Funeral
Blair succumbed in 1951. Chakawia,
ministering a final sip dispatched
picannins to fetch Margaret who
arrived as he died.
Morgan, away at boarding school
came home for the funeral.
saw Blair laid to rest
amongst the rocks above the river-hut
place that looked out over land once
loved. That night alone in bed
Morgan
who since meeting his father
tried never to cry
held the desert watch to his
chest - he’d never allowed it to
stop - sobbed silently into his
pillow didn’t know why
wouldn’t miss the person
more important to his
mother than her son.
Oil Painting by H. Marriot Burton, 1946
Friends
Next morning Morgan’s high spirits returned
discovering his mother intended he stay
home for what remained of term.
He needn’t go back to Ruzawi could
revert to the life he loved roaming
Gomboli with his friends mainly with
Nanny Lovely’s son Norbert - he with
the same huge smile as Nanny - but also
with Norbert’s retinue
Mweru, Mtembi, Ruka, Andrew, Sixpence
Kafumi, Keiki, Chipoko, Chifamba
Victor, Mazweeti and Marondera.
Norbert’s brother Isaac
he who unwittingly
shared his mother’s milk with
Morgan sometimes joined the happy
throng but mostly, apprenticed to a
sculptor lived by a serpentine quarry
not far from Umtali.
With his friends
Morgan swam in the dam, fished,
biked rode and trapped
also hunted
not only with a catapult but with a calibre .22
- when able to borrow a key to the gun room.
Norbert, older than Morgan
was paid by Margaret, through the years as minder
but as Morgan matured
the pay continued, but Norbert didn’t do
much minding.
Instead, he, his friends and Morgan
formed a ragtag band of boys
that roamed the land, not under Norbert but Morgan
inevitable
as lone white referred to as Master since birth
born to lead, dominate, command.
Not merely white skin, but size, dress,
bearing reinforced the message.
Morgan chose what games to play
destinations for bikes and horses.
He rode best, shot best, won at
tennis caught the biggest fish
but most important, albeit without appreciation
received a good education
first at Ruzawi, then Peterhouse. Educational
options for Norbert and company amounted
to no more than basics
plus training in a trade
as offered at the school on Gomboli.
For them non-school skills also counted
songs, dances, rhythms, ululation
knowledge of the bush
tracking and reading the weather.
At the time none cared all were young
filled with fun, accepting the status quo
not questioning disparity.
What is it I Smell?
Something Good?
Feast on the Rocks
One Sunday morning in 1957, during school
holidays Morgan now sixteen
spent the time with Norbert and friends
looking for crocodile eggs by the Macheke.
After long and futile search he glanced at his watch
used some choice words in Shona. Explained
“I’ve missed lunch! Mama won’t like it.”
Presence at meals was obligatory.
Norbert tut-tutted, looked sheepish.
Might he be blamed? “We
need skoff,” said Morgan.
Becoming a sergeant major he fired off orders
“You, Norbert, collect firewood
Mtembi, ant-eggs
Marondera, that root, yellow, I forget the
name some by the rock painting
Victor, locusts. I’ll raid the river hut
for cooking pot, salt, mealie-meal, maybe
even biltong.
Mazweeti, come with me
you others help where needed.”
It took time but preparations complete
they crouched around the pot forming
with fingers
sadza balls dipped in a sauce of ant- egg and
tuber gobbled with much licking of thumb
and zestful slurp.
Pièce de résistance:
grilled locust, served on a sheet of tin
picaninns used for sliding down rock.
Food!
Oops!
Margaret Arrives
Margaret, intending to visit Blair’s
grave on his forty-fourth birthday
had climbed the kopjie with her three Great
Danes that were still chasing a hare
when she saw a scene from ancient Africa:
tribes-men crouched around a communal pot
sharing a meal.
On second take her eyes widened:
ancient Africa, except for a jarring anomaly
her son’s white face in a sea of black.
Sudden silence from his friends alerted Morgan.
He turned, froze
a dripping ball of sadza midway to his lips. “Knew
you’d never go hungry,” remarked Margaret.
Morgan liked his food.
That moment the dogs slobbering,
panting, barking in joyous greeting
burst onto the scene.
Their wagging tails caught the boys in the
face knocked them off balance
- they crouched in African fashion -
landing them in tangles of flailing arm and leg
while the overturned pot spattered them
with hot sadza and live ember.
Margaret’s vexation changed to rollicking laughter
rare since Blair’s death.
Soon the boys laughed too, although with less gusto
the dogs, meanwhile enjoying the remains of the
feast.
The imperious white-skinned Margaret
Confrontation
That evening in Morgan’s room
as Nanny treated burns on face, arm and
leg result of flying food and ember
Umfuli, houseboy, knocked, entered
summonsed Morgan to Blair’s study.
Erect, sitting at magisterial desk
Margaret bade him sit.
Mistrustful he glowered from lowered lid.
Dangerous fireball!
Margaret, now forty three, eyes still vivid green
neck and figure slender, she began her lecture
“After the events of the day
I’ve put more thought into your future.”
Ominous!
“But, Mama, it’s decided, after Alevels
I continue on to Rhodes for a
degree.” “I’ve changed my mind.
England.” “No, Mama!”
Unwittingly he kicked Suki, dog, under the
table felt her yelp of pain was his.
“I won’t leave Africa, Mama!”
Margaret remained unfazed.
“You have no option. I’ve made up my mind.”
He squirmed. “Why the change?”
“I’d overlooked that you’re going native. You’ve
forgotten you belong to the European race that, as a
white man, civilized conduct is your duty
. How
else can those
less enlightened than ourselves learn
Margaret The Enigma
if we don’t show them?
This applies especially to the English gentleman
epitome of all that is good and right
and you, coming from the family you do have
no option but to comply to certain niceties in
manner, dress and speech.
We demand it of you.
It’s the price you pay
for the blood that runs in your veins.”
Morgan spluttered in rage
but paying no attention, she continued
“Four years at an English university
will put you back on track.”
“This is home!” he blurted. “I’m African
feel no need to be a gentleman, English or otherwise.
I didn’t ask for the blood that runs in my veins!”
“Don’t argue, Morgan,” she said, tone mild.
“It’s not for you to ask, it’s for me to ordain. Go
and get changed. You look ridiculous.
Like a leopard.”
“They’re burns!”
“I’m aware of their provenance.”
He detected a smile and with sudden insight
realized she was mocking him.
As he turned to leave, Suki following
Margaret added, “I expect to see you
-looking respectablefor
dinner in twenty minutes.”
He nodded, as he went
placing a hand on the dog’s silken head.
If Suki, the bitch, could forgive
what did that make his unforgiving mother?
Nanny is shocked and amused.
Nanny is shocked and amused.
Nanny Lovely and Morgan
As Nanny dabbed at a
blister Morgan said
“At home you’ll need to do the same for Norbert.”
“The boys will go to the clinic.
The mutti there’s the same as here.”
“True. They’ll recover. I won’t.”
“What do you mean, Och?”
Anxious, Nanny moved round to peer into his face.
“I told you! Mama is exiling me to England.”
She tut-tutted, clicked her tongue.
“Don’t talk like that. I’ll miss you
but it’s opportunity. Education.”
Morgan swore in Shona. Nanny’s
hand flew to her mouth, eyes big torn
between shock and laughter, she asked
“Who taught you that,
Och?” “Norbert.”
