No Darkness

No Darkness

Mudiwa lay on his back in the grass. All was perfect in the world. He glanced to Rudo lying beside him. Rudo…, he said, and then he remembered last night’s conversation.

She looked at him and their eyes met.

Rudo, kunaka chikomba wangu, Mudiwa said.

She smiled brightly. Kunaka hanzwadzi wangu, she replied.

They lay on the grass in silence: Mudiwa’s pretty lover, Rudo’s handsome cousin.

I like you, Rudo said quietly.

I like you too, Mudiwa replied, and then he rolled onto his side to admire his beautiful companion.

No! Rudo said, moving to sit cross-legged. I like you but I can’t put it into words. I have such strange feelings. I crave you even though we're together like this. It’s confusing and I don't like to be confused. But it’s a beautiful feeling too, and I don’t want to lose it. She punched his shoulder. I hate you for what you've done to me. You've put me under a spell; you've done strange things to me.

I have the same feelings, which is why I come to see you every night. Every day, all I can think of is being with you for the night.

Are these nights enough?

Without these nights I don’t know what I’d do.

You didn’t answer my question.

No, he said quietly. They’re not enough.

Why do we feel like this? Rudo asked.

I don’t know.

What can we do about these feelings?

Yesterday I suggested….

No, we can’t do that.

Perhaps there’s a way.

An elephant trumpeted in the distance and Mudiwa shivered with the mournful noise.

You should go, Rudo said.

Can I see you tomorrow night? Muidwa asked.

Yes – no – I don’t know.

Please?

Just go.

What They Are Saying About No Darkness

Well written, fast paced, wonderful characters, and the fascinating setting of a country in decline turned into a police state. There's much to like in this interesting hybrid of action, thriller and romance. LaWrence – author of Skipping Stones Along The Kìchì Sibi

No Darkness

by

Mark Morey

All rights reserved

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author

Mark Morey

http://markmorey.blogspot.com

Copyright ©

978-0-6480647-0-1

Published In Australia

March 2017

Other Works by Mark Morey

The Red Sun will Come - June 2012

Souls in Darkness - August 2012

The Governess and the Stalker - July 2014

Maidens in the Night - September 2014

One Hundred Days - September 2015

The Last Great Race – April 2016

The Adulterous Bride – October 2016

Chapter One

The music was sharper; more rhythmic, more intense. Mudiwa sat with his back to the fire watching the girls dancing. No, watching one girl dancing with her eyes closed and far away. Dancing smoothly, fluidly, and even erotically. But it was more than her dance; she was the most beautiful young woman in the village.

The music continued but Mudiwa didn’t hear it. The fire was hot but he didn’t notice. The smoke and dust swirled about, but he didn’t feel discomfort. He sat watching her.

She opened her eyes and smiled, and Mudiwa felt tightness in his chest. She saw him and she smiled! She continued her dance while keeping her eyes on Mudiwa.

She moved towards Mudiwa and danced a slow circle around him with her arms in the air. Mudiwa sat impassively while she passed close with her long legs almost grazing his shoulders.

She came close and took his hand. She straightened and he stood.

Come with me, she said, and Mudiwa held her slim hand tightly. With the music still playing, she guided him towards the perimeter of the village. Mudiwa silently followed this girl to the grassland beyond the huts of Mufakose.

They crossed the plain, and in the half-moonlight Mudiwa saw a group of trees in the near distance. The girl strode quickly and yet gracefully towards a small clearing surrounded by five trees. She led Mudiwa between the trees with the grass long and soft against his bare feet. She stopped and let Mudiwa’s hand go.

I’m Rudo, she said.

Mudiwa’s lips were dry and he licked them. I’m Mudiwa, he replied.

This is my favourite place, Rudo said as she knelt. Come. Lie on the grass and I can show you.

Rudo lay on her back and Mudiwa lay beside her.

Do you see what I mean? she said. Look at the stars; they’re so close. It's like I can reach out and touch them. Can you see?

Yes, Mudiwa said.

