I saw Dirk, his crooked smile as he teased Hlevani, and stole food from her kitchen before dinner, causing her to run after him with the dishtowel. Then I saw Dirk holding his hand out to me the day we arrived in Africa. I felt the love in his eyes wrap around me and I reached for his hand - it disappeared and he was standing with Nelson by the bungalows, a lion in between them from the day's hunt. They looked happy, Nelson smiling broadly and Dirk with his hand on Nelson's shoulder. But then I saw the lion's eyes flicker and his ears prick up. Dirk didn't notice. I tried to shout. Dirk didn't hear. I pointed to the lion, but Dirk just smiled at me and said, "Silly wife." The lion pushed himself to his feet. Still they didn't notice. The lion stood on his hind legs, but Dirk and Nelson stood motionless as if they were posing for a photograph. I screamed at Dirk, pointing frantically. "Don't die," I sobbed, "Don't die," as the lion roared and pounced on Dirk, shredding him where he now lay buried. The room was darker than the inside of a tomb. There was no moon. I felt a slight breeze from the cracked window and thought about the frost that lay on the ground. My fingers were numb; my hands trembled. I was alone and Dirk was dead. The room felt large and the air weighted, pressing down on my chest heavier and darker. I plumped the pillows behind me and leaned back, unable to fall asleep. I was still here and I would stay. I was determined never to give up the dream of Africa. Dirk had brought me to Rhodesia - this beautiful land, not drab like London. Here, the colours were as bright as pain; there was no avoiding life. And the house was mine now, so I had no reason to go back anyway. The image of the lion kept lunging at me in my head. I turned away from it and concentrated on the faint light that started to glow through the gauze curtains over the veranda doors, my fingers nervously and repeatedly smoothing the duvet over my legs. I thought I could make a living on my own out here. Hlevani had taught me to sew, and she was there to guide me. I saw the light from the melting flecks of frozen dew as the sun rose and slanted through my window. The farm was coming alive and I heard the rooster and the birds, the cattle lowing in the distance and the women singing as they fed their families. The farm was in good hands. Nelson would run it and that would leave me free to pursue my own desires. I had gone to town and bought metres and metres of cloth and yarn and patterns to begin making my living. I wanted to capture the Africa that I knew, that I had grown to love, that Dirk had sold to me that dreary day in London when he took my hand and promised me life. It was an offer I couldn't refuse. Maybe things were a little unsteady now, a little unstable on the continent - there had been reports of violence on farms in the news recently - but I would be safe. I had Nelson and Hlevani and all the other servants to protect me. The resistance hadn't reached us, and I didn't think that there was any way it could. Our servants were happy. We provided them with everything they needed. The bedroom door slid open and Hlevani came in with my morning tea. Her apron looked freshly washed and she was humming cheerfully. "It's a beautiful day, madam." She placed the tea on my bedside table with a little pitcher of fresh cream and some sugar, then went and opened the curtains and let the sunlight stream in. She picked up my clothes from the night before and was looking around the room for anything else she could remove when she noticed the bed, the plumped pillows and the way the sheets were twisted around my body and legs. "Still not sleeping madam?" "I had another nightmare." Her face clouded over. "But no need to worry," I rushed on, "I'm fine, Hlevani. It'll just take time." I took a sip of my tea and looked through the glass doors, signalling the end of our conversation. This was the rhythm of our days. Hlevani would wake me and I would take my time getting up and dressed, then head into what used to be Dirk's study where I had left all my sewing. I found it comforting in there. Hlevani would periodically give me lessons until I got the hang of it, and then I would work diligently all day, only stopping for meals and an occasional break. Some days Nelson would stop by with a report about the farm, or to ask permission for additional building or expenses up at the game park bungalows. But usually my days were spent in peace and quiet, the sounds of the farm filtering through my open windows. The war hadn't reached us, and I was convinced that it never would. In the evenings I would go out and sit on the veranda after dinner to watch the white glare of the day disappear into orange-scarlet-purple-velvet black. The colours would hang in the clouds. Then there were days when there were no colours, just the flaming sun like a red construction paper circle sinking into the grass. Hlevani would join me after the dishes were done and we would discuss the events of the day, or news from home (hers and mine), or we would just sit in companionable silence. I loved those moments, especially after a traditional meal, which Hlevani would make only if I begged. And so the days flowed smoothly into one another under the infinite African sky, watching the dry season come to an end and the beginning of the rains, when the night went from a clear endless dome to an impenetrable blanket of water. Hlevani and I saw it all from our vantage on the veranda. I was soon able to sell some of my quilts to a distributor from Salisbury; she liked the quaint rural touches that I was able to weave into the stories on my blankets, most of which I gathered from Hlevani in the evenings on the veranda. This was the Africa that I had come for, and I was not willing to relinquish it just because Dirk wasn't here to protect me. I didn't need protecting; I was no longer a foreigner. This was my home, and I was a part of it just as much as it had become a part of