This is a story by Lakshmi Mukundan, a terrific writer, that I would like to share with all.
"AFRICAN GHOST STORY…..the ghostly gardener
by Lakshmi Mukundan
An Indian family had moved to Redcliff, Zimbabwe because her husband got a contract as Technical Advisor to the country’s integrated steel plant.
In those days before the deterioration of that beautiful land, Redcliff was a paradise of flowering tree lined streets and self contained facilities like schools, shops and medical center/ hospital run efficiently by the rich steel company. Today the company and everything else in Redcliff has slumped to loss, neglect and despondency.
Their two small boys joined the co-ed. Redcliff Primary
school and loved it, making many friends among African, “white” and
“coloured” (mixed race) classmates. Everyday, they walked under
flowering Laburnum, Bauhinia and Jacarandas trees through beautifully
maintained colony roads to school and back.
They came home one day and said, “Maa, there is a haunted house here which we cross every day. All the children run past and don’t even look at it…… so we do the same.”
Curiosity ignited she decided to ask her best source of local information. Sylvia, a Shona (one of the country’s main tribes, the other being Ndebele) who was her part time maid. Strong, silent, dignified and hard working, she kept endless wooden floors waxed and the kitchen and everything else shining in the large house. She would scold her brother Solomon who was the gardener, for being lazy if he missed even one weed on the bungalow’s vast green lawns.
Sylvia’s tea break came in the middle of her daily (except Sundays) four hour stint. Slowly sipping tea and eating the thick sandwich given to her, she explained to the curious young lady of the house in her sing-song and almost perfect English:
“Madam, when the Independence struggle was on here in Zimbabwe (Ian Smith’s Southern Rhodesia) a white Boer (S. African of Dutch origin) lived in that house and worked at the steel plant. He had a gardener/house boy who was given a permit to live in his boiskei (servant’s out house).The boy’s name was Garikai which means “live well” in my language. The old man called him Livewell.
In those days, because of apartheid (racial segregation) we Africans could live only in Rutendo township, away from Redcliff and had to carry a book with police stamps to show we were permitted to enter Redcliff. ‘Black’ steel workers had to live in crowded Rutendo but any ‘whites’, even if they were only workers, were given big bungalows with swimming pools, like this one, here in Redcliff.
Anyway, the old Boer treated Garikai very well. But he would let him visit his family in Rutendo only once a month from morning to evening. By then, freedom fighters and guerrillas were hiding out in the bush country and hills surrounding Redcliff. They attacked white people without warning and easily escaped police patrols because they were clever in bush craft.
The old man lived alone and wanted Garikai around all the time.
One night Livewell, sat alone in his boiskei and longed for his family and friends. Unable to bear their absence, he waited for the lights to go off in the big house. The main and only gate was kept chained and locked at night so the boy sneaked over the high compound wall. He ran along the rough pathway that cut over the nearby hills and enjoyed himself at the African beer hall in Rutendo. Before dawn, his anxious family and friends told him to return. He trotted a little unsteadily back to his master’s house.
The old Boer had been to a weekend braai at a friend’s bungalow, that evening. He had overeaten and woke up suddenly in discomfort. He decided to sit on the stoep in the fresh night air, for a while. His kept his trusty rifle across his knees in case any raiders attacked.
That was when Garikai sneaked back over the wall. The Boer immediately aimed and fired, shooting the poor truant through his head. Roving patrols heard the shots and raced to the spot. It was discovered that this was no bloodthirsty guerrilla but only poor Livewell.
The Boer was extremely remorseful. He was not charged by the police; It was ruled as self defense.
Being kindhearted, he paid a handsome sum to the boy’s family. The man never kept another house boy but did not need one from the day the money was paid. Every morning he would find his yard swept and garden watered and cared for to the last leaf and flower….
By whom? No human hand, because try as they might, neither he nor anybody else ever saw or heard anybody at work. Garikai’s family were sure it was his spirit, thanking the old man for helping his family who had sustained such a great loss.
