God of Hunger Read online

  ‘‘Jozef my son ….” his eyes settled on the others and their equipment, “What in God’s name?”

  Jozef said simply: ‘Best if you do not ask too much. I would never wish to harm you, but tell no one of our presence. We will stay in this room and you will come and go as normal. Bring us, from your gardens, fresh fruit and vegetables as are easy to prepare. Father, you must understand that we can, in a moment, cause hell to break out. I am no Satan. You know that. But I rely on your absolute discretion as I would in your confessional. We have no ill intentions towards you or the mission. Now go about your work and I expect to see you in the evening. Cancel any outside appointments. Say you have urgent paperwork to complete for the Bishop. Bless you Fazza,”

  The good priest behaved as an Italian would. With no wish to inflame a calm situation by unnecessary acts of bravado. Calma, calma, calma. That was his motto and he was a true son of modern Rome.

  The scouts bathed and changed into the priest’s underwear. Ate biltong with the bread and tomatoes they had filched from the kitchen on the way through to Fazza Viyatu’s rooms. Drink other than water was not a problem. Unlike most members of Smith’s forces, the Selous Scouts were abstemious. They prided themselves on maintaining, unblemished by alcohol, the fastest of responses.

  The priest returned as expected. The scouts apologised for going through his wardrobe and thanked him for the high quality of underpants.

  “Ah, they are sent by my sister from Verona, but you are welcome. And here are the salads you asked for with oranges from the orchard. I remember how you liked to climb the trees Jozef …”

  “Thank you father. God Bless you. Leave us now and we will not trouble you again. Father give us your blessing before you go.” “Yes, my sons …”

  They departed that night. The next leg of the journey was the most dangerous as they had to cut across the Hehe hills and the plains of Gogoland to Kongwa. They moved only in the dark. Exposed body parts were blackened. Monastic silence was maintained. By-passing villages they went unseen as no one in this land of spirits left the relative safety of their huts. Some dogs were roused but even they kept to the boundaries of habitation. Hyenas were a problem but they took baited biltong with relish. And so they moved between the thorns, across dongas, sandy plains and over rock strewn hillocks. Stars hung in great clusters like chandeliers, as though drawn by a child, to light their way. It was the dry season. Above, all was crystal clarity. The vast hemisphere of sky was fluorescent. Below the paths were easy to find. By day they slept high on the broad boughs of baobab trees. And on the sixth night they saw in the distance the dull orange lights of Kongwa.

  They were now short of water but caution called a halt and they rested as best they could in the overwhelming heat of the next day. As soon as it was evening Jozef called the group together.

  “First we make for the mission behind the town. There is a spring there, used mainly by baboons. Huge bloody Nyanis they are. We won’t stay at the mission house even if the Ven. Rev. Beasley is still there. I know the mean shit well and would not mind raiding his fridge as a pay-back. He never once gave us a drink on expeditions from school. We will skirt Kongwa to the east, get to the spring and plan our attack.”

  Four hours later, at dawn, they were within sight of the water but so were the baboons. Along the ridge of the hollow, seen through telescopic sights, sat the big bastards. Massive. These would make a leopard think twice about taking an infant or even of making for the pool. “Fit silencers. Take out a nyani each. Four sacks of fur slumped where they sat.

  The other guards barked but not in panic. The rest of the group went about their business; mainly dreaming, scratching, suckling or grooming. Above the big boys became restive but could not decide on what orders to give. They moved down through their tribe which now sprang to attention, bodies tensed, eyes anxiously looking to the next in line up the hierarchy.

  “Let’s see what happens before thinking of plugging a few more.” So they waited. Then a convoy of warthogs, ngiris, drove in and with it the tense prelude to gang warfare. Still confused by the inexplicable deaths, the dog nyanis barked out the retreat. The ngiri’s had won and when they had had their fill the scouts moved in to claim the water.

