'Ford Fairlanes and Samuel Colt!'

Hi. Mentioned earlier, my being impressed by first sightings of American cars in Africa – developed into a life-long love for powerful wheels. First time I rode in a Ford Fairlane thought I would bust a vein from grinning so hard. Everything was Texas ‘big’ and I fell in love; something about a V8 engine – the beat – the growl of a waking lion. Fairlanes flowed; on silk not wheels, smooth as a kid’s rocking horse. Ford Galaxies and Studebakers, finned like great whites. Mustangs; throaty, beautifully over-the-top testosterone with white upholstery, chrome and blood-red paintwork. The Chevrolet Impala, from the back end, like a Manta Ray winging it down the highway. All of them with big boots, big appetites and steering wheels big enough to sleep on. Reckon if I lived in America I would end up more American than John Wayne. Buy me a pick-up truck and tooled boots and eat at Diners where some local country and western band is banging out Don Williams on steel guitars. Wave to Tommy Lee and buy him another beer.

 Took my driving test in a Chev Apache pick-up truck; those you see in old movies – a real powerhouse. Her air filter hissed like a pissed-off snake... 

East of Bulawayo...

Our little Morris Minor took us into and out of Bulawayo without mishap. The streets were amazing; all of them really wide and straight as arrows – streets and avenues at right-angles to one another. All, from what we had been told were wide enough to turn a wagon and full span of oxen through one hundred and eighty degrees with space to spare. But that was in the old days. Now the middle bits are filled up with car-park spaces.

‘Turn left into Selborne Avenue,’ Mother instructed and father swung us in line with one hundred and sixty seven miles of road that would, all being well, take us into our new home town – Mashaba.

Mother had bought half a dozen steak and kidney pies from Downings’ Bakery. Her Thermos was un-stoppered and to go with the pies, everyone got their part-filled cup of lukewarm tea. Within twenty minutes Bulawayo had disappeared.

Mother unfolded a Caltex road map across her knees, her finger the non-stop seeker of unknown highways and new names. ‘Essexvale,’ she smiled to herself. ‘That’s the first town we come to. Then a place called Bala Bala?’ She looked sideways at my father. ‘What kind of name is that?’

‘Bit like Wagga Wagga in Australia,’ said my Dad and got glowered at.

‘Must be one of those native names?’

Dad said nothing. He was enjoying the drive. The road was wider now; full tar – no missing piece in the middle. But not for long.

‘Slow down there’s a sign.’ Mother craned her neck, bumped her head on the windscreen and bent her cigarette. ‘Detour?’ A line of forty-four gallon oil drums had been strung across the road. ‘Must be road works.’

We followed the arrows. The tar macadam disappeared. Now the road, like a giant wash-board threatened to shake our Noddy car to pieces – like driving over a corrugated iron roof but twice as bad. Then we hit a smooth patch and a single-decker, ‘Shu-Shine’ logoed juggernaut from Hades thundered past. I looked up from my little window and caught a glimpse of black faces staring down at me; white eyes and coloured headscarves – then the bus was gone. What dust there had been on the road was now in the air and stones the size of butter beans thrashed our windscreen. Mother screamed, my father cursed and I learned a string of new, exciting words...

Sons of Africa; an extract:

... ‘Something tells me that it won’t be long before I see you again.’ Burnham sat uncomfortably in the saddle. He turned sideways on and lifted the flap to a leather saddle-bag. The telescope was just as Mathew remembered. ‘Bound to come in handy,’ said Burnham and saw Mathew flinch at the offer. ‘I would like you to have it. Belonged to my father.’

Mathew forced back the lump in his throat. His voice failed him. Burnham sensed his angst and again reached inside the saddlebag.

‘One more thing, then for sure I’ll be on my way.’

The casket had been fashioned from cedar and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Its double clasps were from raw, native silver mined in America’s high Sierra Nevada.

‘One of a pair, kept the other one for myself,’ said Burnham and gently freed the clasps from their fastenings. ‘Go ahead,’ Burnham urged him. ‘Lift her out – she belongs to you now.’

It was rested in blue velvet – bought by Burnham’s father from Samuel Colt’s renowned Armoury on the banks of the Connecticut River. The carved, steer head grips were made from white, iridescent mother-of-pearl and the metal parts were still that midnight blue of the unused weapon. The inscription, FRONTIER SIX SHOOTER had been factory etched along the barrel and Mathew sensed that faint familiar smell of its last oiling.

‘44 – 40 calibre,’ Burnham explained the weapon’s attributes, ‘still the old black powder cartridge but plenty powerful enough.’

Mathew lifted it clear of its velvet cushion.

‘Single-action Colt,’ Burnham went on, ‘means you have to cock the hammer for every shot.’ Lastly, he handed Mathew a waxed calico bag. ‘These will see you through until you find a trader; has to be upwards of a hundred bullets in there.’

Mathew swallowed hard to clear the constriction in his throat, but still he could not speak.

‘I’d best be going then,’ said Burnham. ‘Look after the telescope and keep the Colt handy.’

‘I will not forget,’ Mathew managed.

‘I’ll telegraph your father; once I reach the fort at the Tuli settlement’ He turned his horse about. Within minutes the haze had swallowed him up...