in selection. In my view, the black population is the key to reconciliation. They are in power. They were the victims in the past. Their actions will largely determine whether Zimbabwe succeeds on its path of reconciliation or plunges into further bloodshed and hatred. The whites can, however, play an important role if they choose to accept Mr Mugabe’s terms. Let us hope they do.
Despite these biases, I have not excluded whites from my interview list. I have just not given them equal status. Considering they comprise less than two per cent of the population of Zimbabwe, I think this is quite justified. I trust you will agree.
In conclusion, while I appreciate your concern and your interest in my work, I am confident I am on the right track. I assure you I will produce what you desire – a dissertation of the highest calibre.
Sincerely,
Ben Dabney, PhD student
Chapter 9
The brightly lit reading room of the National Archives of Zimbabwe seats twenty people in numbered chairs. I’m No. 14. Rules allow pencils only. The assistant director, a giant marshmallow of a man named Chambers, sits in an office with a huge window overlooking the reading room. If he spots a researcher taking notes with a Bic or a Paper Mate he can ban him for life. My single No. 2 lead pencil will have to shoulder the burden of my quest to record all there is to know about Elias Tichasara.
My counterparts are half a dozen middle-aged white researchers and one young Asian. A stack of yellowed newspapers partially hides the Asian. I have a long list of documents – enough to keep me in chair No. 14 for months. Though I am focused on Tichasara, I’ve also acquired material on Mugabe, Manyeche and several other leaders. There are no entries under ‘Matshaka, Florence’ in the card catalogue.
Apart from the rustle of paper, only the occasional grinding of the Boston pencil sharpener breaks the silence. I think it’s the same model we had in my fourth grade classroom.
I start with a piece from the Chicago Tribune which refers to Mugabe as a ‘fanatic communist terrorist’. My snickering at this phrase brings reproachful glances from the other researchers.
Tichasara, I discover, did not pass away at just any random moment in the liberation war. When he died, in November 1979, he was travelling from a Zanu military camp to the city of Beira, Mozambique. From there he was to catch a flight to London to join the Zanu delegates in the negotiations that ultimately consolidated the Lancaster House agreement on Zimbabwe’s independence.
‘What if he had lived?’ the author of one article speculated. ‘Could the presence of one man have turned the tide of this newly independent country’s history?’ Questions like those have tortured historians for ages. If there was no Hitler, would there have been a Nazi Germany? I have no answer.
After two days of the pencil-writing routine, the inside of my forefinger feels permanently flattened. I set aside some articles about Tichasara to photocopy.
The photocopy machine is down the hall from the reading room. Mr Murehwa, a statuesque gentleman in a khaki uniform, is in charge. His green government-issue sweater features leather elbow patches. I hand him the articles and ask about the price of copies.
‘I’m sorry sir, the machine is not working today,’ he replies.
‘Will it be working tomorrow?’
‘I’m not sure, sir. We’re waiting for spare parts.’ Mr Murehwa stands almost at attention.
‘Where do these parts come from?’ I ask.
‘From overseas somewhere, sir.’
‘How long has it been broken?’
‘For some time now, sir.’
‘Two weeks? Two months?’ I want specifics and my voice is not concealing the frustration. Mr Murehwa responds to pressure with vagueness. He doesn’t know when it might be repaired, can’t remember how long it took to repair last time. He retains his rigid posture throughout our encounter as if standing upright substitutes for competence. I’m feeling nostalgic for once, homesick for a little American efficiency. I just want a few photocopies, nothing more.
‘Can I leave these magazines with you then? You can make the copies when the machine is fixed. I’ll phone to see if they’re ready.’
‘That’s fine, sir,’ he replies. ‘If the phones are working.’
‘The phones aren’t working?’
‘Yes, sir. They are not. Yesterday they were fine, but something happened.’
‘Then you’re waiting for a replacement?’
‘No, sir. They usually fix themselves. Phones are like the weather, sir. You never know what’s going to happen.’
In my most reasonable voice I tell Mr Murehwa I’ll take the magazines back to the reading room and make some more notes.
‘He was a great man,’ says Mr Murehwa, handing me the papers. He’s seen a photo of Tichasara in one of the magazines. ‘Zimbabwe would be different if he was still with us.’
‘I’ll drop them by on the way out,’ I tell him. ‘When the copier’s fixed you can make the copies. We can talk then about Tichasara.’
‘Fine, sir. Make sure you fill out the form for copies. And write your phone number.’
‘Just in case, eh, Mr Murehwa?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
I return to the archives a few days later. A magazine from West Africa contains an article entitled ‘Tichasara’s Death: Accident or Intrigue?’ Without a shred of evidence, the writer asserts that the Rhodesian security forces had arranged the killing. A comment from an ‘African expert’ at Cambridge attributes Tichasara’s demise to an ‘internal power struggle within Zanu’. The article mentions past intrigues in Zanu: the Nhari rebellion in 1974, which left over a hundred Zanu fighters dead, and the mysterious assassination of party leader Herbert Chitepo in Zambia in 1975. Zanu may not be the idealistic monolith I envisioned from Wisconsin.
I read the local newspapers for November and December 1979 on microfilm. I’m huddled in a dark closet of a room in front of a machine with an aggravating focus knob. When I get the top half of the page in focus, the bottom half blurs. And vice versa. After half an hour of this, my first migraine in Zimbabwe is on the way. Tichasara has to wait. I lay my head down. The darkness and quiet of this claustrophobic space is a near perfect cure.
An hour of this solitude and I’m ready to risk a shot of caffeine to wake up.
The archives serve tea each morning at 10.30. Mr Murehwa brews the leaves in a huge metal pot and neatly arranges the white cup and saucer sets on a table next to his office.
The researchers gather outside for a little sunshine. Two wooden benches border an ample bed of sunflowers. Two British nationals, Daniel Watson and Elizabeth Routledge, are sitting on the more recently painted bench. Watson is researching the history of sorghum production in Zimbabwe, something about crop hardiness and tradition. He has those long fingers that come from a life of contemplation.
Routledge is wearing leather sandals and a brown dress that makes her look dumpier than
