Shooting Butterflies (14 page)

The train stopped at Umtali station. Shilo climbed out and breathed the fresh mountain air. He'd missed this place.

His regiment had come this way many times on their way to Mozambique to attack terrorist camps, and as always, it was cold. He looked at his overall bottoms, and lack of shoes, but he felt warm inside the jersey that the old man had given him. He walked proudly out of the station and turned south down the street. He didn't need direction to know where he was going.

The Blue Lady Shebeen was at the far end of the township of Sakubva, almost seven kilometres from the real city centre. Shilo walked past the
Musika Wahuku
, or as the people liked to call it, the chicken market, around which all life in the area now centred. The huge outdoor food and free trade market was bustling with colourfully clad vendors hawking their goods. White chickens clucked loudly, and those that had cages to enclose them fluffed up as they challenged the diamond-spotted guinea fowl in the cages next door. Goats bleated, children ran about squealing in happiness chasing after a car made of wire with polish tins for wheels. Smells of different spices on offer, of curry, cumin and
achaar
, swirled with the different cooking smells of
boerewors
and
braaivleis
, and mingled with the tart smell of cooked
sadza
to create amazing aromas.

Sakubva, on the outskirts of Umtali, had been the first black township settlement. The once male-only accommodation had long since been crowded with family groups, and the excess had spilled
out into surrounding areas. Now it held more than half the town's population, in the smallest area.

He walked down the street he knew so well until he saw the familiar sign. The faded hand-painted sign had seen better days, but the ground outside was swept clean of leaves and any rubbish. The large sign on the door claimed in Shona that the place was ‘under new management'.

He laughed at that as he pushed the door open.

The Blue Lady Shebeen had always had just one owner.

Behind the bar area, a black man sat on a high stool. In his hand he held a hunting knife that he was using to pick at the dirt underneath his nails. His hair was done up in dreadlocks, if you looked carefully you could see cowrie shells braided intricately into them. Care had been taken to drill the holes into the shells, and braid them. Bits of his braids were bleached to an almost yellow blond and made the dreadlocks look like a fancy multicoloured mop. His fringe was short, but also braided, and stopped directly in line with his eyes, as if he couldn't stand not to have 20/20 vision. Although his feet were propped up on a second chair, his counter was spotless. No dust sat on the varnished mahogany wood, no water marks marred the perfect surface. Even with his elaborate hair, Kwazi was unmistakable.

Shilo smiled. ‘An old friend told me once, that if I ever walked away from a monster, that I would always find a bed to sleep in and food for my belly in his home.'

Kwazi looked up and dropped his feet to the floor. Standing to his full six-foot-three height, he asked, ‘And did this
old
friend tell you that if you called him
old
he'd throw a knife through your heart?'

‘No,
Madala
!'

Kwazi put the knife down on the counter and laughed. He walked around the bar to meet Shilo halfway across the room. They hugged like the good friends they were, friends who had shared adventure, terror and tears together.

‘It is good to see you,' Kwazi said at last. ‘I must admit that I thought I never would.'

‘A long time in the making, but a short trip here once I was free.'

‘The monster already came by two weeks ago looking for you. I could truthfully tell him then, I hadn't seen you. Now, come sit at my bar, tell me what has been happening. But first, let me get you some shoes, it won't do for customers to think that I run a shabby shebeen. This establishment has class – yes?' He laughed and walked through some tacky beaded strings that marked the end of the bar and the beginning of his home section of the building.

Shilo followed.

The lounge room behind the bar didn't belong in a black man's house. The leather lounge suite and the smoky glass tables were smart. The parquet flooring peeking out from under the throw rug was shining and buffed, and as Shilo stood on the rug, his toes sank in as if it were made of lambs' wool. In one corner stood a big television.

‘You're this rich now?' he asked Kwazi.

‘I was always rich, it was just that we were at war and I couldn't show it, but now, in the new Zimbabwe, I can dig up my money and spend it on nice, comfortable things. I am never sleeping on the ground again. My army days are over. It's just me and my shebeen, and maybe a few of the ladies …'

‘You and the ladies, they have always been your weakness and they will be the death of you.'

