CASHBACK
by
Duncan James
Published by Duncan James
Smashwords edition
Copyright 2012 Duncan James
***
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***
CHAPTER 1 - BITTER HARVEST
CHAPTER 2 - GONE AWAY
CHAPTER 3 - THE REUNION
CHAPTER 4 - THE OXFORD AFFAIR
CHAPTER 5 - THE TWO-CARD TRICK
CHAPTER 6 - A PRESENT FROM AUNT GLADYS
CHAPTER 7 - FRIENDS IN NEED
CHAPTER 8 - THE AFRICAN INCENTIVE
CHAPTER 9 - BREAKTHROUGH
CHAPTER 10 - A RUSSIAN AT OXFORD
CHAPTER 11 - THE GNOMES OF MONTREUX
CHAPTER 12 - BANKING AT A LOSS
CHAPTER 13 - THE LISTS
CHAPTER 14 - THE FINGER OF SUSPICION
CHAPTER 15 - DILOMATIC PRESSURE
CHAPTER 16 - PAYBACK TIME
CHAPTER 17 - A GOVERNMENT IN CRISIS
CHAPTER 18 - A NEGOTIATED SOLUTION
CHAPTER 19 - THE HIGJACKING
CHAPTER 20 - THE LAST LAUGH
***
1. BITTER HARVEST
The two men sat on the veranda, sipping their root beer, as they often did after a hard day in the fields. Both were secretly wondering how many more of these evenings they would have together. Not that either of them did much labouring these days, but they had a huge area of land to plant and harvest and supervise between them, and a workforce of several hundred to organise.
The welfare of these people was crucial to the success of the farm, but the gang bosses looked after all that on a day-to-day basis. They arranged the allocation of work, and the transport of the workers between the village and the fields. They recruited extra labour when there was extra work, at harvest time, or when the new crops were being planted, and made sure they were all paid on time at the end of the week, and had enough food and water during the long days in the fields.
But there were always problems of some sort to be dealt with, and those came to the two men on the veranda to resolve. And now there were more problems than ever before: problems which threatened the very future of the farm, the people who worked there, the village - everything.
It was still hot, even though the sun was waning. The two men gently swatted at the usual evening hatch of insects, mostly mosquitoes and flies, but a few other, more exotic varieties. The crickets would soon start their evening chirruping. Then the bullfrogs, down at the creek, where the boys swam and caught fish.
The boys had been down there most of the afternoon, playing their version of Rugby in the dusty field beyond the garden. There were no written rules - how could there be, for ‘one a side’? - yet somehow they each understood what was allowed and what wasn’t. So did Tinker, the Jack Russell, who chased the old leather ball as hard as anyone. Eventually, when the heat and dust got too much for them, they would all hurl themselves into the creek, to clean up and cool off. Tinker seemed to enjoy this best of all.
James Bartlett leant forward for his glass. The old rocking chair creaked, as it had done in his father’s day. One day he’d fix it, but somehow it was as much a part of life as the chair itself. For as long as James could remember, that chair had been on the veranda, alongside the old wicker table, and it had always made that noise.
“One day, I’ll fix this chair,” he said to old man Mbele, the farm manager.
Mbele smiled a toothy smile.
“I doubt it,” he grinned. “Your father never did.”
He finished his root beer.
“Another?” asked James.
Mbele nodded his thanks, and as he did so, Beatrice Bartlett came out of the house with the jug.
“We were just thinking we’d have another,” said James.
“I heard the chair,” replied his wife. “How are you today, Mr. Mbele?” she asked, filling his glass.
“Fine, fine, thank you Missy,” he replied.
“Any more news.” Beatrice Bartlett looked concernedly at both men.
“No. Nothing new today.” replied James.
“The gang of strangers has been round the village again,” said Mbele, “but no trouble.”
“I’m sure there will be, soon enough,” said James. “I’m just glad we got that security fence up when we did.”
“They say in the village that another farm, to the north, was taken last week,” said Mbele. “But I don’t know whose it was or what happened to them. When my people find out, I’ll tell you.”
“I’ve heard nothing on the radio, but then it often takes days for news to get out,” said Bartlett.
“I get so worried,” said his wife.
“We’re as prepared as we can be,” said James, reassuringly.
“If that gang of war veterans doesn’t move away soon,” said Mbele, “it might be best to leave while you can rather than be thrown out like others.”
“I’m certainly not going to simply walk out,” said Bartlett. “This is my life - Zimbabwe is my country. This farm was built up to what it is now by generations of my family, if my family hadn’t developed the farm, then the village of Chasimu where you all live wouldn’t exist. No school for the children, no store, nothing. My Grandfather built that dam with his own hands, and not a lot of help. Without it, the irrigation system would have been impossible, and the land would have stayed as scrub. I’m not going to betray all that effort just because there’s a gang of thugs hanging around.”
Mbele nodded sagely. “I can understand that,” he said.
“You know that I’ve been in talks with the land reform agency for weeks now, trying to negotiate a way through this. There’s over 4,000 acres of good land here, more than enough for your people to share and to make a living from.”
“But we would need help,” said Mbele. “We know we couldn’t work the land without expert help from you. A big farm makes big money - many small ones cannot do that. One dam, many rivers, much water to be shared out, not enough machinery for everyone to have a tractor. And where would we get the money to buy seeds and fertiliser? You pay for that now - we couldn’t.”
“Between us, we could run it as a co-operative, with the land shared out, but the Government doesn’t seem to understand that, or doesn’t want to understand probably.”
