Books

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The Love and Wisdom Crimes
BY RUTH HARTLEY
A coming of age adventure story about a young woman who discovers that, in apartheid South Africa, it is dangerous to love a revolutionary and a crime to love someone black.
Trying to make sense of her past and her present, Jane visits the South Africa of her youth and finds that the conflicts of her life then have their echo in her life now.
An accompanying book of poetry, The Spiral-Bound Notebooks, contains the poems that inspired this novel.
Read Excerpt...The Love and Wisdom Crimes
By Ruth Hartley
"It’s a strange business being a writer. I want my readers to live inside my stories and experience them as reality and as stories that feel ‘true’ even though they are fictional inventions. This remains the case even when I take my own life experiences and rework them into a new story. It’s odd that my novels set in the time of my youth slot into the genre of historical fiction. That seems absurd to me, though probably not to my children. When I write a novel, I’m creating a world and I have to make all the characters true to themselves."Ruth Hartley
"Deft, impressive writing, evocative of place and time in which political dangers lie hidden like land mines"



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The Spiral-Bound Notebooks
BY RUTH HARTLEY
"My notebooks contain not just the marks of a pen, but the living memories that glued me and my soul together as I journeyed through life. I really don’t know how they survived for so long. Sometimes all that a refugee or a migrant can carry from home are the words and music of a song.
Most of the poems in this chapbook come from my life in South Africa but some were written in secret during my married life in Zambia. I hid them away in a blue folder in the spare room that doubled as my sewing room and writing study.
Perhaps it is in these private creative spaces that our human freedoms are made and preserved?"
Read excerptThe Spiral-Bound Notebooks
By Ruth Hartley
"Many of the poems ... recall this time of unrest and confusion in South Africa. Through them Ruth captures the feel of the country, the poverty, the damage, the loss of freedom, she mixes her fear and anger at the time with images of the Africa she had grown to love. There were times when she feared for her life due to her close connection with the anti-Apartheid movement."Kate Rose, Bonjour Limousin

"I began to write poetry in spiral-bound stenography notebooks while at university in South Africa. It was a way of resisting apartheid but also of discovering who I was and wanted to become. Poetry can be an intense and economic diary. The notebooks came too when I ran away to London and by some miracle are still with me today. They remained hidden for long years until their ideas germinated into more poetry, my novel, The Love and Wisdom Crimes and my memoir, When I Was Bad"
Ruth Hartley

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When I Was Bad
BY RUTH HARTLEY
In the 1930s George Bernard Shaw's black girl searches for God, but settles down in a garden with an Irish socialist. In 1966 I was the bad white girl — an unmarried mother and a criminal according to the laws of South Africa.
My 1996-1997 memoir of love and exile starts on Victoria Station. Exile is not a word on paper but a lived experience. It is a lonely, bitter place of loss and nostalgia, as I had yet to find out. It’s the opposite of home. I was exiling myself to a place I didn’t know, where I had no friends or relatives. Exile is not a holiday trip. You can’t travel back from it. Exile is loss; it’s a version of dying.
I wasn’t sure whether my family would cast me out when they learnt the real reason I was in England. At that moment on Victoria Station it was too late for a change of plan. But I’d never thought that going home was a real option anyway.
Read Excerpt...When I Was Bad
By Ruth Hartley
“A memoir is not a story where the characters are understood from inside to outside by their creator. My memoir is a steamy mirror on which I have drawn a self-portrait with a damp finger. It is supposedly a reflection of what I was, but it can’t be that exactly because it is made by me as I am now. No amount of soul-searching can take me far enough out of myself to objectively describe my actuality. What I do know is that when, pregnant and afraid, I escaped to swinging London, I found that being in love and learning how to be a loving mother and person was considerably more complicated than I had imagined.” Ruth Hartley



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The Tin Heart Gold Mine
BY RUTH HARTLEY
Heart of Darkness and Lust for Life collide as the Cold War in Africa gets hot.
Lara, the artist, loves Oscar, a suave, older entrepreneur, and owner of the Tin Heart Gold Mine. She also loves Tim, a journalist seeking truth.
The Tin Heart Gold Mine is a dramatic story, about vibrant, intriguing characters passionate about art, love, the making of money and the African bush, whose lives become entangled in war and politics.
How well do we ever know the people we love?
Read excerptThe Tin Heart Gold Mine
By Ruth Hartley
The Tin Heart Gold Mine is on the surface a story of an artist in Africa seeking a personal strategy for fulfilment. On her way, she encounters idealistic foreign correspondent, Tim, and Oscar, an older man with a mysterious past. But, deeper than that, it is a story of betrayal, hard choices, personal and social violence. At the end you are left with doubt — Will Tim come back? Can Oscar really be dead? and who is the father of Lara’s child? A fascinating read!John Corley
Ruth Hartley on Talk Radio Europe, Spain, March 2017

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The Shaping of Water
BY RUTH HARTLEY
As ideals and dreams founder on the rocks of political realities, three couples and a mother and son search for ways to keep the faith.