me. The elephant grass pushing up in the reaped fields that I could see from the veranda filled me with open space and made me look back on my life with a sense of claustrophobia. There was no need to be concerned. Then Mrs. Graham came out for her monthly collection and took my finished quilts, leaving in her wake the story of a neighboring farm that had been attacked in the night by rebel fighters. She told me she feared for my safety as a woman living alone with only natives around me. "It was their own servants who turned on them, who told the fighters how to get in, even gave them the key! Come now, Mrs. Andrews, surely you know it's not safe for you to be out here." "My servants would never turn on me like that. We're happy. We're a family." I loaded my quilts into her arms and quoted my new price. She paid it without a word, but left with a sour expression on her face and a finger waggle. That night I sat with Hlevani in the rocking chairs on the veranda and watched the men set the grass on fire. It was just before the rains and every living thing had turned brown and been scorched by the sun. Since the earth had already been sunbeaten, the only way to make things grow again was to burn them up. Hlevani had explained this to me, but I didn't believe her until I saw it with my own eyes. Out of the black charred earth would come tiny green sprouts, growing more and more vivid with each day, despite the terror of the sun. That night the men were in the fields in front of the house, controlling the fire as it spread through the fragile brown reeds, hungrily devouring them. The flames flickered off their dark faces as they sang to God asking Him to grant them a good harvest. The songs had a beat to them that resounded within me. I could feel it behind my eyelids, flickering like the flames, filling the empty spaces. I loved the music; Dirk had never understood. He used to laugh at me when I tried to learn the songs, when I asked Hlevani to teach me. "Silly wife," he'd said, then pulled me into his arms and whispered the songs against my hair because he'd known them since childhood, Ishe komborera afrika, ngai dzimu dziwe zitarayo… "Silly wife, and silly songs." They were hymns, beautiful hymns. The lion had lunged at me again that night and so I propped myself up until Hlevani brought me my tea and commented on the unsightly blue-grey semicircles developing under my eyes. I told her I had stayed up working on my latest quilt because I had been inspired by the men, but really it was the lion that wouldn't let me sleep. When I was awake, though, I saw lights dimly through the French doors, and heard faint singsong voices. There were no people and no shadows, and I couldn't decide whether they were real or not. I thought about what Mrs. Graham had told me the day before, but dismissed it as nonsense. Not here. This was my farm, my piece of Africa, my dream. "Hlevani, what do you know of the rebels?" She looked startled and some of the tea slopped over the side of the teacup. "Madam?" "The rebels. I hear they've been violent again, not far from here." I reached for the teacup and Hlevani backed away smoothing her apron, and headed to the French doors to let in some fresh air. "Well, they are fighting in the name of the Chimurenga. They want to be free of the white man's rule, madam. They are unhappy and want their own land." "But they don't know how to use it. They would just ruin it." I took a sip. It was only the truth. Hlevani's face scrunched up like she was going to say something, but instead she merely shrugged and turned towards the door, taking my clothes with her. I thought maybe she just wasn't in the mood to discuss it and hoped she wouldn't be moody for the rest of the day. I picked up the quilt from the floor beside my bed and padded down the hall to Dirk's study to continue stitching in the red and orange flames and the black faces that I had started the night before. It was the quintessential scene of Africa and I knew that Mrs. Graham would adore it. Dirk was smiling at me, standing just outside the French doors on the veranda with a full moon right behind him, casting his face into shadow so that all I could see without straining were his eyes glowing like a cat's. He was looking in while I lay in bed with the pillows propping me up. I couldn't believe it was him and told him that I thought he was dead. He tapped on the window lightly but insistently. I told him that he should come inside and his grin widened, the whole time his eyes staying focussed on me, but he didn't move. I sat up and motioned with my hand that he should come lay down beside me. He placed his palm against the window and turned to leave. Then he stopped and bowed his head. When he looked up his face had merged with that of the lion. His body fell off like dead skin to reveal the lion's fur, and his paws were raised in the air, tapping on the window pane. Then the lion crashed through the French doors. Glass tinkled everywhere. He stalked towards the bed, a low growl in his throat, and when he was almost there he reached his claws out and started shredding the duvet, inching closer and closer to my flesh. Glass lay shattered all over the floor and the frames of the French doors were bent. I pulled the duvet tighter around me and examined it for shreds that I knew couldn't really be there. And yet there were shards of glass all over my floor. I heard voices coming from the gaping hole where the doors used to be and saw patches of light. People were running around, panicked, I could tell. I looked around my darkened room but no one was there, so I felt safe enough to emerge from under the covers. As I put my toes on the floor, I noticed a dirty rag at my feet and a large rock nearby. The rag had a strange smell to it and was wet to the touch. I picked it up by one of its corners and inched to the broken doors to fling it outside. From that vantage I could see numerous people around the house, carrying flashlights or torches, some