“But we all joined their party as they said we must,” protested the old man.
“But you are not all ‘war veterans’,” said James Bartlett. “The mob in your village is probably of war veterans, and they have probably been sent by the government to take over the whole farm for themselves.”
“That’s what my people think, too,” replied Mbele. “But they are not talking to us much, so we can only guess.”
“Well, Mr Mbele,” responded Bartlett, “we’re very much relying on you and your people to let us know what’s happening, and what the gang is getting up to. I’m quite sure they’re here to take over - it’s just a question of when.”
“My people are doing their best to make them go away,” said Mbele, who was the village elder. “They know what a good man you are and how much you have looked after them all these years. They know things will be bad for them if you go.”
“It’s possible they may each be given some land,” said James, hopefully. “There’s more than enough good land for all of them,” he repeated.
“Some of them have already been promised land by members of the gang. That’s probably what the Government would do, too,” replied Mbele. “Confiscate the land, and lease it back in small bits to local people, so long as they’re ‘war veterans’ or members of Zanu PF.”
“I might even be able to stay myself on that basis,” said James. “The house and a few acres - just enough to get by on. Then I could help you and your people make a go of things. Keep the irrigation system going, and things like that. I shall need to work. The house and farm are worth a lot of money, but if it’s all confiscated, we shall have nothing.”
“No savings?” asked the old man.
“Some,” replied James. “A little in England from the early days - enough to pay for Will’s school, at least, but the rest is here, and we are forbidden from taking money out of the country, so if we leave or are thrown out, we lose everything.”
“It’s difficult enough now,” said Beatrice Bartlett, “paying for Will’s boarding school. I worry that he would probably have to leave, and he so wants to go on to University.”
“That already begins to look out of the question, even if we stay,” said James.
“I don’t think I would ever have the heart to tell him,” said his wife.
“I already have,” said James. “He understands.”
“And if the gang decide to move in, and take their pick of the land,” said Mbele, “then you won’t be staying. They may even be acting on orders from someone else - a Minister or a Judge or someone, who will take over all of it. There will be no village of Chasimu, no school for Bwonqa and the others, no store - nothing left. One of the President’s relations or a friend will move into the house, and the land will be left.”
They fell silent.
Old man Mbele said, “They say the people of Zambia are looking for good white farmers. Have you thought of moving there?”
“Thought of it, but no more than that,” replied James. “It would mean starting all over again, with no money, no tractors or equipment, no house. That would be too hard at my age. No; we’ll stay here and take our chance, or go south if we have to go anywhere.”
They sat in silence again, with only the sounds of the bush at dusk to interrupt their thoughts.
“I have spoken several times to Lieutenant Conteh, and he says he is doing his best,” said Mbele.
“I’m never sure about him,” replied Bartlett, “although I’ve spoken to him myself. In fact, he came to the farm only last week. But I’m not at all sure about him. I can’t make out whose side he’s on - or any of the rest of the Police, come to that.”
“He tells us we should not be afraid,” said the old man.
“But the Police can’t stop the thugs if they should decide to take over the farm,” said Bartlett. “There’s too many of them, and Conteh and his men are always so slow to react if you should contact them.”
“He tells us he is talking to the gang, but they still won’t leave us in peace.” said Mbele.
“In the end, the Police work for the Government, and that’s all there is to it,” said the farm owner. “And the war veterans are doing the Government’s dirty work for it, let’s face it, which is why I’m never sure about Lt. Conteh.”
“He’s taking a wife soon, and there’s to be a marriage in the Mosque at Chichele,” said the old man.
“We’ve been invited,” said Beatrice Bartlett. “Perhaps he’ll manage to keep things quiet until after that. He won’t want any trouble at his wedding.”
“That’s true,” said James Bartlett. “I’d quite forgotten that, with all else there is on my mind. When is it exactly?” he asked his wife.
“Three weeks, I think,” she replied. “I’ll get the invitation - it’s just inside.”
She quickly returned.
“As I thought,” she reported. “Three weeks next Saturday.”
The two men looked at one another.
“Conteh will want no trouble,” repeated the old man.
“I wonder,” mused Bartlett. “If Conteh is talking to the gang, he may just be able to hold them off until after his wedding. We could have just three weeks left, in that case.”
“I’ll talk to him again,” promised the old man.
“So will I, by God. If we are going to be kicked of our own land, it would be handy to know when. We could at least plan things a bit better.”
Mrs. Bartlett shivered, even in the heat.
“We’d better get the boys in,” she said. “It’s getting dark.”
She went to the end of the veranda, and rang the old brass bell.
The boys heard, and Tinker barked. He knew the bell meant a final swim and then supper. He beat the boys into the creek, and then beat them up the hill, across the scrub, and through the new metal gate into the garden.
Old man Mbele stood to leave. “Thank you for the beer, Missy.”
“Will,” commanded Mrs. Bartlett, “you get straight inside and clean up before supper. Those old rags you wear are a disgrace - I shall throw them out when you’ve gone back to school.”
“Good enough for playing in the bush,” replied the boy. “See you tomorrow, Bonkers,” shouted Will, after the departing Bwonqa. “My last day before I go back to school in England.”
Bwonqa waved as he and his father headed off into the bush, back to the village. The Bartletts left the veranda in the failing light, and went indoors.
