THE black Rolls Royce, complete with amour-proof tinted windows, sped along the avenue abutted on either side by tall flourishing old Jacaranda trees, drawled leafy low-density houses on the other.
It carried edgy bodyguards, handguns on their left hips, radio transmitters in chest holsters. A second black Rolls Royce followed, carrying an older man and a middle aged man. Police outriders, sirens wailing, protected the two vehicles. As usual, the presidential guard was on hand. As the motorcade moved, ordinary people in the city gazed at it, awed and—afraid. A certain professor, caricatured with a potato-shaped head in most newspapers, had sneaked in a clause in one of a slew of amendments to the country’s constitution that made it a crime to gesture at to motorcade carrying the president.
“What day is it,” the wiry and clean shaven man of the two passengers sitting in the secluded back compartment of the car asked. His eyes were bloodshot, probably a result of fatigue and sleepless nights. His state of mind exacerbated his frail physique, and to make it worse his obsidian skin hung in folds on his body like an overcoat, making his face look like that of a bulldog, something understandable since in a month’s time the man was turning a ripe age of 84.
“It’s Wednesday, sir,” the little man sitting across from him replied instantly, clutching a sheaf of papers in one had. A black briefcase sat resting on his feet.
“What does my calendar say?”
“Um, you have a lot of things to do today and—”
“Get on with it man, do you think I don’t know that already?” the older man snapped at his secretary and just then the driver slowed and swerved suddenly. The older man gripped on the sides of the car to steady himself, his weathered face set into scowl. He pressed a button on the centre of the back seat and the black glass that separated the driver from his passengers hissed open
“Jesus! What’s got into Brighton? Do you want to kill us?” the older man ejaculated with uninhibited anger.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the driver was contrite, “another pot-hole, didn’t see it until very—”
“Nonsense! I don’t want hear your silly excuses. If you can’t drive, I will fire you!” he said and touched the button and the glass sound-proof window hissed shut, shutting out Brighton’s apologies. Try as they did, in recent months it had become difficult for the men of CIO, charged with selecting the route of the motorcade, to pick one that had no pot holes.
“Yes, sir,” the younger assistant said, holding the frame of his steel rimmed glasses with his left hand in a gesture of concentration, “you have a meeting with Dr. Simba Makoni at eight thirty and…
An hour later, the old man set on the executive black leather chair in his office, inside State House, that white building reserved for the number one citizen of the country. The old man sighed, the only indication that he was anxious about the upcoming meeting with Simba, as he called him.
His anxiety had even forced him to cut short his vacation on the surf licked island, white sand beaches and all, out in Malaysia. Of course, the people in the country wondered about these vacations to the Far East: “Why does he go there? Why not go nearby, say Mauritius?” the people in the country asked behind closed doors. If one found him in a jovial mood, the old man would say, with a charming half grin: “I’m always tired these days. The warmth of the sun in the Far East rejuvenates my muscles.”
He would proceed to chuckle and clap his soft hands in delight and add: “Besides, my wife likes the shopping in Malaysia, the stores are just as good as those in say London or Paris, so she tells me.” The ring of the intercom jolted him from his work.
“What is it?” he answered his secretary through the intercom. There was a touch of fear on the other end of the line.
“Sir, Dr. Makoni is here.”
“Okay. Send him in right away.” He quickly cradled the phone and opened one of the many drawers on his executive teak desk, one that dominated his large office, the very office that Ian Smith had occupied in the days of old. He retrieved a round mirror, looked at his face and adjusted his tie. Satisfied, he stood up and crossed the floor to open the door for one Dr. Makoni. He indicated for him to be seated on one of the leather couches in his office.
His secretary, that man who writes that column in the government newspaper as Manheru, brought them nice mint scented tea and cakes.
“Nothing beats the blue than British tea in the morning,” the old man said, sipping the scalding tea, sweetened and milked. Dr. Makoni agreed readily, his sullen mood and trepidation melting away as he slowly realized fast that his master was not angry with him, something he had dreaded. As always, the old man asked about the kids, how they were faring, followed by a number of banal issues.
Suddenly, the old man scrambled to his feet and strode to the window. Dr. Makoni shifted where he sat, anxiety building up. The old man parted the curtains and saw a sentry walking on the manicured green lawns of the State House grounds. He spun on his heal and said, with a steady voice: “You were barely of the teat of your mother back in ’80 when I made you into a minister.”
