Lettah's Gift Page 13

  We kept in touch when my family moved away to Salisbury and Bulawayo. We spent a few school holidays together; when we met up it was always like old times. But when my family moved down to South Africa contact was limited to occasional letters. We took separate paths, meeting again just once when the Malans went down to Durban for a holiday. We were in high school; Brak had grown tall and rangy, towering above me. He sported a long fringe that hung above his eyes, as was fashionable in Rhodesia. Compared to my negligible athletic pursuits, he’d become a champion long-distance runner and played fullback for the Rhodesian Schools rugby team. He showed me some photographs of a big buffalo cull he and Piet had taken part in at Wankie Game Reserve. Gory images of blokes holding rifles and bottles of beer next to slain beasts. One of Brak and his father skinning a carcass, shirtless, their arms covered in blood.

  I tend to remember Brak for these things. Guns and engines. Things that led to skinned animals, to the legs of a corpse. For some reason it’s been easy to ignore his other side. Beneath the hard shell lurked another Brak, beguilingly complex and sensitive. His mother, Muriel, was a red-haired Englishwoman from Suffolk who made it a condition of her marriage to her rough Afrikaner husband that English would be the language spoken in their home. She had refined tastes. She loved classical music and from an early age cajoled Brak into taking piano lessons. A prodigious natural talent was unearthed. He could play Chopin before his feet could touch the pedals. His parents bought him a piano and a guitar. He mastered the guitar without taking lessons. You could ask him to play anything and he would bash it out. Elvis, Cliff Richard, the Beatles. I remember him doing a beaut version of ‘Ferry Cross the Mersey’ by Gerry and the Pacemakers, my favourite song of that time. I’d listen to him, mesmerised, envious.

  Brak’s real name was Dwight – that was the name Muriel gave him, after her father. That was the name he blushed bright red to at school rollcalls, and which only the girls teased him for, knowing they wouldn’t get clobbered. Brak was a nickname given to him by his father. In Afrikaans it means mongrel. His father meant it as a dig at Muriel’s English airs and graces, but it stuck.

  I didn’t anticipate becoming an encumbrance to Milton. The incidentals – the telephone calls, the use of his car, meals – are mounting up. When Milton and Ruby return from work I offer to reimburse them, but this is refused. Pushing the envelope of money I left on his desk into my shirt pocket, Milton retorts: ‘Hang on to your money, boyo – maybe we’ll come knocking on your door in Australia one day.’ Moreover, he is adamant it’s no inconvenience for me to use the car this evening. He draws a detailed map of the Matobo Road, showing how to reach Brak’s place.

  I set off at dusk, stopping at the Hillside shops to buy some beer. Beyond the outer suburb of Burnside I encounter few other vehicles. A bus grinding along at snail’s pace. Another one broken-down on the side of the road, its passengers waiting next to it. Expressions of resigned forbearance. A few people on bicycles or on foot heading away from the city. A woman sits on a blanket next to a small pile of tomatoes and carrots at a deserted bus stop, hoping for a late customer.

  The land around is flat and densely strewn with acacia bush, some areas burned black from recent fires. I pass the landmarks Milton noted on his map: the Umganin and Khami river crossings, the defunct Matopo Rock Motel and the agricultural research station. Piles of rubbish have been dumped on the roadside, no doubt by Bulawayo residents frustrated at the city’s sporadic garbage collection. My headlights illuminate the eyes of goats and donkeys nibbling at the bushes alongside the road. In the far distance, I can just make out the blue outcrops of the Matobo Hills, hazy in the last light. I muse over the confusion of names for this rocky wilderness – Matobo, Matopo, the Matopos. A small reminder that Zimbabwe is a chameleon still changing colour.

  About thirty kilometres from Bulawayo, I pass a superette and bottle store and turn right onto a dirt road. I travel another three kilometres before turning left across a cattle grid onto a property called Pilgrim’s Rest. A few hundred metres further on I come to a house surrounded by a security fence. I stop to open the gate. Out of the gloom a huge dog comes bounding towards me, barking ferociously. I go back to the car and hoot a few times. A man appears against the lighted doorway of the house. He calls gruffly, ‘Shuddup, Cracker!’

