Kipling Bangura was an engineer. He was a very good engineer, too, so he thought. He was certainly the finest in the little village of Chasimu. No one disputed that, not least because he was about the only man in the village who knew anything about it at all. He knew how things worked - mechanical things that were beyond the ken of most other people in the area. Things like cars and vans and tractors and cooking stoves. And because he knew how things worked, he could generally manage to mend them when they didn’t.
Kipling himself would be the first to admit, however, that he was not very clever with electricity and things that were worked by electricity. But in Chasimu, that didn’t really matter, as there wasn’t much electricity about, and so not many people had things that worked by electricity. Most people had electricity in their homes, but it went off so often that not many people could rely on it. Like Mr. Bangura, they had electric lights, but oil lamps as well, just in case. Some had electric cookers, but most, also like Mr. Bangura, used bottled gas or oil. Most of the white farmers, like Mr. Bartlett and people like him in big houses had reliable machines that generated electricity for them, and they had things like cookers and freezers and large wireless sets that didn’t need batteries, and so on, but they also were usually clever enough, praise be, to mend them themselves when they went wrong. People like that were still good for business, though, even if they could fix things themselves, because their generating machines ran on petrol which Mr. Kipling Bangura was pleased to sell them.
No, Kipling’s real strength was in the other sort of engineering; the sort with engines that needed petrol or diesel, or the sort that needed mending with the welding torch. Mr. Bangura was very proud of his skill with the welding torch, and had resurrected many a fine piece of equipment that would otherwise have been left at the side of the field to rust away.
Mr. Bangura also sold petrol. There was a pump in the front of his workshop, at the roadside, handy for passing traffic to stop. The pump was hard work to use, in spite of the fact that he oiled it often. He sold oil, too, either in small cans, or, sometimes, in large drums for those who could collect. He had always thought that, one day, if anyone ever brought proper electricity to his part of town, that didn’t keep going off, he would try to get a pump that he didn’t have to operate by hand.
Kipling Bangura had a nice workshop on the edge of Chasimu, and lived on the premises. It was, like most properties in the area, a single storied building, but it had a corrugated iron roof - on most of it, at least. The garden wasn’t up to much, but then Mr. Bangura wasn’t much of a gardener anyway, so that was probably why. Another reason was that most of it was given over to storing useful things for his engineering. Things like old car engines, bits of plough, an old wrought iron gate - that sort of thing. Some plants grew in spite of it all, but he guessed they were mostly weeds. Certainly, he had never noticed anything in the least bit pretty or edible.
Kipling Bangura did not have a wife, although he often thought how useful it would be to have one, especially one who could look after his papers for him. He was not very good in the office, which was really only a table in what should have been the bedroom, but which was actually part of the workshop. It was the part where he kept spares, and cans of oil and that sort of thing, and it had bills and receipts and invoices and so on in neat piles on the table in the corner. He knew that if he had a wife, this would have to be a bedroom again, although he couldn’t quite see where he would store all these things if it were. He preferred to sleep in the other room, next to the small kitchen, which also had a table in it where he ate his meals. Apart from that, and a small bathroom with a shower, his home was nearly all workshop.
In spite of the fact that he was so well known locally, Mr. Bangura believed in the power of advertising. He had put a large sign across the front of his workshop to tell people who he was and what he did. That sign had caused him no end of trouble and sleepless nights. Even now, he wasn’t totally sure that he had the wording right. At first he wanted to advertise the fact that he could mend everything, because he thought he could. But some people had said that wasn’t quite right. It was ‘everything’ that was wrong. What about things that worked by electricity? Could he mend those? No, he couldn’t. And just look at the mess he’d made of that old typewriter a few years ago. People remembered that. So really, mending everything wasn’t quite what he did. He was certainly prepared to try to mend everything. There wasn’t anything that he wouldn’t try to mend, but every now and then, even his engineering skills failed to produce quite the result that his customers were looking for. Now and then. In the end, he had settled for the word ‘anything’ instead of ‘everything’. He thought this allowed for the odd exception to be made, like electric things for instance, and really fiddly things like typewriters where the welding torch wasn’t a lot of use. So in the end, the sign across the front of his workshop proudly said: -
KIPLING BANGURA ENGINEERING CO. AND PETROL.