The vast man-made Lake Kariba in Zambia is built on political and geological fault lines. Built to generate power and maintain colonial power, it drowns a valley and displaces Milimo and his mother Natombi. Charles and Margaret love the lake and their holiday cottage on its shore, but their way of life is endangered. Marielise and Jo take respite at the cottage from their exhausting battle against apartheid. Manda and Nick confront their damaged relationship.
They are all connected by a secret known only to the priest, Father Patrick.
Read Excerpt...The Shaping of Water
By Ruth Hartley
The Shaping of Water is a very good read. Interconnected lives are affected by a single act; the creation of the Kariba dam. The unintended consequence is an altered ecosystem and the separation of populations and countries. ... Visitors leave their names and comments in the guest book of a cottage on the lake shore. The water level rises and falls and the natural world of plants and birds is woven into the story in brilliant passages of calm in the midst of turmoil.Polly Loxton (Amazon UK 28/01/14)

The Cottage Guest Book


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The White and Black Blues
BY RUTH HARTLEY
The title story, The White and Black Blues, tells how Tom Waller was born in the wrong skin in Africa.
His friendship with black jazz musicians transforms his life, and takes him on a long journey away from his harsh father and their failing farm in Africa, but he must still discover who he really is “under his skin”.
This story grew out of my memory of the visit of the great Louis Armstrong to Rhodesia in 1960 and the pleasure I have in jazz today.
Read Excerpt...The White and Black Blues
By Ruth Hartley
I released this short story collection to coincide with Marciac Jazz Festival 2016, as a free paperback to promote my novels. The White and Black Blues contains the title story, selections from three novels and a memoir, another short story and a poem. It is now available to purchase on Kindle. "Skokiaan" is a popular tune written by Rhodesian (Zimbabwean) musician August Musarurwa (d. 1968, aka August Msarurgwa) in the tsaba-tsaba big-band style that succeeded marabi. Skokiaan (Chikokiyana in Shona) refers to an illegal self-made alcoholic beverage. Within a year of its 1954 release in South Africa, it reached No. 2 on the USA Cash Box charts. Many artists produced their own interpretations, including Louis Armstrong, who performed it in Rhodesia as recorded in the title story .Ruth Hartley

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The Drought Witch
BY RUTH HARTLEY
A story for children.
The evil Drought Witch swoops down on the farm that is Chipo and Chibwe's home. The crops fail and their father is bewitched.
Afraid of being turned into mice and eaten, the children run away to search for the Wise Woman of the Garden. They ask the Wise Woman to help them fight the Drought Witch. On their quest they have many amazing adventures.
This is a magical story about brave children who make a perilous journey through the heart of modern and magical Africa to save their parents’ farm from drought and climate change.
Read Excerpt...The Drought Witch
By Ruth Hartley
I’m engaged in a major rewrite of my children’s book The Drought Witch. It’s an exciting task expanding a children’s picture book into a novel for 9 to13-year-olds but the interesting work is in the editing and paring down of my words to make them work well. This major commitment is keeping me fully occupied at the moment. I have been mentored by Sandra Glover, a successful children’s author and consultant arranged by Cornerstones Literary Agency. It’s a good experience and my book is taking shape well. Ruth Hartley

MORE INFO

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Hannah's Housekeeping
BY RUTH HARTLEY
Hannah Ball runs a bed and breakfast in her terrace home in a university town. She is divorced for the third time, her children have left home, she is broke and too old to get the kind of work she thinks she deserves.
Hannah has murder on her mind and her ex-husband is missing but, as she cleans up the dirt in her house, she finds herself wondering if she can keep death from her door.
Hannah's Housekeeping
By Ruth Hartley
An NBC News article asks the question, "Do white artists have the right to depict Black pain?" Noting how black and white artists may address the same subject matter, Art professor Dr. Lisa Whittington says, “As artists—responsible artists—we are to speak and to document history. We are to tell about life from our point of view from where we stand.” This story made me question myself again in relation to my work. Must white artists limit themselves to their own culture or their guilt and wrongdoing in relation to other cultures? Who says that this must be so? History? Culture? Society? Can I explore injustice and oppression only if I have the identical experience? How do Germans face up to the Holocaust or South Africans to apartheid? These are questions I want characters in Hannah’s Housekeeping to face. I don’t know the answers.Ruth Hartley

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The Tin Heart Gold Mine
BY RUTH HARTLEY
Excerpt
Chapter Four - The Poachers
Lara returned to Bill and Maria's camp filled with enthusiasm and self-confidence. Jason had arrived a week before her and was busy setting up the summer camp inside the National Park.