Laughter took the upper hand
and they laughed together
Morgan’s guffaw providing the bass to
Nanny’s more musical soprano.
As Nanny stored salve and unction
she resumed her lecture, “It’s education.
Norbert doesn’t have the same opportunities.”
“Norbert can go to England instead,” said Morgan.
“I’ll swop. Imagine Mama’s face, when I tell her!”
Both laughed again uproariously
Nanny clapping her hands, slapping her
knees Morgan drumming on the table.
Morgan leaves for England
Morgan dragged out A-levels
but finally met the requirements.
September 2nd, 1959, Margaret drove him
silent and sullen to Salisbury airport.
Why wouldn’t she let him drive?
No doubt another non-too-subtle message.
At the airport, he declined a snack -
unheard ofrefused
to show interest in a couple of
unusual aircraft
and checked into Departures early.
Striding to the plane, he didn’t look
back - was she still there? -
nor lifted his eyes from his book till
out of Rhodesia and dinner pending.
Sculpture, H. Ann Ackroyd
Carolyn
Morgan
having determined in advance
that he would detest England, family and university
the attitude proved self-fulfilling
until help arrived in the form of Carolyn
who struck up conversation with him
one night when leaving the library.
As they angled across the quad, she commented
“You study harder than anyone I know.
You’re always here till closing.”
“I want to finish, get back home.”
“You don’t like England?
“Well...”
He hummed, hah-ed, attempting politeness
then suddenly, finding himself with a gorgeous girl
big-boned, slender, sleek black hair
heard himself enthuse, “I love the architecture.”
Together they looked up at mystic Gothic spire. “I
also love the cars, trees, history, boats and rowing.
I suppose my relations aren’t that bad either.”
One winter evening, Carolyn and her friend Martha
took a break from their studies.
“You’ve made quite a catch,”
said Martha, munching on a Marie biscuit.
“Meaning?”
“Morgan. Who else? Stereotype alpha male.”
Disliking the conversation, Carolyn blew on her tea
remembered her nanny saying
“Don’t do that, dear. It’s vulgar.”
Marie Biscuits
“Well isn’t he?” Martha persisted
“Isn’t he what?”
“Alpha male.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. I also say you could do worse
nice blond hair, straight nose, well-muscled, big,
perhaps though...”
”What?”
“A bit of a rough diamond.” Carolyn
sprang to Morgan’s defence. “Poor dear
is caught between two worlds doesn’t
come from here, he’s a colonial theatres,
concerts, dances
shop, museum, pub, gallery
haven’t featured in his world
but all is easily remedied.
He’s from good family, is already changing.
Let’s get back to work.”
From Martha’s inward smile
Carolyn recognized
she had revealed more than intended.
War Dance
Return to Gomboli
For Morgan time now passed more pleasantly
more rapidly
yet still he hankered for home
so as soon as both graduated
he married Carolyn
in the traditional manner required by the
families and took her back to Gomboli.
As the car drew up
in front of the house on the kopjie
Morgan felt like removing shoe and
sock doing a war-dance
as always with Norbert and gang
on his return from school for the holidays.
Clapping, ululating, singing
the boys always followed the car
vying to open the door, shake his
hand clap him on the back.
Now there was nothing
no Norbert, no gang, no hoopla.
Hiding disappointment, he took Carolyn by the arm
shepherded her up the steps to the front door
all the while listening, hoping to hear his friends.
He heard nothing, only the go-away bird.
Carolyn arrives at Gomboli
Entrance
Margaret studied her daughter-in-law
as Carolyn stood in the doorway
adjusting her eyes to the hall
where white clad servants waited to greet her.
Margaret liked what she
saw:
a sensible, nice looking upper-class girl.
After giving Carolyn time to adapt
Margaret moved forward, arms spread
ready to embrace this new addition to her family
“Carolyn, my dear, welcome!”
Amused, from the corner of her eye
she noted Morgan’s surprise.
She rarely greeted with effusion. Her
upbringing had encouraged restraint
-don’t wear your heart on your sleeve, child behaviour
now engrained
that’s the way she was: undemonstrative.
Luckily for her son
- she knew he yearned affection - the
bountiful Nanny Lovely compensated
yet now
- strange, very strange -
Nanny wasn’t present.
Where was Nanny?
Margaret didn’t know and wondered
knew Morgan, too, would be wondering.
Guinea Fowl
Chaka
Porcupine Quills
Talk with Chaka
With Carolyn resting in their room
Morgan tiptoed out
ordered a servant to tell Chaka, Blair’s loyal servant
to meet him at the pool away from prying eye.
Sitting on low veranda wall Morgan
questioned Chaka standing before
him in robe and fez.
“Tell me, my friend, where are Norbert
Mweru. Mtembi, Ruka
Andrew, Sixpence and the rest?”
Chaka, eyes lowered, head to one
side wrung his hands, but didn’t
speak. “Answer, Chaka. I must
know.” “They’ve gone, Inkos!”
Inkos! Only Blair had been Inkos at
stake though were bigger things.
“Gone! Gone where?”
“Away, Inkos.”
“Not good enough, Chaka.”
“To the bush.”
It felt like pulling the quills of a porcupine
from the head of a nosey dog
- something often done - but
slowly the information came.
“Trouble’s ahead, Inkos, young men
restless want the land, all of it.”
The land!
Morgan hid the shock that left him short of
breath while Chaka, eyes to the ground
fought his own emotions.
“How will they acquire the land?”
Morgan feared he knew the answer.
Chaka confirmed it, “You hand over the farm, Inkos.
Otherwise they will take
it.” “With the gun?”
“How else?”
“That makes them terrorists.”
“They have another name. Freedom fighters.”
“Terror is easy to learn, not so governing not
so using the land to feed others.”
Chaka shook his head.
“They bring in arms, Inkos.”
“From where?”
“Russia. Store them in outlying
areas.” “Norbert too?”
Chaka nodded, didn’t speak unshed tears
gleamed in rheumy eye. Morgan, in an
unusual gesture of affection placed a big
hand on the other’s shoulder.
“Thank you for speaking, Chaka.
Most would not have spoken.”
Chaka acknowledged the words with silent nod
but Morgan was not yet finished.
“One more thing I need to know. Where’s Nanny?”
“Trying to keep the peace. You’ll see her tomorrow.
Prepare for change, she no longer laughs or
sings barely speaks, either here or in the
compound.” Morgan turned away
felt he had swallowed bleach
muttered
“Poor Nanny. Loves us all too well.
Never could take sides.”
Heading back to the house
he heard guinea fowl
preparing to roost in a nearby msasa
sound of home, not heard for many years
missed during the four years of exile
yet, now only sharpening a sense of
impending doom.
Carolyn
Dinner
Morgan barely got through the motions
of changing into a dinner jacket for
Margaret’s welcoming dinner.
He’d be sitting at the Chippendale table
dining on salmon from Scotland
while Norbert, Mweru, Mtembi, Maswiti, Katiki
Machya, Manara, Samuel, Umbati
Andrew, Kafumi, Kieki, Umfuli
guerilla fighters, outlaws, bandits, one and all
skulked around the bush, eating sadza and termite
plotting the demise of every white in Rhodesia
including his mother, Carolyn and himself.
“You’re unusually quiet,” said Margaret
preparing to sample the soufflé
one of Cook’s specialities. “We’ve
had a long journey, Mama.” “That
might be, but my conversation with
your beautiful wife
might have interested you.”
