Around and About

Inpost

Bits and Pieces

Stocking Up

In a bizarre case of overloading, two policemen in northern KwaZulu-Natal impounded a Fiat Uno on Thursday, which was being used to transport two cows and two goats. Police spokesman Captain Jabulani Mdletshe said two off-duty policemen were informed by residents of the Phelindaba area near Emanguzi in northern KwaZulu-Natal that they had seen a man loading a cow into the small vehicle. By the time the two officers arrived, the driver had loaded his vehicle and attempted to speed away. Realising that he was not losing the police, he stopped his car and fled into the bushes. The police officers discovered that the Fiat Uno had not one unwilling passenger, but four - two cows and two goats. The animals were later handed over to the Hluhluwe Stock Theft Unit. Police were investigating.

Just A Tap On The Shoulder

A passenger in a taxi leaned over to ask the driver a question and tapped him on the shoulder. The driver screamed, lost control of the cab, nearly hit a bus, drove up over the curb, and stopped just inches from a large plate glass window. For a few moments everything was silent in the cab, and then the still shaking driver said, 'I'm sorry, but you scared the daylights out of me.' The frightened passenger apologized to the driver and said he didn't realize a mere tap on the shoulder could frighten him so much. The driver replied, 'No, no, I'm sorry, it's entirely my fault. Today is my first day driving a cab...................I've been driving a hearse for the last 25 years’. 

Forthcoming Attractions

Our Monday Meeting on 2 June 2008 will take the form of a Bring and Braai, at which beer and wine are offered free. (Hard tack will be for your own account). This is an offer you cannot refuse.

The Annual Ladies Lunch will take place at the Mowbray Golf Club on Sunday 27 July 2008.

The Annual Dinner will take place at the Mowbray Golf Club on 12 September 2008.

And the Annual Christmas Party will he held at Timour Hall Villa on Monday 1 December 2008.

Readers are reminded that our monthly meetings are held at Timour Hall Villa on the first Monday of each month – unless that falls on a public holiday, in which case we meet on the following Monday.

Daftland

We live in a country called Daftland, the Britain we knew is no more, where sensible people do ludicrous things, or risk breaking some Daftland law.

In Daftland we’ve police dogs with muzzles, lest the villains have cause to complain, and to steal from a shop then say ‘sorry’ means you’re free with no stain to your name.

You’d better leave lights on in buildings, when you lock up and go home at night, ‘cause the burglars might hurt themselves entering, and there’s no way you’d be in the right.

When speaking, be wary in Daftland, as some terms that you’ve used all your life now have connotations unintended, and you’ll end up in all sorts of strife.

We elect politicians in Daftland, to give us the laws of the land, yet eight out of ten now come from abroad - the whole thing has got out of hand.

The borders are open to Daftland, and of migrants there’s no keeping track, just a few of the thousands illegally here will ever be caught and sent back.

An exception to this is the hero, who fought for this land in the war, he’s old and he’s sick, he might cost us a bit, so he’s not welcome here any more.

When the history is written of Daftland, historians may well recall that the craziest people in Daftland were the public who put up with it all.

School 1960 vs. School 2008

Scenario: Johnny and Mark get into a fistfight after school.

1960 - Crowd gathers. Mark wins. Johnny and Mark shake hands and end up mates.

2008 - Police are called, Armed Response Unit arrives and arrests Johnny and Mark. Mobiles with video of fight are confiscated as evidence. Both boys are charged with assault. Anti Social Behaviour Orders are taken out and both are suspended, even though Johnny started it. Diversionary conferences and parent meetings are conducted. The video is shown on six Internet sites.

Scenario: Jeffrey won't sit still in class, disrupts other students.

1960 - Jeffrey is sent to the principal's office and given six of the best. Returns to class, sits still and does not disrupt class again.

2008 - Jeffrey is given huge doses of Ritalin. Counselled to death. Becomes a zombie. Tested for Attention Deficit Disability. School gets extra funding because of Jeffrey’s disability. He drops out of school.

