Chasing The Leopard Finding the Lion

Julie Wakeman-Linn

Description

Sons of revolutionaries, a classic Huck Finn/Tom Sawyer duo must grow up and find themselves when President-for-Life Robert Mugabe tightens his grip on white landowners and plunges Zimbabwe into anarchy. Julie Wakeman-Linn�s striking debut�part buddy road trip, part familial dramedy--focuses on two racially blended families as they outwit the world of diplomats, ex-pats, safari tourists, street rats, border guards, and the mercurial landscape. The result is an electrifying video capture of Africa in 1997 overflowing with intense color, tenacious characters, and riotous details.

Sujets

• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Mkuki na Nyota Publishers
• Date de parution: 30 mai 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 2
• EAN13: 9789987081967
• Langue: English

Extrait

C HASING T HE L EOPARD F INDING THE L ION
C HASING T HE L EOPARD F INDING THE L ION
Julie Wakeman-Linn
PUBLISHED BY Mkuki na Nyota Publishers Ltd Nyerere Road, Quality Plaza Building P. O. Box 4246 Dar es Salaam, Tanzania www.mkukinanyota.com publish mkukinanyota.com
Julie Wakeman-Linn, 2012
ISBN 978-9987-08-178-3
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the Mkuki na Nyota Pulishers.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it should not by way of trade or otherwise be lent, re-sold, hire out or otherwise circulated without the publisher s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
D EDICATION
To Mary Wakeman-Linn, one of my earliest and most supportive readers
C ONTENTS
Acknowledgements
Bumi Hills Lodge, Hwange, Zimbabwe,June 20, 1997
Harare, Zimbabwe, June 24, 1997
Bumi Hills Lodge, Zimbabwe, June 25, 1997
Bumi Hills, 5:30 a.m
Bumi Hills, 3 p.m.
Bumi Hills, Tuesday
Bumi Hills, Friday, afternoon
Hwange National Park, Friday, sunset
Bumi Hills, Saturday, morning
The Farm
Bumi Hills
Siavonga, Zambia
Monze
Lusaka
Lusaka
The Lusaka Polo Club
Lusaka and Monze
Lusaka
Monze, September
Lusaka, October
Lusaka
Monze, early November
Lusaka
Lusaka
Siavonga
Postscript, Leopard s Lane, June 1998
A CKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Special thanks to Walter Bgoya, Tapiwa Muchechemera, Warren Reed, and Mkuki Bgoya in Tanzania for creating a beautiful book.
To my mentors and teachers--Richard Peabody, Jay Parini, Lee K Abbott, Margot Livesey--thank you for your encouragement. To my MC writing group and the Glen Echo writing group, more thanks. Writers give the best feedback.
To Lisa Friedman, a writing partner extraordinaire.
In memory of Mary Jo Wakeman and Bob Wakeman. Thank also to Rik and Jim, because in combination with Bob, your influence gave birth to this story.
For JKL, who always believes in me.
P ROLOGUE Bumi Hills Lodge, Hwange, Zimbabwe, June 20, 1997
The rays of the setting sun blanketed the lodge roof, warming Brett Cunningham, his camera, and his beer. He focused on the acacia tree, hoping for a leopard, but the glare blinded him. These rallies don t change anything.
You re wrong. This protest will be different. Isaac Mtonga picked at the thatch. I ll find that telephoto lens you want. You should come with me.
A big roan antelope entered the clearing, his horns casting a curved shadow upon the waterhole. Brett tracked it with his viewfinder as the roan dipped his head to the water s edge. Leave the government thugs to the city types. I ll stay right here and film 20 hours a day.
The water splashed. The roan s head disappeared. Its chestnut body swayed, then the roan s neck flung back, pulling up a crocodile hanging from his face. Brett kept them in focus, even though his foot slipped. A tug on his collar stopped him from sliding.
The croc hung on for two-three seconds, then dropped back into the water. The roan shook, shivering his whole body. Blood dripped down the white stripe markings of his face.
Nasty attack. Brett lowered his camera. Thanks, Buddy.
We d better stop at two beers if you re going to ride the roof down to the lawn for every croc bite. Isaac chuckled.
Crocs will eat anything. Brett aimed another shot as the roan staggered from the water s edge. An infection from that injury would likely kill the big bull. Do you have to go to Harare? You could get the boss his supplies in Bulawayo and be back quicker. Brett drained his beer. Maybe help me with filming.
You don t get it. I want to go. We d better get down to the lobby before the boss comes looking for us. Isaac opened the roof s hatch.
This weekend will be perfect here. No tourists to be hauled around and coddled, so it s just me and my Nikon. Brett unzipped his bag and tucked in his camera.
I might go see our dads, Isaac dropped his feet onto the spiral staircase and waited; his shadow stretched all the way to the ridge pole.
It s out of your way. I m not going near the farm, not so close to harvest. Damn back breaking work anyway. Brett crawled across the roof, the smell of grass beckoning him to stay.
Isaac snorted Lazy ass as he descended the spiral staircase.
