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Bad Signs More than 20 years after the guerrilla war that forged Zimbabwe from Rhodesia, fear and violence are once again convulsing that African nationthis time, with a black government pitted against white landowners. The author, who grew up on a farm in Rhodesia, recalls her child's-eye view of a world where even nature knew that luck had run out. By Alexandra Fuller
Duncan himselfthe 12-year-old almost-murderer of my motherhad been too busy killing cats that day to pay attention to the omens, or he never would have been playing with guns. (Killing cats to ascertain, as scientifically as possible, which was the least pleasant way to die: by burning, by drowning, or by bullet.) There are days like that, especially on a bad-luck patch of land all bunched up next to the Mozambique border, when you hope you don't have to get out of bed because of the way the weather feels, all thick and ready and accident-prone. And if you must get out of bed, you'd better hope you don't find yourself near a loaded gun, or a heavily pregnant woman, or a badly wired toaster.
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