Lettah's Gift Read online

  Fretting about me took up a fair bit of their time, I’m ashamed to say. Unable to find a publisher for my novel, I became mired in it. Its countless transformations produced a torrid mess of a book. The more time I invested in it – in the end a decade, at least – the more frightening was the prospect of failure. The long silences writing demanded of me became increasingly debilitating. Inevitably there came that terrible moment where I knew, unequivocally, it was hopeless. I experienced a mental breakdown. Not the wild hysterical type; just a slow slide into despair. I was finished, washed up. A writer needs to be read for the demands of his craft to find full purpose. I could no longer face the silences. And the prospect of teaching for the rest of my life was too much to bear.

  The upshot was that at the age of forty I resigned my job at St Xavier’s and became a bus driver, ferrying tourists around Rottnest Island. My mother’s horrified expression remains forever etched in my memory. She believed that I’d fallen from an already modest professional perch. This, to Lydia, was a major cop-out, an excuse to drift aimlessly. The reality was, I was quite happy as a bus driver. It allowed my mind to wander. The work was stress-free: just an easy twenty-kilometre circuit around that barren island until my shift was up; lying in the sun on Scarborough Beach on my free days, reading or sleeping off the odd hangover. Just one bad experience: one Australia Day a drunken yobbo punched me in the face when I tried to evict him from the bus, badly breaking my nose. The only thing that gives me character, Max still opines. The injury, in fact, permanently restricted my breathing, forcing me to inhale mostly through my mouth, giving me a dog-like demeanour. This aside, being a bus driver beat being a teacher. Or a writer. But to convince my parents that I remained engaged in loftier pursuits, I told them I was still writing; there were countless old dog-eared Wastrel drafts that I could trot out to give the impression of productivity.

  Lydia’s faith in me had long begun to falter, and she made her disappointment plain. A few published short stories in the distant past was hardly her idea of a flowering creative talent. Not that she doubted my potential – no, she now questioned whether I had the fibre to reach my potential. She began referring to me as ‘our gay bachelor’, seemingly oblivious to the connotations of such a label nowadays. She chided me for my unhealthy habits; criticised my general laziness and unwillingness to exercise – by this time, those long surf swims had become few and far between. She always hoped that a ‘decent girl’ would come into my life and point me in the right direction, but noted, grimly, that I seemed forever attracted to hippy types – scrawny women draped in sarongs with starved, spaced-out expressions, fingers yellowed from smoking. Drifters whose lives would briefly, aimlessly, intersect with mine (mercifully without progeny), then move on.

  But then Lydia began to feel unwell. She seemed always sapped of energy, out of breath. When her condition deteriorated and she finally consulted a doctor an enlarged thyroid was diagnosed. Tests showed the swelling was benign; the operation to remove the goitre was meant to be routine. Enter human error. During surgery a clumsy hand paralysed her larynx. For the next three years she was forced to breathe through a stent protruding from her lower neck. She could only speak in a laboured, bubbling whisper. Countless operations ensued. She was passed from one specialist to another. We watched helplessly as her health steadily declined. Nothing the doctors did made any noticeable improvement, yet Lydia was convinced she was making progress. She died believing the impossible.

  A bug smacks into the windscreen. Its smashed thorax and flimsy wings flicker for an instant, then break loose in the wind and vanish, leaving just a whitish smear spreading upwards over the glass. I overtake a spluttering truck, its open back crammed with people, the rear numberplate nearly scraping the road. The passengers are covered in dust, their eyes liquid behind ochre masks. Voices like leaves in the wind.

  I accelerate into the empty road ahead, as if speed might help me elude the past. A futile impulse . . .

  Her death shook us to the core. None of us were prepared for it. In our grief we harboured bitter thoughts. We were convinced that negligence had killed Lydia well short of her time – she was seventy-three. Max’s grief turned to anger; he threatened to sue. But Errol would have none of it; he would not allow money to measure Lydia’s life.

  The funeral was a quiet affair, just the family and a few friends. We buried her ashes in Max’s garden, which she and Errol had nurtured so well. Max was inconsolable. He turned his house into a virtual shrine to Lydia. There were ornately framed photographs of her in every room.

