The Burning Land

by George Alagiah

  He’d have to send an email, which Motlantshe loathed, not least because it required a modicum of digital dexterity that was beyond his pudgy fingers. He preferred issuing his instructions over the phone, and when he had to send an email he usually got his personal assistant to key in the message. Facing the prospect of doing it himself only added to his ill-temper.

  He navigated his way to the email screen on his phone, something of an achievement in itself, and started to assemble the words. He found it impossible unless he mouthed the letters aloud. He pushed down on the letter a only to see s appear on the screen. He did it again, this time producing @. The more frustrated he got the harder he pressed, making it even more likely that his thumb tip would hit the wrong letter. Eventually, he had what he wanted:

  Am in Dubai to see these buyers from London. Worried protest going to upset them. This one is a big deal. The one in Mpumalanga. Keep protest coverage down. Call me. JM.

  Motlantshe understood the TV business inside out – after all, he owned a channel – and knew how much other broadcasters depended on footage from SABC. Most – with the exception of BBC World and Al Jazeera – had long since shut down their bureaux in South Africa.

  He had a few hours before the meeting with the London delegation. Motlantshe looked at his personalised Richard Mille watch and decided he still had time to make the other call before he was due to meet George Kariakis, the middleman who was organising the meeting. It was going to be a long day and he needed the kind of fillip that only his mistress could provide.

  That same morning, some four thousand miles to the south, Kagiso Rapabane had glanced around a single open-plan room, the head office of Soil of Africa in Malelane, an unremarkable town in South Africa’s Mpumalanga Province. Tourists passed through it on their way to the great Kruger National Park, but it was an experience they rarely, if ever, remembered.

  It was going to be a big day for Soil of Africa and Kagiso was there a good hour earlier than was usual. It was the charity’s only office. No two desks were alike, and the chairs were an assorted collection that included plastic garden furniture and a ‘sofa’ that had started life as the back bench on a bus, now bolted onto a couple of wooden pallets.

  He rubbed his hands together, trying to generate some life in fingers that had been chilled to the bone on his ride into work. It was midwinter in the southern hemisphere and the early-morning air had an edge like a butcher’s knife. He rummaged in his satchel and found a box of matches. Kagiso was not a habitual smoker, but in his line of work, out here in South Africa’s forgotten rural fringe, it was the kind of thing that always came in handy. He carried the stump of a candle for the same reason. There were still plenty of farm labourers’ huts where the electricity that powered escalators and supermarket freezers in the city had yet to reach a single light bulb. He struck a match and squeezed it through the fireguard on the paraffin heater; it sucked up the flame with a satisfying gulp.

  Kagiso went over to the sink in the corner of the room and filled the kettle to the brim; the others would be here soon enough. He switched on the electric stove and watched the spiral filament as it glowed into red-hot life. The water dripping off the outside of the kettle fizzed and spat as he put it down.

  He was waiting for Lesedi – scion of the Motlantshe family. The approach from Lesedi had been quite a surprise. When his office had called to arrange a meeting, the initial reaction among the staff at Soil of Africa had been one of suspicion. What were the Motlantshes up to now? Why would the son of a man like Josiah Motlantshe want to have a meeting with Soil of Africa, an organisation dedicated to ensuring that farm workers were given the opportunity to buy and work their own slice of land? Soil of Africa championed the notion, embedded in centuries of folklore and cemented by the humiliation of apartheid’s evictions and pass laws, that those who are most secure are those who walk on land they can call their own. He could see why so many of his colleagues thought he was being either duped or naive. Not for the first time that morning Kagiso checked his phone. He was expecting a call. Nothing. No missed calls.

  He went outside and stood on the stoep. The white light of a wintry sun shone through the delicate filigree of a spider’s web stretched between the thatched roof and one of the timbers on which it was supported. A single dewdrop clung to the bottom of the web, like a pearl hanging from an intricate necklace. A few metres in front of him, a young boy, wearing a T-shirt that reached halfway down his shins, was herding half a dozen rangy cattle down the main street. Kagiso checked to see if the extra chairs he’d borrowed from the church up the road had been delivered. Word had got round that Lesedi Motlantshe – heir to a billionaire – would be visiting Soil of Africa and he knew there would be quite a crowd. Motlantshe himself had proposed meeting some of the farm workers from around the town.

