African Sky Read Free Page A

sir?’
    â€˜Get back to work or I’ll have you horse-whipped.’
    Outside it was another perfect Rhodesian flying day. It wasn’t hard to see why they had picked this country to train pilots. It was the same with Australia. The empire needed airmen at an ever-increasing rate to make up for the losses over Europe and, to train flyers, you needed open spaces, empty skies and, preferably, a lack of enemy fighters.
    Two students in RAF tropical uniforms, khaki tunics and shorts hemmed above sunburned knees, saluted him as they passed. The trainees marched, their arms swinging to breast-pocket height. Bryant walked casually. He couldn’t remember the last time he had marched anywhere. He took the cigarette packet from his shirt pocket and lit one on the move. Oh yes, he thought, the last time he marched would have been at a funeral. He couldn’t remember whose. Slow march, carrying the coffin. Bryant checked his watch and hoped the police wouldn’t delay his lunch. Lunchtime was a highlight of his dreary desk-bound day. A couple of bottles of Lion beer in the mess. Too many of his memories – all of them, it sometimes seemed – were linked to the death of someone or other.
    He scanned the sky. An Oxford was on final approach to the main runway, its waggling wings betraying the trainee’s nerves and inexperience. There was no sign of the eagle and he wondered if it had caught its preyA ruddy dust plume from the dozer marked the site of the new taxiway. The twin-engine trainer bounced once then slewed down the runway. At least that one had landed safely.
    â€˜Cheer up, you’re alive,’ he told himself again.
    â€˜Squadron Leader Bryant,’ a deep voice called behind him.
    Bryant knew who it was and smiled at the man’s formality. He turned and grinned. ‘Is it worth me telling you again, Kenneth, that you can call me by my first name? You’re not in the air force, man.’
    Kenneth Ngwenya gave a small, pained smile. He lowered his voice. And I could tell you, again, that in a country where black men have to get off the footpath when they see a white coming towards them, for me to call you by your first name when there are others nearby would be bad for me and worse for you.’
    All right then, all right, get off the bloody pavement.’
    Ngwenya laughed. ‘ Sawubona , Paul,’
    And I see you, too, my friend.’
    â€˜Your Ndebele is getting better. Perhaps it’s time you graduated beyond hello and goodbye.’
    â€˜You’re like every schoolteacher I ever met, Kenneth.’
    â€˜Really?’
    â€˜Yes, a prick.’ Bryant cut their laughter short with a glance at his watch. ‘Where have you been all week? I’ve missed you pestering me for building materials and medicines.’
    â€˜The only reason I pester you is because you never say no. And the children appreciate it. I’ve been visiting my father; he has not been well.’
    â€˜I’m sorry to hear that. I hope he gets better soon. I’d love to stay and chat, Kenneth, but I’ve got the police waiting for me at the front gate.’
    Ah, I hope you enjoy your time in gaol. Is it about the woman who was killed last night?’
    Bryant studied Kenneth’s face. The man was as tall as he was, about six feet, with bright, alert eyes magnified by small rimless glasses that looked completely at odds with his powerful body Ngwenya always seem constrained by the dark suit, starched white shirt and black tiethat he wore every day, no matter what the weather. Bryant had written, in one of his infrequent letters to his father in Australia, that Kenneth had the brain of a university professor and the body of a rugby player, even though Africans were barred from playing the game.
    â€˜What woman?’
    Ngwenya’s face was devoid of mirth. ‘I am sorry to bring the news. I thought you would have heard by now. She was from here, Paul. White. One of