Call of the Litany Bird Read online

  To Those Who Were There And Survived

  And To Those Who Didn’t

  Contents

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Foreword

  Author’s Note

  Introduction

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Also from Loose Chippings Books

  Plates

  Copyright

  Foreword

  Over these last unhappy years we have read a great deal of the problems, privations and miseries of the Zimbabwean people Black and White.

  In this book, Susan Gibbs gives a vivid account of what it was like in Matabeleland before and after Independence. In the pre Mugabe days her love of the country and its fauna and flora captivate her and she becomes part of a family and friends who were pioneers for over a hundred years in the development of Rhodesia. Later on after Independence and the hostility Mugabe showed to Nkomo and the Matabele the life of those who lived on their farms and ranches changed dramatically for the worse. Security fences were put up; arms were provided for protection, terrorists roamed the countryside.

  The farmers were resolute in their determination to stay, protect their livelihood and hope for a return to what had been one of the most prosperous countries of Africa. It was not to be and the seizure of white farmers’ land and the intimidation of the population Black and White grew worse. Understandably, the Gibbs decided that for them there was no future in that sad country and this book reminds us of the courage which they and so many of their friends and neighbours showed and the catastrophe which has engulfed the people of Zimbabwe under Mugabe’s regime.

  Lord Carrington

  Foreign Secretary 1979–1982

  Author’s Note

  In writing this book I have drawn on my own memories – still vivid after so long – journals, diaries, press cuttings, photographs, and notes sporadically tapped out at the time on an old typewriter as some of the events unfolded, together with the recollections of others who were there.

  This account of our lives on the farm during the Rhodesian Bush War, the transition to Zimbabwe, the experiences of escalating security problems due to both dissident activity and the actions of Mugabe’s Fifth Brigade was originally written for the family to record the experiences of their childhood, but others felt it might also be of wider interest.

  Times have changed and whereas today some may regard certain things I have written as politically incorrect I have portrayed life as it was lived and accepted then and not as some might see it today. Words and phrases – most obviously the name of the country – are as would have been used at the time.

  I have, however, changed a few names in order to protect the identities of those I have been unable to contact and who may still be there.

  I have avoided writing too much about my husband, Tim, in this account for his intention has been to write his own story one day.

  Despite the generous suggestions, help and contributions from others, these are my own recollections and any mistakes or omissions are entirely mine.

  Susan Gibbs

  Introduction

  This book is a gem. The early years of Zimbabwe’s independence were a tense, difficult and dangerous time in Matabeleland in the south west of the country. While peace returned to the rest of Zimbabwe after years of civil war, in Matabeleland tension and danger increased, fuelled by the historical suspicion of the majority Shona people for their Ndebele neighbours, who a hundred years previously had held them in subjugation. While a British military training team helped to amalgamate the rival armies of the Smith government, Joshua Nkomo and Robert Mugabe, into four brigades of the new Zimbabwe army, a fifth, all Shona, brigade was trained by North Korea on different lines, and parts of Nkomo’s Ndebele army, ZIPRA, either held aloof or were excluded and took to the bush in Matabeleland, with dire consequences for all.

  Sue Gibbs tells the story of the harrowing times that followed. Her tale is all the more compelling and effective for the restraint with which she writes. She avoids the wider political canvas and confines herself to a vivid account of day to day events, some of which were ghastly, in a hauntingly beautiful landscape. Her father-in-law, Sir Humphrey, was the governor who refused to accept Ian Smith’s illegal declaration of independence and remained loyal to his sovereign, in splendid isolation in Government House; he was also a man of very great charm.

  Towards the end of my tour of duty as British High Commissioner, my wife and I went to say farewell to the Gibbs. On the Saturday Molly Gibbs and my wife Jilly, who shared a love of painting, went off into the bush to sketch. They were not long gone when Agric-Alert announced an attack on a nearby farm. Humphrey and I dived into the Land Rover and drove out to scoop them up. Tension was still high the next morning when Tim drove us to the airport with rifles under our feet. I remember hoping that, in case of ambush, he would prove to be a better shot than was I.

  I have enjoyed every page of this charming book and I am sure that all who read it will do so too.

  Robin Byatt CMG

  British High Commissioner to Zimbabwe 1980–1983

  ECCLESIASTES 9: 12

  Moreover, no man knows when his hour will come:

  As fish are caught in a cruel net,

  Or birds taken in a snare,

  So men are trapped by evil times

  That fall unexpectedly upon them.

  1

  Duncan’s approaching death, unlike so many others at the time, was brought about by natural causes. It was October 1977, the hottest, driest month of the year in what was then Rhodesia, and a month after his thirty-sixth birthday.