They were largely silent over supper, each lost in their own thoughts. Beatrice Bartlett was worried about the future, of course, as they all were, and she simply could not imagine what would happen to them all. What if they were suddenly forced to leave while Will was in England at school? How would they get in touch? Where would he go for his holidays - he couldn’t stay at school. If they couldn’t continue to live in Zimbabwe, then they would probably head for South Africa, where they had friends. Will could always go there, she supposed. But what about money? What would they live on? So many problems - so many ‘what ifs’.
James Bartlett felt the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. Not just for his family, but for all his friends and their families who worked on the farm. He had done his best for them over the years, as his ancestors had, helping to pay for the village they nearly all lived in, setting up the small C.of E. school for the children, building the dam and planning and digging out the extensive irrigation system which had changed acres of scrub into valuable, fertile soil.
The villagers believed that if they had land, then they had money, but they mostly failed to understand that the land needed to be carefully farmed, tended and watered. When times had been hard in drought years, as they would be again, they had been tempted in the past to eat the seed corn. But now the farm was more complicated. It no longer just produced maize, but also cotton, and, on the best land, grapes from the vineyard.
He guessed that, when and if he left, they would all try to scrape a living by growing maize and nothing else, knowing that the marketing board would buy it from them. On their own, they did not have the knowledge or the contacts to market the cotton, or to harvest the grapes at their peak for selling to the vintners in the south. He could imagine that all the hard work he and his forbears had put into developing the farm and looking after the local community over the last hundred years or so would soon be put to waste, and the land would revert to thorn trees and scrub.
William, too, was lost in his own thoughts and fears for the future. He was in his last year at boarding school, and had been looking forward to going to university or agricultural college before, eventually, taking over the farm from his parents. That had been his only ambition. His great friend from childhood, Bwonqa Mbele, who he had always called ‘Bonkers’, would also eventually take over from the old man, his father, as farm manager and head man of the village, and they would continue to develop the place together.
In his heart of hearts, he knew now that this was an impossible dream.
The insane political ambition of those in power would bring about the long-term destruction of the farm, by redistributing the land to people who could not run it or make a living from it. To them, possession of land was all that mattered. Land meant power and land meant money. Already, other farms that had been taken from their white owners were falling into disrepair, and this year’s tobacco harvest was the worst the country had known.
“It might be a good idea, Will,” said his mother, “if you started collecting together your things this evening, rather than leave everything to the last minute as you usually do.”
“I already have, Mother,” he replied. “I plan to take rather more than usual, too. If you have to leave while I’m still at school, it will give you more space for your things.”
“William, please don’t talk like that.” His mother was plainly upset.
“You know it makes sense, Mother,” replied Will Bartlett. “Distressing though it might be, I know that I may not see this place again, and I am planning accordingly, as I know you are.”
His mother dabbed her eyes, and Tinker jumped on to her lap, not, this time scrounging for a scrap of supper, but because he, too, sensed that things were not right.
“That’s very sensible of you, boy,” said James, his father, quietly. “If we do have to leave, we shan’t have much time to pack, or even to let you know we’re on the move, probably. But we’ll take what we can, and you know we shall go to the Parkinson’s down south, where you can eventually join us.”
“You mustn’t worry about me,” said Will. “I have already discussed all this with Bonkers, who’s a very sensible chap, and we have agreed how he will get word to me if the worst comes to the worst.”
“I’m still hoping and praying that I shall be able to stay on, even if the land is confiscated,” said Will’s father. “It’s happened on a few other farms, to the north. If we can hang on to the house and a few acres, I shall be able to keep going. I will be given nothing for the land, of course, except a little totally inadequate ‘compensation’, and I can’t get our savings out of the country, so I shall need to work, whatever happens.”
“It could very useful keeping in touch with Bonkers,” said Will. “So long as his father is kept on as manager, or head man of the village, they may yet be able to exercise some influence on our behalf.”
“They will need to be careful, though, not to compromise their own future by being seen to be too close to the ‘enemy’ white farmer.”
“Bonkers and the old man know that, and will watch their step,” replied Will.
The family fell silent again. Tinker moved across to Will, his best friend and playmate, and looked up sadly, ears back.
“Come on, then,” invited Will, and the little dog jumped up onto his lap.
Both knew there wouldn’t be many more evenings like this.
***
It was lunchtime the next day before Bwonqa and old man Mbele arrived at the house, with Will’s father. Will had finished his packing, and was due, in a couple of hours, to drive in the old Landrover to the airstrip on the farm, a few miles from the house, for his short flight to Harare airport and the evening departure to London’s Gatwick. There were sandwiches and fresh fruit ready for them, but Will had no real appetite. Neither did the other boy, who looked sad.
“Why don’t you boys go down to the creek?” suggested Mrs. Bartlett. “Take some sandwiches and your fishing rods, and see if you have any luck. But mind you don’t get dirty!”
Their rods were always on the balcony, ready made up. They wandered off, for once without any real enthusiasm. But it was always cool by the creek, and they had their favourite spot, on the rocks under the overhanging trees. There were birds there, and always fish in the crystal clear water.
“It may be some time before I see you again,” said Will to Bonkers.
“I know, friend,” replied Bonkers, casting his line into the water. It landed with a splash, which it never usually did - he was too good a fisherman for that. They watched as all the frightened fish shot off down stream. “Like you, I have my lessons again tomorrow, but holidays will be strange and lonely without you here.”
“It might be all right,” said Will. “We might be lucky, and be able to stay.”
“No.” said Bwonqa, shaking his head. “It will never be all right again. But I shall come here to fish, and think of you in your far away country.”