Rudo sat up and loosened the tiny, beaded skirt wrapped tight around her slim hips, held in place by a leather strap over her shoulder. Mudiwa watched Rudo release it while easing the sash away at the same time. She was naked, except for leather thongs criss-crossed above her ankles. Mudiwa untied his knee-length leopard skin and let it fall to the ground. Again, Rudo lay on the soft grass and Mudiwa lay beside her. She took him in her arms and he responded, nuzzling against her neck. Mudiwa’s heart raced, he felt short of breath, and at the same time he wondered why that was so. Mudiwa held Rudo and she dug her fingernails into his back. She gripped him tight with her nails scratching and gouging.

I want you, Rudo whispered in his ear. Kuboora ndi zwinozwino.

And Mudiwa knew something special was about to happen.

* * *

Michael woke suddenly. Where was he? Ah, flying from Johannesburg to Harare. And the dream, what a strange dream, very intense. What did the girl say? How was it that he dreamt in another language?

Michael was in a British Airways Boeing, on a ninety minute flight to the capital of Zimbabwe. Cathy was asleep; resting against his shoulder and breathing gently. Michael looked around an aircraft with almost every seat taken. An aircraft filled with casually dressed African men and women: some African businessmen and businesswomen in suits, and a few whites like him. He checked his watch, a quarter past one, almost half-way. The hostesses were serving lunch: rolls, fruit and sealed plastic containers of juice. It was odd to be on the other side of the world in the midst of a strange and exotic culture, and yet be surrounded by things so familiar.

Cathy stirred and then she sat up with a start. Their eyes met.

Tired? Michael asked.

No, not really, she replied.

What does….? Michael asked, remembering what the girl said in his dream.

What does what?

Michael suddenly felt silly. He shrugged his shoulders. It's time to eat, he said.

She nodded and Michael lowered his table. The young hostess handed him a plastic tray and he put it aside. Michael looked out of the window and below was a wide, brown, meandering river in a broad valley. The Limpopo River: border between the two countries. The detail on the ground was very clear: dry grass baked by the sun and wanting for rain, with small stands of evergreen trees. Dirt roads, a dam, a cluster of buildings. He could have been flying above Australia, his homeland, except the river was much wider than any river in dry Australia. Even though it was late to be eating lunch, Michael wasn’t hungry. He ignored the roll and ate his apple and drank the orange juice instead. Cathy did the same, leaving her roll.

Time dragged. The hostesses returned and Cathy handed their trays over. Michael gazed out of the window once more but the landscape hadn’t changed. Then the noise of the engines eased. They were descending. In the far distance Michael spotted dark, Lake Kariba on the Zambezi River; the border with Zambia. Pressure on his ears with a dull ache. He took Cathy's hand.

How do you feel? he asked.

I'm scared of how it may be.

Announcements for landing. The ground rushed to meet them with a gentle bump, followed by the final roar of the engines. There was a small, yellow-brown terminal ahead. Early post-war from the look of it. To the left was a construction site with the framework of a large, multi-storey building well under way. It looked like Harare was getting a new terminal, despite the lack of air traffic. Their aircraft taxied towards the old building and stopped, and moments later the passengers up forward stood. Michael grabbed his bag from under the seat in front and followed Cathy into the queue. They filed out of the aircraft and down an old-fashioned staircase onto the tarmac. The local air smelt strange: partly musty and partly heavy with diesel fumes. They walked along a pathway painted on concrete, with yellow lines guiding them. On their left, luggage was being unloaded by the ground crew working slowly and deliberately.

The airport terminal was eerie. Just the passengers from the recently arrived flight and a handful of uniformed security staff. Near the luggage carousels, soldiers in army green were armed with machine guns. Michael tried to ignore them while he grabbed his suitcase. He put it next to his girlfriend and waited. The purple-patterned case appeared and he lifted it from the belt. They simultaneously raised handles and locked them into place, and Michael led the way to the exit. No warm welcome for the new project manager and analyst, so they had to catch a taxi. They passed through automatic opening doors and the taxi rank was on the left.

The driver of the first car strode to them. His big hands took Cathy's heavy suitcase and hefted it into the boot of an old, white, diesel-powered Mercedes. The driver dealt with the second case while Michael climbed into the spacious back seat and settled into sun-cracked brown vinyl. Cathy joined him while the driver got behind the wheel.

We're after the CBAC Bank on Samora Machel, Michael said.

