes!’ Chombo exclaims. ‘I forgot. I have found some petrol for you.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ I say. ‘I have enough.’

  Chombo guffaws. He turns to the other cops, hands outstretched helplessly. ‘You can see our friend from Australia has no experience in Zimbabwe!’ The other cops laugh. He turns back to me. ‘When someone offers you petrol in Zimbabwe, my friend, it is a gift from God Almighty.’

  I bow my head. ‘It’s very kind of you. Thank you.’

  Chombo gets ponderously to his feet and, whistling away, lumbers out the office. He comes back with a greasy jerry can which he hoists triumphantly aloft. ‘You are in luck, my friend!’

  Hazel returns. She scolds Chombo: ‘That toilet is absolutely disgusting! Has no one ever heard of soap and a scrubbing brush here?’

  Chombo assumes a look of contrition. ‘There is always room for improvement in this world, madam. Fashion, you heard what the lady said. Tomorrow you must find some soap and scrub the toilet, you hear me?’

  The other cops laugh. Constable Fashion gives Hazel a deadly scowl.

  Hazel gives me a nudge. ‘Come on, finish your drink.’

  I knock the last of my brandy back – a bold act which brings tears to my eyes. We wait outside as Chombo fumbles around with a funnel and decants the petrol into my car.

  I ask: ‘If someone wished to seek sanctuary around these parts, where would they go?’

  Chombo laughs. ‘You think your lost Lettah was looking for sanctuary, Mr Cole?’

  ‘I must explore every possibility.’

  ‘If people are looking for sanctuary, they come to the police. That is what the police are here for. We are guardians of the people.’

  He says this without any trace of irony. He shakes the last drops into the funnel. I thank him and shake his hand. Hazel and I climb in the car. Before we leave, Chombo peers into my window. His breath reeking of brandy, he says, ‘Keep me informed about your progress, Mr Cole. Remember, I’m in charge of what happens in this area, okay?’

  I nod and we depart.

  We take the Insiza road back towards Bulawayo. Twenty kilometres from Fort Rixon the car suddenly loses power. It splutters and backfires, recovers briefly, then gives up the ghost. We shudder to a standstill beside a row of gum trees across a culvert over the Insiza River. I sit dumbstruck as the stark reality of our predicament begins to register. Again and again, I turn the ignition, to no avail.

  I slam the steering wheel with my hands. ‘Fuck! Fuck it!’

  I get out, open the bonnet and stare blankly at the engine, fuming, clueless. The silence around us is broken by the ticking of the engine as it cools and the infuriating call of a cuckoo in a nearby msasa tree – I’m so saaad!

  Hazel comes around to the engine. She leans in and fiddles around with the battery leads. Opens the distributor cap. Peers close. Then she straightens up and shakes her head. ‘Dirty petrol – that’s my guess. Carburettor’s probably clogged. Chombo’s parting gift, no doubt.’

  I curse again. Hazel opens the boot and rummages around. ‘No tools of any kind here, not even a wheel spanner,’ she calls.

  She comes around again to the front. ‘And by the way your spare wheel’s flat.’

  I slap my hands on my thighs. ‘Fuck!’

  Hazel thrusts her hands in her pockets. There is a look in her violet eyes that bores straight through me. ‘This swearing of yours. Fuck this. Fuck that. It’s quite a habit among your generation, isn’t it?’

  ‘Be fair, Hazel. My generation didn’t exactly invent the word.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. You just made it common-speak. Decent men of my generation woul
d never talk like that in front of a lady. Did you ever hear your father swear in front of your mother? I don’t like it, Frank. It’s disrespectful.’

  I laugh plaintively. ‘Oh come on, Hazel! It’s not meant –’

  ‘No, Frank. I don’t like it and there’s no excuse for it.’

  I stand there, embarrassed. ‘Okay, Hazel, I’m sorry if I offended you.’

  She reaches out and pats me gently on the shoulder. ‘Apology accepted. Now, let’s see what we can do about our predicament.’

  It’s late afternoon and shadows from the gum trees stretch into the bush across the road. I feel lethargic, thirsty. The after-effects of my tipple with Chombo. The Insiza River, I note, is dry. Not even stagnant pools mark its course. Not that I’d chance drinking water from these bilharzia-infested rivers.

  Hazel scrutinises her phone. ‘No signal,’ she says.

  ‘Someone will come along, sooner or later,’ I say. ‘They could tow us back to Fort Rixon.’

  ‘Seen any cars on these roads today? Besides, what’s the point of getting towed back to Fort Rixon? Who can help us there? Chombo?’ She points at a nearby kopje. ‘Let’s see if we can get a signal up there.’

  We climb over the single strand of barbed wire that is left of the roadside fence and trudge through the bush towards the kopje, a kilometre away. We haven’t eaten all day; my stomach rumbles noisily. Hazel smokes as she walks. I marvel at her sprightliness; she seems indefatigable – if she were a car she would run on the smell of an oily rag. She gestures out at the surrounding lands. ‘This all used to be prime cattle country. Now look at it. Nothing! Aside from the few tick-infested beasts we saw this morning, have you seen any cattle? The fraud of these land invasions is just so tragic. That imbeciles like Dlomo inherit these beautiful farms.’

  I pant. ‘Wasn’t it always inevitable, Hazel? Do you really believe the idyll could’ve gone on forever? A tiny minority of whites owning Zimbabwe’s best farmland? Wasn’t that what the war was all about? Returning the land to its rightful owners?’

  ‘Rightful owners? Dlomo?’

  ‘Well, who then? People like Vic? Or perhaps you’ve forgotten how Vic used to treat his workers.’