The old man was born and bred in Africa and accepted these events calmly. He eventually retired and returned to his family in Jo’burg. The ghostly gardener stopped his visits. Independence overtook the country and the company let the Boer’s bungalow fall to ruins. Nobody would move in there and workers refused to do any maintenance. That madam, is the story.
Many don’t believe but we Africans…..we know it was Garikai’s spirit.”
Sylvia went back to complete her work and the young Indian housewife sat silently till the goose flesh on her body disappeared……. "
They came home one day and said, “Maa, there is a haunted house here which we cross every day. All the children run past and don’t even look at it…… so we do the same.”
Curiosity ignited she decided to ask her best source of local information. Sylvia, a Shona (one of the country’s main tribes, the other being Ndebele) who was her part time maid. Strong, silent, dignified and hard working, she kept endless wooden floors waxed and the kitchen and everything else shining in the large house. She would scold her brother Solomon who was the gardener, for being lazy if he missed even one weed on the bungalow’s vast green lawns.
Sylvia’s tea break came in the middle of her daily (except Sundays) four hour stint. Slowly sipping tea and eating the thick sandwich given to her, she explained to the curious young lady of the house in her sing-song and almost perfect English:
“Madam, when the Independence struggle was on here in Zimbabwe (Ian Smith’s Southern Rhodesia) a white Boer (S. African of Dutch origin) lived in that house and worked at the steel plant. He had a gardener/house boy who was given a permit to live in his boiskei (servant’s out house).The boy’s name was Garikai which means “live well” in my language. The old man called him Livewell.
In those days, because of apartheid (racial segregation) we Africans could live only in Rutendo township, away from Redcliff and had to carry a book with police stamps to show we were permitted to enter Redcliff. ‘Black’ steel workers had to live in crowded Rutendo but any ‘whites’, even if they were only workers, were given big bungalows with swimming pools, like this one, here in Redcliff.
Anyway, the old Boer treated Garikai very well. But he would let him visit his family in Rutendo only once a month from morning to evening. By then, freedom fighters and guerrillas were hiding out in the bush country and hills surrounding Redcliff. They attacked white people without warning and easily escaped police patrols because they were clever in bush craft.
The old man lived alone and wanted Garikai around all the time.
One night Livewell, sat alone in his boiskei and longed for his family and friends. Unable to bear their absence, he waited for the lights to go off in the big house. The main and only gate was kept chained and locked at night so the boy sneaked over the high compound wall. He ran along the rough pathway that cut over the nearby hills and enjoyed himself at the African beer hall in Rutendo. Before dawn, his anxious family and friends told him to return. He trotted a little unsteadily back to his master’s house.
The old Boer had been to a weekend braai at a friend’s bungalow, that evening. He had overeaten and woke up suddenly in discomfort. He decided to sit on the stoep in the fresh night air, for a while. His kept his trusty rifle across his knees in case any raiders attacked.
That was when Garikai sneaked back over the wall. The Boer immediately aimed and fired, shooting the poor truant through his head. Roving patrols heard the shots and raced to the spot. It was discovered that this was no bloodthirsty guerrilla but only poor Livewell.
The Boer was extremely remorseful. He was not charged by the police; It was ruled as self defense.
Being kindhearted, he paid a handsome sum to the boy’s family. The man never kept another house boy but did not need one from the day the money was paid. Every morning he would find his yard swept and garden watered and cared for to the last leaf and flower….
By whom? No human hand, because try as they might, neither he nor anybody else ever saw or heard anybody at work. Garikai’s family were sure it was his spirit, thanking the old man for helping his family who had sustained such a great loss.
The old man was born and bred in Africa and accepted these events calmly. He eventually retired and returned to his family in Jo’burg. The ghostly gardener stopped his visits. Independence overtook the country and the company let the Boer’s bungalow fall to ruins. Nobody would move in there and workers refused to do any maintenance. That madam, is the story.
Many don’t believe but we Africans…..we know it was Garikai’s spirit.”
Sylvia went back to complete her work and the young Indian housewife sat silently till the goose flesh on her body disappeared……. "
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