  Standing in the hospital room that day, already grieving and longing somehow to snatch him back, to slam shut the door of death before he went through, I was dimly aware that some deep place within me also held a sense of gratitude – gratitude for thirteen years of a never-dull marriage, for two wonderful children, for the fun he’d brought to life, and gratitude too that his was not a violent death.

  We’d woken early that morning, just as the sky was lightening, and I got out of bed and opened the curtains so we could watch the dawn; but as I turned back to speak to him and saw the blood trickling from his mouth I knew. I called Paul Fehrsen, our GP, from the phone in the study. Within ten minutes he arrived at the house, quickly followed by Eric Cohen, the consultant, a friend of ours who, on his way to the hospital, happened to pass Paul on the road.

  One glance at Duncan told them there was no time to call an ambulance and after gently carrying him to Eric’s car we sped off to the Medical Complex. He joked about Eric’s driving on the way. “You crazed already?” he said, playing with Eric’s Jewishness, “After all, only last week a stray hippo was shot wandering down here, this Cecil Avenue? Run into its wife
, who’s probably out looking for him by now, and we’ll all end up on the ward.”

  The Private Ward of the Bulawayo Central Hospital was ‘my’ ward, the one I worked on part-time at night, and I knew Sister Matheson, the ward sister, well. She gave us two large private rooms next door to each other which opened out on to a wide verandah, and in one of them, during the long hours as Duncan drifted in and out of consciousness, Duncan’s brother John, his wife Fam and other close friends set up a quiet vigil. Some stayed the whole day, popping in from the verandah to check on us from time to time, taking care not to intrude.

  As the day wore on the early morning chill gave way to stifling heat.

  “It’s obvious why they call it suicide month” Sister Matheson said, just for something to say, as she topped up jugs of iced water. “Nothing we can do about it here, and the fans are quite inadequate.”

  The morning wore on and from time to time, as word spread quickly round Bulawayo, more friends arrived to offer their support and then, seeing there was nothing they could do, left again.

  Late in the afternoon, after a long, hot day, Duncan quietly and naturally slipped away.

  At home again a few hours later as friends and relations milled around the verandah talking to each other, I sat there looking at them, numbed, trying to take in what had happened. Scents of jasmine and roses filled the cooling evening air and S’iponono brought a drinks tray out and set it down beside me.

  “Nkosikasi1,” she said, “Don’t say anything to the children. Not yet. Not tonight. Later, after they are asleep, go to their room and gently shake them until they are nearly awake. Not fully awake. Nearly awake. Then tell them what has happened to the Boss.”

  “David is only three and Sarah just a few weeks old. They are so young, especially Sarah. They will not understand.”

  “You must tell them, Madam. Do this in the night. Then, somewhere inside, they will already know when you talk in the morning. Then they won’t be so sad. Because inside, in their spirits, they will already know. Even Sarah.”

  I wasn’t the only young widow in Matabeleland; several of my friends had been widowed before me – almost entirely due to the violence of the bush war – and I had seen the vulnerability of other widows left behind with young children, the sense of responsibility the community felt towards them, and before too long I would need to give thought to our future, where it would be, and when.

  As I went to bed that night I caught sight of Duncan’s certificate on his desk proclaiming him a member of the Pioneer and Early Settlers Association, and lying there alone I reflected on his life and how he happened to be born in Rhodesia.

  His grandfather had arrived as a pioneer in 1896, the year before the first railway line arrived in Bulawayo, and two generations further on that same pioneering spirit, with all its sense of adventure and courage, had continued to live on in Duncan.

  In the 1940s Duncan’s parents, MG and GG Fleming, had bought two hundred acres of virgin bush six miles south of Bulawayo which they named Mzinzini Estate. On top of the highest hill they built a large, colonial house complete with verandahs and balconies with views over-looking the Matshemhlope River, as it descended down the valley and disappeared into the picturesque Hillside Dam in the distance. In between the rocky outcrops of the kopje2 GG created imaginative gardens and planted sweeping lawns from the house to the lip of the hill. It was an idyllic place in which to bring up their three children, a place where they could range in freedom and safety. They fished, swam in their pool, hunted for small animals, felled birds with well-aimed catapults, hit balls around a packed-mud tennis court and played on the crashed light aircraft which had somehow been manoeuvred on to the property for the boys’ enjoyment.

  Bulawayo lacked a boys’ prep school and the Flemings, having two young sons, felt the need and decided to build one on the edge of the estate which they named Whitestone School. John, Duncan’s elder brother, was the very first pupil, followed three years later by Duncan. The majority of the boys came from farming families and so, later, no one was particularly surprised when, as young man, Duncan chose farming as his career.

  MG and GG bought a 33,000 acre cattle ranch north of Bulawayo which was extensive enough for both John and Duncan to farm separate sections, John taking charge of the cattle and Duncan, who by then had graduated from Gwebi Agricultural College in Mashonaland, took on the arable areas and grew tobacco.