Scenario: Billy breaks a window in his neighbour's car and his Dad gives him the slipper.

1960 - Billy is more careful next time, grows up normal, goes to college, and becomes a successful businessman.

2008 - Billy's dad is arrested for child abuse. Billy is removed to foster care and joins a gang. Billy's sister tells psychologist that she remembers being abused herself and their dad goes to prison. Billy's mum has an affair with the psychologist. The psychologist gets a promotion.

Scenario: Mark, a college student, brings cigarettes to school.

1960 - Mark shares a smoke with the school principal out in the smoking area.

2008 - Police are called and Mark is expelled from the School for drug possession. His car is searched for drugs and weapons.

Scenario: Mohammed fails high school English.

1960 - Mohammed retakes his exam, passes and goes to college.

2008 - Mohammed's cause is taken up by local human rights group. Newspaper articles appear nationally explaining that making English a requirement for graduation is racist. Civil Liberties Association files a class action lawsuit against the state school system and his English teacher. English is banned from core curriculum. Mohammed is given his qualification anyway, but ends up mowing lawns for a living because he cannot speak English.

Scenario: Johnny takes apart leftover firecrackers, puts them in a model aeroplane paint bottle and blows up an anthill.

1960 - Ants die.

2008 - MI5 and police are called and Johnny is charged with perpetrating acts of terrorism. Teams investigate parents, siblings are removed from the home, computers are confiscated and Johnny's dad goes on a terror watch list and is never again allowed to fly.

Scenario: Johnny falls during break and scrapes his knee. His teacher, Mary, finds him crying and gives him a hug to comfort him.

1960 - Johnny soon feels better and goes back to playing.

2008 - Mary is accused of being a sexual predator and loses her job. She faces three years in prison. Johnny undergoes five years of therapy. He becomes gay.

It’s Quizz Time Again

1) What did Queen Victoria ban from her funeral?

2) Where is the centre of England?

3) Why isn't the Rotherhithe tunnel under the Thames in London straight?

4) Do banana trees walk?

5) Why does a swarm of midges not get knocked to the ground when it's raining?

6) If bees died out, what would be the result?

7) Who was the original Pretty Woman?

8) Under what name did Daryl Walters write?

9) What is the name of the bumps on a raspberry?

10) What was unusual about the rain in the 1952 film Singing In The Rain?

11) How many varieties does Heinz have?

12) You will produce 121 pints of this in your life - what is it?

13) After Neil Armstrong said ‘that's one small step for Man, one giant leap for Mankind’ what were his next words?

14) Who made the first mobile phone call in Britain?

15) Which are the top four biggest employers in the world in terms of staff?

16) Who was born in 1959 and couldn't bend her legs for the first six years of her life, has a brother called Todd and two sisters?

17) What is the weirdest pub name?

18) Why do people say ‘cobblers’ when they believe something isn't true?

19) Why is New York the Big Apple?

20) Where does the term ‘purple patch’ originate?

Answers

1) The colour black - instructing mourners to wear white. Even the weather obliged - the ground was covered with snow.

2) A survey in 2002 by the Ordnance Survey pinpointed Lindley Hall Farm, near Fenny Drayton, Leicestershire, as being at the centre of England. Historically, Meriden in the West Midlands claimed this title.

3) It was built with bends so that horses would not be able to see the light at the other end and bolt for the exit.

4) They can move up to 15 cm per year. This is because they have no central root, but lateral roots that grow and move towards the sun.

5) A falling raindrop creates a tiny pressure wave ahead of it as it falls. This wave pushes the midge sideways and the drop misses it.

6) All life on Earth would die within an estimated four years. Most food crops rely on bees to pollinate them, so if bees die out, so do humans.

7) Roy Orbison's wife, Claudette. Asked once if she needed cash to go out, a friend said: ‘A pretty woman never needs any money’.

8) Enid Blyton - best known for the Famous Five and Secret Seven series. She died in 1968 at the age of 71.

