Ester and Her Farm

PART ONE - 25 JUNE, 2003

The broad desk was a defining line emphasising the difference between the two characters. Behind the desk lounged the Chef

a colloquial and sometimes derogatory political term in Zimbabwean politics referring to a senior member of the ZANU PF political party

, a large middle-aged man dressed in an expensive three piece pin-stripe suit. His white shirt gleamed, the red and black paisley tie a colourful striking contrast to the stiffly starched and pressed points of his collar.

Ester sat in front of the Chef, her eyes downcast in respect to a man her culture considered her leader. Her hands were folded neatly in her shabby black skirt, so old the ironed creases formed grey lines down the fabric. Ester was wearing her best and smartest outfit - her Sunday clothes - for this important meeting. The skirt, her old pink blouse and stretched pink and white cardigan, together with a pair of scuffed black court shoes were usually only worn on very important occasions, like the weekly church services in her village near the eastern town of Mutare.

Ester had covered her head with a doek

a square of cloth worn mainly by African women to cover the head, especially to indicate married status

, which only served to enhance her age. The pink cloth framed her wrinkled face, the whites of her eyes yellowed because of childhood jaundice. She was so thin her cheekbones and the bones on her hands were clearly visible underneath her dry skin.

The Chef moved forward in his chair, lifting the sheets of paper Ester had just signed. He scrutinised the signature she had laboriously and carefully printed where he’d directed.

“You have some education, Ester?” he asked her, putting on a pair of gold rimmed spectacles so he could check her signature was legible.

“Yes, Baba

a term of respect for an older person or one in a positon of political power

. I went up to Grade Three,” her thin voice was barely audible. He smirked - ten years of age. Normally he would have to address her as “Mama”, out of respect for her age, but in the new Zimbabwe many of the traditional tribal customs were no longer observed. The power and status bestowed upon him by his membership of Robert Mugabe’s ruling ZANU PF political party, and the wealth his position had enabled him to accumulate meant this old woman had to respect him.

He reached into his desk drawer for his gold-plated Cross pen, his Tag Heuer watch briefly visible as his sleeve lifted. He signed all the documents with a large, bold scrawl, pausing to admire his signature before passing her one of the copies.

“Congratulations, Ester. You have been granted Clouds’ View Farm under the land aquisition program. Now, you take this letter to Mr Mandoro at our ZANU PF offices in Mutare

a city on the eastern Mozambique border

, and he will assign you some people to assist you with evicting the Munroe family.”

For the first time since sitting down to complete the transaction Ester looked up at the Chef.

“Baba, Mrs Munroe knows me and my family well. I think she will not be happy when I come to take her farm.”

The Chef stood up, frowning. His size alarmed Ester, who also stood up and moved nervously away from the desk.

“Ester, remember what we have taught you. The Munros are illegal white settlers, and the land does not belong to them. They stole it from your ancestors. ZANU is giving you a farm in a very good place. You can sell the coffee crop on the farm and the cattle. You and your family can live in the farm house, and you can rent plots of land to your friends to grow your food. Soon you will be rich like the white landowners. Your farm is your right as a black indigenous Zimbabwean.

“Pamberi ZANU PF! Pamberi Robert Gabriel Mugabe!” He moved towards Ester, and took her hands in both his, his mouth a ghastly slash in his shiny face as he grinned at the old woman.

Ester repeated his praise cries, and shuffled towards the door, the Chef’s hand on her bony shoulder.

“Your land is your birthright, Ester,” he told her as she left the office. “Go and claim what is rightfully yours.”

He watched her begin the long descent down ten flights of stairs; she was either afraid of the lift or had never seen one before. The Chef thought it was probably the latter, and smirked again.

“Ignorant woman, and so stupidly trusting,” he thought. “They are so easy to control; they believe anything we tell them.” Checking the time on his expensive watch he locked his office door and walked to the lift. He had a lunch appointment. His driver and black S Class Mercedes Benz would be waiting for him downstairs.

It was a free lunch, and he didn’t want to be late.

PART TWO - 08 AUGUST, 2003

Cheryl Munro was eating breakfast with her children the day the farm invaders arrived. Her housekeeper Mavis hurried to the dining room, her eyes wide with terror.

“Madam Cheryl, they have come! There are plenty of people coming from the road, and they are gathering at our gate!”

Cheryl carefully put down her coffee, numb. Suddenly she felt divorced from the world around her - almost surreal, as though she was dreaming. Now I know what Mary and Danny meant when they got evicted, she thought, sadly remembering their neighbours who had lost their farm last month. Behind the numbness was panic; some of the farm evictions had been violent, and a few farmers and their staff had been murdered.