ANYTHING MENDED.
At least, it almost said that. The sad fact was, though, that when it came to it, his good friend Patrick Chanama, who did sign writing, could not find a piece of timber long enough to get it all in. So he used two pieces, and joined them in the middle. But there was a gap, right through the middle of two of the words. So it had never looked quite right.
KIPLING BANGURA ENGINEE RING CO. AND PETROL.
ANYTHING M ENDED.
But it was the best that could be done at the time. Mr. Chanama was still looking for a longer piece of wood, so he said.
He had done rather better on Kipling’s van. For a long time, Kipling had driven the van without any sign on it at all, so it seemed a golden opportunity, while Mr. Chanama was doing the workshop sign, to ask him to do the van as well, only in smaller writing. It had been decided to leave off the bit about petrol, as he obviously couldn’t sell petrol from his van, but he decided to add instead that he supplied spares. He had actually meant that to go on the workshop sign as well, but had forgotten until it was too late. So now the van proudly proclaimed: -
KIPLING BANGURA ENGINEERING CO.
ANYTHING MENDED AND SPEARS SUPPLIED.
A few people had suggested that Patrick Chanama had spelt ‘spares’ wrongly, but it looked all right to Kipling, and, after all, Mr. Chanama had gone to school so should know better than they did.
Kipling Bangura was very proud of his van. It was very old, and therefore a living testimony to his skill as an engineer that he had been able to keep it going for so long. He used it quite a lot around town, and sometimes went on quite long journeys in it, once or twice a month, leaving his nephew Kboi in charge. Mr. Bangura never went on holiday, so usually, when he went on quite long journeys, it was to get spares and parts and things for his workshop that he couldn’t get locally. He didn’t like Bulawayo, although there were some fine engineers there from the old copper mines, so he went across the border into Botswana to visit his cousin, who lived this side of Francistown, in Tshesebe. He ran a small garage and was able to get all the spares that Kipling wanted, so it was as good as going on holiday for a couple of days.
The last time he had been away, he had missed a quite important visitor, according to Kboi. Mr. Mbele, the head man at Mr. Bartlett’s farm, had called. For the life of him, Mr. Bangura could not work out why Mr. Mbele should want to see him, although he knew that, like many other farmers, Mr. Bartlett was probably going to be forced off his land quite soon. He had seen the gang of strange men about town, and had heard the gossip that they were war veterans and up to no good. He couldn’t imagine that Mr. Mbele wanted spares or anything like that. Perhaps he wanted work, when Mr. Bartlett had gone. That Mr. Bartlett was a good man, and it would be sad to see him go after all that he done for the village and its people, but Mr. Bangura could not imagine that he would leave without having taken good care of Mr. Mbele.
A few days later, Mr. Mbele called again. After Kipling Bangura had made tea, and they were sitting with their mugs, with oily finger marks on them, they were able to get down to business.
“I’m talking to you on behalf of Mr. Bartlett,” said Mbele, “who wants to ask you a great favour.”
“Of course, if I can help,” replied Kipling. “What sort of favour?”
“Obviously nothing illegal,” reassured the old man, “but he would like you to take some things for him to Francistown in your excellent van.”
“What sort of things?” asked Bangura.
“Personal things,” replied Mbele. “Personal things which are valuable to him and Missy Bartlett, and which they do not wish to risk losing.”
“I see,” said Kipling, although he wasn’t sure he did, yet.
“You have heard the rumours that the war veterans are planning to take over the farm?” asked Mbele.
“Like many others,” said Kipling, sadly.
“They will probably go in about two weeks from now, the Bartletts, on the day of Lieutenant Conteh’s wedding,” announced Mbele, “although the date of their going is secret and you must tell nobody.”
“Quite so,” assured Mr. Bangura.
“Many of their possessions have already been moved,” continued old man Mbele, “and they had planned to take other, more precious, items with them. But now they have heard that Police and Customs men at the border are ransacking the vehicles and luggage of white farmers who leave, or demanding large bribes to prevent looting.”