9) Druplets. The raspberry is not a berry but an aggregate fruit of numerous drupelets around a central core.

10) The rain was water mixed with milk. The crew did this so the raindrops and puddles would show up on film.

11) Henry Heinz adopted the slogan '57 Varieties' because he liked the numbers 5 and 7. Including divisions and subsidiaries, they actually have around 1 300.

12) Tears. The average person will also eat 10 000 chocolate bars and have 7 163 baths.

13) He continued: ‘Yes, the surface is fine and powdery. I can kick it up loosely with my toe’.

14) Comedian Ernie Wise was chosen to make the call by mobile phone operator Vodafone on January 1, 1985. From the middle of London's St Katharine's Dock, he phoned Vodafone's headquarters at Newbury, Berks.

15) Walmart (2.4 million people), the Chinese Army (2.3 million), the Indian State Railways (1.5 million) and the British NHS (1.4 million).

16) Barbie, the famous doll, was ‘born’ in 1959, couldn't bend her legs until 1965, has a brother called Todd, and no, she has five sisters.

17) Poosie Nansie's in Ayrshire, but there are many: Sally Up Steps in Bolton; Donkey On Fire in Ramsgate; Oxnoble in Manchester; Who'd A Thowt It in Berkshire; Tafarn Sinc in Carmarthenshire, and the shortest - Q in Stalybridge.

18) The expression ‘cobblers’, meaning nonsense or rubbish, derives from ‘cobbler's awls’, Cockney rhyming slang for ‘balls’.

19) The name first appeared in the 1920s as horses were rewarded with apples on its many racetracks. A 1971 official tourism campaign first used the expression.

20) The phrase, describing a period of success and good form, derives from Roman times, when only noblemen could afford purple dyes and cloth.

Naughty Naughty

Readers will recall Peter Hain, an eager young firebrand who rose to prominence during UDI. He was an outspoken and vociferous critic of Rhodesia and a man at the forefront of those who questioned the morals and standards of the Rhodesian government of the day. He eventually rose to Ministerial rank, but recently deemed it expedient to resign from the House, as he is under investigation by Scotland Yard for accepting a £100 000 ‘donation’, which he apparently ‘forgot’ to declare. Oh dear!

Ouch!

Two women were playing golf. One teed off and watched in horror as her ball headed directly toward a foursome of men playing the next hole. The ball hit one of the men. He immediately clasped his hands together at his groin, fell to the ground and proceeded to roll around in agony. The woman rushed up to the man and immediately began to apologise. 'Please allow me to help. I'm a physiotherapist and I know I could relieve your pain if you'd allow me' she told him. 'Oh no, I'll be all right. I'll be fine in a few minutes’ the man replied. He was obviously in agony, lying in the foetal position, still clasping his hands together at his groin. At her persistence, however, he finally allowed her to help. She gently took his hands away and laid them to the side, loosened his pants and put her hands inside. She administered tender and artful massage for several long moments and asked, 'How does that feel? He replied 'It feels great, but I still think my thumb's broken’.

Beer

A group of 7 year old children were asked what they thought of beer. Here are some of their responses:

• I think beer must be good. My dad says the more beer he drinks the prettier my mum gets.

• Beer makes my dad sleepy and we get to watch what we want on television when he is asleep, so beer is nice.

• My Mum and Dad both like beer. My Mum gets funny when she drinks it and takes off her top at parties, but Dad doesn't think this is very funny.

• My Mum and Dad talk funny when they drink beer and the more they drink the more they give kisses to each other, which is a good thing.

• My Dad loves beer. The more he drinks the better he dances. One time he danced right into the pool.

• I don't like beer very much. Every time Dad drinks it he burns the sausages on the barbeque and they taste disgusting.

• I give Dad's beer to the dog and he goes to sleep.

• My Mum drinks beer and she says silly things and picks on my father. Whenever she drinks beer she yells at Dad and tells him to go bury his bone down the street again, but that doesn't make any sense.