Morgan stared at his mother wide-eyed.
Beautiful wife!
Wasn’t a Margaret- like comment
but looking at Carolyn
determined, as always, she did indeed look lovely
dress from Dior, hair sleek, black and shiny.
“I mentioned to Carolyn,” said Margaret,
“I’ve bought a house in Salisbury. Shall retire there.
Gomboli is now to be yours.”
Night Visit to the River Hut
With Carolyn asleep in exhaustion
Morgan again slipped away
this time to the stables
finding comfort in the horses
their smell, their bulk, their stamping, their snorting.
Contrast to nights in Oxford and London!
On looking through the tack-room
he succumbed to a sudden impulse
saddled Buce
progeny of Blair’s Bucephalus
and galloped off, across the moonlit
veld to the river-hut.
Up on the rock
wandering amongst giant boulders
looking out over the moonlit land
his land
head buried weaponry
mine, grenade, bandolier, AK
mingled with vivid mental pictures
of torched huts
entrances wired closed trapping those inside
of white farmers gunned down
in their own front doorways.
Standing on a rock near Blair’s grave
Morgan found himself conducting in his
mind an internal dialogue with Norbert.
He pictured his friend, sullen and belligerent
standing on a nearby rock looking down on him.
“We were friends, Norbert,” he called up to him.
“Return our land and we’ll remain so,”
came the reply.
“Couldn’t we compromise?” “No,”
snapped Norbert, “no compromises!
We want the land. All of it. It’s ours.” Norbert
clambered down from his rock looked Morgan
in the eye, as Morgan told him “You wouldn’t
use the land productively.
You don’t have the skills.”
“You didn’t teach us.”
“You are many. We are few, one to your twenty.”
“True, but what happens to the land isn’t the issue.
It’s ours, not yours, you stole it.” “My
parents bought it according to the law.”
“You made the laws. Ours are different.”
“I don’t want to fight, Norbert.”
“Then hand over the
land.” “No.”
“Then it’s war
a war you never can win.” The
whinnying of a restless Buce
tethered at the foot of the kopjie
- probably rearingput
an end to the imaginary polemic.
Galloping home he knew it best to
keep his unease to himself. Carolyn
must have time to settle.
Nanny Lovely and Morgan
Before dawn the next morning
Morgan found Nanny in the
kitchen. Hugged her, said
“Nanny, we’ll have tea together in my old
room. Jeremiah will make it.”
Face solemn, she settled in her accustomed
seat big, old chair by the window.
He, hands between knees
sat perched on a stool opposite her.
“Tell me, Nanny, about Norbert and Isaac.”
“Isaac’s fine.
Has sculptures at the National Gallery.”
“Wonderful! I look forward to seeing them.”
“The Inkosikas bought one. Big!”
She pointed upward.
“Higher than the ceiling.
Stone. In the garden by the fountain.”
“You’ll show me as soon it is light.”
She beamed with pride.
“Norbert? How is he?”
Nanny’s face turned heavy
she moved to the edge of her chair, “In
old times, Och, our young men had
status, dignity, purpose. No longer.
They want land, want to govern.”
‘What do you think, Nanny?”
“I understand their need, but don’t want violence.
Don’t like guns.”
“Nor I, Nanny.”
“For me, Och, education means more than land.”
Morgan and Nanny agree to disagree.
No, Nanny! Norbert’s right.
Land matters more.”
Nanny sighed, inclined her head
a fat tear coursed down rounded
cheek. Morgan tried for levity
“Nanny, we leopards don’t change our spots.”
“Couldn’t you try, Och?
“You and Norbert together could try.”
“Norbert’s my friend. Always will be, but...”
They sat in silence, then Morgan poured tea
gave Nanny a cup.
Usually she poured, she served.
They sipped in silence, then Nanny asked
“Are you happy, Och? You have a lovely wife.”
She hadn’t yet met Carolyn, but obviously had heard.
“I’d be happy,” he told her
“if I didn’t fear for the future
and wonder if she’ll cope.
Doesn’t love Africa like we do.”
“She must love you, Och.”
“I hope so, but will it be enough?”
Light from the rising sun
caught the remnants of Nanny’s tears.
“Come, Nanny,” said Morgan.
“We’ll go and see Isaac’s sculpture.”
He helped her from the chair
and together they left the house
arm in arm, through the front door of Gomboli.
Ian Smith
Signing of Unilateral Declaration of Independence from Britain
Civil War
broke out officially in 1965 when
governing whites under Ian Smith
declared unilateral independence from Britain: split
from native land hard on Margaret and Carolyn. Yet
with Britain insisting on black majority rule what
the option?
In Britain’s time of need
white Rhodesians had offered loyal support
but that was now forgotten:
they had become expendable.
If they fell victim to ignorance and savagery
so be it.
At first only remoter regions suffered
then, as insurgents became bolder and better trained
terror spread to the core.
By 1975, in spite of white denial
none could pretend
strikes on bridge, road, pylon and dam didn’t
happen. Attacks, too, on white farms grew
farmers slayed, crops slashed, animals hamstrung.
As white civilians fled, as white troops fell
- body bags without number -
fewer stayed to fight the burgeoning rebel ranks. Soon
all white males, regardless of job, age or status
received call-up papers, amongst them Morgan
till then considered more useful on Gomboli.
Sandbags protect the windows
Slashed Tobacco Leaf
Margaret’s Return
Carolyn now with two young sons
could not remain alone in the house on the kopjie
so she and Margaret swopped homes
Carolyn moving to Salisbury
Margaret dusting off boot and
jodhpur returning to Gomboli.
Arriving, she knew right away things had changed
was stepping into a world
for which even she, intrepid
woman was ill-equipped.
The stone-walled house
was now a fort, doors barred with
steel sandbags in the windows.
Twice
Morgan from inside the family home
had single-handedly fought off multiple insurgents
with rocket, grenade, machine gun and mortar.
Out on the farm
within a few weeks of Margaret’s return
she lost ten acres of tobacco to slashing
had twenty five cows battered to pulp with gun butts
because, so she was told
the terrs preferred to save their ammo
to slaughter the white usurper.
She also received news of the murder
of a neighbouring white farmer
along with evidence of torture and maiming
of loyal black employees.
She herself noticed changes in her labour force.
Burns on the back. Evidence of torture.
Poster recruiting foreign mercenaries
A Call to Arms
Wary, sullen, fearful, they no longer laughed or sang
condition exacerbated by white mercenaries -
citizens of other countriesthat
made up Gomboli’s new militia
a menacing yet needed presence
always in evidence as they guarded installations
protected workers and transport
forestalled ambush, landmine and sabotage all
mammoth tasks, without the most important:
keeping insurgents out of the compounds.
Margaret knew the requirements were impossible
too big for either militia or the national army.
Whites were losing the war
yet Ian Smith’s government
not wishing to hurry the end
disguised the truth
ensured whites if everyone played their part
they still could win.
Child Soldier
Children
One afternoon jacarandas
in full and glorious bloom
Margaret protected by a guard
inspected discarded metal near the barns.
The dogs snuffling about in search of errant
rodents suddenly froze, pricked their ears
set up furious barking.
As they were about to attack
Margaret called them back
shouted to the guard, “Don’t shoot!” She
recognised the man who ran to meet her
a teacher
breathing ra
gged, face bathed in sweat.
