POSTAGE

“Will you get the mail please, Susan? Take Clement with you. And the gun.”

I stood up, shoulders back. “I can drive myself. I’ve got my
license now.”

Clement Ngoma loomed in front – a no-argument smile on his face. This was
the early 70’s and our country’s struggle before independence
still impacted everything we did.

“Madam, the boss, he doesn’t want you going into town by yourself and your
Spitfire is too much low - too much difficult to get out.”

With ungrateful resignation, I bent down to open the right hand drawer of
the desk and remove the small pistol. It slid into my London-bought
sunshine yellow patent leather handbag. I straightened my black ‘wet
look’ skirt and checked my matching sunshine yellow patent leather
buckled platform shoes.

Newly returned from a working holiday, I had shocked my mother with my
'bumblebee' Carnaby Street fashion. 

Looking good was important if only to collect the post. You never
knew who just happened to be collecting his company’s mail too!

“All right we’ll use the van. But I’m driving – OK?”

Kitwe was the Hub of the Copperbelt in Northern Rhodesia. The Post Office
was on the main street tucked between Lentin’s the Jewellers on the
North corner of the block and Bata Shoe stores on the South corner,
near the now deserted Astra Cinema.

Later, the cinema would become infectiously noisy with white grins and
sweaty excitement. I missed going but night-time excursions were
unwise. Sometimes even lunch-time excursions…

Twenty-four hours a day the jewellers hide their reduced display behind double
layers of metal weave. This is a small town and the smiling, nervous
owners know everyone who’s anyone - who gave what to whom for
birthday/anniversary/Valentine’s. One of the few European ways
left to splurge the monthly paycheck is to buy a new ring.

The only descent dress shop wasn’t receiving their full consignments –
pilfering was rife and only garish unflattering frocks in larger
sizes are available now. I often pop in at lunchtime, but decided
not to today. Most of us either made our own; had frequent overseas
holidays or a good dressmaker.

Delivery day always put Mrs Brown in a foul mood so Mondays was not a good day to dress shop. Unless your style was Chitenge – there was a huge range available in OK Bazaars.

Mum has so many broaches bought from there. They sell extra cheap
everything from Nshima to cast iron cooking pots. I loved the
place as a kid. My two shillings pocket money seemed to go farther
and farther every Christmas and Birthday. The more glitter and glass
the better, all faithfully worn by Mum to family gatherings.

As we got into the company delivery van, both Clement and I
automatically locked our doors from the inside. Standard practice.
It took 15 minutes to drive from the industrial area into town.
Perhaps I drove a little too fast down Edinburgh Avenue because
Clement seemed to be trying to push his foot through the floor.

“There’s a policeman!”

“What’s up – don’t you like the way I drive?”

“Well, you do seem to put your foot down very hard on the pedals. Maybe it
is stuck? Would you like me…?”

There’s a rule here: Don’t stop for anything! Even if you run someone over
– just keep going. I’d heard recently of a piccanin who ran
straight in front of someone’s car. It was night so they stopped,
of course, and were stoned to death. But the accident wasn’t his
fault.

“Can’t understand why you’re so nervous. You taught me! And, you’re
not exactly a slow driver yourself!”

“Perhaps it is different to be passenger.”

“We’ll stop at Bamford’s Bakery first.”

“Yes – is Friday and the boys, they gave me a list of lunches.”

“A chocolate éclair and a curry pie will do me. I know Mum needs bread
too.”

BANG! We both jumped at the stone, kicked up by the large TanZam truck
speeding to overtake before the dip, hit. Both hands automatically
reached up to hold the windscreen as smaller gravel splattered
threatening to shatter the glass. I hoped it hadn’t made too bad a
dent in the paintwork. These things always happen when I borrow the
car.

The remainder of the trip into town was in silence, both of us shaken for
different reasons. Clement probably remembering the voting trucks
speeding through the compounds demanding attendance with shots fired
into the air.

Me? I was thinking about a friend who was decapitated as his sports car
disappeared under a truck stopped on the road. Again, it was night
and the driver needed a kip. There were no warning – no markers
save for a few tree branches on the road – it just loomed out of
the dark too late. He had two small children.

Luckily we managed to park right in front of the Post Office entrance.

Clement made to get out. “Give me the post box keys – I’ll go in.”

“No – you sit here and finish your pie. Guard the lunches.”

“But…”

“Clement - you can see me, OK? I’ll only be a moment.”

Still wary after the stone – the hairs on the back of my neck were raised
when I walked into the cool shade of the post box area. Two smartly
dressed African men appeared to linger.

I almost turned around to return to the car and let Clement collect the
post. But then why should he, when it was my responsibility?

I held my breath and stood still at the yawning entrance chastising
myself about my prejudices. One of the men casually opened up a box
and removed his mail. I had my hand inside my bag and my fingers
found the gun and relaxed a fraction.

Courage let me walk forward, into the dark, right to the end… and open
number 1694. This was a familiar routine. The other chap started to
walk out too jingling keys.

Hot breath oozed slowly from my lips as I bent my head low to retrieve
letters from the back, scooping them forward quickly with one hand. A
quick glimpse up to the entrance and I bent down again, focused on
that last slip, way to the back.

A sharp tug on my bag and a shove sideways, my platform shoe buckle
caught onto my tights at the ankle as I turned, then I tripped. Unable to stop
my fall, there was nothing to grab onto, I prepared to hit the floor
yelling.

A brief rush of air and the smell of strong sweat seemed to take my
breath away as I first hit the wall with my legs like jelly. Hands
scratched at my clothes and bag. I felt the cold metal of the gun
still in my hand, then fell toward the floor.

My elbow connected with hard, shiny concrete, the impact almost
forcing me to let go. But I didn’t – I shut my eyes and fired
instead, ears ringing in the echo chamber of empty metal post boxes.
Screams finally caught up with my open mouth and within seconds
Clement was helping me stand.

I resisted before I recognised him, then blabbered. “He’s gone. Did you see him? Oh, I still have my bag… my purse has gone though, hasn’t it?” My fingers
clutching, tried to pick up the paraphernalia I’d dropped but I
felt faint.

Clement gently took the gun out of my hand and put it into
his trouser pocket, carelessly scooping the mail into the open
yellow mouth. He wrestled my bag out of my vice-like grip and slung
it over his shoulder, walked me slowly and determinedly out into the main street holding hard onto my good arm. Without saying a word.

The sunshine hurt my eyes and I stumbled. But the warmth was a comfort
just like the arm, now gently around my shoulders, protecting me,
guiding me back to the van through a gathered crowd of curious
African workers.

My shocked gaze searched the surrounding area for a guilty face. I saw
none. Even the policeman seemed disappointed that it wasn’t more
serious - just an attempted bag snatch. There was no blood. No
bullet holes. No arrest to be made. No gruesome reason to take the
incident further.

The bored crowd agreed and dispersed without their blood-lust satiated.

A very subdued Clement drove back to the office and I didn't object.

He broke the silence first. “Thank Goodness for the starters pistol.”