Lettah's Gift Page 9

  ‘Don’t waste my time, Mr Cole. I must know what we are talking about here if I’m going to help you.

  ‘Fifty thousand Australian dollars.’

  That blank look. The cash register blink. ‘Mayibabo! That’s a lot of money for one old Rhodesian slave. Where is this money?’

  ‘The money is in Australia. In the bank. It can be released to this woman only if we find her.’

  ‘And how much will you pay to ask questions?’

  I sigh. A game must be played. ‘Inspector Chombo said nothing about paying to ask questions.’

  ‘You cannot expect a free ride, Mr Cole.’

  ‘Fifty US dollars. That’s all I can afford.’

  Hazel gives a scornful laugh. ‘And what makes you think you deserve anything at all? Only criminals would seek to benefit from what doesn’t belong to them.’

  I glance at Hazel, concerned that the heat might have robbed her of her senses. Dlomo also looks at her, the sly smile on his face exfoliating into a sneer. He mutters in IsiNdebele, ‘Perhaps the reason for this Ndlovu’s disappearance is that she possessed an impertinent tongue.’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ Hazel replies in kind. ‘Those who tell the truth are never welcome among crooks.’

  Am I missing some subtle diplomacy here? Do African thugs welcome being publicly rebuked by old white ladies? Not according to Dlomo’s irate body language. Constable Fashion intervenes impatiently. ‘The umlungu, Mr Cole, is happy to pay to ask questions. But we must get on with it. I don’t have time to waste. Chombo expects me back at the station by noon.’

  Dlomo’s smile returns. ‘No need to hurry, plump dove. Perhaps I can entertain you while the umlungu conducts his investigations?’

  Constable Fashion laughs. ‘Aibo! With your entertainment a girl can get the Sickness.’

  Dlomo protests: ‘AIDS? No! No! I make love only with virgins.’

  ‘Are we free to ask questions?’ I ask.

  Dlomo holds his hands out magnanimously. ‘Zimbabwe is a free country, Mr Cole. Once I’ve received my fee you can ask the people on this farm anything you want. One of my men will accompany you so the questions can be answered fully.’

  I reach into my back pocket and take out a small wad of notes. I count off fifty dollars and hand it to Dlomo. ‘I’m sure we don’t need any help,’ I say.

  ‘You have paid me to ask questions. It’s my duty to see that you get answers.’ Dlomo turns to the man with the axe. ‘Zuma, go with the umlungu. Make sure his questions are answered.’

  The man, Zuma, raises his axe in salute.

  Dlomo turns to Hazel. ‘You see, old lady, I am a man of honour. There are no criminals here.’

  ‘Yes, I can see,’ Hazel says, smiling. ‘I can see that honour wears a short skirt in your world.’

  Dlomo stares at her. ‘Be careful how you tread today. Old people are prone to accidents.’ He turns and limps back into the house.

  Exasperated, I glare at Hazel. She gives me an innocent look.

  ‘My, my!’ she says. ‘More your mother by the minute.’

  We follow Zuma along a path through the stands of cactus trees to the rear of the house. I’m peeved that we appear under the direction of Zuma but there’s no choice in the matter. Already he has given instructions that no photographs are to be taken, insisting that Hazel and I leave our cameras in the car. I wonder if they will still be there when we get back.

  ‘What are those scars on Dlomo’s legs?’ I ask Constable Fashion.

  ‘He was wounded in the war,’ she pants. ‘Phosphorous bomb.’

  ‘An actual war veteran,’ Hazel says. ‘How extraordinary.’

  After a few hundred metres it becomes apparent that Constable Fashion’s tight skirt and stout new shoes are causing extreme discomfort. Faced with the bleak alternative of returning to the house and the attentions of Dlomo, she soldiers on, wincing with every step. But soon her chafed thighs and feet are too sore to continue; she retires from the expedition and hobbles off, wide-legged, skirt hiked up over her thighs, back towards the house. We continue in single file: Zuma up front, Hazel, then me. Every so often Zuma is halted by a coughing fit. He bends over double as he coughs, spitting dark gobs into the grass. Hazel, puffing away on a cigarette, shakes her head as though bemused at how people abuse their bodies. The bush screams with insects. Sweat trickles down my face; I pant. My physical condition galls me, particularly as Hazel strides along effortlessly ahead of me. The deft gait of her thin white legs reminds me that she was an avid bushwalker back in the Que Que days.

