blood. You chose to go. Now why have you returned?’
‘Because this is my land.’
‘Your land—’ he saw the reddish glaze of anger suffuse the whites of Tungata’s eyes. ‘Your land. You speak like a white settler. Like one of Cecil Rhodes’
murdering troopers.’
‘I did not mean it that way.’
‘Your people took the land at rifle-point, and at the point of a rifle they surrendered it. Do not speak to me of your land.’
‘You hate almost as well as you fought,’ Craig told him, feeling his own anger begin to prickle at the back of his eyes, ‘but I did not come back to hate. I came back because
my heart drew me back. I came back because I felt I could help to rebuild what was destroyed.’
Tungata sat down behind his desk and placed his hands upon the white blotter. They were very dark and powerful. He stared at them in a silence that stretched out for many seconds.
‘You were at King’s Lynn,’ Tungata broke the silence at last, and Craig started. ‘Then you went north to the Chizarira.’
‘Your eyes are bright,’ Craig nodded. ‘They see all.’
‘You have asked for copies of the titles to those lands.’ Again Craig was startled, but he remained silent. ‘But even you must know that you must have government approval to
purchase land in Zimbabwe. You must state the use to which you intend to put that land and the capital available to work it.’
‘Yes, even I know that,’ Craig agreed.
‘So you come to me to assure me of your friendship.’ Tungata looked up at him. ‘Then, as an old friend, you will ask another favour, is that not so?’
Craig spread his hands, palms upward in gesture of resignation.
‘One white rancher on land that could support fifty Matabele families. One white rancher growing fat and rich while his servants wear rags and eat the scraps he throws them,’ Tungata
sneered, and Craig shot back at him.
‘One white rancher bringing millions of capital into a country starving for it, one white rancher employing dozens of Matabele and feeding and clothing them and educating their children,
one white rancher raising enough food to feed ten thousand Matabele, not a mere fifty. One white rancher cherishing the land, guarding it against goats and drought, so it will produce for five
hundred years, not five—’ Craig let his anger boil over, and returned Tungata’s glare, standing stiff-legged over the desk.
‘You are finished here,’ Tungata growled at him. ‘The kraal is closed against you. Go back to your boat, your fame and your fawning women, be content that we took only one of
your legs – go before you lose your head as well.’
Tungata rolled his hand over and glanced at the gold wrist-watch.
‘I have nothing more for you,’ he said, and stood up. Yet, behind his flat, hostile stare, Craig sensed that the undefinable thing was still there. He tried to fathom it – not
fear, he was certain, not guile. A hopelessness, a deep regret, perhaps, even a sense of guilt – or perhaps a blend of many of these things.
‘Then, before I go, I have something else for you.’ Craig stepped closer to the desk, and lowered his voice. ‘You know I was on the Chizarira. I met three men there. Their
names were Lookout, Peking and Dollar and they asked me to bring you a message—’
Craig got no further, for Tungata’s anger turned to red fury. He was shaking with it, it clouded his gaze and knotted the muscles at the points of his heavy lantern jaw.
‘Be silent,’ he hissed, his voice held low by an iron effort of control. ‘You meddle in matters that you do not understand, and that do not concern you. Leave this land before
they overwhelm you.’
‘I will go,’ Craig returned his gaze defiantly, ‘but only after my application to purchase land has been officially denied.’
‘Then you will leave soon,’ Tungata replied. ‘That is my promise to you.’
In the parliamentary parking lot the Volkswagen was baking in the morning sun. Craig
‘Because this is my land.’
‘Your land—’ he saw the reddish glaze of anger suffuse the whites of Tungata’s eyes. ‘Your land. You speak like a white settler. Like one of Cecil Rhodes’
murdering troopers.’
‘I did not mean it that way.’
‘Your people took the land at rifle-point, and at the point of a rifle they surrendered it. Do not speak to me of your land.’
‘You hate almost as well as you fought,’ Craig told him, feeling his own anger begin to prickle at the back of his eyes, ‘but I did not come back to hate. I came back because
my heart drew me back. I came back because I felt I could help to rebuild what was destroyed.’
Tungata sat down behind his desk and placed his hands upon the white blotter. They were very dark and powerful. He stared at them in a silence that stretched out for many seconds.
‘You were at King’s Lynn,’ Tungata broke the silence at last, and Craig started. ‘Then you went north to the Chizarira.’
‘Your eyes are bright,’ Craig nodded. ‘They see all.’
‘You have asked for copies of the titles to those lands.’ Again Craig was startled, but he remained silent. ‘But even you must know that you must have government approval to
purchase land in Zimbabwe. You must state the use to which you intend to put that land and the capital available to work it.’
‘Yes, even I know that,’ Craig agreed.
‘So you come to me to assure me of your friendship.’ Tungata looked up at him. ‘Then, as an old friend, you will ask another favour, is that not so?’
Craig spread his hands, palms upward in gesture of resignation.
‘One white rancher on land that could support fifty Matabele families. One white rancher growing fat and rich while his servants wear rags and eat the scraps he throws them,’ Tungata
sneered, and Craig shot back at him.
‘One white rancher bringing millions of capital into a country starving for it, one white rancher employing dozens of Matabele and feeding and clothing them and educating their children,
one white rancher raising enough food to feed ten thousand Matabele, not a mere fifty. One white rancher cherishing the land, guarding it against goats and drought, so it will produce for five
hundred years, not five—’ Craig let his anger boil over, and returned Tungata’s glare, standing stiff-legged over the desk.
‘You are finished here,’ Tungata growled at him. ‘The kraal is closed against you. Go back to your boat, your fame and your fawning women, be content that we took only one of
your legs – go before you lose your head as well.’
Tungata rolled his hand over and glanced at the gold wrist-watch.
‘I have nothing more for you,’ he said, and stood up. Yet, behind his flat, hostile stare, Craig sensed that the undefinable thing was still there. He tried to fathom it – not
fear, he was certain, not guile. A hopelessness, a deep regret, perhaps, even a sense of guilt – or perhaps a blend of many of these things.
‘Then, before I go, I have something else for you.’ Craig stepped closer to the desk, and lowered his voice. ‘You know I was on the Chizarira. I met three men there. Their
names were Lookout, Peking and Dollar and they asked me to bring you a message—’
Craig got no further, for Tungata’s anger turned to red fury. He was shaking with it, it clouded his gaze and knotted the muscles at the points of his heavy lantern jaw.
‘Be silent,’ he hissed, his voice held low by an iron effort of control. ‘You meddle in matters that you do not understand, and that do not concern you. Leave this land before
they overwhelm you.’
‘I will go,’ Craig returned his gaze defiantly, ‘but only after my application to purchase land has been officially denied.’
‘Then you will leave soon,’ Tungata replied. ‘That is my promise to you.’
In the parliamentary parking lot the Volkswagen was baking in the morning sun. Craig
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