  Kagiso Rapabane’s transition from favoured civil servant to charity worker was as surprising as it was exceptional. A poorly paid job helping South Africa’s rural poor was a far cry from his days at the Ministry of Rural Development and Land Reform in Pretoria, where he was a policy adviser to one Jake Willemse, at the time an up-and-coming minister. Kagiso had been something of a high flyer himself, one of the brightest prospects in the policy department, someone destined to go to the very top. There had been shock and not a little incredulity when it had been announced that he’d accepted a transfer to the rural outpost of Malelane. His industriousness, his renowned discipline, even his lean physique, all of these seemed ill suited to the altogether more laid-back attitude to work in the languid province of Mpumalanga in the eastern reaches of the country.

  At the ministry, he’d been something of an enigma: everybody’s friend but no one’s confidant. You’d have been hard pushed to find anyone who had a bad word to say about him, but in the world of office camaraderie people wanted more of a colleague, someone who was clubbable in a way that Kagiso was unable and unwilling to be. While the others had aspired to owning BMWs, he was satisfied with his Yamaha scooter; while they signed up with a personal trainer – a status symbol in the new South Africa – he would disappear on long, lonely runs. No one knew about his love life, whether he even had one. He seemed inured to the charms of even the most attractive women at the ministry. The men couldn’t understand it and the women were intrigued. They wondered what went on behind those bespectacled eyes. His aloofness, his unavailability, was much more alluring than the crude lasciviousness of the other men, brought up in a society hooked on the conventional rituals of men chasing women.

  Kagiso’s phone rang. He didn’t recognise the number.

  ‘Lesedi Motlantshe here. How’s it going?’

  Kagiso was taken aback for a moment to hear Lesedi himself, not the assistant he had been dealing with up till then, at the end of the line. And he was surprised by how ‘white’ the accent was. It was reminiscent of the still-white suburbs of Cape Town, certainly not Mitchell’s Plain.

  ‘Hey! I’m fine. Are you on your way?’

  ‘Yeah. I think I’m about an hour away, two at the most. I’ve just stopped to get something to eat. It was an early start.’

  ‘How many of you are coming?’

  ‘Just me.’

  ‘Really? I thought you would be …’

  ‘You sound shocked. I know we Motlantshes are meant to travel with an entourage, just to show how important we are.’ Lesedi was laughing.

  ‘Well, we’ll be ready and waiting.’

  ‘You make it sound like I’m about to walk into an ambush!’ Another chuckle.

  ‘No one’s going to ambush you here. Listen, you’re the biggest thing that’s happened here since some American rapper passed through on his way to the Sabi Sabi game lodge. Most of them probably just want to shake your hand.’

  ‘I’d better brush up on my rap, man.’ That chuckle again. It was infectious.

  ‘So how do you want to play things today?’ Kagiso asked.

  ‘I don’t plan on making any big speeches or anything. I just want to
listen. I know there’s a lot of loose talk about what the Motlantshes are up to and I’d like to reassure people.’

  Ever since the meeting had been arranged, Kagiso had rehearsed the various ways in which he might broach their disagreements. He was acutely conscious that he was about to change the tone of the conversation. ‘Well, I wouldn’t say it’s all just loose talk. At Soil of Africa we think there are other ways of taking care of the land and the people who live on it.’

  ‘I know. I’ve been looking at your website. Your achievements are pretty impressive. Maybe there are things we can talk about … You know, reach a compromise.’

  This was unexpected, but Kagiso remained wary. ‘I certainly hope so. People here just see all these land deals and feel betrayed. And the new black owners are as bad as the old white ones. And now we’ve got all these foreigners coming in …’

  ‘Look, I know, there’s a lot to discuss. Maybe it would be good if we – you and I – could get a few minutes to chat on our own, away from the others. I don’t agree with everything that’s going on and I want to find a way to help.’