Rabble-rousing fool, Brett pulled the hatch shut behind them.
The sun, now an orange ball, dropped below the horizon. Leopards and lions were waking up to hunt in the cool night air. Impala, puku and zebras were finding thickets to hide in. The roan disappeared into the trees.
I Harare, Zimbabwe, June 24, 1997
Under the canopy of pink frangipani blossoms, President Mugabe s pair of razor wired gates were closing on Chancellor Avenue, cutting Harare in half. Isaac Mtonga braked the old Volvo wagon and checked his watch--it was only 5:45--the gates shouldn t close until 6 p.m.
Two guards signaled him into the area between the two gates of the Presidential Palace compound, which was an entire city block surrounded by concrete walls. Its gray ugliness interrupted Chancellor Avenue s residential gardens of red and white lilies. Ahead the second gate was shut. Isaac was stuck. Was this a go-slow for a quick bribe, he wondered, or were they looking for people from the Seke Flats protest?
Isaac tucked the protest flyer deeper into his jacket pocket. He coasted behind an old Mercedes sedan stopped at the second gate.
Isaac rubbed his leg, looking for blood on his torn pants leg, which had snagged on the Seke Flats thorn bushes. He checked his eyes in the rear view mirror. He d only gotten a whiff of tear gas, so his eyes weren t bloodshot. Even if they found the flyer, they couldn t prove he d been one of the rock throwers.
Two cops in the red-and-gray uniforms of the Presidential Guard approached the Mercedes. One, older with a wrinkled neck, carried his gun ready across his chest, and the other, younger and thinner, his gun slung over his shoulder, carried a clipboard. If they were gathering information, he could try to talk his way out of this. If only Brett was here. Brett could talk his way out of anything.
A housewife in a yellow dress and matching headscarf got out of the Mercedes and alternately yelled at the kids in the back seat and shook her finger at the thin cop, scribbling on his clipboard. She wheeled on the other cop, screaming about hungry kids and dinnertime.
The wattleneck cop cracked the butt of his gun against her car s headlights and Isaac heard glass shards hitting the pavement. The kids wailing echoed off the concrete walls. The thin cop motioned her to drive out and signaled another guard to open the front gate.
Isaac clicked on the radio, stretching his fingers to stop their shaking. He d never been stopped by the cops after a protest before and he wished he wasn t alone. There was pride and strength in numbers in a protest.
Your license, the wattleneck cop demanded as he approached. The thin cop recorded the wagon s license plates.
Isaac handed over his license and started tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the radio, trying to distract them and to pretend he was calm. Know of any good jazz spots this weekend?
These are Mashonaland district plates. The thin cop looked to be in his mid-twenties like he was. What are you doing in the city today?
I m getting supplies for my boss. Auto parts, timing belts, stuff.
Where were you this afternoon? The thin cop s pen pointed at Isaac s chest.
In Mbare Market, hunting for auto parts. Mbare s stalls back onto Seke Road, but it was the only possible answer. There was no other market out Chancellor Avenue. Isaac shifted, sweat had stuck his shirt to the car s leather upholstery.
New or used parts? Wattleneck scanned the back seat.
New and some used. Isaac shrugged. Now they would suspect stolen goods--many goods in Mbare market were probably stolen--and they d have legal reason to search the wagon. The telephoto lens he d found for Brett was certainly a stolen item. He distract them, keep them from linking him to the protest. If I don t get these parts to the lodge tonight, I ll get fired. Took me all day to track down a lousy timing belt. What s up with the shops these days?
How would I know what s with the shops, the thin cop snapped. Can anybody verify your whereabouts today?
I was just getting auto parts. I m a lodge mechanic. Isaac kept his hands still on the wheel.
Mtonga. Wattleneck s chest was a colorful row of insignia. Apparently he d been in Mugabe s service a long time. Maybe since the war. Are you Noah Mtonga s son?
I am. He used to know President Mugabe quite well. Isaac rested his arm on the car door. This guy was as old as his dad. Maybe they served together sometime during the revolution. Maybe an old friendship would help him out of here. Do you know him?
I heard he took up with some bastard Rhodie farmer in Mashona after the war, Wattleneck squinted, his eyes almost disappearing. Cunningham or something.
No, you ve got it all wrong. This ass had never met his dad if he thought Owen, his dad s best friend and Brett s dad, was a Rhodesian. Owen was British born.
Those whites are not going to have those farms much longer. The thin cop s breath smelled of strong mint and burned onions as he bent closer. After we clean up those traitors from