Seize the Reckless Wind. John Davis Gordon
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‘Are any of the wives barren?’
Elijah said, ‘The wives are not barren, Nkosi.’
‘Are there any witches living amongst us?’
‘Ah!’ Elijah did not like to talk about witches. ‘I know nothing of witches, Nkosi.’
Mahoney sighed. Once upon a time he had been a young Native Commissioner in charge of an area the size of Scotland or Connecticut. How many men had he sent to jail for this?
‘Old man, there are no such things as witches who cast spells to make people ill, or barren, or their cattle sick, or their crops to die. There are no such people as witches who ride through the sky on hyenas in the night.’ He made himself glare: ‘And it is a crime to consult a witchdoctor to smell out a witch, because stupid people believe him, and they banish the woman he indicates, and she is homeless. And very often she takes her own life. That is a terrible thing, old man!’
Elijah said nothing.
Mahoney breathed. ‘The cattle are thin.’ He looked up at the cloudless sky. ‘How much have you paid the witchdoctor, to make the rains come?’
Elijah shifted uncomfortably. It was no good to lie. ‘Each man paid thirty cents, Nkosi.’
Ten men, three dollars, his labour force had just been defrauded of three dollars. What was he going to do about that? Make the witchdoctor give the money back? Drive him off his property? He sighed. No. It would shock and embarrass Elijah, terrify his labourers, show contempt for the peoples’ customs which he certainly did not feel. He looked up at the starry sky again. ‘I see no clouds.’
Elijah stared at his bony knees. Then he said uncomfortably: ‘Does the Nkosi remember my bull, which he wanted to buy for two hundred dollars?’
Mahoney remembered. It was a good animal. He had offered several times to buy it, because he needed another bull and Elijah’s land was over-grazed. The old man shifted. ‘I will sell him to you for fifty dollars …’
Mahoney looked at him. ‘Fifty? Why? Is he sick?’
‘Ah,’ Elijah said, ‘he is very sick.’
Mahoney sighed. He did not want to buy more cattle, if he was emigrating. He said, ‘Have no more to do with witchdoctors. Where is this bull?’
‘I have brought him to your cattle pen,’ the old man said.
Mahoney got up resignedly, fetched his rifle, and followed the old man to the cattle pen beyond the eucalyptus trees.
The animal was sick all right. It was very thin, its head hanging. Mahoney knew what was wrong with it; because the native land was overstocked, it had eaten something bad. It would not live. He said wearily, ‘Fifty dollars?’
He counted out the notes. Elijah clapped his hands and took them. Mahoney regretfully walked to the bull’s head. He raised the rifle. There was a deafening crack, and the animal collapsed.
‘Cut it up, and hang it, then put it in my deep freeze, as ration-meat for your family.’
‘Thank you, Nkosi!’
Mahoney looked at the dead bull; the blood was making a tinkling sound. He said, ‘Elijah, your land is over-grazed. You could have sold this animal last year for two hundred dollars.’ He looked at him. ‘Why did you not sell him to me then?’
Elijah looked genuinely surprised, then held up his hand.
‘Nkosi, how much money have I got in my hand today?’
Mahoney looked at him. ‘Fifty dollars.’
Elijah held up the handful of money, and shook it.
‘And if I had sold him to you last year, how much money would I have in my hand today?’
Mahoney stared at him. Then shook his head, and laughed.
The sky was full of stars. From the labour compound came the sound of a drum, the rise and fall of singing. The Company Law brief was spread on his study table, but Mahoney sat on the verandah of the womanless house, staring out at the moonlight, listening to the singing; and, oh no, he did not want to leave his Africa. Maybe he should have stayed a Nature Commissioner in the bush, with people who needed men of goodwill like him; to help them, to judge them, to show them how to rotate their crops and put back something into the land, how to improve their cattle; someone who knew all their troubles, who attended their indabas and counselled them, the representative of Kweeni, Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God, Queen, Defender of the Faith … Maybe that was his natural role, to serve – and God knows thev’ll need men like me for the next two hundred years …
‘And if I had sold him to you last year, how much money would I have in my hand today, Nkosi?’ Oh, dear, this is Africa. Today! Today the Winds of Change have driven the white man away. Today we have his roads and railways and schools and hospitals. Today we have fifty dollars … And tomorrow when the roads start crumbling and the sewerage does not work any more, that has nothing whatsoever to do with today.
Joe Mahoney paced his verandah in the moonlight. It was so sad. Africa was dying, but not in the name of Partnership anymore like in those big brave days of Operation Noah, but in the name of Today. And tomorrow the new prime minister will be President-for-Life of a one-party state and there will be no more One Man One Vote, and the roads will be breaking up and the railways breaking down. And he heard Max shout: ‘Then why the hell do you want to give them more power?’
‘Because that’s the only way we can win the war and hang on to just enough!’
But that is only half the godawful story of the dying of Africa, Shelagh. The other half is even more godawful. Because the African counts his wealth in wives and cattle, and in daughters whom he sells as brides for more cattle – his standing is counted by the number of children he has. Twenty years ago there were two hundred million Africans in the whole of Africa, today there are four hundred million, in twenty years there’ll be eight hundred million – and they can’t even feed themselves now.
So what’s it going to be like in twenty years? But even that’s not all. What about the forests these starving millions are going to slash trying to feed themselves? What about the earth that’s going to turn to dust because they’ve sucked everything out and put nothing back? What about the rain that won’t come because the forests are gone? And what about the wild animals? Where are they going to go? The African word for game is nyama, the same word as ‘meat’!
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man. He turned. Another figure followed. It was Elijah, followed by the witchdoctor. Elijah raised his hand. ‘The nganga wishes to speak with Nkosi.’
Mahoney sighed. He thought the man had gone. ‘Let him speak, then.’
The witchdoctor came forward, dropped to his haunches, his hands clasped. He shook them, muttering, then flung them open. The bones scattered on the ground.
Mahoney stared down at them. And for a moment he felt the age-old awe at being in the. presence of the medicine-man. The witchdoctor looked at the bones; then he picked them up, rattled them again, and threw them again. He stared at them.
He threw them a third time. For a full minute he studied them; then he began to point. At one, then another, muttering. Mahoney waited, in suspense. Then the man rocked back on his haunches, closed his eyes. For a minute he rocked. Then he began. ‘There are three women. They all have yellow hair … But the first woman is a ghost. She is dead …’
Mahoney was astonished. Suzie. …
‘The second woman has an unhappy spirit. This woman, you must not marry.’
Mahoney’s heart was pounding. The witchdoctor could know about Shelagh from Elijah, but not about Suzie.
‘The third woman …’ The witchdoctor stopped, his eyes closed, rocking on his haunches. ‘She has the