White Man Crawling

White Man Crawling

11 White Man Crawling It was to be a surprise – from those grateful commercial farmers, aka safari operators, who had managed to hold on to their most productive farms and so continue living in the lifestyle to which they had been accustomed since Independence: a lifestyle which did not exclude annual holidays in Alpine ski resorts, house boats on Lake Kariba, shopping sprees, in private jets, to Sandton City, and best of all, jamborees in their iconic 4 x 4s. The venue was one home of Nols Bosluis, a beautiful Cape Dutch affair (not Nols, the home!), which overlooked the Sebakwe river deep in the Zimbabwe Midlands. Before the so-called Land Reform Programme Nols had owned seventeen farms, all but three of which he had since, in a spirit of patriotism and love of his fellow man (he would not admit to coercion), given to the government for purposes of re-settlement. They had duly been resettled, not by the peasants, but by the local honourable minister and his relatives. And that is the reason why Nols had been allowed to keep a few. His son, Zuluboy, and his daughter, Swazigirl, had been flown back for the occasion, from their exclusive schools in South Africa. Delightful children, they never spoke, not even when spoken to, because they had become chronic cell-phone users with overdeveloped thumbs. His fellow commercial farmers, those few remaining on the land because they had done the sensible thing – stay loyal to the ruling party – were to contribute in their own humble ways. Bols would slaughter a hundred guinea fowl, Hols would shoot a kudu, Dols would de-stock the National Breweries, and Vols would use his fleet of vehicles to transport the VIPs, including the guest of honour. Their pretty wives (meaning the servants) would do the salads and the puddings. Everybody except those few in the know took it for granted that the guest of honour would be the honourable minister. After all he had been so good to the remaining commercial, aka white, farmers. Hadn’t he allowed them to sponsor his recent election campaign against those losers the MDC? Hadn’t he condescended to receive from these patriotic sons of the more arable soil, tankers of petrol and diesel, 12 truckloads of maize meal and elephant meat, bowsers of opaque beer? And hadn’t he, consequently, won the seat? But Nols had a surprise for his guests, a big – indeed an enormous – surprise! Long after the guests had assembled at the Bosluis’s Cape Dutch farmhouse, the honourable minister and his entourage arrived. Nols called out, ‘Greetings Comrade Honourable Minister. I have kept you a bottle of your favourite Scotch whisky, Chivas Regal.’ ‘My friend, Nols,’ the honourable minister replied, ‘and I have brought you assurances from above that you may keep your remaining farms for the time being.’ Then Nols, all six foot four of him, did an amazing thing. He performed a ritual that had not been witnessed since the days of King Lobengula. He walked on his knees, bottle of whisky held high, right across the front lawn of the house, to the honourable minister. His cartilages could be heard creaking (old rugby injuries) from as far away as the river front where crickets in their numbers began to accompany the sound. To rapturous applause, the honourable minister received his gift with noble condescension. Those guests who thought that this was the climax of the party were delightfully mistaken. What’s that rattling sound in the distance? Are those riverside crickets on steroids? No, it’s a helicopter, Vols’s pride and joy, and it’s bringing the real guest of honour. Men, women and children form a huge circle on the lawn, and the helicopter lands in the middle of it. Wind generated by the propeller blows deliciously in all directions, discomposing hairdos and caftans, and threatening to trash Baby Bosluis’s coleslaw. The helicopter disgorges… no it can’t be! How did Nols manage it? You don’t get much higher in the political hierarchy than this. It’s not a name to be bandied about, but we can tell you that the guest of honour appears to be a woman, with a voice like a trumpeter hornbill. For two hours, standing at the foot of the helicopter, flanked by half a dozen bodyguards, she trumpets on about the girl child, then about AIDS, then about Operation Garikayi (she can’t remember the Ndebele equivalent), then...