Lettah's Gift Read online

  The headlight picks up a cluster of thorn trees ahead. Brak swings the car around in a wide circle and reverses back towards the trees. ‘This’ll do,’ he says. ‘I saw a jackal and her pups around here a few days ago. Might as well give them a good nibble. Between them and the vultures, there’ll just be bones in a week.’

  I shine the torch while Brak loosens the roof racks with a shifting spanner. We free the donkey’s legs and let it slide off the side of the car. The donkey emits a long bubbling wheeze as it flops heavily onto the ground. Brak fastens the racks back on the car. Then he fishes around in his tool box and extracts a long knife. He slices the skin down the hind legs. It takes some sawing before he is able to tear the hide free. He asks me to hold the leg still. With bloody hands, he starts butchering the rump and haunches. ‘Cracker’ll eat anything,’ he says, by way of explanation. I’m reminded of that photograph of him and his father skinning buffalo. Brak grunts and pants as he saws away. ‘Man, this is thirsty work! At least old Cracker will be all smiles.’

  Feeling slightly nauseous, I watch as Brak cuts the meat away to the bone and drops it into the plastic bag and loads it in the boot. He wipes his bloodied hands on his t-shirt and shorts. We drive back to the house.

  The girls are sitting on the steps next to the fire.

  ‘Ag, no man, Brak! Look at your shirt!’ Reggie complains as Brak dumps the bag of meat next to the braai. ‘I’ll never get that blood out!’

  ‘It’s just an old t-shirt, doll. How about a beer, Frank?’

  ‘Would you mind if I gave Milton a ring first?’ I ask.

  ‘Help yourself. Phone’s in the lounge. I’ll get the meat on so long.’

  The phone is on a sideboard in the corner of the lounge. I dial Milton’s number and stare at some photographs of Brak and Reggie on their wedding day on the wall above the sideboard. Reggie is slimmer; a looker with her party girl smile and highlighted hair. Brak stares casually at the camera. Mullet hairstyle and cocky demeanour. The wildness in his eyes makes me wonder what Reggie’s parents thought of the union. As I wait, Brak comes through to the kitchen carrying the bag of donkey meat. I hear the freezer chest open and close. He walks past again, swigging a beer.

  Milton answers. After I explain the accident, he heaves a long sigh and says, ‘These things happen, I suppose.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Milton. It really was unavoidable.’

  ‘Ja, I know. Livestock on the roads is a big problem. Don’t worry, the car’s insured.’

  ‘Brak says he can fix it.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  I don’t tell him about the beer. The slightly terse tone to Milton’s voice implies that bad news should best come in instalments.

  I join the others outside next to the fire. The air is cool and Reggie has snuggled up under Brak’s arm. Clara hands me the half-full quart of beer Brak opened for her earlier. ‘Finish this,’ she says. ‘I’ve switched to wine.’ Brak turns the meat – steaks, chops and boerewors – in a folding grid. A hefty slab of donkey meat sizzles on one side of the braai. Cracker sits patiently at Brak’s feet, watching every move.

  ‘It’s lovely and peaceful out here,’ Clara says. ‘You must be close to Matobo.’

  ‘The property backs right onto Matobo,’ Reggie says. ‘We were lucky, hey Brak? The owner went overseas in a hurry and needed someone to look after the place. We just happened to be around at the right time, hey, honey bunch?’

  Brak nods. ‘Ja, it’s magic. You’ll get the grand tour tomorrow.’

  ‘No war vets or other creepy-crawlies?’ Clara asks.

  Reggie taps her head. ‘Touch wood, no. The big guy upstairs has been looking after us. I suppose there’s not much in it for the vets. Only a few acres. Too small and infertile to be worth stealing. The only thing of interest would be the house. So far they’ve left us alone.’

  Brak scoffs. ‘War vets. Bloody thieving scum, that’s all they are. Better not start their shit here.’

  ‘Nothing you can do about it if they do,’ Reggie says.

  ‘Everyone just lets those bastards run riot. Time someone put a bullet up their backsides. They could all do with an extra arsehole.’

  ‘As if this country needs any extra arseholes,’ Reggie says. ‘Let’s change the subject, babe. Politics just gets everyone angry. Come on, watch that meat, man.’

  ‘Everything’s under control, doll.’

  Far off, a donkey hee-haws in the darkness.

