Shadows along the Zambezi

Sandie rose from the kitchen table and walked to the window overlooking the farm’s vehicle yard, with its garages, workshops, and storerooms. Through the grenade screen, she spotted a group of Africans standing outside the security fence. One of the men stood head and shoulders above his five companions. Parked in the driveway was a black Mercedes she had never seen before. At least half of the men carried rifles, slung carelessly over their shoulders. Her stomach tightened. Balanced on the shoulder of a man in the rear, was a long-barreled weapon with a pointed end. She recognized the firearm as a hand-held, rocket-propelled grenade launcher. She gasped and her breaths quickened. 
The tall man had a head of closely cropped, grey hair with a deeply receding hairline. In contrast to his rag-tag companions, he wore an expensive pinstriped suit, a light-colored shirt, and a silk tie with diagonal stripes of gray, black, and white. A patina of red dust covered his stylish, highly polished leather shoes. Compared to his henchmen, he was far too well dressed. Were his togs the ill-gotten gains from an earlier farm invasion? 
Their farm workers, usually visible at this time of the morning as they attended to their various tasks, were nowhere to be seen. Over the barking of the dogs, the group’s leader shouted out, shaking his fist. 
“Mr.van Rooyen! Mr. Pieter van Rooyen. In the name of your country’s president, Comrade Robert Gabriel Mugabe, I am taking your farm,” he hollered. “You must leave immediately.” 
Through the open window, Sandie retorted in the loudest, fiercest voice she could muster. “Go away! You’re trespassing on private property!” 
“You stupid whore!” The man yelled his lips tightened in an evil grimace. “I am Chenjerai Hitler Hunsvi, chairman of the Zimbabwe Liberation War Veterans’ Association, and this is our farm now. Get off! Go! Unless you leave today, you will be very, very sorry.” 
“Go to bloody hell!” Sandie’s outraged response exhibited more courage than she actually possessed. Where in the heck was Shoriwa with the shotgun? Her brow wrinkled with worry. What had Piet been thinking? A gun firing birdshot was hardly any defense against an AK-47. 
Thoughts of her children and their safety flooded her mind. She backed away from the window and rushed off to find Brian and Bernice. She found her daughter in the sewing room, still struggling with the sewing machine. 
“Where’s Brian?” Sandie’s voice shook. 
“I think he’s in his room Mummy. What’s the matter?” 
“I’ll tell you in a minute, darling. First, we must find Brian. It’s urgent!” 
Sandie rushed out into the corridor with Bernice at her heels. She found her son sitting on his bed, playing a hand-held video game. She plopped down next to him, pulled him and Bernice close. 
“Darlings, we have a problem. I need to get on the radio and call for help. Go into my bathroom and keep out of sight.” 
Ever since the terror attacks began during the Rhodesia’s Bush War, their designated safe room had been this windowless bathroom lighted during the day by a small skylight. 
“Lock the door and keep it locked. Unless you hear my voice, don’t open it for any reason,” she urged, squeezing them tightly. “You two must stick together. That’s very, very important!” 
“Mum, what’s happening?” Brian’s voice had a tremor. 
“No time for long explanations. The man outside wants to take our farm.” She hugged them again. “We’re not going to let him, but I must get on the radio to get us some help. Lock yourselves in the bathroom. Run!” 
The children hurtled out the door to their parent’s room. Sandie followed them into the passage, where the farm’s high-band radio sat on a wall-mounted shelf. Switching to Channel 20 to reach their neighbor, she picked up the microphone, took a deep breath to fight down a rising feeling of hysteria, pressed the transmit button, and spoke. 
“Glengarry Farm, Glengarry. This is Kigelia Farm. Angus, are you there? Glengarry, this is Kigelia, over.” 
The radio crackled and her heart lifted as soon as she heard Angus’s deep, resonant voice. “Glengarry here. Good morning, Sandie. Over.” Angus McLaren, the great-grandson of a Scottish immigrant, had farmed next door to the van Rooyens for the past eleven years, and the families were close. 
“Angus, some armed men are outside our security fence. They say they’re here to take the farm. Over.” She fought back tears. 
Angus’s voice was tense. “Sandie, just hold on, hey. Dave Packer and I are coming. We’ll be there as soon as we can. In the meantime, go to your safe room. I know Piet’s away. I saw him fly over this morning. Don’t panic, my girl. We’ll be there soon. Do you copy? Over.” 
“Roger. I heard you, Angus.” Her voice trembled. “Hurry. Over and out.” 
As she replaced the microphone, an instant flood of relief washed over her. The feeling, however, was short-lived. Outdoors, amidst the chorus of frantic woofs and yaps, came an ear-assaulting, crackle of automatic rifle fire. Chills ran down her spine as multiple whelps and whines, turned into a solitary howl. Had those monsters shot two of the dogs? Her eyes filled with tears and her shoulders shook from the sobs escaping her throat. She was thankful the children didn’t witness her meltdown. 
Pressing her cheek against the cool, plastered wall, she wept, fearing the unknown terrors that awaited them. Would her family meet the same cruel fate of others who had recently died? Eight, white Zimbabwe farmers, their black workers, and countless political opponents of the current regime had been brutally murdered by Robert Mugabe’s vicious thugs. 
As she turned to enter the master bedroom, Sandie heard scraping sounds coming from down the hallway. Through the arched doorway leading into the living room, she caught sight of the ridgeback leaping up at the grenade screens outside the French doors. He was barking frantically, begging to come in. Jock bounded inside as she opened the door, and circled her legs in delirious joy. She bent down to pet him, running her hand along the ridge of hair along his back. The dog’s coat felt wet and after examining her red, sticky palm, she realized it was blood. Was it his? Or had it come from one of the other dogs? She inspected him all over, but found no injuries or open wounds. Grabbing Jock by the collar, she led him into the hallway. The children would be happy to see him. 
A deafening explosion rocked the house. Sections of corrugated iron roofing, shattered wooden beams, and chunks of ceiling board tumbled down through a cavernous opening in the roof above the living room. Clouds of dust swirled about and flames licked the edge of the carpet against the back wall. 
In the hallway, Sandie and the dog had escaped the blast. Steel resolve replaced her fear and she pulled Jock towards the bedroom. There, she released his collar and wiped off her hands on a towel. From the walk-in cupboard, she grabbed...