  ‘Well, just tell your father and his friends.’

  ‘You don’t know my father! Anyway, see you just now.’

  Their lives couldn’t have been more different: Kagiso, the son of a house worker and the beneficiary of a white family’s generosity; Lesedi, a child born into the aristocracy of struggle, for whom wanting something was merely a question of asking for it. Their paths had crossed once before when they were both students, not that Lesedi would remember the encounter. It was at a varsity rugby match between Stellenbosch, where Kagiso had studied, and the University of Cape Town, where Lesedi had entertained himself, with the occasional foray into the library. It was a home game for Stellenbosch, and Kagiso now remembered how he’d cycled to the sports ground to watch. He’d been padlocking his bike when Lesedi had rolled up in a soft-top BMW with a couple of friends, who tumbled out of the vehicle with bottles of the Cape’s finest fizzy in their hands.

  He hadn’t felt any jealousy at the time, at least not over Lesedi’s wealth. If anything, it was the other man’s confidence he’d envied. As a child growing up, he’d never been the one who’d stick his hand up and say, ‘Yes, sir, I know the answer.’ He feared the humiliation of being wrong much more than he craved the praise that went with being right.

  By the time Lesedi Motlantshe had arrived at Soil of Africa’s office, a little later than he’d predicted, the sun had worked its magic. It would be a warm day. The two men shook hands and, despite their contrasting backgrounds, Kagiso felt it would be a meeting of equals.

  Much later that day, in Dubai, Josiah Motlantshe’s phone rang. He opened his eyes, and still he could see nothing. There was a moment of terror before he pulled at the sleep mask. All the pieces began to fall into place: he was in Dubai; he’d come back from the casino (those private-equity chaps loved their gambling) a couple of hours before dawn. He stared at the screen on his phone, waiting for his eyes to focus. It was a number in South Africa but not one he recognised.

  ‘Who is this?’ he barked, in his default disposition.

  ‘Hello, is this Mr Motlantshe I am speaking to?’ He recognised the Afrikaner accent. ‘Mr Josiah Motlantshe?’

  ‘Yes, what do you want? It’s the middle of the night.’

  ‘Just a moment, meneer – I mean sir. Let me put you through.’

  ‘Hello, hello, put me through to whom?’ It was useless: she’d already transferred the call.

  ‘Is this Mr Motlantshe, Mr Josiah Motlantshe?’

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you people? Yes, this is he. And who are you?’

  ‘It’s Lieutenant General Jackson Sibande, sir, from the South African Police Service in Mpumalanga.’

  ‘From where? Mpumalanga?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We have some news for you, sir, and I’m just going to pass you on to the premier, Mr Jeremiah Bekelu.’

  ‘For Chrissake, what the hell is going on? … Jerry? Jerry, is that you? What the hell is happening?’

  ‘Josiah, something bad has happened here. It’s Lesedi …’

  3

  It was barely seven in the morning when Lindi Seaton’s phone rang. She fumbled around the bedside table as her eyes adjusted to the neon glare of a London streetlamp streaming through the ineffectual lace curtain. It was too early for Anton Chetty, her boss at South Trust, a high-profile and well-respected organisation dedicated to conflict resolution around the world. She checked the screen – she didn’t recognise the number.

  ‘Lindi Seaton here.’

  ‘I suppose it was your idea, was it?’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘It’s Clive, Clive Missenden.’

  ‘And how lovely to hear from you too. Silly of me not to have recognised your voice instantly.’

  ‘Let’s get straight to the point.’

  ‘You’ve already done that. What exactly is supposed to have been my idea?’

  ‘Come off it,’ Missenden huffed. ‘All that guff on the radio just now from your man about South Trust having warned that something like this would happen. You couldn’t resist it, could you? The poor bastard’s hardly been dead a day and you’ve got it all sorted.’

  ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve! Just in case it’s slipped your mind, I no longer have to listen to your shit.’

  ‘You’re at it again, aren’t you? Most people put two and two together and get four. Not you! You’ve gone straight to the conclusion you want, never mind the facts.’

