Storms Over Africa (47 page)

‘I haven't told you much in the past have I?'

‘You were protecting me.'

Richard laughed. ‘Don't give me excuses, son. I have plenty of those in the cupboard. I'm trying honesty. It seems to be working.
Actually . . .' he grinned in the darkness, ‘. . . it feels rather good.'

‘No clap of thunder?' There was a smile in David's voice.

‘Not even a whimper.'

‘Mum would be proud of you.'

Richard absorbed it. He guessed the reference to Kathy had been a gentle reprimand.

‘Samson told me about the trance,' David said suddenly, ‘he started to teach me.'

Richard glanced at the dark profile beside him. ‘What happened?'

‘I felt I was flying. I could feel wind blowing my hair. I felt out of control.'

‘Then what happened?'

‘Samson snapped me out of it.'

‘Why?'

‘He'd been flying with me. He sensed I was scared.'

‘Did you ever try it again?'

‘I wish I had. Samson said that once you get beyond the flying bit you are with your ancestral spirits in a beautiful place. Do you think he felt anything, Dad?'

Richard remembered Samson's eyes, the intelligence which appeared towards the end. ‘He felt it. Not all of it but he felt it towards the end. He should have been dead but before he died he cursed those who had done it. He died very bravely.'

‘It must have been horrible.'

‘I'm not going to tell Poppie how he died.'

‘Why?'

‘The disgrace would kill her.'

‘Is that fair?'

‘Samson wouldn't want her to know. They butchered him like a woman. They accused him of being a traitor and a woman. I made a promise to him when I buried him that his kin would never know. I intend to keep it.'

David nodded. ‘Fair enough.'

The village was sound asleep. But as they drove into it dogs barked, sleepy voices murmured, a baby cried. Soon people began to converge on Samson's hut. Several tilly lamps were lit and Poppie, wrapped in her sleeping blankets, emerged through the door, apprehension on her face.

Richard felt a lump in his throat. He had known Poppie for more than twenty years, had advised Samson on many occasions what to do about her outbursts of temper over his second and third wives, and rejoiced with his head man when she approved of his fourth. He knew that, of Samson's four wives, this one, Poppie, would be the most devastated by the news of his death. But, as Samson's number one wife, she was the one he had to tell.

‘Poppie, come and sit with me, I have something to tell you.' He patted the bare earth next to where he sat.

She walked slowly to him, her eyes on his
face, then sat next to him, shooing away a couple of sleepy children who ran as far as the door of the hut then stood peering around it with wide eyes. ‘What is it you have to tell me, Gudo?'

There is no easy way to tell a woman her husband is dead, even though death is something Africans live with daily. He searched for the right words but, in the end, told her in Shona, in a way he knew others might have done. ‘Poppie, Samson is with the spirits.'

Her reaction was swift and expected. Tears ran down her cheeks and she rocked on the ground, holding a corner of a blanket to her eyes and shaking her head. She softly crooned the beginning of the haunting sorrow song which she would continue to croon for many days. Richard knew she could still hear him and continued in her language. ‘He is a hero in Zimbabwe. He is a lion of a man. He died like a man of men, a king of kings, a warrior of warriors. He is a man you must be proud of. He is resting now alongside other great men, the men of the Shangani Patrol.'

A collective ‘hau' rose from the people around them, all of whom were listening intently. The Shangani Patrol! This was indeed a demonstration of Richard's respect. Samson must have been very brave.

‘Thank you, master,' Poppie knew Richard would have seen to it that her husband had
been properly buried. Then she asked, ‘Why was he not brought home?'

Richard knew that if the dismembered body of Samson had been brought home, the disgrace of his execution would become known throughout the village and his family would share the dishonour. He searched carefully for the right words. ‘Samson was like my father and I honoured him above all other men in Zimbabwe. As his son, I chose for him to rest with the greatest of brave men. It was my decision.'

She nodded, bowing to the superior wishes of a man. It was her way, the way of her people. The men made the decisions, the women obeyed.

The witchdoctor pushed forward. ‘You will tell us of his bravery.'