  And now the will. Lydia had inherited the proceeds from the sale of her mother’s flat in Bulawayo – not a great deal of money, since the sale occurred during the property market collapse in war-torn Rhodesia. But Lydia had invested her inheritance wisely and this little nest egg now amounted to $94,000. Her will was read to us – Errol, Max and Michaela, and me – by the lawyer who settled the estate. Of the family, only Errol had been privy to the will’s contents prior to this moment. It was quite simple and specific: $20,000 was to be invested on behalf of each of her grandchildren – Max’s kids – and given to them when they turned twenty-one. Nothing out of the ordinary about that. What was out of the ordinary came next. The remaining $54,000 was left to Lettah Ndlovu, minus the costs incurred in finding her. In the will Lydia persistently referred to this money as ‘Lettah’s gift’. She further stipulated that I alone be entrusted with the job of finding Lettah, addressing her rationale directly to me:

  It is my hope that you, Frank, will embrace this task in a sincere and genuine spirit. That you will do your utmost to find Lettah and deliver this gift to her, always bearing in mind that this is my wish. I sincerely hope that by setting you this challenge the talents you undoubtedly possess will at last be given purpose. It is time for you to do something worthwhile.

  For all of my life, criticism of my inertia had been like water off a duck’s back. Now, for the first time, I was stung by it – it was as though that last sentence was delivered at the end of a whip. I was ashamed, mortified. And then came Lydia’s last surprise – a strange appendix, written almost as though it were an afterthought:

  If all attempts by Frank to find Lettah Ndlovu prove futile, the money set aside for her will become Frank’s to dispose of as he sees fit.

  ‘Might as well write out the cheque now,’ Max muttered.

  It was simple incredulity, not envy or avarice, that prompted Max’s remark. He was grateful that his children had been thought of – indeed, he saw their inheritances as an indirect gesture of love to him by a mother he adored. But how could his mother have placed such absurd trust in me? How could she have given me – irresponsible Frank – such a mission, with such open-endedness as to my commitment or accountability? It is my hope that you, Frank . . . It was a foregone conclusion that I would fail.

  My shortcomings aside, what possessed her, after all this time, to bring Lettah back into our lives? A person we had all forgotten. A person she had made us forget.

  I stop off at the tiny settlement of Daisyfield near Shangani. The small Dutch Reformed Church, with its belltower and plain exterior, is easy to find. I walk around amid the late afternoon shadows, searching for the graveyard. The place is deserted and silent save for the gentle calling of doves. The graveyard does not adjoin the church, as I expected. I’m about to give up looking when an old man walks by, pushing a bicycle with a flat tyre. In my crude IsiNdebele I ask him where the graveyard is; he points to an overgrown track leading off down along a row of gum trees into some bush.

  I follow the track for a hundred metres, the tops of the gum trees rustling in the warm breeze. The graveyard is hidden beneath chest-high elephant grass; just the tops of fence posts mark its perimeter. I wade across and enter through an iron gate. I follow each row of graves, bending the grass aside to read the names on the headstones, mostly Afrikaner names. I locate my grandparents’ graves, next
to that of Maxwell Metcalf, the uncle I never met. After clearing away the grass from around their headstones, I stand, head bowed, in the long shadows of the late afternoon, paying my respects.

  III

  Milton Ogilvy is the only one of my small circle of university friends that I’ve kept in touch with since leaving South Africa, and my only contact in Zimbabwe. He has a double-storey house in faux Tudor style in Kumalo, once an up-market suburb on Bulawayo’s eastern outskirts. Despite the pitfalls of living in Zimbabwe, Milton has done well for himself. A senior partner in a property law firm, Braithwaite, Ogilvy & Hall. Married; his wife, Ruby, is a magistrate. Their adopted son, Vernon, is fourteen. It’s hard to imagine Milton as an upstanding citizen, given what I remember of him as a student in Pietermaritzburg – a chubby, hirsute anarchist drunkenly exuding disdain for convention of any sort. In those days Milton inhabited no grey spaces.