  The path winds through some dense bush between two kopjes, emerging onto a ridge above a wide shallow valley. We follow the ridge and come to the workers’ compound, nestled among some msasa trees. Built by my grandfather for his unmarried workers, the compound consists of a long block of rooms with a corrugated iron roof flanked by two smaller buildings – a kitchen and an ablution block. Never an aesthetic wonder, it was nonetheless whitewashed regularly, like the other buildings on the farm, and my grandparents set aside land nearby for the workers to grow plots of mielies and vegetables. Betty, with customary eccentricity, even gave them seedlings to grow flowers around the buildings and offered prizes for those who kept the best gardens – a challenge the men, strange to say, responded to with competitive fervour.

  Now, with depressing inevitability, we are confronted by squalor and neglect. The buildings have become hovels, blackened by smoke and grime. The corrugated iron roofing of the kitchen and latrines is gone. Doors and windows are missing. In the past chickens, pigs or goats might have scampered away at our approach; now there are just two starving dogs that gaze listlessly at us from where they lie in the shade next to the kitchen building. Faces appear at the doorways of the rooms.

  Zuma comes to a halt in front of the building. He whistles loudly. The people emerge. About twenty ragged, emaciated souls, the children hiding behind the adults. A baby suckles at a withered breast. Some of them appear to have a skin disease; their arms and legs are covered in white flakes.

  ‘Heavens above, isn’t this pathetic,’ Hazel whispers.

  The people gather before Zuma, eyes downcast. There are three men; the rest are women, teenage girls and infants. Most look sick and frail. Zuma speaks too quickly for me to follow. The people nod.

  Hazel takes over. ‘Thank you, Zuma,’ she says, stepping forward in front of him. ‘We can manage from now on.’

  Zuma glares at her. He starts to say something but Hazel waves him aside and turns to the people. She indicates for them to sit. She beckons me forward and we sit facing the group. Zuma stands to one side, glowering.

  ‘I better do the talking,’ Hazel says under her breath. ‘These people won’t understand your Fanagalo.’

  I nod.

  Speaking IsiNdebele, Hazel asks who can remember the old days on the farm. The people stare at her in nervous silence. Even the young ones appear old.

  She asks again: ‘Can anyone remember the old people who owned this farm – the Metcalfs?’ She points to me. ‘This man is Frank Cole. His grandfather, Nkosi Cyril Metcalf, owned this farm.’

  Silent stares. Zuma crouches on his haunches, drumming his fingers on the axe between his legs. He spits.

  ‘Mr Cole is looking for a woman who lived here,’ Hazel says.

  I take the photograph of Lettah from my shirt pocket and hold it up for the people to see. I give it to one of the men who looks at it, then passes it to the man sitting next to him.

  ‘This photograph is from long ago,’ Hazel goes on. ‘Please look at it, all of you older ones. The woman’s name is Lettah Ndlovu. Her father was headman here. Solomon. Does anyone remember the Ndlovus? Please do not be afraid to speak. Mr Cole has a gift for this woman, that is all. That is Mr Cole’s purpose here. To give this woman a gift.’

  Haz
el singles out the oldest man, a sallow individual with a sunken chest. ‘Indhoda, will you speak with us? You look old enough to remember that time.’

  The man looks at her, then returns his gaze to the ground.

  ‘Do you remember Lettah Ndlovu?’ I ask. ‘Do you remember her father, Solomon Ndlovu, the headman?’

  The man looks at me. There is a brief intensity in his gaze; for a moment I think he is about to say something. Then he looks down again and shakes his head.

  ‘Umgazi,’ he says.

  ‘Umgazi,’ the people around him echo. ‘We do not know this woman.’

  Hazel glances at Zuma, then turns to me. ‘We’re not going to get anything out of them with that idiot hanging around. They’re terrified of him.’

  ‘Shall I tell him to push off?’ I say.

