Storms Over Africa (42 page)

Samson had sat up slowly, rubbing his head. ‘I am thinking the garri-moto not liking me.'

‘It's not that it doesn't like you, my friend, you have to learn to use it properly.'

But Samson could not be tempted ever again to go near the motorbike.

Thunk!

He tried, but the sound of Samson's left leg being severed was too savage and too loud for his memories to disguise. He tried not to look but his eyes were drawn. Tried to think of something else but his mind would not function. The sight of Samson's poor mutilated body, the volume of blood and the approval of the crowd caused him to be sick again. When he got control of himself he realised he at least owed it to Samson to witness his bravery. He looked fearfully at the old man's face, praying he would still see the blank expression. But intelligence was returning to Samson's eyes. The pain had cut through his trance and he was starting to come back.
God, do it quickly.

The fourth man walked over and raised his
panga
. Samson's eyes flicked towards the man, then he stared upwards. The
panga
swept downwards and chopped through his right leg below the knee. Richard watched him quiver and saw his neck muscles strain. Then a thin, wavering scream was forced through his lips. It came out like the outraged cry of a newborn baby, gathered strength and force and became a cry of such suffering and agony that it stilled the voices around him. It cut off abruptly and Richard thought, ‘Thank God it's over,' but Samson was not dead. With a tremendous effort which had the cords in his neck straining, he raised his head from the ground. His body was jerking and pumping blood but he stared at Hambalaze and gasped in Shona, ‘I am a man and I die like a man. You are the spawn of a goat. I curse you and your family. Your sons and grandsons and their grandsons will bear the stigma of my curse.' He groaned aloud. ‘Your sons and grandsons and their grandsons will be as women.'

He lowered his head to the ground, chest heaving. Then he called to Richard in Shona. ‘Farewell, my son. You are as my blood and I honour you.' One last shudder shook the mutilated torso and he was still.

Richard had tears streaming down his cheeks. As if in a dream he struggled to his
feet and, standing tall and proud, he shouted, ‘Hear me, father. You are as my blood and I honour you.' Then he looked at Hambalaze and bellowed, ‘I add my curse to that of my father. Your sons and grandsons and their grandsons will be as women. They will be the object of scorn by all men. They will bring dishonour to your house. Other men will use their bodies as they would a woman. I curse you and I curse your offspring.' Hambalaze understood enough Shona to understand what Richard was saying and his obvious terror was spreading through the others, most of whom did not speak Shona. ‘I curse you in the name of my father here and I curse you in my own name.' Richard spat contemptuously and Hambalaze, who had backed away, flinched and trembled, then turned and ran.

‘Cool it, man,' Greg whispered urgently.

But Richard was beyond caring. ‘I curse all of you here,' he shouted, flinging his head back and throwing out his chest.

There was a lot of uneasy muttering among the men. Some of them shifted their feet, others melted into the darkness. Those who spoke Shona were translating to the others. Curses are not taken lightly and a curse, at the scene of such a slaying, held more power than most. Richard had shaken them, particularly so because he spoke in fluent Shona and because the man who had died so well had
called him ‘son'. Perhaps this man could truly make a curse work. Superstition is strong in Africa and these men, most of them rural people, believed in the power of a curse.

Conradie strode up, furious. ‘Be quiet, you fool. Do you want to start a riot?'

Richard stared at him. ‘Fuck you, man,' he ground out. ‘That man lying there is worth a thousand of you. You didn't dishonour him. He showed you how a
man
dies. He is more of a man than any of you. Fuck you to hell and back, you bastard.'

Turning, he threaded his way through the remaining men who, stunned, stood back and let him pass. Blinded by tears of impotent rage and deep sorrow, he guessed his way back to the tent. Once there he flung himself down where Samson had lain in his trance and bawled like a little kid.

Greg found him there five minutes later. ‘You all right?'

‘Sure,' he said bitterly.

‘That wasn't very bright.'

‘Fuck 'em. I meant every word.'

‘Pretty powerful stuff,' Greg agreed. ‘Spot of trouble brewing now, I'm afraid.'