  The drive from Kwekwe has taken the best part of four hours, given my stop in Daisyfield and another two police roadblocks at Gweru and Shangani. I arrive at the Kumalo address at nightfall. As I pull into the gravel driveway, Milton comes out to open the gate. His round spectacles glint in the headlights; he is short, rotund, his beard and thinning hair grey. I’m mildly shocked to see how he has aged – my surprise stemming more, I suspect, from the realisation that I’m of the same vintage. I drive in and park under a carport next to the house. Joints creaking, I climb out of the car and shake hands with Milton. He is exuberant as we exchange pleasantries; he has been looking forward to my visit. He lugs my suitcase around the house to a small guest cottage next to a swimming pool. The cottage is comfortable and compact. A bedroom with an en suite and a combined kitchen and living room; terracotta-tiled floors with rugs.

  We return to the house where I’m introduced to Ruby and Vernon. Ruby is slightly taller than Milton, an attractive, convivial woman in her mid-forties. A full build, as they say these days. Dark eyes and hair. At fourteen, Vernon is the tallest in the family. Confident, polite. Black. As a baby he was found abandoned on a roadside, covered with ants, a shallow breath away from dying.

  We sit in the lounge. Milton brings out a choice of drinks: Coke, Fanta or cordial. I’m dying for a beer but have been warned alcohol is forbidden in the house. Ruby’s father was a violent alcoholic; Milton’s emails described her phobia for alcohol as ‘pathological zealotry’. It must have been, to pull him into line. We catch up on lost time. Milton has a skilful way of keeping the conversation focused on me. How was the flight from Perth? How are my father and jockstrap brother getting on? What happened to my nose? My head starts to spin – it seems an eternity since I arrived in Harare this morning. Foolish not to have flown to Bulawayo instead but I convinced myself the drive from Harare would be a worthwhile wander down memory lane. I have trouble focusing on the colourful flower paintings that adorn the walls, alongside large photographic composites of both sides of the family. A delicious aroma of curry emanates from the kitchen. I haven’t eaten all day.

  As though reading my mind, Ruby asks: ‘Are you hungry, Frank? Dinner is ready if you want to eat.’

  ‘I’m bloody starving!’ Milton responds.

  ‘You’re always starving – I wasn’t asking you.’

  ‘I’m famished, to be honest,’ I reply.

  Ruby smiles. ‘Well, then, you boys better sit down.’

  We go through to the dining room and sit at the table. Ruby goes to the kitchen and brings in the food. She sits next to Milton and dishes up the curry. For a while there is just the scrape of cutlery as we eat. I struggle against a desire to wolf down my food. The beef curry is superb – nice and thick, not too hot. My restraint is fostered, in part, by the spectacle of Milton. He eats with the fevered relish of a hungry boy. Smacking his lips, eyes gleaming, ruddy jowls chomping furiously.

  Pausing momentarily, he asks: ‘If we can put aside the thrills and spills of your life as a bus driver for a moment, how’s the writing going?’

  The dreaded question, though I knew it was coming. In the correspondence that has passed between us over the years, I’ve fibbed a bit about my writing, at times even suggesting that publishers were banging on my door. Now I face the grim choice: continue the lie, or tell the truth.

  ‘Pretty good,’ I reply.

  ‘Pretty good? When will I have the privilege of reading this masterpiece? Hell, it must be the size of War and Peace by now!’

  I heave a long sigh. ‘I can’t really say.’

  Milton laughs. ‘Maybe you’re too much of a perfectionist. But at least you’re still writing. That’s the main thing. At least you never gave up.’

  ‘Maybe I should.’

  ‘What do you write about, Mr Cole?’ Vernon asks.

  ‘I’m sure Mr Cole doesn’t mind being called Frank,’ Milton says.

  I flounder. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Vernon. How to squander life, I suppose – according to an expert.’

  Vernon smiles uncertainly.

  Milton looks at me, one eyebrow raised. ‘Don’t listen to him, Vernon. I’m sure he’s writing a great book.’

  I change the subject by describing the small incident in Kwekwe, how the man with the khaki cap had threatened me while I was photographing the sports field.

  ‘All I was doing was taking a damn photo!’ I conclude plaintively.

  Milton gives a wry grin, dimples creasing beneath his grey beard. ‘Strange white men photographing obscure sports fields in obscure towns do not bring smiles to the faces of Mugabe’s faithful these days. Probably thought you were a journalist.’

