LITMIR.BIZ

      PUBLISHED BY

      Mkuki na Nyota Publishers Ltd

      Nyerere Road, Quality Plaza Building

      P. O. Box 4246

      Dar es Salaam, Tanzania

      www.mkukinanyota.com [email protected]

      © Julie Wakeman-Linn, 2012

      ISBN 978-9987-08-178-3

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the Mkuki na Nyota Pulishers.

      This book is sold subject to the condition that it should not by way of trade or otherwise be lent, re-sold, hire out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

      DEDICATION

      To Mary Wakeman-Linn,

       one of my earliest and most supportive readers

      CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Bumi Hills Lodge, Hwange, Zimbabwe,June 20, 1997

Harare, Zimbabwe, June 24, 1997

Bumi Hills Lodge, Zimbabwe, June 25, 1997

Bumi Hills, 5:30 a.m

Bumi Hills, 3 p.m.

Bumi Hills, Tuesday

Bumi Hills, Friday, afternoon

Hwange National Park, Friday, sunset

Bumi Hills, Saturday, morning

       The Farm

       Bumi Hills

       Siavonga, Zambia

       Monze

       Lusaka

       Lusaka

       The Lusaka Polo Club

       Lusaka and Monze

       Lusaka

       Monze, September

       Lusaka, October

       Lusaka

       Monze, early November

       Lusaka

       Lusaka

       Siavonga

       Postscript, Leopard’s Lane, June 1998

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

      Special thanks to Walter Bgoya, Tapiwa Muchechemera, Warren Reed, and Mkuki Bgoya in Tanzania for creating a beautiful book.

      To my mentors and teachers--Richard Peabody, Jay Parini, Lee K Abbott, Margot Livesey--thank you for your encouragement. To my MC writing group and the Glen Echo writing group, more thanks. Writers give the best feedback.

      To Lisa Friedman, a writing partner extraordinaire.

      In memory of Mary Jo Wakeman and Bob Wakeman. Thank also to Rik and Jim, because in combination with Bob, your influence gave birth to this story.

      For JKL, who always believes in me.

PROLOGUE Bumi Hills Lodge, Hwange, Zimbabwe, June 20, 1997

      The rays of the setting sun blanketed the lodge roof, warming Brett Cunningham, his camera, and his beer. He focused on the acacia tree, hoping for a leopard, but the glare blinded him. “These rallies don’t change anything.”

      “You’re wrong. This protest will be different.” Isaac Mtonga picked at the thatch. “I’ll find that telephoto lens you want. You should come with me.”

      A big roan antelope entered the clearing, his horns casting a curved shadow upon the waterhole. Brett tracked it with his viewfinder as the roan dipped his head to the water’s edge. “Leave the government thugs to the city types. I’ll stay right here and film 20 hours a day.”

      The water splashed. The roan’s head disappeared. Its chestnut body swayed, then the roan’s neck flung back, pulling up a crocodile hanging from his face. Brett kept them in focus, even though his foot slipped. A tug on his collar stopped him from sliding.

      The croc hung on for two-three seconds, then dropped back into the water. The roan shook, shivering his whole body. Blood dripped down the white stripe markings of his face.

      “Nasty attack.” Brett lowered his camera. “Thanks, Buddy.”

      “We’d better stop at two beers if you’re going to ride the roof down to the lawn for every croc bite.” Isaac chuckled.

      “Crocs will eat anything.” Brett aimed another shot as the roan staggered from the water’s edge. An infection from that injury would likely kill the big bull. “Do you have to go to Harare? You could get the boss his supplies in Bulawayo and be back quicker.” Brett drained his beer. “Maybe help me with filming.”

      “You don’t get it. I want to go. We’d better get down to the lobby before the boss comes looking for us.” Isaac opened the roof’s hatch.

      “This weekend will be perfect here. No tourists to be hauled around and coddled, so it’s just me and my Nikon.” Brett unzipped his bag and tucked in his camera.

      “I might go see our dads,” Isaac dropped his feet onto the spiral staircase and waited; his shadow stretched all the way to the ridge pole.

      “It’s out of your way. I’m not going near the farm, not so close to harvest. Damn back breaking work anyway.” Brett crawled across the roof, the smell of grass beckoning him to stay.

      Isaac snorted “Lazy ass” as he descended the spiral staircase.

      “Rabble-rousing fool,” Brett pulled the hatch shut behind them.

      The sun, now an orange ball, dropped below the horizon. Leopards and lions were waking up to hunt in the cool night air. Impala, puku and zebras were finding thickets to hide in. The

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