***
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 ?"
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 li
fe 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.