Every night, for the past month, a crowd had gathered outside the farm gates. They would light a fire, and sing and chant throughout the night. The farm workers were terrified of the nightly event, and refused to leave their houses after sunset. They would not leave the farm after dark, and made sure they were within the perimeter fencing around the Munro’s farmhouse and their own housing compound well before nightfall. The unwelcome revellers fuelled their party drinking copious amounts of alcohol, and on several occasions a terrified scream would rip through the air, louder than the singing voices. The farm workers claimed people were being tortured at the parties, in an attempt to “re-educate” anyone reluctant to join the group.

Cheryl usually kept the dogs inside the house with her, but now was forced to bring them in late afternoon. She would not risk one of her dogs falling victim to a drunken member of the mob. One of the farm cows had been stolen during the first week of the party, the meat sliced off the animal for cooking on the fire. David shot the brutally maimed animal the following morning to end her suffering.

“Mavis, take the children to my bedroom,” Cheryl’s voice was unsteady. She could hear chanting in the distance, the singing voices sounding like a celebratory dirge. The voices grew closer, and she could hear the menace in the words.

“And the dogs and the cat, Mavis. Please get them into the room with you, and lock the door. Don’t open it to anyone except me or Mr Munro.”

Cheryl lifted the lace curtain and saw a mob of around a hundred people at their gate. Her heart lurched when she saw David walking toward them, accompanied by his farm manager Simon and foreman Peter.

Mavis had the children with her, and when she glanced through the window she gasped audibly.

“Maiweh!

an African exclamation of extreme fear

Boss, what are you doing?” she pulled the children closer. They both began whimpering and whining.

“Mavis we want to stay with mummy!” Megan struggled to get to her mother, wriggling under Mavis’ firm grip.

“Mummy, what’s daddy doing? Who are all those people?” Little Liam, just four years old, was trying to peer over Mavis’ shoulder.

Cheryl’s terror spilled over.

“Go with Mavis now! Stop crying, both of you! Mavis - take the children! Go!“ She hurried out the front door. All three dogs were barking. Cheryl screamed at them, but her voice was overpowered by the voices singing and chanting. Badger, the old Black Labrador, was the only one of the three who heard her. He came to stand beside his mistress.

Cheryl stood at the edge of the garden, her hand on her dog’s neck. David, Simon and Peter were standing in front of the gate, facing the mob. The vicious song faded away, its bitterness and hatred tainting the quiet morning with a tinge of rage. David’s efforts to speak to the mob were drowned out by their loud taunts and jibes whenever he spoke. Cheryl understood the local language, and hearing them threaten to “kill all white settlers” and “eat your children” made her blood run cold. One voice threatened her two Jack Russell dogs, who barked furiously at the mob. Cheryl was too afraid to attract the mob’s attention, and silently prayed the fence would protect her animals and her family.

David shouted at them to be quiet so he could speak. The mob’s volume increased. As the voices faded David tried again, but his words were drowned out. This went on for several minutes. Finally the crowd dropped back several paces, and one man stepped forward. Cheryl felt exhausted, a result of listening to the venomous words directed at them.

“Good morning, Mr David Munro. I am in possession of a notice of eviction for this farm.”

Cheryl recognised the messenger - the local ZANU PF representative Maxwell Madondo. He was well known in the community as a troublemaker, and was in command of the mob that was evicting all local white landowners from their homes. He handed David an envelope over the gate.

Spencer, the male Jack Russell, rushed at the gate, growling and barking at the threatening stranger. He leapt up, front paws on the gate, snarling and snapping protectively. Before David could call him off Madondo kicked Spencer through the fence with such force the little dog flew off the gate, yelping in pain.

Cheryl ran forward. Spencer was lying in front of Peter, who bent down and lifted the little body. The mob began chanting in excitement. Peter handed Spencer to Cheryl.

“Take him with you, Madam,” he said softly.

Spencer whined, and licked Cheryl’s hand, wagging his stiff little tail. She looked at the crowd jeering and mocking her husband and his employees through the fence. The faces were masks of hate. To her horror she saw Ester, one of the women she had taught to sew and helped grow vegetables on a piece of land they’d given her standing next to Madondo. Ester’s eyes were wild with the power the eviction letter had given her. Her excitement at ruining the Munro’s lives by taking their home was sickening.

Cheryl walked back to the house, gently feeling her little dog’s broken ribs and his slowing heart. She began to cry. By the time she got back to the house Spencer’s heart had stopped beating. His sister Tammy followed Cheryl. Cheryl wrapped Spencer’s still warm body in one of the bath towels from the laundry room, and left him by the door leading to the garages where the cars were parked.

Mavis was with the children, and Cheryl told her to pack the clothes in their cupboards into suitcases. She went through to her bedroom. For the last year they’d been expecting to be evicted, so most of the things they wanted to take with them were already packed. Cheryl went to the bookcase, and took down her photograph albums.

They can take my home from me, but they will not take my memories, she told herself, weeping as she put them in a box she’d been slowly filling with personal possessions during the last week.