“So Mr. Bartlett wants to borrow my van?” asked Bangura.
“Not quite,” said the old man. “They would like you to take a few pieces of their luggage to Francistown for them, if you would be so kind. They know that you often cross the border to visit your cousin.”
“Indeed I do,” agreed Kipling. “And I know the people on the border quite well. Sometimes I just wave as I drive through, other times I will stop for a gossip and a cup of their tea, but they never look in the van. They know that I go there to visit my cousin and to buy spares for my workshop, and I know what to pay them to avoid trouble.”
“Exactly as Mr. Bartlett had hoped,” said Mbele, obviously relieved at the news.
“When shall I make this journey for them?” enquired Bangura.
“Soon,” replied Mbele. “I will let you know. Mr Bartlett would like to bring his things in his pick-up truck one evening after it is dark, and transfer them to your van ready for you to leave the next morning.”
“And where shall I take it?” asked Kipling.
“Mr Bartlett has rented a lock-up on the outskirts of Francistown. He will give you directions and the key, which you will return to him. He will pay you well for your favour,” added Mbele. “I can negotiate with you now, and you will be paid half before you leave, and the other half when you return with the key.”
They drank more tea, and eventually agreed a price.
As they parted, the old man said, “Mr. Bartlett trusts you totally to do this for him. I have assured him you will not let him down.”
“You can trust me,” replied Kipling.
“I expect we shall meet again at Lt. Conteh’s wedding,” said Mbele.
“I shall be there,” replied Mr. Bangura.
***
A few days before his wedding, Lieutenant Conteh called again to see James Bartlett.
“I have to tell you that there are now many more war veterans than before,” announced the Lieutenant, gravely. “Not all of them are in the village, either, but some are camped out around the farm ready to move on to your land.”
“I have heard that,” replied Bartlett. “They have been to the fence and the gate many times, and we have spoken to them about their intentions. Mr. Mbele also has reported that they have been much more active among the farm workers, many of whom have already taken fright and left.”
“As I feared,” said Conteh. “They will move into the empty houses around the estate as soon as they feel free to do so, but they still assure me that they will not make a move to take over your farm until after my wedding.”
“They have told us that,” agreed James Bartlett, “and I cannot thank you enough for keeping them at bay for as long as you have and giving us the time to plan an orderly departure.”
“What exactly are your plans now?” asked the policeman.
“We shall leave here to attend your wedding, and not return,” replied Bartlett with a sigh of resignation. “Most of our stuff has already been moved out, and is now in the Western Cape, where we shall eventually make our new home. We had planned to take our most valuable belongings with us - personal things like jewellery and so on - but we have heard such dreadful tales of looting at the border that we have made other arrangements for that now.”
“The war veterans have told me that you may leave with your pick-up truck and your big Volvo car if you wish,” said Conteh.
“I shall only take the pick-up,” replied Bartlett. “I think two cars crossing the border, on what is supposed to be a holiday, would only arouse suspicion. I plan to leave the Volvo Estate in the care of Mr Bangura at his workshop, where my son can collect it at some time. It should be safe there.”
“I agree,” said Conteh. “That sounds sensible, if I may say so.”
“I hope, when we have gone, that you will be able to keep an eye on things as best you can,” pleaded Mr. Bartlett. “Make sure they don’t do too much damage to the property - that sort of thing. After all, this represents all I have in the world, more or less.”
“From what I hear,” said Lt. Conteh, “the house should be all right. I understand that the Local Government Minister in Bulawayo has plans to move in when you leave.”
“But he knows nothing about farming,” protested Bartlett.
“He is not coming here to run the farm,” responded the policeman. “He has been ‘given’ the house as a reward for services rendered to the party, the President and his cronies.”
There was a long silence.
“What a disgraceful state this country has come to,” said a sad James Bartlett. “My own country, too, although I become ashamed to admit it.”
“At least your old homestead will not be taken over by the war veterans,” said Conteh.
“That’s little comfort,” replied Bartlett.
Conteh nodded.
“The Government is robbing me of my house and my property,” said Bartlett. “There’s no other way of looking at it.”