Signs Of The Times

Good Old Gwanda, And All That
Contributed by 6494 Tony Rozemeyer. Tony has been contributing to the Outpost for over 25 years, and is still at it. Keep up the good work, Tony!

‘It seems only yesterday – well, it was 1962 – when I was standing on the mess lawn at Gwanda, with Mount Cazelet as the backdrop, along with Alan McKenzie and Sean Dyer, captured on film with an old brownie camera. I showed the photo to 7041 John Waterhouse, who also did his stint in that neck of the woods, and of course, names and places started rolling off the tongue, Ron Miles, Paddy Anderson, Dennis Armstrong, Doug Wilde (where the hell are you all?), Tim Cherry, Basher Fulton, Jock Pirritt and Benny Steyn to name but a few.

From the police camp we moved into town, to recall Ben Lewis at the Mount Cazelet Hotel, where one night I witnessed a patron, well under the weather, eat and swallow a beer glass without spilling a drop of blood – a feat well enough known but not very often seen. As part of an agreement he was granted an open cell for the night.

Passing the Court brought back memories of magistrate Rex Killick, who handed out more beers than he did sentences. This in turn reminded us of Harold Noach, whose frequent drunk-and-disorderly fines (followed by imprisonment) supplied all the paint for the government buildings in town. Not forgotten is Joan Hunt, who nursed our numerous hangovers at the neat colonial hospital, and who once herself did an hour-long stint in the ‘stocks’ when one of her practical jokes backfired, after leaving me and Ron Miles stranded in the bush on the pretext of seeking rare flowers!

A memory-drive landed us at Blanket Mine which must surely be haunted by Bill Payne. Thoughts of his lovely daughter Diane Phoebe Ashburner Payne will always linger in my mind, and I wish her well wherever she may be. Brian Hayes’s wife also graced that mine as a young girl all those years ago. We then moved on to the Horn Reef Mine, and Paul Savage (sadly murdered by Terrs) who was blessed with two beautiful daughters, Jill and Paula.

Then there was Mr. Gilchrist, an ancient miner, who had walked and worked the land and always greeted a passing patrol with a bottle of whiskey, slammed on the table in his tin shack, complete with African common-law wife and tribe.

A Trooper cut his teeth at Gwanda only when he had survived a 21 day motorcycle patrol of the vast, arid Tribal Trust Land, complete with batman, scotch card and four donkeys; the back row consisting of the two males, who chased their two female front-rankers through the great TTL. Their reward at days-end would have put Xavier Hollander to shame!

Kafusi Dam, close to the old Bechuanaland Protectorate border, was a lonely base camp, where the ever-present wind whispered eerily through the gauze-enclosed veranda, facing a lake peppered with upright, rotting trees. To add to the misery of this weekend pit stop I used to dream of Clifton, not Africa, at this inhospitable landmark! One Saturday long, long ago my Sergeant and I sat chatting outside the building to escape the sighing wind, when he heard what he thought was the sound of a motorbike. ‘No’ said I, ‘It must be a bumble bee, as no indigenous motorcycles exist in this part of the world, only a few black Zephyrs’. But lo-and-behold, a motorbike it was, and it swept gracefully into the camp complete with unknown constabulary. Peter Good was the phantom rider, from distant Kezi, also on a TTL patrol, with Constable ‘Bumsore’ riding as pillion-passenger. But something was very wrong! Only when the machine came to a stop did I realize that the Constable was seated A about F, with a wooden crate of ‘bombers’ perched on his knees – he had watched the dirt road disappearing into the distance for some 80 odd miles, bless his soul. Peter and his companion spent a wet weekend at the dam, where a great party was enjoyed by all, as I was also well stocked in beer. The last night on this arduous patrol ended at the Horn Reef Mine with Paul Savage and his family. 

