the night in the bush.’
‘Do you remember the old prospectors that used to come to the farm? They lived out in the bush all the time.’
‘Of course I remember. You don’t forget a thing like that. Perhaps that’s what I should have done. I often wonder if I’ve lived my life right. I should have been in the bush.’
‘But you have been in the bush.’
‘No, I mean really. They had a pan for gold, a rifle and a blanket. They lived off the bush.’
‘And most of them died of malaria or blackwater fever.’
‘That’s all right. Who cares about dying? I don’t.’
‘Do you remember many of them weren’t ordinary prospectors? Some were men who had lost their jobs in the Slump, and they put their wives into some job in the town where they could have the children, usually matrons or housekeepers or something, and they went off to live in the bush till things got better.’
‘No. But it makes sense. Good for them.’
‘I’m sure Daddy would have been happy living off the bush. If he hadn’t been so ill all the time. Do you remember how he used to get fed up with socializing at Sports Days and he lay down under the blue gums and looked up at the sky, and Mother was quite frantic, and said he was letting the side down. And you were embarrassed too.’
‘I wasn’t. I couldn’t have been. I always do that in the bush. I lie on my back looking at the sky. After a few minutes the birds and the animals–well, what birds and animals are still left–they forget all about you. You could be a stone or a bush. Once a yellow cobra went past about five feet away. He didn’t care about me.’
‘Do you remember…?’
‘No. And you don’t remember how…?’
‘No.’
‘And you really don’t remember when…’
‘No I don’t, I’m afraid.’
At nine o’clock Harry said he was off to bed. He had drunk the exact amount to make him sleep. He didn’t sleep easily these days, he said. He wasn’t going to lie awake thinking all those thoughts…the doctor had given him a prescription, but he wasn’t going to take all that chemical rubbish. Brandy was much better for you.
I said I never slept before twelve or one. He said, ‘You will here. You can watch the television if you like…but the Affs, they can’t run anything, let alone television.’ He glared at me, standing in the doorway, a glass in his hand, his thumb just above the level of the brandy, like a reminder to himself. He couldn’t bear to put off what had been at the back of his mind while we talked, just as it had at mine, and now he delivered a monologue, in a hot, angry, frustrated bitter voice, and it was exactly the same as the one I had listened to only last night, on the plane, from the race-horse breeder.
‘Your precious Africans, what is the first thing they do? They take over our Government House, and install President Banana, Banana, what a name, and he hasn’t been in it a week before he has chickens running all over the gardens, our gardens, and all his friends and relations are camped in the place, like a kraal. The next thing is, the place is surrounded by a high fence. Young Jack, from the next farm, but he’s Taken the Gap now, went and threw in some chicken feed through the wire, and shouted Cluck, cluck, cluck, bloody peasants, peasants in Government House. And Mugabe, Comrade Mugabe, he goes around in a motorcade with armed guards, and if someone doesn’t get out of the way quick enough, they get shot. Our Prime Ministers didn’t need to go around in a motorcade with armed escorts, they didn’t have anything to be afraid of. And inefficient…they can’t get anything right…let me tell you…and let me tell you another thing…yes, and that’s not all.’ It goes on and on, and ends: ‘They’re inferior to us, and that’s all there is to it.’
‘It might strike some people as rather touching and even wonderful that the first black President when he moves into Government House, that is, into the symbol
‘Do you remember the old prospectors that used to come to the farm? They lived out in the bush all the time.’
‘Of course I remember. You don’t forget a thing like that. Perhaps that’s what I should have done. I often wonder if I’ve lived my life right. I should have been in the bush.’
‘But you have been in the bush.’
‘No, I mean really. They had a pan for gold, a rifle and a blanket. They lived off the bush.’
‘And most of them died of malaria or blackwater fever.’
‘That’s all right. Who cares about dying? I don’t.’
‘Do you remember many of them weren’t ordinary prospectors? Some were men who had lost their jobs in the Slump, and they put their wives into some job in the town where they could have the children, usually matrons or housekeepers or something, and they went off to live in the bush till things got better.’
‘No. But it makes sense. Good for them.’
‘I’m sure Daddy would have been happy living off the bush. If he hadn’t been so ill all the time. Do you remember how he used to get fed up with socializing at Sports Days and he lay down under the blue gums and looked up at the sky, and Mother was quite frantic, and said he was letting the side down. And you were embarrassed too.’
‘I wasn’t. I couldn’t have been. I always do that in the bush. I lie on my back looking at the sky. After a few minutes the birds and the animals–well, what birds and animals are still left–they forget all about you. You could be a stone or a bush. Once a yellow cobra went past about five feet away. He didn’t care about me.’
‘Do you remember…?’
‘No. And you don’t remember how…?’
‘No.’
‘And you really don’t remember when…’
‘No I don’t, I’m afraid.’
At nine o’clock Harry said he was off to bed. He had drunk the exact amount to make him sleep. He didn’t sleep easily these days, he said. He wasn’t going to lie awake thinking all those thoughts…the doctor had given him a prescription, but he wasn’t going to take all that chemical rubbish. Brandy was much better for you.
I said I never slept before twelve or one. He said, ‘You will here. You can watch the television if you like…but the Affs, they can’t run anything, let alone television.’ He glared at me, standing in the doorway, a glass in his hand, his thumb just above the level of the brandy, like a reminder to himself. He couldn’t bear to put off what had been at the back of his mind while we talked, just as it had at mine, and now he delivered a monologue, in a hot, angry, frustrated bitter voice, and it was exactly the same as the one I had listened to only last night, on the plane, from the race-horse breeder.
‘Your precious Africans, what is the first thing they do? They take over our Government House, and install President Banana, Banana, what a name, and he hasn’t been in it a week before he has chickens running all over the gardens, our gardens, and all his friends and relations are camped in the place, like a kraal. The next thing is, the place is surrounded by a high fence. Young Jack, from the next farm, but he’s Taken the Gap now, went and threw in some chicken feed through the wire, and shouted Cluck, cluck, cluck, bloody peasants, peasants in Government House. And Mugabe, Comrade Mugabe, he goes around in a motorcade with armed guards, and if someone doesn’t get out of the way quick enough, they get shot. Our Prime Ministers didn’t need to go around in a motorcade with armed escorts, they didn’t have anything to be afraid of. And inefficient…they can’t get anything right…let me tell you…and let me tell you another thing…yes, and that’s not all.’ It goes on and on, and ends: ‘They’re inferior to us, and that’s all there is to it.’
‘It might strike some people as rather touching and even wonderful that the first black President when he moves into Government House, that is, into the symbol
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