An hour later David walked into the children’s bedroom, where Mavis and Cheryl were with the children, the two dogs and the cat. David told Mavis to get the children and the pets to the car.

“Do you want to come with us, Mavis? We are going to Mary’s house in Mutare.”

“There is not enough room,” Mavis was practical. “You must get your family away. I will find you when I get away from here. Now I need to make my children safe.”

Thirty minute later the Munro family drove through the gates. Madondo had allowed them to take the two old trucks, ordering them to leave the new Land Cruiser and Cheryl’s small sedan. The crowd rushed towards the vehicles, shouting and cheering as the farm’s legal owners relinquished their home. David accelerated, and they leapt back, laughing at the family.

Cheryl turned to look back at her home. The mob was rushing through the gates and into her beautiful garden and her house. She felt like she was being violated, and they were destroying her past and her family’s life.

She put her face in her hands and wept.

PART THREE - 21 NOVEMBER, 2006

The black S Class Mercedes Benz drove into the driveway and parked outside the Munro’s farmhouse. The driver got out, and opened the back door of the car. The Chef climbed out, pulling at his pin striped jacket to straighten it. The drive from Harare had taken nearly four hours, and even the comfortable Mercedes was not accommodating enough for a man of his size.

He looked around him. The gate had gone, torn down by the land invaders a few hours after the Munro’s had left. The perimeter fencing around the farmhouse was also gone, removed during the first year Ester had moved onto the farm. The Chef knew whoever had removed it had probably taken it to sell it, or perhaps used it to fence in his or her own animals.

The garden was disappointing. Cheryl’s treasured ferns and cycads were dead, and her lush green lawn had reverted back to a dustbowl. Most of the trees in the garden had been cut down, probably to sell, or to use for heating and cooking. The electricity would have been cut off once the monthly bills were no longer being paid. He doubted the garden had been watered in months, a suspicion confirmed when he found a collection of old, battered buckets outside the back door. Obviously the pumps supplying water to the house from the dam were broken, and Ester could not pay for the repairs.

He stepped into the house. Very little furniture remained. The television set was broken, and what had once been an expensive and high quality lounge suite was torn and stained. The floors were bare, all the carpets removed. Some of the interior doors and windows were gone, removed for use in new huts or houses being built by the invaders.

All the mattresses were gone; just the bed bases were left. Someone was obviously sleeping in the master bedroom, because there was a foam rubber mattress on the floor, covered with an old grubby blanket. Most of the bathroom fittings had been removed, and the toilet bowls were stained and broken. The house smelled of wood smoke, and there were smoke stains on the walls in every room.

The Chef sighed. Typical - give an illiterate peasant a decent house and a successful agricultural concern to manage and it would be destroyed.

It has taken them three years to ruin this place, he thought, seeing Ester rushing towards the house. Ah well, a coat of paint will make a big difference, and once I’ve sorted out the water and electricity this will be a nice place for my weekend retreat.

“Baba!” Ester was out of breath, and even thinner than she’d been that day she’d been in his office. “I did not know you were coming. Nobody told me -“

“Ester, I am very disappointed,” he cut her short. “I gave you this farm. I trusted you to look after it. It does not look like it did in August 2003 when you moved here. What did you do?”

Ester told him about the Munro’s workers, who refused to work for her because Ester had no money to pay them. They all left the farm, and the coffee crop was never harvested. She had to sell the cattle to make money to buy maize seeds, and then she had to pay people to plant the maize for her. She had no money left.

“I asked Mr Madondo to help me, but he said he could not. It was now my farm and I must make it work, but how can I when nobody will give me money?”

The Chef made a call on his cell phone. Ester could not hear him, and moved closer. He moved away in disgust, noting she was wearing the same clothes she’d worn that day in his office.

“I am leaving now, Ester. There are some men coming from the army

the Zimbabwean Army is regularly used by senior members of ZANU PF to carry out personal and private duties

to this farm. I am taking this farm back from you, and you must leave now. If you do not leave these soldiers will take you away, and I cannot be responsible for what they will do to you. This was a gift from myself and President Mugabe, and you have abused our gift. Get off my farm.”

He climbed into the car, and drove away. Ester stared at him, panicking because she had nowhere to go. She had no money to pay any bus fare to take her off the farm. She had no friends left either; during the first year she was on the farm Mr Madondo and his mob had taken whatever they wanted from Cloud’s View Farm.

Ester went inside, and packed her few belongings in an old plastic shopping bag. She walked out of the farm house and into the back yard. The workshops and sheds were nothing more than hollow shells, the ceilings, roofing, windows and doors removed months ago for resale.

Ester sat down, looking at home she’d stolen from the Munro family and then destroyed. It was no longer her home. She had nothing left.

She heard the distant rumble of the soldiers’ vehicle.

She felt too tired to move.

In the silence of the ruined Zimbabwean farm she wept.

2,987 words

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