Richard was ready for this. He knew they had to have a story to tell and retell. ‘Samson was surrounded by Matabele.'

‘Hau!' The villagers drew closer. Their hatred of the Matabele had been handed down from father to son for several hundred years and it was as strong now as it had ever been.

‘He stood proud and tall. He was not afraid of them.'

‘Hau!'

‘He had no weapons. He faced them like a lion.'

‘Hau, hau!' Some of the men had spears which they rattled, stamping their feet. Richard's words were being committed to memory. He was telling them the story as they liked to hear it.

‘Samson looked at them like this,' Richard stuck his nose in the air, pulled his mouth down and spat.

‘Hau, hau!' The men were nudging each other in admiration of Samson's bravery.

‘He said, “I spit on your ancient king”.' Richard had raised his voice.

‘Hau, hau!' They were starting to stamp the beginnings of a dance, mesmerised by this tale of bravery.

‘He said, “I spit on the Matabele dog”.'

‘Hau, hau!'

‘They killed him with their spears.'

A hush descended on the men.

‘Before he died, he cursed them all. He cursed them in his name and his father's name and his grandfather's name and in the name of the great Shona warriors.'

‘Hau!'

‘He died like a man among men. He was not afraid. He went to his ancestors gladly. He is now at peace.'

Poppie rocked back and forth but her eyes were shining with pride.

He felt guilty at deceiving her but he had to. This way, Poppie, the other three wives, the
children and subsequent grandchildren would enjoy great prestige at the bravery shown by Samson and the honour of being buried next to the Shangani Patrol.

A village has its own way of dealing with the loss of a loved one. Richard left Poppie in the hands of lifelong friends. The men had rekindled the fires and were beginning a dance to honour Samson. The women were marvelling at Poppie's good fortune to have been the wife of such a brave man.

On the way back to the house David said, ‘That was the right thing to do, Dad.'

‘They'll tell it again and again. Samson's story will grow into a legend.'

‘Did he really say he spat on their king?'

‘Yeah he did. That's why they killed him.'

‘He must have known.'

‘He knew. But he hated them enough to die for it.'

‘God!'

Richard looked at David. ‘What?'

David shrugged. ‘Try telling that to the boys at school. They'd think I was making it up.'

‘That's Africa, baby.'

‘Yeah, Dad, it sure is.'

Long after David went back to bed, Richard sat in the lounge thinking about Samson. He would miss the man in more ways than anyone could guess. When he finally went to bed he was more than a little drunk.

Steve was nowhere to be seen the next morning so, after breakfast, he went outside. He was hanging around waiting to see her, he knew that. She had been very angry with all of them last night. Well, he had made his peace with his children, perhaps he could patch things up with Steve. For the life of him, though, he could not see a way around their problem. Her one night with David would always be there, between the three of them, souring their relationship despite any effort on their part to overcome it. But, God, he wanted to try.

He gave his attention to Winston who was battling to get through the puppy's enthusiasm to receive the love he believed was rightfully his. Then he saw Joseph Tshuma's fancy Jaguar sitting in the garage and walked over to it. He was headed off by his gardener, Moses, a stoic and silent man who avoided contact with other people as much as possible. The only exception he made, as far as Richard knew, was when the children were young. Now they were grown Moses had retreated even from them. He was, however, passionately fond of Winston. ‘Very sorry, master,' he said.

Richard was astonished. It was the first time the man had apologised for anything. ‘What for?' The sight of the expensive motor vehicle had angered him.
‘Me clean car.' Moses shuffled his feet.

‘So?'

‘Me leave door open.' Shuffle, shuffle.

‘Get to the point, man.'

The gardener was squirming. ‘Small dog get in. Me not see him.'

Richard suddenly realised what was bothering the gardener. He walked to the car and opened the driver's door. Maxwell had outdone himself. The leather seats had been shredded. The interior lining ripped and chewed. The mahogany fittings gnawed and splintered. The puppy had even eaten the rubber off the pedals.

Richard straightened up and looked at his gardener. ‘Moses?'