“Uh-huh?” Dr. Makoni was caught off-guard. The old man ignored him.
“Down the years, I have looked at you with favor, treated you like my own son.”
“Uh-huh?”
“I have even appointed you to the politburo.”
“Uh-huh?”
“Instead of support from you in my twilight years, when the sun of my life is about to end, what do I get? A challenge from you! Is this how you thank me for everything I have done for you?” The old man’s voice was suddenly strident, full of anger and anguish and regret. He crossed over the carpeted floor and sat down on the chair behind his desk.
“I’m afraid you have been misled by the imperialist media,” Dr. Makoni began, sweat covering his round face. He realized it was imperative to come to terms with the old man now, lest he incurs his wrath.
“Really? Are you saying what the BBC said was not true? How?”
“In principal, the BBC was correct. Yes I intend to run ‘against’ you. I’m sorry I didn’t brief you on this one before you left for your vacation. There is more to this that meets the eye as it were.”
“Oh, really?” The old man relaxed. Dr Makoni poured him more tea. “Tell me now what you have in mind.” The old man invited. Dr. Makoni cleared his throat.
“Sir, the plan is very simple. I want to pre-empt the opposition. I have had word from an emissary from Mutambara, who says if I run against you, he will support me. What I will do with this smaller faction on the MDC is to knock it from the race with one stroke.”
“How?” There was a twinkle in the old man’s eyes, he verily liked what he was hearing.
“Easy. I haven’t told them anything, but as you will see, Mutambara will not file his nomination papers, instead he will endorse me. On my part, when I come out of the nomination court, I will proclaim to the world that my project has nothing to do with Mutambara, thus its leader not running for election, the Mutambara faction will be out of the ring before the first vote has been cast!” The old man burst with laughter. For once he was feeling good with himself.
“Hau! You are very clever Simba, certainly I have underestimated you for all along. What do I need to do to help you?” But before Dr. Makoni could answer, the intercom crackled alive. The old man didn’t like the disturbance.
“What is it Charamba? I told you to hold all my calls.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” The secretary was penitent. “It’s your wife calling from Malaysia, sir. She says it is important.”
“Put her through.” He took the call, the kids were on the line too. The old man has a soft heart for his kids. Dr. Makoni watched him talk to his wife. “Ask for the money from Gono!” Dr. Makoni heard him say at one point. At last he was done with the call and he seemed relieved.
“Do you know the difference between a wife and a dog, Simba?”
“Ah…I don’t know, sir.”
“You can put a muzzle on a dog,” the old man said and chuckled with relative ease. His jovial mood was genuine. Then he was serious again. “Continue with what you were saying, tell me more about your project,” and Dr. Makoni obliged.
“When I do declare my candidacy, don’t say anything. But when you start campaigning, criticize me, call me names, etc. Just like what you do to Tsvangirai, that way, the people will see me in the same light as Tsvangirai and will therefore think that I’m a genuine candidate.
But, I will refuse to join with Tsvangirai, thereby easily dividing the votes of the middle-class and the academics in the cities. Meanwhile, you on the other hand, you will sweep up all the rural votes. Given that I will have split the opposition vote in the cities, my calculations indicate that you will easily be elected president again.”
The old man was quiet for a moment, inarticulate with pure joy. He sighed and said: “I have no words to describe this. These things you say, they are like honey in my mouth. But tell me something, did you do this alone? This is all your handiwork?”
“I wish it were all my doing, Sir. Not it is not, I had help from …ah, Bonyongwe and the boys at CIO.” Dr. Makoni said.
Now, he waited for a promise from the old man. What would the old man say? What reward would he give me? These thoughts whizzed in his head. The old man, seemed relaxed now. As Dr. Makoni watched, the old man removed his glasses and cleaned them with the long tail of his white long sleeved shirt.
“What you have done has made me happy today. By securing the presidency for me, you have made my life easier, and I can rest now in peace. I won’t forget this noble deed you are doing for me. I will think of you after the elections. I’m sure you know that I will retire after the elections? I will see to it that you are put in a position of influence then. Okay? Then…” the two men, spent the rest of the morning strategizing, reconciling their plans.
