In the middle of the night a white-owned general store standing at the crossroads on the border between the commercial farming area and the Tribal Trust Lands went up in flames and the building was gutted.
In the morning, Greg Stanyon found pieces of a broken bottle on the veranda outside the front window. Then he walked through the dereliction inside, poking here and there amongst the charred, smouldering and acrid remains. Discovering more pieces of glass inside the window, he looked no further for the cause. Arson. Going outside, he stamped his feet and wiped the ash from his shoes with his handkerchief.
He interviewed the store manager, who had little to say, other than that when he locked up, all was in order. Then he went across to the store on the other side of the road, and entering the dim interior, asked a teenage girl behind the counter for the owner. She disappeared through the door at the back of the store calling ‘Baba, Baba’. A tall, well-built, middle-aged man with a paunch, a round flaccid face and hooded eyes appeared in the doorway wiping his hands on a dirty towel.
‘Mangwanani. My name’s Stanyon. Mapolisa. I’m with the CID.’ The man offered no greeting and stood looking askance.
‘Are you the owner of this store?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your name?’
‘Tafirenyika.’
‘Mr Tafirenyika. Hello. How are you? I’m investigating the fire across the road. What can you tell me?’
‘Hapana.’
‘Nothing?’ said Stanyon with feigned incredulity.
‘No. Nothing.’
‘You are the owner of this store, are you not?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you live here? At the back?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ve seen the ruins of the store over there?’
‘Yes. This morning when I got up.’
‘Only when you got up?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was a big fire. Fires make a lot of noise. They crackle and roar. Paint and chemical tins explode. There is the sound of breaking glass as window panes blow out. When the rafters collapse and the roof falls in, there is a great crash. I know how buildings burn. And you did not hear anything?’
‘No.’
‘As the flames reach up and the sparks fly into the night sky, the light changes. And you did not see anything?
‘No. I didn’t hear anything. I didn’t see anything. I got drunk last night. I went to bed and did not wake up. I’ve just got up now. My wife will say the same.’
‘Ah. Very good. And you are only two to three hundred yards away? So you cannot help me with my inquiries.’
‘No. I know nothing.’
‘You know the store manager across the road.’
‘Yes.’
‘Friend of yours?’ The man did not answer.
‘Ah. Not a friend of yours then. How is business?’
‘It is all right.’
‘And it will get better. No competition anymore.’ The man shrugged.
‘Well. We’ll talk again some time. Now let me help your business. I’d like a drink and something to eat, please.’
Stanyon fetched his wallet out of his back pocket and put a ten shilling note on the counter, and gathering his purchases, went outside, sat on the veranda wall, and chewed stale Marie biscuits washing them down with warm Coca Cola. He watched a group of young men playing table soccer. They whirled the handles with great energy and shot the ball back and forth along the table at speed, and amidst great excitement. A quietly spoken voice came from behind him.
‘Why don’t you come and visit me at my farm? It is not far from here.’
He half turned and saw a tall middle-aged man with a clean-shaven face. He wore a felt bush hat and newly-pressed khaki trousers and shirt. Stanyon nodded a greeting.
‘All right. But tell me why I should do that?’
‘I would like to show you my farm. It would be interesting for you.’
‘Very well. I will come later when I have finished here. Tell me how I should find you?’
‘About five miles along the road that runs on the edge of the reserve, you will see my signpost. My name is Mashonganyika.’
It was late morning when Stanyon and Detective Sergeant Mangobo turned the Land Rover off the dirt road and, following a track, came to a brick house with a thatched roof amidst a collection of huts surrounded by citrus and mango trees.
‘Mangobo, let this man talk to me privately if he wants to. Have a look around the place while we are busy.’
Mashonganyika came from the huts and extended his hand to the two men.
‘I am glad you have come.’ he said to Stanyon. ‘Come. Let me show you my farm.’ The man led him into the middle of a maize field, and climbed on top of a huge termite mound from which he surveyed the area. Stanyon climbed up and stood beside him.
‘This is my land. Fifty hectares. It stretches from over there, all the way to that tree line, that hill there, and to that fence. Look at my mealie crop. It is wonderful. I used fertiliser and the rains have been good.’ The maize stalks stood strong and straight, like a great army of soldiers at attention, with a plume on their helmets. ‘And look at my watermelons over there. My oranges do well too. I draw water for them from the dam.’
‘Makorokoto,’ said Stanyon. ‘It is good to the eye. It’s as if one can hear the maize growing. It not only looks good, it sounds good.’ Mashonganyika laughed with pleasure.
‘How do you manage to farm so successfully?’