  The dog, a Rhodesian ridgeback, stops barking but remains at the gate, snarling. The man approaches, illuminated by the car’s headlights. A bearded giant with a balding pate. The face of a street fighter; a broken nose and a deep crescent scar around his right eye. He wears tattered khaki shorts and a stained t-shirt with Bulawayo Bottlers emblazoned across the chest. Barefoot.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he calls.

  ‘Brak?’ I call back.

  He stops in his tracks, a look of surprise on his face. Then he yanks open the gate. ‘Frank? Shit a brick! Howzit you bloody old mangy mongrel!’ He lumbers over to where I’m standing next to the car, pumps my outstretched hand and slaps my back. A heavy stench of sweat.

  Brak stands back. ‘I’ve been trying to figure out the last time I saw you. Must’ve been at least thirty years ago, hey? Long time between drinks, man! Hell, I wouldn’t have recognised you – age has not treated you kindly, my friend.’

  I laugh. ‘I was wondering how to say the same thing tactfully.’

  Indeed, he is not remotely the person I remember. That tall, rangy, red-haired kid, body whittled down to sinew and bone by sheer boundless energy, is now an unkempt behemoth, the bulk around his neck and shoulders, along with that unruly salt and pepper beard, giving him the look of a bloated wildebeest.

  ‘We’ve got some major catching up to do, china. But first things first. Come inside and meet Reggie. My ball and chain.’

  I follow him through the gate. The dog lopes along with us, growling sideways at me. ‘Oh, for Chrissake, Cracker,’ Brak mutters. In the fading light I can see no garden to speak of, no lawn, just some rockeries with a few struggling plants along the perimeter of the security fence. The house is plain, basic. Unplastered cement block walls in a simple rectangular plan, a wide veranda at the front. Corrugated iron roof. A water tank to one side, enswathed by a trumpet creeper. A windmill behind a garage with two carports, separate to the house. In one of the carports the hulk of a minibus stands up on blocks. In the other an old Datsun sedan.

  We skirt an ancient Land Cruiser parked in the drive and climb the front steps to the house. We enter a lounge furnished with a few worn chairs and a couch grouped around a TV set. Bare cement floor covered by a couple of frayed straw mats. A few photos on the walls, one of which I recognise to be of Brak’s parents, Piet and Muriel. An oil painting of African huts and baobabs silhouetted against an orange sky. Above the fireplace, a small framed print of Jesus standing on the waters of Galilee, gazing heavenward.

  ‘Hey, Reggie!’ Brak calls. ‘Look what the cat dragged in!’

  A dark-haired woman in her early forties appears at the kitchen door, cigarette in hand. She reminds me vaguely of Joan Baez – attractive dark eyes, a wide mouth, irregular teeth. Denim dress and yellow sweater. A few extra pounds around the hips. She smiles and affects surprise. ‘So, you must be the famous Frank.’

  We shake hands.

  Brak plonks a dirty paw on her shoulder. ‘Eat your heart out, china. I bet you never imagined Brak Malan would score a sexy goddess like this, hey?’

  Reggie laughs coyly. ‘Jeez, but you can talk rubbish, hey.’ She removes his hand from her shoulder. ‘Ag, Brak, look at your hands, man!’

  ‘Roll out the barrel, doll. Me and Frank have got some catching up to do.’

  ‘Barrel? In your dreams. Wine or sherry is about all we can offer.’

  ‘Is that all we’ve got? No beer?’

  ‘You know there’s no beer. You also know who finished it all.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus, Reggie. Had I known Frank was coming tonight
. . .’

  Reggie winks at me. ‘Just as well you didn’t know, babe.’

  I come to the rescue. ‘I’ve got a few quarts in the car.’

  Brak’s eyes light up. ‘China, you’re a bloody star. It’d be a mission to get any hooch at this time of night.’

  Reggie gives Brak a knowing look. ‘As long as we don’t overdo it. Hey, my sweetness?’

  Brak pecks her on the cheek. ‘That’s right, doll. As long as we don’t overdo it. How ’bout a braai? Have we got any meat, sugar cube?’

  ‘Just as well I defrosted some earlier.’

  Brak transfers his hand to my shoulder. ‘I tell you, this chick’s psychic. Always one step ahead of me. Come on, let’s get a fire going. Where’d you say those beers were?’

