My best friend was called Mufaro – he was a year older than me. He lived in a kraal in the next valley; a collection of circular huts that looked like beehives, with roofs thatched with elephant grass and walls made of mud, which were strengthened by poles cut from the trees. His father owned a small strip of land on which he grew crops. He prepared the land by burning down the trees and planting seeds in the soil that had been fertilized by the wood ash. Mufaro’s mother and his sisters fetched firewood and water and tended the fields when the pumpkins, peanuts, maize and barley sprouted up. Mufaro and his brothers watched over the cattle and goats while they grazed, but ever since he was small, Mufaro had found ways to slip away from his family and spend time with me. He taught me his dances and we climbed huge ant heaps, pretending they were castles and fortresses. We watched beetles, lizards, birds and the myriad dramas of the forest.

Our favourite place to sit was in a cave at the foot of one of the hills, its mouth shaped like a keyhole. Inside, it was large enough for us to stand almost upright and the walls were covered in paintings. Mufaro told me they were made by Bushmen and were very old. It was dark in the cave, but chinks in the walls gave sufficient light to see the painting of an enormous red elephant, with gleaming eyes and tusks. We named him Nhamo. Sheltered from the harsh sun, his colours were still vivid. Around him buck and zebra grazed, while from behind a rock, a leopard eyed them covetously.

We spent hours sitting in that cave that smelled of damp and bat droppings. We played Marabaraba, a game using stones cradled in little hollows in the ground. Sometimes, we made up stories about Nhamo the elephant, who managed to outwit all the hunters chasing him for his tusks.

The world I shared with Mufaro was my real world. It was far more vivid than school or my parents, who were so mild, so reticent. They only said things like, ‘Finish what’s on your plate’ or ‘Have you had your shower yet?’ while I waited, longing to be freed from the pressure of all that was left unsaid.

4 Stephen, Rhodesia, 1950s

4

Stephen, Rhodesia, 1950s

Stephen watched their guests coming into the courtyard through a wrought-iron door, on which the initials S, V and J were entwined, with three ‘Cs’ or horseshoes. He and Ginie were waiting to welcome them. Ginie had an orchid bloom for each guest, which she placed in their buttonholes or pinned onto dresses, exclaiming, ‘Oh, how nice to see you, please come through!’