They sat in silence, with only the whispering of the stream and the sounds of the bush to break the peace.
Suddenly, Tinker sat bolt upright, his nose taking in a strange scent drifting on the breeze. The boys heard a twig snap under foot not too far away, and Tinker tore off towards the sound, barking like a thousand demented hounds.
“It’s the gang!” yelled Bwonqa.
Both boys leapt to their feet and chased after Tinker, shouting at him come to heel.
A shot rang out.
On the balcony, James and Beatrice Bartlett stood petrified, hardly daring to move. Old man Mbele stared into the bush towards the creek, ears straining as the startled parakeets settled again. Mrs. Bartlett rang the old brass bell furiously.
“It’s all right,” said Mbele, holding up his hand. “The boys are coming - I hear them.”
Will and Bwonqa walked slowly up to the balcony. There were tears streaming down the black boy’s dusty face, as he carried a small, lifeless bundle in his arms.
“They shot Tinker”, said Will.
***
It was the middle of the next morning before Lieutenant Conteh arrived in his old Landrover. He rang the bell from outside the security gate, and one of the garden boys ran to let him in.
They sat on the veranda, Conteh in his usual uniform of khaki bush jacket and shorts, with long socks and dusty boots, which he had obviously decided long ago, were not worth the effort of trying to polish.
Beatrice Bartlett brought the two men coffee, exchanged the time of day with Conteh, and left them to talk.
“Sorry to hear you had trouble from the gang of strangers,” said Conteh, when she had left them.
“They frightened the living daylights out of us yesterday evening,” replied Bartlett, frowning. “They shot and killed our dog, and we thought the boys had been fired on, down by the creek.”
“They meant to frighten you,” replied Conteh.
“Do you have the slightest idea what their intentions are?” demanded Bartlett.
“Not exactly,” replied the local Police chief. “The last time we spoke, I told you they were up to no good and to be prepared for the worst. I have spoken to them several times since then, and I’m now sure they eventually mean to take over your land. They have also been threatening the people of the village who work on your land, telling them that if they do not cause trouble they will be given land of their own.”
“I don’t believe that,” snorted Bartlett.
“Neither do I,” replied Conteh. “I am sure they are acting with official support, if not on the direct orders of someone in authority, but I can’t prove it. I really have nothing new to tell you since I saw you last week.”
“How many are there all together?”
“Probably not enough, given the size of your place and the number of people who work for you and live in the Chasimu. I would expect more to turn up before anything happens.”
“Any idea when that might be?” asked Bartlett.
“No. But I am talking to them as often as possible and trying to delay things.”
“Will you be able to stop them taking control? Can you stop them throwing me and my family off our own land? We are as much Zimbabwean as they are, you know. We were all born here, too.”
“I know that, and they know that, but it’s because you are white they want you off the land. They have been told it’s theirs, not yours, and that they should take it back from you. So I can’t stop them, although I would personally like to because I know giving the land back to black Zimbabweans is a mistake. They will not manage as you do or without your help. Already some farms that have been taken over are producing poor crops, in some cases no crops at all, and some areas are short of food. But I can’t stop it.”
“What can you do to help, if you mean what you say about wanting to?” asked Bartlett.
“I have been trying to delay things long enough to give you plenty of warning.”
“How long do you think, then?” asked Bartlett. “Three weeks?”
“What makes you pick three weeks?” asked Conteh, looking surprised.
“Your wedding,” replied Bartlett. “That’s in three weeks, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the Policeman. “In three weeks. After that I shall be away with my new wife. After that, I shall not be able to help you.”
“In that case, I think we had better be ready to leave when you do.”
Conteh nodded. “Be ready to go sooner, but certainly in three weeks. I cannot hold them off any longer than that, but I think I have persuaded them to let me take my new wife in peace. I hope they mean what they have told me, but after that à”
The policeman shrugged his shoulders.
James Bartlett sighed, and sat silent and grim faced.
“You must tell old man Mbele,” he said eventually. “The people who live in Chasimu must know.”
“Some of them already know from the gang. Some of them have agreed not to stand in their way, in return for land, but others are resisting, and I fear for their safety. I will tell Mbele everything I know.”
“I must talk to him about the farm, too,” said Bartlett. “We must decide what to do about the cattle, for one thing. It’s not a big herd, but it can’t be left to wander and graze where it likes. They would ruin everything else in time.”
Conteh lent forward.
“You must try not to worry about the farm”, he said. “Think of yourself and your family, and make plans for your own safety. You must leave it to the old man and his people to decide about the farm, when they know what is happening to the land, and who will own it. You cannot plan for that now.”
“We could discuss the future, at least, even if we can’t make decisions.”
Suddenly, James Bartlett felt his age. He felt tired and despondent. His farm was coming to the end of its days; it was about to be ruined, and he was powerless to stop it.
Not only that, he was about to be ruined as well, financially. He could not imagine what the future might hold for him and his family.
At last, Lt. Conteh rose to leave. The two men walked slowly to the security gate in the fence.
“This won’t stop them,” commented Conteh. “It may delay them, but it won’t stop them.”
Bartlett nodded.
“With your help and a bit of luck, I shall be away before it comes to that,” he said.
“Old man Mbele will have to sort things out as best he can. There are bound to be many of his people who will help him.”
“And many who won’t,” rued James Bartlett. “Their loyalty is being bought in exchange for the promise of land.”