  I follow Brak outside. While he goes off to the garage to fetch the braai I get the beers – half a dozen quarts – from Milton’s car and take them through to the kitchen. Reggie is cutting up some salads; I offer her a beer but she has already poured herself a glass of wine. She finds me an opener and puts the rest of the beer in the fridge.

  ‘You may be wondering why I didn’t get some booze, knowing you were coming,’ she says. ‘It’s not a bad thing to limit Brak’s intake, believe me.’ She pats my arm. ‘He’s been carrying on like a big kid since he heard you were here. It’s not like I want to spoil his fun. But I have to watch him.’

  Back outside, I put the bottles down on the stairs and take in the fine spray of evening stars. Brak returns from the garage dragging a forty-four gallon drum cut in half and mounted on wheels, which he positions in front of the veranda steps. We each fetch an armful of logs and kindling from a woodpile around the back of the house. There he points out a thriving vegetable garden running off water from the windmill, established by the owner who, Brak says, has gapped it overseas. It strikes me that Zimbabweans show off their vegetable patches like others might show off a new car or patio.

  We dump the wood next to the drum. Brak rummages around in the old Land Cruiser and retrieves a newspaper. The front page is emblazoned with a large photograph of Mugabe’s face behind a pontificating finger. With a look of grim satisfaction, Brak scrunches the page into a ball, puts it into the drum and piles kindling and wood on top of it. He takes some matches from his pocket and lights the paper. Flames crackle up, sparks popping, through the kindling. Once the wood has caught properly, Brak piles some bigger logs on top, dusts his hands off and sits down next to me on the veranda steps.

  I hand him a beer. We clink bottles.

  ‘Cheers, china. Good to see you, man.’

  I nod. ‘Who’d have thought, hey?’

  Brak laughs wryly. He takes a deep swig, stares up at the stars and sighs. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Flicks the bottom of the pack, making a couple of cigarettes pop out, and holds it out to me. ‘Smoke?’

  ‘No, thanks. I quit a while ago.’

  Brak lights a cigarette, one eye squinting at the smoke. ‘Filthy bloody habit. So what brings you to our happy country?’

  Once more, I explain my mission. The whole story, from my mother’s will to yesterday’s visit to Whitestone. Brak listens in silence, smoking and swigging his beer. When I finish he just sits there looking up at the stars. For a moment, I wonder if he has been listening at all. Then he says: ‘Sorry to hear about your mom. She was a good old bird.’ He taps the end of his cigarette. ‘I remember that nanny of yours, Lettah . . . shit, what is it about this country? Everybody’s story’s the same. Nothing but bloody pain and sorrow. I feel sorry for the munts. For ordinary munts like Lettah. Never get a break. For them things just get worse, never better.’

  He takes another deep swig. Belches. ‘Ah! That hit the spot. God bless alcohol. Ja, I dunno, Frank. I dunno what to suggest. Half the bloody country’s gone missing. Your nanny’s a drop in the ocean.’

  ‘I’m not expecting miracles. I stopped by at our old neighbourhood in Kwekwe.’

  ‘Hillendale? I used to go back there now and again, just for old time’s sake. I suppose your place is in ruins too.’

  I shrug.

  Brak smiles. ‘Ja, what can you do? Those were good times, hey, my china? I remember that nanny – Lettah. Nice munt. Always laughing.’

  Always laughing. uMahleka. Thoughts of what might have happened to Lettah at the hands of the soldiers leap suddenly to mind. Lighting the fire that incinerated her family. Listening to their screams. I quickly shove these thoughts away and listen instead to Brak as he reminisces about the old days. Reggie comes out with a tray of meat and salads which she places on a table nearby. She goes back inside and returns with a half-empty demijohn of red wine and sits on the step next to Brak, tucking her dress up between her legs.

  ‘Uh-oh, the party animal’s here!’ Brak says.

  Reggie gives a sarcastic snort and lights a cigarette. She slaps at a mosquito on her arm. ‘Bloody mozzies. Where’s that insect muti? Don’t you boys get bitten?’

  ‘Stand next to the fire,’ Brak says. ‘The smoke will chase them away.’