“I agree it is a crime,” said Lt. Conteh. “But it’s one I can do nothing about. I can’t prevent it, and I can do nothing after the crime has been committed.”
“But you will keep an eye on the place for me from time to time, when you’re passing?”
“I am sorry, but I can’t even do that. After my wedding I am being promoted and moved to Bulawayo. I am so sorry,” Conteh said again.
“I am pleased for you that you are getting promotion,” said Bartlett. “But you will be missed hereabouts.”
The man sighed.
“No doubt old Mr. Mbele will look after things as best he can.”
“I’m sure he will,” replied the policeman. “He and his son.”
Conteh stood to leave. “I hope your departure goes smoothly,” he said. “I hope you will be able to share a little of my happiness at my wedding on your way. I am proud that you were able to accept my invitation.”
***
The Bartletts had had a miserable week. Packing had been dreadful, not least because they couldn’t simply strip the house of all their furniture and possessions. To make an orderly departure, they had to go through the motions of preparing for a holiday in the Western Cape. But thanks largely to the efforts of Lt. Conteh, they had been able to ship out a lot of their home, although much would have to be left behind to be ruined by whoever commandeered the house when they had gone.
In some ways, they were more fortunate than many other white farmers had been. There had been no violence so far, and their eviction had not been a sudden nightmare. But nightmare it still was, and violence still a possibility. James and Beatrice knew that they had to be prepared for a hasty and unplanned departure, even now. The war veterans were volatile people, who were unpredictable and impatient.
Preparing to leave had brought a great deal of heartbreak and tears. The Bartletts knew that their dear old friends, the Parkinsons, would do everything they could to make them welcome and to settle them in to their new home in South Africa. They were to have a bungalow on the edge of the huge wine growing estate that the Parkinsons owned - bigger even than the Bartletts’ farm. James would have work, once he had settled, and Beatrice would also be able to help run the large and bustling homestead where they had stayed so often before, in happier times. But they would be starting again, with nothing. In Zimbabwe, they were worth millions, taking account of the value of the farm, but in the Western Cape, they would almost be penniless to start with. Illegally exporting currency from Zimbabwe was severely punished, and there was no way of getting their savings out of the country legally. Not that the currency was worth much to anyone outside Zimbabwe. The country’s economy was in such a crippled state, and inflation soaring so fast, that there was little with which to buy food and fuel to keep the country and its people going. But they would at least have a few of their personal belongings around them in their bungalow.
James Bartlett had done all he could to leave his affairs in good order. His land, and thus his wealth, would be confiscated - he knew that. And there would be no compensation - he knew that, too. So everything that he and his family had worked to achieve since the end of the last century would pass to the now corrupt and bankrupt State. But he had made sure that all the title deeds and other vital paperwork, which would prove his ownership of the farm in any reasonably just court of law, were already across the border. Mr. Kipling Bangura had done that for him, and he had returned the key to the lock-up in Botswana where it was safely stored. Mr. Bangura also had the Volvo, at the back of his workshop under dustsheets, so that William could take it, whenever the time was right. Mr. Bangura would make sure it was kept in working order, with air in the tyres and oil in the engine and the battery charged.
James Bartlett had discussed all this with his solicitor, who had made sure all the papers were in good order. He had done two things that the Bartletts regarded as particularly important. First of all, he had so arranged the Bartletts’ affairs that Will had access to their money, should he ever need it, although it obviously could not be taken out of the country. Secondly, he had so arranged things that, on his departure, ownership of the homestead would pass to old man Mbele. One day, perhaps, things might have settled enough for the old man, or his heirs, to be able to claim the property back from the war veterans, or whoever was living in the place at the time.
The old man had wept when James Bartlett told him what he had done.
“This house will be yours when I have gone,” Bartlett said, as they sat on the veranda. “But you must bide your time before you claim it. Move too soon, and the war veterans will cause you trouble. But I hope that, even before then, you will be able to help run the farm, or what’s left of it, to provide some work and income for your people. You might be able to do that, whoever is living in the house.”
“But the house is yours,” protested Mbele. “It was built by your ancestors. It should pass to your son, Will, not to me.”