  Hazel shakes her head. ‘I doubt he’d listen. He’s Dlomo’s eyes and ears. They’ve got wind of a bit of money and want to be in on the action. Anything these people know, they want to know. We’re in a bit of a predicament, Frank. I’ve no idea if they have anything helpful to tell us. But I don’t want to push the issue if they’re afraid to talk. God, these poor souls! Look at them. What they must have endured at the hands of this scum.’

  I glance at Zuma. He gazes back blankly.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Offer them a reward, then we’ll go.’

  Hazel turns to the people. ‘Perhaps you have forgotten about this woman, Lettah Ndlovu. I know there have been other owners of this farm since the Metcalfs, but Mr Cole is offering a reward – a handsome reward – if someone comes forward with information that enables us to find Ndlovu. US dollars. If your memory returns you can tell Inspector Chombo at the police station in Fort Rixon. He will contact us and we will give you the reward.’

  I get to my feet. ‘Thank you for your attention. I hope you can still help me.’

  Zuma approaches. ‘Are you finished with these people?’

  ‘We’re finished,’ Hazel replies.

  Zuma dismisses the people with a wave of his hand. They stand up and shuffle back into their hovels.

  ‘I want to talk to the other workers on this farm,’ I say.

  ‘There are no other workers,’ Zuma says.

  ‘What? In the old days there were at least twenty men and their families here.’

  Zuma shrugs. ‘They have gone.’

  ‘Gone? Gone where?’

  ‘You are not my interrogator. They have gone – that’s all you need to know.’

  ‘I want to see Ndlovu’s kraal.’

  ‘There is nothing to see. There is no kraal.’

  Hazel takes me by the elbow. ‘Come on, there’s no point in talking to him. If you remember where the kraal was let’s just go.’

  There used to be a path from the compound to the headman’s kraal, but it has long since vanished beneath bush and grass. Once again, I follow my instincts. I vaguely remember the location of the kraal – down near a bend in the river, in a north-facing lea of Betty’s Bluff. Ignoring Zuma, we walk in the direction of Betty’s Bluff. The noon sun burns down, hot and heavy. Sweating profusely, I swat irritably at flies, cursing them. Hazel chuckles behind me. ‘Shame on you, Frank! Mistreating Africa’s precious wildlife like that!’

  Zuma follows fifty metres behind. We listen to his coughing and hawking. Angered by this unexpected deviation, he cleaves off the top of an ant heap with his axe as he wades through the long grass. I think of the people we have just encountered and imagine the sort of pedagogy they experienced in Dlomo’s re-education centre. I’ve read horror stories about such places, better described as torture and rape camps. The abject resignation on their faces suggests they have suffered a frightful atonement. Atonement for what? For working for white farmers? As we approach the dry river course, I notice many of the smaller trees alongside have been pushed over. I point them out to Hazel.

  ‘Elephants,’ she says.

  ‘You’re joking,’ I say.

  ‘No, I’m serious. Escapees from the game reserves. Apparently, there’re hundreds of them following these old water courses.’

  ‘That’s incredible.’

  Hazel laughs. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? Roaming free.’ She glances back at Zuma. ‘Until these goons get in on the ivory trade.’

  We follow the river course through a forest of msasa trees, our feet crunching on their spiral pods strewn on the ground. We emerge onto an open plain and wade through chest-high grass until we come to the place where I remember the Ndlovu kraal to have been. I recognise the grey granite rampart of the bluff and the wild fig and mountain acacia trees that formed a backdrop to the kraal, and the steep-banked river nearby, now just a winding snake of white sand and rocks. As I recall, there were seven huts belonging to Solomon Ndlovu and his family, set out in a wide semi-circle with Solomon’s at the apex. The huts were thatched with circular ridges and the exterior walls were painted in traditional blue and white zigzag designs. There was also a storage hut nearby built on stilts to keep their grain clear of damp and bugs. A few maize and vegetable plots straddled the river, surrounded by sapling fences to keep the cattle and goats out. Solomon Ndlovu had chosen the site for his kraal well. The towering bluff shielded it from the afternoon sun in summer; in winter it basked in late sunshine.