  Replenished, Jozef suggested they move the dead baboons into hollows between rocks. That way they would be taken by leopard, hyena or jackal without arousing the interest of a human coming to the pool. He then briefed them on the activity of the night ahead. “We will move at sunset and climb the hill behind Kongwa there to observe activities in the town. I will leave to collect the stuff and return with it. We watch them again throughout the day and tomorrow night make the attack.

  They rested in the leopard rocks where Jozef had seen the beauties on a past expedition from school. No one would seek the scouts in such a place and there were enough of them to deal with any animal claiming the same hideaway. As it was still cool, Jozef hoped to find the cave empty. It was and remained so throughout the day. He reckoned, correctly, that the leopards had long fallen to poachers.

  In the last light of day they moved around the back of Beazely’s mission and then across the plain to Kongwa hill. At its base Jozef left the others to make for the quarry on which all now depended.

  While at school he had scoured every inch of its surface hoping to find an undetonated hole. Jozef knew from experience as his father’s assistant that not everything went according to plan. His father had a small civil engineering outfit which would occasionally order infill from the quarry near Songea, owned by the Astaldi brothers, Chicho and Jan Franco.

  Once or twice when driving the lorry to collect the stone Jozef would find one or other of the brothers checking the rock face for the charge that had not gone off. It was dangerous work and rarely productive. Only twice did he see a fuse being pulled out of a dud hole. In reverse order, a stick of dynamite would be placed into a drill some yard and a half in depth. Into one tip of what looked like a fudge coloured stick of rock went the silver metal case of the detonator, about the size of a .22 bullet. and attached to it, through its open end, was a fuse, white and rope like, cut to size, allowing whatever burning time was called for; usually a yard more fuse above the surface of the drill hole.

  The dynamite would be tapped into the hole with a wooden stick and when the quarry face was clear, the fuse lit by an Astaldi who scarpered for cover as quickly as he could. If, say, you had laid some twenty charges across the base of the rock face, the chances were that the hand with the lighter would miss a fuse towards the end of the run when all thoughts were on escape. It was a matter then of accurately counting the blasts as they went off in turn; again an operation prone to error amid the dust and noise and beating sun.

  *

  Jozef was unlucky in his search but rewarded by a find beyond his every expectation. He noticed a flat rock by the quarry entrance, to one side of the lorry track. It rested vertically onto a rock shelf about four foot high. He found a metal pipe to lever back the rock which to his eyes looked artificially placed. To his astonishment he saw behind the rock a metal doorway. Padlocked. He shifted the flat rock to one side of the door frame and smashed the lock off the bolt. Inside the now open chamber were boxes of dynamite, detonators and coils of fuses. Treasure, which he again hid by replacing the covering rock.

  The knowledge of his find he kept to himself but it kept him awake through many a night. Then the school was moved to Iringa and the disused quarry at Kongwa remained but a dream. Until now, when the success of their operation depended on the dynamite still being in its store. Undisturbed. And it was.

  Jozef took this news to his mates on the hill and then had the best shit he could ever remember. He sat, feet dangling, between two rocks, sheer faced. Above, the first birds of the morning. Below, central Africa and between his legs a cool updraft before the heat of the day. Job done. Almost.

  They took turns to observe after Jozef explained the lay-out of his former school, now a training camp spread o
ut below. It had not changed. Soldiers came out of the dormitory houses and walked to the mess before which they assembled for roll call. They went in.

  Came out and formed up on parade. Then into the same classrooms for instruction. One change; there was no lunch break nor tea break. The soldiers returned to their houses just before sunset. Then small fires lit up the dark ground. It seemed they cooked for themselves at night. Which explained the deserted huts and abandoned fields around Kongwa; what was eaten in the night was scooped off the land.

  *

  The plan of action was clear; dynamite the mess hall.

  *

  They left it for another day’s observation which confirmed what they had already seen. So as soon as the fires were rekindled the scouts descended to Kongwa. First along ‘Millionaires Row’, where the teachers used to live, past the music room and the science labs, where, long ago, the lads would gawp longingly at Miss Martin’s heavenly bosom during her lessons and, finally, behind the mess.