also carrying machetes. I couldn't tell who they were, though. It was too dark, and so was their skin. I looked back into my room and saw shadows from the spots of light outside. I felt a trill of fear run its way from the base of my spine up my neck. I threw on a dressing gown and some slippers and started to inch slowly down the hall. Shadows were moving everywhere. Someone was in Dirk's old study but I didn't dare look. There was a flash of light, and I suddenly knew what was happening. They had set fire to my quilts. They were setting fire to my house. These were the rebels come to kill me. My breath froze in my throat and I froze to the wall. I had to make it to Hlevani's. If I could do that I would make it through the night. Hlevani could explain to them that I was no threat, that we all got along and there was no need to take my land. The war had no business on my farm. I wasn't even Rhodesian; I was English. She would tell them. I sank to my knees and started crawling along the hall and into the dining room where there was no light and no noise. I would crawl out through the sliding glass doors that led to the veranda, slide off the veranda and run to the bushes at the head of the path leading to the servants' quarters. I was crouched by the doors when I saw a burst of flame from the left side of the house. They had set fire to the kitchen. Voices were coming from all sides and they were singing the same songs that I had longed to learn, that Dirk had teased me about. These people were singing those beautiful songs while they burnt down my house. Ishe komborera afrika… I listened to the words for the first time and realized that the songs I had longed to learn were freedom songs. How naïve I had been. I understood why Dirk had mocked me. Where was Hlevani? I had to find her. She would talk some sense into them. A dark figure ran by the glass doors towards my bedroom, then another. The pounding of feet resounded in my heart and I leaned my forehead against the glass for support. Someone shouted from the direction of my room and several voices responded. They sounded angry, then they whooped and began a new song. I had to get out of the house or I would die. I reached up and slid the glass door open, glanced both ways and waited for what looked like the outline of a young man to disappear into my room. The voices were getting louder and more chaotic. Triumph mixed with anger in their voices, but all I could feel was fear. I crept down the steps and pressed myself against the lattice covering the underside of the veranda. It was cold and rough through the thin fabric of my nightgown. I stopped to breathe; I knew that I was alright for now because I was in the shadow of the steps, so I looked around. Men and women, children and adults ran to and fro, throwing rags at the house and shouting. Boys and girls carrying lighters followed them around and squealed with glee at the vibrant colors that rose from the dirty rags at their touch. The night was dark with only a sliver of moon, and the bodies ran stealthily from place to place, merging like shadows. When the footsteps around me subsided, I detached myself from the lattice with the intention of running for the bushes. They were only a couple hundred metres away. If I made it there, I would be safe. I was about to step out of the shadow when the figure of a woman came running towards the steps with a torch in her hand. I could see the outline of a headscarf, and as she pounded up the stairs centimetres away from me, I saw her face. It was Hlevani. She was burning my house. I had nowhere to go, no one to turn to - I was trapped with these crazed natives, and Hlevani was one of them. I felt my heart shrivel up in my chest and I couldn't breathe. Hlevani, of all people. My legs went limp. When the blood returned to my legs, I crawled under the stairs and behind the lattice of the veranda, lying flat on my stomach. At least I was hidden; maybe I could survive until morning. The pounding of feet grew louder, as did the war shouts. I could hear the flames sucking in air as they were given life by these dark figures. The veranda vibrated just above my head as people gathered to sing and dance in triumph, and I started to recognize the voices: Thandie who worked in the garden, and her little son; Farai the gardener; the men from the fields… I even thought I heard Nelson. Hlevani's voice was softer than the others, but I knew she was there. Suddenly I felt - knew - that she was the one who had been in Dirk's office, who had set fire to my quilts. I lay there until the sun started to peek over the trees and the dew was melting. It had been quiet for about two hours but I hadn't moved. I crawled out from under the veranda and cautiously made my way up the stairs. The house was still standing, but sections of the roof had caved in and every piece of glass had been smashed. I wandered from room to room and made a mental list of my shattered dreams. My quilts were burnt to charcoal. My clothes had been shredded. My bed lay gutted like a ferocious animal. Pages had been ripped out of Dirk's books and all of our farm records had been piled in the middle of the living room and lit on fire. I went to the window and surveyed the landscape of Rhodesia. There was a soft glow to the sky, that moment before the heat sets in, when the dew is glinting off the blades of grass and the colors are crisp. It looked like nothing had changed. But this was not the Africa that I had come to find. This was not the Africa that Dirk had given me. Hlevani's face flashed across my mind's eye like one of the dark figures from the night before and I realized that maybe it had never existed at all. I had been living in a fantasy. All around me lay the pieces of that fantasy, ripped apart like Dirk was in my dreams. The native songs echoed through the smoldering house as I stepped gingerly from room to room, not knowing where to go. All I knew was that this wasn't home, and never would be again.