One evening we were enjoying sundowners on the veranda when the cook suddenly appeared, urgently seeking Paul’s attention. Initially he was ignored as a conversation was in full swing, but when he did gain our attention it was to reveal the makings of a catastrophe. Unbeknown to us soup had already been served in the dining room, and in our absence the HRM cat took advantage of the situation and scoffed the lot, much to the cook’s horror. When finally given an audience all the poor man could stammer was ‘Baas, Kitty puza lo soop!’

There was an Italian connection at Gwanda aptly named Marco Agostini, a regular at the watering holes and late night pool-parties. I lost contact with this fun-loving, lively fellow on leaving Gwanda for Kezi in 1963, only for his ghost to resurface at the Live Bait Restaurant in Kalk Bay in 2007 where, by family coincidence, I met his lovely widow Felicia and daughter Firorisa.

During conversation Felicia mentioned she had married an Italian from Rhodesia many years before, who had since passed away. Somehow, without his name being mentioned, call it a policeman’s intuition, I just knew it was Marco, and said as much to everyone’s total amazement! To say I suffered an acute attack of Goosebumps would be an understatement. It makes one appreciate that the jungle telegraph and metal telepathy is sometimes just a bush phone call away.

A gap of 45 years opened an animated talk show, and I was honoured to deliver a fitting eulogy to a long lost friend from good old Gwanda, this all arising from a lunch with our Afrikaans-Italian family of Phillip, Lisa and Catarina, and you cannot find better’.

War Stories
Contributed by 8330.Howard Neill.

In 1967 and 1968I I was Troop Commander of C Troop, Support Unit. Alongside me in the contingent were Bruce Allen (6743), Scotty Scott (7493) and Billy Howells (7660). From time to time we were based at Makuti, on the road to Chirundu, where it intersects with the road to Kariba. We were under canvas in the makeshift Police Camp, which we shared with the Air Force and their ‘choppers’. One or two ‘South African Police Alouettes and their crews were also there.

The bar at Makuti was the only entertainment and we spent many hours there. It was the best thing that could have happened to the owner, Jimmy James and his wife Paddy, and their bar turnover increased considerably. It was said that on one occasion a Rhodaf chopper hovered above the motel swimming pool and the technician leapt into the pool, in full view of the startled motel guests. I did not witness that so we have to rely on hearsay.

We often met up with Zambians, going to or from Rhodesia and/or South Africa. Some of them were anti Rhodesia and tried to stir things up. We called them Zamboons. After a few toots one became quite argumentative and bemoaned the lack of professional standards and the poor qualifications of Rhodesians. He had the misfortune to single out ‘Jock’ the entomologist, who was doing research on tsetse flies. A drunken finger was pointed at Jock. ‘You, for example, what qualifications do you have?’ In his thick Scots brogue ‘Jock’ reeled off a string of qualifications, including, ‘a Masters Degree in Entomology from the University of Edinburgh’. The Zamboon muttered into his beer ‘There’s no need to show off’.

On another occasion, a Zambian became belligerent and started looking for a fight. He picked on the bookish looking Major Dudley Coventry, who happened to be the Commander of the SAS. The Zambian offered to tweak the Major's moustache. The superbly fit SAS Lieutenant who was with Coventry bristled with rage, but was calmed down by his OC. That Zambian never knew that he was on very dangerous ground and that he was dealing with a man among men. Alas, many years later Dudley was murdered in his home by burglars.

On a more mundane side, one of the regulars at the bar was Sam from the Roads Department. He was one of those supervisors, who you would see standing on the highway whilst his labourers laboriously excavated or filled in a hole. It must have been a boring life for Sam and his wife Flo. They lived in a caravan down by the bush airstrip. They would be in the motel pub every night in various stages of intoxication. Flo fancied herself as a singer. In actual fact the result sounded more like a cat being murdered, so Jimmy James banned Flo from singing in the pub. One Christmas Eve Sam was ‘in his cups’ and in his North Country accent implored Jimmy ‘Mr James, can Flo sing 'Silent Night?' Jimmy hissed across the bar ‘If you mean 'can she sing 'Silent Night', the answer is 'NO''. ‘If you mean 'may she sing 'Silent Night', the answer is still 'NO'. Jimmy harrumphed off to serve another customer. The next time I was at Makuki I found Sam & Flo drinking on the veranda. They had been banned from the pub, but were allowed to order drinks from the waiter.