“Things don't look good this year.” It was unusual for Bill to look tired at the start of the season but the day was unseasonably hot and the dusty wind irritating. “The rains were very poor. River levels are much too low. The best water holes are drying up. Bush cover is sparse. We are going to have to go further afield before our clients see any game. It is going to be hard work.”
Bill stomped off to see his mechanics service the Cruisers. Lara turned to Maria, who shrugged and sighed.
“There's a big increase in poaching this year. We found elephant carcases everywhere. Machine gunned indiscriminately. They haven't only killed the tuskers – they take out whole families and juveniles. Threatened elephants are dangerous. When we did come across a big herd they were aggressive and we had to drive away very fast.”
She smiled at Lara.
“Well I'm glad to see you – that bad boy Jason will be, too.”
Jason, however, didn't seem as pleased to see Lara as she was to see him. While she was bursting to tell him about her exhibition, Jason was more reticent about his summer. He had learnt a great deal at Hluhluwe with the rhino project but it seemed to have congealed in him rather than opened him up. He said he was pleased that Lara had done well at the exhibition but he didn't want to talk about her commission at the bank.
“How are you going to manage to paint and do the work we need you to do here?”
His words made Lara's chest constrict.
Jason's not my boss - she thought angrily, Bill is okay with how I arrange my time. Besides I am a painter – it's what I do! It’s what I am.
A dull sense told her that Jason didn't much care what she was or did. With that realisation a hard ridge of resistance grew inside her just as, outside the camp in the shrinking river, a band of rocks was being exposed.
Lara and Jason still made love or, as it was beginning to feel to Lara, they had sex. It was more businesslike, over sooner and less satisfying. Lara began to understand that without love and consideration the sexual act didn't amount to much and was quickly forgotten. It was jarring to hear a noisy drunken group of men and women guests at the camp bar laughing and teasing each other about 'ball-breaking nymphomaniacs’ and men with ‘little dicks'. Lara was quite certain that, as a woman and a lover, she did not fit into any category.
A plump white envelope arrived at the camp for Jason.
“Stuff about Hluhluwe,” he said casually and took it away to read it.
Another one, fat as a small pillow followed.
“Pwah! Something here is a bit scented!” Bill said, handing it over.
The grass had died away on the nearest plains and the mupane trees had suffered heavy depredation by elephants. The antelope had moved on in search of new pastures. Bill called in a pilot who made a reconnaissance flight over the park and located more antelope further to the north-east. After consultation with the camp team, Bill sent Jason and Lara out together to explore new game trips that might make it possible to take clients closer to the ever-diminishing game herds. The weather was unpleasant and cold, the sky concreted over with stiff grey clouds, a spiteful wind flapped about, blowing spirals of dust and grit into their eyes. The wind and the Cruiser with Jason and Lara in it were the only things moving in an empty and deserted landscape. There wasn't even sufficient fresh animal dung to attract dung beetles. Without insects there were fewer birds. It was a dismal trip. Jason and Lara hardly spoke to each other. Their words would make too much noise in such an empty world. Soon after midday they parked out of the wind in a sheltered gully to brew some tea and eat sandwiches.
“Let’s take a walk – I need to stretch.” Jason said after half-an-hour. “We'll have a look around from the hilltop.”
Leaving their vehicle they walked up onto the crest of the hill above and raised their binoculars.
“That's a vicious east wind – nothing is likely to scent us from that direction – or hear us either.” Lara said pulling her jacket shut.
There was a sudden rigid alertness in Jason.
“Quick, Lara!” he hissed, “Get down flat on the ground,” and he too dropped down beside her.
“It’s poachers, Lara! I swear to God there's a least fifty of them all loaded up with meat and ivory. They are trekking south-east. If they see us we're dead. We can outrun them in the Cruiser but they'll have long-range bullets and AK 47s so it will be a risk.”
Supporting themselves on their elbows, they looked out at the distant line of men. Against the dull sky, a long line of misshapen black silhouettes trailed slowly across the high ground to their east, some 50 metres distant. They humped great burdens on their shoulders. Some carried loaded litters between them.
“They're moving away from us, thank God!” Jason said.
“You're right – there's forty-three that I can count.” said Lara, “but some of them are very small - just children – I think. There are about six men with elephant tusks. The guys at the front and back of the line have guns and aren't carrying anything.”
“Bastards! They go into isolated villages and get the old men and the young children to porter for them. Sometimes the villagers benefit from the poaching – get some meat maybe – but these kids and old men will walk 100s of kilometres and then have to walk home again. I expect there will be lorries waiting for this meat where the road enters the south-east of the National Park.”
