Killer Kestrels & Gold Falcons!

Early April. Days filled with kids’ tricks, blustery weather and not a minute’s peace for any of the ‘girl birds’ living around our garden. Every male Chaffinch, Blue tit, Woodpecker and Kestrel is on the prowl for a girlfriend. Even the Barn owls are doing what girl and boy owls do at this time of year.

One pair of Blue tits have again, claimed their ‘hole-in-the-wall’ residence well in advance; next to our front door and just behind a rose bush. Guess they like it round here and who would blame them – costs me a small fortune in nuts and fat-balls to get them through the winter. Nice to know though; I mean that they’ve made it and another string of mini-titlings will soon be homing in on the feeders. Though as we are all well aware, there is no such thing as the perfect place – even our innocent looking bird feeders have their sinister side. In the winking of an eye birds are snatched from their nutty heaven and shredded. You can imagine the survivors thinking; ‘what the f**k was that?’ and then ducking for cover. Only lasts a minute though then back comes the ‘will never happen to me’ attitude and away they go again, hammering at the feeders – oblivious to the feathered assassins hovering overhead; what the hell – as long as the nuts are free...

*

My first Mashaba friend was Ben; a little black guy. Guess we both had origin issues with other white kids, him being black and me being a ‘soutie’ immigrant kid not long out from England. Didn’t bother me ‘cause I learned a lot from Ben – kick-started a lifelong love for the bush, sort of drove me into the hills when other kids were doing cool things down at the swimming pool. Ben worked for my mother; our ‘garden boy’. Whistled away his work time with a hosepipe in one hand, weeding fork in the other. When his work and my schooling were through we would arm ourselves with catapult, pellet-gun and box of matches and head for as much wilderness as a mile or two away from the house could offer.

Away from civilisation things were different. We were hunters; both barefooted, watchful of snakes and things. Ants we didn’t mind – just brushed them off and pulled their nippers out from our skin. Once the asbestos dust was left behind the bush turned green and brown with natural colours again. If it had been raining, I could smell Africa in the soil and the Kites and Wahlberg’s eagles would be soaring close in to the ground because the flying-ants were out; in their millions. Ben’s Shona name for the winged termites was ishwa; I never forgot. Showed me how to pluck off their wings and heads and pop their buttery bodies into my mouth. Showed me wild plums and how to peel off their orange coloured skins and suck off their bitter-sweet flesh. Showed me lots of things the white kids didn’t know about.

We hunted the banks of a little river; the Chemberi I think it was called. We hunted birds, the innocence of each new kill added to a wire loop on Ben’s belt. Namaqua doves were the ultimate prize, skewered on green sticks and charred black by our overly active fire. We crusted them with salt then despatched our macabre kebabs, bones, ash, beaks ‘n all. It was almost always dark when I got back home.

‘You’re filthy, Jeffrey!’ Had I a dog, Mother would have sent me to share his basket. ‘People will talk, you know. Why can’t you mix with white kids?’

‘They fight with me.’

‘Fight with you?’

‘Because I’m from England.’

‘And do you fight back?’

I told her I did. Think she sort of liked that because her eyes glittered...

*

Sons of Africa; an extract:

... Philip had laid the table with a covering of fine white linen. Vibrant Stuart Crystal showed off servings of Sauvignon Blanc from the Cape Winelands.  The setting was brought to life by sterling silver candelabra, filling the room with glittering points of shattered candlelight.

Karen McKenzie stared across the table at the man she had fallen in love with, glad that she had driven out unannounced to the homestead.  Sometimes, Lee’s antics in front of guests could appear boyish and unforgivably asinine – conversely, he was the most loving person she had ever met. Their first meeting came spinning back to her – standing at the edge of a deep and verdant valley, her life until that moment had been totally immersed in the ruined city of Zimbabwe where she worked as first assistant to a doctor of archaeology from the University of the Witwatersrand in South Africa. Lee had made some ribald comment about her choice of trenching locations. After that, several arguments and a reparatory dinner at the Great Zimbabwe Ruins Hotel they had become inseparable.

As though he had sensed her mood, Lee stood up from his chair and raised his glass. He waited for the chatter to ease then swung the conversation in Karen’s favour.

‘I give you the girl of my dreams. My incredible, unselfish, uncomplaining companion. Besides being first lady of my life, Karen McKenzie ladies and gentlemen, is now a fully qualified Doctor of Archaeology.’ Karen openly blushed. ‘And a fossicker of all things ancient – which would of course account for her fortuitous finding of yours truly.’

‘Wonderful news!’ piped Bella. ‘Will you be continuing your work at the ruins or moving on to greater things?’

‘I’ll be staying on,’ Karen admitted. ‘The Department of Antiquities will be funding the project. They want me to open up the Hill Fortress and part of the inner Temple.’

From diagonally opposite, Rex Kumalo screwed up his eyes at Lee, urging him to disclose their find.

Lee reached inside his trouser pocket.

‘If that is the case, my darling official fossicker of ancient ruins, then you may well find this an interesting start to your career.’ He laid the gold talisman in front of her. The yellow metal drew soul from the candlelight.

Karen knew that nothing of such exquisite beauty had yet been recovered from the ruins of Great Zimbabwe – nothing she had ever seen could compare with this precious artefact – a cast of pure sunlight.

‘Pick it up,’ Lee encouraged, ‘it won’t bite you.’ But Karen hesitated, seemingly intimidated by the stylised golden creature that lay before her.

‘It’s almost too beautiful to touch; there’s something spooky about it.’

 Tentatively, she held it at eye level; surrounded it with candlelight. From memory, she compared the metal raptor to its larger, stone replicas housed inside the museum at Great Zimbabwe. The same cruel eyes stared back at her and below them, the raptor’s beak curved almost to its chest, a wicked scimitar of almost pure gold. The wings, though folded back seemed tensed for flight and with golden talons it clutched to a perch of that same precious metal – alert as a living eagle, ready to spring for the eyes of those now gazing down upon it.

‘Where did you find it?’...