‘What?'

‘They're going to shoot us in the morning.'

Richard, tears still streaming down his face, looked up at Greg. ‘You know what?' he said. ‘I don't give a shit.'

Greg looked angry. ‘I'm really pleased about that, you arsehole. I'm really pleased it doesn't bother you. That's really nice for you.'

‘Oh shut up.' He turned away, sick and sorry.

Somehow he slept for a few fitful hours. His dreams were scattered back through his life. He dreamed of Kathy mainly, and of their time together in the early days in the white man's haven called Rhodesia. He dreamed of Samson and his infinite patience and wisdom with a young man, fresh out from Scotland and full of ambition. He dreamed of Penny and David as children, of the hills at Pentland Park and, strangely, of Winston his dog. He did not dream of Steve.

He had no idea what time it was when he awoke. It was pitch dark outside. Somewhere nearby a man snored loudly. He heard the rustle of clothing as one of the men guarding their tent moved. With a dream about Kathy still lingering in his tired mind, he stared into the darkness and thought, ‘So this is what it's like.' He wondered if Kathy had felt the same when she had been told her cancer was too widespread to treat. For the first time he realised how much courage she had shown.

He examined his feelings honestly. He was scared, but he faced and fought his fear so that sometimes it went away and sometimes it reared up and churned in his gut and burned
in his throat. The most compelling emotion was regret. He regretted many things. His thoughtlessness with Kathy, his failure to reach his son, the wildness he had passed on to his daughter, his poaching. ‘Kath,' he thought in the darkness, ‘I loved you with all my heart. Forgive me for the hurt I caused you, darling. I honestly didn't mean it.'

‘David,' he thought to his son, ‘you are so like your mother it hurt me to watch you.' Then honesty tapped him on the shoulder and he added, ‘Okay, at first I didn't want you and then I thought you were a sissy. Your sensitivity shamed me. I wanted a rugger-bugger and I got a concert pianist. But, son, in my own way, I always loved you. I just wanted you to be different.

‘What will happen to you, Penny-farthing?' he sent his thoughts to his daughter. ‘Are you so hell-bent on destroying your life? If I could give you anything in the world it would be this honesty and wisdom which has come to me so late in my life. Go well, my darling. Learn from your mistakes and go well.'

Then he thought of Steve. ‘You could never replace Kathy in my heart, Steve, but you were another facet of my life, an addition, a gift to an older man. I probably would have broken your heart a thousand times in my selfishness. You were the shining light I didn't deserve but I loved you as honestly as I loved Kathy.'

He shook his head. Christ, he was a selfish bastard. He had never taken the time to give to these people the one thing they wanted above all others. Himself. ‘Oh, God,' he thought, not so much in a way of prayer, just in despair, ‘if I could have my life over I'd be different.'

Bullshit, Dunn. If you had your life over you'd be the same selfish son of a bitch you were in this life.

Greg stirred in his sleep and called out the name of his first wife. Richard nodded, understanding that his friend was having the same kind of dreams he had.

‘There's nothing like impending death to get a man to focus,' he thought grimly.

‘Mother, Father, I never did come up to your expectations, did I?' He knew his death would make little sense to them. They had never shared his love of this continent and, on rare visits to see their son, often voiced puzzlement at his attachment to it. They would regard his death as a senseless waste of life and would not understand that Africa, hard mistress that she was, had dealt their son the hand of fate he had half expected.

I think I'd rather die of cancer.

Fear rose again. ‘Will it hurt? Will I die well, with dignity, or will I shit and piss in my pants with fear? Is there something on the other side? Are you there, Kath? Will you help me?'

He heard Greg sit up. ‘God,' he groaned, ‘the things a man dreams on a night like this.'

‘Me too.'

‘I was dreaming about Paula, for Christ's sake.'

‘I know, you called out her name.'

‘She was a cow.'

‘She was okay, just didn't like Africa.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Greg?'

‘What?'

‘Sorry about earlier.'

‘S'okay.'

‘Are you scared?'

‘Course I'm bloody scared.'