Moses stood, twisting his hat in his hands. ‘Yes, master.' His misery was profound.

‘When did you last get a raise?'

And Moses stood, lips pursed in confused relief, as Richard walked away whistling.

He went to see Philamon. The man had not been with the others last night and he had no idea whether he yet knew about Samson. One of Philamon's two wives informed him that Philamon had gone out last night and not returned. So Richard went back to the house.

Steve was sitting on the verandah outside her room. He joined her and launched straight in. ‘I meant what I said last night. I love you.' Emotion made his voice gruff.

She smiled slightly at his directness. There was no anger in her eyes. ‘I love you too.'

‘I'm sorry we're such a horrible family.'

‘You're not horrible. You're just very different.'

‘I'm sorry,' he said again.

She turned her head to look across the valley. He watched the silver-blonde hair around her face, blowing ever so gently in the breeze. He saw the rise and fall of her breasts. He wanted to watch her for the rest of his life. ‘I heard you last night,' she said eventually. ‘You and Penny in here, you and David up there.'

He realised she could not have avoided it. The guest room opened into a small hall, the door directly opposite the entrance into the lounge. David's bedroom was immediately above the guest room.

‘You and Penny understand each other very well, don't you?'

‘We always have. We're very alike.'

‘She adores you.'

He decided to test her. ‘So she bloody-well should.'

She looked startled, then she laughed. ‘Not this time, Richard. This time you don't fool me.'

His heart leapt.

‘And David,' she went on. ‘Even David likes you the way you are.'

‘So he bloody-well should.' He was grinning.

She stood up and put her hands on her hips. ‘So what I'm saying, you miserable old bastard, is I've got your number. You're not as tough as you like to pretend.'

Richard stood too and said with as much dignity as he could, considering his heart was hammering around in his chest, his legs felt weak and he was grinning from ear to ear, ‘I am not old.'

Suddenly she was in his arms. ‘But you are miserable,' she said against his chest.

He tilted her chin. ‘I
was
miserable,' he corrected her. ‘I was miserable without you.'

‘I was miserable too.'

‘Serves you right.'

‘Tell me about it,' she said dryly.

But he kissed her long and hard instead.

They heard a discreet cough and sprang apart. David was standing at the doorway. While he did not look terribly pleased to see them like that, neither did he look resentful. ‘Dad, I'm going into the reserve. Can I take the Land Rover?'

‘Be careful.'

‘I'm always careful, Dad.' He looked at them, his face expressionless. ‘If it's okay with you, Dad, I'll spend tonight at the rangers' camp.'

‘Okay, son. See you tomorrow some time. Be home before dark.'

When he had gone Steve crept back into
Richard's arms. ‘There is no way,' she whispered. ‘There is just no way around it. Oh, God, Richard, make love to me before I have to leave.'

‘We'll find a way. There must be one.' But he knew it would be impossible.

The previous afternoon Philamon had checked his traps. They had been broken and scattered. Snap traps had been sprung and the pits filled in. ‘Who would do this thing?' he thought. Philamon had no conscience about poaching. The word was meaningless to him. His father and his grandfather had always made their living selling skins and tusks to traders, just as Samson's relatives had. In a land where the seasons often failed and the crops often died, whole villages would have starved but for the income from wildlife trade. The fact that, in an attempt to protect the animals, the government had declared huge areas as game reserves, meant little to a man who could not comprehend imaginary lines on a map. The wildlife was his inheritance, nature's bounty, and as free for him to take as the wild fruit growing on trees.

In the eyes of the law, Philamon was guilty. In the ways of his tribal traditions, the animals he so cruelly trapped and killed were nothing more than a means of providing for his family.
Like most Africans, the law of the jungle applied to his attitude towards the animals. And, in fairness, who could blame him? This law, the survival of the fittest, even applied to his own family. If he could have expressed the law in English he might have said something like, ‘This is why we have so many children, most of them die before they reach puberty. A man needs children to help him in his old age so we have as many as we can and, hopefully, a handful will survive to take care of us'. There was nothing defeatist in this attitude, Philamon would simply be stating a fact.