(My first creative endeavour for this site! I decided to play with my South African invasion/intervention in Rhodesia idea, and crank out a little writing, for you all. Let me know what you think! In this chapter, we see the aftermath of the mortar and rocket attack on Salisbury's Oil Depot. Here, we see the beginnings of a POD, and more than a little foreshadowing...)
THE FLAME LILY HARVEST:
"If we got mixed-up with [terrorists] who were using sophisticated weapons,
and they had people behind those weapons with the know-how to employ those weapons,
then in all honesty, I think we must concede that... the picture might change..."
~ Ian Smith, Prime Minister of Rhodesia (1976)
December 1978
Salisbury, Rhodesia
Ian Smith rocked on his heels, and Salisbury burned.
A column of smoke from the city's oil depot stood stark against the pale horizon like a particularly ugly statue or memorial - throwing a shadow over the capital for the better part of three days, now. The reek of spilled and burning petroleum was heavy in the air. Altogether elsewhere, across Salisbury, other smaller pockets of violence were evidenced by their own smouldering. Sirens wailed. Occasionally, distant gunfire popped. Rioting in the streets. Small-scale, but significant enough for the weary man in the dusty jacket, observing the world from the patio of his home.
A decade of war, and Salisbury had always been here for him - bustling, and fair. Now the war had come here, too. Smith sniffed, grimaced, and then raised his glass to his lips.
“I fear I am losing control, dear.” he said.
Janet Smith peered up from her book. Her glasses sat lightly upon the tip of her nose. She considered his words, quietly, as he went on;
“South Africa throwing us aside the other year - to wither under the sun. Then we had those planes, shot out of the sky, month before last. Terrorists with Soviet space-weapons. Terrorists killing in our streets. Terrorists killing on our farms. Terrorists that can reach out and touch us anywhere, now. Terrorists, and terror. The whole country is on fire.”
He drank deeply, and then gestured at the skyline with his glass.
“...and what am I to do? What can any of us do? Majority rule is inevitable, as Vorster has kindly reminded us. People march in the streets. Whites butchered on their farms. Blacks, too. I never wanted this.”
Ian Smith felt a coolness against his arm. Janet had joined him by the edge of the veranda, and had slipped her arm under his. Her reading glasses hung from a chain around her neck.
“What can I do, Jan?”
“What needs to be done?”
“The unity of the country. Made all the clearer by this debacle.”
“Then it seems to me that your path is clear.”
“I… I’ve met with the Bishop. We’re already pushing for transition, under his leadership, next year. Elections to satisfy all the nosy do-gooders from the International Community. But Europe won’t go for it. I’m sure of that, now. The whole Zimbabwe-Rhodesia experiment will fall flat on its face. Those hawks would have me pick one of the damn ‘terrs’ as Prime Minister before they leave Rhodesia be.”
“Is it so outlandish to talk with your enemies?”
“Thomas Jefferson refused to negotiate with pirates and outlaws.”
“You are not Thomas Jefferson,” said Janet, the lines beside her eyes deepening with her smile, “and you’re not an American, either. You’re an African - like you always say. You belong to this land. Rhodesia, Zimbabwe? Whatever happens out there, you’ll always have a place on our farm, with me.”
“I certainly feel like a farmer. One with the misfortune to have a crown fall upon his head.”
Smith’s smile dimmed, again, and he peered out at the reeling city. The gunfire had stopped, but the sirens squawked on. The smoke from the depot coiled quietly, broodingly, overhead.
“They won’t like it,” he said, suddenly “The others, I mean. Van der Byl was beside himself over my meetings with the Bishop. It took a year to persuade him to compromise with the moderates. Now we talk of abandoning all that - of negotiating a ceasefire, and some kind of compromise, directly with the terrorists... He’ll suffer a heart attack, I’m sure.”
“But isn’t that better?” asked Janet, “Negotiation, I mean. One day, once you’ve put this government hobby of yours on the shelf, to gather dust, I’d like to be able to wake in our house without fear of being dragged from our beds and shot in the night.”
Smith chuckled, and set his drink down on the railing.
“A true diplomat, and a political mastermind, to boot.” he said.
Janet smiled, mischievously;
“Why, I’m just a humble farmer’s wife. Now come inside, Mr. Smith. Supper shall be ready, shortly.”
“Okay, my dear. I will be along shortly.” said Ian. Janet departed, retrieving her book. Ian peered out at his bleeding country, once again - squinting against the setting sun.
“You may have to lay a place for another, someday soon,” he said, “but not Mugabe. Not that devil. I shall see to that.”