‘Yeah.'

Richard had once seen Greg stalk a group of eleven terrorists. The rest of his stick were some distance behind, covering his rear and sides. Impatient for action, Greg had jumped from cover, shot three of them and held the others under his automatic weapon until his buddies could join him. When the others caught up Greg took a swig of water, lit a cigarette and remarked calmly, ‘Bunch of nasties in this lot, chaps.' Neither his hands or his voice had shaken.

‘Why don't we try and take the guards out?'

‘No point in hurrying things.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Ever wondered if there's life after death?' Greg asked.

‘Often, especially when Kath died.'

‘Knew a fella once who claimed he'd had an out-of-body experience.'

‘That's bullshit.'

‘True as Bob. He'd taken a bit of lead in his chest and the doctors were trying to dig it out on the operating table. Suddenly he felt himself rise up and hover near the ceiling. He could see his own body on the table and heard the doctors speaking to each other. One of them, the guy controlling the anaesthetic, called out “we're losing him”. The surgeon said “shit, not another day like yesterday”. This made him mad. He said he could feel something pulling at him and he saw a bright light and knew he should head for it. He said the compulsion to go towards that light was pretty powerful but he was angry and determined to kick that surgeon's arse. He felt himself being drawn back into his body. The next thing he knew he was coming out of the anaesthetic.'

‘Did he tear a strip off the doctor?'

‘Yeah. Said the man was so surprised when he heard his words repeated he took off like a long dog and handed the case over to a colleague.'

‘Serves the bastard right.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Makes you think, though, doesn't it?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Yeah.'

‘I sometimes felt Kathy was close, watching me.'

‘She's probably waiting on the other side with a plank of wood.'

‘That'd be right.'

Greg chuckled. ‘I'll tell you something I've never told another living soul.'

‘Sure, go ahead. After all, who will I tell?'

‘My middle name is Marion.'

‘Bloody hell.'

‘My parents named me after John Wayne.'

‘I don't get it.'

‘His real name was Marion.'

‘You're bloody joking.'

‘No wonder he changed his name.'

‘My father knew a man during the second World War who's name was John Yellowshite.'

‘Christ!'

‘Changed his name though.'

‘I'm not surprised.'

‘Yeah. He changed it to Fred Yellowshite.'

Greg snorted.

Richard snickered.

Suddenly both men were laughing. They tried to keep in quiet but it welled up and they roared with laughter until tears ran down their cheeks and half-a-dozen sleepy voices called out for them to be quiet.

‘Oh, dearie me, old Didd, that was just what I needed,' Greg said trying to wipe his eyes with a hunched shoulder and failing.

‘I could kill for a cigarette,' Richard complained.

They talked of many things. Of unfulfilled ambitions, of their friendship and of other friends. Honesty, which had always been there between the two men, became raw and total. Greg admitted he had once thought he was in love with Kathy. Richard felt honoured and said so. They laughed gently at memories. Anger and frustration came and went.

‘Who did you love most? Kathy or Steve?'

Richard showed no surprise at the question. ‘Kathy was a young man's love. She was happy to be a wife and mother and had no ambitions to be anything else. I loved her very much and always wanted to protect her. If anyone else had hurt her I'd have killed them with my bare hands. But I hurt her all the time. I neglected her needs terribly because I was always in a rush to do what I wanted to do, not what she wanted to do.' He grinned, remembering the plank of wood. ‘She had fire though. She gave as good as she got when she got angry. She had a knack of always getting her own way but she did it in such a way that I never knew I was being manipulated. She's the only woman I've ever known who knew me better than I know myself. I miss her terribly.'

‘And Steve?'

‘If I'd met Steve when I was younger I wouldn't have known what to do with her. Her independence would have been too much of a challenge to the Dunn ego.' He sighed. ‘If that business with David hadn't happened we might have got married and spent the rest of our lives in contented confrontation. She would never accept what she calls my “overbearing masculine psyche” and I would have constantly been up against her fierce feminism. I think we loved each other enough to live with it but it takes an older, more tolerant me, not the selfish young man I was.'