“Inkosikas,” he wailed, “the children have gone.”
“Gone! Gone where?”
“Men of the night took them
entered the school with guns
herded them together, marched them into the bush.”
“What for?”
“To train, Inkosikas.”
“They’re children!”
“The bigger ones they use in combat
the younger ones as mujibas.”
“Mujibas?”
“Messengers.” “The
militia must follow!”
“No, Inkosikas! They said to tell you
if you use the militia, they will kill the children.”
Troubles Gnaw
Difficult Times
Although badly in need of sleep worries gnawed at her like rats.
How expect loyalty from employees
when loyalty brought them serious consequences? Conversely, how mistrust blacks
she had known for over thirty years?
Margaret spent each night in a different
space usually bathroom or bunker
although the pantry was the safest
least accessible to rocket, bullet, mortar or grenade.
The night in question was the bathroom
her bed a mattress on the floor
that she herself had hauled into place
after the servants left because no
one was to know where she’d be
spending the night
in case pressured by the terrs to divulge the location.
Making space for herself between hulking canines
she snuggled down into clean sheets
longing for the oblivion of sleep
yet it wouldn’t come.
She felt old and leached
not because of loneliness
not because of fear
but because, excluding Blair’s death she
had never faced an obstacle she couldn’t
overcome.
Although badly in need of sleep
worries gnawed at her like rats.
How expect loyalty from employees
when loyalty brought them serious consequences?
Conversely, how mistrust blacks
she had known for over thirty years?
Margaret teaches women to shoot
Used for target practice against intruders t
Knew their children, their grandchildren
saw them as extended
family. Insufferable!
She tossed and turned
all the while conscious of her weaponry
rocket in the corner, grenade under her
pillow rifle propped against the tub.
Despite appropriate training
in Salisbury had even taught other women to
shoot she had no appetite for killing.
Margaret at the Front Door
Margaret meets her Nemesis
Around 1 p.m. she fell asleep
only to awaken
a short while later
to the ferocious barking of dogs.
She got up
put on slippers and dressing gown
rifle in hand, went to the front door.
The three dogs
hackles bristling
mouths distorted in vicious snarls
pranced, ready for attack.
Someone outside pleaded
“Inkosikas, Inkosikas, it’s Chakawia.
Open please.”
Over the noise of the dogs
and the thud of her own heart
Margaret couldn’t tell
if the voice was really Chaka’s.
Through the years similar
situations had often arisen
she had always responded.
Now it might be a ruse or
might be true
If Chaka needed help she
wouldn’t want to fail him.
Never lacking in courage
- spitfire had been a childhood name -
she set aside her rifle
used both hands to lift the
bar unbolted the door
opened it.
A spotlight blazed in her
face blinded her.
She saw nothing.
What those outside
saw: frozen in the beam
standing proud
framed in the doorway of Gomboli
a slender woman in flowing robe
long neck, black hair
one hand gripped a dog by the
collar dog the size of a pony
the other shaded her eyes.
The image lasted a
second then shattered
with a shout and a salvo of shrieking bullets.
Moments later
the door of Gomboli hung on its hinges.
Snagged on splinters of teak:
dog fur, silk and a clump of black hair
lodged in a speck of white scalp.
From granite flagstone
insurgent leader, Mweru, appropriated as
memento an undamaged slipper
which he stored with care in his
pocket. No time for pillage
the militia was on its way
headlights already lurching up the road
to the house on the kopjie.
Nanny Lovely
In spite of curfew, in spite of
danger Nanny ran barefoot
taking the short-cut up to house
arriving before the militia.
With a howl she threw
herself at Margaret’s
mutilated body settling on the
flagstones gathering it into
her arms cradling it like a
child keening
eee...eee...eee...eeeeeeeeee.
Trio of Fun
Morgan returns to Gomboli
Released by the military Morgan
returned to Gomboli. carrying within
him a block of lead there where the
void had once existed.
It kept at bay all thought, emotion, feeling
allowing him to focus on the job. Thus
he had functioned in the army
so again now
organizing Margaret’s funeral
repairing the door
constructing a second grave at the river hut.
The only chore that afforded the slightest pleasure:
purchase of three Great Dane pups
their antics helping him ban the horror
continue as he knew he must.
He phoned Carolyn and the children regularly.
With Nanny’s help
remembered birthday, anniversary and Christmas
also visited them in Salisbury
but never allowed them to visit Gomboli
not even for Margaret’s funeral.
He used danger as the excuse
a valid one, yet he also feared they might notice
his difficulty in giving the emotional support
they had a right to expect of him.
He feared, too, they might notice his difficulty
in placing one foot in front of the other. After
all these year he finally understood what war
had done to his father.
Message
At lunchtime on September 19th,
1977 Morgan was opening mail
when Nanny knocked on the door
bringing him lunch on a tray as requested.
He cleared a space, thanked her returned
to the bills
but Nanny remained at the desk
hands clasped over her stomach
head bent, eyes cast down like a pious saint. She
had something to say, waited for his attention.
He raised his eyes, said, “What is it, Nanny?”
She rushed her reply, “Norbert sends a message.”
“Norbert!”
They never spoke of Norbert
yet Morgan found him again and again
lingering in the corners of his mind.
“Norbert says if you can trust
him he too will trust.
He’ll meet you this evening at dusk.”
“Where?”
“At the river-hut.”
Morgan had blanched beneath his tan
and a pulse thudded in his eardrum
yet his voice remained steady.
“I’m listening, Nanny. Continue.”
“You must go alone. No militia.
He too will be alone.
You may bring your rifle.
He will bring his, but won’t shoot first.”
Grave on the Kopjie
Meeting
As Morgan parked his armoured
vehicle at the foot of the kopjie
every cell tingled in electric awareness.
This could be a set-up
yet he’d kept his part of the bargain
the militia, unaware of the meeting
ate in their barracks before their nightly patrol.
Rifle ready, Morgan climbed the path
to the boulder-strewn plateau.
His senses focussed
he looked, listened, sniffed
found no tell-tale signs of a trap
no footprints
no broken grass, cigarette butt or wrapper.
At the top
he wandered amongst towering boulder
settling by a rock near his parents’ graves.
FN across his knees, he waited.
Below
dusk closed in across the land.
Whose land? His? Theirs?
Norbert came from behind
Calling, “Morgan!”
The tone held unmistakable warmth.
Morgan stood, turned
rifle directed to the ground.
He saw before him a powerful man
heavy boot and camo
in one hand an AK, the other stretched in greeting.
By the light of the moon light, Morgan recognized
nothing of this person except for one thing:
Nanny Lovely’s ever- ready smile
familiar since earliest childhood.
It was enough.
In spite of himself he felt a frisson of
pleasure couldn’t help it
he too smiled, took the proffered hand.
Together they walked amongst the boulders
“Your mother..,” Norbert began
Morgan helped him, asked, “Were you there?”
“No. Was away. Heard later.”
“Heard what?
“That she opened the door.”
“I assumed so.
She was alone and the bar out of place.”
“Why? She knew the dangers.”
“I don’t know why.”
“Otherwise she’d have been all right,” said Norbert
as he extracted a couple of cigarettes
gave one to Morgan and lit them
silver lighter
glinting in the light of the moon. Morgan took
his first drag before saying “She was probably
tired like I am.” Strolling amongst boulders
that dwarfed them the two men smoked in
companionable silence
Thread that Binds
before Norbert commented
“Both you and I have killed
yet unlike some
we’re not born killers.