  The hot, ripe smell of the bush tugs me into the past. Whenever we visited Whitestone during holidays, Lettah used to take Max and me to the kraal to meet her family. We’d pay our respects first to Solomon who taught us to shake hands the African way, gripping thumbs. Solomon had two wives and five children – three sons and two daughters – of whom Lettah was the oldest. The sons all worked on the farm; the other daughter was a late arrival and wasn’t much older than Max and me. Lettah said there had been three others – twin boys who died in childbirth, and another sister who was bitten by a snake. She explained the hierarchical layout of the huts, how seniority determined who lived closest to Solomon. The interior of the huts smelled of smoky thatch and dry dung floors. We’d sit around the fire while Solomon told us stories and his wives cooked up a feast of sadza, the maize meal porridge that is Africa’s staple meal, and goat stew, or a chicken, feet and all in the pot. His calloused hand scooping out some sadza from the three-legged pot over the coals, squashing it into a ball and dipping it into the stew. Taking a bite and sighing with delight. Handing the rest to me, saying, ‘Eat this, Nkosana, and tell me what better pleasures exist in this world.’

  Now, from where we approach through the long grass, it appears that nothing of the kraal remains. Just the bluff, the bush and the eternal whine of insects.

  ‘Are you sure this is the spot?’ Hazel asks.

  I nod. ‘This is the place. Everything’s gone.’

  Not quite everything. I almost stumble over the barely discernible rings of earth denoting where the huts had been, now overgrown with grass and sickle bush.

  We stop and stare in silence at the remains. Hazel lights a cigarette and takes a deep drag. Zuma watches nervously; he keeps his distance, waist deep in the yellow grass. I wonder if his nervousness is prompted by a fear of the spirits that haunt this space. I crouch down and poke through one of the mounds with a stick, unearthing a rusted spoon and a melted transistor radio. Hazel crouches down next to me. She picks up the spoon and rubs it between her fingers. I prize the melted radio out of the mound and turn it over fearfully, as though it might suddenly come to life.

  Hazel stands up. She looks around and shrugs. ‘We can only speculate, Frank. There could be half a dozen explanations for this. These remains are old. This bush would’ve taken years to grow over like this. It’s certainly possible that this is the 5th Brigade’s handiwork. They liked to make examples of those in positions of authority. Unfortunately Lettah’s father, being a headman, would have fitted the bill.’ She raises her hands and drops them. ‘We can’t say for certain
that Lettah was even on the farm at the time of Gukurahundi.’

  I go over to the remains of Solomon’s hut, now hidden under an impenetrable thicket of sickle bush. I scuff at the mounds of dirt beneath the bush, then desist, suddenly fearful of what lurks beneath. Fearful that I’m desecrating something. Staring up at the sheer-sided bluff, I’m overwhelmed by a sense of dread and defeat; the task of finding Lettah in this God-forsaken country seems fraught with menace. I turn and walk over to Zuma who now sits in the grass, invisible save for a glimpse of his blue overalls. Hazel follows behind.

  I pretend to be affable. ‘Zuma, is there anything you can tell me about what happened to these people?’

  Zuma groans as he slowly gets to his feet. ‘I’m not from these parts.’

  ‘Yes, but perhaps you heard what happened here. Surely you would have heard something from the people who worked on this farm.’

  ‘The people who worked here when this happened have all gone.’

  ‘But surely you’ve heard something? You said when this happened. When what happened?’

  Zuma just stares at me blankly.

  I sigh, exasperated. ‘For God’s sake, man! People can’t simply disappear! Someone must know!’

  Zuma continues to stare back. Hazel whispers in my ear. ‘Perhaps an incentive is called for.’

  I take a twenty-dollar note from my pocket. ‘I will pay for information. Any information.’

  Zuma looks at the money. He blinks. Rubs a thumb along the blade of his axe. Our helplessness dawns on me fully; fear surges through me.

  Hazel, too, senses danger. ‘We’re wasting our time, Frank,’ she says, her voice quavering slightly. ‘Come on, let’s go. Inspector Chombo is waiting for us.’

  The heavy emphasis on Chombo’s name appears to have an immediate effect. The malevolent gleam in Zuma’s eye disappears. He stretches and yawns elaborately. Smiles, brown-toothed. ‘The people here were killed for supporting the dissidents. That’s what I heard. That is all I know.’

  ‘All the Ndlovus?’ I ask. ‘The whole family?’

  ‘That’s what I heard.’