‘Ah,’ said Mashonganyika. ‘I am a Master Farmer. I studied agriculture at a government institution. I have followed the instructions and recommendations of the government’s agricultural programme for the conditions in this area. I have taken the advice of the Agritex extension officers who come to visit me. I was resettled here five years ago and I was given this land to farm. It has been hard work but now I am a successful farmer. My wives and children are happy too. I have both food and money. The pick-up you saw me driving is my own. Everything is paid for. The tractor and fertiliser too. All paid.’
‘And why do you bring me here to tell me this?’
‘Well. I wanted you to see my land and my crops. It pleases me and I wanted to share it with somebody. I am proud of what I have done.’
‘Thank you. I am honoured to see your lands. I am pleased for you.’
‘And I want to give you a pumpkin and some mealies. And for your men too.’
‘That will be kind.’
‘But I have a problem.’
‘Ah. There are always problems. What is your problem?’
Mashonganyika hesitated and looked around him. There was nothing but the mealie field and the two of them.
‘There are people who are envious of me,’ he whispered. ‘They are jealous of what I have done here. So they call me a ‘sell-out’ because I follow the government’s advice. I owe much to the government. It has helped me become independent and self-sufficient. Yet I am a nationalist. I love my country. I love the land. I would like to see the country become independent under the right leadership. But I am not an extremist. I do not follow the nationalist party meetings, or their politics or their violent ways. I am a farmer. All I want to do is to farm properly, and to sell my surplus, look after my wives and educate my children. I have seen the burnt store. It was, I am sure, the nationalists around here who are responsible.’
‘Yes. So am I. It was arson. The store was petrol-bombed.’
‘So I am right.’
‘Yes. Have you some names to give me?’
‘No. I do not know who did it. The young thugs of the party? Even if I knew for sure I would be afraid to tell you.’
‘Not even the names of the party officials and the leaders of their cells? Surely you know who they are.’
‘Yes. I know some of them. But I am afraid. I have been receiving letters which threaten me and my family.’
‘Letters? Letters through the post? Collected from the store? From the school?’
‘Not letters through the post. Notes scribbled on pieces of paper and left in a cleft stick close by my entrance.’
‘Written on what?’
‘School exercise paper.’
‘Written with what?’
‘Pencil. Crayon.’
‘Good writing?
‘No. In capitals. Uneven. Scrawled.’
‘The party cadres? What do they say?’
‘That I am a sell-out. That sell-outs will be burnt out of their homes. That sell-outs will be killed. That I am a sell-out because I listen to the white government and the white farmers. You see, they are jealous of my success and wealth. I am a bad example to their cause. And because I am not one of them. I do not give them money.’
‘And where are these notes?’
‘I burnt them. I was hurt and angry when I found them. I burnt them with a match and scattered the ashes to the wind. I did not want my wife to know.’
‘When did you receive the last one?’
‘This morning. It was at my gate when I left to go to the store.’
‘Ah. So you really have a problem. You are living in fear.’
‘Yes. And it was worse when I saw the store had been burned down.’
‘They passed you by last night after the burning.’
‘Yes. It must be so.’
‘Did you look for spoor on the road?’
‘Yes. But there are many tracks on the road. I could not identify any that came to my gate with those on the road.’
‘Pity. Tell me, Mashonganyika, why do you tell me this?’
‘I am scared. I am isolated. I am without a telephone. My life is in danger. I do not know what to do. I needed to tell somebody. There is nobody else I can approach except you. What shall I do?’
‘What do you think I can do about it?’
‘I need protection.’
‘Are you making an official report?’
‘No.’
‘And you do not want to name your enemies?’
‘No.’
‘And you have destroyed the evidence?’
‘Yes.’
‘Even if you were to make a report it would be difficult to station men here to guard you day and night. If at all it could only be short term. And your enemies would know you have spoken to us. They have all the time. It might make it worse for you in the end.’
‘Then what do I do?’
‘I don’t know what is for the best for you. Maybe send your wives and children away? Move away to the city?’
About the Author
Derek Huggins is an Englishman who emigrated to Southern Rhodesia in 1959 at the age of eighteen to join the British South Africa
Police. He rode horse patrols in Matabeleland and later became a detective with the Criminal Investigation
Department. He married Helen Lieros, an artist, in 1966. Resigning from the police in 1974, he opened
Gallery Delta for the promotion of contemporary painting. Concurrently, he was the Chief Executive of the
National Arts Foundation from 1975 to 1988. Presently, he continues to manage
Gallery Delta, and to publish Gallery magazine in which he is a frequent contributor. He has, intermittently, over a period of thirty years, endeavoured to write stories, which have remained unpublished until now.
Post published in: Arts