  Duncan’s house was a small cottage not far from the main house where John, his wife Fam, and their four children were already established and Duncan, living alone, was ready for a wife of his own. Early in 1963, I’d met Duncan in Australia where I’d recently completed a nursing training and when his mother wrote inviting me to call in to Rhodesia on my way to England I accepted. It was intended to be a short visit but he overcame my plans for travel and adventure by proposing. We’d not been married long when he first became ill with lymphosarcoma at the age of twenty-five and his parents, with great consideration and forethought, had seven acres of land surveyed on the river further up the valley and transferred it into my name.

  “Shouldn’t it be joint names?” I asked, amazed by their generosity.

  But they simply said, “A woman always needs the security of a roof over her head.”

  A grader came and fashioned a winding dirt road, through the valley and at the end, nestling into some kopjes, we built what to us was a perfect home which we named Hoopoe Hollow. It had large airy rooms and red quarry tiled floors under a deep thatched roof and we designed particularly low windows so we could sit up in bed in the early mornings watching the dawn lighten the colours and bring out the garden scents as we talked over plans for the day. And, during times of illness, Duncan could lie in the stillness watching game – mainly kudu – come down past the windows to drink in the river.

  After a few years, as Duncan’s parents became older, they sold their family home with a portion of the estate and built themselves a cottage tucked out of sight on land marching with ours. They were especially vigilant and helpful with the children following Duncan’s death and later, when I was asked to take over the Matabeleland Red Cross, with the particular task of training a black African to take over in anticipation of Majority Rule, with their encouragement, I accepted. What I didn’t know was that the board had not informed the director of thirty-three years that they were easing her out and that I was taking her place, which made for a challenging situation. Of necessity this was a temporary position. Sometime later when my brother Campbell Rankine offered, as both an accountant and solicitor, to deal with all the financial and legal aspects of moving us to Australia (reassuringly adding: “You can’t afford me, so don’t even think about that side of it”) I began to seriously consider cutting my loses, taking the children and the memories, and leaving before becoming a burden to those who had their own lives to lead. But when I eventually began making plans and told friends there were hearty protests.

  “We are small enough in number as it is, and shrinking”, one remonstrated.

  “Where else would you be able to give David and Sarah such quality of life, living with nature, surrounded by all of us!” another said.

  Yet another insisted, “You can’t go and abandon S’iponono”.

  But the most original protest of all came from Tim Gibbs who said: “Stay here and marry me instead.”

  I’d known Tim, but not very well, for many years. The Fleming’s cattle ranch lay beyond the Gibbs’ dairy farm in the same district of Nyamandhlovu and we met from time to time at the Farmers’ Club and occasionally at Bulawayo dinner parties. For ten years I’d tried to find a wife for Tim, and each time a new girl, especially if she were an English Rose, turned up in Bulawayo, I gave yet another dinner party and invited him. But he never saw the potential in any of them and he displayed no interest.

  During the days following Duncan’s death MG and GG watched over us with loving concern and I pretended not to know that my servants reported daily to their servants wh
o, in turn, passed on reports to MG and GG, giving them the details of those things I neglected to tell them: if I was eating properly, getting enough rest, and how I was coping generally.

  As time went on they began to observe the to-ing and fro-ing of Tim’s car driving down the track to my cottage but no one said anything until one day, as I was giving lunch to the children, S’iponono handed me a note brought down by their cook. These ‘Chatty Chittys’ as we called them were a regular part of daily life, but this one was different. It read more like a command than an invitation.

  “Darling Sue, Please come for a drink at 6pm. There is something we wish to discuss with you.”

  I was fairly sure I knew why I was being summoned and was a little apprehensive. That evening as we sat in their drawing room with our whiskies enjoying the view over the veldt and the valley sweeping down to the dam they broached the subject immediately.

  “It is obvious to us,” GG began, “that this man is courting you. MG and I have discussed this and we wanted to say to you that we think you should make a decision as soon as possible, he’s no longer young and so don’t keep him hanging around.”

  “What we really want to say,” MG interjected, picking up on the one-sided conversation “is that when you feel ready to make a decision, we are right behind you regardless of what that decision is, and will give you our full support. However,” he went on, “if you do decide to marry Tim, there are two things we hope you will consider. Firstly, as your own father is no longer alive, I, as your father-in-law, would like to give you away in a service in the Cathedral.”

  “And secondly?” I asked stunned by the extent of their support.

  “Secondly, we would like to give the wedding reception here in our garden. We would wish Bulawayo to know that you had our blessing.”

  The announcement of our engagement delighted friends and lifted spirits in a community under strain with some good news. Pre-wedding invitations to lunches, dinners and drink parties began arriving and unexpected presents were delivered. One in particular took us by surprise: a large silver salver inscribed: