The Burning Land

by George Alagiah

  ‘Okay, I may have pushed it a bit too far—’

  ‘A bit too far?’ Lindi interrupted. ‘You’ve practically gone the whole distance. I’ve already had a couple of journalists calling me.’

  ‘What did you say to them?’

  ‘That I’d call them back. A bit lame after your performance but it buys us time to get this straight. And they’re not the only ones who are curious.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I had a call from an old colleague of mine. I was still at home. It must have been minutes after your thoughtful contribution on the airwaves this morning.’

  ‘From the Foreign and Commonwealth Office?’

  Lindi shook her head. ‘He’s no longer a diplomat. Anyway, he said your statement – or whatever it was you said – must be my doing. If only he knew.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’ Anton frowned.

  ‘It’s ancient history. Years ago, when I was at the FCO, I wrote a paper about how explosive the land issue would be in South Africa.’

  ‘You told us that at your interview. Remember? I was impressed – a woman after my own heart. It was partly why you got the job.’

  ‘I also said the British government would be dragged in because of all the London-based investors cashing in on land deals.’

  ‘You were bloody right about that too.’

  ‘That’s the bit the FCO didn’t like. I say FCO, but the paper only got as far as Missenden. He killed it.’

  ‘You’re losing me. Who’s Missenden?’

  ‘The guy who called me this morning. Anyway, the call was a sort of warning. That was the word he used.’

  ‘Warning?’ Anton’s voice was a few decibels higher. ‘I hope you told him to fuck off.’

  ‘That’s not quite how I put it but, yes, I told him to mind his own business.’

  ‘Anyway, who does he work for now?’

  ‘That’s my next task of the day.’

  Clive Missenden looked out over London. He had the best view in town. He’d made the most of the revolving door between government and business. People paid to see the cityscape he now took for granted. His office was high up in the Shard, which, like so much real estate in the city, was now owned by foreign conglomerates – in this case the Qataris. He swivelled his leather and steel chair to face the sheet-glass desk. Apart from a laptop, a landline, a mobile phone and a mug of coffee, it was entirely bare. Here was a man who saw no need to commit anything to paper. Hanging on the wall that faced the floor-to-ceiling windows were several framed photos: an aerial view of a phalanx of tractors ploughing a vast field, another shot of a plantation of some sort, and a third, taken against a backdrop of verdant foliage, showed two men shaking hands, one of them suited and white, the other black and in traditional garb. His office, sumptuous in a clinical sort of way, and an anteroom with a secretary, were all there was to show for Africa Rising Investments. The company was registered in the British Virgin Islands, and its British CEO was a one-time City trader who now seemed to spend most of his time in hotels and the back of a private jet. This CEO was the man in the photo.

  The mobile phone vibrated on the desk. Missenden saw that it was Jake Willemse in South Africa and pressed the green icon to answer.

  ‘Returning your call.’ Willemse was curt. ‘I haven’t got much time. I suppose you’ve heard about Motlantshe’s son?’

  ‘That’s why I rang. What the hell was Motlantshe’s boy doing there? So much for you reining him in. Now we’re going to have every friggin’ journalist nosing around.’

  ‘It’s okay, we’re dealing with it. I’ve spoken to Josiah and it doesn’t change anything. He’s still on the case.’

  ‘Well, that’s reassuring, but we might have to do better than that.’ Superciliousness came naturally to Missenden.

  ‘Who says? Is this coming from the top?’

  ‘You know how it is, Jake. I’m his eyes, ears and voice. He only has to think something and I’m already there. We need to shut this whole thing down, no need for all this publicity. I’m hearing on the grapevine that even the bloody FT is getting interested in doing something on land. You’d expect that sort of thing from those pinko-liberals at the Grauniad …’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Guardian. Oh, never mind. Anyway, we don’t want this thing snowballing.’

  ‘Like I said, we’re working on it, we’ll make a plan.’

  ‘You need to pin it to someone and quick,’ said Missenden, catching his own reflection in the desk. ‘This deal is only the beginning. Mark my words, with all this guff about climate change making farming impossible you’ll have the whole world and his sister queuing up for your land. The Chinese, the Gulf sheikhs, they’re all on the lookout for more.’

  ‘The police have arrested a Mozambican labourer and—’

  ‘Don’t give me that bullshit, Jake,’ said Missenden. ‘Nobody’s going to believe some wretched, shirtless Mozambican was responsible for this.’ A change of tone. ‘And, besides, we’ll need those chaps when, if, this project gets off the ground.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it will get off the ground.’

  ‘It better had. As I recall, you have quite a lot riding on it. All that talk about foreign investment in the land. Got you quite a few good headlines here. And then there’s your little share, only a fraction of what you’ll get as you climb the greasy pole I’m sure but, still, something to be getting on with.’

  Missenden thought he was playing the conversation rather well, imagining Willemse squirming at the other end.

  Jake Willemse was one of a new breed of South African politicians, who evoked ‘the struggle’ in their speeches but were privately contemptuous of those who still believed it offered a rubric for government. They’d attend the ruling party’s conferences for as long as it took to be noticed, then make a quiet exit. They pretended to listen as the grey-haired veterans relived their glory days, singing revolutionary songs. The young Turks would watch it all from the sidelines, as if they were indulging a grandparent who still thought he was the head of the family. One by one, these men and women had either died or been given a seat on the Board of Elders, the political equivalent of a care home. The Elders were allowed to attend big state occasions, like the start of a new parliamentary session, but were otherwise hardly seen or heard.

  For Jake Willemse and his generation of fellow ministers – products of business schools around the world – out of sight meant out of mind. With the veterans out of the way, they could pursue ‘the project’, to drag South Africa into the twenty-first century, at least their version of it.

  ‘I know what I’m doing and I know what has to be done,’ Jake said.

  ‘Never doubted it, mate.’ Missenden could tell he was getting to Willemse and rather enjoyed it. ‘Oh, one other thing. You ever heard of South Trust?’

  ‘Of course I have. They were quite busy in Congo recently. Frankly, their success put our great leader’s efforts at mediation in the shade. What about it?’

  ‘Bunch of interfering do-gooders, if you ask me. Run by one of your chaps, an Indian by the name …’ He paused, dredging his memory.

  ‘You mean Chetty, Anton Chetty. I don’t know him personally, but I know all about him. Old school, a has-been, the type who still thinks it was the Kalashnikov that delivered freedom.’

  ‘He might be a has-been but he’s quick off the mark. Gave an interview in London this morning. Said he thinks the Motlantshe boy’s murder is linked to calls for land reform. Not very helpful, I must say. Don’t want any of our people getting nervous about their money in this deal, do we?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. We’re working on a statement. “A wanton, misguided act of criminality, not politically motivated” – something like that.’

  ‘While you’re at it you might want to watch out for his sidekick, Lindi Seaton, another of your compatriots. What is it with you South Africans? Grew up in London. Her parents came here as exiles. Technically she’s British. She was wit
h me at the FCO. My hunch is that one of them, or both, will be heading your way. They’ve got credibility. Once they start digging around and talking, people will listen. Anyhow, I think that’s about everything for now, Jake. I know you’ll sort out this unholy mess.’

  Anton’s phone rang.

  ‘Hey! Howzit, bru!’ From the phrase, from the subtle change in Anton’s accent Lindi knew straight away he was talking to someone in South Africa. She listened in to one half of a conversation.

  ‘Jirre, man! On what?’ He wrote down a web address. ‘Hold on, hold on.’ He gesticulated to Lindi, pointing to what he’d just written. ‘Pull it up,’ he said, before continuing with the conversation.

  Lindi had the link on the screen.

  ‘Okay, listen, man, I’m going to call you back. Let me watch this thing. All right, hamba kahle, man.’

  Slowly, deliberately, he placed the phone back on the desk and turned to Lindi. He looked ashen. ‘This is much worse than I thought.’

  Lindi touched the ‘play’ icon and clicked.

  The footage was dated for the previous day. It appeared to have been taken in fading light. That and the poor resolution of the images – presumably shot on an old mobile phone – gave the scene an eerie quality, like some amateur horror movie. Whoever was holding the phone was following a group of other men, all wearing beanies pulled right down to their eyes, with their jumpers and jackets lifted over their chins. They were hurrying along a dirt track, the camera bobbing up and down until it veered off the path and settled on a vehicle.

  It was a BMW, a four-wheel-drive model. The driver’s side door was wide open. One of the men jumped in and pretended to drive, sound effects and all. The customised zebra-skin seat covers added a touch of Africa to the cold efficiency of Bavarian engineering. The group moved on, walking away from the car and into the bush. Every now and then one of the men would point ahead, like wildlife rangers following a trail of spoor in one of the nearby game parks. The camera pushed in on the first find. A pair of shiny shoes. The gold buckle glinted into the lens, incongruous in this landscape, like some exotic species. A bit further on, the group gathered around another specimen, this time a light-coloured shirt, probably white, it was difficult to tell. But there was no mistaking the red smear on the otherwise pristine material. The man holding the camera was having difficulty getting the shot he wanted. You could hear his voice. (Anton translated the Zulu.) It prompted one of the others to pick up the shirt and hold it up as if he were trying it for size.

  Lindi and Anton now knew what was coming. It was like some macabre treasure hunt, except that the clues were not subtle and the prize would not be a surprise.

  ‘I don’t know if I need to see any more of this,’ Lindi said.

  ‘You do,’ Anton replied. ‘This is going to show you just how nasty things have got. I couldn’t believe what my friend told me just now. Who are these guys? Why would they be filming all this and then posting it on the web?’ Anton turned back to the screen.

  It felt as if the men were now a good distance from where they had found the vehicle. Whoever was at the other end of this trail of designer clothes had obviously tried to run away from his attackers. By the time they found the beige chinos, thrown over a bush as if they had been put out to dry, it was clear this was not just about killing someone, it was about humiliation. The proof was just a few metres on. There was a man’s body, a black man.

  His underwear had been pulled down around his knees. There was a bloody gash where his scrotum should have been. Whoever had held the camera made no allowances for those of a more delicate temperament.

  Lindi turned away. ‘This is disgusting. It’s like watching one of those snuff movies you hear about.’

  Anton brought a hand up to his mouth. He retched, tasting a gutful of fear.

  Slowly, the camera panned up the torso, passed the beginnings of a rich-man paunch and another fleshy, gaping wound on the chest. Finally, it settled on a grotesquely misshapen head. Skin that must once have been shiny and pampered was now a dull blue-grey. The man’s mouth had been pulled open, as if he were about to unleash some primordial scream, but stuffed into it was his own penis and a crocodile-skin wallet.

  ‘I need to get some fresh air,’ said Lindi, already heading out of the door.

  Anton shut down the computer. He felt utterly washed out.

  Lesedi’s grotesque murder would unnerve those in power in a way that went way beyond the crime itself. He knew it would stir a visceral foreboding among South Africa’s elite. There was a time when he would have relished the thought. Now it just made him want to curl up and hide in a dark place.

  He knew what the authorities would be thinking. If only it had been a Du Plessis or a Westhuisen who’d been battered to death on that farm; if only the vehicle had belonged to a Schmidt or a Smith. That would be so easy to explain. Newspaper editors, local councillors, the provincial premier – everybody who had a stake in the way things were – could get on their high horse and bemoan this throwback to an era that South Africa had left behind. But this, this was different. This was not a man who was killed because of his colour but because of what he represented.

  Lindi returned. There was some colour in her cheeks again. She’d tied her thick, wavy brown hair into a knot sitting high on her head. The roots just above her forehead glistened with the water she had just splashed on her face.

  ‘I think it’s time you headed down there,’ Anton said. ‘The sooner the better.’

  ‘I’m not sure where I’d start. Where do we fit in?’

