concrete durawalls hold little interest. I want to know about this job. He’s stringing out my anxiety with his analysis of the role played by the coloureds in the liberation struggle. Even the word ‘coloured’, the term for ‘mixed race’ grates. In the us if you still say ‘colored’ you’re living in the 1940s, the days of Jim Crow and burning crosses.
‘They were a buffer,’ he tells me, ‘the whites tried to use them as a wedge. Coloureds were motor mechanics while we, the Africans, were spanner boys.’ He assures me there were some exceptions, even a few who became guerrillas. I wonder if, in the scheme of reconciliation, coloureds need to forgive or ask for forgiveness. I don’t ask. My ignorance will not be on display for the Professor.
We drive down gum tree-lined Birmingham Road. The Professor continues with his tour guide’s descriptions of the various neighbourhoods. He pulls up his vehicle at a small kiosk at the entrance to a vast property. A man in a blue uniform and matching cap stands at attention. He salutes the Professor as we come to a halt.
‘This is my place,’ the Professor says. For a second I have left Zimbabwe. Before us looms a full-blown castle, turrets and all. Only a palm tree in the side yard betrays the fact that we are not in the English countryside.
‘Prince George built this during World War ii,’ says the Professor. ‘It was a refuge from the Nazi air raids for the Royal Family. I got it cheap when Rhodesia fell in 1980. An independence windfall.’
I try to estimate how cheap a castle could have been, even if the seller was in a state of racial panic. Somewhere there must be money in African history.
The ground floor of the castle harbours a genuine English pub – straight-back leather chairs, matching bar stools and a pair of dartboards on the walnut walls. The full-length bar is backed by a massive mirror; in front of it stands a grey-haired man in a black waistcoat.
The Professor eases into what is obviously his chair, discarding his loafers for the fleece-lined slippers that lie at his feet as if this is their regular rest stop.
‘Baba Phineas,’ he says to the bartender, ‘the usual.’ The Professor looks at me expectantly.
‘I’ll have a Castle,’ I say. ‘It seems appropriate.’
The Professor has one last duty: tamping his long-stem pipe. Once the pipe lights up and his red wine arrives, he’s ready to proceed. I still can’t believe I’m in his presence, let alone in a castle.
‘Are you familiar with the case of Elias Tichasara?’ he asks me.
‘A little,’ I reply. Tichasara was a Zanu military leader who died in Mozambique just before the negotiations for Zimbabwe’s independence began in 1979.
‘There has always been a question mark over his death,’ he says.
I’ve heard this, but I don’t know the details. My silence triggers the Professor to lead me by the hand. He’s comfortable in the role.
‘Tichasara was the link between the guerrilla fighters and political leaders like Mugabe and Manyeche. Unlike most educated Zimbabweans, he was as comfortable in the field as in the five-star hotels.’
Phineas sets a leather dart case on the table next to the Professor.
‘He supposedly died in a car accident. We Zimbabweans don’t believe in accidents.’
‘Did he have enemies?’ I ask.
‘Everyone in politics has enemies. We had two liberation movements who fought. Today we only hear about Zanu. But Zapu, the Zimbabwe African People’s Union was there, though they’re mostly Ndebele. Tichasara wanted Zanu and Zapu to stand together in the elections, not as separate parties. Some Zanu leaders figured that if the two parties merged, Joshua Nkomo, the head of Zapu, would end up as prime minister instead of Mugabe.’
‘Someone in Zanu killed him?’
‘That’s what I want you to find out.’
‘Why me? I know so little about this. I’m an American.’
‘Precisely. No one will suspect you. If I go around asking questions, the authorities will start wondering what this crazy old man is up to now.’
‘There must be other people who could do this. Zimbabweans.’
‘It’s too sensitive for us. I’ve spoken to John Peterson – he recommends you.’
I’m proud that Peterson has faith in me, even prouder to be chosen by the Professor. But I’m still in the dark.
‘What do you mean by sensitive?’ I ask.
‘If someone in Zanu did kill him, they might be amongst the leadership. They have a lot to lose. History is not an academic exercise in Zimbabwe, my friend. Whoever controls the past, controls the future.’
While the Professor sips his wine, I take note of the standard issue portrait of Mugabe above the bar, sandwiched between advertising for two of the world’s most famous beers: Heineken and Tsingtao.
‘Tichasara disliked tribalism,’ says the Professor. ‘He didn’t allow people to talk about Shona and Ndebele in his presence. His mother came from Lupane, a pure Ndebele. His father was an Ndau, from Chimanimani. Tichasara spoke the languages of Zimbabwe, Shona, Ndebele, Ndau, even Kalanga. When he went to Zambia, he learned Nyanja. They say he spoke it like a Zambian. Things happen for a reason.’
All of a sudden I’ve moved from novice historian into the deep waters of intrigues of the past. I hope the Professor isn’t exaggerating to draw me in.
‘I have three men who were in the car with Tichasara the night he died. They are prepared to talk with you.’
‘Why would they want to talk now? It seems pointless, maybe dangerous.’
‘Finding historical truth is never pointless. There are great divisions emerging between Zanu and Zapu. We may end up with a civil war here in Zimbabwe between the Shona of Zanu and the Ndebele of Zapu. This would be a great tragedy.’
The Professor sounds off track here. Everything I’ve read about Mugabe and Zanu indicates they abhor tribal divisions. Where is the potential for civil war?
‘Exposing how Tichasara was killed could show the country how far some people are willing to go to get their hands on power.’
If things are really this serious, I don’t think an historian, even one as great as Dlamini, can save the day. The old man is carried away with the grandeur of his mission.
‘What is it you think I can do?’ I ask.
‘Interview these three men and write up what they say. I’ll make sure it gets published in the right places.’
‘This is a whole new direction for me, using history to fight the battles of the present.’
‘History is always like that,’ says the Professor. ‘People want to justify their cause. You must be clear what it is you want to justify.’
‘I believe in peace and reconciliation. It’s no trick to justify that.’
‘There