All I want is land. Not killing.”
“Ah, the land,” sighed Morgan.
Together they looked out over the veld
bathed in light of the rising moon.
Without speaking
they turned back to the graves
Morgan finally saying
“Tell me, Norbert, where’s Chakawia?”
“Dead. Same night as your mother. He
was loyal. Refused to betray.
It wasn’t him calling at the door that night
he was already dead.”
Morgan sighed, finally saying
“Maybe Chaka too was tired.”
“I think so.”
“I’ve been wanting this meeting, Norbert
yet it was you that arranged it. Why?
Do you believe, like I do that
there’s a thread that binds us you
and me, black and white?”
Sacrificial Lamb?
Finis
Norbert had no chance to reply as
a fury of bullets, the crack of AKs
ricocheted around the boulders and out over the land.
Morgan tried to lift his rifle, but it fell from his
careened into him.
Then Morgan, too, was lifted and spun as
fire from barking automatics slammed
into every part of his anatomy.
Amidst exploding pain, one last thought took
shape they had kept the faith, he and Norbert
a thread existed, had not broken.
Magazines empty
-thirty shots from each of nine guns
- firing stopped.
Mweru led his men from behind the rocks
checking corpses: broken, tangled
limbs at odd angles, glazed in a sheen of blood.
Together Mweru, Kafumi and Ruka separated
the bodies
tossed Morgan onto his mother’s
grave where he landed
disjointed, crumpled, head hanging over the edge.
They straightened Norbert as best they could
Mweru apologizing with the words
“Sorry, old friend. You were too close to the other.
Always were.”
Taking guns and ammo, the men melted into shadow.
My Baby
Nanny Lovely
Panting, Nanny struggled up the kopjie
to be met by the sight of her child laid
out in moonlight.
She threw herself at him
trying to gather him into her arms
not managing, changing tactic.
Settling with her back to a rock
legs straight ahead, she pulled Norbert across her lap
all the while keening.
Suddenly she stopped, turned, saw Morgan
slumped across his mother’s grave.
In agonized howl shouted, “Isaac!”
knew he’d followed, was hiding.
Emerging, Isaac begged in hoarse whisper
“Come, Mammy! We must go. Please!”
“No! Bring me my Och!”
He obeyed, dragging Morgan across to his mother
laying him over her lap alongside Norbert.
With huge arms across both, Nanny closed her eyes,
alternating the high-pitched notes of ancient lament
with keening that penetrated
every hut, den and burrow on the
veld eee...eee...eeeeeeee.
“Come, Mammy!” Isaac pleaded, “The militia...”
She lifted her head, “I’ll stay, Son, but you must go.”
As Isaac faded into the dark
Nanny closed her eyes and rocking back and forth
sang quietly, entering a trance-like state.
Dog of War
Militia
Amidst the crackle of radio
bristling rifles and stomping boot
the militia led by a hard-bitten Kiwi arrived.
“Jesus!” he swore
trying to make sense of the
scene: Nanny Lovely
sitting amongst towering
boulder face serene
lifted to the moon
singing a melody never before
heard. He shivered, suddenly
realizing that in the shadows across
her lap lay two bodies.
“A pietà,” he whispered, “a bloody African pietà!”
Turning to his men, said
“The bastards got them both.”
“Is she round the bend?” asked the
Aussie. “Nah. She’s just a mother
“A rather elegant young lady.”
Shed Snake Skin
Britain
Carolyn, London sophisticate
widow to Morgan, mother of two
both now at Oxford
initially followed events in Africa
knew that in 1980 Rhodesia became Zimbabwe
blacks governing under Robert Mugabe.
Carolyn remained informed till told
Mugabe had gifted Gomboli
still legally hers
to his wife as a birthday bauble.
Thence forwards, Carolyn
wishing to spare her nerves
avoided news from Africa
till one day she received by mail an
envelope with a big splashy stamp of
a stalking leopard:
inside an invitation to a London gallery
Shed Snake Skins
Sculptures by Isaac Masenda
Opening reception: 2-4 pm.
At the bottom Isaac himself had scrawled
that he and his daughter
- a rather elegant young lady -
would be attending the opening.
In a PS had added that
in some of the works on show
he had used a special type of olivine rich
serpentine called Leopard Rock
he had recently found on Gomboli
long since abandoned and derelict.
Nanny Lovely Fulfilled and Replete, H. Ann Ackroyd.
The End
Carolyn attended the opening with her
sons and found welcome in a huge smile
Nanny Lovely’s
beaming from the face of Isaac
and duplicated in that of his daughter.
She was Morgan Junior’s age
and to him, as Carolyn observed from a distance a
subject of immense fascination.
Carolyn
not only bought one of the leopard rock sculptures
but eventually the entire gallery
dedicating it to African art
sending the proceeds
to Mother Mary’s Orphanage in Zimbabwe
although Nanny Lovely herself revered
founder of the institution
had long since retired.
Haitian Girl
In early August, 1980
Hurricane Allen, Category
5 struck Haiti.
Lucille’s father was outside attempting repairs
when a high wind
strafed the ground sending tin roofing
flying through the air
to decapitate the paterfamilias.
In addition
when Allen moved on
goat, home and coffee crop too had gone
leaving Mamma Michelle
Lucille and her younger siblings standing
in mud, knee-high, with nothing. Mamma
Michelle knew without a doubt that the
spirits
loa
displeased for transgressions unknown
had meted out punishment.
Appeasement was needed.
If Hurricane Allen had not taken
Iemenja, Papa Baron and Chango
her statuettes of beloved voodoo
deities she would have placed at their
feet and felt better
offerings of hibiscus and mango
but now she must travel long distance on
foot to rituals where song, dance and drum
lifted the screen
to reveal the world of the spirit.
By attending such ceremony
Mamma Michele had to leave behind her children
to salvage what they could
from mud and debris.
The eldest, five-year old Lucille
out of her depth, in shock, confused
attached herself when possible
to a missionary couple from Canada.
The husband
Lucille called him Mister, but might have said Papa
was an architect by profession
but had set aside his job
in favour of religious vocation.
Lucille hung on his every word.
Thus one day
hearing him mention
that the long saga of Haitian disaster
would be half as bad
if someone had bothered to create proper habitat.
“A good architect,” he said
“could produce with ease lightweight dwellings
to protect from rain and sun, withstand extreme
and capture ocean breeze.”
He illustrated the idea to his interlocutor
with drawings of skeletal structures which
he then scrunched up and discarded.
Lucille watched, listened
grasping only half his meaning
but retrieving the crumpled paper.
Perplexed, Mister asked her reason.
“When big,” she explained,
“I’ll make places to keep us safe.”
He studied the child dirtstreaked
cheek, malodorous, tattered
but a face alight with fervour.
Patting the matted head, he told her
“First you need to study architecture.”
“Yes!”
She jumped up and down clapping,
“I’ll study arc....sher!”
Bending to her level
his speech slow and kind, he said,
“Copy me, Lucille, arc... it...ec...tsh...er.”
“I’ll study architecture,” she proclaimed
pronunciation perfect.
He didn’t feel like explaining
such things didn’t happen in Haiti.