The poachers moved very slowly. They were not expecting to be seen and fortunately for Jason and Lara did not bother to look around themselves at all.
“We're bloody lucky!” Jason said, “They’re not doing any more poaching so they haven't sent out scouts to check out the bush.”
“I expect they know they've driven everything away that they haven't killed.” Lara said.
Lara admitted to herself that she was afraid and fear was enervating. It was strange how fear felt like boredom. She would remember this time years later when boredom and fear seemed the total of her experience.
The poachers trudged on. It was an hour before they vanished from view and another half-hour before Jason risked driving their vehicle out of the gully and turning it for home. They had to race back to arrive at the Park Gate before sunset. The Cruiser jolted and bumped. Lara and Jason did not speak. They both had to concentrate on the road. Jason, in order to not damage the Cruiser, and Lara, so not to be flung about and be herself damaged.
Bill was stony-faced when he heard their news. The camp guests, nervous and thrilled. The necessary action was taken and the poachers were met by Game Guards when they reached the South-Eastern Park Gate. The haul totalled twenty boys, nine old men, some rotting game-meat, three poachers and the six ivory tusks. A number of the poachers had escaped. Most of those caught would hang around the Gate under police guard for some weeks and then be allowed to drift home when there was no more food.
The whole business took up time and energy. It was several days later than scheduled that Bill and Maria sat down with their camp staff to discuss their plans for the coming month.
“Ah, Jason.” Bill said, putting on his reading glasses and taking his pen from behind his ear. “We've received this application for work from um – from Leone Cilliers, your friend from Hluhluwe Game Park. She wants to come here next summer to work.” Bill looked at Jason over the top of his reading glasses. “You know we have a full team complement at the moment, don't you?”
“That's okay, Bill,” Lara said and coughed to clear her throat. “I'll be painting full time next year so I won't be coming back -” She looked at Maria. “I don't think so anyway - sorry Maria.”
Close Excerpt
The Shaping of Water
BY RUTH HARTLEY
Excerpt
12
CHOICES
“I don't think I believed that the lake would actually ever come into existence. That weekend that we all drove down to the valley was such a strange time,” Margaret said.
“When I saw the unfinished dam wall it looked as if it was being broken down, not built up. It was just a row of giant teeth sticking up in a random fashion across the gorge. The water looked so far away and insignificant — no bigger than the earth dam on the farm. I really didn't believe it would amount to anything much — nothing like this!” Margaret gestured at the lake before them as it lay glimmering under a glittering sky. “All that stuff about there being nothing in the valley except tsetse fly — I don't think I believed it. Nothing seemed real to me. Least of all that there would one day be a dam. It all seemed impossible and unlikely, and yet — here we are,” Margaret finished.
“I always believed in it,” Charles laughed. “All those workers slaving away under the tremendous heat. What an achievement! All those hundreds of cement lorries churning up the dust on the escarpment road with poor old Steve trying to overtake them in our terrible old pick-up when he couldn't see one yard ahead.”
“Mmmh — I was scared stiff all the way. The heat was unbearable, I thought I would suffocate from sweat and thick, sandy dust — and then when we got to the Kariba Heights Hotel and you had to rescue me from those Italian workers — I wanted to die!”
“You were so young and innocent — Steve and I didn't realise you had gone into the bar alone and the Italian men obviously thought you were — uh — a — well. We were pretty green also, Steve and me!”
“Really!” Margaret thought for a moment then smiled. “Of course that's what happened! What a fool I was — I had no idea then what a prostitute was, never mind that they lived and worked at Kariba. Is that why you decided to make an honest woman of me that weekend, Charles?”
“Something like that — something like that,” Charles said. “I just wanted to keep you safe for ever — and to keep you all for myself too, before Steve decided that he was going to have you. Darling — I have finished my beer — let me get you another gin.” And he bent and kissed her forehead on his way into the kitchen.
Margaret found herself fretting. When Charles returned she studied her drink, glistening temptingly in its tall glass while the ice clinked and the lemon fizzed and spun, then she turned to him again, wanting to be reassured.
“Charles — did we do enough? Did we try hard enough? Could we have done better? Politically I mean — and also as people?
Sometimes I am so ashamed to be Rhodesian. How did we fail so badly?”
“Of course we didn't do enough! Nobody ever does,” Charles answered, glancing at Margaret and then falling silent for a few moments.
“Could anyone have changed the course of politics in Rhodesia? I don't know. I don't think so. You and I were caught between those whites who would not contemplate a future shared with black people and those who insisted on full rights for blacks at once.
