‘I’m sorry sir, the machine is not working today,’ he replies.
‘Will it be working tomorrow?’
‘I’m not sure, sir. We’re waiting for spare parts.’ Mr Murehwa stands almost at attention.
‘Where do these parts come from?’ I ask.
‘From overseas somewhere, sir.’
‘How long has it been broken?’
‘For some time now, sir.’
‘Two weeks? Two months?’ I want specifics and my voice is not concealing the frustration. Mr Murehwa responds to pressure with vagueness. He doesn’t know when it might be repaired, can’t remember how long it took to repair last time. He retains his rigid posture throughout our encounter as if standing upright substitutes for competence. I’m feeling nostalgic for once, homesick for a little American efficiency. I just want a few photocopies, nothing more.
‘Can I leave these magazines with you then? You can make the copies when the machine is fixed. I’ll phone to see if they’re ready.’
‘That’s fine, sir,’ he replies. ‘If the phones are working.’
‘The phones aren’t working?’
‘Yes, sir. They are not. Yesterday they were fine, but something happened.’
‘Then you’re waiting for a replacement?’
‘No, sir. They usually fix themselves. Phones are like the weather, sir. You never know what’s going to happen.’
In my most reasonable voice I tell Mr Murehwa I’ll take the magazines back to the reading room and make some more notes.
‘He was a great man,’ says Mr Murehwa, handing me the papers. He’s seen a photo of Tichasara in one of the magazines. ‘Zimbabwe would be different if he was still with us.’
‘I’ll drop them by on the way out,’ I tell him. ‘When the copier’s fixed you can make the copies. We can talk then about Tichasara.’
‘Fine, sir. Make sure you fill out the form for copies. And write your phone number.’
‘Just in case, eh, Mr Murehwa?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
I return to the archives a few days later. A magazine from West Africa contains an article entitled ‘Tichasara’s Death: Accident or Intrigue?’ Without a shred of evidence, the writer asserts that the Rhodesian security forces had arranged the killing. A comment from an ‘African expert’ at Cambridge attributes Tichasara’s demise to an ‘internal power struggle within Zanu’. The article mentions past intrigues in Zanu: the Nhari rebellion in 1974, which left over a hundred Zanu fighters dead, and the mysterious assassination of party leader Herbert Chitepo in Zambia in 1975. Zanu may not be the idealistic monolith I envisioned from Wisconsin.
I read the local newspapers for November and December 1979 on microfilm. I’m huddled in a dark closet of a room in front of a machine with an aggravating focus knob. When I get the top half of the page in focus, the bottom half blurs. And vice versa. After half an hour of this, my first migraine in Zimbabwe is on the way. Tichasara has to wait. I lay my head down. The darkness and quiet of this claustrophobic space is a near perfect cure.
An hour of this solitude and I’m ready to risk a shot of caffeine to wake up.
The archives serve tea each morning at 10.30. Mr Murehwa brews the leaves in a huge metal pot and neatly arranges the white cup and saucer sets on a table next to his office.
The researchers gather outside for a little sunshine. Two wooden benches border an ample bed of sunflowers. Two British nationals, Daniel Watson and Elizabeth Routledge, are sitting on the more recently painted bench. Watson is researching the history of sorghum production in Zimbabwe, something about crop hardiness and tradition. He has those long fingers that come from a life of contemplation.
Routledge is wearing leather sandals and a brown dress that makes her look dumpier than she is. I don’t tell them a word about Tichasara or Dlamini. That’s my secret. I do say I’m from Wisconsin.
‘That’s where they make that putrid beer you Americans love so much,’ Elizabeth says. ‘What do you call it?’
‘Budweiser,’ I reply. ‘My father spent most of his life working in the Bud factory.’
I’m not close to the man, but I won’t let a stranger denigrate his life’s labour.
‘And you actually call people Bud, don’t you?’ She speaks in an upper-class accent that doesn’t seem part of her birthright.
The two of them continue their discussion about an article in the most recent issue of Modern African Studies. They’re dropping in terms like ‘hermeneutics’ and ‘metanarratives’. They’re very excited about a French writer named Michel Foucault. I’ve heard of Foucault, but I have no idea what they’re talking about. Wisconsin State is out of the flow of great ideas.
The young Asian arrives with his cup of tea. He introduces himself as Chung Lee from the University of Hong Kong. Chung’s been in the country for a year. He’s read every edition of the daily Herald from 1931 to 1965. Twice. I don’t even ask him what he’s researching. My migraine’s returning.
As I leave, Routledge takes my details. ‘I’ll invite you around for supper sometime,’ she says. ‘You’ll enjoy meeting more of the research community.’
I doubt her sincerity but I thank her for the offer and rush back to my granny flat to squash the headache with a towel around my eyes and a nap. Tichasara’s death couldn’t have been an accident.
Chapter 10
Chuck tells us he has just come back from Matabeleland. He’s involved in low-income housing development, sponsored by the us government. ‘We’ve had to stop two of our projects there,’ he explains, ‘because of the fighting.’
We are sitting around a table in a dining area that leads off the enormous sunken lounge in Elizabeth’s house.
‘The Boers are always infiltrating,’ says Colin, a bearded, frizzy-haired South African in his late twenties. He’s made a point of informing us several times that he’s a deserter from the South African army living ‘in exile’ in Harare. ‘They won’t leave Zimbabwe alone,’ he adds.
‘It’s not the South Africans,’ says Chuck, ‘it’s the Zimbabwean army. They’re terrorising people.’
‘Zimbabweans didn’t fight a fourteen-year civil war to start it all over again two years later,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’
‘I’m only telling you what our people told me,’ says Chuck. ‘The Zimbabweans working for us are in fear for their lives.’
‘That’s a lot of kak,’ says Colin. Lisa, his girlfriend, nods in agreement.
I don’t know Elizabeth well, but I can see she’s upset.
‘Let’s enjoy the evening, people,’ I say. ‘We don’t want to spoil a lovely meal. Arguments aren’t good for digestion.’
I give Elizabeth a quick wink and the dinner table conversation drifts to concern about a possible drought. Safer country, though I’m still miffed by Chuck’s insinuation that Mugabe’s troops are engaged in atrocities. Typical American. He talks through straight white teeth that his parents paid thousands for. And he wears a New York Knicks cap. I wonder where people like him get their information.
The other guests don’t seem as taken by the roast lamb, fresh green beans and gem squash as I am. Since I’ve been in Zimbabwe it’s been sadza, beer, slimy French fries, and those grim English meat pies. I especially like