Lucille used her new
word architecture
ad nauseam irritating
peer and adult alike.
Meanwhile on the island disease
ran amok, rioting occurred daily.
One morning early
Mamma Michele
minuscule scrap of abused humanity
sought out Mister.
She carried a child on her
back dragged another by the
arm and wore perched on her
head not her size
a salvaged wig.
Dropping to her knees
she stretched out her hand
entreated, “Please, Mister,
take Lucille when you leave.”
Mister tried to help her to her feet
she resisted, reasoned, pleaded,
“She’s a good child,
chance is all she needs.”
“I know, madam.
It breaks my heart, but it’s not
feasible. There are millions like
Lucille.” “But, sir, she’s different
special.
Unlike others
she saw her papa lose his head
sight no child should ever see.”
Mamma Michele had played her
trump albeit not factual:
she alone had seen the tin roof fly
and kept concealed the details.
Mister relented.
In Canada
on her first day at kindergarten
Lucille gathered a handful of sticks
forsythia prunings
left by a negligent gardener.
When asked to leave them
behind she declined
when told they were
trash: tantrum
Given permission to keep them
she produced a cherubic smile.
When offered toys, only play-d
ough pleased.
With this she joined her sticks
turning two dimensions into
three. Each day in recess
she restocked with twig,
sifting, sorting, accepting, rejecting
knowing exactly what she needed.
With time
her strange skeletal structures
initially crude and inept, improved
and she began filling the gaps with
paper, fabric and string.
Through the years, as brightest star
Lucille received the best in education
landing finally
in the London offices
of famed female Iraqi
architect Zaha Hadid
with whom Lucille
as woman and outsider, identified.
At Hadid’s
she worked on such iconic projects
as the CAC1 in Cincinnati
the MAXXI2 in Rome
She earned well, lived well
found a suitable boyfriend
in the person of Zebadiah from Zimbabwe
also an architect
white-skinned and dashing.
Lucille’s stick fabrications now
masqueraded as sculptures
receiving much acclaim
for imagination and beauty. Yet
Haiti remained her goal and
when she heard from a friend
that Mamma Michele had broken a
bone she pulled up stakes
and together with Zeb and his dog
Iver returned to the island.
Together Lucille and Zeb
made prototypes
for homes tailored to Haitian
need. They were dome-like
with a pedigree
reaching back through the years
to Lucille’s pre-school
era but using
instead of sticks
prefabricated strut
and high tech filling.
Soon Lucille and Zeb with Iver
occupied on the beach
two streamlined structures
where they lived in comfort
refreshed by breezes
and unscathed
by gale or slashing rain.
By the beginning of 2009
they were ready
for full-scale production
lacking nothing but a rubber stamp
from an elusive local leader.
Month after month they waited to no avail.
They changed tactic
became proactive
threatened to lay bare corruption name
names, go public with their frustration.
They presented an ultimatum
deadline: Wednesday, January 13, 2010.
On that Wednesday
Lucille climbed out of bed
expecting to greet the sunrise over
water. Instead
she just missed striking her
face on something suspended
head-height in her entrance:
a crudely carved doll
vest bloodied, a nail through the chest.
Recognising the Haiti of her youth
had returned to claim to her
voodoo she
ran barefoot
mouth dry, eyes wide, breath erratic
along the surf’s edge to Zeb’s.
No one came to greet her.
Finally, in the palm grove
she found Zeb digging a hole
a blood-soaked mound in a sheet at his feet.
Voice flat, he told her, “I failed Iver.
Someone hacked him to death
and I heard nothing.”
Tears streaked his cheek
while Lucille clutched herself
trying to keep together the bits
stop her chin trembling, her teeth chattering.
Her voice cracked, she said
“We have to leave, Zeb!
Get out. Now. Today!”
He looked up from his digging, eyebrows raised.
“Abandon the domes?”
“We must! This is witchcraft.”
“Do we bow to such pressure?”
Lucille’s words emerged in a rush,
“You have to believe me, Zeb.
You weren’t born in Haiti. Don’t understand.
There’s no option. We must leave. Now. Today.”
Zeb stood silent, watched as Lucille continued
“To the outsider
spirits, witchcraft, spell, trance,
curse might seem idiotic
yet they have a life of their own
worm their way into the mind, feed from
within. The loa, spirit world,
whatever you wish to call it
exists and cannot be ignored.
It lures me back into the fold.
We must go!”
Zeb abandoned his stance, came to hold her
trying to control her shaking.
“Don’t you think, dear,” he suggested
“we give power to what we believe?
Isn’t it through our credence that this evil exists?”
“It’s real, Zeb. Very real.
I feel the pull. It’ll triumph.”
She clawed at him. “Please! We must go!”
He looked out over her shoulder
across the seamless expanse of water and sky
saying finally
“Perhaps you are right. After
what’s happened to Iver I too
am uncomfortable.”
Gently he released her grip and bending
lifted the bloody bundle
cradled it like a slumbering child
before lowering it into the hole
which he and Lucille together
filled with the red earth of Haiti.
That afternoon Lucille and Zeb
tried to convince Mamma Michele
to leave with them.
“I won’t go,” she announced
chin stuck out, arms akimbo.
“But you must, Mamma, we want
you can’t assist from afar.
Life will be good, easier
electricity, clean water, machines.”
“Well...,” began Mamma Michele, eyes dancing.
Lucille grabbed the chance, “That’s decided.
We’ll help you pack
just a few essentials.”
Mama Michele hobbled
to her voodoo figurines
Iemanja, Chango and Papa Baron.
“I’ll pack you guys first,”
she assured them.
Aghast Lucille protested
“Mama we are trying to escape them!
They belong in Haiti!”
Mamma Michele
face as fierce as a vengeful
deity pointed an accusing finger
proclaimed in thunderous voice
“You rob me my gods!”
Shocked
Lucille and Zeb stood side by side
staring. It was 4:58
the time the earthquake struck.
Lucille
pinned under rubble
drifted in and out of lucidity
feeling that somewhere close at hand
Zeb lay dead, maybe Mamma Michele as well
but of that she wasn’t certain.
Briefly
she asked herself the Haitian question:
Why the loa’s rage? What
their need for restitution?
She waited, but feeling no resonance understood
with unprecedented incontrovertibility that she’d
always placed her faith
in what was good and loving
thus allowing evil no purchase
no nurture, no muscle.
She was thus in goodly hand not
victim to vengeful Haitian deity.
With thought and feeling reced
ing
she wondered in passing,
if the domes had survived the quake.
The had.
Although tattered
they stood intact on the beach as before.
In years ahead might strangers ask
“What are those?”
Or might such homes be standard
and no such question needed
Truncated
At the Norfolk County Fair
Simcoe, Ontario, Canada on
a sunny afternoon in October
Felipe is disgruntled
wants candy, wants to go on the rides
wanted to stay longer with the
reptiles above all, as a boy
doesn’t want to be in the women’s washroom.
Outside the cubicle door
waiting for Mama as instructed
resentment seethes.
He senses Mama’s at a disadvantage
decides to use it.
He checks her legs under the cubicle
door they are as sturdy as trees
growing from white sock and sensible lace-up.
They’re not moving so he bolts out the door
barging his way through crowds in the
passage down the ramp, into the open.
Free at last!
He stops to listen for Mama’s yell
checks to see if she following.
She’s not.