Bartlett opened the gate, and the two men shook hands, before Lt. Conteh saluted smartly.
“You’ll come to my wedding?” he asked. “You and Missy Bartlett?”
James nodded. “If we’re spared,” he said. “We’ve been looking forward to it, but we may not stay long.”
“We shall speak again before then.”
Lieutenant Conteh climbed into his Landrover, and James Bartlett watched him disappear into the dust of the road to the village.
He really couldn’t make up his mind about that man. He appeared to be concerned and wanting to help, but why should he take my side against the war veterans, he wondered? Perhaps it was because he originally came from Sierra Leone. They were more kindly disposed towards the British there. Although, of course, James wasn’t British - he was Zimbabwean. And Sierra Leone was even more corrupt, it was said, that Zimbabwe had become. Was Conteh here to avoid the corruption or had he been a victim of it?
And who in their right mind would call him Jesus Conteh? He was a Muslim.
“I really can’t make up my mind about that man,” he said to Beatrice, who was waiting for him on the veranda.
He put his arm around her shoulders, and told her about their conversation together, and what they had concluded.
“We must plan to leave in three weeks,” he said, “immediately after the wedding. Straightaway. No coming back here to pack, or collect things, or to say goodbye to people. When we leave here for Chichele, we leave here for good. We go to the wedding, and then we go to the Parkinson’s.”
“There’s so much to do,” said Beatrice in despair.
“We’ve made a good start already, don’t forget. We could see this might happen.”
“Our most treasured possessions, things like jewellery, and important papers, we will take with us,” decided James. “The rest - clothes, books and so on - we can send ahead by rail. Otherwise, we’ll take with us only what we would normally need for a holiday. People must believe that’s what we’re doing - taking another holiday with our friends in South Africa. If we arouse any suspicion that we are preparing to quit for good, that might well cause the war veterans to act before Conteh’s wedding and before we’re ready.”
“But we must tell some people,” protested Beatrice Bartlett.
“Only a few we can trust,” replied her husband. “Old man Mbele must obviously know what’s planned, and so must Will and his Headmaster, and the Parkinsons. I’ll phone them tomorrow, and hope nobody listens in to the conversation, but we shall only be planning a holiday, so even if the line is bugged, we should be all right. It’s a long drive, so I’ll book a few stops on the way down. It’s a pity we can’t fly, but we shall have too much with us.”
“I can’t believe this is happening to us,” she said tearfully.
“It’s happened to many other white farmers before us, and will happen to others after we have gone,” said James.
“Some poor souls have even been killed by the thugs who have taken over their property,” said Beatrice.
“All we can hope for, my dear, is that we avoid any violence by slipping away quietly,” replied James. “With luck, and help from Lt. Conteh, we should be all right.”
“Can he be trusted to help us, do you think?” his wife almost pleaded.
“I really can’t make up my mind about that man,” James replied. “But he’s our only hope.”
Mrs. Bartlett shivered, even in the heat.
2. GONE AWAY
Kipling Bangura was an engineer. He was a very good engineer, too, so he thought. He was certainly the finest in the little village of Chasimu. No one disputed that, not least because he was about the only man in the village who knew anything about it at all. He knew how things worked - mechanical things that were beyond the ken of most other people in the area. Things like cars and vans and tractors and cooking stoves. And because he knew how things worked, he could generally manage to mend them when they didn’t.
Kipling himself would be the first to admit, however, that he was not very clever with electricity and things that were worked by electricity. But in Chasimu, that didn’t really matter, as there wasn’t much electricity about, and so not many people had things that worked by electricity. Most people had electricity in their homes, but it went off so often that not many people could rely on it. Like Mr. Bangura, they had electric lights, but oil lamps as well, just in case. Some had electric cookers, but most, also like Mr. Bangura, used bottled gas or oil. Most of the white farmers, like Mr. Bartlett and people like him in big houses had reliable machines that generated electricity for them, and they had things like cookers and freezers and large wireless sets that didn’t need batteries, and so on, but they also were usually clever enough, praise be, to mend them themselves when they went wrong. People like that were still good for business, though, even if they could fix things themselves, because their generating machines ran on petrol which Mr. Kipling Bangura was pleased to sell them.
No, Kipling’s real strength was in the other sort of engineering; the sort with engines that needed petrol or diesel, or the sort that needed mending with the welding torch. Mr. Bangura was very proud of his skill with the welding torch, and had resurrected many a fine piece of equipment that would otherwise have been left at the side of the field to rust away.
Mr. Bangura also sold petrol. There was a pump in the front of his workshop, at the roadside, handy for passing traffic to stop. The pump was hard work to use, in spite of the fact that he oiled it often. He sold oil, too, either in small cans, or, sometimes, in large drums for those who could collect. He had always thought that, one day, if anyone ever brought proper electricity to his part of town, that didn’t keep going off, he would try to get a pump that he didn’t have to operate by hand.
Kipling Bangura had a nice workshop on the edge of Chasimu, and lived on the premises. It was, like most properties in the area, a single storied building, but it had a corrugated iron roof - on most of it, at least. The garden wasn’t up to much, but then Mr. Bangura wasn’t much of a gardener anyway, so that was probably why. Another reason was that most of it was given over to storing useful things for his engineering. Things like old car engines, bits of plough, an old wrought iron gate - that sort of thing. Some plants grew in spite of it all, but he guessed they were mostly weeds. Certainly, he had never noticed anything in the least bit pretty or edible.
