“But we have paid this DJ!”

Thank God the sun is rising, as I have hardly slept.  My scant sleep has been fitful, with this pumping music blaring all night from across the valley, along with nightmares of the virus.

“I am going to see those people and speak to them about their ridiculous music at Country Rest Camp” I announce bravely.

The reply:  “good luck, off you go then….”

I down my cup of tea and start my march around the block, two black, bouncing Labradors in tow.  My mind is spinning, fuzzy from lack of sleep.  Past the dam, I see egrets landing on branches – their ruffled feathers gleaming in the sunrise.  A grey heron stands upright, surveying the rippled water for signs of food.  Swallows swoop, cutting through the strong morning breeze.  There are bird calls everywhere.

The wind changes and the thumping beat is back.  Nature, nurture.

My stride quickens and I feel ever more determined.  What you visualise will be realised.  Do it.  Get in that car and go to that place.  Talk to them nicely about being kind and thoughtful.  Just be calm, talk it over, and while you’re at it, give them a speech about Corona.

There’s a sudden hush.  Grasses swish softly.  I hear the immature Verreaux Eagle Owl calling to it’s mother, plaintively.  I see a calf has been born in the night – mother standing, large and proud as her baby tries to suckle, knee deep in the emerald green grass.  I walk past the whispering sorghum, and see the flash of the Red Bishop bird, a brilliant red and black.

On I stride, past the sunflowers, dazzling yellow, towering over me, bees buzzing happily.  Far ahead I see an arrow shaped flock of egrets fly swiftly past the blue haze of the hill, Mwala.

Another change of wind.  The relentless beat, louder.  I’m at home and grabbing the car keys.

I drive down to Country Rest Camp and park outside the half open gate.  This was once an organised and busy stop-over for self-drive holiday makers, mainly from South Africa, en route to Hwange and Victoria Falls.  It’s eerily quiet…. apart from the swish of a grass brush.  A lady is sweeping the scruffy communal braai area – she is the only human I see.  There are garish animal sculptures made of plaster of paris littered all over the lawn.  Shabby thatched cottages surround the cracked, empty pool – this is where two people have drowned apparently, both drunk – they fell into the dirty pea soup water and that was that.  Since then, thankfully it’s been drained.

“Good morning”, I say as I walk up the path towards her.  She looks very surprised – what can this “Kiwa lady” be doing here, especially at this time of the morning?

I ask her how business is going.

“Only two chalets are working” she replies, “the others, they are all broken and we have no money to fix them.”  What happened to that house over there?  I ask, pointing at the burnt ruins of what was a large home behind the gazebo.

“Ah, the son of the new owner’s brother burnt it down”, she says – “there was a BIG family fight”.

“That’s terrible – I’m sorry!  A pause. “Right, well where is that very loud music coming from?  I thought it was from here!”

“We have no music here now.  It is from that big house over the road, you know the one – there is a party there.”

“I knew straight away.  Without mentioning names, it belongs to a “bigwig” in the valley.  “OK – thank-you.  And please, just tell everyone to be careful.  There is a terrible flu all over the world!  It is deadly.  Wash your hands often. Keep your distance.  It spreads very easily!”

“What? What is this?”

“Look at the news, sorry what is your name?”

“Ma Moyo. Gertrude Moyo.  My baby girl has flu.  What should I do?”

My mind is racing.  “Just keep everything clean.  Give your baby lots of water to drink.  Paracetamol if it has a fever.  Keep her at home.  She will get better.  It’s older people who are at risk.  Ma Moyo, I’m going over the road to see those people.  Just tell everyone you know to be careful. It’s called Corona – a very bad flu.  Thank-you.”

I drive off, over the bumpy, potholed road, over the river, choked with the rampant Water Hyacinth – an imported weed.  It should be called Corona Weed, I say to myself.  Spreads rapidly, multiplies in front of your very eyes.  Deceptive, feral, chokes life out of the river, until there’s no water in sight, or there’s a miracle cure to remove it.

The noise gets louder.  I cross the road and there in front of me is a dusty farm yard – which is more like an abandoned scrap yard.  Broken tractors, wrecks of cars and pieces of machinery lie dormant.  An old store, door sagging open and hanging on a broken hinge.  Drunk men of all ages, staggering around holding plastic bottles of straight cane spirit and Chibuku cartons.  Plumes of smoke from their cigarettes rise into the hazy air.  One man is dancing, thrusting haphazardly towards a black prado, with tinted windows.  Smashed bottles and litter lie scattered around the yard.  It’s a scene of devastation.

I stop the car, keeping the engine running.

“Good morning”, I say to the older man in the group nearest to me.

“Morning”, he slurs, “ehe – what do you want, Kiwa?”

“I’d just like to know, who is in charge here?”

“Ah…. the boss, he is away.  You can talk to me.”

“I just want to ask you to please turn this music down!  Can you be kind, and do this?  We did not sleep last night.  We are all very tired – this loud music has been going all night!”

“We are having a celebration!  We have paid this DJ.  What is the problem – now it’s morning – is it affecting you?”

“Yes it is, as I have not slept.  Please can you just think of other people?  What is the celebration?”

“It was my friend’s birthday yesterday – we needed to celebrate!”

“But that was yesterday.  Surely you can now turn off the music, or make it quieter?  It’s seven a.m!  I’m happy for you to celebrate, but all night, and so loudly!”

“Yes, but today it is my friend’s brother’s birthday!  We have paid this DJ!  So – the music goes on!”

“Can you see that it’s not being kind to everyone in the valley?  You need to think of other people – young, old, and sick!”

So much for social isolation.  And I’m afraid no-one here has even heard of this devastating virus.

A younger man arrives – he looks like he is no more than eighteen or nineteen.  He has a heavy gold chain around his neck and has that know it all look about him.  He shouts in a threatening manner, and I see droplets of spit fly out of his mouth towards me.  This is not the time or place to start lecturing people – they are too drunk to care.  After a few brief altercations with him I realise it’s a waste of time.  I stifle a sob. Oh gosh, where did that come from?  The older man says, “Kiwa, don’t cry.  Please don’t cry….”

I turn the car away from them, and glancing sideways I see them staggering off to the broken old store.

I drive home, furious about everything.  The country, the unemployment, the politics, the lack of morals, and now – the virus – what is to become of us all?

As I walk from the car to the front door, I realise that the valley is quiet.

The music has stopped.

Note:  “Kiwa” means white person