  Lindi moved the phone an inch from her ear and sighed. ‘If you want to talk to me about Lesedi Motlantshe’s murder, call me at my office.’

  ‘I’m just warning you.’

  ‘A warning. That’s official, is it?’

  ‘I’ve left the Foreign Office.’

  ‘Oh? So who’s warning me now?’

  ‘I’m just trying to prevent you from making another … How shall I put it? Another error of judgement. I’m trying to be helpful, that’s all.’

  The needling reference to their shared past was not lost on Lindi. ‘Helpful. Is that what you call it? As in when you helped me out of my job. Piss off, Clive.’

  Lindi ended the call. She wasn’t sure whom she was angrier with: Clive Missenden and whoever he was working for now, or her colleague, Anton Chetty, for not talking to her before mouthing off in front of a microphone.

  Lesedi Motlantshe’s murder had made the BBC’s News at Ten the previous night, breaking news. It was only a brief mention about a member of one of South Africa’s most prominent families being found dead shortly after visiting a group campaigning for land reform. The report said South African police had launched an investigation and were questioning a number of Mozambican migrant workers. Lindi had phoned Anton straight away. They’d argued about how, even whether, South Trust should respond. He said he was sure the murder was mixed up with the land thing; she argued back, said they should wait till they had some proof. They’d agreed to talk it over in the office in the morning. Anton hadn’t said anything about having had a request for an interview. It was still too early to call him, not if she wanted any sense out of him.

  And Missenden, what was he up to? His call had unsettled her, not only because of what he’d said, his ‘warning’, but because of the memories it had brought back. Lindi Seaton thought she’d left all that behind.

  Missenden had been her line manager in what she now regarded as a previous life. That was in the days when she was a junior diplomat at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, a position she owed to her fast-track appointment straight out of university. Because of her family’s links to South Africa, Lindi had been asked to prepare a draft paper on what South Africa might look like post-Nelson Mandela. Among other things, her report contained the memorable, if dramatic, assessment that if land ownership became an issue, the ensuing agitation would ‘make what happened in Zimbabwe look like a picnic’.

  She’d argued that apartheid’s legacy of
white ownership might be eclipsed by the more recent land purchases: everyone from Gulf sheikhs, Chinese government agencies and private-equity magnates, many of them based in London, had been at it. Whether justified or not, she’d said the British government would be dragged into the affair, held responsible for the actions of ‘land-grabbers’ based in its own jurisdiction.

  It had taken Missenden all of a couple of minutes to give his verdict on Lindi’s report. ‘Shrill’ – that was how he’d described it. In the following weeks, what was supposed to be a draft for Missenden’s eyes became a water-cooler topic in the Africa department. The general assessment among her colleagues, doubtless egged on by Missenden, was that, despite her impeccable credentials – starting with a degree from an ancient university – she had, somehow, missed the point. In an era when the prime purpose of British missions abroad was to boost trade and investment, her report was deemed wrongheaded and unhelpful. A transfer to an unspecified role in HR followed. Some months later she walked out of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, carrying few reminders of her brief career in diplomacy and her self-confidence in tatters.

  So now, despite her perennial irritation over Anton’s impetuosity, she rather hoped he was right. It had been a long time coming but she savoured the thought of an I-told-you-so moment. It would be in stark contrast to her prevailing mood since leaving the British diplomatic service – a dead weight of regret at having failed to stand her ground and fight. Her failure to do so had played into a private and punishing evaluation of her own worth.

  It was a self-deprecating assessment at odds with how others perceived her. Lindi Seaton stood out from the crowd. If you met her once, you were unlikely to forget her: it was the intensity with which she seemed to relate to other people. Never wholly comfortable in front of a crowd, she came into her own one on one. She had the right question at the right moment. It was a reflex, a way of coping with the awkwardness she always felt when she met someone for the first time. There was an apparent intimacy, which Lindi did not intend and from which she would all too often have to extricate herself. It was a characteristic many loved her for. Clive Missenden, however, was not among them.