Kipling Bangura did not have a wife, although he often thought how useful it would be to have one, especially one who could look after his papers for him. He was not very good in the office, which was really only a table in what should have been the bedroom, but which was actually part of the workshop. It was the part where he kept spares, and cans of oil and that sort of thing, and it had bills and receipts and invoices and so on in neat piles on the table in the corner. He knew that if he had a wife, this would have to be a bedroom again, although he couldn’t quite see where he would store all these things if it were. He preferred to sleep in the other room, next to the small kitchen, which also had a table in it where he ate his meals. Apart from that, and a small bathroom with a shower, his home was nearly all workshop.
In spite of the fact that he was so well known locally, Mr. Bangura believed in the power of advertising. He had put a large sign across the front of his workshop to tell people who he was and what he did. That sign had caused him no end of trouble and sleepless nights. Even now, he wasn’t totally sure that he had the wording right. At first he wanted to advertise the fact that he could mend everything, because he thought he could. But some people had said that wasn’t quite right. It was ‘everything’ that was wrong. What about things that worked by electricity? Could he mend those? No, he couldn’t. And just look at the mess he’d made of that old typewriter a few years ago. People remembered that. So really, mending everything wasn’t quite what he did. He was certainly prepared to try to mend everything. There wasn’t anything that he wouldn’t try to mend, but every now and then, even his engineering skills failed to produce quite the result that his customers were looking for. Now and then. In the end, he had settled for the word ‘anything’ instead of ‘everything’. He thought this allowed for the odd exception to be made, like electric things for instance, and really fiddly things like typewriters where the welding torch wasn’t a lot of use. So in the end, the sign across the front of his workshop proudly said: -
KIPLING BANGURA ENGINEERING CO. AND PETROL.
ANYTHING MENDED.
At least, it almost said that. The sad fact was, though, that when it came to it, his good friend Patrick Chanama, who did sign writing, could not find a piece of timber long enough to get it all in. So he used two pieces, and joined them in the middle. But there was a gap, right through the middle of two of the words. So it had never looked quite right.
KIPLING BANGURA ENGINEE RING CO. AND PETROL.
ANYTHING M ENDED.
But it was the best that could be done at the time. Mr. Chanama was still looking for a longer piece of wood, so he said.
He had done rather better on Kipling’s van. For a long time, Kipling had driven the van without any sign on it at all, so it seemed a golden opportunity, while Mr. Chanama was doing the workshop sign, to ask him to do the van as well, only in smaller writing. It had been decided to leave off the bit about petrol, as he obviously couldn’t sell petrol from his van, but he decided to add instead that he supplied spares. He had actually meant that to go on the workshop sign as well, but had forgotten until it was too late. So now the van proudly proclaimed: -
KIPLING BANGURA ENGINEERING CO.
ANYTHING MENDED AND SPEARS SUPPLIED.
A few people had suggested that Patrick Chanama had spelt ‘spares’ wrongly, but it looked all right to Kipling, and, after all, Mr. Chanama had gone to school so should know better than they did.
Kipling Bangura was very proud of his van. It was very old, and therefore a living testimony to his skill as an engineer that he had been able to keep it going for so long. He used it quite a lot around town, and sometimes went on quite long journeys in it, once or twice a month, leaving his nephew Kboi in charge. Mr. Bangura never went on holiday, so usually, when he went on quite long journeys, it was to get spares and parts and things for his workshop that he couldn’t get locally. He didn’t like Bulawayo, although there were some fine engineers there from the old copper mines, so he went across the border into Botswana to visit his cousin, who lived this side of Francistown, in Tshesebe. He ran a small garage and was able to get all the spares that Kipling wanted, so it was as good as going on holiday for a couple of days.
The last time he had been away, he had missed a quite important visitor, according to Kboi. Mr. Mbele, the head man at Mr. Bartlett’s farm, had called. For the life of him, Mr. Bangura could not work out why Mr. Mbele should want to see him, although he knew that, like many other farmers, Mr. Bartlett was probably going to be forced off his land quite soon. He had seen the gang of strange men about town, and had heard the gossip that they were war veterans and up to no good. He couldn’t imagine that Mr. Mbele wanted spares or anything like that. Perhaps he wanted work, when Mr. Bartlett had gone. That Mr. Bartlett was a good man, and it would be sad to see him go after all that he done for the village and its people, but Mr. Bangura could not imagine that he would leave without having taken good care of Mr. Mbele.
A few days later, Mr. Mbele called again. After Kipling Bangura had made tea, and they were sitting with their mugs, with oily finger marks on them, they were able to get down to business.
“I’m talking to you on behalf of Mr. Bartlett,” said Mbele, “who wants to ask you a great favour.”
“Of course, if I can help,” replied Kipling. “What sort of favour?”
“Obviously nothing illegal,” reassured the old man, “but he would like you to take some things for him to Francistown in your excellent van.”
“What sort of things?” asked Bangura.
“Personal things,” replied Mbele. “Personal things which are valuable to him and Missy Bartlett, and which they do not wish to risk losing.”
“I see,” said Kipling, although he wasn’t sure he did, yet.
“You have heard the rumours that the war veterans are planning to take over the farm?” asked Mbele.
“Like many others,” said Kipling, sadly.
“They will probably go in about two weeks from now, the Bartletts, on the day of Lieutenant Conteh’s wedding,” announced Mbele, “although the date of their going is secret and you must tell nobody.”
“Quite so,” assured Mr. Bangura.
