Dictator

8

They called themselves war veterans, men who had served in the endless string of conflicts, at home and abroad, that plagued Malemba along with so many other African countries. They were psychologically scarred by their experiences, filled with rage and convinced of their entitlement to land and money in compensation for their services to the state.

When they’d finished their deadly work, they pulled the Hilux back out of the river, restarted the engine and made their way back to the acacia grove. There, the raiding team split in two, four of the men taking the Strattens’ Land Rover as they headed towards the estate house. They paused once along the way to meet another pick-up filled with more armed veterans, then, reinforced, they sped towards their destination.

Zalika Stratten had tried to protest when her father ordered her into the family’s underground shelter, hidden beneath a workshop some distance from the main house. Contact had been lost with Andy and his men. Word had come in from an outlying village of a truck of armed men on the move. In a country inured to armed insurgency, people were used to preparing for the worst. Like many white women in southern Africa, Zalika had taken every self-defence and weapons training course she could get. It was a given among her race and class that they, too, were an endangered species.

‘I know how to handle a gun,’ she insisted, ‘let me fight!’

Her father was having none of it. ‘For once in your life, Zalika, do as you are told!’ he shouted, grabbing her by the arm and half-dragging her towards her only hope of safety.

‘Come on, darling, you know this is for the best,’ said Jacqui. ‘Daddy doesn’t want to have to worry about us.’

The shelter was well supplied with food, water, basic survival gear and even a couple of rifles. The women clambered through a hatch and down a ladder into the underground chamber, then looked up at Stratten, who was on his haunches above them.

‘You know the drill,’ he said. ‘Stay here. Do not make any noise. Do not use any of the torches or lanterns. If all goes well, I will come for you. If it does not, then wait until nightfall, and try to get out under cover of dark.’

‘Oh Dick!’ cried Jacqui, her composure finally starting to crack.

‘It’s all right, my dear,’ said Stratten, trying to keep his own fear from his voice. ‘Don’t you worry now. Everything’s going to be just fine.’ He paused for a second, forcing his emotions back under control, then said, ‘I love you both so very, very much,’ before he closed the hatch.

‘Daddy!’ shouted Zalika in the darkness. But her father was already gone.

Down in the shelter, the women were aware of the trucks’ arrival. They heard the firing of the guns, the screams of the fearful and the wounded, and the frenetic shouts of the fighting men. Then, as swiftly as a passing storm, the gunfire abated and the screaming gave way to a few agonized moans, swiftly silenced by single shots. Finally came a crash as the workshop door was barged open, followed by four quick, confident footsteps heading straight for the hatch.

For a fraction of a second hope flickered in the women’s hearts as they stood in the darkness, each gripping a rifle. Whoever was up there was not blundering around. They knew exactly what they were doing. That could only mean Dick Stratten, or one of the very few family retainers who were trusted enough to know about the shelter.

Then the hatch was flung open and a disembodied voice – a refined, educated voice – commanded them, ‘Put down your guns. They are of no help to you now. My men have hand-grenades. If you do not leave the shelter within the next ten seconds, unarmed, holding on to the ladder with both hands, they will blow you to pieces. Ten… nine…’

‘You two-faced little shit,’ hissed Jacqui Stratten. Then she gripped the ladder and called ‘We’re coming up!’ as she stepped up into the beam of light coming through the open hatch.

Zalika Stratten followed her mother. Before she’d reached the top of the ladder, strong hands reached down to grab her, pull her upwards and dump her on the workshop floor. She landed by a man’s feet, clad in expensive, barely worn safari boots.

She heard the man’s voice bark, ‘Take the mother away.’

Zalika raised her face and looked Moses Mabeki in the eye as he said, ‘Your brother is dead. Your father is dead. Your mother will soon be dead. You, however, are coming with me.’