Beside the regular units we also saw Police Reserve PATU sticks. They were drawn from all walks of life. Passing through I met my cousin, Rex Winterton, who was an executive with the Central Africa Building Society. There were civil servants, railway employees, businessmen, etc, and I met up with Herbie Gibbons, who owned a gymnasium in Bulawayo. I believe Wrex Tarr was also there from time to time. They were all volunteers and on their way to the Zambezi Valley.

I recall the arrival of the SAP early in 1968. It was during Operation Cauldron. Many of the ‘Gooks’ were South Africans. My troop arrested six of them, all from South Africa.

The last time I saw Jimmy James was in January 1969, at the Salisbury General Hospital. He was a shadow of his former self and was dying from lung cancer. As a token concession he had switched to mild cigarettes. Rest in Peace, Jimmy.

Once Upon A Time……..
Contributed by Tony Rozemeyer.

Rhodesia is the distant horizon. It lies engulfed in a blue haze of mountains, conjuring up dreams of big white Hunters, boma’s and country clubs. And so it was. It was once a land of milk and honey. The African, secure and protected in the Tribal Trust Lands, dwelt in a kraal so situated that time and the river flowed gently by the big mopani tree where the elders, chiefs, headmen and all the common people would discuss their fat cattle, comely wives and the seasons good crops in the quiet of the evening, where the only sound was silence, punctuated by the chirp of the cricket or the gentle, hypnotic tinkle of a bell, as the cattle moved from one green pasture to another.

Every so often the drums would send their message on the wings of the evening mist that rose white and eerie above the quietly flowing river. Shortly after the first light on the next day the village headman would welcome the visiting police patrol that had travelled many miles from the outpost, where the flag hung limply in the sweltering heat. After lengthy discussion, where strict tribal custom was always observed, the tape of formality and ritual was severed by the passing of kaffir beer from one lip to another. Brothers, unaffected by colour or creed.

The Trooper and his party departed only when the leaves of the big tree turned red and the mountain glowed, as does a yellow candle. One of the Troopers, many years later, when old and grey and full of sleep, remembered the Headman’s badges of rank, hanging loosely around his neck, reflecting the last rays of the hot Rhodesian sun. A strange memory? Perhaps. 

Dinner for the 21 days of the horse patrol consisted of two cold beers, sucked from the sandy riverbed, where they were left to rest during the heat of the day. Venison and sadza provided the ideal marriage partner.

The batman proudly took charge of the four donkeys and the scotch cart that covered many miles across the Reserve, carrying the Trooper’s temporary home. Cordial visits are recorded at mission stations, dip tanks, malaria control camps, breeding stations, and of course the many, many kraals. Each evening the Trooper would return to the Outpost and laboriously wrote up his Patrol Diary. And there were cool beers at the Miner’s Hotel, routine investigations, a swim at the Country Club, a braaivleis after the village rugby match, a day by the river.

Then it all stopped. Wireless Sibanda returned to the kraal from Bulawayo, remembering the lies about the big City. The infamous beer halls, the ‘short time’ velvet woman, jobs for Africa. The trilby hat, white suit, black shirt, white tie, narrow trousers and pointed shoes. Spectacles, rimless with window glass. His bicycle, the sign of a successful businessman. Dropped handlebars, silver spokes, a saddle covered with material from a stolen tablecloth, six red rear reflectors, three white front ones and a pink balloon on the brass carrier.

He was much paler. Skin whitener he said – a little application each evening. Also a regular supply of ‘Vuga-Vuga’ pills for blood purification and stamina. Wireless Sibanda, unemployed and of no fixed abode, was wanted by the BSA Police, Gwanda, for Housebreaking and Theft, and a number of contraventions under the Dangerous Drugs Act. 

And so the years slipped by. Suddenly they said it was bigger, better everything. Your own house and promises of your very own car. A vehicle’s life in the Reserve was one to two years, if the owner held a valid driver’s license and avoided pot holes and excessive passengers, bags of corn, fowls and a roof rack that could accommodate cardboard suitcases, barbed wire, livestock (whether alive or dead) and household furniture.

There is little work in the lands now, so you sit under the shade of a tree and pick your nose. Leave the crops to the elders – the stupid, ignorant ones. They know little or nothing about politics, and our saviour, David Owen. So the black visitors from the City said. Yet when Wireless Sibanda’s friend, Happyboy Ndhlovu left the Tribal Trust Lands for the big City he could not find work. He was slow. Even his own Harare friends, quick to identify and classify, used a term he could not grasp. ‘He walks around with his finger up his bum and his mind in neutral’.

He could not understand why they spoke with an American accent and wore brightly coloured sunglasses that were never removed, even at the bioscope where Roy Rodgers was the local hero. The women too. Those he met at the beer hall had a strange smell, and danced in a funny suggestive way. And fifty cents for a love was too much.

He was told the Government and the Police were no good. There were many rocks in Mpopoma. He threw them at the grey trucks, but he could not throw his unhappiness away. So he returned to his home in the Reserve.

Then terrorism. Men in the Night. No schools now in the Tribal Trust Lands. The teachers are dead. No mission hospitals. No more nurses. He had seen some dead ones with their legs pulled apart. The kraal he had known was also dead. So was his mother. He was told they had come shortly before first light and cut away her lips with a blunt razor blade. His father had been forced to cook then eat the lips.

The stream had dried up, as they had destroyed the dam and the irrigation canals made by the Land Development Officer. They shot the LDO, so now there were no crops. The cattle were starving or dead. The Government put him in a protected village so that he, too, would not be killed.

For years he lived in fear. He sometimes visited the kraal, where he sat under the big tree watching the soldiers passing by in their strange vehicles that raised the dust. He recognized a policeman who had shared his Father’s beer. He waved to him and was saluted in turn. Sometimes the soldiers squatted on the ground next to him. They spoke of home, with a faraway, sad look in their eyes. They spoke of places of which he had never heard. Clifton must be a big kraal. He could not offer them beer, for he had none to offer.

Then one day the soldiers were gone. He returned to his kraal. The soldiers never returned. He never saw a Policeman on horseback again – those proud erect figures. There were still no schools, no teachers, no hospitals, no missionaries. Instead, bullies, men with trilby hats. Sometimes they arrived in black cars, covered in a fine film of dust. He did not understand a word they used many times. ‘Vote’ they said. Vote for who and why? The man they spoke of is a Shona, whereas he is an Ndebele.

He never went back to the City. Even after the ‘great war’ there were many explosions in the Reserve. The men in the cars said they were landmines their brothers had laid many years ago for the imperialist pigs. He had never understood their language. Nor did many, many others.

He died on the end of his rope in his own kraal because he was unable to understand. His brother, remembering some long forgotten tribal custom, dropped a stone into the open grave, before the tribesmen heaved the hot, Rhodesian soil over the still body wrapped in sackcloth.

David Owen would not have understood Happyboy Ndhlovu either. He never knew that Happyboy, who enjoyed mealies, and dipped his ball of sadza in the gravy, had often walked three miles to the Government School and seven miles to the mission hospital if he felt pains in his body. He would not have known that Happyboy was a simple, straightforward soul who had toiled in the land by day, and sat under the big tree in the quiet evenings.

He respected his elders, and the Mapolisa whose justice was always fair but firm. He happily paid his dog tax and regularly dipped his cattle. He did not know about politics, trade unions, Watergate or the United Nations. He knew nothing about nightclubs, naval exercises or income tax rebates. In David Owen’s eyes he would have been classified as a stupid, ignorant peasant.