crowd of protestors at the airport, carrying signs that said things like THE DAYS OF MISRULE ARE NUMBERED and NO ROOM FOR WHITE SETTLERS. Some older women in the protest had stripped to their waists to shame him.
‘Ha!’ Phil wheezed. ‘That was not politics. It was scare tactics. Swing those knockers, as the Yanks say, and knock the man out!’
‘Sonny Use-Your-Left Tit!’ Ronald joked redundantly. ‘They made that poor man cry.’
Macleod had indeed wept to see the native women naked. The scene had struck Agnes at the time as utterly lacking in dignity and grace, the absolute opposite of Althea Gibson kissing the Queen’s hand at Wimbledon.
The conversation had moved on to the nation’s new name.
‘I do not know why we do not just call it “Zambezi”,’ said Phil.
‘Kapwepwe has chosen a nice name,’ said Masuzio. ‘Zam-bia! It rolls off the tongue.’
‘Yes. Now there is a freedom fighter with a genuine sense of African grandeur.’
‘They should have just been calling it Zambezia,’ Mercy complained. Her accent was much heavier than the others. ‘Just think about it. ZAMBEZIA! The extra singable is much better!’
‘You mean syllable?’ asked Masuzio.
‘You know what I am talking about!’ said Mercy. ‘Always scrutinising others for mistakes. Your muzungu husband has given you this correcting-correcting habit. The British have broken our backs. Me, I am just breaking a few words, eh—’
Agnes smelled cigarette smoke and heard ice – Ronald was refilling drinks. As the group continued to banter and hoot, a low voice came from beside her.
‘So, Agnes.’ This was Rick. ‘What do you think of this election, this great transition?’
‘I don’t know enough about it,’ she admitted. ‘But as Macmillan says, the wind of hope is sweeping—’
‘Wind of change,’ Rick murmured. ‘Yes?’
‘Yes, of course, change. Erm, either way, it seems to me that self-government for the African people is inevitable.’
‘You do realise that you and I will be among them,’ he laughed.
‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘Everyone who is here on Independence Day will become a Zambian, even us Brits.’
‘Oh that!’ Agnes laughed as if she already knew this. ‘I mean, it is only proper,’ she reflected. ‘A sign of courtesy and grace. Do you know the tennis player Althea—’
‘Naturally one wishes to stay in good graces,’ said Rick. ‘But on this side, of course, the demand is for freedom, not courtesy. The foot on the neck doesn’t feel the cramp.’
Agnes felt flustered. What did he mean by this side? A foot on the neck? What a horrid image! She tried to think of a reply but by the time she had come up with one – something about turning the other cheek – and rejected it as too stupid, Rick had been reabsorbed into the conversation.
They were now discussing the details of the coming Independence Day celebrations. Brass bands and jazz bands were coming from abroad, and so was Princess Royal Mary, who was due to arrive two days before the big day: 24 October 1964. A golden dress and coat had been designed for Mrs Betty Kaunda. She and the new President Kaunda would arrive in a Chrysler Copper Car, on loan from America to celebrate Zambia’s lucrative mining industry.
Out of context, it all sounded to Agnes like superficial minutiae, as if this were just an unusually lively meeting of a planning committee for a bridge party. Bored and a little angry, she sat back and waited for the guests to leave. She had been worried that Ronald’s hip, elite friends wouldn’t like her, but now she faced an even worse proposition. What if she didn’t like them?
* * *
Independence was upon the nation. Kwacha! Ngwee…The sun has risen! Light falls across the plains…Every morning now, Grace used polishing the floors as an excuse to sneak into Madam’s bedroom and listen to the radio chatter about ‘Z Day’. The final touches were being made to a giant copper pedestal where the Independence Flame would burn. Grass-green Independence flags had sprouted across town. Workmen were chipping away at the fabulist British crest over the high court – a lion and a unicorn – which would be replaced by a realist Zambian one: a man and a woman on either side of a shield with wavy white lines on a black field, a pickaxe and a hoe crossed above it. Mr Kapwepwe, the Foreign Minister, had been sighted in his toga, practising with traditional dancers for the celebration.
Grace was not naturally given to joy. But she had never felt so proud to be African – no, Zambian,