  Reggie smooches him on the cheek. ‘Why stand next to the fire when I’ve got you to keep me warm, my darling. My big cosy teddy bear.’

  Brak grins, embarrassed. ‘Get bitten then.’

  ‘How’re your folks, Brak?’ I ask.

  ‘Both passed away. They moved down to South Africa when Mugabe took over. My old man died of a heart attack about fifteen years ago. Mom came up and lived with us for a while, but then went back because the health system here was so bad. She had emphysema – too much bloody smoking. Reggie’s a nurse. She went down and cared for her until she died. Eight years ago, I think.’

  Reggie puts a hand on Brak’s knee and blows a plume of smoke out into the night. ‘Your mom was a real lady.’

  ‘And you, Brak? What’ve you been up to all these years?’

  Brak gets up and throws a couple of logs on the fire. He puts the grid over the flames to burn clean. His eyes gleam in the firelight.

  ‘Ja, it’s a long story, china. A long story of cock-ups.’

  ‘Come on, babe!’ Reggie says. ‘It’s not all gloom and doom.’

  Brak taps the grid with a fire fork to make the dried grease fall off. He sticks the prongs of the fork into the grid and comes back to the stairs next to Reggie. Lights another cigarette. He laughs. ‘Actually, there’s a short story too. Once upon a time, after the war in Rhodesia, an unqualified mechanic called Brak Malan went from job to job trying to make a buck in beautiful Zimbabwe. Things didn’t work out. The end.’

  Reggie sighs. ‘Don’t be so negative, man.’

  Brak looks at me. ‘I wrote to you a couple of times when I was in the army, didn’t I?’

  I nod. ‘It was the last contact we had.’

  ‘After we lost the war I went off the rails. I don’t know . . . just couldn’t adjust. In the war our dads fought they came back home heroes. The shit stuff they did was exorcised through parades and commemoration services. We didn’t have that privilege. We just had to get on with living with the enemy. The people we used to call terrorists were now rubbing our noses in their parades and commemoration services.’

  Brak drains the last of his beer and belches again. ‘Anyway, I went a bit wild. Drank too much and caused a lot of strife. Got my face rearranged one night in a bar in Harare and ended up in hospital. That’s where I met Reggie.’

  Reggie shakes her head. ‘You should have seen him, Frank. Half dead. Cracked skull – just about every bone in his body broken. Blood everywhere. But the drunken idiot was still singing Rhodesian army songs at the top of his voice. I had to sedate him to shut him up!’

  Brak laughs.

  ‘It was no bloody joke at the time!’

  ‘You’re right, doll. I was a mess. Not the nicest bloke to be around in those days. Th
e long and short of it was while I was in hospital some priest came by and talked to me. I found Jesus.’ Brak clicks his fingers. ‘Just like that. Born again. Seemed the only way I could get rid of my demons. After a stint working for Vic Baldwin, Reggie and I ended up in a little mission up at Kariba called Gospel Path.’

  ‘Vic said something about you preaching.’

  ‘Preaching? I couldn’t preach to save my life. No, I just tried to help the munts. Taught them how to fix cars. A bit of woodwork. Reggie helped out in the mission’s clinic.’

  Reggie jabs him in the ribs. ‘Ag, man. You missed out the romantic part. How you fell in love with me and begged me to marry you.’

  ‘Ja, Frank, you have to understand I was a bit brain damaged at the time. I wasn’t in a fit state to make rational decisions.’

  Reggie gives a high-pitched giggle and slaps him on the shoulder. ‘Jeez, you lie! I tell you, Frank, he was down on his knees begging me.’

  Brak escapes from any further sentimental reminiscences by getting up and going over to the fire. He rustles the coals around with the fork. ‘I reckon we can chuck the meat on now.’

  ‘Still looks too hot to me, babe,’ Reggie says.

  ‘Ag, what do you know about braais, hey? Let an expert get on with his job.’

  ‘Expert on what? Charred meat?’

  Brak dismisses her criticism with a wave of his hand. He gets the plate of meat and returns to the fire. Slaps the steaks and boerewors on the grid. They begin sizzling immediately. I have to agree with Reggie: it seems a huge fire for the amount of meat he is cooking.