His arms wind -milling, bending this way and
that he zigzags a circuitous route round the
booths ending as intended with the reptiles.
Nose and hands pressed to smutty glass
he oohs at a coiled python
uscles rippling beneath shiny
scale aahs at a big white boa
adorned with orange diamonds laughs
at eyes opening vertically like curtains
squeaks in pleasure
at fleshy, purple, sausage -like appendages
Then someone taps him on the shoulder.
Speaks.
He’s a foreign child, has no English
turns and runs scampering off toward the livestock:
his favourites.
On the way he darts about amongst the
rides keeping an eye open for Mama
determined to enjoy his freedom.
Once in the building he squeals in delight
at familiar sound and sight.
He’s attracted most
to the piglets, grunting and oinking,
as they suckle their mother.
He’s hungry, would like to join them
but feels uneasy amongst strangers.
Instead he heads for a cow with a nice big udder.
A girl with a bucket spots him, shouts
so he’s off again this
time to the horses. He
adores horses
they don’t scare him, not one bit.
The barn is cavernous and wide
with the animals in open-ended stall on either
side. Unlike at home
they face their food and not the viewer.
That’s not right, he likes to see the
front not the rump
but he’s nothing if not adventurous
heads for a bay with hooves like platters.
Right away there’s a yell
so he’s off again as fast as a fish. The
poultry barn’s next on his list there he
is greeted with pungent smells
and a rowdy amalgam of squawk, quack and peep.
It’s bliss to his senses.
He sees a hen plucking her chest
knows its for her nest
sees through bar and netting
pigeons with tufted feet and a haughty goose
glaring from a straight-lidded eye, rimmed in orange
to match the nostril in a beak of milky glass.
He’s finally slowing, starting to tire.
Now when he looks for Mama he’s
hoping to find her, not dodge her.
He moves on to Produce, the sunflowers
huge pumpkins obese and sprawling.
They no longer hold his attention
he wants Mama
stumbles into the petting zoo
where a woman offers him a big white
rabbit, floppy ears and pink nose.
He cuddles the creature, hugs it to his chest.
It nuzzles, he likes it, squeezes tighter
too tight.
The woman speaks sharply so
he drops the bunny and runs.
Where to?
Now dark, the lights are bright and glaring.
Shadows lurk between the stalls.
A younger more boisterous crowd
less solicitous, mills about him.
Smells of food tease his senses
fries, popcorn, hamburger and sausage.
He needs food.
Where’s Mama?
Again he scans the crowd thinks
he sees her entering a building
forces his way through legs
to find himself in unaccustomed setting
looming space divided by countless screens
yet no sign of Mama.
Bewildered he stands alone
a tiny figure with people flowing
past like water round a stone.
A woman watches from behind a screen raised
on metallic legs.
She’s a foreign woman
with black kerchief and bulging belly
In the crowd she sees her son
sees his pinched face
sees his dark eyes searching
yet she remains in hiding.
In this rich country
full of good, kind, responsible people
no harm can come to her child.
He’s made for better things than she
- pregnant, broke, rejected -
can offer.
She bites on trembling lip
and, as Felipe starts to approach, she slips away.
Through the forest of legs
Felipe sees beneath a screen
a pair of legs that match his
need. As sturdy as trees
they grow from white sock and lace-up.
He tries to elbow his way
but first his path is blocked
then she’s no longer there.
Lifting his eyes he sees her at the exit
wants to yell but no sound comes.
Frantic he shoves and pushes
reaches the door, but too late.
Now cold as well as dark
Felipe’s thin summer clothing is inadequate
he has get out of the wind.
Amidst blaring of loud-speaker
announcement and music
he hears the sound of a whinny,
follows the call
finds an enclosure offering rides on ponies.
He tries to scramble through ropes
but someone shouts and grabs his T-shirt.
At that moment something dies inside
him. Like a rabbit caught by the ears
he hangs limply in the man’s grip.
The confident, rumbustious, mischievous
Felipe is no longer.
His arms never again wind-mill
his mouth no longer forms words
his brain is an inchoate mass of raw pulsating terror
nothing else exists.
No parent came to claim Felipe.
He became Jake
living with Henrik and Betty on
a farm near Norwich, Ontario.
The couple doted on him
gave him everything a child could
want yet he remained passive
never fully responding.
He seemed to start understanding
English yet never spoke
&nb
sp; neither English, nor any other language.
One evening near Thanksgiving
Jake in bed
his foster parents sat by open hearth
exchanging notes for the day.
“Jake’s been with us a year,” said Betty
knitting needles clicking.
Henrik, a man of few words, puffed on his
pipe didn’t comment.
“A darling child,” she continued, “beautiful
fair skin, dark hair, black eyes
must be of ethnic origin but which
ethnicity? Strange
that he never talks, laughs, smiles or
cries. Why?
What could have happened?
Where are his parents?
Such ambiguity.
How unlock his secrets?
Will he ever speak?”
Henrik, who was in charge of Jake outside
knew more of the child’s true nature.
“We might never know for sure
yet his conduct tells us
he’s from a foreign rural back-ground.”
“How would you know?”
“He communes with animals drinks
from cows, snuggles with horses.”
Betty who knew nothing of this, spluttered
“That’s dangerous, unhygienic!”
“Possibly, but it is his need
animals sense it, treat him as their own.
I’ve noted too he chooses wisely
judges each animal for mood and disposition.”
Betty is doubtful: “A child so young?” “It’s
instinct, not reason. He is gifted with senses
that we most likely all possessed, but do no longer.”
Betty with little patience for the esoteric
changed the subject,
“Henrik, you told me that tomorrow
you have matters to attend to at the fair,” -
the annual event was again in full swing -
“perhaps Jake and I should accompany you.
He might enjoy it.”
Once there
Betty held on to Jake’s hand
with fierce determination
but when, in order to pay for candy
she let go, only briefly, he gave her the slip.
Jake had no plan
but guided by vague memories
located the women’s washroom
then followed the route past reptiles, rides and
poultry.
At the sight of the cows the
customary need assailed him
but because of the crowds, he resisted.
Moving on to the horses
where the cavernous barn matched his memories
he sat on the floor near a bale of straw checking
his surroundings.
There was no one around except
in the mist at the end of the barn
against the light
a man on a ladder braiding the mane of a
carthorse. The smell of horse and hay
the sound of snorting, stamping and swishing
comforted him.
Yet the horses themselves worried
him bigger, sleeker, more restless
than the sway-backed ponies he knew.
Also they faced away from him
all rump, no head
making appraisal impossible.
One had a braided tail, another a partial harness
but this was no help to him.
He also wanted a horse that rested on the
ground all were standing.
His need was great, but with so much agin
he felt he should wait.
Then, as luck would have it, close at hand a
chestnut folded long lean legs and settled.
Gleefully Jake abandoned his seat
joined the horse in the stall.
When Betty, frantic, arrived at the
stables all was confusion
siren, flashing light, ambulance.
a child, her child
lay on the ground on a stretcher.
“My baby!” she sobbed trying to reach
him They held her back, “Madam, please
...” Jake’s eyelids fluttered.
Turning his head
he saw legs, lots of legs.
None grew like tree-trunks from sock and lace-up
yet in his mind
he saw these things with clarity and
before shutting his eyes for good
said, “Mama.”
Betty let out a howl
for he had never before spoken
let alone called her Mama.