  Brak cups his ear. ‘Listen . . . maybe that’s some kind of donkey resurrection. You never know.’

  Reggie shakes her head. ‘Poor little thing. Maybe it’s his mate calling out.’

  ‘Don’t donkeys mate for life?’ Clara asks.

  I hold my hands up. ‘Okay, okay! Enough!’

  Brak laughs and turns the meat once more. ‘We’re just about ready to rock and roll, Reginald.’

  Reggie goes inside and returns with a large steel tray. Brak takes the slab of donkey meat in his fingers, holds it briefly above Cracker’s nose and hurls it off into the dirt. ‘There you go, my puppy,’ he says. Cracker charges after it. He takes the other meat off the fire and tips it onto the tray Reggie is holding. We help ourselves to meat and salads up on the veranda then we sit on the stairs and eat. Brak flattens the last of his beer. He goes inside and fetches two cold quarts from the fridge. He opens them with his teeth and sets one down on the steps next to me.

  ‘Take it easy, babe,’ Reggie says. ‘You don’t want to finish all your grog in one night, do you?’

  ‘Ag, don’t nag, man,’ Brak says, flicking the beer caps off into the darkness.

  ‘Ja, and what have I told you about opening beers with your teeth? Don’t complain to me that they’re giving you hell! You bloody men! Where were you when God dished out brains, hey?’

  Brak grins, serrated teeth glinting in the firelight. ‘Reggie, gimme a break, doll. It’s not every day that a bloke’s long-lost friend drops in for a visit.’

  ‘You know where it ends if you go too far. That’s all I’m going to say.’

  Having bolted down the donkey meat, Cracker reappears and hovers around next to Brak, doe-eyed. ‘Christ, you’re a guts,’ Brak mutters. He finishes a chop and tosses the bone out across the driveway. Cracker bounds off; soon we hear the popping sound of bone breaking. Brak stretches his leg out and points to a tiny blue scar next to his ankle. ‘Remember that?’

  I smile. ‘Who could forget such an historic feat of marksmanship?’

  Brak swivels his leg towards Reggie and Clara. ‘Hey ladies, check out where my best friend shot me. Serious. One day when we were kids ol’ Blue Eyes here just decided to pump me full of lead!’

  ‘One pellet, to be exact,’ I say.

  Reggie kisses the tips of her fingers and touches the tiny scar. ‘Poor little Brak. I’m sure you weren’t doing anything stupid, hey.’

  Brak turns to me. ‘You see the sort of sympathy I get? Nurses! Bloody callous, I tell you.’

  Reggie laughs. ‘Don’t worry, Frank, there’s many a time that I’ve felt like pumping him full of lead too! Like when he drinks too much.’

  ‘Ja, okay. I get the message, doll. I wasn’t planning on a major piss-up tonight. We’ve got a big hike tomorrow and I don’t want to be babelaas.’

  ‘Yes, but you know you’ve got no control once you get going.’

  ‘Okay. Okay. Okay! Frank and I’ll have a couple more, then we’ll call it a night. I told you, I don’t wanna be hungover tomorrow.’

  The word hike is still flashing red and luminous in my brain. ‘No one said anything about a hike.’

  Brak plonks his bandaged hand on my shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, china. I meant a drive. A little tour of our backyard. I wanna show you a really lekker place. Special. You’ll enjoy it. Both of you.’ He lo
oks at Reggie. ‘You see Miss Matabeleland here? It’s where I proposed to her – hell, Reginald, when was that now? Twenty years ago, at least!’

  Reggie reaches over and kisses Brak on his bearded jowl. He blushes. They light up cigarettes and reminisce about their early years when life was full of hope and promise. The distant flashing lights of a plane pass by overhead, its sound following behind. Cracker comes and lies on the step next to Brak. Then Reggie begins clearing up the plates and bottles. Clara and I move to help her. She waves me away. ‘You sit and talk to Brak,’ she says.

  Brak watches Reggie and Clara go inside. ‘Best thing that ever happened to me, that girl. An angel from heaven, I swear . . .’

  ‘So what about kids? I’d have thought there’d be a whole tribe by now.’

  The look of pain on Brak’s face takes me completely by surprise. His voice is barely a whisper: ‘Ja, that was the plan. But Reggie miscarried her first one. A boy. After that she couldn’t have kids. We thought of adopting, but I was so fucked-up it just wasn’t a proposition.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that. I had no idea.’