‘Here,' Kwazi said, ‘through there is a bathroom, with running water, the towels are in the cupboard by the door. Have a nice hot shower, and take these clothes to change into. Then we can talk.' He handed Shilo some faded blue denim jeans and a black T-shirt.

‘Thank you,' Shilo said as he took the clothes and heard Kwazi say, ‘Don't lock the door, the lock sticks.'

Shilo smiled. It was so typical of the new Zimbabwe, the black people everywhere were prospering, showing off their wealth, and yet they were not fixing small things like the locks on the bathroom door. He closed the door but didn't lock it. Shilo stepped in to the shower and cranked the hot water to blast off all the dirt and memories of the last few weeks.

Drying his hair after his shower, Shilo sat on the bar stool opposite Kwazi. Kwazi's voice was rising, slowly getting louder in volume as he disagreed with him.

‘Shilo Khumalo, you're mad,' Kwazi said. ‘There is a war on in Mozambique still. Zimbabwe, we're at peace at last. But you want to go into Mozambique and fight again?'

‘No, I want peace and quiet too, but Buffel will continue to look for me. He'll come again, looking to silence me. Like you said, he's already checking each person in the unit, and eventually he'll come back to you again, and he'll ask you if I was here. And we both know you're not a good liar when it's Buffel who's asking the questions.'

‘I could have been interrogated by anyone but him. Just knowing what he is and what he's capable of … You're right, I would speak. Quickly. I like my tongue, my teeth and my balls, thank you. I don't want to hang upside down in a meat locker with dead pigs.'

‘I know. That's why I can't stay, that's why I just stopped here to get some supplies, and a few good nights' sleep. Soon, I'll head out, go past the old Addam's Barracks, and across the minefield, by Freddie's Ridge, into Mozambique. I only hope that they haven't changed all the mines' positions.'

‘I hope so too. Are you sure you want to go that way, and not up further north and into Mozambique instead?'

‘This is the area I know, so I cross here. Then I head wherever there is the least fighting.'

‘North?'

‘You saw the ocean there, the clear water. There doesn't seem to be any fighting on their islands, just the mainland. I'm looking for an island to live on one day, but there is talk of establishing “safe” corridors in Mozambique by the Zimbabwe government. Maybe I can get work on one of those corridors, keeping the people safe. I'm good at that. As a white man, Buffel will not follow me into Mozambique. It's not safe for him there, but I can be a civilian, I can hide, mingle with the locals, learn Portuguese and French, and he won't find me.'

‘No, but the people in Mozambique will, and give you up as a
Komeredes
, a new Zimbabwe soldier, and you will be butchered. You're going to walk in to a FRELIMO and RENAMO wasp's nest. Why not just go underground here, at least here you have contacts, and people will hide you from Buffel.'

‘And do what? Go where?'

‘If you go east, go live with the Batonka tribes in the Kariba area. They are my people. I will come with you and you can hide there, work the land. Catch kapenta for a living on Kariba. He won't find you there. Or you could go and work on those tobacco farms in Karoi. They are always looking for workers, you can hide there. Even in the lowvelt. You can get work in the
Thuli-makwe
irrigation scheme, or even in Triangle, safari camps and hunting safaris are springing up everywhere. Go to Botswana. You're a good tracker, and you can shoot straight, get your professional guide licence or your hunter's licence and join a safari. Just don't go near Buffel, and if you see him, hide. I have spoken to people from all these places, all over and they are looking for hardworking men to farm and you know how to do that. I can give you some names—'

‘No names. They can't know I came via you or they too could be hurt by Buffel.'

‘I don't suppose you want to go to the police and have him put in jail?'

‘You know our rule. You were there, you said the oath alongside me. My best bet to stay alive is to keep quiet. Besides, if the unit turned a blind eye to what Buffel has become, it would be a white man against a black man's word, and our Zimbabwe hasn't changed that much yet. Just remember who is it that sits as a judge now in the Supreme Court? I would be killed, no matter what, for turning on my own unit. Besides, who's to say there wouldn't be another amnesty and Buffel would be let out of jail. He would get me then. I'm not talking about it to anyone. I just want to get away from him. Make a fresh start and who knows, maybe meet a girl, have a life of my own.'