“I have taken care of William in other ways,” replied Bartlett. “He will be all right, and the house will be of no use to him once the farm has been taken over. He will finish his education, and live in the south with us, but may well be able to return to this country from time to time if he wants. He has said that he intends to keep in touch with your son Bwonqa at all costs. Maybe one day he will be able to sit on this veranda again when you have the house.”
“I dare not think of the future,” replied Mbele. “I cannot tell what will happen to us once you have gone. Many of our people have already fled the country while they are safe, but I shall stay. I am too old to go, and Bwonqa has said he will stay with me, whatever happens.”
“I am sad to be leaving you behind with all the trouble,” said James Bartlett. “But at least, one day, you may have this grand old house to live out your last days. You and Will’s great friend, Bwonqa.”
“I hope the two boys can exchange letters, or even phone calls,” replied the old man. “I shall want to know how you and Missy Bartlett are getting on.”
They sat for a time in silence. Eventually, old man Mbele stood, went down the steps of the veranda, and walked off slowly along the path across the garden and through the gate into the bush and the gathering dusk, towards the village. He neither said ‘goodbye’, nor turned to look back. A handful of war veterans were, as always, gathered outside the fence. Some of them jeered at the old man. A few shook their fists at him or waved heavy sticks and machetes. The old man ignored them, and passed by them without a second glance, and with all the dignity he could muster. James Bartlett knew better than to call after him, but watched until his old farm manager and friend made his way round the bend in the dusty path, and disappeared from sight.
They were never to meet again.
***
In spite of all their problems, the Bartletts had taken time to get themselves well prepared for Lieutenant Conteh’s great day. They had never before attended a Muslim wedding, so they had lots of questions. They had received an elaborate souvenir wedding invitation, which told them everything they needed to know, not just about where and when, but also Conteh’s complete family history. But it said nothing about the protocols attached to such an important occasion.
Dress was not too much of a problem, as a jacket and tie was the minimum standard to be expected, and that would not be too inappropriate for them on the start of their ‘holiday’. But what should they buy as a present? The best advice was something to hang on the wall, or money. The Bartletts would need all the money they could muster, as they were unable to take much with them, and could not move any out of the country, so Beatrice Bartlett had suggested a rather fine print of Constable’s ‘Haywain’, which had hung in their hallway, and which they had not planned to take with them. Such a classic English rural scene might at least remind the Contehs of them from time to time. Finally, they had been advised to wear a good pair of socks or tights, as shoes would certainly need to be removed before entering the little mosque.
They had finished their final packing. Their suitcases and all their last possessions from the farm had been piled on to the back of the pick-up truck, and carefully covered with tarpaulin to keep off the worst of the dust from the long cross-country journey they were soon to start. It would have been better to have set off at dawn, before the heat of the day, but they had promised Lieutenant Conteh that they would be at his wedding, and so that’s what they would do. They owed it to him, after all. But for his efforts, they could well have been hounded off the farm weeks ago, perhaps hurt, or even killed in a violent attack, like so many others. They had arranged to make the twelve hundred mile journey in three stages, anyway. It was too far to go by road in anything less than that, and their first stop would be just over the border. Once that was behind them, they could begin to relax a bit, and perhaps even start to look forward to leaving all their problems behind them and starting anew in the Western Cape.
So they carefully parked their pickup near the tiny mosque, where an usher, another Police Lieutenant, wearing a very smart ceremonial jacket, gold epaulets and his beret with a blue and green hackle, met them. James Bartlett was shown into the male enclosure of the Mosque, leaving his shoes outside, and wondering whether he would ever see them again, while Beatrice was escorted into the segregated female side of the building. Inside, Lt. Conteh was equally smart, attended by his two uniformed best men and four equally military-looking pageboys, all of about five years old, already bored and starting to poke each other with their black and red ceremonial canes. James Bartlett sat watching the other guests arrive. The females were segregated behind a wall within the Mosque but they could be heard chatting. Eventually the Imam arrived followed by a large number of white clad young men who made a wailing noise for about fifteen minutes. At the conclusion of this Arabic chant the bride, resplendent in white and surrounded by matrons of honour, mothers and flower girls, made her way into the female section. The wedding then began in earnest; it was now one o'clock and very hot.