Persian Rug
Amir owns a cupboard of a store on Germain
Street where maritime fog and rain
settle into joint and frizz
hair but not Amir’s
for he’s a Zoroastrian of ancient Persian lineage
with hair as heavy as the carpets he sells.
“See this one,” he says, showing a rug from Tabriz
“it’s the goldfish pattern. Mahi.”
Difficult for western ear
I try it on the tongue: Mahi from Tabriz.
repeat, get it right and then look for fish
Difficult to find for western eye.
He’s patient, wants me to understand, explains.
“Ah, yes, an abstraction,” I say.
He’s encouraged, gathers speed.
Flipping through the stack he
tells of machine- placed tuft
not right
and glory be
of proper knotting and counts per raj.
I begin to recognize the different looks and textures
seventy five is dense and fine, less is coarser.
Yet more voluble
he shows this motif and that medallion
from Isphahan, diamond from Kasham
floral from Mashad.
My favourite is the dome
in browns, light blues and
creams but alas
nine thousand dollars is not within my means
nor the Heriz, pattern of antique design.
Amir continues undeterred
the stacks reach high
so much to tell, so much to teach.
Here a Varamin the
pile’s of wool warp and
weft of cotton one sees
it on the fringe. If all is
wool
sheep, goat or camel
the rug’s stronger
withstanding hoof, sand, even man.
Silk’s softer but good for highlight
see how luminous, how vibrant.
The torrent rolls on
unabated he speaks of
natural dyes of colour
and on a rug from Qum
points out a tone named
for desert flower
which, for lack of rain, blooms only rarely.
He doesn’t know the English name. I
suggest mustard but sand is more apt
for this scholar from the desert.
I’m listening to a quote from a Persian poet
when sirens howl outside the door.
Transfixed we stare
as cruisers screech to grinding halt police
in combat gear, weapons drawn and ready
crash the entrance. There’s
shouting, confusion, chaos.
I’m pushed aside, land in rugs, am dazed
at a loss to know what’s happened.
I raise my head and see Amir face
down, handcuffed on the ground.
Police swarm like agitated ants
rip at carpet, wall and wire.
I see ill-bred people mishandling this man of letters
I see them yank him to his feet
his face as pale as desert sand.
Gathering my senses I yell
“Stop! Terrible mis
take.
This man’s a teacher, scholar, let him be!”
but they are already on the street
pushing Amir into their vehicle.
“Sorry, Amir!” I call to him
as another by-stander shakes his head
says, “How can we have become so bigoted?”
The Veil
Friday night
bustling city mall
the young and beautiful are out in force
laptop, tablet, notebook, iPad, mobile
all tinkle, ping, beep and buzz
while friend greets friend
and pretty girls with long clean hair
stride by in high-heeled boots.
At Holt’s the tills jingle instant
tellers spit out the bucks
everywhere there’s laughter
mirror, music, colour, noise and light.’
The western world’s at play on Friday night.
At Starbucks a girl appears in burka
tall, very tall
orders cream-topped mocha
settles in dark corner seat.
The mall falls silent.
She’s tall, too tall for a woman.
She’s a threat. Perhaps a man in disguise?
Perhaps a bomb in her garment?
What to do?
Sweat prickles, our hands go clammy
we’re leery and full of fear.
Amidst sudden noise and laughter
a rowdy group draws closer.
They are young, cool, attractive
they are our children
we feel like shouting take
care, we’re under threat
danger lurks in every corner, even here at Starbucks.
A boy with dread-locks and straight Greek nose
approaches
arms spread to greet the mystery figure in the corner.
“You’re here, Haleema! Awesome!”
With his help, the girl pulls off her burka
shakes loose lustrous curl
face exquisite
eyebrows plucked, lips a carmine red.
The body too is perfect
leg shapely, skirt short
heels: five inch stilletos.
The boy busses her painted cheek
says, ‘We’re going dancing, Haleema!”
She joins the noisy group and with
them saunters through the mall.
The next Friday
again we sit in Starbucks
again Haleema shows, orders cream-topped Mocha
picks the selfsame spot.
The unprepared are leery
but we who know better are not.
Again the noisy group approaches
the boy with dreadlocks spreads his arms
again he tugs away the burka.
There’s a problem
he tugs and tugs some more
then suddenly from cotton fold
a face emerges a
man’s face fierce
and bearded
the colour of cured tobacco.
A thunderous voice echoes through the mall
bouncing off ceiling, floor and wall
“Praise be to Allah! Allaaah! Allaaah!”
There’s a scuffle
and the bomb explodes.
Simba Kubwa Speaks
“You must realize I don’t normally give
interviews but you’re insistent
and we’re a democratic society, so I’ll spare you a
few minutes.
I’m told you’re interested in blood
diamonds. Intriguing!
I know nothing of such things and have never seen a
red diamond.
I’d like one for my treasury.
Perhaps you can tell me, where might I acquire
such an anomaly?
So you want to know about my treasury. It’s like all
treasuries
roomfuls of gold, silver, copper.
Jewels? Of course I have jewels! Rack upon rack
of rubies, emeralds and diamonds
I keep them in seamless sachets fashioned from
buffalo scrotum.
You’re right, precious stones help foot my
tailors’ bills
those crooks on Saville Row
sure know how to charge
but, as you say for this interview today
I chose something other than a suit
or, for that matter, other than the traditional clothing
I wore for China’s envoy.
You probably saw the photos
fly-switch, sable-horn, tusk.
No?
I’m surprised. You missed something!
No!
I won’t listen to what your saying.
You keep changing the subject and interrupting.
It’s bad manners.
I was telling you about my outfit and will
continue. For you
I’ve chosen this dressing gown from Benito’s in
Rome.
As you see, it’s inlaid with mirrors of polished
silver small batteries sewn into the lining
provide for the tasteful use of lighting.
Ingenious, don’t you think? This
lion’s pelt on which I now recline
is also a favourite
fangs polished, head intact, eyes bejeweled.
It’s a beauty, isn’t it.
Killed the beast myself, back in the eighties.
With a gun?
Gun! Don’t make me laugh!
a spear, man, spear
as behooves The Simba Kubwa, Lion of Lions.
What did you say? I can’t believe it!
After the time and hospitality I’ve offered you
and your motley crew
turds every single one of you
after my willingness to overlook your impudence
my lenience with your boorish manners!
The ingratitude! I’m speechless
wounded to the core. Do
you not know who I am?
How dare you infer my country
starves because I live thus?
You English are so naive and ignorant Can’t
you understand that if I lived differently my
people would have no respect?
As to the torture, prison and slaughter of
innocents as you so naively phrase it
I assure you nothing was ever done
that was not necessary
absolutely necessary.
What do you people know about being a
fugitive in one’s own country
for decades, no less
sleeping in thorn trees, eating centipede
fighting for freedom from the colonial oppressor?
That’s you!
What do you know about ruling a turbulent
country? About imposing order?
Don’t come whining to me about slaughtered
babies people starving to death
every death was necessary
is necessary.
Now you will leave.
The guards will accompany you to a destination
of my choice.
The Simba Kubwa has spoken.”
The End.
Thanks for reading
Colonial Adventure and Other Stories
I hope you enjoyed it!
If so, then perhaps you could leave an honest review
Maybe, too, you will enjoy reading my other book
Across The Rift
Endnotes
______________________
1 Contemporary Art Centre
2 Museum of 21st Century Art
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