“I'm not black — if I was — maybe I would have not compromised either. I don't feel any sympathy for white people living in Africa who think they can deny black people votes for ever — or even for the immediate future. I have no sympathy for Jacob either — joining an organisation that was ready to use bombs. I do believe that communism is a dangerous threat to the liberty of us all in the west — at least we have freedom of thought and speech.”
“Do we?” said Margaret very quietly. “Do we? They don't have it in South Africa.”
“True,” Charles acknowledged, “but Margaret — one thing I know — we don't escape the consequences of our actions — whatever they are — there is still a long way to go before anything is resolved in this part of the world.”
“It's also been going on for ages,” said Margaret, wanting everything to be better tomorrow just this one time. “Remember the Mau-Mau uprising and in the end in spite of everything, Kenyatta still becomes the president.”
They fell silent, each occupied with their own thoughts.
*
The fifties, when Margaret was at school, were also the years of the Mau-Mau uprising in Kenya. The long and bitter fight for human rights against cruel oppression in colonial Kenya was seen in white Rhodesia as an atavistic murder spree, inflicted only on white people by a savage and primitive minority. The nineteenth century rebellions in Rhodesia against white domination were long over but once Rhodesians heard of the Mau-Mau, a prickling sense of fear and guilt kept everyone looking backwards over their shoulders. At school increasing levels of hysteria and prejudice on all matters to do with race and politics led to arguments and persecutions among the girls. School meals at the boarding house were served up by African waiters who also did the domestic work and gardening. To the white schoolgirls, they were nameless, worthless skivvies who were mostly ignored, but were verbally abused whenever their presence brought them close enough.
“While I am a prefect no one on my table will call a waiter ‘kaffir’.”
The words came out clear and firm. Margaret's elocution was good. She was well-taught. Still she was surprised that she had managed to speak those words and that she was audible. She also expected an immediate rude response but the girls in her charge were taken aback. So surprised in fact that no one questioned her or challenged her, or insulted a waiter while she was on duty again. Margaret would be called a 'kaffir-boetjie' behind her back from now on but she had realised, in that instant when Leonie jeered at Simba, that she had to take charge or give up forever and listen in misery to the daily diet of racism that was dished out to the men who served her food.
Simba, a tall ungainly man with huge feet, was standing at Margaret's table holding a tray of banana and jam sandwiches when Leonie, a child of fourteen, said to him,
“Hey kaffir — take the dog food away!” Then she had laughed.
Simba wanted to kill Leonie. The blood roared in his ears. He turned and walked back to the kitchen, blind and deaf with rage. Afterwards he was not sure what he had heard Margaret say though another waiter, a young boy called Thomas who was the same age as Margaret, said it was true. Simba did not care anymore. He was filled with hatred. It was devouring him. At night the girls above in the dormitories heard him shouting at the other workers in the servants’ quarters. He raved in ChiShona about raping white girls. They understood the hatred in his voice but not his words, nevertheless it stopped them sleeping. Simba knew he frightened them. He knew if they complained about the noise he made he would lose his job, but he was growing tired of the sickening taste of bitterness. He would leave his job in the government school anyway. He would go to the mines of the Northern Rhodesia Copperbelt. They said the money was good there. They said the white mine-workers were the worst sort of racists — cruel bullies — all 'boers' from South Africa but at least they would be men and he would not be ashamed to want to kill them.
The ill-treatment of servants took place at school meals every day. It continued at every table except Margaret's until she left school two years later. Then of course it began again and increased in viciousness. That was the year the right wing political party of Ian Smith began its campaign with a poster asking:
'DO YOU WANT YOUR DAUGHTER TO MARRY AN AFRICAN?'
It was printed over a photograph taken at an International Girl Guide Jamboree that showed children of all races running in a race together.
Nothing in Rhodesia was changed by Margaret's action except herself. She had crossed a line. She did not think that her action was political. She was not political. Politics was for men. Margaret had only done what her father would have expected of her. She had insisted on good manners. It was important to treat people well and with respect, especially if they had less power and less of everything that she did. It appeared to Margaret after that school meal, that the speed of political change in Rhodesia quickened and moved dramatically to the right. It seemed to her to be moving more and more towards a solution like that of South African Apartheid. Since that evening, nothing offered hope.
*
With a sigh, Margaret returned to the present, to the warm evening and the sound of the lake and Charles by her side. The boys, Michael and Richard, were asleep on the bunk beds, tired after a day spent swimming and fishing and scrambling along the shore in search of legavaans, snakes and scorpions.
It was more than five years since Rhodesia under its Prime Minister, Ian Smith, had made its Unilateral Declaration of Independence. He had decided only six months before to shut the borders between Rhodesia and Zambia because, he said, of the support offered to dissident political groups like Joshua Nkomo's ZAPU by the President of Zambia. Margaret turned to Charles.
“Have you any guesses about what will happen next in Rhodesia?”
