Gunship Over Angola

Legend has it that my dad, upon learning of my birth – my being the first boy after two daughters (somehow that was important then) – instead of going to the hospital as a new father would today, set off with his best friend, John ‘Buck’ Jones, into the bush, with the intention of hunting and dispatching a trophy buffalo/sable/roan/elephant to mark the momentous occasion of my emergence into the world.

This was not an unusual practice, as the matron of the Chingola hospital, like many people at the time, felt that fathers were an unnecessary impediment to the birthing and neonatal phases. Men were not permitted in the maternity ward, let alone the delivery room, and so disappearing into the bush for a few days with one’s mates at the birth of one’s progeny was nothing unusual.

Dad and Buck were accompanied on the hunting expedition by Peter Chibemba, the manager of our household. Before they left, the trio cleared out the local bottle store of all available stocks of brandy and beer, which they imbibed with abandon on the way to and from the hunting grounds. In their thoroughly inebriated state, they proceeded to wage war on the wildlife that inhabited the untamed border area in their quest to harvest the trophy of trophies – with no clear idea what they were looking for! Many, many rounds (of ammunition, brandy and beer) later, and with nothing to show for it but four-day stubble and extreme body odour, they came to the considered opinion that they should return to relative civilisation and make my acquaintance in person.

Being in a fairly intoxicated state, and with a desire to enjoy the return journey sitting or lying on the Land Rover’s bonnet and on its roof, they told Peter Chibemba to drive the vehicle. Peter was only marginally acquainted with engines and gears on a wheeled vehicle. Nevertheless, being the least sozzled of the trio, and despite causing all kinds of damage to the vehicle, road signs and assorted passing village architecture, he somehow managed to guide the vehicle back to Chingola, but not without running over and killing a stray goat while negotiating a dirt track through some obscure hamlet.

Triumphantly, the freshly expired goat was lifted up onto the roof of the vehicle by the intrepid trio, and they arrived at the Chingola hospital late at night, tyres squealing and gears grating, in a cloud of suffocating dust, and immediately set about attempting to gain entry thereto. The deceased goat, draped across my dad’s shoulders, now represented the originally desired trophy.

Dad’s ‘gift for my boy’ stared vacantly at the unfolding scene.

Understandably denied access by the indignant matron and nursing staff, the trio regrouped and, using their formidable combined intellect, changed strategy. They set off stumbling and guffawing around the hospital perimeter to the maternity section, where they then proceeded to serenade the obstetric wing at the top of their voices while brandishing their ‘trophy’.

The song that they sang, somewhat discordantly, but fittingly, was, ‘Hang down your head Tom Dooley.’ I swear that my first memory is of my mother, laughing uncontrollably, holding me in her arms while standing on the first-floor balcony, looking down fondly at the performance.

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The surrounding bush played a major role in my toddler years, and I recall with great fondness the lessons in bushcraft taught to me even at that tender age by Dad and Peter. We had at least one bushbaby as a pet, and I also developed a liking for chameleons, each of whom I named Charlie.

Chameleons were not permitted in the house, as they tended to terrify the domestic help. When I smuggled them in, Peter would take them out into the garden and release them at the first available opportunity. I would become distraught when I was unable to find the latest Charlie where I had left him and would begin to cry. Finally, an exasperated Peter would take me into the bush to look for Charlie and, irrespective of whatever chameleon we found, he’d convince me that it was Charlie and peace would return for a time.

I learnt at a young age that a stick of bone-dry hartebeest biltong provided effective relief for teething pains in babies, that anthills invariably contained red ants that bit mercilessly at one’s tender parts, and that fathers in that part of Africa never came home early on a Friday evening.

A weekly battle raged in our home at around midnight each Friday when Mom would try to stop Peter from heating my long-overdue Dad’s dinner in the oven. Mom would put the plate into the fridge to ensure that the fat would congeal. But, as soon as her back was turned, Peter would take it out of the fridge and return it to the oven. This battle would rage on for hours. Peter was dismissed from our employ at least 15 times every Friday night.

Weekend fishing expeditions to the Kafue River were a regular occurrence and helped give me a deep love for the African bush, which endures to this day. I have one abiding memory from one of these trips.