  Brak tilts his bottle and half empties it in one gulp. ‘Shit happens. Life dishes out the good and the bad. All so bloody arbitrary. I can’t accept that God plans these things. He’s there only for us to deal with it all.’

  He finishes his beer in another gulp. He goes inside and returns with two more. We drink in silence, the ghost of the lost boy on Brak’s shoulders. Reggie and Clara come back outside. Reggie has a dusty guitar under her arm.

  Brak groans. ‘Oh, for Chrissake.’

  The girls sit down next to us. Reggie leans the guitar against Brak’s arm.

  ‘Put that thing away, doll. Let’s not embarrass our guests.’

  ‘Come on, Brak!’ Clara pleads. ‘Reggie’s been boasting about you.’

  ‘Ag, man. Reginald . . .’

  ‘Better than talking politics,’ Reggie says. ‘That’s what we always end up doing, don’t we?’

  ‘Let me finish my beer first. Christ, Reggie . . .’

  We talk and drink. The moon slowly crosses the starry sky. Clara is surprised when Brak offers me a smoke and I take one.

  ‘Brak’s a bad influence,’ I say.

  Brak laughs. ‘Hey! I said don’t blame me!’

  ‘No wonder you were so pathetic at the pool yesterday,’ Clara says.

  ‘Pathetic? I didn’t think I fared too badly, considering.’

  She gives me a wry smile.

  Then Brak takes the guitar and tunes it. He plays a few chords and fancy riffs. His bandaged right hand, doing the strumming and picking, appears to cause no impediment. Ordinarily, fireside singalongs are not my thing. But tonight is different. Maybe it’s the beer, maybe it’s the fact that Clara has shifted closer, but the sounds coming from Brak’s guitar are nothing short of enchanting. He begins a set of chords with intricate picking that I recognise as the preamble to the Beatles’s ‘Blackbird’. Then he sings the words in a strong, clear tenor. Reggie sits next to him, eyes closed. Clara smiles and slips her hand under my arm. We listen, spellbound. I’m astounded, not just by his virtuoso guitar skills, but that a voice so sweet and pure could emanate from someone seemingly so rough and uncouth. Brak finishes the Beatles song and immediately launches into Stephen Stills’s acoustic masterpiece, ‘Black Queen’. The nimbleness of his fingers across the frets is incredible. Marvellous. Then he just stops. Abruptly, in mid-song. He lays the guitar down on the steps between his feet, his face masked by a strange blankness. His mouth opens; his lips shine with spit.

  ‘Are you okay, babe?’ Reggie asks. ‘Don’t stop now.’

  ‘That was so beautiful,’ Clara says.

  Brak just stares blankly at the flames. Then, as though a wider malevolence is at work, the house lights go out. Just the firelight and the stars give form to our faces.

  ‘What’s the matter, babe?’ Reggie asks.

  Brak shakes his head, as though waking from a dream, and gets to his feet. ‘Sorry folks, my fingers are killing me.’ He gingerly prods the fingertips of his left hand. Laughs gruffly. ‘Shows how long ago I picked up a guitar. Better start up the generator, otherwise everything in the fridge will go off.’

  He disappears around the side of the house. We wait in silence and a short while later we hear the generator start. The lights return, getting brighter as the generator revs up.

  Brak reappears, apparently composed. ‘Who’s for a grog, hey?’

  I raise my hand. Clara nods.

  ‘Not for me, babe,’ Reggie says. ‘I’m hitting the sack. We’ve got a big day tomorrow, remember.’

  Brak takes Clara’s glass inside.

  Reggie stands up. ‘Help yourself to coffee or tea, if you want.’ She wags a finger at me. ‘You make sure that big baboon gets to bed soon, okay?’

  She goes inside. Clara shuffles closer.

  ‘Brak was amazing, wasn’t he?’ she says.

  ‘While it lasted.’

  ‘Aye, pity he just stopped like that. It’s been quite a night.’

  ‘It sure has. Sorry about the donkey drama.’

  Clara shrugs. ‘Donkeys, drama . . . c’est la vie.’