Charles very slowly shook his head once, twice, then again.
“Bloodshed,” he said quietly. “There will be bloodshed.”
Below Charles and Margaret the waters of Lake Kariba chewed ceaselessly at the shoreline, gnawing and regurgitating, smoothing and scouring, claiming an empire, reshaping an ancient geology with a million new forms of life as it explored the dam's creations of mud and crevice and beach and depth. On and on and on went the moving waters, invading, colonising, subjugating, populating and changing forever the largest valley in Africa.
*
Below the dam wall, in the deep cool shadowed night of the Kariba Gorge, there were a few quiet splashes on the river, a fish perhaps taken by a giant orange fishing owl; a stalking crocodile sliding its snout up onto the bank as a duiker or bush buck made its shy, delicate way to the water's edge for a drink. The shrilling of the cicadas seemed to make an unending chain of noise but to any experienced listeners in the bush there were momentary missing links in the sounds. There were abrupt silences where suddenly stealthy rustles could be heard as they shifted carefully onwards until the next cicada fell silent and the last one joined its racket to that of its fellow creature all over again.
Simba's young friend Thomas and his cousin Jonas, were making their way northwards into Zambia. They had come across the Kariba gorge to find the ZAPU encampments and join the liberation struggle. A Tonga fisherman ferried them over the Zambezi in his bwato. The fisherman was wearing a traditional mubeso loincloth over his deformed and rigid hip. His teeth were filed into points. Around his neck was a mpande shell on a beaded string. He said that long ago a hippo cow whose path he crossed had almost broken him in half with one bite. He always laughed when he told this story. He had been young and foolish then but he had lived. He liked to be in his bwato as he found it hard to walk. His name was Mafwafwa: the one who has escaped death.
At the other end of the lake in the rapids of the headwaters of the dam, Simba was crossing back into Rhodesia with a group of guerrillas. They too were helped over the rapids by Tonga fishermen in their bwatos.
Simba had been recruited by ZAPU cadres while he was living in the Copperbelt. He had not wanted to join ZAPU but his rage against whites had never abated and he had not been able to keep any jobs in Zambia. The cadres took him to Tanzania and from there he was taken to China for three months' training. He was an intelligent, independent and argumentative recruit but he had good reason. The Rhodesian Security Forces were well established in the bush in Hwange district south of the Zambian border. Their kill rate for ZAPU insurgents was very high. Simba said that ordering regular army-style groups of the liberation army unsupported by the local villagers into this area could not win the war and they would all be killed. He and others guerrillas who said the same thing were right, as their leader, Herbert Chitepo, back in Lusaka would eventually have to admit.
Simba was going to his death at the hands of the Rhodesian soldiers. Before he died however, Simba would become a legend for his fearlessness and his rage.
*
Charles and Margaret and the two boys slept well that night. The weather was not too hot and they were at peace with their lives for the moment. Charles as usual got up at sunrise but half-an-hour earlier, a village Headman was banging on the door of the Siavonga Clinic. Before the bemused doctor from the power station construction company understood why he was wanted, he was being rushed into the bush in the direction of Sinazongwe. A group of local Tonga villagers had accidentally walked into the land mines laid around a ZAPU camp. There were four dead men and one who, apparently uninjured, was in shock and dying and would not survive the trip in the Land Rover back to the clinic.
No one ever did explain to anyone's satisfaction, who the land mines were set to trap and why.
Close Excerpt
The White and Black Blues
BY RUTH HARTLEY
Excerpt
RUZAWI
I was inside the wrong outside. The idea struck me while Dad was boozing in the Ruzawi Clubhouse bar and I was lounging in the shade of a lucky-bean tree with Ted.
“Your Dad’s a waste of white skin,” Ted said.
He flicked his cigarette next to my bare toes and watched my expression as he ground the stub into the red dust. No way could I rescue that stompjie to share with Patrick. Ted had been Dad’s farm assistant until he took him on in a shouting match. Bad call. Dad is the absolute best champion shouter. He can outlast a thunderstorm and still shower you with spittle. Ted got the sack and Dad ferried him to the clubhouse so he could cadge a lift back to the city.
Dad wasn’t much good as a farmer but did the colour of his skin matter? Most of his visible bits weren't white but the sour lemon yellow colour of the first leaves of the tobacco harvest. The edges of him, fingers, teeth and face were the rusty brown of the last tobacco leaves that his black labourers hand-picked. Dad didn’t need much skin. He was a little bloke with a chesty cough and wire coat-hangers for shoulders bent round a shirt pocket rigid with cigarettes.
