Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight_ An African Childhood - Alexandra Fuller [63]
“Come on,” Dad shouts, “everyone getoutandpush!”
And we leap over the edge of the back, all of us tumbling, scrambling for earth under numb muscles, hurrying before the Land Rover loses what little momentum it has. And we shout in Shona, “Potsi, piri, tatu, ini!” One, two, three, four!
And “Push!”
“Ah, ah, ah!”
The men start to sing. “Potsi, piri, tatu, ini!”
The Land Rover bites. The dogs are out, too, herding, barking at the back tires. “Yip-yip.”
The Land Rover finds edible ground and surges forward; we cling to the tailgate, jostling for a place. Dad won’t stop in case he gets stuck again. We climb aboard while the Land Rover spins ahead.
Dad stops on level, solid ground and we all get out to pee. The men congregate at the front of the Land Rover; Vanessa and I crouch behind the back wheels.
She says, “Keep boogies for me. Make sure they aren’t spying.”
So I keep boogies. And when she has finished I say, “Keep boogies for me,” and she nonchalantly climbs back into the Land Rover. “Hey, that’s not fair. I kept boogies for you.”
“So?”
“Then keep boogies for me.”
“You’re just a kid, you don’t count.”
I pee quickly, crouching, looking over my shoulder. The sweet smell of pee steams up to me from the burning sand, sand hot enough to evaporate pee on contact.
Dad has a compass. He looks at the sun, lights a cigarette. He gets down on his haunches and looks through the trees for a straight passage, wide enough for the Land Rover to fit between the trunks of the thickly-growing mopane.
The men, who have been saving their own cigarettes, stick by stick from one payday to the next, relight old stompies and take two or three drags, holding the smoke deep in their lungs before exhaling, and then carefully pinching the end off their cigarettes, saving them for later.
Cephas has found impala tracks while we are waiting for everyone to pee and to stretch the kinks out of their bones. He shows Dad, without talking, his shoulders shrugging casually in the direction of the thick bush.
“Fresh?” asks Dad.
Cephas reads the ground the way we read a map or a signpost. “They passed this way within one hour.”
“Can we catch them?”
“They are moving slowly.” Cephas points to newly pinched shrubs. “Eating.”
So Dad says, “You girls want to come or stay here?”
The sun is starting to fall into its own fiery pool of color behind the mopane trees and the air is releasing night smells. Vanessa and I know that in less than an hour, we are going to be bunched-up, shivering cold.
“Stay here, thank you, Dad.”
“Keep the dogs, hey?”
“Ja.”
We hold the dogs by the scruff of the neck until Dad is out of sight.
Dad shoulders his .303. He lights a cigarette. Cephas starts to run ahead, darting, ducking, zigzagging. It’s as if he’s sniffing the ground. Dad follows, his quick strides swallowing ground.
Vanessa and I hunker down next to the Land Rover with the dogs. We have both brought books, but the books need to last us for weeks while we are in camp. We have been in charge of our own packing. Dad said, “You girls are old enough now to pack for yourselves.”
We have packed teabags, powered milk, sugar, and bran flakes for breakfast. Zimbabwean bran flakes taste like barely crushed tree bark. We have tins of baked beans and fish in tomato sauce for lunch. We have brought two shirts, two pairs of shorts, two pairs of brookies, and a jersey each. We already realize that we have forgotten to pack loo paper.
Dad has packed cigarettes, brandy, bullets, and his gun.
Vanessa pulls out the packet of cards. “Want to play war?”
“Okay.”
She deals. We play in the failing evening light, which is going in fast stages from mellowing yellow-red into