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Good day
The stories I post today have all been posted before on Accurate Reloading, and are for the perusal of those that are not members of that site. I shall post a couple that haven't yet been seen tomorrow.

Dave

THE BABOON FEAST

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There has never been a more humble man than Tiyani the hermit. Soft-spoken and hard working, Tiyani was born on Ruware and has given a lifetime of loyal service to Ian de la Rue, working as a herdsman. Dad has always been full of praise for Tiyani, constantly expounding on the many virtues of that good man. ‘He is an honest and diligent worker, a man to be relied on,’ Dad says.

Tiyani lives alone, far removed from anything vaguely resembling civilization. His kreb is situated deep in the bush, not far from the prevalently dry watercourse that is the Benzi (mad) River. This unlikely name was bestowed upon the river many years prior when, after persistent and unexpected flooding, it claimed several lives. These days it is anything but a mad river, the rains having been rather uninspiring of late. Tiyani is not married and he practices a reclusive lifestyle. Bachelor status is not common in rural Zimbabwe and once
I dared to ask him why he did not take a wife. Yes, in Africa we take wives. After a short concise monologue during which Tiyani pointedly explained to me the many advantages of bachelor-hood, I went away completely convinced.
Like other Shangaans from our area, Tiyani has some extraordinary dietary preferences, baboon meat being one of these. Whilst it may seem a bizarre – and indeed repugnant – custom to most people, baboon eating is a fairly common practice in the Lowveld, a dish enjoyed by many. This practice is not exclusive to black people – certain lowvelders of European origins have also adopted the tradition, partaking in what they assure me (the uninitiated) is a delicacy. Ian de la Rue has eaten baboon on occasion, amongst other strange creatures, and my brother Jonathan eats baboon to this day, amongst other strange creatures.
When Jonathan is home, he and I spend much of our time hunting baboons. This activity is one of our favourite pastimes. Having adapted well over the years to the pseudo environment created by cattle ranching and irrigated cropping, baboon numbers have recently reached an all time high. The unwritten policy is to shoot baboons on sight and, as enthusiastic youngsters will, we go about the task with gusto. Although there are many baboons, shooting them is not as easy as one would imagine. They are wily creatures with keen senses, specifically eyesight. Baboon hunting requires dedication and we are often unsuccessful. When we do get lucky, the primate (and possibly mates) is unfailingly delivered to Tiyani. No one else appreciates the treat nearly as much.

A mealtime or two after a successful baboon hunt often finds Jonathan dropping in at Tiyani’s house for a bite to eat. Naturally, baboon is always on the menu. Although I steadfastly refuse to eat baboon, I usually go along for the experience, and that it surely is. Preparation of the baboon feast is an important ritual to Tiyani and he would never entrust that duty to any hands other than his own capable pair. Tiyani is a man of enviable culinary talent and he takes great pride in this ability.
One of Tiyani’s favourite dishes is baboon hand starter, an appetizer served before the main meal to whet the appetite. He says that the tastiest part of a baboon is the finger and hand flesh. Firstly, and obviously, Tiyani severs the hands from the baboons in question. He then takes his honed skinning knife and carefully skins out each hand up to the finger bases, creating hand pouches. Once this intricate task is complete, he carries out a little de-boning exercise and stuffs the pouches with a few tomato and onion chunks, before tightly tying off and sealing the wrist ends. The hands are then popped into a pot of salted water and left to boil for thirty minutes or so. When cooked to his satisfaction, Tiyani removes the hands and grills them for a couple of minutes either side on hot coals – they are now ready. Each man takes a hand and the feast begins.
Witnessing the consumption of baboon hands by Tiyani and Jonathan is not pretty. One by one the fingers are lopped off, and the mushy vegetable and baboon relish is slurped down eager, pulsing throats. The scene is reminiscent of schoolchildren sucking penny-cools dry – there is the same degree of concentration and the same suckling noises. Between hungry slurps the silence is palpable, such is the level of animated absorption. Due to the dedication displayed by the diners, the starter phase never lasts too long. Once the last drops of relish have been wrung out, and the finger bones nibbled clean, the hand remnants are discarded and the main course addressed in earnest, tackled actually. Fortunately the main course is a much tamer affair, usually comprising baboon stew and sadza (maize-meal). Even then it is difficult to remove one’s imagination too far from the scene. Evidence of the baboons’ demise and ingestion is always close at hand, in one form or another!
After any given feast, we always rest together beneath the leafy canopy of a giant leadwood tree close to Tiyani’s hut, the two eaters digesting contentedly. This leadwood is Tiyani’s favourite tree and he religiously passes his daily siesta here, sheltering from the burning lowveld sun. Sitting propped against his leadwood tree, snorting copious quantities of snuff and reliving the finer details of yet another tasty feast in satisfied conversation with my brother. That is how I remember Tiyani.

It is raining on the day the messenger arrives. Not a typical lowveld thunderstorm, those are reserved for the end of season summer months. No, this is winter rain, the most depressing kind. An all-encompassing blanket of monotonous grey and dreary guti (overcast weather), accompanied by cold drizzle and even colder wind, relentlessly sweeping the land.
Tiyani’s kreb is situated deep in the bush, not far from the Benzi River. It is not possible to reach there by vehicle and we leave the Land Rover on the roadside. Hunched defensively against the combination of driving wind and driven raindrops, we make our way in single file down the familiar winding footpath. It is about three kilometres from the road to Tiyani’s house and the walk does not usually take long. Today, however, conditions are tough – we are walking into the wind and the path is slushy underfoot. Eventually we arrive.
The weather compliments the mood as we stand huddled beneath that giant leadwood tree. As the raindrops splatter my upturned face, and I watch Tiyani’s wind propelled corpse swing from side to side, I wonder what kind of madness brought about the murder of such a righteous man. Furthermore, I wonder at the level of deranged insanity responsible for the desecration of the temple that is Tiyani’s body, for he has been disemboweled and his internal organs stolen by body parts dealers.
Father gives a silent signal and someone shimmies up the tree and drops the hollow cavity that has housed the good soul of a humble man. The raindrops wash my tears away as I offer a silent prayer for that good soul, which, in all probability has, in its physical form, contributed to the blood money coffers of evildoers.

Dealing in body parts is fairly uncommon in Zimbabwe. I personally believe that Tiyani’s internal organs were smuggled into South Africa to be sold through that thriving market. Of course, this is only assumption. Although it is probable that outsiders committed this heinous crime, they must have had at least one local accomplice who was familiar with the area and the people. Two local men were arrested and held briefly in custody, under suspicion of having been involved. After being extensively interrogated (in reality tortured) they were released without charge. The murderers remain at large, or do they? Of the two men initially suspected, one died recently after a short undiagnosed illness, and the other is currently suffering from advanced terminal cancer. The Ruware people have drawn their own conclusions from the facts pertaining to this case. I shall leave you to draw your own