Shilo looked at Kwazi, who was nodding.

‘I will go somewhere, but you can't know where I go. You have a life here, you can't go with me, not even to introduce me to people to help make my life easier. He knows that you are my best friend. Buffel will come back again, looking for me. The less you know the better.'

‘I agree. Just do me a favour and go anywhere in Zimbabwe, or Botswana, not to Mozambique,' Kwazi said.

‘Maybe for now, it's better. But one day I am going to swim in that ocean again, with the silver fish, and feel that warm sand slip through my fingers. I'm going to eat fresh crayfish and calamari steaks around a bonfire as the sun sets.'

‘You're a dreamer. You always were, my friend,' Kwazi said. ‘Come, time for you and I to have a beer.'

‘No beer, I won't drink in case he comes …'

‘Fine, Coke for you and a beer for me. You stay a few days, we get your some clothes that fit properly, some new overalls, and boots. Like a worker. Then you go, change your name, and one day when it's safe again, you know that in the Blue Lady Shebeen you will always find a bed to sleep in and food for your belly. You will always be welcome in my home.'

‘Thank you, brother,' Shilo said and shook Kwazi's hand.

8

Getting To Know You

Margate Beach, Natal, South Africa

July 1984

The drive to Margate, where they were heading to house-sit a beach cottage for one of the families in Hluhluwe, was uneventful. The old car chugged along, the radio blaring as always, the four women singing songs to pass the journey. Their excitement in the car heightened as they drove out of the dreary-looking Port Shepstone, and on the other side, they could see the sea sparkling blue against a backdrop of clouds, the white horses of the waves dancing on the water. They rolled down their windows and breathed the salt air.

‘This is so cool,' Dela said.

Tara looked at her sister and laughed. It was the first time in ages Dela had been excited about anything. She'd become withdrawn and moody.

‘Ah, the seaside,' Lucretia, their maid, said.

‘Make sure you take your bottle home, you know, the one with the sea sand in the bottom and filled with the ocean water.' Tara
teased. Lucretia was a fat Zulu lady, with beaded hair, and an attitude that didn't fit into the South African population. She was as outspoken as the Zimbabwe people that the family were used to.

‘I have to, it's my tradition,' Lucretia said, but she was smiling.

‘What do you do with the sea water anyway?' Tara asked.

Lucretia smiled. ‘Muti. It fixes the stomach ache.'

Tara giggled. ‘Oh Lucretia, that's sad. It's just salt water, it doesn't fix stomach ache.'

Maggie interrupted. ‘Everyone has traditional beliefs, Tara. Don't laugh at Lucretia just because hers are different to yours. Respect different beliefs too.'

‘But Mum, it's just salt water—'

‘To you, but to a believer, it could cure a stomach ache. Like a placebo. I used to give you chalk when you were a little girl when you said you had a headache, and it would disappear.'

‘Fine,' Tara said. ‘I'll even help you get some bottles, Lucretia, and I can find you some nice shells on the beach to put in there too. Make it look like decent ocean water at least.'

‘Thank you, Miss Tara,' Lucretia said.

Tara smiled. Lucretia had appeared outside their house within a week of them moving to Hluhluwe. She never asked, but rather had told Maggie she was now working for her and living in the small
ikhaya
at the back of their property. She had said it wasn't good that they didn't have a maid to look after them.

She hadn't been a maid asking for a job, she'd been a woman telling a family that they needed her as much as she needed them. She didn't want money, only food and board to start with. And she'd assured Maggie that she wasn't a prostitute so there would be no men visiting her
ikhaya.

Suddenly life had gone from difficult to liveable. Lucretia was a godsend and she'd taught the girls how to do things, in her kindly manner. They could now cook, and even Maggie, who was the worst cook of all of them, no longer incinerated their meals. Their house was neat, mainly because Lucretia still tidied up after them, but she'd insist on the girls helping too, and she'd taught them to
iron even though she still ironed their clothes so that they no longer had to go to school looking like second-class ‘
Rooinekke
' as Tara had been called on her first day back in Standard 6. That had been her first year of high school and first year at school in South Africa.