Patrick’s father, the Reverend Nkole, was the opposite in size, colour, and big-heartedness to Dad. He was a pastor in the Tribal Trust land where Patrick went to the local mission school. At weekends Patrick did odd jobs and skivvied for the Ruzawi club manager. He couldn’t swim, play tennis or come into the clubhouse because he was just an African. I was with my Dad in case he got plastered and I had to drive him home. I was too young to have a driving licence but I did it anyway. I could swim if I wanted but there were usually only little kids and their mums there and that embarrassed me.
It’s obviously better to have a white skin on a Rhodesian farm but I wondered how skin could be wasted on anyone. It pretty much fits unless you are so old that it’s loose and scraggy. My Mum‘s skin is soft and sags. When she's tired makes me afraid she'll burst into bits. I personally don’t have spare skin. Like Dad I'm short, bony and sharp-featured. My skin is brown with scabs on my knees and bruises on my arms. I don't think my skin defines me though – like – did I choose it? I bet if Dad was a snake and shed his skin it would still smell of sweat and beer. If I was a chrysalis I wouldn't be a butterfly I'd be a bug that had outgrown its case. I'd like to be a flying insect but it doesn't look as if I'll get bigger anyway. If I cut my skin it hurts and I bleed. One of our workers ripped the skin off his leg on a ploughshare. He yelled but my Dad swore at him and he went quiet. I stared at the blood running over his foot and between his toes. Underneath his dusty black skin his flesh was exactly the same pinkish-red colour as my grazed knees.
Ted got a lift to town with a farmer who needed to buy equipment. He chucked his bag into the back of the pick-up, clambered in and was gone without even saying tot siens. I wandered into the clubhouse. Dad wouldn't be leaving any time soon and Patrick was busy scooping leaves from the swimming pool. An old piano, lid open, stood by the platform that served as a stage and band stand. I tapped at the keys softly. One or two only clacked and others sounded wrong. We don't listen to music at home. Mum has forgotten how to play Beethoven's 'Für Elise'. Dad has a record of something he calls 'Swing' by Harry James which I mustn’t touch. At boarding school in the free hour after prep, students sometimes bash out a mad version of Chopsticks. It sounds great. I would love to play the piano but no way will I admit it to anyone and especially not to Dad.
Dad was in a bad mood because of drink and the fact Ted had gone. He shouted at me for the first half of the drive home. I was a waste of space he said. I was always wasting time he said so natch I told him what Ted had said about him. Of course he slammed on the brakes and told me I could bloody walk the 5 miles home. He clouted me across my ear for “good measure”, something he often said when thrashing me.
I waited for the car's dust trail to settle before I followed. It was still very hot and I was majorly thirsty but I didn’t dare hang about. It gets dark really fast in the bush and though the farmers say they have shot all the lions you never know for sure and leopards can be extra sneaky animals and appear just where you don’t expect them.
The sky was turning grey and I had goose pimples and a prickly feeling down my back when I heard a car behind me. I wasn’t sure whether to hide or not. It would be humiliating to have to explain why I had been dumped on the road. From the racket the car made I reckoned that it was a crappy old banger and probably belonged to a local African. Africans can sometimes be really kind, especially to kids, so I stood up and looked hopeful. It wouldn’t do to arrive back home too soon but I could wait in the tractor shed till I judged it was about the time it would have taken to walk there. The car stopped, my friend Patrick waved out the window and his father, the Reverend Nkole, climbed out and wrapped me in thick tweed-covered arms. Now I was embarrassed because I sussed that the dust from Dad’s car had got smeared on my face with my tears and boys my age aren’t supposed to cry.
“Dad's punishing me,” I explained when Reverend Nkole offered me a lift. The Reverend considered.
“I'm visiting the next farm. We’ll drop you home afterwards.”
At the farm compound there was a celebration going on and the Reverend blessed everyone. The women brought orange squash and bread buns for the Reverend and gave some to me as well though not to Patrick. I suppose it was because I was white that I counted the same as the Reverend to them for food, but it felt wrong. Patrick and I are the same under our skin so I shared my bun and drink with him.
I began to feel happy. The workers clapped their hands, swayed their bodies and stamped their feet in rhythm to the drumming. Everyone sang. Everyone knew how to fit their voices together in different ways that matched, even when their voices were higher or lower than each other. I don’t know how to describe what they did or how they did it but I could hear that it was simple, and easy, complicated and right. I began trying to rock my body and shuffle my feet along with everyone there.
“Shame.” Patrick said, “White people can’t sing and dance like us Africans.”
I knew why he thought that. White people don’t sing and dance as they work.
“I’ll show you.” I answered and we laughed and together started to stick our bums out and slap our feet onto the soft dirt in a sound and rhythm pattern.
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When I was Bad
BY RUTH HARTLEY
Excerpt
1
ARRIVAL
On April Fool’s Day 1966 I arrived in London.