  Not a soul in sight nor hearing. As Jozef remembered, the mess hall was erected on wood supports, the girth of telegraph poles and a yard high. Even his memory of the brown smell of anti-termite fluid in which they were coated was correct. He signalled his column to pause and did the honours with the charges. One every sixth support, sixteen in all around the mess. As he worked he knew he was in for a tremendous head ache; several of the sticks were oozing through the waxed-paper shell as a result of age. He had worked with such before in his fathers quarry. The ooze went through the skin of the hands and into the blood stream producing the mother of all super-migraines. Milk, lots of it, was the only remedy and Kongwa had no milk. Even as a school, powder substitute was all the kids ever had once the ground-nut scheme cows died of rinderpest; one reason why the new school was built in the milk-producing Iringa.

  *

  ‘Shit, shit, shit. Its going to hurt like blazes.”

  Job done, Jozef signalled to his trio and together they spent the night under the mess hall floor in the space offered by the posts.

  Morning arrived uneventfully. The detonation would take place when the soldiers were in mess for breakfast, each scout responsible for four charges. They would light them anti-clock wise and make for the old carpentry workshop across the road to the dormitory blocks. The base of the wood store was brick built and they would shelter against that before heading off down to the donga (dry river bed) towards the swimming club where the hope was that the pool was still in operation.

  “Fucking hell, what a fucking blast… Jeezus Jozef, it worked a dream … Shit man those buggers did not know what hit them. Did you see the ones who went through the roof? Man. Like rockets.”

  The scouts went down to the swimming club, crossing a donga by the same baobab root bridge as Jozef used as a boy running down to swimming lessons. There was no water in the pool, just slime and frogs. But the showers worked. They stood under them and drank and stood laughing and shaking with excitement and exchanging sights and sounds of their action. Jozef was the man. He knew it and was really chuffed with himself. A smooth operation. Could not have gone better. But now, what?

  They decided to move on immediately and make for the road to Dodoma and to highjack the first vehicle in sight. Faces, arms and backs of hands were blackened to perfection and they made off. A Peugeot 203 pick up farted into view and came to a halt before the line of men straddling the road. In it was an Indian and an elderly female companion; mother or mother in law off to supervise purchases in Dodoma for their duka in Kongwa.

  Tafazalee sana, ay, ay, ay, tafazalee sana, mama ni mze kabisa .. usini pige bwana, tafazalee … Shika mdomo. Toka. Toka. Na wewe. (Please, please, the lady is very old .. please don’t hit me sir, please. Get out. Get out. And you.) Bwana do not ….’

  ‘Shut your mouth. Get out both of you. Haraka. Quickly.’

  They got out and the scouts piled in, Jozef at the wheel. Then the shopkeeper noticed his eyes. They were blue. Jozef clicked that he had been spotted as a mzungu in disguise. He also realised that he knew the man in the car. ‘What the hell’, thought Jozef. “Too late now.”

  “Mr. Patel, do you remember me? I used to buy a case of coke from your duka every Saturday. And fireworks? I put a small one up your cat’s arse. Do you remember?”

  “Oh, yes Mr. Jozef. How can I forget you? The cat did not return. My children cried. What are you going to do with us now?

  “OK Mr. Patel. It is OK. I will take you and the old lady back to your duka. For old times sake. I feel sorry for her. And for you for the loss of the cat with a squib up his arse.” The other scouts laughed. When we get to your petrol station you get out and fill this piece of shit and bring us a case of cokes and a big box of Aspros. Do you understand? If there is one false move I will kill you both and blow up your shop. Una jua nita hwanya hivyo. Usi cheze na mimi. Unge taka ku cheza uta kula wiya .You know I will do it. Do not muck about or you will eat wire. (Jozef was called Bosco at his father’s place; from the saying common amongst swags in the country ‘kula wiya Bosco, Shauri la Mosco’. (Loosely translated: all power to you authorized by Moscow.