“Many of their possessions have already been moved,” continued old man Mbele, “and they had planned to take other, more precious, items with them. But now they have heard that Police and Customs men at the border are ransacking the vehicles and luggage of white farmers who leave, or demanding large bribes to prevent looting.”
“So Mr. Bartlett wants to borrow my van?” asked Bangura.
“Not quite,” said the old man. “They would like you to take a few pieces of their luggage to Francistown for them, if you would be so kind. They know that you often cross the border to visit your cousin.”
“Indeed I do,” agreed Kipling. “And I know the people on the border quite well. Sometimes I just wave as I drive through, other times I will stop for a gossip and a cup of their tea, but they never look in the van. They know that I go there to visit my cousin and to buy spares for my workshop, and I know what to pay them to avoid trouble.”
“Exactly as Mr. Bartlett had hoped,” said Mbele, obviously relieved at the news.
“When shall I make this journey for them?” enquired Bangura.
“Soon,” replied Mbele. “I will let you know. Mr Bartlett would like to bring his things in his pick-up truck one evening after it is dark, and transfer them to your van ready for you to leave the next morning.”
“And where shall I take it?” asked Kipling.
“Mr Bartlett has rented a lock-up on the outskirts of Francistown. He will give you directions and the key, which you will return to him. He will pay you well for your favour,” added Mbele. “I can negotiate with you now, and you will be paid half before you leave, and the other half when you return with the key.”
They drank more tea, and eventually agreed a price.
As they parted, the old man said, “Mr. Bartlett trusts you totally to do this for him. I have assured him you will not let him down.”
“You can trust me,” replied Kipling.
“I expect we shall meet again at Lt. Conteh’s wedding,” said Mbele.
“I shall be there,” replied Mr. Bangura.
***
A few days before his wedding, Lieutenant Conteh called again to see James Bartlett.
“I have to tell you that there are now many more war veterans than before,” announced the Lieutenant, gravely. “Not all of them are in the village, either, but some are camped out around the farm ready to move on to your land.”
“I have heard that,” replied Bartlett. “They have been to the fence and the gate many times, and we have spoken to them about their intentions. Mr. Mbele also has reported that they have been much more active among the farm workers, many of whom have already taken fright and left.”
“As I feared,” said Conteh. “They will move into the empty houses around the estate as soon as they feel free to do so, but they still assure me that they will not make a move to take over your farm until after my wedding.”
“They have told us that,” agreed James Bartlett, “and I cannot thank you enough for keeping them at bay for as long as you have and giving us the time to plan an orderly departure.”
“What exactly are your plans now?” asked the policeman.
“We shall leave here to attend your wedding, and not return,” replied Bartlett with a sigh of resignation. “Most of our stuff has already been moved out, and is now in the Western Cape, where we shall eventually make our new home. We had planned to take our most valuable belongings with us - personal things like jewellery and so on - but we have heard such dreadful tales of looting at the border that we have made other arrangements for that now.”
“The war veterans have told me that you may leave with your pick-up truck and your big Volvo car if you wish,” said Conteh.
“I shall only take the pick-up,” replied Bartlett. “I think two cars crossing the border, on what is supposed to be a holiday, would only arouse suspicion. I plan to leave the Volvo Estate in the care of Mr Bangura at his workshop, where my son can collect it at some time. It should be safe there.”
“I agree,” said Conteh. “That sounds sensible, if I may say so.”
“I hope, when we have gone, that you will be able to keep an eye on things as best you can,” pleaded Mr. Bartlett. “Make sure they don’t do too much damage to the property - that sort of thing. After all, this represents all I have in the world, more or less.”
“From what I hear,” said Lt. Conteh, “the house should be all right. I understand that the Local Government Minister in Bulawayo has plans to move in when you leave.”
“But he knows nothing about farming,” protested Bartlett.
“He is not coming here to run the farm,” responded the policeman. “He has been ‘given’ the house as a reward for services rendered to the party, the President and his cronies.”
There was a long silence.
“What a disgraceful state this country has come to,” said a sad James Bartlett. “My own country, too, although I become ashamed to admit it.”
“At least your old homestead will not be taken over by the war veterans,” said Conteh.
“That’s little comfort,” replied Bartlett.
Conteh nodded.
“The Government is robbing me of my house and my property,” said Bartlett. “There’s no other way of looking at it.”
“I agree it is a crime,” said Lt. Conteh. “But it’s one I can do nothing about. I can’t prevent it, and I can do nothing after the crime has been committed.”
“But you will keep an eye on the place for me from time to time, when you’re passing?”
“I am sorry, but I can’t even do that. After my wedding I am being promoted and moved to Bulawayo. I am so sorry,” Conteh said again.
“I am pleased for you that you are getting promotion,” said Bartlett. “But you will be missed hereabouts.”
The man sighed.
“No doubt old Mr. Mbele will look after things as best he can.”
“I’m sure he will,” replied the policeman. “He and his son.”
Conteh stood to leave. “I hope your departure goes smoothly,” he said. “I hope you will be able to share a little of my happiness at my wedding on your way. I am proud that you were able to accept my invitation.”
***
The Bartletts had had a miserable week. Packing had been dreadful, not least because they couldn’t simply strip the house of all their furniture and possessions. To make an orderly departure, they had to go through the motions of preparing for a holiday in the Western Cape. But thanks largely to the efforts of Lt. Conteh, they had been able to ship out a lot of their home, although much would have to be left behind to be ruined by whoever commandeered the house when they had gone.