The strangers who were my travelling companions from the Dover ferry had dozed in silence all the way to Victoria Station. When the train stopped it jolted them from their seats and into such swift action that the platform rapidly emptied. I had been so successful in not drawing attention to myself on the journey that none of the passengers even glanced at me as they disappeared off to their own lives. I felt I was being abandoned. I didn’t have a life waiting for me. I might be carrying a life inside me and I was certainly hoping to find a life, but what kind of life did someone like me deserve? I was someone who had secrets. I was someone whose actions defined me as bad.
Where were the public payphones? Exhausted and cold, I didn’t know where to look. The walk past the stationary train seemed unending. The ridged handle of my leather suitcase cut into my frozen fingers. It was much too heavy. There weren’t any porters that I could see. I wasn’t used to carrying my own luggage and nobody offered to help me. In Rhodesia and South Africa there had always been plenty of black porters on the stations. I began to regret that Alan Wilson and I had swapped suitcases. He wanted my larger lighter case for his plane journey to Israel. I took his smaller heavier case to be helpful and so I could hold onto something of his. The case was my mascot. It was a connection with my vanishing past and the political training Alan had given me. When we made the exchange back in Natal, I hadn’t imagined that I’d have to use it to travel to Great Britain.
“The revolution will take another 10 years,” Alan had said to me at about the same time. “It can’t happen any sooner.”
I must have nodded my head slowly while I considered what that meant. I had no idea what shape a revolution might take or how I could recognise it, but it was obvious that Alan and I couldn’t make one on our own. There didn’t seem to be anyone left in South Africa who wanted racial equality and freedom. They were all in prison or exile or dead like Suliman Saloojee. Since his estimate of how long the revolution would take Alan had gone to Israel to wait for it and I had moved to Cape Town. Now I, too, was going into exile and not because of any brave political actions but because of sex and love and because I was bad. The South African revolution might now be only 9 years away, but I wouldn’t be there waiting for it.
The Drought Witch
BY RUTH HARTLEY
Excerpt
THE FARM IN THE GREEN VALLEY
Deep in the heart of Africa, in a green fertile valley lived a strong hard-working farmer called Simon and his kind and sensible wife, Dorcas.
Simon and Dorcas had a son called Adam and a daughter called Constance. Adam helped Simon herd his sleek cattle and Constance helped Dorcas weed her maize and vegetable garden. The children were good friends and would go together to fetch water from the river or hunt for firewood in the forest.
One day after the first rain of summer had fallen the whole family went to the fields to prepare the earth for their crops of millet and tobacco. Before Simon could hitch his two best oxen to the plough there was a noise like the rushing and crackling of a bush-fire and a huge, dusty whirlwind swept down the valley towards them. Simon and Dorcas told the children to run for shelter but Adam and Constance hid by the Ilala palm to watch the wind blow grass and leaves high into the sky. They laughed as the whirlwind passed because it snatched a piece of red Chitenge cloth from the Boma fence where it was hung out to dry.
Suddenly they saw an evil witch riding in the centre of the storm among the dust and debris. She was all bones and lizard skins with the glowing eyes of an owl. Constance and Adam were shocked and frightened but before they could do anything the witch blew sand in their faces so that they could not see what she did or where she went.
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The Spiral-Bound Notebooks
BY RUTH HARTLEY
Excerpt
APARTHEID
the thick green grasses above
the sweating vlei looking for dead bodies.
Under some compulsion
I went out among the rich fields
where the song birds spill their sweetness
among the choking scent of lilies. ...
I wrote this while at the University of Cape Town and living in Baxter Hall during my first year in South Africa. Cape Town was very beautiful but it was not long after the 1961 Sharpeville Massacre. As a child I had fallen into a vlei (a seasonal pond or marsh) of stinking mud when I went to pick arum lilies. "Lilies that fester smell much worse than weeds." Sonnet 94 by William Shakespeare.
The Love and Wisdom Crimes
BY RUTH HARTLEY
Excerpt
"Someone close to them will inevitably be a police informer," Dan warned Jane. "See if you can guess who it is. Find out their name. Don't draw attention to yourself; Just don't get involved in political discussions while you are there!"
She did not get to ask Dan about Marxism and love because the next day at 10 o'clock in the morning, Dan was arrested by Special Branch.
...
Jane had grown up into the landscape of South Africa as it was being destroyed by apartheid. She had grown up into a landscape of hearts broken by apartheid and now she knew her own heart was breaking. Dan was going to a secret destination and she could not expect to hear from him again. He had said that he would not be able to stay in touch. Perhaps he did not choose to be in touch.
Jane thought how her life was fragmenting, how she did not know the ends of anyone’s stories and maybe never would. She thought how she could not know the truth about anyone now or ever. She did not know the truth about Dan.
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