  Jozef got out and allowed the Patels to return to their seats. And off they went, back to Kongwa village, three miles to the east of the scene of destruction, which marked by a tall column of black smoke. The scouts, sitting in the back of the-up looked at their handiwork with great satisfaction. The pick up was refuelled. Cokes and Aspros were supplied.

  ‘Patel, tell anyone who asks that we have commandeered your car after the emergency in camp. Nothing else. Shika mdomo na uta shika mboro tena. Unge sema kitu, nita li kata. (Keep your mouth shut and you will again be able to hold your cock. Say anything and I will cut it off.) With that the scouts left for Dodoma. This time Jozef sat in the passenger seat. The ache had kicked in so it was a matter of popping the pills washed down by coke.

  In town they stopped to fill up and buy what was needed. The blue eyed Jozef kept them shut nursing his headache. The others, arms and faces blackened, did the business and for all the world they looked just like a squad in town from Kongwa in a ‘borrowed’ car. Not at all unusual.

  *

  And so back to Iringa and Mbeya and the Zambian border at Kapiri Mposhi. Tricky. Taking a side-track, they stopped in the cover of the miombo forests which lined the main road for miles. It was time to rest. And scheme.

  Kaunda’s militia was not highly rated in Salisbury. But here was a proper border crossing and there was a journey of over six hundred miles to Livingstone and home at the Victoria Falls.

  *

  Jozef knew Kapiri Mposhi well. As a boy scout he had stopped here with a bus full of Black African and Asian boy scouts enough route for the jamboree at Ruwa Park. It was the first time he had experience of formal racial discrimination. The bus load of boys headed for the one bar in the border hamlet and the red faced asked them who in God’s name they thought they were? ‘You can stay’, he said pointing at Jozef, ‘but the rest of you kaffirs and chuts get out of my pub. Don’t you know the fucking law? It’s not bloody Tanga fucking nyika here where you can screw each other senseless. In Rhodesia, ‘whites only’ means just that. Now footsek, the bloody lot of you.’ Jozef left with them, again showing solidarity with his fellow boy scouts in Lusaka where he alone was offered breakfast in the main hotel. Strange jamboree it turned out to be.

  He now wondered what had happened to the landlord since Northern Rhodesia had become Zambia. Things had changed for sure. Yet it did not strike him as odd that he should be in the Selous Scouts. He could hardly fight for Comrade Bob or Mandela whose cadres he had just slotted in Kongwa.

  In his mind he was as African as they claimed to be but his heart could not condone a war against his own tribe. Often he thought that if he were a Black African he would slaughter any and every White in sight. And serve them right, especially in Rhodesia and most especially in South Africa. But he was not Black. He was a White African in a contest not of his making. But one whi
ch engaged his loyalty to a land, a continent, to which he was proud to belong. That other Africans rejected his claim to be African hurt his pride. In sober moments the rejection made him question his identity. White African or Pole beached up on a foreign shore? No that was his parents. He was born there. And would fight for his birthright. Yet when it came to the crunch he held on to his British passport, refusing to become Tanzanian. In fact in the days of transition he refused to stand up for the new anthem replacing God Save the Queen in the local cinema. He was politely asked to leave. And leave he did. To Sinclair Road and London.

  *

  Jozef soon realized that the place had nothing going for it except Marisha.

  All the hip stuff, The Beetles, and Carnaby Street, was to him, just stuff. He could never get excited about fad or fashion. Once, he walked into a shop where a blond haired guy with a cigar in his mouth was being mobbed. Jozef could not understand that kind of adulation. When the crowd cleared and the two stood at the counter looking at shirts of many colours, the cigar face looked at Jozef, expecting to be recognised. ‘Who in hell do you think you are?’ Jozef thought to himself. Really, he knew from the ubiquitous telly. But he did not much care about DJ’s and pop and fans and being ‘with it’.

  Mini skirted girls, on the other hand, he thought much of. But try as he might he just could not get closer than gawping at them - the trendy long-haired long-legged birds along Kensington High Street, always on show outside Biba’s.