In some ways, they were more fortunate than many other white farmers had been. There had been no violence so far, and their eviction had not been a sudden nightmare. But nightmare it still was, and violence still a possibility. James and Beatrice knew that they had to be prepared for a hasty and unplanned departure, even now. The war veterans were volatile people, who were unpredictable and impatient.
Preparing to leave had brought a great deal of heartbreak and tears. The Bartletts knew that their dear old friends, the Parkinsons, would do everything they could to make them welcome and to settle them in to their new home in South Africa. They were to have a bungalow on the edge of the huge wine growing estate that the Parkinsons owned - bigger even than the Bartletts’ farm. James would have work, once he had settled, and Beatrice would also be able to help run the large and bustling homestead where they had stayed so often before, in happier times. But they would be starting again, with nothing. In Zimbabwe, they were worth millions, taking account of the value of the farm, but in the Western Cape, they would almost be penniless to start with. Illegally exporting currency from Zimbabwe was severely punished, and there was no way of getting their savings out of the country legally. Not that the currency was worth much to anyone outside Zimbabwe. The country’s economy was in such a crippled state, and inflation soaring so fast, that there was little with which to buy food and fuel to keep the country and its people going. But they would at least have a few of their personal belongings around them in their bungalow.
James Bartlett had done all he could to leave his affairs in good order. His land, and thus his wealth, would be confiscated - he knew that. And there would be no compensation - he knew that, too. So everything that he and his family had worked to achieve since the end of the last century would pass to the now corrupt and bankrupt State. But he had made sure that all the title deeds and other vital paperwork, which would prove his ownership of the farm in any reasonably just court of law, were already across the border. Mr. Kipling Bangura had done that for him, and he had returned the key to the lock-up in Botswana where it was safely stored. Mr. Bangura also had the Volvo, at the back of his workshop under dustsheets, so that William could take it, whenever the time was right. Mr. Bangura would make sure it was kept in working order, with air in the tyres and oil in the engine and the battery charged.
James Bartlett had discussed all this with his solicitor, who had made sure all the papers were in good order. He had done two things that the Bartletts regarded as particularly important. First of all, he had so arranged the Bartletts’ affairs that Will had access to their money, should he ever need it, although it obviously could not be taken out of the country. Secondly, he had so arranged things that, on his departure, ownership of the homestead would pass to old man Mbele. One day, perhaps, things might have settled enough for the old man, or his heirs, to be able to claim the property back from the war veterans, or whoever was living in the place at the time.
The old man had wept when James Bartlett told him what he had done.
“This house will be yours when I have gone,” Bartlett said, as they sat on the veranda. “But you must bide your time before you claim it. Move too soon, and the war veterans will cause you trouble. But I hope that, even before then, you will be able to help run the farm, or what’s left of it, to provide some work and income for your people. You might be able to do that, whoever is living in the house.”
“But the house is yours,” protested Mbele. “It was built by your ancestors. It should pass to your son, Will, not to me.”
“I have taken care of William in other ways,” replied Bartlett. “He will be all right, and the house will be of no use to him once the farm has been taken over. He will finish his education, and live in the south with us, but may well be able to return to this country from time to time if he wants. He has said that he intends to keep in touch with your son Bwonqa at all costs. Maybe one day he will be able to sit on this veranda again when you have the house.”
“I dare not think of the future,” replied Mbele. “I cannot tell what will happen to us once you have gone. Many of our people have already fled the country while they are safe, but I shall stay. I am too old to go, and Bwonqa has said he will stay with me, whatever happens.”
“I am sad to be leaving you behind with all the trouble,” said James Bartlett. “But at least, one day, you may have this grand old house to live out your last days. You and Will’s great friend, Bwonqa.”
“I hope the two boys can exchange letters, or even phone calls,” replied the old man. “I shall want to know how you and Missy Bartlett are getting on.”
They sat for a time in silence. Eventually, old man Mbele stood, went down the steps of the veranda, and walked off slowly along the path across the garden and through the gate into the bush and the gathering dusk, towards the village. He neither said ‘goodbye’, nor turned to look back. A handful of war veterans were, as always, gathered outside the fence. Some of them jeered at the old man. A few shook their fists at him or waved heavy sticks and machetes. The old man ignored them, and passed by them without a second glance, and with all the dignity he could muster. James Bartlett knew better than to call after him, but watched until his old farm manager and friend made his way round the bend in the dusty path, and disappeared from sight.
They were never to meet again.
***
In spite of all their problems, the Bartletts had taken time to get themselves well prepared for Lieutenant Conteh’s great day. They had never before attended a Muslim wedding, so they had lots of questions. They had received an elaborate souvenir wedding invitation, which told them everything they needed to know, not just about where and when, but also Conteh’s complete family history. But it said nothing about the protocols attached to such an important occasion.
Dress was not too much of a problem, as a jacket and tie was the minimum standard to be expected, and that would not be too inappropriate for them on the start of their ‘holiday’. But what should they buy as a present? The best advice was something to hang on the wall, or money. The Bartletts would need all the money they could muster, as they were unable to take much with them, and could not move any out of the country, so Beatrice Bartlett had suggested a rather fine print of Constable’s ‘Haywain’, which had hung in their hallway, and which they had not planned to take with them. Such a classic English rural scene might at least remind the Contehs of them from time to time. Finally, they had been advised to wear a good pair of socks or tights, as shoes would certainly need to be removed before entering the little mosque.
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