  Brak returns with Clara’s wine and two quarts. With the generator drumming in the background, we drink and talk. Brak’s festive spirit has waned; he seems tired, drained. He asks Clara a few questions about Vic and Hazel and sits quietly listening to her replies, nodding his head. Cracker sidles up to him and lies with his big slobbering muzzle on his leg. Brak scratches his ears. ‘Shame, puppy,’ he says. ‘Just a big puppy, hey?’ Cracker’s tail thumps against the step.

  Clara finishes her wine and gets up. ‘I’ll leave you boys to it.’ She motions me back when I start to get up. ‘See you in the morning. Thanks for a nice evening, Brak.’

  ‘No trouble,’ Brak says.

  She goes inside.

  Brak shakes his head. ‘What’s it with women, hey? How come they know exactly when to pull the ripcord. Built-in intuition, I swear.’

  I yawn and stretch my arms. ‘Well, I’m about to follow suit. Been a long day.’

  Brak smiles. ‘Come on, Frankie boy, don’t leave me in the lurch now. We’ll have one more after this and call it quits. Talk to me, china. Tell me about Australia. Tell me about anything. Just talk, man.’

  I talk while Brak grinds his teeth. I tell him about Australia, about the sense of freedom I felt when I first arrived in Perth. About not having to live with the burden of perpetually defending my right to exist, like people in Africa seem to do. The flames in the braai die down.

  Brak just grinds his teeth and swigs his beer.

  Then he says: ‘Tell me, Frank. What are you, hey?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, what are you? What nationality? Where do you belong? What place?’

  ‘Oh Christ, I don’t know. I’m a mongrel, I suppose.’

  ‘Have you ever felt that you belong? That you’re part of some place?’

  ‘Maybe as a kid. I don’t know. I really don’t think about it all that much.’

  Brak shakes his head. ‘You see, that’s something I can’t understand.’ He lights a cigarette and leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. He takes a deep drag and blows an angry jet of smoke between his knees. ‘You talk about a right to exist. I know Zimbabwe’s a fuck-up. Common sense says pack up and bugger off. Forget about this damn place. Greener pastures and all that shit. But then I start to think: why the hell should I leave? I was born here – I have a right to be here. I’m African. This is my place.’

  Why the hell should I leave? I’m reminded of Milton. Brak’s opposite. United in their claim to Africanness.

  ‘I’m sorry, Brak. I can’t get all pumped up about place and belonging. It’s beyo
nd me.’

  ‘Just as well you gapped it then, Frank. Australia sounds just right for blokes like you. Me? I’m African. I belong here. I have just as much right to be here as anybody. As much right as fucking Mugabe himself!’

  I shrug. ‘Everyone’s entitled to their opinion. Personally, I don’t see how we can truly belong anywhere outside of Europe. We don’t have a claim to any place outside of Europe that goes beyond a few centuries of colonial rule. That’s nothing compared to the cultures that have existed here for thousands of years. It may seem perfectly logical to you to claim Africanness, but to blacks we will always be interlopers. When whites were in charge, did we ever call ourselves Africans? No, we called ourselves Europeans, British, whatever – never Africans. Sounds a little contrived to start now, don’t you think?’

  Brak stares at me. Another person. I burn under his stare.

  ‘It may seem perfectly logical . . . don’t give me that shit, Frank! I don’t wanna hear that gutless crap. Some of us learned our Africanness the hard way. We fought a fucking war and lost everything. Everything! But we stayed. We didn’t run – we stayed! That’s how some of us learned our Africanness. How we earned our Africanness. Others fucked off. Ran away to Britain and Australia like bloody rabbits when the going got tough. The people who deserve to be here stayed. So don’t talk to me about what is or isn’t African, okay?’

  ‘Jesus, Brak. Take it easy, man. I’m only making a point.’

  ‘I hate it when people like you start lecturing me.’

  People like you? Unnerved by his anger, my mind flounders. Yet I can’t restrain my tongue: ‘I’m not lecturing you, Brak. Call yourself whatever you bloody well like. Who gives a shit? I’m not going to sit here arguing with you.’

  Brak swigs his beer, nodding, as though my words have confirmed certain suspicions. ‘That’s your solution to everything: when it gets too hard – just give up and run away. Never stand for anything, hey? Where were you in the war? When Rhodesia needed people to stand up and be counted. Hiding away in South Africa while others did the dirty work. Know what I think of that, Frank?’ He hawks and spits on the stairs. ‘That’s what I think.’