The driver nodded and pulled onto a near deserted road, with buildings on the left and a large carpark on the right. They headed into the suburbs of Harare, with Michael pleasantly surprised by the tidy and well-maintained city. Wide roads in good repair, with traffic lights guarding major intersections. Cared-for houses with neat gardens: green grass and shady trees. Nearby, cars gathered around a shopping centre: a small supermarket, bakery and post office. On the left a park with more greenery. The driver turned on the radio and a simple song came on. Very simple in chiShona, with a repetitive, syncopated rhythm and a twangy lead guitar.

What do you think of Harare? Cathy asked.

It's very pleasant, Michael said, and he meant it.

Appearances can be deceptive.

I know.

Michael pulled the memo from his bag and flicked through the pages. Washington Mabada was their contact, the Chief Information Officer. Beyond the politics there must be other reasons why Mabada was still CIO after the auditor’s report. The auditors from Geneva: February 1999, ten months out from year 2000, and nothing had been done beyond installing interest calculation program updates supplied by Switzerland. That, and a half-hearted attempt to hire a project manager who was related to the branch manager. One month later and it was Michael’s first day as project manager, working alongside a CIO who was out of his depth and probably hostile about having his power usurped. Michael's project was critical: all systems had to be upgraded and there were many branches. Twelve in Zimbabwe, ten in South Africa and five in nearby Mozambique. And more systems at the consumer finance subsidiary. Who knew what mess that was in? It was a complex task and the executive in Melbourne were expecting weekly reports. But Melbourne was a long way from Harare.

They closed on the city centre, with the road lined by shops and low-rise commercial buildings, and footpaths were crowded by pedestrians. But there was a country-town, main-street air about it, especially with cars parked diagonally at the kerb, something not often seen in capital cities. The driver turned right and parked in an empty space.

Two hundred dollars sir, the taxi-driver said in a heavy accent, and Michael handed two of the almost-worthless notes. The driver climbed from the car and placed the two suitcases onto the footpath. Goodbye sir, and the driver got into his car, leaving Michael and Cathy a short distance from the Southern African Regional Office of the CBAC Bank.

The pavement was busy with many walking by, but perhaps ambled was a better description. Like the taxi driver the men were not only tall but big in other ways: broad-shouldered, thick arms, big hands. Neat casual dress: long sleeved shirts, sports trousers, leather shoes. Very different to the jeans, runners, and t-shirt look of Australia, although Michael felt comfortable dressed in a suit, shirt and tie.

Older women in the crowd were generally shortish and sometimes plump, and mostly wore colourful dresses and equally colourful head scarves. Younger women were more like Cathy: generally taller and more Western-looking in slacks or jeans, although Cathy was dressed for work in a black suit and a white blouse. Michael suddenly felt threatened: his was the only white face in the street. He knew his history: those big men once fought a civil war against white minority rule. Those people had been segregated as much as South Africans were once segregated. They were second-class citizens in their own country. Even in 1999, the best land in Zimbabwe was held by white farmers. What did those people think of whites now? They wouldn't know a visitor from an oppressor. Perhaps to them, all whites were the enemy.

Michael drew a deep breath and made his way towards the office. He held the door for Cathy and followed her inside, but it was awkward to hold the glass door and drag his case through the gap at the same time. A uniformed guard behind a reception counter came to his aid, and Michael was led into a spacious reception area.

Michael Page and Cathy Shoko to see Washington Mabada, Michael said.

The guard in the blue uniform went to the desk and used the phone to talk in chiShona.

Mr Mabada will be with you in a moment, the guard said to Michael.

Thanks. Can you look after our cases please?

Certainly sir.

Michael and Cathy wheeled their cases behind the counter, and then Michael heard footsteps on the staircase. Washington Mabada. He was a big man, as all Zimbabwean men seemed to be big. And his dark skin was ageless: he could have been twenty; he could have been twice that age. Only his receding hairline gave it away. Thirty-five, nine years older than Michael. Dressed in a brown polyester suit with a white shirt and dark-brown tie. Brown was a terrible colour and the suit didn’t fit: too tight around the middle, too short in the arms and legs. He reached the bottom step and stopped. Michael glanced out of the corner of his eyes at Cathy and he knew what had struck Mabada. After a moment Mabada regained composure, and strolled to his guests.

Mr Page, Miss Shoko, Washington Mabada said while extended his hand for a sweaty handshake.

Please call me Michael, Michael offered, not wanting formality between peers.

If you wish, Washington Mabada replied before shaking Cathy's hand. Did you have a pleasant flight?

