huts the white pioneers had found on the site in September 1890 when they finally completed the long trek up from the south. The streets
also had changed their names from those commemorating the white pioneers and Victoria’s empire to those of the sons of the black revolution and its allies – ‘a street by any other
name’ – Craig resigned himself.
Once he entered the city he found there was a boom-town atmosphere. The pavements thronged with noisy black crowds and the foyer of the modern sixteen-storied Monomatapa Hotel resounding to
twenty different languages and accents, as tourists jostled visiting bankers and businessmen, foreign dignitaries, civil servants and military advisers.
There was no vacancy for Craig until he spoke to an assistant manager who had seen the TV production and read the book. Then Craig was ushered up to a room on the fifteenth floor with a view
over the park. While he was in his bath, a procession of waiters arrived bearing flowers and baskets of fruit and a complimentary bottle of South African champagne. He worked until after midnight
on his report to Henry Pickering, and was at the parliament buildings in Causeway by nine-thirty the next morning.
The minister’s secretary kept him waiting for forty-five minutes before leading him through into the panelled office beyond, and Comrade Minister Tungata Zebiwe stood up from his desk.
Craig had forgotten how powerful was this man’s presence, or perhaps he had grown in stature since their last meeting. When he remembered that once Tungata had been his servant, his
gunboy, when Craig was a ranger in the Department of Game Conservation, it seemed that it had been a different existence. In those days he had been Samson Kumalo, for Kumalo was the royal blood
line of the Matabele kings, and he was their direct descendant. Bazo, his great-grandfather, had been the leader of the Matabele rebellion of 1896 and had been hanged by the settlers for his part
in it. His great-great-grandfather, Gandang, had been half-brother to Lobengula, the last king of the Matabele whom Rhodes’ troopers had ridden to an ignoble death and unmarked grave in the
northern wilderness after destroying his capital at GuBulawayo, the place of killing.
Royal were his blood-lines, and kingly still his bearing. Taller than Craig, well over six foot and lean, not yet running to flesh, which was often the Matabele trait, his physique was set off
to perfection by the cut of his Italian silk suit, shoulders wide as a gallows tree and a flat greyhound’s belly. He had been one of the most successful bush fighters during the war, and he
was warrior still, of that there was no doubt. Craig experienced a powerful and totally unexpected pleasure in seeing him once more.
‘I see you, Comrade Minister,’ Craig greeted him, speaking in Sindabele, avoiding having to choose between the old familiar ‘Sam’ and the nom de guerre that he now
used, Tungata Zebiwe, which meant ‘the Seeker after Justice.’
‘I sent you away once,’ Tungata answered in the same language. ‘I discharged all debts between us – and sent you away.’ There was no return light of pleasure in his
smoky dark eyes, the heavily boned jaw was set hard.
‘I am grateful for what you did.’ Craig was unsmiling also, covering his pleasure. It was Tungata who had signed a special ministerial order allowing Craig to export his self-built
yacht Bawu from the territory in the face of the rigid exchange-control laws which forbade the removal of even a refrigerator or an iron bedstead. At that time the yacht had been
Craig’s only possession, and he had been crippled by the mine blast and confined to a wheel-chair.
‘I do not want your gratitude,’ said Tungata, yet there was something behind the burnt-honey-coloured eyes that Craig could not fathom.
‘Nor the friendship I still offer you?’ Craig asked gently.
‘All that died on the battlefield,’ Tungata said. ‘It was washed away in
also had changed their names from those commemorating the white pioneers and Victoria’s empire to those of the sons of the black revolution and its allies – ‘a street by any other
name’ – Craig resigned himself.
Once he entered the city he found there was a boom-town atmosphere. The pavements thronged with noisy black crowds and the foyer of the modern sixteen-storied Monomatapa Hotel resounding to
twenty different languages and accents, as tourists jostled visiting bankers and businessmen, foreign dignitaries, civil servants and military advisers.
There was no vacancy for Craig until he spoke to an assistant manager who had seen the TV production and read the book. Then Craig was ushered up to a room on the fifteenth floor with a view
over the park. While he was in his bath, a procession of waiters arrived bearing flowers and baskets of fruit and a complimentary bottle of South African champagne. He worked until after midnight
on his report to Henry Pickering, and was at the parliament buildings in Causeway by nine-thirty the next morning.
The minister’s secretary kept him waiting for forty-five minutes before leading him through into the panelled office beyond, and Comrade Minister Tungata Zebiwe stood up from his desk.
Craig had forgotten how powerful was this man’s presence, or perhaps he had grown in stature since their last meeting. When he remembered that once Tungata had been his servant, his
gunboy, when Craig was a ranger in the Department of Game Conservation, it seemed that it had been a different existence. In those days he had been Samson Kumalo, for Kumalo was the royal blood
line of the Matabele kings, and he was their direct descendant. Bazo, his great-grandfather, had been the leader of the Matabele rebellion of 1896 and had been hanged by the settlers for his part
in it. His great-great-grandfather, Gandang, had been half-brother to Lobengula, the last king of the Matabele whom Rhodes’ troopers had ridden to an ignoble death and unmarked grave in the
northern wilderness after destroying his capital at GuBulawayo, the place of killing.
Royal were his blood-lines, and kingly still his bearing. Taller than Craig, well over six foot and lean, not yet running to flesh, which was often the Matabele trait, his physique was set off
to perfection by the cut of his Italian silk suit, shoulders wide as a gallows tree and a flat greyhound’s belly. He had been one of the most successful bush fighters during the war, and he
was warrior still, of that there was no doubt. Craig experienced a powerful and totally unexpected pleasure in seeing him once more.
‘I see you, Comrade Minister,’ Craig greeted him, speaking in Sindabele, avoiding having to choose between the old familiar ‘Sam’ and the nom de guerre that he now
used, Tungata Zebiwe, which meant ‘the Seeker after Justice.’
‘I sent you away once,’ Tungata answered in the same language. ‘I discharged all debts between us – and sent you away.’ There was no return light of pleasure in his
smoky dark eyes, the heavily boned jaw was set hard.
‘I am grateful for what you did.’ Craig was unsmiling also, covering his pleasure. It was Tungata who had signed a special ministerial order allowing Craig to export his self-built
yacht Bawu from the territory in the face of the rigid exchange-control laws which forbade the removal of even a refrigerator or an iron bedstead. At that time the yacht had been
Craig’s only possession, and he had been crippled by the mine blast and confined to a wheel-chair.
‘I do not want your gratitude,’ said Tungata, yet there was something behind the burnt-honey-coloured eyes that Craig could not fathom.
‘Nor the friendship I still offer you?’ Craig asked gently.
‘All that died on the battlefield,’ Tungata said. ‘It was washed away in
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