The Imam was leafing through the Koran, and began a loud prayer. He was loud throughout, as he needed to be heard through the wall in order that the ladies could listen to the proceedings. It didn’t appear to James that there was any particular order of service, and the Imam seemed to make it up as he was going along. He gave sound advice to the groom, ensuring that Lieutenant Conteh was paying attention by giving prompts like, “Are you listening to me?” He was at one point disturbed by his mobile telephone and started an animated conversation about the price of something or other, which he obviously felt was too expensive. Another whispered message made him break from his matrimonial duties again, when he announced that a set of car keys had been found and insisted that the congregation all checked their pockets. The crux of the Service was reached when the wedding certificate had to be signed by all relevant parties and witnesses, although there was a delay while they found someone with a pen. At this point, the future Mrs. Conteh was invited into the male area for the ring ceremony. By this stage the pageboys had had enough. One had been asleep for some time, another had been removed by his mother who chastised him for losing a sock, while the two others were being physically restrained by best men and ushers, having started to fight. More prayers blessed the rings, there was an offering of money to the Imam, and then cheers rang out as Lieutenant Conteh slipped the ring on his wife's finger.
The whole proceedings seemed to James to be delightfully informal, and he had had time during the ceremony to look around to see who was there. He caught the eye of Kipling Bangura, but could not see old man Mbele, who he knew had been invited. Outside, James was delighted to retrieve his brogues and to be reunited with Beatrice, as they watched the guard of honour form the traditional arch. The reception was in a nearby field, with a small marquee in one corner. The assembled throng had made for another corner of the field, opposite the marquee, which the Bartletts discovered was due to the fact that free drinks were being dispensed from a bar there. Under the burning sun, the guests watched a handful of native dancers perform, before the wedding party arrived to the sound of the local Police Band. During the reception there were a few short speeches, given from the cool shelter of the marquee, while the guests outside were given soft drinks to toast with. The final act, before closing prayers, was when everyone queued to present their gifts. Constable’s ‘Haywain’ was well received.
At any other time, and under any other circumstances, the Bartletts would have found the whole unique event an interesting and amusing experience, but the fact was that they were on edge throughout, and couldn’t wait to get on their way south. Conteh’s wedding was something they could have done without, if they were honest, and yet it was because of his special day and the negotiations he had so carefully conducted on their behalf that they were able to leave the country of their birth unharmed and with a degree of dignity. Eventually, the Bartletts made their farewells and, as unhurriedly as they could manage, had strolled back to their pick-up to start their long journey into a new life.
For sometime, they drove without speaking, lost in their own thoughts.
Eventually, Beatrice asked, “Are the packages for the customs people handy, James?”
“Yes, I made sure of that. I hope Mr. Bangura has got this right.”
“He’s been through that customs post often enough himself to know what’s required,” said Mrs Bartlett.
“If it saves having our belongings pilfered, it will be well worth a bottle of scotch for each of them, with a US fifty dollar bill wrapped round it,” said James Bartlett grimly.
“I saw him at the wedding,” commented his wife.
“Kipling Bangura? Me, too,” said James. “At the reception. I thanked him again for all his trouble.”
“Did you see old man Mbele?” asked Beatrice.
“He wasn’t there,” replied James, sadly. “Bangura had seen him earlier. Mbele had said he wouldn’t be going after all. He couldn’t bear the thought of seeing us again, for the last time. He didn’t want to see us leave.”
“I’m glad we’ve left the house in his name,” said Beatrice. “I hope he will be able to lay claim to it soon, and to see out his days there.”
“He wept when I told him what we had done,” said James Bartlett. “Poor old fellow - left here to face an uncertain future. But I’m sure we’ve done the right thing. If anyone can eventually run some of the farm again and look after things properly, he can. William wouldn’t have been able to, even if they’d allowed him to return here.”
“William will be better with us, although I know he wants to come back one day,” said his Mother.
They drove on in silence for a time.
“Somehow, we never did say goodbye properly to old man Mbele,” said James Bartlett. “I was hoping to, at the recep