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That’s what they called themselves anyway, but they were really just Kapembwa’s thugs. ‘In 2000, the so-called war veterans came to the farm. ‘Mum and Dad,’ said Archie, the emotion clearly audible in his voice. From the expression of agony on his face, it looked as if he’d still been alive when they’d amputated the limbs: it might well have been the shock that killed him.īut through the blood, their faces were still clearly recognisable. The hands had been hacked off the old man. Their clothes had been torn from them, and there were cuts across their bodies where it looked as if they’d been whipped. And then in the next picture you could clearly see the bodies of an old man and woman. There was blood on the finely polished oak floorboards of the hallway.

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There was no sound, just a series of still pictures. The screen went dark, then sprang back to life. ‘And then this happened,’ said Archie, his voice turning solemn. Next, there were shots of Archie’s father grown old, a distinguished-looking man in his seventies, still strong and proud, inspecting the work on his farm from the back of his favourite horse. Some of the shots showed a couple of kids playing on a trampoline, followed by newsreel pictures of General Sharratt leading his troops from the Batotean Army into battle. The gardens were lush and green, as were the fields. The house was made from red brick and white clapperboard, with flowers all around it. The first shots were black and white followed by colour sections shot on one of the Super 8 cameras that were popular in the 1970s. ‘This is where I grew up,’ he said.Ī film flickered up on the screen. The lights were dimmed, and Sharratt was standing right next to the screen as the men took their places. A pair of double doors led into a private cinema. Steve put his drink down and followed him. He walked briskly through the hallway towards the left wing of the house. He paused, his eyes scanning the men in front of him. He decided he’d do everything he could to make the new country as good as the old one.’ Dad had fought against the man who took over, the guerrilla leader Benjamin Kapembwa, but he was a soldier just like you and he wasn’t going to hold a grudge. But Mum and Dad stayed behind, working their farmland and doing what they could for the nation. Like a lot of guys my age, I got out of there, I went to university in Britain, then found myself a job in the City. ‘Nearly thirty years ago, the country I grew up in was turned upside down. That was why he became a soldier, and he was bloody good at it, rising to become a General in the Batotean Army. But he was a man who believed in his nation and didn’t mind fighting for it if he had to. He owned a big farm about a hundred miles north of a city that is now called Ibera, and grew mostly tobacco, which was where I learned about commodity prices.

‘My father was a man called General Ritchie Sharratt, and I reckon you boys would have liked him because he was one of the finest soldiers who ever put on a uniform.

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