  ‘Could be there was a police station or something in the background,’ Ruby says, matter-of-fact. ‘You know, of course, that it’s illegal to photograph police or military installations? It could land you in jail.’

  I look at her dumbly.

  Milton chuckles, his mouth full. ‘You’re probably right, Ruby. Good one, Franco! If the fine townsfolk of Kwekwe had decided to make a citizen’s arrest, you’d have been in a bloody pickle. And I can just imagine the cockamamie explanation you’d have offered your police interrogators. Please, sirs, I was just photographing the sports field. Where the circus used to be when I was a little boy.’ He strikes his forehead with the heel of his palm.

  They all laugh at my abashed expression.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Ruby says. ‘Tomorrow’s another day.’

  We finish eating and go back to the lounge. Ruby brings in some tea. I ask Vernon about his school and learn that he attends a private school, St Aidan’s. He is embarrassed when Ruby proceeds to extol his virtues. A model student, an excellent cricket and soccer player. Ruby points to his trophies on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Needless to say, Vernon’s sporting prowess didn’t find its inspiration in me,’ Milton says, patting an ample belly. ‘So tell me, Franco. You’re here to find some lost servant you last saw forty years ago.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What on earth possessed your mother, after all this time?’

  ‘Trying to right a past wrong, I think. I was hoping you and Ruby might point me in the right direction. You would know the legal avenues. There must be a population register or something. There must be records.’

  Milton scoffs: ‘Records? This country’s in a state of chaos, boyo. You’ll battle to find registers of any sort that are up to date. Depends on where this person was living. Depends on a lot of things. Any idea of her last whereabouts?’

  ‘Last we heard she was on my grandparents’ farm in the Fort Rixon area.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Back in the war years. Mid-seventies.’

  ‘If she’s still alive, she’ll have certainly defied Zim’s life expectancy rate which is around thirty-four these days. I wouldn’t get my hopes up too high, if I were you.’

  Ruby nods. ‘Ja, but you may be lucky – she migh
t still be on the farm. Or at least someone may know what happened to her. Fort Rixon, hey? Years ago I was the Insiza District magistrate. I used to drive out to Fort Rixon once a week to hear the local cases and got to know the police inspector there quite well – I believe he’s still there. If you want to go on any of the farms in that area, it’s important you see him first. Most of those farms have been taken over by war veterans.’

  I rub my brow. ‘I was hoping to avoid the police.’

  Milton gives me a sober stare. ‘Some things you can’t do in this place, Franco. Like photographing obscure sports fields. Your grandfolks’ old farm will almost certainly be occupied by vets. Ruby’s right. Go see the cop in Fort Rixon first. You can’t just walk onto farms and start asking questions.’

  ‘His name is Julius Chombo,’ Ruby says. ‘As far as policemen go, he’s reasonably friendly and cooperative. I’ll give him a ring tomorrow. And don’t look so worried! There’re just some ways of doing things here in Zim that you’ll have to get used to. While you’re in Bulawayo you might as well drop in at the Births and Deaths Registry. I have a colleague who can run a check, for what it’s worth. Come to my office tomorrow and we’ll get the ball rolling.’

  My eyes begin to droop.

  ‘We better let this boy get some sleep,’ Milton says. ‘Weird, isn’t it? We last saw each other thirty years ago, and here we sit talking like it was yesterday.’

  I lie in bed, exhausted, yet unable to sleep. Outside, a bird (a nightjar?) calls in the dark – a series of abrupt a-wok sounds, then a long krrrr – evoking my father as a younger man. The pleasure he took in identifying birdcalls. Dogs bark – the incessant night-time chorus of African towns. A truck with grating gears slows as it nears Bulawayo along the Harare road, not far from the house.

  The brief talk with Milton about writing plays on my mind. A rekindled sense of failure scratches at my conscience, like a dog at a door. Milton’s opinion matters to me and his charitable (patronising?) words rankle. But then hasn’t Milton also fallen short of the ideals we had? Judging by the decor in his house, all Sturm und Drang has been expunged from his taste; I well remember the walls of his room at his ramshackle student digs in Pietermaritzburg festooned with German Expressionist posters. I suspect Ruby has demanded a more comprehensive abstinence.