I reply. ‘My father spent most of his life working in the Bud factory.’
I’m not close to the man, but I won’t let a stranger denigrate his life’s labour.
‘And you actually call people Bud, don’t you?’ She speaks in an upper-class accent that doesn’t seem part of her birthright.
The two of them continue their discussion about an article in the most recent issue of Modern African Studies. They’re dropping in terms like ‘hermeneutics’ and ‘metanarratives’. They’re very excited about a French writer named Michel Foucault. I’ve heard of Foucault, but I have no idea what they’re talking about. Wisconsin State is out of the flow of great ideas.
The young Asian arrives with his cup of tea. He introduces himself as Chung Lee from the University of Hong Kong. Chung’s been in the country for a year. He’s read every edition of the daily Herald from 1931 to 1965. Twice. I don’t even ask him what he’s researching. My migraine’s returning.
As I leave, Routledge takes my details. ‘I’ll invite you around for supper sometime,’ she says. ‘You’ll enjoy meeting more of the research community.’
I doubt her sincerity but I thank her for the offer and rush back to my granny flat to squash the headache with a towel around my eyes and a nap. Tichasara’s death couldn’t have been an accident.
Chapter 10
Chuck tells us he has just come back from Matabeleland. He’s involved in low-income housing development, sponsored by the us government. ‘We’ve had to stop two of our projects there,’ he explains, ‘because of the fighting.’
We are sitting around a table in a dining area that leads off the enormous sunken lounge in Elizabeth’s house.
‘The Boers are always infiltrating,’ says Colin, a bearded, frizzy-haired South African in his late twenties. He’s made a point of informing us several times that he’s a deserter from the South African army living ‘in exile’ in Harare. ‘They won’t leave Zimbabwe alone,’ he adds.
‘It’s not the South Africans,’ says Chuck, ‘it’s the Zimbabwean army. They’re terrorising people.’
‘Zimbabweans didn’t fight a fourteen-year civil war to start it all over again two years later,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’
‘I’m only telling you what our people told me,’ says Chuck. ‘The Zimbabweans working for us are in fear for their lives.’
‘That’s a lot of kak,’ says Colin. Lisa, his girlfriend, nods in agreement.
I don’t know Elizabeth well, but I can see she’s upset.
‘Let’s enjoy the evening, people,’ I say. ‘We don’t want to spoil a lovely meal. Arguments aren’t good for digestion.’
I give Elizabeth a quick wink and the dinner table conversation drifts to concern about a possible drought. Safer country, though I’m still miffed by Chuck’s insinuation that Mugabe’s troops are engaged in atrocities. Typical American. He talks through straight white teeth that his parents paid thousands for. And he wears a New York Knicks cap. I wonder where people like him get their information.
The other guests don’t seem as taken by the roast lamb, fresh green beans and gem squash as I am. Since I’ve been in Zimbabwe it’s been sadza, beer, slimy French fries, and those grim English meat pies. I especially like the gem squash. I’ve never tasted it before.
The food isn’t the only positive aspect of the evening. The invitation alone came as a surprise. Now Elizabeth is being extremely friendly. Her scooped-neck red top has unveiled a sea of freckles across her chest and shoulders. I love freckles, maybe because I’m extra pale.
Chuck is not alone. He’s come with his wife Joy and their tiny baby Gary. Joy’s an academic on sabbatical from Georgetown. Though her specialty is African art, she hasn’t said much. Gary’s demands for food and clean diapers have kept her occupied.
As Elizabeth starts to clear the table, Gary spits up all over Joy’s shoulder. The sight of baby vomit gives my Cabernet a rough edge. I adjourn to the living room with Colin. ‘The police are still after me,’ he boasts.
I tell him a little about my research and my high regard for Mugabe.
‘Back in the 70s in South Africa,’ he says, ‘we used to look at guerrilla fighters as our heroes. Then other organisations began to spring up – the unions, student groupings, church formations. Democratic organisations.’
Despite his youthful look, he speaks like a veteran. ‘Remember this,’ he says, pointing at me with an instructive finger, ‘a guerrilla force can never be democratic.’
‘If people support them they can be,’ I reply. ‘Zimbabwe isn’t like China or the Soviet Union. Mugabe was elected. That’s democracy, not dictatorship.’
Colin finishes his wine, then starts a snifter of brandy.
‘These are peasants,’ he reminds me. ‘They can’t control production like workers. You need organised workers to transform society.’
Chuck approaches us and starts in again on how worried he is about Matabeleland. I don’t want to hear it. I ask Colin if he knows anything about Elias Tichasara. I figure that will exclude Chuck from the discussion.
‘The Mozambicans killed him,’ says Colin. ‘Probably with the backing of the Soviets. They feared Tichasara might gain power and get too friendly with the Americans. He was more conservative than Mugabe.’
‘Where did you hear this?’ I ask.
‘Around,’ says Colin, glancing at Chuck. ‘It’s a political hot potato.’
‘There are lots of hot potatoes here,’ says Chuck.
These two are lining each other up in their cross hairs. I move toward Elizabeth. We sit on the off-white couch, the centrepiece of the living room. Chuck’s sneakers squeak on the plastic runners that protect the thick white carpet as he berates Colin about ‘archaic socialism’.
‘You need to help me calm those two down,’ Elizabeth whispers. ‘I’m such an idiot. I should never have invited them on the same night. Chalk and cheese.’
‘A little debate never hurt anyone,’ I reply. ‘It definitely won’t spoil that wonderful meal you cooked.’
She goes shy for a second, then touches my arm lightly.
‘I grew up around drunken fights,’ she says. ‘Not an experience I wish to repeat.’
‘Try some music,’ I suggest.
Elizabeth bounces up and heads for the stereo.
‘Does anyone want to hear something?’ she asks.
‘I’d like to hear some sense from these Americans,’ says Colin.
I think he’s joking, but neither Chuck nor Joy, who’s joined the conversation, is smiling. The marimbas of Thomas Mapfumo’s band drown out the details