Pleasant enough, Michael said. Although yesterday was tiring.

Yes, of course. If you are too tired…

No, we're fine.

Do you want me to introduce you to the staff?

Please.

The foyer had a nineteen-seventies feel, from the timber-panelled reception desk to the staircase floating on a steel frame, complete with glass and timber handrails. They climbed rubber-tiled steps to the first floor and Washington Mabada opened a brown-painted door.

Michael and Cathy were led into a large open space surrounded on three sides by shabby, beige walls. The fourth wall had four offices separated from the main work area by floor to ceiling glass lined with curtains. Grubby cream netting blocking access to natural light. The central work area was divided by hip-high green partitions: cubicles formed out of steel frames and timber inlays: two desks, two chairs, two computers. So anonymous: it could have been any office anywhere in the world. Too anonymous: no personal belongings, no photos, nothing. A woman about Cathy's age, similarly dressed in a black jacket and matching black slacks, was studying a large flowchart, and was engrossed by what it was telling her. Washington Mabada led the way through a gap in the partitions and the woman must have noticed the presence behind her. She lifted her head but didn’t turn her chair, which was strange.

Alice Kanengoni, this is Mr Page and Miss Shoko.

Alice stood and faced her guests.

Miss Kanengoni is our analyst, Washington Mabada explained.

Pleased to meet you Alice, Michael said. I'm Michael and this is Cathy.

You are the manager from Australia? Alice asked slowly and deliberately, quite different to Cathy's clear, British-sounding English.

Yes I am.

And you are the analyst who will work on the project, is that not so? Alice Kanengoni asked.

That’s right, Cathy replied.

You are…?

Manyika, Cathy said, and Michael wondered what she meant.

If there is anything I can do to help.

Um, yes. Michael said, before pausing to gather his thoughts. We have a problem, but we don’t know what it is, and I'm here to help find a solution for this unknown problem. So what we need more than anything else are good analytical skills. The rest follows from there.

I see. So I take it that I will be helping you?

If Mr Mabada agrees.

We can meet the others, if that is what you wish? Mabada said.

Michael and Cathy were introduced the remainder of the information technology team, and one who registered was Thokozani Chipateni. Chipateni was a generalist and probably knew something about everything. It took more than an hour to be introduced and to get security passes. Cathy was given the desk next to Alice Kanengoni, and she had started her computer and was already at work. Michael and Washington Mabada were in the office overlooking the two girl's work areas. Michael’s office: complete with desk, chair, filing cabinet and laptop computer. According to the clock on the wall it was half-past four. Michael sat on the edge of the solid timber desk with his eyes heavy. It was night in Australia and he needed coffee. He needed more than coffee, and there wasn’t much that could be done that day in any case.

Washington, who should I see about the car and house? Michael asked.

You are sharing the house and the car with Miss Shoko? Mabada replied while staring deep into the newcomer's eyes.

Michael stared back. That's right, he said.

I have made arrangements as requested. I can show you now if you want.

I'll get Cathy.

They went downstairs and the security guard at the front desk followed them outside with the two suitcases. Things were different in that country.

In the carpark behind the building, a shiny metallic blue Mercedes stood out from an assortment of old Nissans and old Toyotas. The badge on the boot said '320E'. Cathy stood stiffly beside Michael and showed no interest in their lovely car, which was strange for her.

This is your car, Mabada said. On the driver’s seat there’s a directory book of....

I used to live here, Cathy interrupted.

Of course. I have pinned the address of your house to the directory book. These are the keys, and he handed a ring to Michael. The maid has cleaned the house, and she will cook for you.

Maid?

Do you not have maids in Australia?

Michael shook his head. No we don’t.

I see. Well, the maid will wash your dishes and clean the house and.…

I know about maids, Cathy interrupted again.

You’ve been very kind for arranging all of this. Michael said; ignoring Cathy's outburst. What time do you start here? he asked.

Eight-thirty.

Okay then, we'll see you tomorrow at eight-thirty.

Michael shook Mabada’s hand and then he climbed into the leather seat. It was a gorgeous car, although very extravagant. Michael hoped they didn't find out in Melbourne.

Chapter Two

The house was in the suburb of Waterfalls, several kilometres south of the city centre. It was a wealthy area with tree-lined streets, large blocks of land, and every