The words rattled through Chombo’s mind like a curse, as they did every day. He was sitting on a balcony of his favourite hotel, sipping a cooling beer and gazing out across the swimming pool to the landscaped gardens beyond. The breeze was gentle, the rain gone, yet he could find no peace, and knew he wouldn’t, not until Mandela’s ghost had finally been buried and his diaries along with it. The name of the former South African leader was still sacrosanct, the most powerful political force in this part of Africa, and no one dared touch his memory. His official diaries had long since been published but in their wake had come whispers of another, more private and far darker set of scribblings, comments and conclusions written down in his final years that took an uncharacteristically venomous line for a man whose reputation had been built on an infinite smile. But these writings were different, an old man’s chance to get even, from beyond the grave. Three months ago word had spread that the diaries were being touted around, that they would not only rewrite history but also screw up a fair bit of the future, too, by humiliating many powerful men.