  ‘Listen, I think there is something going on that neither the government or the unions—’

  ‘Nor.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Neither/nor, either/or …’ Lindi paused mid-correction. ‘God! I’m sorry. It’s like your swearing, it just pops out. Can’t help it.’

  ‘I can’t remember what the fuck I was saying now.’

  ‘The government or the unions,’ she said, grateful she’d remembered the train of thought.

  ‘I think there is something going on that neither the ministers nor the unions want out in the open. They must know about all the attacks on farms. And now this.’

  ‘Hold on. Despite your intervention this morning, we don’t actually know that the attacks on farms and Lesedi’s murder are the work of the same people.’

  ‘All I know is that people are taking matters into their own hands.’

  ‘What people and what matters?’ she asked.

  Anton beckoned her over to his desk and pointed to his laptop. He’d already opened up the links he’d been browsing in the coffee shop. He pointed to the website. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s from something called the Land Collective. They monitor land sales. Every time there’s been an incident on a farm there’s an entry about it. Look at this. It was written the day after a warehouse fire in Graskop, I checked the dates.’

  He read the entry:

  We want to salute the BRAVERY of our BROTHERS and SISTERS for what they did at WORLD’S END FARM. It takes COURAGE to stand up for what you believe. That farm was going to be SOLD but nobody asked the WORKERS. There was no CONSULTATION. The PRESIDENT says he is on the side of farm workers but he stays QUIET while FOREIGNERS try to STEAL our land. The workers have buried their FATHERS and MOTHERS on this land but nobody talked to them. Now someone has spoken for the workers and they have SPOKEN with FIRE.

  ‘Whoever is writing this stuff is pointing to the real land issue, not the one the journalists obsess about,’ Anton continued. ‘It’s not about whether the land is owned by a black man or a white man. It’s whether it’s owned by a South African or a foreigner. He’s challenging the government and he’s taking a huge risk.’

  ‘It could be a woman,’ Lindi butted in.

  ‘Whoever it is, he or she is a link to all the incidents. He knows what’s happening on the ground. It’s as if he’s organising the whole damn thing.’

  ‘You think this Collecti
ve group is behind all these incidents?’

  Anton shrugged, part admission, part exasperation. ‘All I know is that they’re trying to make damn sure everyone knows about them.’

  ‘So have they written about Lesedi’s murder?’

  ‘Yes, it must have been posted late last night.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They condemn Lesedi’s killing, say it’s nothing to do with the campaign against land sales.’

  ‘Christ, Anton! And you go on air making it sound as if there was a link.’

  ‘Like I said, they must have posted it very late: it wasn’t there when I went to bed, well after midnight. Anyway, my point still stands. There’s some sort of a link. Motlantshe junior visits a land-reform outfit in Mpumalanga and the next thing he’s dead. Somebody didn’t like him mixing with those guys.’

  ‘Yes, but who didn’t like him mixing with those guys? It could be the government that was upset about his visit. That’s the point. It all depends on what Lesedi was doing there.’

  ‘Look, this is my country, I know some of these people, I feel it in my guts. You need to get down there.’ He took off his spectacles and placed them with uncharacteristic care on his desk. He looked straight at Lindi. ‘In the old days you’d get a bunch of protesters and they’d sing revolutionary songs and raise their imaginary Kalashnikovs in the air, do a bit of toi-toing in front of the farmer’s house and then it would be lunchtime and they’d wander back home or to the shebeen. Big business, the police, the government know how to deal with that kind of thing. They cut a deal with the union bosses, offer a little bit of extra pay, which is eaten up by inflation, and then everybody goes back to what they were doing before – pissing on the little man. This is different. Lesedi’s killing is a game-changer. We may be seeing the start of something much bigger.’

  Anton’s phone rang again. This time it was the landline.

  ‘Hello. Yes, this is Anton Chetty.’

  ‘It’s Mbali Modise here from the South African High Commission.’ Anton put his index finger to his lips and pressed the speaker button. ‘We haven’t met but I feel as if I know you.’