We Are All Zimbabweans Now. James Kilgore

also died and many of their leaders are in government, they’re overlooked.

      In a way, Runnels is right. This is what they call hotel history, done from the comfort of bars and restaurants in the Monomatapa or Meikles hotels. I wonder if the authors even left Harare while doing their research. But then, who am I to condemn? I haven’t been out of the city either. I’ve lived in the cloistered stratosphere of garden teas, struggling Xerox machines and Rixi taxis. Only the roar of the Boston pencil sharpener and the outbursts of Runnels or Colin have disrupted my tranquil existence.

      I want to bounce these reflections off Elizabeth. She is level-headed when we’re not engaged in petty quarrels.

      I put the Martin and Johnson book in my day pack and set out for her house. It’s lovely, clear and warm like almost every evening in Harare.The weather is too perfect at times, no extremes in heat or humidity, no torrential rains. No wonder the white settlers chose to defend this country with their lives.

      Elizabeth will just be coming home from the archives. I buy a bottle of red wine on the way. I have it all planned. We’ll sip the wine by the side of the pool and discuss how I can avoid the pitfalls of Martin and Johnson. The hostility of the other day will melt away as we interact like mature and rigorous intellectuals. Stimulating discussion always yields dynamic lovemaking.

      As I expected, her car is in the driveway. I hope she is cooking some lamb chops with that mint sauce. Meat is cheap here and there are butchers, not supermarkets that offer plasticwrapped, assembly-line packages. Stepping back in time can have its advantages.

      The front door is locked. Unusual, but maybe Georgia is away. I knock several times. No response. I walk around toward the pool. I hear voices and splashing.

      ‘Elizabeth,’ I shout, ‘how ya doin?’

      The voices and splashing stop.

      ‘Ben?’ she yells. ‘Just a minute. Wait there.’

      I hit the corner of the house just in time to see Elizabeth wrapping a towel around her bare buttocks. A blushing Chung Lee treads water in the centre of the pool.

      ‘It’s not a good time, Ben,’ she says. ‘You should have phoned.’

      ‘How’s the water?’ I ask Chung. He doesn’t answer.

      Elizabeth and I walk back toward the gate.

      ‘Why don’t you come tomorrow for dinner?’ she says. ‘We can talk.’

      ‘Who will you have naked in the pool tomorrow?’ I ask. ‘Professor Runnels? Mr Murehwa?’

      ‘I’m sorry this happened,’ she says, though I don’t detect remorse in her voice. ‘I told you I don’t like conflict.’

      She stops a few feet in front of the gate. I keep walking. As I reach the exit, I turn back.

      ‘Here’s your wine,’ I say, tossing the bottle to her. ‘Catch!’

      She reaches with both hands to grab it. The towel comes undone and falls to the ground.

      ‘Bastard,’ she says, setting the bottle on the ground and fumbling for the towel. I’ve never seen her naked in the sunlight. She’s almost pink.

      ‘Get out of here with your bullshit about reconciliation.’

      I take one last look at her nipples before I leave.

      I walk to the King George and prepare to get good and drunk. I’ve lost the little grounding I had in Harare. Now, even going to the archives will be uncomfortable. I think of all those people clapping for me at Mawere’s party. And I’ve done nothing.The only history I can write is the debacle of my relationship with Elizabeth.

      I wonder if her dinner invitation for tomorrow is still good.

      Chapter 12

      The Princess Lounge has live music – a balding white crooner who specialises in Frank Sinatra with a twist of Tom Jones and Dean Martin. Well-dressed young black civil servants flock to the King George to loosen their ties and sing along to ‘My Way’ or ‘Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime’.